Chapter 16
DRAKE WATCHED AS the new post commander stood in the doorway of the taproom. The man scanned the crowd, and he saw his gaze snag on each Coalition member in the busy room. Not long enough to be noticed, unless you were looking for it as Drake was, just enough to register their presence.
His assessment of Paledan was by needs swift; it wouldn’t do to draw attention by staring at the new Coalition boss. But he felt he’d learned much in that quick look; with some men, you knew instinctively what they were made of. And this man, tall with close-cropped hair, lean but muscled, and with an unreadable expression, was made of stern stuff. He was alert, watchful, and even though he appeared relaxed, Drake sensed he was ready for anything.
“Hurry it up with that brew,” one of those called out from the table where Brander was holding his game.
Tonight was a night he could use some help in here. Every seat was taken, the bar was shoulder to shoulder, and he’d been running full bore for two hours now. But this was exactly the kind of night he did not want Eirlys in here, even without Jakel, so he was on his own. And he once more acknowledged the irony of his position, that anyone who would be willing to work for sympathizer Drake Davorin wasn’t somebody he wanted to hire.
He pumped out the brew, having to do it by hand since under Coalition rationing they were running on the minimum tier of power for another few minutes yet. Then he hastened over to the back table with two foaming mugs, dodging the occasionally reeling drunk, a tricky task in the dim light. He set the full strength one in front of the man who’d yelled, who now scooped it up and took a huge gulp. The other mug—indistinguishable and yet intentionally less potent—he put in front of Brander. For an instant, as he set the mug down, his back was to the rest of the room, and he saw Brander’s eyes flick toward the doorway. He gave the barest nod to indicate he’d seen the major come in.
“Busy night,” Brander said, lifting the mug. Then, casually, he added, “I wonder why?”
His answer was a huge burp from the man guzzling the brew, followed by a crude laugh.
“Answer, or opinion?” Brander asked dryly.
Don’t antagonize him.
But so well established was Brander’s reputation as a careless wastrel that the man only laughed again.
“Haven’t you heard? We’re celebrating the departure of our not so beloved commandant.”
Since the man wasn’t looking at him, Drake risked a glance toward the doorway. The new man had stepped inside, slowly, clearly in no hurry. And, Drake guessed, taking in every corner of the room, and every occupant in it, Coalition or not.
“What if the new one is worse?” Brander asked, in a tone that said it meant nothing to him.
The man downed another gulp of brew. Then he leaned in and said in a low voice, “Haven’t you heard? We’re getting Paledan. The man’s a bedamned hero.”
“Well, that would be a change,” Brander said.
The Coalition man snorted with laughter. Slapped down his mug, slopping brew over the rim. Drake pulled the bar rag from his apron pocket and set about dutifully wiping up the mess. The man ignored him. He was only the tapper, after all.
“Frall was a fool. Thought awards for being a desk minder were worth the same as those won in battle.”
Brander laughed, and the half-drunk trooper grinned. He played them very, very well, Drake thought as Brander picked up the dice scattered across the table and seemed intent merely on getting them back into the toss cup as he asked, “I gather your new leader is different?”
“Paledan’s got more medals then any major in the Coalition. And honestly earned ones at that. Turned down the honorary garbage. And promotions as well. No desk chain for him.”
“Did that make them angry?” Drake dared to ask. “Is that why such a hero ended up posted here?”
He saw the man’s brow furrow as if he were trying to figure out the question. Or as if some part of his brew-numbed mind realized that there was a subtle insult to himself in there; after all, he was posted here. Drake busied himself with the last of the spillover, as if whether the man answered or not mattered little.
Finally, the trooper shrugged. “Rumor has it he was wounded on Darvis, and will only be here until he’s fully operational again.”
Drake considered that silently. The man certainly didn’t move as if he were injured. However it was, with effort, possible to hide such things.
And then the man leaned forward again, to whisper, “But some of us think he’s here to take out that damned raider.”
Brander never missed a beat but rattled the cup with the dice thoroughly, as if all that mattered was getting them thoroughly mixed.
“Your toss, I believe?” he said, holding out the cup.
“And let me top off that brew for you,” Drake said, “after that spill. No charge, of course.”
That was one good thing about a full room tonight, he thought as he followed through on the words. He could afford the little extras that kept the men like that trooper coming back.
When Drake at last settled behind the bar again, the major had yet to take a seat, although more than one Coalition member offered their own to their new commander. The man was now standing near, but not at the bar. Even as he looked, he saw the man notice the mirror behind the bottles, and turn to face it. Drake had the feeling it was the only reason the man would ever turn his back on a crowded room; he was using it just as Drake did. It was ostensibly there to highlight the reds, ambers, clear sparkle, and rich browns of the various brews, but for Drake, it served the purpose of allowing him to observe the entire room surreptitiously.
The lights came on as the Coalition allowed them the three hours of normal power. There was the typical moment of silence as everyone reacted, then the low drone of taproom chatter resumed. Drake was never sure the lights were an improvement on nights like this, but it made his job easier.
He switched out the wet rag for a dry one, then reached to turn on the pumpers on the brewtaps. As he did, he noticed the new man’s focus had shifted.
He was staring at the painting, now lit by the spotlight above it.
Most men did stare, when they first saw it. It was, after all, a beautiful portrait of a beautiful woman. They were taken by her slender, almost delicate figure, the gleam of the white silk as it flowed over her body, the pure Ziem blue of her eyes, and perhaps most of all, the vivid red of the mane of hair that tumbled down her back in a fiery fall. There was an otherworldly feel to the image, and to those who knew who she was, it added another layer of sadness to her story.
But most who came into the taproom these days had no idea they were looking at the wife of Ziem’s greatest hero, the woman who had inspired the orator, who in turn had stirred a world to rebellion. They saw only the beautiful woman she had been, and assumed that was the reason for the portrait’s presence.
“Who?”
Drake froze. He wasn’t certain the word had been directed at him, it had been spoken so quietly. And the man had never even glanced at him. But this was the new commander of the Coalition forces on Ziem, and it would not do to anger him so soon.
“Sir?” he asked, politely.
Paledan glanced at him. “The woman.”
He shrugged, but underneath he was very aware this could be treacherous. “She is long dead, forgotten. But it is a lovely painting, is it not?”
“Dead?” The man’s gaze shifted back to the painting. Odd, Drake thought, he sounded genuinely saddened, unlike most who simply paid lip service to the news and went on about their drinking.
“Yes. A suicide.”
Paledan’s head snapped around. “That woman,” he said, sounding disbelieving, “killed herself?”
Interesting, Drake thought. “Leaving four children behind to fend for themselves.”
The man’s gaze narrowed. And for a moment, Drake had the feeling Paledan knew exactly who she was. If so, the man truly did his studying, to know this so soon after his arrival.
“And the artist?”
It was all Drake could do to keep his expression even. No one ever asked that question. That this man had was a many-faceted warning.
“Some local student at the time, I believe,” he said carefully, keeping his hands busy with glassware.
“No mere student produced that.”
“A very gifted one?” he suggested.
“A prodigy, nothing less, if that is true.”
That, I cannot argue with. And he wondered what this new Coalition commander would say if he knew that prodigy, that brilliant artist who should be famous across the sector, who should be painting beautiful portraits and glorious landscapes, was instead running with that notorious brigand. And was behind those mysterious, evocative, and spirit-lifting images of the Raider that had appeared all over the city and countryside on longnight.
Worse, he wondered what this new commander would do if he knew. Because it was already very clear Major Caze Paledan was a much different breed than old Parthon Frall.
“DID I SAY I WAS always glad to see new blood in a game?”
Brander’s words were sour as he stared across the table at the man who sat opposite him.
“Problem?” the man said mildly.
“Just my run of abysmal luck.” Brander hoped he sounded suitably irritated, but not really angry. He was neither, because things were proceeding according to plan.
Well, except for the fact that he very begrudgingly liked the guy. Or the way he played, at least. It had taken three games for him to even begin to get the man’s measure, and that was unusual enough to pique his interest above and beyond the task at hand.
As for the man himself, every warning bell in Brander’s gut had gone off at his first sight of the new commander of the Legion Post. No strutting, puffing bird, this one. Tall, broad, Coalition Major Caze Paledan had the stride, the grace, the demeanor, and the steady gaze of a fighter. And those eyes, a bright shade of green, gave away nothing yet seemed to see everything.
No, this was no payback appointment, or family partiality. And yet, no real fighter would want to be posted here, with little chance to use his skills. Was the speculation he had been wounded true, and was he here only until he was healed enough to return to full-strength Coalition conquering? There was no sign of an injury, but Brander guessed he was also the type who would conceal such a thing if possible. No sign of weakness to make him vulnerable would be allowed, if he was reading the man right.
“It must be your luck,” Paledan agreed, his voice still bland. “Your skills seem well enough.”
“Do they?”
A smile flitted around the corners of his mouth. “I’ve heard you’re the best player in Zelos.”
He’d been here less than three days and he’d heard this? Brander checked off three more things on his mental list; the man clued-up quickly, did his study, and perhaps most important, had not gone searching for easier prey.
“People who lose,” Brander said, “often look for reasons that may or may not be there.”
Paledan laughed. The full, hearty laugh of one genuinely amused.
And one utterly confident in his abilities.
Frall had been a fool, a graceless bumbler with little intelligence and less nerve. It had been almost easy to get things past him, or convince him that no one in Zelos would dare join the Raider.
Paledan was no kind of fool. And Brander knew instinctively he would be the worst kind of enemy.
He grimaced inwardly. He glanced over at the bar, where Drake was cleaning up, preparing to close. He looked, as he often had lately, exhausted.
He looked back across the table to see Paledan watching him intently.
“Problem?”
Brander resisted the urge to look away; of all opponents across a game table, this one must never think he had anything to hide except a good hand.
“Near closing time,” he said blandly.
“Perhaps another time we can continue,” Paledan said just as blandly.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
He watched the man go with the certainty that life in Zelos, and probably all of Ziem, would completely change once more. Caze Paledan was the kind of man who had that effect.
He gathered up the dice. The Raider would adapt, he knew. But he wondered if their days had just become numbered. Because Caze Paledan was also the kind of man who got things done. Coalition things. And Brander knew ending the Raider had to be very high on that list.