Lindet should have left the moment she heard the Kez were coming for her. She should have evacuated the city with the very next breath. But there was nothing Taniel could do about any of that now. “Half these people won’t even leave,” he admitted out loud. “They’ve built houses, planted farms, started families. Settlers that have come as far out as Planth did so because they don’t have anything else. This is their home.”
Ka-poel nodded in agreement. She squatted, making a quick sketch in the mud of the alley floor. It was a square with smaller squares at each of the corners. A fort. She pointed at it, then firmly at the ground.
“You think the garrison will remain?” Taniel asked.
She nodded again.
He mused over that thought. Frontier garrisons like the one in Planth were often permanent fixtures, their members raised from the local militia, giving them more reason to stay and defend the city in the case of an organized attack by hostile Palo or a local warlord. Ka-poel was right. They’d stay even if Lindet ordered them out of the city.
Taniel found a crate to sit on, putting his chin on his fist and staring out at the passing traffic. “The garrison has five hundred men,” he said. “Even assuming none of them run, they’ll be slaughtered by the Kez brigade and their Privileged.”
Ka-poel pointed at him then mimed firing a rifle.
“I don’t know if I can kill the Kez Privileged before they come within range of the city. Besides, even if I take out their Privileged that’s still five thousand infantry and auxiliaries. You think I can handle all that myself?”
Ka-poel rolled her eyes. She made a creeping motion with one hand, the signal she used to indicate the Tristan Ghost Irregulars.
“There’s less than three hundred of us,” Taniel said.
Ka-poel mouthed the words, then get help.
Taniel sighed, shaking his head. He had a great fondness for Ka-poel. She was clever, dangerous, and funny. She was an outcast from her own tribe, the way he felt so often among other soldiers. But she didn’t understand large-scale logistics. Even if he managed to convince a half dozen militias to stay and help fight the Kez, it was a losing battle – the whole reason Lindet was retreating in the first place.
“There’s got to be another option,” he said. He sat thinking for several minutes before the very beginning of a plan began to form in his head. It was reckless, but it was better than letting Planth burn just so Lindet could escape.
But Ka-poel was right. He would need help.
Taniel sent Ka-poel with a note for Bertreau and then went through the city on his own, asking for directions until he got the information he wanted: the Mad Lancers were camped on the far side of Planth where their horses could take advantage of a pair of fields for fresh grazing.
Traffic between the lancers’ camp and Planth was sparse, and there was a wide berth between them and the closest militia camp. Taniel had heard stories about the Mad Lancers; suicidal charges, flouting orders, whole towns full of Kez sympathizers put to the torch. They sounded like a commanding officer’s worst nightmare and only their reputation for saving lost battles and coming to the aid of the common people had managed to associate their name with an admiring word rather than a curse.
Rumor had it that even the regular army avoided them.
Taniel approached their camp cautiously and was more than a little surprised to find a proper guard circling the perimeter in regular intervals. There were two men and a woman, all three of them wearing the same yellow cavalry jackets as their colonel. They stopped Taniel with a barked command, carbines lowered.
“I’m here to see Colonel Styke,” Taniel said, raising his hands.
The woman, taller than the two men by over a hand – nearly as tall as Styke himself – gave Taniel a looking over. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Captain Taniel Two-shot.”
“The Tristan Ghost Irregulars?”
“That’s me.”
The woman lowered her carbine and her two companions did the same. “Major Ibana ja Fles,” she introduced herself. “What business do you have with Ben?”
“Just hoping to talk,” Taniel said. He wondered at the suspicion in the major’s voice. He glanced her over, noting the sword at her side. Her name implied she had some Kez noble blood in her, but more than a few colonial Kez had defected at the beginning of the war. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“Some of us more than others,” Ibana replied. “Come with me.” She nodded for the two men to continue their circuit and fell in beside Taniel, walking them toward the camp before breaking the momentary silence. “Ben says you’re a good hand with a rifle.”
“It’s what I was trained for.”
Ibana nodded approvingly. “Heard you’ve spent almost the entire war holed up in the swamps, raiding Kez supplies. That true?”
“It is.”
“Good,” Ibana glanced around, lowering her voice. “That means you haven’t gotten involved with the politics of this war. Word to the wise – don’t get involved. And trust Lindet as far as you can throw her.”
Taniel snorted.
“Something funny, Two-shot?”
“Sorry, major. Just that Colonel Styke seems pretty friendly with her.”
“Friendly? That’s a laugh. Lindet puts up with Ben because we’ve won her a handful of battles that she should have lost. Ben puts up with her because… pit, I don’t know why Ben puts up with her. Let’s just say there’s no love lost and this is one of the few times they’ve actually crossed paths.”
“Fair enough,” Taniel said, feeling suddenly out of his depth. He tried to stay as far away from politics as possible – that was his father’s realm. He didn’t know enough to grasp the nuances of the situation, nor to argue with Ibana’s advice. As far as he could see, Lindet was in charge of everything around here. People respected, admired, or feared her and that kept the revolution going. He shook his head. He didn’t need to get any more involved. He was just here to fight the Kez and, in this situation, try to save Planth.
Ibana led him to a series of small tents clustered around a campfire. Half a dozen marsh hares roasted on a spit, and just as many soldiers lounged around on camp stools or bedrolls. They were an odd lot – men and women, including a boy of fourteen and a woman well into her sixties. Half of them wore cavalry jackets, two wore buckskins, and a third wore a faded old suit jacket that probably originally cost two months of a cavalryman’s wages.
“This here is the company officers,” Ibana said. “Little Gamble, Steffan je Lent, Chraston, Sunnintiel, Ferlisia, and the kid is our bugalist, Jack. Everyone, this is Taniel Two-shot.”
“Two-shot?” the old woman asked, craning her head as if her hearing wasn’t that good. “The powder mage? What’s Ben have to say about having another genuine hero in the city?”
“Shut up, Sunnin,” Ibana said. “Where’s Ben?”
“He went to have a talk with the Blackhats. Should be back any minute.”
Ibana swore under her breath. “You let him deal with those thugs by himself? What’s wrong with you fools?”
“It’s fine, Ibana.” Styke emerged from the tents, his cavalry jacket thrown over one shoulder and the biggest knife Taniel had ever seen strapped to his belt. The side of his face was caked with blood, but no one around the fire seemed all that surprised. “Just had to sort some things out with our friends in town.”
“What happened?” Ibana asked, pointing to the gash over his eye.
Styke frowned at her, then touched his fingers to his forehead and rubbed the blood between his thumb and forefinger. “Huh. Must have hit me with something. The talking went south. I had to teach Devan a little respect.”