No, the destruction of Rahariem's western gates, and the rise of the abortive insurgency, had shown the occupiers the error of mercy and kindness. Men- and women-at-arms-both Royal Soldiers of the Black Gryphon, and mercenaries of varying nationalities and scruples-patrolled the occupied cities in overwhelming numbers. Gatherings of Imphallian citizens were restricted to five or fewer, with violators immediately relocated to the constantly inflating work gangs, whether or not they were of proper age or health for heavy labor. Shops providing basic goods and services were permitted to remain open, but between the restrictions on public assembly and the fact that Cephiran soldiers took what they needed for whatever price (if any) they felt like paying, most merchants found it more cost-effective to keep their doors shut.
She'd heard rumors that a few stubborn pockets of resistance remained back in Rahariem, but they were little more than outlets for angry youths to hurl waste and scrawl defiant slogans. The fools seemed incapable of understanding, the mercenary mused, that far from doing any good or inspiring others to rise up, they were merely providing the invaders with the excuse and motivation to crack down all the harder.
The people in Emdimir and other more recently conquered communities were more pliable. But still, their movements were restricted, their curfews enforced.
Her patrol route took her along the impoverished and half-ruined neighborhoods, near the outer wall that, when faced by the Black Gryphon, had served as no defense at all. Most of the citizens had been moved away from the gates, either deeper into the city or out into temporary camps meant to ease Emdimir's overcrowding. Those few who remained worked daily, beneath the watchful eyes of Cephiran taskmasters, to reinforce those walls against possible Imphallian counterattack. Choked with the dust and sweat of ongoing construction, this was a particularly unpleasant part of town.
Which was precisely why she'd received this assignment. The Cephirans might use Imphallian mercenaries, but they weren't about to trust them with anything important. She scowled, swallowing a surge of resentful bile so familiar in flavor that it might have been a favorite meal. After everything I did for them…
"Captain Ellowaine!"
She spun on her heel, expression neutral. Even in those two simple words, she could hear the man's disdain-none of the Cephiran soldiers appreciated being assigned to a "filthy mercenary"-but at least she'd finally beaten it into their heads that they'd damn well better call her by rank.
"What is it, Corporal?"
Corporal Quinran pointed toward a dilapidated building farther along the packed dirt road, one scheduled to be torn down for raw materials in a week or two. It was a sad, sunken facade, the frowning windows and cracked wood forming the face of a tired old grandfather. She'd passed it any number of times on any number of patrols, and couldn't easily imagine what made it worthy of attention this time.
"What of it?" she asked.
"Just saw a man in rags slip through the front door, Captain."
"And?" Those poor souls still dwelling here were miserable enough; no reason to begrudge one whatever shelter he might find.
"I can't swear to it, Captain, but I think I saw a sword under his cloak. It was certainly jutting out like one, at any rate."
That brought a frown. Traveling under arms was another prohibition the Cephirans had heaped upon their conquered territories. Any citizen caught with a blade larger than an eating utensil was risking far worse than assignment to the work gangs.
"All right," she said. "It could be anything, but we'll check it out." Then, in the probably futile hope of thawing out some of their working relationship, "Nicely spotted, Corporal."
"Thanks, Captain."
She and Quinran hit the door shoulders-first, practically ripping the rotting wood from its hinges. Without waiting for their vision to adjust they darted aside, one each way, leaving the doorway clear for the crossbows of the soldiers behind. When they saw no one on whom to loose their bolts, Lieutenant Arkur and Corporal Ischina entered, carefully stowing their arbalests and drawing broadswords in their stead.
Ellowaine appeared briefly in the doorway and raised a hand toward the last man, Corporal Rephiran, still lingering outside. Palm, fingers upright, followed swiftly by a single finger pointing downward, then two pointing directly at him.
Stay here, watch for anyone who gets past us.
He nodded and stepped back, keeping his weapon trained on the doorway.
Rear guard established, vision adjusting to the gloom, Ellowaine took a moment to orient herself. A large entry chamber, coated in paint so faded that she couldn't guess at its original color, offered only a single exit other than the front door and an empty coatroom. What remained of a desk, its legs long since scavenged for firewood, slumped atop rat-eaten carpet. The air was pungent with old dust and older mildew, spiced just a bit by fresh urine.
Ischina sidled up to the far door and peered cautiously around the corner for just an instant before jerking her head back. Spotting no danger, she dropped into a half crouch and darted through for a closer look. Ellowaine moved toward the door, while the others gathered on either side.
"Hallway," Ischina whispered as she reemerged into the chamber. "Lots of doors, staircase at the far end. I'm guessing a cheap hostel, maybe a flophouse."
Ellowaine nodded. She'd seen the like before, and in her experience, it probably hadn't been much nicer before being abandoned.
"Whistles," she said simply. Instantly, the others produced, from within pouches or on thongs around their necks, plain tin tubes that produced a surprisingly sharp tone. She drew her own from a pocket on her belt and wrapped the thong around her wrist.
"Two by two. Quinran and I are upstairs. You do not, under any circumstances, let your partner out of your sight."
Three quick nods were all the acknowledgment she received, or required.
Slightly more gently-but only slightly-she continued. "Judging by the smell, more than a few vagabonds have been using this place. Try not to kill anyone unless you're certain they're a threat-but don't risk your skins for it."
More nods, and then she was off toward the stairs, Quinran falling into step behind. Even as they reached the steps, she heard the first door being kicked open back down the hall.
The stairs creaked and screeched like a cat under a rocking chair, and the entire structure quivered beneath their weight. Ellowaine, a hatchet now in each hand, winced with every step, but no amount of care could silence the rickety wooden banshees, so she'd little choice but to bear it. Gaps in the dust suggesting that someone else had come this way might have been days or even weeks old, but the broken spiderwebs hanging between the banister and the inner wall had to be more recent. Keeping silent, despite the stairs heralding their approach to all and sundry, she gestured at the webs with a blade. Quinran nodded his understanding and shifted his grip on his broadsword.
Below, Arkur and Ischina kicked in a second door.
The light faded as the captain and the corporal climbed higher. Presumably, most of the second floor's windows were shuttered or boarded. They slowed, hoping to give their eyes time to adjust, and scowled darkly at each other. They were a daytime patrol; none of them carried lamp or torch.
"If this was just some vagrant carrying a stick that you saw," she breathed at him in a voice below even a whisper, "you'll be digging latrine ditches for a week."
"If this is the other option," he whispered back, flinching away as another step screamed in the near darkness, "I might just volunteer."
A third door clattered open on the floor beneath them.