Lieutenant Foster had been with him the longest of any of his men and had proven himself an unflinching second, unafraid to carry out his every command.
The tales of the Saint’s cruelty on and off the field had been passed in whispers between rank and file, building the Saint up into a nightmarish commander. Lieutenant Foster had done nothing to stop such talk. Because none of those tales were quite correct.
Most men, except for perhaps Lieutenant Foster, weren’t capable of imagining the sorts of things Alabaster Saint was truly willing to inflict on a man to see that his word was obeyed during the war.
And obey him they did, down to a man.
Until Mr. Hink Cage came under his service.
Charismatic, devious, a man who followed his own caprice, Captain Cage obeyed orders for a year before rising up with half the division and refusing his orders on the grounds that the Saint was not following the president’s order to hold the line until reinforcements came.
It was true that the Saint had been acting without orders. It was certainly not the first time. And he had one of the highest mortality rates in the Union army because of it.
Captain Cage had intercepted the president’s correspondence, then refused to march.
With one uprising, Cage forced the Saint to call the single retreat in his career.
Publicly shamed, Saint was put on trial for more than disobeying orders. Someone had infiltrated his records and correspondence. Records of the weapons trading the Saint had profited from.
When he stood trial, the man who had spied on him testified. That man was Captain Hink Cage.
The North and South spent five years beating each other into bloody graves. Now the states were one Union again, one land again with a railway to stitch over the old wounds.
But no one had yet claimed the skies.
Lieutenant Foster cleared his throat.
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
“There’s a man to see you, sir.”
The Saint adjusted the patch over the hole where his left eye used to be and turned.
Foster looked pressed and clean, as if he’d just walked out of a tailor’s shop. His dark hair was combed back off his forehead, his face clean shaven except for the precisely trimmed sideburns that reached down to his jaw.
Didn’t matter how much mud and blood he was wading through, the man always cut a sharp figure.
“What man, Lieutenant Foster?” Could be one of the spies he’d sent out. But if it were, Foster would have just told him who had returned with news.
The spies knew better than to return without news.
“He didn’t give me his name, sir.” Foster licked his lips and looked as close to nervous as the Saint had ever seen him. “He’s waiting in your office.”
“I’m going to need more than that,” he said. “Where’s he from? What’s he look made of? Why’s he here?”
“Permission to speak plainly, sir.”
Alabaster Saint narrowed his eye. Then, “Granted.”
Lieutenant Foster relaxed his bearing just the nth of a degree and met Alabaster’s gaze.
“He’s tall, lean, and like nothing I’ve seen before.”
“Foreigner?”
“Not a kind I’ve put eyes on.”
“What’s your gut say, Foster?”
“He’s a killer. A butcher of men. And he enjoys it.”
Alabaster Saint didn’t see any of those traits as a downfall. Had made a point to bestow his rare praise on Lieutenant Foster for just those reasons.
“And why wouldn’t we welcome a man of that stripe, Lieutenant Foster?”
“I think he’s out of his mind insane.”
Alabaster Saint chuckled, a low, humorless rumble. “All men are insane, Mr. Foster. Just some utilize it better than others.”
Lieutenant Foster gave the Saint half a nod, though it was clear he was holding back words of disagreement. That wasn’t like him. Foster always told the general what was on his mind.
If other men had spoken with such frankness, Alabaster would have minced their entrails and served them with beans. But not Foster. Alabaster had learned quickly that the man’s mind was just as sharp as his uniform.
His insight had turned more than one plan to his favor.
“If you have something to say, Lieutenant, say it,” the general said.
“There’s something terribly wrong about him. Something Strange. It is my recommendation, sir, to have him on his way as quickly as possible.”
“Are you spooked, Mr. Foster?” the Saint asked, amused.
“No sir,” the lieutenant said. But his eyes betrayed his words.
Whoever was waiting for the Saint back in his office had managed to put a chill in the veins of a man the general would have bet good money couldn’t be spooked.
“Steel up, Lieutenant,” the Saint said, as he walked past his lieutenant, “or you’re no use to me.”
Alabaster Saint strode toward the building tucked far enough back in the rocks and scree that it was difficult to see from the surrounding ground, and, even more important, was nearly impossible to see from the air.
This was his fortress, his stronghold. When he called war—if it came to that—upon the eastern states, this would be his command center.
The only way a man knew of this place was by very careful invitation.
Or so he had thought.
The crunching of Foster’s boots over the rubble told him the man had courage enough to still follow him. Good.
Dawn had taken the bruise off the night and was pushing pale blue over the twisted trees and ragged mountain walls. No birdsong rode that light, an unusual omen on so clear a morning.
The house came into view, a large split-log and stone structure that looked like it had sat the mountain for centuries instead of just a few years. The barracks for the men was to one side, a long building with small windows and enough beds to sleep a couple hundred, though he had only half that many pressed into service right now.
To the north of the clearing was the huge shelter for the airships—made of wood and canvas cleverly secured to the side of the mountain to cut the worst of the wind. It wasn’t large enough to fly the ships into fully inflated, but once the air and steam was out of them, all three of his pride and joy could nest there together.
The men were waking, smoke from the cookhouse rising to mix with the mist that clung to the crags.
There was a single lantern polishing copper against the window of his office and home. A shadowed figure broke that light.
Even from this distance, the Saint could feel the eyes of the man who stood within that shadow, hidden as if light feared to touch him.
The hair on the back of the general’s neck pricked up. Those eyes, that man, were danger. The Saint had no doubt of that. And he knew that dangerous men could be very useful.
He strode up to the door and pulled it open, stepping into his office without taking off his hat. The man stood at the window, his back turned toward him, covered in layers and layers of coats, some of which were long enough to fall all the way to his heels. He wore a stovepipe hat, and a pile of scarves around his neck.
“What’s your name, and what’s your business?” The Saint paced to the other side of the room and sat at his desk. He always kept a revolver and a sword on him, but his Enfield Rifle-musket leaned against the wall behind the desk. In easy reach now.
The man did not turn. “I hear them,” he whispered, low. “The last words on their lips, the last thoughts in their heads.”
Lieutenant Foster stepped into the room, glanced at the man, then at the general, and closed the door, but didn’t go any farther. His left hand rested on his gun, his gaze on the tall stranger’s back.
“Name and business,” the Saint said. “Or I’ll end this conversation.”
“Her name was Laura,” the man murmured. “His name was James.”
The name of his wife. The name of his son.