She sat alone upon a throne of shadows gazing over a bloodied, checkered field. Bodies lay broken and torn, staring and lifeless, oozing and rotting. Flies buzzed about the feast. She took a shallow, shuddering breath and tried to look away, but the carnage spread to every horizon.

Sour acid stung the back of her tongue.

A familiar face caught her eye. It was Ror, the solider who’d been executed on her behalf. He lay face up, but chest down, a clean, crimson wound at his neck, no other injury evident.

Sobbing, she tripped over dismembered limbs and tangled viscera until she could fall to her knees in the gore and mud at his side. She hadn’t meant for this to happen.

The magic sprang from her fingertips to the dead man, like he’d pulled it from her. She yelped and jerked back. The dead man jerked as well. A small, pitiful scream escaped her throat. And the scream called to the dead man, pulling him to his feet, his head clutched by the hair in one pale hand.

She turned to run but another standing body blocked her way—a dead soldier risen. He reached for her, one hand grey with death, the other severed at the wrist. She edged around him only to find another dead soldier reaching for her, mouth agape, eyes blank. All around her the dead rose to their feet, and a low, hissing moan slithered over the battlefield.

She screamed.

• • •

The screams of her dreams echoed in waking. Voices raised not in barked orders or grunts of combat, but terror. Devorah scrambled from her blankets, unsheathing her rapier as she went. Around her, others poked heads from tents, wanting to determine what was happening but unwilling to sacrifice sleep or warmth without orders.

The dead man came from the far edge of camp, where refuse was dumped and buried, and now it moved inexorably toward her. She could hear it, see it, smell it though the darkness, its rotting hands covered in the gore.

Two men on watch had tried to stop it with hard words and drawn swords, but it ignored the bite of their blades, grabbing them with supernatural strength and crushing their throats. The dead man was slow but strong, shuffling but efficient, rotting but impervious.

Devorah looked at the naked blade in her grasp. It would do her no good, but she didn’t want to let it go. Holding it made her feel better, stronger, confident.

Someone screamed. Devorah hurried through the deep dark of winter.

A crowd had gathered. At its heart, a group of men, blades bared, circled the dead man. Devorah could sense their odd combination of trepidation and confidence. She elbowed her way through the crowd.

As in the dream, the dead man was without a head. The missing head was not, thankfully, clutched in one hand, but Devorah knew the animated corpse was Ror—or, at last, had once been.

“All at once now,” came the measured voice of Colonel Lambert. “On my count.”

None in camp was better with a sword than Colonel Lambert. But the blades of the guards had done nothing to deter the creature, so why should the Colonel’s? Devorah was suddenly anxious.

The Colonel counted down from three. Devorah held her breath.

Even without a head, the dead man seemed to realize it was being attacked. It tried to evade, but its movements were slow and awkward. The blades bit deep but the creature didn’t act injured. Instead, it struck out, knocking its attackers back with unnatural strength.

Colonel Lambert struck again, this time taking off the dead man’s hand at the wrist. And though the creature did not react as though hurt, the hand fell to the mud and lay still. This gave the watching soldiers heart, chased away the fear, and they fell on the creature, swords swinging to hack off limbs. There were some whose confidence was outweighed by the creature’s strength. Living men were injured, but soon the dead man was hacked apart and still. Soldiers cheered through the stink of rot.

But Devorah was struck with unease. She watched the oozing torso and the scattered limbs afraid they might still move. And she was right. One of the hands twitched, but no one else seemed to notice. Then a foot, the right arm, the putrid muscles of the torso. Devorah found her breath coming shallow and fast. She tried to shout a warning, but the word caught in her throat. Her eyes scanned the gathered crowd, hoping someone would notice, but they were all celebrating.

“Scamp!”

Devorah jumped and looked at Colonel Lambert. He breathed heavily, but seemed unconcerned.

“Woken by the excitement were you?”

“Sir…” Devorah cleared her throat and found her voice, “the dead man… he’s moving.”

The Colonel’s expression hardened, but he did not question her. He spun about, sword at the ready. Devorah too brought her sword up and focused on the dismembered corpse wriggling about.

“How do you stop something that won’t die?” Colonel Lambert muttered.

The answer came to Devorah in a burst of inspiration, as though it should have been obvious from the outset.

“Fire!” she called.

And the call was taken up.

Soon, every part of the dead man had been set ablaze.

• • •

In the morning, she found herself again in the Governor’s receiving chamber, this time for the weekly officer’s meeting, including General Vahramp, Colonel Lambert, and a whole host of others she’d seen around camp but whose names she’d not bothered to learn. The Governor stood at the table’s head, trying to gain control of the meeting, but everyone was talking at once about the dead man’s attack.

Devorah ignored them. Instead she thought about the time she was wasting, time that could have been dedicated to weapon practice. Usually when Colonel Lambert was at a meeting, she’d spend time at the archery range or beating on a striking dummy or maintaining the weapons in the armory. But this time Colonel Lambert had dragged her along.

General Vahramp suddenly pounded his fist on the table. In the following silence, he said, “Erin wants a turn.”

The assembled officers turned their attention to the General, then to the Governor, who glared at General Vahramp, thin-lipped.

General Vahramp had won the opening move.

The Governor cleared her throat. “I suppose we’ll have to talk about last night. I read your reports. An animated corpse wandered into camp. The question is, how.”

General Vahramp snorted derisively. “You’re supposed to be the resident expert on powers, Erin. You tell us.”

Devorah could see the Governor’s jaw clench, and she was certain everyone else could as well. This wasn’t the first time General Vahramp had openly derided her in front of the other officers.

The Governor continued, trying to ignore the smirks growing around the table. “The dead do not rise of their own volition,” she said. “Powerful magic is required, and necromancy is a rare gift. This was an attack.”

General Vahramp scoffed. “The Scriptures are full of examples of angry dead rising on their own to…”

But the Governor was secure in her knowledge of the supernatural, and she spoke over him. “Do not cite that collection of superstitions as evidence. They’re just stories meant to frighten a gullible populace. You’re not gullible, are you, Freddy?”

The General glared at the Governor.

Devorah was pleased the Governor had mounted a verbal counter attack against the General.

“It was an attack,” the Governor persisted. “By the Taranaki Empire.”

“Those little girls?” The General’s tone was contemptuous. “How? Why?”

“Necromancy originated in the core of the Empire,” said the Governor. “They have potent forces at their control. If they have interpreted my overtures as an affront, they might decide to send a message.”

General Vahramp snorted. “Women are fickle leaders.”

The Governor glared at him, but to respond angrily would prove his point. Instead she said. “General, make certain every guardsman has a torch to hand. Fire is the best way to combat the undead.”

But the General shook his head. “Men on the night watch will lose their night vision if you insist they carry lighted torches. They’ll see no further than the light can reach.”

The General was pressing hard in the verbal sparring and had most of the officers in the room behind him. But Devorah saw an opportunity and took it.

“That’s not what she said.” She locked her gaze on the General and ignored the surprised looks directed at her. “The night watch need not carry lit torches. That would be silly. They need only have quick access to fire: a torch, a box of matches and that’ll do it. In fact, I’m surprised it’s not standard gear.”

Devorah watched the General, but in the following silence she could hear everyone’s hidden thoughts. The Governor was smug. The General was smoldering. But it was Colonel Lambert’s thought that made her blush with pride.

Neatly done, Scamp.

The Governor cleared her throat. “Now. Returning to the business at hand.”

The Governor pointed to a man who began to list their supplies and their projected needs. It quickly became obvious the army was running low on supplies. Devorah’s attention wandered. She thought about the length of weighted chain, a weapon Colonel Lambert had introduced to her a few days ago.

“We’ll need to resupply soon, Governor,” said the man.

The Governor looked at Colonel Lambert. “How are our contacts in Sunslance?”

But before the Colonel could answer, General Vahramp interjected. “You can’t be serious, Erin. Loreamer has his people in Sunslance. It would be such a tip of the hand as to be ludicrous. I didn’t spend all these years planning this insurrection just to have you piss it away for some dried beans and wagon wheels.”

But the Governor stood firm. “We’ve all made sacrifices, General. It will do us no good to sit around whining about it if we can’t even feed all these soldiers we’ve managed to raise. With the Colonel’s contacts, we’ve managed to get supplies from Sunslance before.”

The Governor had managed to turn the game in her favor.

Devorah could see the clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, flared nostrils as the General tried to hide his anger. In the next half an hour, she watched him stew silently while the Governor and her other top advisors went about making plans to send a chain of supply wagons to Sunslance.

“Governor, if I may be so bold,” said Colonel Lambert. “Though Quartermaster Dewhurst is more than up to the task of purchasing the supplies, they cannot go unguarded. Send soldiers and you’ll need an officer to command them.”

The Governor shook her head. “I need you here Colonel. You too, General,” she said, looking at General Vahramp. “I’m sure you can find a young officer in need of seasoning.”

“Precisely my point,” said Colonel Lambert as he looked at Devorah.

General Vahramp followed his gaze and couldn’t contain a harsh laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding, Lambert. You want to send the brat?”

Devorah felt her skin go tingly numb. She couldn’t imagine being in charge of soldiers who’d been at this far longer than she had. She was barely fifteen years old. She was skinny and short and had spent most of her life ill in bed or wandering listlessly through dusty hallways and silent bookshelves. What did she know about commanding soldiers?

The Governor looked at her. “Are you up to it, Major Kempenny?”

Devorah looked at the Governor and saw in her expression that this was yet another move on a political chessboard. If Devorah was to be the ‘secret weapon’ the Governor said she was, if the Governor was to wrest control of this army back from General Vahramp, then Devorah needed to move as directed.

She nodded. “Of course, Governor.”

After supplies they moved on to training, after training they moved on to plans for marching north. Devorah paid attention, but kept her mouth shut.

After the meeting, Devorah was invited into the Governor’s private study. With the door closed, the Governor poured two glasses of dark, red wine and gave one to Devorah. Devorah sipped at hers but had no taste for wine this morning. Her stomach was a hard knot of nerves.

“Thank you for that,” said the Governor. “I had no idea Colonel Lambert was going to recommend you. You must have impressed him. If you’d declined, we would have looked weak.”

Devorah nodded and swept her gaze across the room. After the mind-numbing boredom of the meeting, she hoped the Governor might suggest they play chess. Then her attention was captured by a black book resting open on the Governor’s desk. It was large and thick, bound in smooth leather. The pages were yellowed with age and covered with cramped writing and illustrations she couldn’t make out from where she stood. It seemed, for a moment, to sing to her a whispered song.

“I’ll make sure he sends an experienced officer with you, someone to show you how it’s done.”

Devorah barely heard. All her attention was on the book. She swallowed hard and resisted the urge to approach it, to run her fingertips gently along it.

“Devorah, are you listening to me?”

Devorah shook her head to clear it. “Hmm?”

The Governor stepped between her and the book, and Devorah blinked.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Governor. I just… what is that book?”

The Governor looked over her shoulder and back. “Nothing for you to be concerned with.”

“But I…”

“No. It’s dangerous. You’re too valuable.”

“I just…”

“Get out. Report to Colonel Lambert.”

• • •

Though she favored the rapier, Devorah was fond of all sorts of blades. For today’s sparing bout, she had chosen a pair of simple short swords, double edged. They weren’t as light as the rapier, but they had a stronger arc.

She twirled the sword in her right hand, hoping to distract the Colonel, make him think she was showing off or getting nervous. She attacked with the left in a sweeping diagonal arc and watched the Colonel step neatly out of the way. His movements were efficient.

Colonel Lambert had taken them out of their usual sparing grounds to the common practice fields, and a small crowd gathered to watch. Devorah was breathing hard, her breath and sweat turning to steam in the cold. She was faster than she had been only a month ago, stronger too. She had learned much about how to handle herself in a fight, but the Colonel’s experience, efficiency, and unpredictability still made him the better fighter.

Devorah backed up as the Colonel went on the offensive. His choice for this particular bout was a slightly curved, single-handed blade in his right hand and a small buckler strapped to his left. He slashed and stabbed with quick, efficient movements, and it was all Devorah could do to parry and stay a step ahead. A few times she tried to counter, to go back on the offensive, but every time the Colonel anticipated her movement.

Finally, Devorah closed in hard on the Colonel’s left in an attempt to push him back. Their blades would be little use so close, but she swung her left hand in a torso punch, using the sword handle as a fist pack. The punch didn’t land with much impact through his leather armor, but it did make him grunt and stumble back a step. That bit of surprise was enough to let Devorah go on the offensive.

And on they went for some time.

Devorah ignored all else. She forgot the verbal sparring between Governor and General, she forgot the shuffling dead man, she forgot the crowd watching them. There was nothing but her body and blades, and those of her opponent. She did not tire.

“Enough!”

Colonel Lambert called the halt. He was winded. She had worn him down. She relaxed, took several steps back, but remained vigilant. If this was a test of readiness, she didn’t want to fail it.

Colonel Lambert saluted her and she saluted back, but there was something odd about his stance. It wasn’t that he was slightly slumped with fatigue, or that he was planning a sneak attack; the first seemed natural and the second seemed unlikely. But there was something…

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“Colonel, you’re leading with the left.”

The Colonel smiled faintly. “How about that.”

“But you said…”

“So what? When it comes to a fight for your life, are you going to let me tell you how you should stand? You’ve got great instincts, Scamp. Listen to them.”

Devorah smiled.

Together they went to the pump, the crowd parting to let them pass. As they walked through the gathered, Devorah could hear whispered comments and half formed thoughts.

“She fought Lambert to a standstill.”

“Did you see the way she moves? It’s like the old stories about the great masters.”

“Maybe she really is a secret weapon.”

Devorah pretended she didn’t hear.

They reached the pumps and a nearby soldier worked the pump for them. Devorah thanked the man, but he ducked his head and said, “It’s an honor, Major.”

In silence, each drank their first cup. Devorah pumped the water for their second.

“Look at them, Scamp.”

Devorah looked up from filling her cup to the soldiers milling about camp. Some were on watch, dressed in full uniform, marching through camp, a visual reminder of strict military discipline. Some were off duty, stretching their legs. Most were on the myriad errands required to keep such a camp moving. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of soldiers drilling.

“They’re all here for different reasons: money, loyalty, activism. But each knows that without strong leadership this is a fool’s errand ending with every one of us dead.”

Devorah thought about the Governor and General. “I can’t make those two get along.”

Colonel Lambert nodded. “You’re right.”

• • •

Sunslance was half a week’s ride north of the Governor’s fortress, but with nine wagons, even nine unladen wagons, the trip took a full week.

The caravan ran itself. Quartermaster Dewhurst saw to the wagons and reported to her when there was a problem. But when a wagon wheel broke, there was nothing for Devorah to do but watch while Quartermaster Dewhurst’s men fixed it. Similarly, Lieutenant Birkett oversaw the guards, reporting to Devorah every evening. But there was little to report. The guards chosen for this trip were steady, solid folk who’d served the Governor for a long time. All in all, it was a boring ten days. Which, Devorah told herself, was better than the alternative.

The trip wasn’t entirely uneventful though. On the second night, after dinner, Devorah sat outside her tent tending her weapons. She’d brought with her a rapier, a pair of dirks, and a bandoleer of throwing daggers. She was sliding her dirks into their sheaths, one in a boot sheath, one at her belt, when a young guardsman approached.

She recognized him immediately. His hair was darker than average, though not the jet black of her own. He was the fourth boy, the boy who had hesitated in the snowball volley. He was clad in plain brown and grey travel clothes.

When she looked at him, he froze.

“Um… hi,” he said.

Devorah stood, one dirk still in hand. “Is that how one addresses his superior officer in Kempenny’s army?” she demanded.

The boy swallowed hard and came to stiff attention. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Devorah was embarrassed by the display, but at the same time didn’t trust this boy. He had attacked her, or at least given serious thought to attacking her, even if it was just with snow and mud. But there had also been the sabotage, the cut tent lines, the stolen clothes, the viscera in bed sheets.

Devorah sheathed the dirk and took up a short sword. “What can I do for you soldier?”

The boy stayed at attention. “I just wanted to apologize, sir.”

He was shaking now, and Devorah was reminded of Ror, begging forgiveness. She could sense his sincerity. With a sigh, Devorah put her weapon aside.

“Have a seat, soldier. What’s your name?”

The boy sat. “Rory, sir. Rory Vickers.”

Devorah looked at the boy’s face sharply, looking for any similarity to the man she had witnessed executed, who had risen from the grave to wander through camp. There was a passing resemblance, but that didn’t mean anything.

“All right then,” said Devorah. “Apologize.”

The boy stammered, too nervous to speak properly. For several moments, Devorah let him stew in his own nervousness, but soon she took pity. He was just a boy after all, he wasn’t the sort of enemy General Vahramp was, and there was little point in abusing him.

“The snowballs?” she prompted.

The boy nodded, his body language revealing his relief. “It wasn’t my idea…”

“I’m aware,” Devorah interjected. “You were the one in back, too afraid to throw. What I want to know, is why you went along with it that far.”

“I… They killed my father…”

Devorah closed her eyes. Rory kept talking, but she’d heard all she needed and gave him only half her attention. Ror, the dead man, was this boy’s father. And it was her fault he’d been killed. Yet he had stayed his hand.

“What about the vandalism?” Devorah asked.

The boy, Rory, stumbled to a stop in his stammering, explanatory apology. “What?”

Devorah motioned behind her at the tent. “Broken tent poles, mud in my bedroll, ripped clothes.”

“I didn’t… I don’t…”

Devorah sensed no duplicity in his confusion. She nodded. “That’s fine, soldier. Your apology is accepted.” She was on the verge of apologizing in return, but held the words in check. Did he know his father had been killed because of her? If she told him now, would she make an enemy of him? If she didn’t tell him and he learned later, would that make him an enemy?

Rory stood and saluted. “By your leave, sir?”

Devorah nodded.

• • •

The city of Sunslance came as a shock. She had read about cities of course, but she had never seen one. There were several buildings all smashed together, narrow streets and a mass of people all confined in tall stone walls. Devorah wasn’t sure what she had expected, but this wasn’t it. Everyone so close to each other without the strict order of a military camp—it was inefficient.

They were met at the gate by a thin man with long moustache. He was well dressed and tidy looking and the guards at the gate stood a little straighter when he arrived, not quite saluting. Devorah had donned a field jacket over her travel clothes at Lieutenant Birkett’s recommendation. Lieutenant Birkett had given the recommendation stiffly, same as she gave her nightly reports, and Devorah could tell the lieutenant still saw her as a mud-caked little girl who couldn’t manage to clean herself. In fairness, it hadn’t been all that long ago.

Devorah had accepted the suggestion graciously.

The jacket was black with a blue unicorn on the left breast and the marks of rank on each shoulder.

The thin man with the moustache looked up at Quartermaster Dewhurst and Devorah where they sat on the lead wagon’s bench.

Dewhurst cleared his throat. “Your honor, this is Major Devorah Kempenny. Major Kempenny, this is the mayor of Sunslance, Gregory Theobald.”

“Kempenny?” the mayor repeated.

Devorah didn’t know what he meant, questioning her name, but rather than ask for clarification and reveal ignorance, she looked at him until the stretch of silence became uncomfortable.

“Ah,” said Mayor Theobald. “Right then. Yes, of course.” He looked at the Quartermaster. “Take the wagons and guards to the usual spot. I’ve got men ready to load the supplies.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably as he returned his gaze to Devorah. “Will you join me for tea, Miss… uh… Major Kempenny?”

Devorah knew he wanted more from her than company for tea. He was nervous, but Devorah’s interest was piqued. She nodded.

“All right then, Mayor Theobald.” She got down off the wagon and watched the caravan trundle into the city.

“You’re brave to wear that jacket here, given the presence of Loreamer’s men,” said Mayor Theobald.

“We are in Kempenny Province, are we not? Why should wearing a jacket bearing Kempenny’s device be brave?”

“There have been… altercations.” The mayor led her into the city, taking a different road than the caravan.

Devorah gave the man a considering look. She wondered if Lieutenant Birkett had known about the altercations. Was she being set up?

A ten-minute walk later, they entered a small café called The Alicorn. Devorah could smell tea brewing and goods baking. A few customers enjoyed tea over gossip, but the café was mostly empty. The mayor nodded conspiratorially to the man behind the counter. The man nodded in return and gave Devorah a sweeping gaze. Devorah returned the look, unflinching. He seemed put off by her steady gaze but nonetheless stepped aside as the mayor lead Devorah behind the counter and into a back room.

It was a small, windowless room with a narrow back door. It held a small, round table and an assortment of mismatched chairs.

“Well,” said the mayor, “this is it.”

“This is… what?” Devorah asked.

The mayor’s expression wilted. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s hidden, and well protected. All the other store owners hereabouts are with us. And that backdoor opens on an alleyway that would make a great getaway. Isn’t this what the Governor sent you to see?”

Devorah didn’t know what to say, so she settled on the truth. “I was sent here to collect supplies, Mister Mayor.”

The mayor smiled, a knowing glint to his eyes, and tapped his nose. “Yes, of course. But it’s safe to talk here Miss… ah… Major Kempenny. And you can tell the Governor we’re all behind her, the whole city. We’ll have these Loreamer dogs tossed out before you know it.”

• • •

Loading and documenting nine wagonloads of supplies would take the rest of the day, as Quartermaster Dewhurst informed her when she arrived at the warehouses. She had taken tea with Mayor Theobald while he talked to her about spy networks and backroads and the growing resistance to the Loreamer tyranny. He’d wanted her to go with him to meet his “spymaster” a baker several streets down from The Alicorn, but Devorah had apologized and said she needed to check on the supplies. When he seemed about to press the issue, she’d given him a conspiratorial wink, and that had mollified him.

The whole thing was ridiculous.

She understood the Governor was planning a resistance against House Loreamer, but it seemed to her that Mayor Theobald’s melodramatic cloak and dagger would only draw attention to the operation. What use was there in back rooms and spymasters? If he was going to organize a resistance in Sunslance, he’d have to be more subtle. He should be his own spymaster and fewer than everyone around The Alicorn should know his secrets.

Devorah jerked her attention back to the Quartermaster. “So, when can we leave?”

“It’ll be tomorrow morning,” he replied, his gaze on a sheaf of paper in his hands.

At loose ends, Devorah left the warehouse. She stood in indecision. The Quartermaster’s men were loading wagons and the soldiers who weren’t helping were guarding the warehouse. The boy who hadn’t thrown the snowball, Rory Vickers, stood guard with another, more senior soldier, at the door she had just exited. She gave them both a nod.

Rory saluted smartly. The older guard saluted, but not quite so stiffly.

“Anything I can help you with, Major Kempenny?” asked the more experienced soldier.

Devorah gave the question serious thought. The problem was she was bored. She wasn’t needed at the warehouse and there was nothing else to do. A few months ago, boredom would have been cured with a visit to the library, but she was itching for a fight. She had become accustomed to daily sparring matches with Colonel Lambert.

“Are any of the soldiers free for sparing?” Devorah asked.

The guard shook his head. “Afraid not, sir. Only one not on duty is Lieutenant Birkett, and she went to the city guardhouse to let the Loreamer guards know we’re here.”

Devorah was surprised at that. “I thought this was a clandestine mission.”

The guard shrugged. “That’s beyond me, sir. But I get the impression some money changes hands.”

“Where is the guardhouse?”

The guard looked uncomfortable, but he gave Devorah the information she wanted. It hadn’t occurred to Devorah that the contacts the Governor had been referring to would be Loreamer soldiers, but it made a certain sense. To enter the city, load nine wagons worth of supplies, some of which were overtly war related, and do it all without arousing suspicion among the local authorities, it made sense to have the local authorities as allies.

Which reminded Devorah she hadn’t received any explanation as to why Loreamer guards had taken residence in a city within Kempenny borders. What had happened that Loreamer had preemptively invaded Kempenny? None of the history she’d studied mentioned it.

The guardhouse was a broad, squat building facing a small square. It looked as though it had been a fort in the past and Sunslance had grown up around it. Inside, she found a large room milling with guardsmen, some on break, some preparing for patrol, some attending the myriad tasks required to keep the operation of a city guard working.

The front desk was manned by an officious man with spectacles perched on his thin nose. He looked up at her, took in her jacket and said, “What brings a Major of Kempenny to Sunslance?” He wore the grey of House Loreamer and bore its crest, a purple albatross.

Devorah fixed the man with a glare.

“This is still Kempenny, is it not?” she demanded, echoing her words to Mayor Theobald. “Am I not permitted travel freely, or has that right been revoked?”

The man stood, meeting Devorah’s glare. “You’re awfully young to have achieved such a rank.”

Devorah could sense in this man a person who hid behind his station. “And you’re awfully small for a solider,” she returned. He was barely taller than her, and she could see she’d hit a sore point. He had never been tall enough, big enough, to be a proper soldier, so he brandished what power he could find from behind a desk.

“You’ll want to watch your tone, missy. I happen to know that someone who earned her rank the hard way is conducting negotiations your Governor won’t want the Royal to hear about.”

The best thing, Devorah thought, would be to let the issue drop, to leave now and fade into the shadows of this stuffy little man’s memories. But she was still itching for that fight.

“My tone is my business. And this guardhouse is still subject to Kempenny law.”

“So, this is a provincial inspection?” The bureaucrat smiled.

“Yes,” said Devorah. “I’d like to make certain your men are at their fighting best. Surely there are a few here who could be spared for a demonstration.”

The man was smug. “Certainly, Major.”

Her request stirred a bit of a hubbub. She found herself escorted by a small crowd to the courtyard where soldiers sparred in heavy practice gear with blunted blades. Off to one side was an archery range.

The man, he was a sergeant she noted, gestured at the archery range. “By your leave, Major, a demonstration of archery?” His tone was overtly mocking.

Devorah approached the archery range. A row of unstrung bows leaned against a rack, and barrels holding bundles of arrows stood nearby. Those guardsmen who had nothing better to do formed a small crowd while the Sergeant called upon a man to demonstrate his skill.

Someone brought her a stool. She ignored it.

The chosen archer was a tall man, lean but well muscled. He chose a bow and an armguard, pulled a waxed bowstring from his pocket and strung the bow easily. Devorah hadn’t practiced much with the bow after her initial attempt. Archery was smoothly natural to her, as simple as a deep breath without coughing. She went to the archery range at Fort Shepherd to relax, in her off time.

She examined the bows while the Loreamer archer selected arrows.

There were markers on the flagstone courtyard marking ten yards, twenty, thirty. The archer stood at the thirty-yard marker and rolled his shoulders while whispered bets slithered through the crowd. When all eyes were on the archer, Devorah selected her own bow.

In quick succession, the archer let fly three arrows. Two stuck in the inner ring and the third just outside. There was a spontaneous burst of applause. Devorah heard some money change hands.

The stuffy little sergeant turned to her. “Are you satisfied…” but he trailed off when he found her, bow in hand, arrow nocked.

It felt good in her hands, natural, just as a blade did. She was certain she could draw, aim, and loose just as easily as she stood there breathing. She stood a little apart from the crowd, several feet behind the Loreamer archer. Most of the crowd was still congratulating the man, so they didn’t see her draw and loose thrice, just as had her opponent, until her arrows buried themselves in the target in a tight little knot around the bull’s-eye. It wasn’t perfect, but it was clearly better. The congratulations faded quickly. Everyone looked at her.

Devorah gestured with her bow to a spot next to her. “Perhaps you’d like to try from back here?”

The archer’s eyes widened, then narrowed with fury. He hadn’t expected a competition and swallowed embarrassment. He stalked toward her, but she only looked at him coolly. As he rolled his shoulders and took a stance, Devorah backed up, putting herself at the courtyard’s wall, approximately forty yards from the target. A young guardsman switched out the used target for a fresh one.

The courtyard was silent as the archer nocked his first arrow. The Loreamer guards watched with bated breath. She could feel them rooting for their man to show his superiority and, by extension, theirs. She knew they were shocked by this dainty feminine interloper and didn’t want to be shown up by a little girl claiming rank she clearly hadn’t earned. Pride was on the line, and so they held their silence.

The archer loosed his first arrow, and Devorah loosed hers a moment later. His struck near the inner ring and hers struck just a bit closer to the center. Everyone, including her opponent, turned to look at her.

“A fine shot,” congratulated Devorah, her tone dry and without sarcasm. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed. On a battlefield, that shot would have killed the enemy. Of course, on a battlefield, your friends and foes would not have been so kindly quiet. One more perhaps? Only this time all your friends should be shouting.”

She smiled at him. He swallowed hard.

“Go ahead then.”

The archer looked around at his fellows, uncertain what to do. The Sergeant caught his eye and nodded curtly.

“You heard the Major,” said the Sergeant with the thin nose and the stuffy glasses. “Everyone yell.” He approached the archer and said in a low whisper that Devorah could hear as though he were whispering in her ear. “Make the shot, private, or you'll be on night watch in the slums for the next month.”

Devorah hesitated. She had meant to beat the archer yet again, but she thought about chess with the Governor. Victory, she reminded herself, wasn't about winning every exchange, only the final one. Perhaps not every pawn would be instrumental to the endgame, but it cost her nothing now to put one in place.

“I said yell!” demanded the Sergeant.

A few of the men shouted, halfheartedly.

Devorah stepped forward to stand even with the archer but turned to look at the gathered. “Come on, soldiers, is that all you've got? You can't shout any louder?” She took a breath and shouted. Her shout was high-pitched, girlish, a sound that startled her. She hadn't ever thought of herself as girlish. The soldiers looked at her: startled, amused, uncertain. Devorah spread her arms, took a breath, stamped her feet, and shouted again. Some laughed, some shouted, some stomped, and a few moments later, the crowd made an almighty racket.

Devorah looked at the archer and gave him a nod. She considered smiling at him encouragingly but was afraid it would look like a grimace.

The archer did his best to hide it, but she could see him relax. He enjoyed archery, and though this thin girl in officer’s clothing had bested him twice, she’d released the pressure with her antics, no matter the Sergeant’s threat. He selected an arrow, rolled his shoulders, drew, and fired. He really was a fine archer. Despite all the yelling, or perhaps because of it, he struck the target near the center ring. Devorah was certain she could do better. But as she selected an arrow and drew back on the bow, she let her vision blur, her hold waver, her grip slip, and when the arrow streaked to the other end of the courtyard, it missed the target entirely and sank to its fletchings in the straw bales behind.

The crowd burst into applause. The archer took a careful breath, pride regained. Devorah held her hand out to him.

“Nice shooting. I guess my luck couldn't hold out.”

He smiled as he wrung her hand. “Not at all, Major. You're an impressive archer for being so young.”

“Thank you, private.” Already, Devorah felt the story of her gracious loss would spreading among the Loreamer soldiers, but also of what a good shot she was. For being so young. The whispers scurried.

The Sergeant approached, countenance smug. “Well, Major, do we meet with your satisfaction?”

But she didn't get to respond. A man with the voice of a drill-sergeant bellowed over the excited chatter and congratulations.

“What in God’s Realm is going on here?”

The man was tall, red-faced, and clad in a tailored, stone grey uniform. The crowd fell silent at his enraged shout, and with a sweeping glare, they dispersed. Lieutenant Birkett stood next to him, glaring at Devorah.

• • •

Captain Godard's office was small, and, with the three of them in it, cramped, especially with the captain standing behind his desk, towering over them, shouting. Devorah and Lieutenant Birkett sat on short stools on the other side of the desk as though they were naughty children called before the headmaster.

“For over a year I have turned a blind eye to the actions of Governor Kempenny, and now you come in here and humiliate my men, humiliate me?”

The shouting had gone on in this vein for some time already, and Devorah was sick of it. She stood.

“You have turned a blind eye?” Devorah demanded, her quiet voice cutting through the pause in his shouting. “This is Kempenny Province. Your eye, blind or otherwise, is of no consequence.”

“I am in charge of three major cities in this province...”

“No you're not. Unless Loreamer has invaded Kempenny, the laws of Khulanty clearly state that each Province governs itself under Khulanty law. Under Kempenny law the Governor allows each city to elect their own mayors. Have you been elected as mayor? Or perhaps you’re declaring war, Captain?” Devorah knew the law of the land well, the Governor’s library was well stocked with law books. She did not, however, know why Sunslance was filled with Loreamer guardsmen. She hoped her legal knowledge was not outdated.

“I'll make an official report. I'll tell my superiors about everything that's been going on down here in Kempenny. About that little army the Governor's been raising. The Royals will have to make a move against you then.” But he swallowed hard. She could see he was nervous. Apparently her interpretation of the law was correct and, despite his position, Captain Godard was on shaky ground.

“And tell me, Captain, what will you do when Loreamer investigates you?”

The Captain flushed with anger. “I’ve only ever been loyal to the Royals.”

Devorah shook her head. “You know that’s not true.” He could not hide it from her. She sensed his shame and she aired it. “You’ve been accepting bribes from Governor Kempenny for everything from smuggling to spying.”

Lieutenant Birkett looked at her with astonishment, but the Captain was worried.

“That’s Kempenny stamped coin in those purses I imagine, and your coffers hold the same.” Devorah pressed.

“We’re in Kempenny, silly girl,” the captain interrupted, regaining some confidence. “Of course I have Kempenny currency.”

“And what of the letter of support you’ve written the Governor, bearing your signature and seal?”

Captain Godard sputtered. “I never…”

“That doesn’t mean we haven’t got such a letter. Captain. And when your men are questioned, will they be loyal to you or to the Royal? Will they be angry you’ve betrayed them? Will anyone speak up for you to argue against execution?”

Captain Godard blinked, at a loss for words, and dropped heavily upon his chair. Devorah put her hands on his desk and leaned forward just slightly.

“Captain Godard, with the authority given me by Governor Erin Kempenny, I am well within my rights to requisition whatever supplies I like from whatever city I like. I have the authority to test any armed soldier or guardsman within these borders. And if you so much as breath another word to me that isn’t ‘yes’ and ‘sir’ in that order, I will see to it you end up on trial for treason.”

Devorah took a breath and stood up straight. “Is that understood, Captain?”

The captain nodded curtly. “Yes, sir.”

“I assume you have nothing further to say to us, is that correct, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

Devorah was ready to leave then, but she paused. She thought of the chessboard and imagined positioning pawns.

“Oh, and give that archer a promotion.”

“Yes, sir.”