A little after noon the first supply station came into view. It jutted up out of the snow several hundred yards ahead of them. Damien had never felt so glad to see a building, even a slumping, three-room shack like the station, in his life. Eight days of riding and sleeping in a tiny, two-person tent with a woman that barely tolerated him left him eager for a bed and someone, anyone, else to talk to. A bath wouldn’t hurt either of them as well.
Behind the station a fenced-in paddock and modest stable housed about ten horses. Army patrols stopped at the station to swap injured mounts and tend to tack and shoes. No soldiers manned the place, only a farrier, stable master, and their apprentices. It struck Damien as a peaceful if tedious post.
They rode around to the paddock. From the stable a middle-aged man with a beard wearing a heavy fur-lined jacket ambled out to meet them. “Can I help you?”
“We need fresh mounts and supplies,” Lane said.
“Yeah, and you are?”
She frowned and fished around in her furs. After a moment of hunting she pulled out a badge and pointed it at him like it was a crossbow. “Lane Thorn, diplomatic corps. This is my bodyguard.”
No introduction for him. Damien tapped his forehead in a two-fingered salute. “Damien St. Cloud, pleasure.”
The stable master studied the badge a moment then nodded. “Looks official. You two staying the night?”
“Yes.” Damien didn’t give Lane a chance to speak. “Please tell me you have a tub in this place.”
He glowered at Damien. “Of course. Just because we’re in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean we live like savages. Leave the horses and mule to me and the boys and head on in. Nigel can show you where everything is.”
Damien swung down and grabbed his rucksack. Lane joined him, pausing to collect the smallest of her bags from the back of the mule. They trudged through a foot of snow to the back door of the station. An iron ring served as door knob and Damien pulled it open. He went through first like a proper bodyguard.
The main room had a big, potbellied iron stove in the center that threw off a pleasant heat, its chimney running up through the roof. Four chairs sat around a rough-hewn dinner table. Two closed doors, one straight ahead and a second to his right, led to other rooms. Not exactly luxury, but it would do.
Lane came in behind him. “What a dump.”
The door straight ahead opened and a bald man wearing a leather apron stepped into the room, a crossbow at his shoulder ready to fire. “Who the hell are you?”
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Damien was halfway across the room before he finished the question. Damien leapt onto the table, gathered himself, and leapt again.
His heel crashed into the man’s crossbow. It clattered to the floor.
Damien grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him into the wall. “Nigel?”
Nigel croaked something then settled for nodding.
“I’m Damien, that’s Lane. We’ll be spending the night tonight. The stable master said you could show us where everything is. If I let you go you’re not going to go for that crossbow, right?”
A red-faced Nigel shook his head.
“Good.” Damien released him and stepped back. “Crossbows make me nervous.”
Nigel coughed and rubbed his throat. “You didn’t look nervous. Who are you again?”
Lane flashed the badge a second time. “Diplomatic corps. You must forgive my bodyguard. He can be over protective.”
Nigel coughed again. “You don’t say.”
Damien bent down, removed the bolt from the crossbow, and uncocked it. “Here. Be careful, you could hurt someone with that thing.”
Nigel managed a hoarse laugh. “Yeah, like myself. Dinner’s a few hours away. Want me to set up the tub?”
“Yes!” he and Lane said at the same time.
The second door led to a supply room with an open space for the heavy iron tub. They melted snow on the stove to fill it. The whole process took half an hour. It would have taken double that, but Damien sped up the project with a little subtle sorcery.
Of course, Lane went first. She went in and slammed the door. A moment later it opened again. “I’d better not catch you peeking.”
“Can I peek as long as you don’t catch me?”
Lane slammed the door again. He took that as a no. Damien had only been half joking about peeking. Lane was a beautiful woman if you looked past her personality. He wouldn’t have minded a closer view of those long legs. He sighed. The look wasn’t worth the argument. Anyway he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Damien dug a scrap of paper and pencil out of his kit and wrote a quick, two-sentence note to the archmage. She’d taught Damien how to send his constructs to a location he knew so he didn’t have to guide the message the whole way. He conjured a bird and sent it to his master’s office. That little task finished he pulled a chair over beside the stove, grabbed a second one to use as a footstool and settled in to wait.
A hot bath followed by a hot meal left Damien in a much-improved mood. His good mood soured slightly when Nigel explained that they had to sleep on the floor. At least they were inside and warm.
Damien woke early as usual and found a scroll on his chest sealed with crimson wax. A reply from the archmage. How had she gotten that scroll inside the station?
He slipped out of his bedroll and headed for the outhouse. Damien shivered when the cold air hit him. With a thought he increased the temperature of the air inside his shield. It was pitch black out this early in the morning, but the short path was well marked.
Damien closed and latched the door of the rickety little building. He conjured a tiny light and settled down to read. One good thing about the cold: it kept the stink to a minimum.
Fifteen minutes later he finished reading about Jen’s adventure. It sounded like she’d had a rough time. She was okay, and that was what mattered. At least they knew Dominic Santen hadn’t been involved in the assassination attempt, though his son appeared mixed up in it.
Damien sighed and incinerated the message. He hated complicated things like this. He wished someone would just tell him who to blast and let him get on with it.
Oh, well.