The Captain's War

Chapter 12: Answers

            Wen sat at her writing table in her gable bedroom, gazing out onto the twisting path below, absently pulling a comb through her hair. It was early yet, barely past dawn. She did not hear anyone else stirring in the house. Her eyes wandered along the path to the gravestone, almost completely overgrown after ten years of neglect—old Arla's final rest. But he hadn't been so old, had he? Not much older than she was now. No, what he had been was very ill, the kind of ill that even Academy surgeons could do nothing for. If not for the illness he would surely still be alive, muddling along like Tarl or the vegetable-seller in town, a little slow perhaps but still sharp as a shovel. She wondered what he would have made of this Captain Vashka and her renegade Army. He had always been very superstitious. His only flaw, she reminded herself with a rueful smile, except for a fondness for gambling, and there was only so much gambling-related trouble one could get into on the northern frontier. He would likely have blamed the Progressive politics in Murg, the "abandonment of the Old Ways," or some other fish-dribble. But he would have opened his doors to the displaced anyway. He would have complained about it, loudly and enthusiastically, but he would have done it.

For the first time in a long time, she found herself wishing there was someone around to tell her what to do.

She put the comb down and took the house logbook out from under the writing table. It was a very thick book, and well it should be, because in it were the names of every single person who had crossed the house's threshold in its nearly one-hundred-year history. In some cases her predecessors had recorded much more than just a name. She heaved it onto the table and flipped to the most recent page. A hundred years of names and notes, and still the book was less than halfway full. Whoever had made it had meant it to last. She found a pencil stub (how fortunate she was to have a faster and less messy option than the traditional reed and ink) and scribbled the date. Then she wrote, received refugees from Murg: Clarity Temple, Willow Temple, Silver Temple, Brannen Charles. She paused a moment and added, escorted by one Sergeant Amalia Charles and company, who would not stay for dinner.

Fern, who had spent the night curled at the foot of her bed, came over to rub against the legs of the writing table and stare at her beseechingly, lest she forget his breakfast.

"Right, my starving creature," she said to him. "Let us begin the day."

Downstairs, Owl was lying by the front door, waiting to be let out. She obliged him. Then she fed Fern, who let his appreciation be known through purring loud enough to be heard two rooms away. She was just sitting down for her own breakfast when she heard Owl yowling outside.

"Divines forbid anyone arrive at this house unannounced," she grumbled, and went to see who could be coming to her door at such an early hour.

Amalia Charles stood on her front stoop, wearing the rumpled look of someone who hadn't slept well and didn't expect to anytime soon. Despite that, the woman still cut an imposing figure in the brightening sun. Her dark hair gleamed silver around the temples and her eyes were clear and alert.

"Sergeant," said Wen, arching her brows as Owl flounced around her visitor's knees.

"Call me Char. I left my rank behind in the city."

Wen found this unlikely, but did not say so. "Very well, then, Char. What might I do for you?"

The other woman bent to scratch Owl's head, and the hound leaned against her, his tail thumping the doorframe. "I came to see the children, since I don't know when else I'll have time." She shifted, discomfort darting across her face for a moment. "It is early yet, though. Perhaps they are asleep."