The Radiant War

Chapter 16a

     Bonewell was a miserable town, the Brigadier decided. It was located at the crossroads where the Great North Road, running from Charnox up to Erestin, met the Imperial Way; the road he would have come by if he hadn't taken the faster train journey to the south. Once, it had clearly been a much larger metropolis, growing fat on the trade that had flowed through it, but the conflicts with Helberion that had occupied virtually the entire last century had seen trade dry up to a trickle. Trade between east and west now flowed further north, through the peaceful lands of Crammock, Woland, Erestin and Gildon, and all that was left of Bonewell was a sprawling mass of slums housing the workers who commuted to the great industrial city of Gullier, just to the south.

     Nevertheless, Princess Ardria had been planning to pass through this town on her way to Charnox. Hopefully, he had arrived ahead of her and only had to wait for her arrival. If not, she would have left word with the local Helberion intelligence office and he would have to rush to catch up with her. He rode his horse through the dusty, empty streets, therefore, past the occasional old timer dozing in a rocking chair. One of them, wrapped up in warm furs against the cold wind, who opened an eye lazily as he went past and immediately forgot about him again.

     He continued on past the once grand hotels, stables and boarding houses, now empty and awaiting demolition, until he came to the tavern on Holly Street, the Drunken Goat, which was, he hoped, still owned by the Helberion Head of Station as a covert base of operations. He left his horse tied down outside and went in.

     The common room was almost empty, he saw. Just a couple of locals propping up the bar and solving all the problems of the world while sipping at watered down ale. The Brigadier went to the other end of the bar and spent several minutes trying to catch the barman’s eye. The barman was busy cleaning tankards with a dirty rag, though, and seemed to be so totally engrossed in this task that he wouldn’t be distracted from it unless the building caught fire.

     The Brigadier was wondering whether to commit the minor social indiscretion of calling out to get his attention when the barman finally noticed him and came over, still wiping the same tankard. “What can I get you?” he asked with a slight irritation in his voice, as if cleaning glasses was much more important than serving customers and that he needed to return his full attention to this urgent task as quickly as possible.

     “I’d like a room for the night,” the Brigadier replied. “A room with a north looking window, if you please.”

     The man stared at him with such surprise and alarm that he almost dropped the tankard. It slipped between his fingers, and he just barely managed to retain his grip on it before it fell and smashed on the tiled floor. He put it safely down on the bar before returning his attention to the Brigadier, who was feeling a shiver of doubt. He thought he'd given the correct identifying phrase, but it had been years since he’d last had to use any of them. If he’d made a mistake, how would the barman react?

     The barman hesitated nervously, as if considering his options. He stared at the Brigadier, trying to read his face, trying to judge his intentions, and it was several moments before he came to a decision. “Of course,” he said. He lifted the flap in the bar and came through. “The green room is available, but the bed is very hard.”

     The Brigadier allowed himself to relax a little. That had been the correct response, but the man's attitude still worried him. Could the intelligence office have been compromised? Maybe the barman was a Carrow agent, here to nab any Helberion agents who might happen by. He remained on his guard, therefore, and kept his hand close to his pistol while he gave the last part of the identifying Exchange. “Good. Hard beds are good for my back.”

     The barman stared at him again, then beckoned him towards the stairs. The Brigadier followed him up to the first floor, the boards under the threadbare carpet creaking with every step. The Brigadier saw, from his body language, from the tension in his every movement, that he was going to go for a gun, but he made no move to disarm him, even though it would have been ridiculously easy for him to have done so. The man seemed to move with glacial slowness as his hand reached inside his jacket and removed the weapon. The Brigadier could have taken it from him with virtually no effort, but he made himself stand there, impassive and confident, as the other man brought the pistol to bear on him.