dangerous path even though there was surely a scion of harlots.
Thornbury was the first to speak. “Madigan . . . that’s Sir Madigan? You’re the one Laddermore has putting together a unit of misfits. Aren’t you the knight who burned an earl to death, along with his wife and children, back during the coup?”
“That would be me.” Madigan spread his hands in mock apology. “Things happen.”
“My father was knighted, and he never felt the need to burn any children. So I take it you have an issue with the aristocracy?”
“Oh, no, Corporal. I’m landed gentry myself now, though King Vinter only saw fit to grant me a few useless acres of rock in the Wyrmwall. I’m not here with a grudge. I’m here to inform you of your reassignment to the Sixth Platoon.”
“Ah. I can see there’s been some confusion.” Thornbury picked up a goblet, swirled the wine a bit, and took a sip. “That whole military service thing was a big misunderstanding. You see, my father is a very important nobleman, and in some social circles being a Stormblade can be seen as rather prestigious—even dashing. I don’t think anyone ever expected me to do any actual soldiering, especially amid all this unpleasantness with the Menites.”
“Permission to teach this dandy a lesson, Lieutenant?” Wilkins asked.
“Permission denied . . . for now.” Madigan leaned forward. “Let me break this down for you in very clear and simple terms, Thorny. If you know who I am, you know how little I care about who your father is. I’ve already been given the most god-awful, dead-end assignment in the kingdom. It doesn’t get any worse.”
Thornbury scowled. Obviously he hadn’t thought of that.
“As of right now, you are guilty of dereliction of duty and criminal activity. The army thinks you are a spoiled, useless, cowardly fop. You can either come with me, do the duty you signed up for, and prove them wrong, or you can spend the next year in the brig.”
“We both know I’d be released as soon as someone on the command staff heard. They wouldn’t want to be disinvited from the best parties.” He laughed. It was a bluff; even for nobles the repercussions for such behavior were severe, and everyone knew it. “Come on, Madigan. I don’t know why you’d want me anyway. Sure, my father was a great warrior, but me? I’ve no gift for soldiering.”
“I’ve got no shortage of men who can swing a sword.” Madigan gestured around the warehouse. “Look what you’ve accomplished here.” Madigan picked up one of the coin purses that lay beside him and weighed it appreciatively. “Good night’s work.”
“Not so. There are associated costs of doing business. Local gangs get a cut for using their turf. Gate guards get a cut for letting all these soldiers through. Fighters get a percentage of the house . . . With you cutting me off after only five fights tonight, by the time I pay everybody, I probably won’t even cover my advertising costs.”
“Next time you should hire some of the local guttersnipes for lookouts. They work cheap. Good insurance.”
“You’re a strange sort of officer, Madigan.”
“And I’m putting together a strange sort of platoon. I need a scrounger.”
“A what?”
“When you’re campaigning, living off the wilderness, every unit picks a scrounger. That’s the man who can find you food to eat and a dry place to sleep. He’s the one who collect favors and make things happen. Right now my platoon is at the end of the logistics chain; Captain Schafer’s got no use for us. We’re the runt of the litter, and the runt always eats last. Worst equipment, worst supplies, worst mechanika, you name it. I need a man who can alleviate that.”
Once again, Cleasby spoke before thinking. “It’s true. Wait until you see the barracks they assigned us.”
“A scrounger?” Thornbury seemed thoughtful. “What’s in it for me?”
“Come on. I’ve ridden past your family estates. We both know you
Thornbury was the first to speak. “Madigan . . . that’s Sir Madigan? You’re the one Laddermore has putting together a unit of misfits. Aren’t you the knight who burned an earl to death, along with his wife and children, back during the coup?”
“That would be me.” Madigan spread his hands in mock apology. “Things happen.”
“My father was knighted, and he never felt the need to burn any children. So I take it you have an issue with the aristocracy?”
“Oh, no, Corporal. I’m landed gentry myself now, though King Vinter only saw fit to grant me a few useless acres of rock in the Wyrmwall. I’m not here with a grudge. I’m here to inform you of your reassignment to the Sixth Platoon.”
“Ah. I can see there’s been some confusion.” Thornbury picked up a goblet, swirled the wine a bit, and took a sip. “That whole military service thing was a big misunderstanding. You see, my father is a very important nobleman, and in some social circles being a Stormblade can be seen as rather prestigious—even dashing. I don’t think anyone ever expected me to do any actual soldiering, especially amid all this unpleasantness with the Menites.”
“Permission to teach this dandy a lesson, Lieutenant?” Wilkins asked.
“Permission denied . . . for now.” Madigan leaned forward. “Let me break this down for you in very clear and simple terms, Thorny. If you know who I am, you know how little I care about who your father is. I’ve already been given the most god-awful, dead-end assignment in the kingdom. It doesn’t get any worse.”
Thornbury scowled. Obviously he hadn’t thought of that.
“As of right now, you are guilty of dereliction of duty and criminal activity. The army thinks you are a spoiled, useless, cowardly fop. You can either come with me, do the duty you signed up for, and prove them wrong, or you can spend the next year in the brig.”
“We both know I’d be released as soon as someone on the command staff heard. They wouldn’t want to be disinvited from the best parties.” He laughed. It was a bluff; even for nobles the repercussions for such behavior were severe, and everyone knew it. “Come on, Madigan. I don’t know why you’d want me anyway. Sure, my father was a great warrior, but me? I’ve no gift for soldiering.”
“I’ve got no shortage of men who can swing a sword.” Madigan gestured around the warehouse. “Look what you’ve accomplished here.” Madigan picked up one of the coin purses that lay beside him and weighed it appreciatively. “Good night’s work.”
“Not so. There are associated costs of doing business. Local gangs get a cut for using their turf. Gate guards get a cut for letting all these soldiers through. Fighters get a percentage of the house . . . With you cutting me off after only five fights tonight, by the time I pay everybody, I probably won’t even cover my advertising costs.”
“Next time you should hire some of the local guttersnipes for lookouts. They work cheap. Good insurance.”
“You’re a strange sort of officer, Madigan.”
“And I’m putting together a strange sort of platoon. I need a scrounger.”
“A what?”
“When you’re campaigning, living off the wilderness, every unit picks a scrounger. That’s the man who can find you food to eat and a dry place to sleep. He’s the one who collect favors and make things happen. Right now my platoon is at the end of the logistics chain; Captain Schafer’s got no use for us. We’re the runt of the litter, and the runt always eats last. Worst equipment, worst supplies, worst mechanika, you name it. I need a man who can alleviate that.”
Once again, Cleasby spoke before thinking. “It’s true. Wait until you see the barracks they assigned us.”
“A scrounger?” Thornbury seemed thoughtful. “What’s in it for me?”
“Come on. I’ve ridden past your family estates. We both know you
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