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Authors: Rebecca Pawel
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we’d leave anyone with you for the long term, but if it’s a question of rations?”
“No.” The director shook his head. “No, it isn’t that. It’s just that I thought there might be some security issues. But I suppose you know your own business.”
Tejada disliked having civilians tell him his job, but the director’s modest coda made him think a moment about what kinds of security issues the director of Devastated Regions might consider worth worrying about. He wondered if Rosas was worried about prisoners’ making contact with a specific man working for Devastated Regions. But the men in Señor Rosas’s camp were all from other parts of Spain, unlikely to have any local contacts. Unless one of them was so well known that his name would mean something even in these mountains. “You don’t have any big fish among your workers?” he asked.
“No, no, they’re all just common soldiers.” Rosas spoke hastily. “But”—he turned to Sergeant Márquez. “I assume you’ve told the lieutenant about the, er, the difficulties we’ve been having this winter?”
Tejada turned his head toward Márquez and raised his eyebrows.
The sergeant had the grace to look embarrassed. “No, sir,” he said. “The Valencians were our first priority when Lieutenant Tejada arrived, and then there were routines to go over, and since there hasn’t been any action recently . . .” Márquez wilted under his commander’s stare, and added humbly, “I should have followed it up with you, sir. It’s just that the business of the escape came up, and it slipped my mind.”
“Not your fault,” Rosas said reassuringly.
Tejada, who had come to the conclusion that Márquez suffered from convenient amnesia when a good memory would make work for him, was less inclined to be forgiving. “Did this issue with Devastated Regions suggest anything about the Valencians’ escape that might have prevented it?” he asked sharply. As he spoke, Tejada thought that he was already accustomed to taking the blame for the escape, though it had occurred before his arrival in Potes. It was pleasant to have a chance to shift the responsibility a little. And he certainly did not mind an excuse to reprimand Sergeant Márquez.
“No, Lieutenant,” Rosas answered for the discomfited guardia. “It’s an unrelated problem.” He sighed. “We’ve set up a brick factory, and we’re doing our best to use traditional techniques, using materials native to the region, but we still do need metal pipes for the water system, and then there are tools that speed the work. With no railroad, everything has to be brought through the gorge, and with the highway being what it is, it’s a real headache.”
“This was what you called the Guardia about?” Tejada interrupted, before the director could begin a full recital of his grievances. Perhaps Márquez had been justified in not reporting the conference with Señor Rosas, if the director had only sought him out to complain. At the back of his mind Tejada wondered if Señor Rosas held the Guardia responsible for the state of the roads. We should hold him responsible for that, really , he thought. After all, that’s his department. And now I’m starting to sound like the mayor . The thought amused him enough to prevent him from being irritated.
“No. I was just explaining the background,” Rosas said. “So you can see how inconvenient it is that our supplies are being stolen.”
“Stolen?” Tejada was instantly alert. “From here, or before they arrive?”
“That was the issue,” Rosas spoke confidently now, a professional on his own ground. “I believe our deliveries were being waylaid by bandits as they went through the gorge. It’s a perfect place for highwaymen. But it was cleverly done. We’ve had a hard winter. A lot of blizzards. And to make things worse, a lot of our materials come via Santander. Did you pass through Santander on your way
“No.” The director shook his head. “No, it isn’t that. It’s just that I thought there might be some security issues. But I suppose you know your own business.”
Tejada disliked having civilians tell him his job, but the director’s modest coda made him think a moment about what kinds of security issues the director of Devastated Regions might consider worth worrying about. He wondered if Rosas was worried about prisoners’ making contact with a specific man working for Devastated Regions. But the men in Señor Rosas’s camp were all from other parts of Spain, unlikely to have any local contacts. Unless one of them was so well known that his name would mean something even in these mountains. “You don’t have any big fish among your workers?” he asked.
“No, no, they’re all just common soldiers.” Rosas spoke hastily. “But”—he turned to Sergeant Márquez. “I assume you’ve told the lieutenant about the, er, the difficulties we’ve been having this winter?”
Tejada turned his head toward Márquez and raised his eyebrows.
The sergeant had the grace to look embarrassed. “No, sir,” he said. “The Valencians were our first priority when Lieutenant Tejada arrived, and then there were routines to go over, and since there hasn’t been any action recently . . .” Márquez wilted under his commander’s stare, and added humbly, “I should have followed it up with you, sir. It’s just that the business of the escape came up, and it slipped my mind.”
“Not your fault,” Rosas said reassuringly.
Tejada, who had come to the conclusion that Márquez suffered from convenient amnesia when a good memory would make work for him, was less inclined to be forgiving. “Did this issue with Devastated Regions suggest anything about the Valencians’ escape that might have prevented it?” he asked sharply. As he spoke, Tejada thought that he was already accustomed to taking the blame for the escape, though it had occurred before his arrival in Potes. It was pleasant to have a chance to shift the responsibility a little. And he certainly did not mind an excuse to reprimand Sergeant Márquez.
“No, Lieutenant,” Rosas answered for the discomfited guardia. “It’s an unrelated problem.” He sighed. “We’ve set up a brick factory, and we’re doing our best to use traditional techniques, using materials native to the region, but we still do need metal pipes for the water system, and then there are tools that speed the work. With no railroad, everything has to be brought through the gorge, and with the highway being what it is, it’s a real headache.”
“This was what you called the Guardia about?” Tejada interrupted, before the director could begin a full recital of his grievances. Perhaps Márquez had been justified in not reporting the conference with Señor Rosas, if the director had only sought him out to complain. At the back of his mind Tejada wondered if Señor Rosas held the Guardia responsible for the state of the roads. We should hold him responsible for that, really , he thought. After all, that’s his department. And now I’m starting to sound like the mayor . The thought amused him enough to prevent him from being irritated.
“No. I was just explaining the background,” Rosas said. “So you can see how inconvenient it is that our supplies are being stolen.”
“Stolen?” Tejada was instantly alert. “From here, or before they arrive?”
“That was the issue,” Rosas spoke confidently now, a professional on his own ground. “I believe our deliveries were being waylaid by bandits as they went through the gorge. It’s a perfect place for highwaymen. But it was cleverly done. We’ve had a hard winter. A lot of blizzards. And to make things worse, a lot of our materials come via Santander. Did you pass through Santander on your way
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