Ironshield Read online

  Once he had a few feet of breathing room on the busy dockside, Aldren looked around. Partially for his contact, but mostly to catch sight of the woman. There was only one way she could have exited the ship, unless she was one hell of a diver.

  Aldren expected an automobile to pull up for him. Instead a tall, thin Xangese man approached. He wore an unassuming suit consisting of a gray jacket with a white collared shirt. Just looking at him made Aldren feel like he'd have heat stroke. The contact, whose short hair was neatly combed and matched his thin black beard, kept the collar of his shirt open, the only concession he seemed to make for the heat.

  "Mr. Mal," he said in perfect Arkenian. "I trust your journey wasn't too difficult?" He had the faintest trace of an accent. If it weren't for the man's yellow skin, Aldren would have thought he'd imagined it.

  "Once I finished spewing my guts out, it was peachy," Aldren replied.

  The Xangese man tilted his head.

  Aldren sighed. "Sailing was as smooth as the Sangee River," he said, reciting the agreed upon code.

  His contact grinned and extended a hand. "Genlu, a pleasure."

  "Talk about pleasure to someone who can't salt the earth with his underwear," Aldren said, wiping his brow as he resisted the urge to adjust himself below the waist. "It isn't right, being this bloody hot in winter. Do you even know what that word means around here?"

  Genlu chuckled. "We've heard about it. If you require, we can find you some more breathable clothes."

  Alden's gaze followed a group of young women in colorful silks of distinctly Xangese cut. Though the dresses went up to their chins, the fabric was tailored so that it hugged every curve. Feel like I'll poke my eye out from here, he thought, pulling his gaze away from a particularly well-defined bosom. "Breathable," he repeated. "Think I'll just try and get used to it, thanks."

  The people here were an odd mix. Many wore conical woven hats and rough wools, their feet clad in wooden sandals that looked as though they belonged to another century, while others like Genlu opted for perfectly common Arkenian garb. "I gotta say, Genny, you're not what I expected."

  Genlu blanched at that, for a moment at a loss for what to say. "What do you mean, Mr. Mal?" he said after a moment.

  "The suit, the lack of accent. Are people here usually so, well, western?"

  "Ah," Genlu nodded in understanding. "Yes and no. Traditionalism is slow to bow to the modern world, here. But what is it the Eishians say? That culture is a wall. Built brick by brick, broken pebble by pebble. There are many who resent the role your country took in the war, and feel as though western clothing and food are just more ways by which to usurp Xang."

  "Guessing that's why I need an escort," Aldren said.

  "The Dao's ministers also felt you would make good use of a guide and translator on your journey." Genlu spread his hands. "At your service, Mr. Mal."

  "Aldren. The ‘Mister’ shit sounds like I'm being given a sales pitch." He adjusted his pack. "So, where's our r…" He trailed off as he caught sight of someone walking their way. It was the woman from the ship. Or at least it looked like her. The dress was gone, replaced with pants and a coat, all dark brown and black down to her leather boots.

  "Genny, you might wanna back up." Aldren made his push dagger appear from his sleeve and held it ready at his hip.

  Genlu followed Aldren's gaze, and his mouth twisted in distaste. "There is no need to be afraid Mr - Aldren. She is expected."

  Aldren's stalker looked down at his hand, clearly not missing the knife. She sniffed. "Good instinct, but bad form. Clumsy knife work like that's a good way to get yourself carved up, in Xang."

  "And what would you know about my country?" Genlu didn't raise his voice, but his distasteful frown had turned to an outright scowl.

  So, the woman was from Quar.

  Aldren returned his dagger to its hiding place with a flick of his wrist. Whether she was a friend or not, he'd have to wait and see. One thing was certain, there’d been no love lost between Quar and the Xangese Dao royalty. Xang had spent generations exerting its power over Quar, enacting naval bombardments and invasions of the smaller country's vulnerable islands to try and break Quar's resistance, all over the claim they'd bailed out on some concession supposedly made by the Quarish ruling body hundreds of years ago. The Arkenia-Xang war had started because Aldren's country threw its support behind the underdog.

  Now, with the so-called Appeasement deal signed and so close to being finalized, Quar was in Xang's crosshairs again. This woman's nation was on the verge of being conquered.

  But of course, that meant nothing about who she was, or where her loyalties lay.

  "Who are you?" Aldren asked.

  The woman rolled her eyes over to Genlu.

  "This is your partner,” he said, all but grinding his teeth. “Hired by Senator Mutton to accompany us."

  "I'm here to accompany Mal. You're only part of that if Sargent Sweaty here says so, no matter what your Dao says. And my name is Mayla." She didn't make any attempt to shake hands. "We going to get moving, or are we going to stand here fondling ourselves?"

  Genlu didn't seem impressed with her attitude, or the way she ignored him and waited on Aldren's word. He muttered something in terse Xangese.

  Mayla only smirked, a slight curl to one side of her lip.

  Hired by Mutton, eh? Aldren didn't know if that was good or bad news. The senator, after all, was in the middle of being crucified in the public eye since Senator Salkirk's exposé. A man who could orchestrate something like the Quarrystone Massacre on his own initiative was a man to be wary of.

  Then again, Mutton also had assassins dogging after him, so maybe he wasn't the meanest dog in the kennel after all. So I've got two people who hate each other to keep me company. Sending either one of them away risked casting aside an ally and keeping an enemy. He didn't even want to consider the possibility that neither one was on his side.

  "Happy trio it is," Aldren said. "Genny, we got a ride?"

  "Yes, Aldren." Genlu whistled through two fingers, and a rickshaw driver rode over, his chassis rattling behind his bicycle.

  "After you, honored guests." Genlu bowed them on board with a flourish.

  Mayla nodded for Aldren to climb on first, then hopped onto the bench next to him. When Genlu attempted to join them, she put out a hand. "Sorry, all full. I know where we're headed."

  Genlu huffed, his composure slipping. "This is outrageous—"

  Mayla snapped something to the rickshaw driver in Xangese and they were off, Genlu scowling after them as he hailed another ride.

  "You can ease up with the dagger," Mayla said as she shielded her eyes with her hand and looked out to sea.

  Aldren let his arm relax. The damn woman wasn't even looking at him. "Guess I don’t get a say in who I ride with.”

  "We're here to audit his country, the man'll have to get used to us talking in private. Sooner we drill that in, the better."

  Aldren lifted his arm, simultaneously slipping the dagger back into its concealed sheathe as he pulled the brim of his cap down. "Weren't supposed to rendezvous until we were both here," he pointed out.

  "We didn't," Mayla replied.

  "Then what was that on the boat?"

  Mayla looked at him for a moment. Her eyes were dark and shrewd. "I like to know who I'm working with ahead of time. Make sure I can trust them."

  "Oh? And how do I know I can trust you?" Aldren retorted. "'Cause if you stalking me was on Mutton's orders, he can throw me in a cell for all I fucking care. I'll take the next boat back."

  Mayla chuckled. She looked around Aldren's age. Pretty, too, though she didn't seem to do much to accentuate it. Men's clothes to replace her previous dress, no makeup, brown hair tied back in a ponytail beneath her hat. Her voice was deep and throaty. "Mutton? He didn't even know I was in Arkenia."

  Aldren nodded, not sure if he believed her.

  Seems I'm the only one who does notice the heat. Mayla seemed perfectly at ease in
the stifling atmosphere, despite her clothes.

  Aldren pulled a cigarette from the silver case he'd nicked back home and fumbled around for his lighter.

  "Here." Mayla offered one. "Trade you."

  Aldren handed her a cigarette. It wasn't until he'd lit both their smokes that he noticed she'd given him his own lighter.

  "How did you - woah!" The cyclist turned a sharp corner, bringing their rickshaw to a creaking tilt. Aldren lost his cigarette over the side and was sure the whole contraption would crash to the wood-brick street. Instead, once the rickshaw was perpendicular to the road it had just veered from, the wheel hit the ground once more and they kept moving, smooth as ever.

  Mayla puffed out a cloud of smoke. She leaned against the side of their carriage, elbow propped on the edge, and studied Aldren through the blue-gray cloud. "Here." She offered him the cigarette. It reminded Aldren uncomfortably of his friend, Wellend.

  Accepting the cigarette, he looked around to take his mind off the mental image. This port city, named Feng Dao, was a sea of humanity, every street more crowded than the busiest Talenport market, the mood more chaotic than any festival Aldren had ever seen. Smoke and steam billowed from hundreds of vehicles, carts, and storefronts, while shouting merchants gesticulated over their stacked wares of fish, fruit, and dried goods.

  A large-wheeled steam engine puttered across the intersection ahead, carrying dour-faced Xangese troops in green uniforms. The vehicle was all brass tubing and dull iron, interspersed with wooden panels. It looked like something from another era.

  Aldren took a shaky pull from the cigarette and handed it back to Mayla. "Pretty heavily armed, for a country in peacetime," he said. Were those men looking their way, or was he being crazy?

  "Peacetime," Mayla mused. "There's no such thing in Xang. Even if the Appeasement agreement and peace terms are all met, it just frees the Dao to fight his real opponent." She pointed up the road with the cigarette. "The people."

  A group of young men had emerged from buildings to either side of the steam engine. Someone shouted, and as Aldren watched, the young men began to pelt the soldiers on the vehicle with rocks. Not just rocks, as Aldren saw when a homemade incendiary shattered against the machine's side in a burst of orange flame.

  While one of their men rolled shrieking on the ground, the soldiers opened fire on their assailants. The attacking civilians scattered in every direction, leaving a handful of their own dead in the road. That was not including the boy sitting against the side of a textile shop, one eye a bloody mess. His mother fell next to him, screaming as she clutched his lifeless form. The soldiers grabbed the smoking body of their burned comrade, and the steam truck rolled on.

  "Why?" Aldren asked while the rickshaw kept moving, putting the grisly scene out of sight behind them.

  Mayla exhaled another puff of smoke and put her legs over the edge of the carriage as she shifted position. "Who knows?" She passed Aldren the smoke. "Maybe, when under the control of one man with no chance to vote him out of power, they just need a way to keep him on his toes. Maybe they're tired of having their relatives taken away for saying or writing the wrong thing."

  Aldren looked back. Genlu watched them from his own rickshaw, stroking his narrow beard.

  "I didn't know things were this bad."

  Mayla took the cigarette and finished it, flicking the butt onto the street. "For something to be bad, you need something good to compare. None of what I said or what you just saw is news. It's been this way since my great-great-great grandparents' time. It'll stay that way, so long as the Dao’s reign continues."

  "Sounds awful," Aldren murmured. He wasn't sure he could say Arkenia was much different. Their next president hadn't even been decided on, and yet already their were bombs being set, snipers shooting at politicians. Arkenia had freedoms, that was true. Of expression, of speech and association. Except none of those freedoms had kept Aldren from being drafted, or from being forced to carry on his service long after the war. What kind of freedom was that?

  "Don't worry."

  "Huh?"

  Mayla jerked her chin back toward Genlu's rickshaw. "About him, at least not yet. If someone wants you dead, they won't do it on your first day."

  "Thanks," Aldren said. "That's real comforting."

  "Welcome," Mayla replied without a hint of sarcasm. She seemed to focus on their driver for a moment before leaning toward Aldren. "Samuel Mutton needed someone who knew the land and the language, after what happened to your predecessor."

  "Figure he got sick 'cause he misread a menu somewhere?"

  She didn't smile, but bore into Aldren with her eyes. "Mal, I'm here for your protection. The first thing you need to understand, if I'm going to keep you alive, is that you can't trust anybody here." She waved at Genlu, who didn’t look away quickly enough to hide his scowl.

  "Anyone."

  Chapter 22

  "He can't get away with this," Leanne Mutton growled for at least the third time, slamming her cup on the table. She'd actually accepted Paulson's offer to spike her tea, to both men's shock.

  "Well, he has." Samuel continued to pace in front of the flaming hearth. "We've got no hard evidence tying Salkirk to the attacks. And now he has a smoking gun to use against me. Not that he needed another at this point."

  "No," Paulson said, gazing out the fogged window, his whiskey left forgotten on a coffee table nearby. "But you can take this one away from him. All you need do is say the word."

  "I'm not putting one of my own in a cell, not when I signed off on what you did. If you get locked up, Edmund, it's going to be with me shackled right alongside you. I won't have it any other way."

  "You'd be a fool, but that's nothing new," said Samuel's wife, leaning back in her seat. "There's no reason for either of you to take a fall, not while that legged serpent walks free. To hell with evidence, Samuel. Go to Davids and tell him what you learned from that Eishian bastard."

  "What we learned is that Salkirk doesn't want a frail metalsmith tortured. That's all we can prove. Not exactly damning evidence."

  "Nathaniel is a friend. He's also seen, first hand, how manipulative Salkirk can be. He'll believe you."

  "It won't matter what he believes. He can't have a presidential candidate arrested without grounds in the middle of an election. It would look like political maneuvering, as though he were trying to force his preferred replacement on the nation. The people would cry dictatorship."

  "They can call it whatever they bloody hell want, all that matters is that that murdering sociopath is brought to justice!"

  "It's only justice if it's seen as such, Mrs. Mutton." Paulson reached for his drink, but let his hand drop to his side without touching it. Samuel thought he saw his secretary's fingers tremble.

  Paulson turned to Leanne. "I, for one, would rather Arkenia not be forced to gun down its own people again. People who would only believe they were fighting for what was right. That is what's on the table if Nathaniel Davids forces the election by arresting a man on hearsay. Civil war, again."

  Samuel stopped his pacing and swallowed. Paulson's words rang too close to home. Fighting for what they believe is right.

  Leanne took a gulp of tea, looking from one man to the other. "Do you really think it would go so far, Sam? Dear?"

  Samuel had to think on it for a minute. He heaved a breath. "Yes, Darling," he said. "There's too much uncertainty floating about now, thanks to Salkirk's deception. Having Davids put him in custody would foment the worst suspicions of his followers and make enemies out of people on the fence. Appeasement hardly measures up to a move as drastic as that."

  "Oh..." Leanne looked down. She must have known the answer before she asked. If anyone knew best what went through the minds of people in revolt, it was Samuel's wife.

  And what about yourself, Samuel? What was your role in the Revolution, if not to wage war against your government for what you believed to be the greater good?

  Samuel crossed the room without thinkin
g and cupped Leanne's chin in his hand, lifting her face to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry, light of my heart."

  Her eyes welled up. Unshed tears glittered jewel-like in orange firelight from the hearth. Leanne looked like she was about to say something. Instead, she let her gaze drop.

  Samuel let go.

  "I know you are," she murmured as Samuel turned. "That's what makes all of this so much harder."

  "Here." Paulson offered Samuel his untouched glass.

  Straight whiskey had never been his poison, but Samuel took the drink and downed it in one gulp. He coughed. "Savior above, Edmund, I don't know how you do it."

  "Practice," Paulson replied. "It's a talent you're better off without." He pressed a folded letter into Samuel's other hand.

  He looked at it, surprised. "What's this, more bad news?"

  "My resignation. But if you trust me at all, Sam, you'll burn it and tell the press that you’ve fired me. It's the only chance you have at salvaging your reputation."

  "Edmund, be reasonable," said Leanne. "Samuel has few enough people he can trust as it is. Without you, he'll be isolated. I'm no soldier," she continued, raising a palm. "But from what I understand, there are certain notions among military types about not abandoning comrades."

  "No one's being abandoned. I'm giving Sam an out."