Firebrand

A Crown in Hand

Two prefects made their way through the streets of Morcaster, walking directly south from the fortress of Saint Marcellus to reach the copper lanes. Both had their hoods up, obscuring their faces. If anyone came close, the pins on their chest would read Legio X Astra, but nobody dared to be so near; others shied away from their path well in advance.

The soldiers of the eastern legions were a different breed than the old garrison; hardened in battle, they had no tolerance for the slightest misstep. Given how the ordinary legionaries treated any citizen causing offence, none wanted to experience how prefects punished infractions.

The hour was late; night had already fallen. One prefect carried a large sack over his shoulder, and as they entered the copper lanes, the other led them into alleyways, away from curious eyes watching their progress.

"Sir, not that it troubles me, but I am not sure about the current purpose," Valerius admitted, adjusting the sack that hung against his back.

"Eleanor would have a fit if I went outside on my own. This didn't feel like something to bother her with, so I chose you instead. Congratulations, you are no longer cohort prefect, but protector for a night," Martel explained, setting a rapid tempo.

"Sorry, sir, I do get why you need a mageknight at your side. I meant, why are we sneaking into the copper lanes at this hour? With a bag full of sundry items?"

"It is wise to come bearing gifts, Valerius, when making a business proposition." Martel felt more like his old self. Strangely, having a conspiracy planning to kill him felt revitalising. It gave him something tangible to focus on, rather than abstract figures in a ledger. It also motivated him; if people were going to such lengths to get rid of him, he would stay alive just to spite them.

They reached their destination, a familiar back alley. Valerius cast looks in every direction; a proper young nobleman like him, this might be his first visit to the copper lanes.

"You may wait here. Don't worry, there's nothing in that house that can threaten me." Martel took the sack from him and proceeded. He heard a flutter of activity as he approached the backdoor, and he gave it a few heavy knocks. He could not imagine they recognised his appearance, and the children were probably scrambling to hide or run away. "It's Martel, your old friend," he declared, hoping some of them heard before him before scarpering.

From a gap in the wall, Martel felt eyes observe him. Finally, the door opened ajar. "It's you? You're so big!"

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Martel could not help but laugh. He was not the same lanky student they once knew, and wrapped in armour and surcoat, he probably looked huge compared to their tiny, malnourished frames. "It's me. More beard than last you saw me, but not much different otherwise."

They pulled the door open to left him inside. "Presents!" they yelled. Martel laughed again, emptying his sack onto the table. His reeves had been confused at being sent to market, but they had done good work. Fresh bread and apples, salted pork, many pairs of woollen socks, and coloured ribbons for the children to tie their unkempt hair back.

As the children marvelled and began distributing the clothes to each other, Martel glanced around. Mouse, Badger, Sparrow, and everyone else he knew seemed to be here, except for Weasel. Martel knelt down next to the girl with magical talent whom he had once tried to teach. She looked reasonably well, considering her living situation. No bruises or other marks of beatings on her, and she had grown. "How's your gift?"

"It's useful. I'm learning more tricks. Sometimes coming up with my own."

"That's good. It'll only get more and more useful for you, the better you are." He pointed at his heating stone in the middle of the room, still working. "You can create things like that." Martel wanted dearly to tell her she could still go to the Lyceum, but given how the Empire had treated him, he could not guarantee that it was the better choice for her. Peace was not certain yet, and even if he achieved it, he could not be sure it would last.

"Are you the emperor now?" Mouse looked up at him with her big eyes while chewing on bread. "They say you're in charge now. Of everything."

"Not quite. I have some of his responsibilities, you could say, but I'm still in the legions. I'm just a prefect." Albeit with a lot more power than others of that rank. "And it's temporary. Once I've made peace, I'll be done."

"That sounds foolish. But it does fit that you would give up all that power," Weasel declared loudly. He stood on the staircase, watching the scene. "What a bounty. Being not the emperor must pay well."

"If you're envious, I have a task for your people that'll put gold in your pockets," Martel revealed, and he could practically see the glint of greed in the chief's eyes.

"Let's talk up here." Weasel beckoned for Martel join him as he walked up the stairs.

Martel followed him; he had never been here before, the inner sanctum of the small gang. He saw thick blankets covering the floor, along with a variety of clothing discarded everywhere. At least they did not seem to freeze. "Business is not bad, I take it."

"What's your offer?"

Martel took out a golden crown. The only coin he had on him, given he was going to the copper lanes. "This is yours if your people will keep watch for me over the coming days."

"Keep watch? When you flaunt gold like that, I figured you'd want someone dead," Weasel snorted.

"I command twenty-five thousand soldiers adept at killing. They are less skilled at staying hidden, however. This is yours now for accepting the task, and another ten if your information is useful to me."

The boy's eyebrows flew up. "Must be nice having access to the Imperial treasury."

"Being prefect pays well enough. I have no need to steal from the Empire," Martel declared coldly. "Do you want the task?"

Weasel stretched out his hand. "What are we looking for?"