“The Brigadier's in Carrow!” said Oliver Parrett in a hushed whisper.

     The other man, a steelworker named Frank Bell, stared at him. “The Brigadier?” he said. “The Brigadier?”

     “Keep your voice down!” Oliver stared around the dark tavern to see if anyone had overheard. The nearest of the other patrons were laughing over their glasses of watered down ale, though, and the two guards, keeping a wary, suspicious eye on everyone in the crowded room, were too far away to have heard even if they'd been speaking in a normal tone. Oliver allowed himself to relax.

     “He's on a secret mission, to help Helberion win the war,” he continued, leaning closer to the other man across the beerstained table. “I don't know what. Sabotage, probably. Or maybe he’s going to kill someone. A General, maybe the King himself! Whatever it is, though, it has to be part of something bigger. The Helberians are planning something, and its going to shake up the whole country!”

     “You don't know that!”

     “Why else would the Brigadier be here? Why isn’t he with the Helberian army, helping to defend Marboll? If he’s here, it has to be because he thinks he can do more to help Helberion here than he can fighting with his own army.”

     “How do you know it was the Brigadier? Some stranger help you fight off a gang of enforcers... Could have been just someone with his own grudge against them. Those Above know there's plenty of them.”

     “I told you how he handled those guards.”

     “You're telling everyone! If you're not careful, word will get back to the Bosses and they’ll send another mob of goons round to finish what they started. What are you still doing here, anyway?”

     Oliver ignored the question. “He just recruited them, just like that! He just gave them orders and they obeyed as if he was the King himself. I've never seen anything like it! A man like that, he can do anything he wants, accomplish anything he wants. I told him, whatever you want to do, just tell me and I'll help you. We all want to be ruled by King Leothan. He's a good king. A fair king.”

     “True enough, but Leothan's holed up in Marboll now, surrounded by the entire Carrow army. Helberion’s finished. The war's all but over. I wish it wasn't, but there you are.”

     “They've got something up their sleeve, I tell you. The Brigadier wouldn’t be here if they didn't. This could be the chance we've been waiting for. The whole army's out of the country, and we outnumber the guards ten to one. If not now, when?”

     “You're dreaming, lad. Suppose we do do something while the army's away. What happens when they come back? When Helberion’s conquered and the army comes back, what then? So long as Nilon has the army, we can't do anything.”

     “Yes, we can. We can prepare.”

     “Prepare for what?”

     “What if Helberion wins the war? What if Nilon’s army is wiped out or captured?”

     Frank Bell laughed out loud. “Nilon’s army swept across Helberion like a miller’s broom across a silo floor. Marboll is surrounded. Leothan's days away from total defeat, from being brought back to Charnox in chains. It's no longer a question of who'll win! The outcome was never in doubt. It's about whether Leothan can last out the week.”

     “You think? Have you forgotten how Leothan’s army marched into Carrow, broke into four garrison cities and captured fifty thousand of Nilon’s best men?”

     “I remember now they all escaped again, because Leothan was too soft to kill them when he had the chance. That's the difference, you see? Leothan’s soft, but Nilon’s hard. Hard will always defeat soft. Every time.”

     “Not soft, fair. Most of that army's just farmers lads pressed into service at the point of a gun. Leothan wouldn’t kill people who hadn't chosen to be his enemies. And I wouldn't be so quick to write off Helberion. They're up to something, you'll see. The Brigadier's up to something. And if they do win, then we won't have the army to worry about any more. What then, eh? What if Nilon’s army gets itself wiped out?”

     “Not going to happen!”

     “But if it does?”

     Frank Bell took a long swallow of his ale, then stared at the pale yellow liquid thoughtfully. “Well then, I suppose that would be a different bale of straw, wouldn't it?”

     Oliver Parrett nodded, a hopeful smile on his face. “Sam Kerry said the same thing. So did Percy Thrower, and Mike Denner and Toby Watts. And they all say there's others who feel the same way. It could happen, Frank! It could really happen!”

     “If Helberion wins the war,” said Frank Bell.

     Oliver Parrett nodded. He looked over at the two guardsmen again, who were still eyeing the tavern’s other patrons as if trying to decide who they'd beat up later that night. He imagined all twenty of the other men in the room suddenly rising from their seats as one, going over to the two guardsmen, surrounding them, and battering them to death. He imagined similar scenes being enacted in taverns and on street corners all over the country. Imagined jubilant crowds of people cheering in the streets. He took a sip from his own drink. “If Helberion wins the war,” he agreed.

☆☆☆

      Malone was awoken by the sound of someone descending the stone steps.

     He didn't bother trying to pretend to be still asleep. He'd tried that already, the morning after his first night in the small cell, and it hadn't worked. He still had the bruise to prove it. Neither had pretending to have a fever from the dogbites on his arm, or half a dozen other tricks that always worked for the heroes in the pulp fiction adventure stories he’d liked to read back in Marboll. These people were professionals, and the only ways he was ever going to be free again was if they let him go or if someone rescued him.

     Neither was very likely, he knew, and so he’d resigned himself to merely not making an embarrassment of himself. If he was going to die, he would die with dignity. He stood, therefore, and faced the barred door as Dennis and Sid reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the floor of the basement.

     “You know the routine,” said Dennis.

     Malone did. They'd been doing this for a week now, and so he stood with his back to the bars, his hands behind him, and waited while they put the manacles on him.

     Sid was apparently still angry with him for killing his dogs, because he closed the manacles two notches past the point of comfortable fitness so that the cold iron bit painfully into his wrists, where they would add new patches of chafed skin to the ones he already had. Sid then gave them an experimental and quite unnecessary tug to make sure they were secure, adding a jolt of extra pain, before opening the door and pulling him out by the elbow.

     “Any chance of some clothes?” he asked as they pushed him towards the stairs. “I feel so embarrassed standing before an aristocrat like this.”

     They didn't reply. They never did, and they always ignored him when he tried to join in with their conversations with each other. The message was clear. He was no-one to them. Nothing but a distraction from the day to day routine of their lives, and when the time came for them to kill him they would do it without a moment’s hesitation or regret, and forget he’d ever existed a moment after they'd disposed of his body.

     Malone's life had, therefore, become a never ending struggle against despair. An eternal fight to retain what pride and dignity he had left. This was made easier by the fact that he had, up until now, managed to conceal certain things from Benjamin, and the only aim he had left in life was do die without having revealed them to his enemy.

     As every time before, Benjamin was waiting for him in the crockery room, or the plate room as Malone preferred to think of it. One thing was different this time, though. Benjamin was wearing his finest clothes. Ermine and silk in scarlet and black, and had a top hat made of brushed velvet standing on the table beside him.

     “You dressed up for me,” said Malone in delight. “That really wasn’t necessary.”

     Benjamin gave the faintest of smiles. “Humour,” he said. “The last resort of the damned.” He gestured for Malone to sit in the wicker chair, then sat in another chair opposite the coffee table from him. “I'm going to the opera tonight. Right after I've dealt with you, in fact. Normally I wouldn't have bothered with you tonight, but a couple of things have come to my attention.”

     “You mean the fact that you're a murderous glob who's betraying his own kind?”

     “The Radiants are my kind. When humanity's been put back in its place I'll be taken to one of their cities where my adoption will be completed. This glob will have risen all the way to the top of the ladder, while you will return to the worms and the beetles. Still, who knows? One of your glob descendants may rise to humanity again one day. It may even go all the way to Radiancy. Who knows?”

     “It’s important to maintain an optimistic outlook,” Malone agreed.

     “Indeed. As I said, a couple of things have come to my attention. Primarily, that you haven't been entirely honest with me regarding your true identity.”

     “I'm nobody. An orphan. My parents were killed by guards. I joined the rebellion because I wanted to get back at them but then I discovered what you were really up to. You don’t want to reform civilisation. You want to destroy it!”

     “Yes, yes. You visited a Radiant city, learned what happened to the Hetin folk. You were quite forthcoming during our little interviews, it wasn't necessary for me to put even the tiniest little curse on you. You made one mistake, though. You see, hardly anyone ever visits a Radiant city. The Radiants told me that only two people have done so in the past five years. The Brigadier and his batman. A half raised dog, but with a fully formed brain.”

      Malone felt the last of his hope draining away. His despair was now complete, but he forced himself to give no visible reaction. “You think I'm the Brigadier’s batman?” he said, making himself smile.

     “You have repeatedly demonstrated military skills and abilities. You kill, when necessary, without hesitation...”

     “Life is hard for an orphan. You survive by being equally hard.”

     “Yes, that’s what we thought it was. Just street toughness.” He took a bottle of Kermot from the table, poured himself a glass, took a sip from it. “The Brigadier has become legendary,” he said. “Tales of his exploits are told all across the human world, even in Carrow. Five years ago, though, a new element was added to the legend. His batman. His adopted son. The faithful servant who followed him everywhere. Joined in all his adventures. Shared all his dangers. When he came to Kelvon, his batman came with him. Took quarters in the Helberion embassy with him. His name was Malone. The same as your name.”

     “Coincidence,” said Malone. “There's thousands of orphaned dogs out there, and Malone is a common name. I've never met the Brigadier.”

     “Really? Because the Brigadier recently left Kelvon. Took a train for Carrow. My colleagues in Carrow have been looking for him, so far without success. Probably because he kept going east. Returning to Helberion, to take charge of the defence of his homeland. One thing we do know, though, is that when he left Kelvon, he left alone.”

     “Alright, you got me. I'm him. I'm the Brigadier's batman.”

     Benjamin laughed, and Malone's hatred for him rose to new heights. The dog bites on his arm throbbed angrily with every beat of his heart. The pain of the manacles on his wrists made him feel terrifyingly helpless, but he nevertheless made himself wonder if there was any way he could kill the man, even in his present condition. Maybe if he leapt across the table, delivered a solid head butt to the front of his forehead with all his strength. A blow so great that one of their skulls would crumple inwards, crushing the brain... It was a fantasy, he knew. The distance between them was too great, but he thought about doing it anyway, just to keep his spirits up and make himself feel better.

     “Yes,” said Benjamin. “I really think you are, and so we're going to have some more conversations over the next few days in which you'll tell me everything you know about the Brigadier. You're going to tell me how he's going to organise the last defence of Marboll.”

     “The last defence?”

     Benjamin chuckled. “Yes, of course. You've been a little out of touch with current events, haven't you? Well, you might as well know that the war is all but over. What's left of Helberion's army is crowded close around Marboll, and they’re encircled by Carrow's entire army. One last push and it'll all be over. It's possible that the Brigadier still has one or two tricks up his sleeve, though. You're going to tell me what they are.”