Bonewell was a miserable town, the Brigadier decided. It was located at the crossroads where the Great North Road, running from Charnox up to Erestin, met the Imperial Way; the road he would have come by if he hadn't taken the faster train journey to the south. Once, it had clearly been a much larger metropolis, growing fat on the trade that had flowed through it, but the conflicts with Helberion that had occupied virtually the entire last century had seen trade dry up to a trickle. Trade between east and west now flowed further north, through the peaceful lands of Crammock, Woland, Erestin and Gildon, and all that was left of Bonewell was a sprawling mass of slums housing the workers who commuted to the great industrial city of Gullier, just to the south.

     Nevertheless, Princess Ardria had been planning to pass through this town on her way to Charnox. Hopefully, he had arrived ahead of her and only had to wait for her arrival. If not, she would have left word with the local Helberion intelligence office and he would have to rush to catch up with her. He rode his horse through the dusty, empty streets, therefore, past the occasional old timer dozing in a rocking chair. One of them, wrapped up in warm furs against the cold wind, who opened an eye lazily as he went past and immediately forgot about him again.

     He continued on past the once grand hotels, stables and boarding houses, now empty and awaiting demolition, until he came to the tavern on Holly Street, the Drunken Goat, which was, he hoped, still owned by the Helberion Head of Station as a covert base of operations. He left his horse tied down outside and went in.

     The common room was almost empty, he saw. Just a couple of locals propping up the bar and solving all the problems of the world while sipping at watered down ale. The Brigadier went to the other end of the bar and spent several minutes trying to catch the barman’s eye. The barman was busy cleaning tankards with a dirty rag, though, and seemed to be so totally engrossed in this task that he wouldn’t be distracted from it unless the building caught fire.

     The Brigadier was wondering whether to commit the minor social indiscretion of calling out to get his attention when the barman finally noticed him and came over, still wiping the same tankard. “What can I get you?” he asked with a slight irritation in his voice, as if cleaning glasses was much more important than serving customers and that he needed to return his full attention to this urgent task as quickly as possible.

     “I’d like a room for the night,” the Brigadier replied. “A room with a north looking window, if you please.”

     The man stared at him with such surprise and alarm that he almost dropped the tankard. It slipped between his fingers, and he just barely managed to retain his grip on it before it fell and smashed on the tiled floor. He put it safely down on the bar before returning his attention to the Brigadier, who was feeling a shiver of doubt. He thought he'd given the correct identifying phrase, but it had been years since he’d last had to use any of them. If he’d made a mistake, how would the barman react?

     The barman hesitated nervously, as if considering his options. He stared at the Brigadier, trying to read his face, trying to judge his intentions, and it was several moments before he came to a decision. “Of course,” he said. He lifted the flap in the bar and came through. “The green room is available, but the bed is very hard.”

     The Brigadier allowed himself to relax a little. That had been the correct response, but the man's attitude still worried him. Could the intelligence office have been compromised? Maybe the barman was a Carrow agent, here to nab any Helberion agents who might happen by. He remained on his guard, therefore, and kept his hand close to his pistol while he gave the last part of the identifying Exchange. “Good. Hard beds are good for my back.”

     The barman stared at him again, then beckoned him towards the stairs. The Brigadier followed him up to the first floor, the boards under the threadbare carpet creaking with every step. The Brigadier saw, from his body language, from the tension in his every movement, that he was going to go for a gun, but he made no move to disarm him, even though it would have been ridiculously easy for him to have done so. The man seemed to move with glacial slowness as his hand reached inside his jacket and removed the weapon. The Brigadier could have taken it from him with virtually no effort, but he made himself stand there, impassive and confident, as the other man brought the pistol to bear on him.

     The barman used the gun to direct the Brigadier into the nearest bedroom. The Brigadier went through, and the barman closed the door behind them. “Who are you?” he demanded.

     “My name is Brigadier Weyland James. I am on an important mission on behalf of King Leothan.”

     “The code phrases you gave are obsolete. We were given new ones, as a precaution, since one of our men was taken by the Carrowmen. Maybe he gave up all he knew under torture. Maybe you're a Carrow agent.”

     “If they knew about you, they'd have sent a whole squad, not just one man. They're not going to worry about causing a scene in their own country. I just need to know one thing. Has Princess Ardria passed through yet?” When the man just stared, the Brigadier grew impatient. “Come on, Man! The Carrowmen know all about the Princess! King Nilon himself gave his permission for her to come!”

     The door opened again, and both men turned to see the man who entered. “It's okay, Roger,” said the new arrival. “We've been expecting him. Remember?”

     “We don't know this is him...”

     “Of course it's him! Put the gun away. If he wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already.” He turned to the Brigadier. “My name is Private Charles Grey. I was a member of the Princess’s retinue. We were forced to take an alternate route into Carrow. She sent me to find you and help you find her.” He turned to the barman. “Perhaps we can go downstairs, talk somewhere a little more...”

     “Never mind that,” said the Brigadier, though. “Where is she now?”

     “We were forced to turn west just south of Boroford. There was fighting up ahead, a major battle by the sound of it. We decided to avoid it by entering Carrow by way of the Tweenlands. We came across some Carrow soldiers at the border. They allowed us to pass into their country. The Princess sent me here just after that, so I have no more recent news of her. I presume they went to Tibre, to present themselves to the garrison there in the hopes of securing an escort the rest of the way to Charnox.”

     “When did you leave her? How long ago?”

     “About six days. I got here yesterday. Fortunately, I knew the correct code words.”

     The Brigadier nodded distractedly, no longer interested. “We're probably closer to Charnox than they are, then. If we make speed, we can make it to Shipley Gate before her, wait for her there. Gather your belongings. We leave in ten minutes.”

☆☆☆

   They rode for an hour and walked for an hour, to rest the horses, and whenever they saddled up again they swapped horses, to make sure no parent bond formed. Not that there was much chance of a bond forming in the day or two before they exchanged them for fresh horses at a stables, but it did happen occasionally, even if rarely, and the Brigadier didn't want to be burdened with a son while he had so much to do.

     While they walked, they talked. The Brigadier quizzed Private Grey on what the situation had been when he’d left Helberion, and although a mere Private only had a very limited access to information he was able to fill him in on some details that hadn’t made it into the newspapers, such as the fact that the Carrow First Army, which had gone up into the north of Helberion, had unexpectedly turned south, just when it had been on the point of taking Adams Hill. It had now rejoiced the bulk of their army converging on Marboll.

     “Why did they abandon Adams Hill, when right up until then they’d seemed absolutely hell bent on taking it?” he wondered as they strolled beside their horses through the parched Carrow countryside. “I mean, so far as I know, there's nothing at Adams Hill. The place has no strategic advantage. What I think...” he said, lowering his voice as if there were Carrow agents hiding in the roadside hedges listening to his every word, “...is, they were lured up north by a disinformation campaign. Someone deliberately leaked false information to a Carrow spy, making them think there was a massive army base there, or something. The Carrowmen lost interest in the town when they found out the truth, found out they'd been deceived. That's what I think.”

     “That would certainly explain their odd behaviour,” replied the Brigadier.

     “So, was I right? I mean, you're a Brigadier. Not just any Brigadier, but the Brigadier! If anyone knows the truth, it's you. Since the operation's over now, there’s no need to keep it secret any longer. You can tell me. So, am I right?”

     “I'm afraid I don't know, Private. I was in Kelvon when it all happened, and even if I hadn't been it would have been handled on a need to know basis. And even if I did know, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you. You shouldn't even be asking.” He eyed the man reproachfully.

     The Private turned his gaze away, to look out across the countryside. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I apologise, Sir. Can't help speculating, though. When we were crossing the border, the Carrowmen said that Marboll was almost completely encircled. Do you think he was telling the truth, Sir?”

     “Speculating may be unavoidable, but it does us no good. We just have to do our part and trust that they’re doing theirs.”

     “The possibility doesn't seem to bother you, Sir.”

     “If bothering about it helped, then I'd bother about it.”

     The Private stared at him, his eyes wide with wonder. “You know something, don't you? You and the King, you cooked something up between you...”

    The Brigadier resisted an impulse to snap at him, tell him to shut up. That would only confirm his suspicious, in his mind at least. He simply kept on walking, therefore, his eyes scanning the road ahead for any sign of danger, and Private Grey fell silent, although he kept studying the Brigadier's face for any sign that there was still hope for Helberion. Some secret hope known to his travelling companion that might keep him from falling into despair.

     The Brigadier knew it wouldn’t be long before he was talking about something else, though. He was one of those people who needed to talk, in an attempt to fill the great emptiness in his head. A silence caused by the almost total absence of an inner monologue. And on those occasions when he did think, he couldn’t do so without letting his thoughts tumble out of his mouth towards anyone who happened to be nearby.

     The Brigadier tensed up uncomfortably, preparing himself for it. He preferred to think in privacy. He lived largely inside his own head, and having to engage in a conversation pulled his attention away from whatever problem he was trying to concentrate on. Not that he was trying to solve any particular problem at the moment. They didn't know enough about the situation up ahead to be able to make plans. Right now, all they could do was head to Shipley Gate as fast as they could, and leave the planning for when they found what awaited them there. That left them nothing to do except talk.