Morning
Wynfeld’s Office
WOKEN BY HIS BATMAN, Wynfeld realised that the knot of dread in his stomach hadn’t disappeared as he dreamed. Not that he had been dreaming; his sleep had been unusually light, his mind trying to work out what to do.
His batman passed him his belt, adorned with scabbards. Donning it, he sheathed his sword and dagger.
“I’ve warned the mess you’ll be wanting breakfast early, sir.”
Wynfeld entered the officers’ mess and glanced at the duty corporal. “What’s for breakfast, Evans?”
“Cap’n says porridge is good.”
Wynfeld chuckled. “Porridge it is then.” When the corporal passed him his breakfast, Wynfeld eyed him balefully. “I thought you said porridge?”
“Well, we got a bit bored of that and, this early, porridge is still stewing. Hope you don’t mind bacon and eggs, sir.”
“It’ll set me up nicely for the day. I’ll have to start coming in early more often.”
He watched the corporal’s features struggle between the conventional ‘it’ll be a pleasure’ and the reality of ‘please don’t’. He merely winked and tucked into the breakfast. His mind still turning over the events of the previous day.
When the Major entered, he rose and saluted. It was rare that the Major entered the mess and Wynfeld feared another dressing down.
He hesitantly resumed his seat at a nod from his commanding officer. He could see Evans taking a careful interest in what was happening.
“You’re up early, Wynfeld,” remarked the Major from the opposite chair.
“Have a few things to sort out, sir.”
“Yes, you have, haven’t you?” He glanced at the plate in front of him. “Don’t get too used to officers’ fare. Things change quickly. I’d recommend you go and start the day’s work. Ah, Evans, I hope you’ve more bacon.”
Wynfeld felt Evans watching him leave; cultivating that corporal might be an idea. The officers’ mess was a hive of untapped information, especially with the men who bought Oedranian captaincies.
He unlocked his office, thinking about the structure of the army and how captaincies were usually bought, though some were arranged before being purchased, especially those in the great families. There was little point in giving up the freedoms of privilege if you were going to end up in the middle of nowhere, manning a secondary or tertiary fort. He’d served in some of those forts; rarely did lords end up in them.
He brought himself out of the contemplation to consider the bigger one: how to prevent a repeat of the previous day. How to ensure his regiment discovered the plots. He heard Drave arrive at his desk and heard the first of his sergeants hand over their section of the report for the Palace.
“Tell himself nothing of note.”
He opened the door. “A word, Escott.” The sergeant sauntered into the office with a swagger that Wynfeld disliked. “Nothing to report?”
“No, sir. Nothing happened yesterday that we got to hear about. Though, I did hear Landis came by last night, but he keeps odd hours, what with gallivanting at Court.”
Wynfeld’s lips pursed. “When you are talking about anyone other than your closest friends, you use their proper titles! It is Lord Landis and I am not ‘himself’, is that clear?”
Escott never turned a hair. “If that’s what you want, sir.”
“It is the normal convention, Sergeant. Now, nothing to report is rather too bland. What were you doing yesterday?”
“I managed to speak with Merchant Figgis’ apprentice, sir, but then I was on duty when he’s let off for the day. The merchant dined with Merchant Chapa the other day, but nothing was of note in that. The ‘pren’ asked me what a heritor is. Figgis is trading with one. Don’t know myself, so I couldn’t tell him.”
Wynfeld sighed. “A heritor is a landowner in Bayan who doesn’t owe fealty to a lord or king. King Altarius forbade use of the title after many were part of the rebellion. Those that kept faith with the empire got to keep their title, but there were precious few and their descendants can’t use it. It was part of the Ramifications. Was there anything else?”
“Nah, nothing. I got a drink at the Golden Hare but didn’t hear much. My normal girl was otherwise engaged, you might say.”
“Anything else? Or are you telling me that you only have two informers, one of whom works in a brothel?”
Escott hesitated. “I always keep my ears open, sir, but there aren’t that many willing to spy. ‘Tis ‘ard persuading ’em to when they can see what we are. We each have our network, but we can’t get information if they’re not there to talk to, and Jess won’t go with just anyone, won’t talk to just anyone either—”
“We are charged with protecting our King’s life and the safety of the empire and you think that having two informers and spending your duty time in a brothel is acceptable?” enquired Wynfeld too mildly. “You should be producing a bit more than ‘nothing to report’.”
Escott coloured. “I ain’t the only one, sir.”
“No, and you’re not the only one I’ll be speaking with,” remarked Wynfeld. “All right, dismissed.”
Escott saluted and left, inwardly chuntering.
As each sergeant going off duty reported, Wynfeld called them in and went through similar questions and answers. He concentrated on getting the morning report to Richardson before interviewing the sergeants who were going on duty. Hearing much the same from them, he spent some time making notes of what he’d elicited. He was drawing his notes together to re-read them when Drave knocked.
“His Majesty, sir.”
The corporal jumped at the speed at which he rose and saluted. He hadn’t expected a personal visit.
Adeone dismissed the corporal with a glance before saying, “I believe you were informed of yesterday’s events, Captain.”
“Yes, Sire. I messed up.” He remained at attention, trying not to shake.
His King was grim. “Yes. I’m glad you admit it. You’re a bloody good soldier, Wynfeld; your record in the legions was a pleasure to read – make a good captain. I believe you can do it, but Lord Landis and the Major have insisted that they aren’t happy with events yesterday and, therefore, you are currently on borrowed time. If you fail again, I shall have little option but to replace you. Get it sorted, or your future here is an uncertain thing. Sit down, you’re looming. I had a report when Fitz left on the current number of people working for you in the provinces. I’d like an updated one every season, please. You need to make sure that people are still willing to pass you information. Go through everyone on your lists and recruit more. I realise it will take time but do it. From your service record, you are good at spotting what needs doing. Improve the regiment. Your subordinates won’t like you for some time, but you need their respect, rather than their appreciation. You are not the only one who has been lax.”
“The men won’t know what’s hit them, Your Majesty.”
“Good. As I’ve given you more than enough work to keep you going for a couple of years, is there anything you need from me?”
Wynfeld realised there was. “I could do with an opening at Court, Sire, if Your Majesty doesn’t mind my presence there.”
His King was regarding him appraisingly. “You’ll have it within the week. For now, please accompany me to the gates of the barracks.”
* * *
When Wynfeld reached his office once more, he shut the door and began to examine how the regiment worked. He’d been too accepting when he received his commission, he hadn’t questioned what occurred and he’d let his sergeants direct him too much. He began to realise the regiment wasn’t the right means for collecting information. They had people in the provinces, but it was on too friendly a footing. Someone knew someone who knew something. The men in the regiment worked Oedran in the same way. It was too makeshift, too clumsy. The events of the last couple of days proved it wasn’t always going to work. They had to be smarter and rely less on chance. His King was right: he needed to make changes.
He drew out the current structure of his regiment. It was the same as every other one in the empire. One hundred and fifty-two men, including him and his corporal-clerk; ten sergeants, twenty corporals and a hundred and twenty unranked soldiers, forming ten units, consisting of a sergeant, two corporals and twelve soldiers. Three duty shifts a day, each with three units, the final unit on leave. Some did what he’d done and saved leave up, those who reported for duty were found a myriad of different jobs to do.
He sat back, examining the diagram. In the normal way of things, it worked. Why didn’t it in this regiment? He re-read the brief history of the regiment in the notes Fitz had left. He had been its captain since its creation. King Altarius had wanted it to appear normal to any outsider. Wynfeld groaned as understanding erupted in his mind. King Altarius had handed intelligence duties to a normal regiment to hide its purpose. No-one had questioned its formation. Why was the pretence continued though? People had realised what they did. It served no purpose. Lord Scanlon had grown up knowing all about them and how they operated. Maybe it was time to change that. To change the way the regiment worked so the Justiciar couldn’t use it against their King.
The more Wynfeld looked at the parchment in front of him, the more he realised the changes would have to happen. He called for his corporal. “Any of the people on leave reported for duty today?”
Drave was surprised; it was the first time Wynfeld had even acknowledged the practice. “Erm, yes, sir. Sergeant Jones and a couple of his men.”
“If Jones isn’t out collecting information, I want to see him, now.”
When Drave had gone, Wynfeld pulled out Jones’ file, scanning the front sheet and half wondered why he’d never read it before. It explained a lot. A knock at the door heralded the sergeant. Wynfeld regarded the now-familiar face with new understanding. Heavily built with deep-set eyes, Jones presented a hard, fixed gaze to the world of frustrated ambition and disenchantment. Maybe Oedran wasn’t where he needed to be.
By the time an exasperated Jones left, Wynfeld realised they had a good basis for the network, but the men weren’t in the right places. He wrote out his plans, fashioning them into a dossier and took it to the Palace. He asked Richardson, to see their King read it as soon as possible. The administrator added it to a pile, which left Wynfeld wondering if it would be read at all.