I had to divert from my normal route to the colonel’s office. The street in front of headquarters had been roped off. A dais had been erected in the middle of the street, and a squad of men were setting benches out in rows around it. On the arch erected above the dais, a sign welcomed General Brodg and General Prode, as well as a list of lords. I was surprised to see Prode’s name there. He had been the king’s commander in the east before General Brodg had taken over. I wondered if the presence of that old general was intended to honor Brodg, or as a subtle rebuke that more progress had been made in Gettys and on the King’s Road in the days before Brodg had taken over.
I left Clove and the cart on a side street and walked to the headquarters door. The paint on the building was so fresh I could smell it. The brass doorknob was slick with polish. I had to grip it firmly to turn it. Stepping inside the door, I received another surprise. The sergeant’s domain had been completely refurbished. The walls were newly painted, the wood of the desk gleamed with linseed oil, and there were plump cushions on the waiting chairs. The shelves were dust-free and lined with books and manuals. At the sergeant’s desk sat a lieutenant I’d never seen: he looked as freshly renovated as the rest of the room. His buttons shone, and his shirt was so starched it looked painful. His pale scalp contrasted strangely with his tanned face: it was obvious his hair had been cut very recently.
I drew myself up straight at the sight of him, expecting to be rebuked for entering so casually. Instead he gave me a level look and asked solemnly, “Do you have an appointment, soldier?”
“No, sir, I do not. In the past, the colonel has been so kind as to allow me to report without an appointment. I’ve brought information that I think might be useful to him, sir.”
“I see,” he replied absently. He looked down at a paper on his desk, blinked at it, and then back up at me. He gave me a vague smile. I kept my soldier’s demeanor and waited. He picked up the pen from his desk, fiddled with it for a bit, and then asked me gently, “You want to talk with Colonel Haren, then?”
There was a faint waft of rum on his breath. That widened my eyes. Drinking on duty? No. Probably the Gettys dose that Ebrooks had told me about. I found myself wondering about the two placid women I’d see strolling down the street earlier. I cleared my throat. “Yes sir, if that’s possible. I’d like to speak with Colonel Haren.”
He leaned back suddenly in his chair and out flung a generous arm at the colonel’s door. “Be my guest, then, soldier. Be my guest.”
Feeling furtive as a mouse under a cat’s stare, I walked to the colonel’s door and tapped on it, expecting that at any moment the lieutenant would change his mind. But he seemed to have forgotten about me entirely, and was giving his full attention to wiping the tip of his pen. At my second tap, I heard the colonel’s muffled invitation to enter. I opened the door and walked in.
I was almost relieved to find the room largely unchanged. There were the same layered carpets on the floor, the same tapestry-covered walls. The fire burned smaller, but there seemed to be more light in the room because all the lamp chimneys had been freshly cleaned. All the horizontal surfaces had been cleared of clutter. Colonel Haren himself, nattily attired in his uniform and a gleaming pair of black boots, sat bolt upright in a chair beside a small table. At the sight of me, he exclaimed, “Oh, for the good god’s sake, what are you doing here?”
I came to attention. “Sir, I’ve come to request a few moments of your time. I have information about our problems with the road building and the Specks. I think it may lead to a resolution of our difficulties with pushing the road through.”
He lifted one eyebrow at me. “Where have you been, man? The problem with pushing the road through was solved several weeks ago. Dr. Dowder’s research has finally yielded fruit. Properly fortified, our road crews have made more progress in the last few weeks than they previously had in the last two years. That problem is solved!
“You, however, present an entirely different problem. Look at your uniform, man! Why is there a seam up the front of each trouser leg? That is not regulation. And your general physical conformation leaves more to be desired than I could possibly list at this moment.” He shook his head at me and made a decision. “Back to the cemetery, trooper. The inspection team is scheduled for a two-week visit here, with a possible extension to a month if they feel they need more time to assess our performance. Busy yourself at the cemetery for a month. And due to the nature of your duties there, I give you permission…no, I require that you wear civilian clothing to prevent soiling your uniform. And in the event that our inspection team sees fit to visit the cemetery, you are to, uh, busy yourself elsewhere. Do you take my drift, soldier?”
