A little late – I was otherwise engaged. On the plus side, I'll throw in a story that explains just what might happen to a cursebreaker who doesn't know what he's doing. Check out Thief, if you are interested.
Once outside, the young man brushed off the grip on his shoulder angrily.
Or tried to. The large hand refused to budge, the grip tightening into something that would have taken a real attack to dislodge. Not – quite – ready to start a fight in the middle of a huge Longcoat encampment, Jeb Cain allowed himself to be led to an array of logs around a tiny fire, a little off the officers' tents.
"Sit, boy," Sergeant Heawl said gruffly, pushing him down on the one unoccupied log, and took a seat himself. A handful of other men congregated on the rest of the logs.
"Talk, boy," a sharp-featured colonel around forty demanded.
Silence is not an option, the tone said loud and clear – and wasn't it always a lovely evening when a Longcoat officer used that tone on one? It didn't take conscious thought to slip back into the scared kid persona that had successfully gathered intelligence right under the nose of more Longcoats – in garrison or on patrol – than Jeb cared to count. One part fear, one part deference – not as much eager-to-please as respecting-a-position-of-power – and just a dash of longing. He had been recruited, more or less forcefully, on no less than six independent occasions.
"Who are you?" the officer demanded to know.
"Jeb, … Jeb Graham, sir. From Lettins, sir." Ducking his head prophylactically to shelter from a cuff around the ears, for talking too much or not telling enough – did it matter what? – was an automatic reaction that also allowed the former rebel to scan his opponents unobtrusively.
Beside the hawk-faced colonel directly opposite, there was another one, rather thin and plain looking. Plus, three majors: one with the blackest eyes Jeb had ever seen in an otherwise average face, one short and stocky with a faded but nonetheless vicious scar from the corner of his jaw, across the throat and down into his collar, and one with a round, pleasant face that was utterly at odds with both the uniform and his steely expression. And also, two captains: one a nondescript man in his early thirties, the other not much older than Jeb himself, with razor-sharp cheekbones and cold grey eyes.
"Tell us everything you know about the general," Colonel Hawk-face, obviously the spokesman of the illustrious circle, demanded.
He's – by his own admission – a killer who likes his job and the most wanted man in the Realm. But you should all know this already. "I don't know, sir … I just met him last night or maybe yesterday afternoon, hard to tell ..."
"Where?" the colonel had, matching his hooked nose, a way of jerking forward that also reminded the young captain of a stooping bird of prey.
"In a cell," the former rebel admitted hesitantly.
That caused angry rumbles all around, quickly silenced by another hawkish "Where?" cutting in.
"Somewhere underneath Redtop, sir. There's an Alchemist compound up there."
"Alchemists!" A couple of men spat on the ground.
Jeb blinked. Alchemists and Longcoats had been on the same side for many annuals, and while he was no longer certain that Zero had been using hyperbole when telling him that some of the Alchemists' deeds sickened even the most heartless Longcoats, the young captain had not expected so violent a reaction.
"Did it," Hawk-face was chewing his words as if they tasted rather foul, "look as if ... he spent some time there?"
Huh? If that wasn't a loaded question, Jeb had never heard one.
"He was in a pretty bad shape, then," the former rebel answered cautiously.
The sergeant nearly got to his feet, he and a couple of other men shot a look back at the general's tent. "Too damn stubborn for his own good," Jeb could have sworn the big man was mumbling under his breath.
"Explain!" the colonel demanded before the mutterings got out of hand.
A list of physical injuries later – the man's state of mind was neither safe to mention nor his to divulge – the former rebel had an odd sort of mirror-inverted déjà-vu. That sort of flinty-eyed anger he had seen at the news about many a Longcoat atrocity, usually those that were soon to be avenged.
"He isn't hiding … that under those rags." Mostly statement with just a hint of disbelieving question from Major Black-eyes, and Heawl was on his feet.
Jeb hurried to explain the most salient points of their escape.
He hadn't gotten past the mad Viewer before the sergeant started cursing, in a soft tone but a language so vile that Captain Cain couldn't help but shoot a disbelieving look at the assorted high-ranking officers.
The black-eyed major met his eyes squarely. "The general went missing two and a half weeks ago."
Oh, fuck. Zero had met the Viewer probably more than once before the last night. No wonder he had been so keenly suicidal.
A/N: Any halfway serious parole gets changed at not too long intervals, or else as soon as someone knowing it gets compromised. So, no, All hail the Queen is not the current Longcoat parole. I imagine, though, that there's a codeword for those no longer aware of the current parole but in need of identification as friendlies, and as either under duress or not (here: basic codeword with a positive/negative qualifier). And the man who gets snarky at his own general, and within the Sorceress's potential hearing, would probably choose Queen as said basic codeword, just for the chance of using it in the described way. ;)