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Chapter 25. Saving Private Devonshire
by Steep
Fabric rustled and flashed in the flickering light of the inferno down the street. Steep tugged her uniform jacket on, pulled the folds across her chest and buttoned them with swift precision, all the way up to her throat. She slid her cigar case neatly into the front pocket.
She snapped her belt into place, pawed briefly at her sabre to confirm its position.
She sat down on the fiddle case and held her boots back on with a faint squelch. Her footpaw broke through the half-melted sole and the boot ended up halfway up her leg. She pulled it off and tossed it over her shoulder. Pip squawked.
She sat up and tugged her beret firmly around her head, wincing as the brim scraped the blood-matted bruise behind her ears.
She gave herself a horrifying little grin.
"Right, then," she said, turning about to survey her—for lack of a better term—troops. "Let's march. On the double, now."
The ranks of woodlanders didn't stir a paw. Steep took a step forward, ready to draw her sabre and slap the nearest one across the face—simply out of instinct more than because she was annoyed by their hesitation.
The mole, Ruby, raised a paw. "Whurr to, marm?"
"That's 'Captain', s...soldier." She growled to herself. Didn't feel right, calling a woodlander that. Rubbish little grass-muncher pacifists!
"Whurr to, Currptin?"
Steep winced. Okay... that one can use "marm" from now on.
The weasel turned around and stared down the road beyond Pip's cringing shadow. She had a regiment now, she could chase off after those scum... Hunt them down, rend them to bits, bite! But no, she had Orders, and she was in no position to be disobeying them.
Curse Lock and his foolish single-mindedness. If only her orders were "do what you see fit to secure the Harbour"—those rats would be in for a surprise. Sneak up on a weasel, would they?
"North," she said at last, pointing at the stars above. "Return to Market Square and go north-east, into Zann's Backyard. We'll have to take cover along the way. Pip!"
The plover limped closer, sleepy-eyed and haggard.
"Captain?"
"Has Lock pushed into Zann's Backyard?"
"A little, I think. He was focusing on holding Market Square last I heard, then pushing south to Satire Square."
"Fan-bloody-tastic." She took a deep breath and began, "COMpan–"
"May I, Captain?"
Steep's shoulders sagged. "Fine."
Pip puffed himself into sphere of feathers. "COMpanyyySteep'sSuicidals... march!"
She glared down at him.
"'Suicidals'?"
"Lock's idea."
"Figures."
Steep tried not to be impressed as the woodlanders turned smartly and began stomping through the streets in front of her. They were on beat. They moved at a smart clip. They carried their halberds and blades correctly. It made her want to spit.
Pip dropped back a pace or two, hopping over the glob that landed in his path.
The three woodlanders who had rescued Pip had been placed in the rear row, so that Steep could drill them on the best way to get through to Ruston Manse.
It felt good to have a real mission again. For about three minutes.
Then she whimpered.
~*~*~*~*~
"Cap—Captain Steep!"
"Major Darcy." Steep nodded to the rat, never breaking her stride. Up ahead, her regiment was pushing through Market Square, ceaseless despite the chaos that was the Southern Army's organization attempts.
"General Lock wants–"
"I know what General Lock wants. Tell him I'm doing it now, sir."
Major Darcy shuffled after her, whiskers twitching.
"Your terseness, Captain, shall be noted!"
"Good!" Steep shouted, whirling on him. She put down the fiddle case. "Note it, sir! Report it, sir! Because, sir, I am on a mission, sir! Let me just dr—just stop and have buns and—and some tea and a nice chat with you and General Lock, shall I, sir, and let's let—leave Private Devonshire to fester in the—in the—in Ruston's dungeons, sir?"
Major Darcy stumbled back and sat on a curiously convenient crate. He stared dumbly into the weasel's mad eyes. Blood dripped down her face from the welt along the bridge of her muzzle.
"N–no, I suppose not. On your way, then, Captain. Er, do you need boots?"
"Thank you, Major, but I will do fine without them for the time being." Her eyes swiveled down at the crate beneath him. She pointed to it. "I missed dinner, though. Can I have some of those?"
He slid off and lifted the lid. A burlap bag was procured and exchanged between them. Steep saluted.
"General Scott gave me this," she added, kicking the fiddle closer to the Major. "I would be most grateful if you could see to it that it is placed with whatever became of the rest of my belongings."
"I shall have somebeast see to it, Captain."
"And this," she added, passing over the bottle of whisky. Her voice cracked. "Please."
Major Darcy took it from her. He uncorked it, and holding his arm out, tipped it upside-down. He kept his eyes firmly on her face. Steep watched the amber liquid seep into the cobblestones.
"You are welcome, Captain," the rat said.
Steep saluted again. Darcy saluted back and pivoted stiffly, marching away with the fiddle.
It took a minute or two for Steep to see clearly again. She wiped her eyes with the back of her paw and breathed in deep a few times. She returned to her regiment, which had stopped upon realizing she'd languished behind. They'd been watching.
"Should I tell him that was actually his whisky, Captain?" Pip said.
"Shut up."
~*~*~*~*~
Steep estimated the time to be nearing midnight. It was hard to tell—she had no idea how long she'd been knocked out for. But the Bilge had still had patches of wall and roof that hadn't been on fire, so it couldn't have been that long.
The stars and moon offered light just enough to see by. Yesterday's fog was all but gone. It was a perfect night for sneaking around. It just felt right. The chill air puffing out of noses, the crisp leafy crackle of snow under their paws...
When she glanced behind her, Steep could have sworn the lights bobbing around in Market Square gave off a blue tinge.
Her mother had once put off a ball for two weeks, waiting for just such a night.
"Standards, Priscilla," the elder weaselmaid had said. "Nobeast expects to go to an ambassador's ball on a muggy autumn night, or if there's clouds. A good, bright moon, and air to chill your lungs. Crystal. Everything must be made of crystal. It's what's expected."
It had been a good ball, Steep remembered. It was when she had met Pylaris.
"Your orders, Captain?" The squirrel, Tzama, said, saluting.
They stood at an intersection, the road splitting off three ways into Zann's Backyard.
Crunch, crunch, munch, said Steep. She shoveled another fried grasshopper into her mouth and chewed quickly, savouring as much as she could of the honey glaze and the peanuts that squirted out of its hollowed-out abdomen before she swallowed again. Pip bobbed his head towards her; she yanked the sack of delicacies out of his reach.
"First," she began, "No shooting anybeast without my say-so. I don't need this mission scrubbed up. We stay quiet, we—we stay out of sight, we do not alert them to our presence in any way, am I clear? Pip, what kind of flowers were there in the garden?"
"Um, I don't know. Roses? Can I have a bite? Please?"
"No. Is there anybeast allergic to flowers?"
A mouse raised a paw.
"Seriously? That is... that is the most wimpy allergy I've ever heard about. Go wait back at the barracks. The rest of you, split into groups. Tzama, take nine, Llu and Ruby, take eight. I'll take Pip and the rest."
"Just one?" Pip said, wobbling closer. "I've barely had anything to eat... I was tortured... please, Captain?"
"Will it shut you up?"
"Yes!"
Steep tossed him a grasshopper and clipped the bag to her belt. "That's it and no more, or they'll hear you crunching a mile away."
The battered plover looked so happy with the snack in his beak that Steep doubted he would mind at this point if he found himself plucked and roasted on a Giftsgiving spread.
The plan was simple enough: whoever made it alive to Ruston Manse would take stock of the defenses, make note of what lights were on in what rooms, and wait until Steep had arrived, whereupon she would listen to their reports and come up with a real plan of action. One that, she hoped, would involve sending all the woodlanders rushing through the front door while she and Pip dragged Devonshire out through some back way. But more like than not, she would have to come up with a strategy that didn't involve mass sacrifice. Just to spite Lock's naming conventions.
She consoled herself with the idea that, if she did well enough on this mission, Lock would give her a proper regiment. Not trouble-makers and dimwits. Not woodlanders. Not leftovers. Not... Pips. Real soldiers.
She could do this. Yeah.
"Pip, fly overhead and keep me updated on the others. And don't give me any of that 'boo-hoo I was just tortured' rubbish. You can fly. That's what you're here for."
Pip bobbed his head and took off. Steep directed the eight or so woodlanders to spread out on either side of the street and advance with caution. This time, she took the lead. Paranoia be damned; the only beast she could trust to weasel forth was herself, and she wasn't about to let some bumbling blind mole smack into a fence and bring half the Stoatorian Guard down on her head. By the time any of the woodlanders did something stupid—and that was inevitable—she'd be so deep in enemy territory that–
Hold on. What was that?
Rather, who?
It was a pine marten. It was a male, judging by the clothes. He had one arm in a sling and held a shovel in the other, which was strong evidence against him being Private Devonshire. If that cravat-fluff ponce ever touched a shovel he'd still be whinging about it a week later.
But judging by the way he was swaggering down the middle of the street as if he owned all of Zann's Backyard, there was still a good chance...
Steep unclipped her sabre, but did not draw it from its sheath. Her position behind a random lawn shrub was secure; she could only hope the rest of her regiment had the sense to stay behind cover.
She let him pass by.
And then she nipped out, dashed across the street, and whacked him across the back of the head with the hilt of her sabre.
He fell like a lovesick stoat. She would know.
She kicked the shovel away and turned him over onto his back, revealing his uniform to be that of the Wotfer mercenaries. Steep growled. She was fine with the idea of mercenaries, in general. But when you had a group of beasts who operate in a very specific way, under a very specific mode of government, on a very specific part of land belonging to a very specific country, you could be pretty darn sure that they would be more concerned with where future money was going to come from more than just what current money was being offered.
She straddled his chest, pinning his good arm down with her footpaw, and punched him as soon as his eyes flickered open.
"Bloody—! What was that fer? Oh," he added, upon seeing her uniform.
"Captain Wright?" she asked.
"How do ye know my name?"
"It's embroidered on your pocket."
He paused for a moment. "Right. And yer Priscilla Steep, the ambassador's daughter. I'm sorry."
Her ears flicked, truly put off her guard.
"What for?"
"What my predecessor did to yer face."
She punched him again, then grabbed him by the lapels, lifting his head and shoulders off the cobbles, before pushing him back down with a solid crack. He groaned, but offered no resistance.
"He didn't do anything to my face, you mongrel," she spat.
"Look," he said, licking his lips. "What do ye want from me? An apology? I killed him—is that it? Ye wanted revenge?"
"This isn't about that. I'm just here for my soldier."
"Ruston's pet," Wright said. "Good luck with that."
"Her... pet?"
"She's got him pampered up in one o' the guest rooms, sends him food, baths, posh clothes, wine—Puh! Everythin' but my sister."
Steep trembled. Devonshire... pampered by Ruston? Food, baths, wine? While she nearly froze to death in a trashed tavern all this time? She could just imagine the smarmy little blighter, drawling his exploits all over Ruston's servants' rapt ears, sipping from tiny little glasses with—with his little pinky claw sticking out! And a warm bubble bath with squeaky ducks! And trays of food with creme-filled pastries and wine-basted fish fillets and buns with proper Imperium butter, the good stuff that you could mold into shapes before eating, topped off with a nice cold tankard of Ruston's private stock, the stuff Pylaris wouldn't even nick for fear of losing his tail...
"Rrrrrraaagh!"
"Stop hittin' me!" Wright shouted. Steep massaged her paws and grunted. "'Gates..."
"I've got a proposition for you, Wright," she said, trying—with difficulty—to keep her voice level and low. "We own Market Square now, righ—yes? We'll have broken into the bank soon, I imagine. We'll make you a very, very rich marten if you'll help me."
"I'm listenin'."
"Go to Ruston Manse–"
"Yes..."
"–and do whatever you can to ease the defense on Devonshire's room."
"Got it."
"Do I have your word?"
"We usually work by contracts, but as I owe ye this... yes, ye have my word."
Steep climbed off him, offered her paw. He wasted no time taking it and huffing back to his footpaws.
"Give me a few minutes, okay?" he wheezed. "I need to make sure I didn't swallow any teeth. Or break my other arm."
She nodded. He turned away, stooped to pick up his shovel, and limped back up the street. Steep waited until he was obscured by the darkness before speaking up again.
"Heard all that, did you, Pip?"
"Most of it, Captain." The plover shuffled out from behind a rosebush where he had landed earlier. "Are you really going to trust him?"
"As much as I trust you," she replied.
"Oh," he said, perking up. After a few seconds, he deflated again. "Oh."
Steep gave a low whistle, and the woodlanders poured out of the darkness to gather around her.
"Slight change of plans," she announced. "Just a bit."