pondered possibilities and motivations, listened to the lonely hawk, and
abandoned all attempts at subtlety. “Strat, you didn’t come here to help me do
my job with that wrecked hawkmask and it’s not safe for a Stepson to be east of
the processional-so why’re you here?”
“Oh, it’s about a hawkmask: Jubal.” Strat paused, bit an offending fingernail,
and spat into the darkness for effect. “He made an agreement with me and I want
you and yours to honor it.”
Walegrin snorted. “Commander-this had better be good. Jubal made an agreement
with the Stepsons?”
“With me,” the Stepson said through taut lips. “For peace and quiet. For no
confrontations while Sanctuary has imperial visitors. For business as usual as
it used to be. He’s pulling back; I’m pulling back. The PFLS will be exposed and
we’ll take care of them-permanently. Consider yourself honored that I think we
need your voluntary cooperation.”
“What cooperation?” Walegrin snapped. “Are we the ones rampaging through the
streets? Are we running rackets? Strong-arming merchants? Did we turn the town
on its ear, then run off to war leaving the locals masquerading in our places?
You want to take care of the PFLS-there wouldn’t be any PFLS without the high
and-bloody-mighty Third Commando and there wouldn’t be any Commando without you
and yours. Dammit, Commander, I haven’t got a headache you didn’t cause one way
or another.”
Straton sat in stony silence. There’d never been any love lost between the
regular army soldiers, enlisted to the service of the Empire, and the elite