The Maelstrom

access to the Manse and anywhere else you happen to be. If she’s your bodyguard, why wasn’t she in your tent to begin with?”

“I didn’t know that Umbra was really Scathach until tonight,” replied Max. “She was forbidden to reveal who she was. It’s … complicated.”

“I see,” said Ms. Richter, looking shrewdly at him but letting the matter drop. “Well, just so you know, we’ve got Ben Polk and some others searching for Cooper. I also hear that YaYa may join the hunt, so rest assured that we’re doing everything we can to track him down. While they’re hunting him, perhaps you can explain this.…”

Removing a sheet of spypaper from a folio, she pushed it across to Max. He glanced at its single line of bold black script.

Send the Hound to my chambers at midday.“Who’s that from?” he asked.

“Elias Bram,” replied Ms. Richter coolly. “Our illustrious Archmage rarely emerges from his chambers, ignores nearly all communication, and has contributed nothing to Rowan’s defense, and yet he suddenly wishes to speak with you. As Director, I want to know why.”

“I have no idea,” said Max.

“And here we go with another transparent fib …,” she observed with thinning patience.

“Well,” said Max. “I—I mean I have some idea. But I’ve already tried to go speak with him several times without any luck. He’s never there—or at least Mrs. Menlo never admits he’s home.”

“And why have you gone to speak with him?” asked Ms. Richter.

Max glanced at the Director, wilting under her penetrating gaze. At length, he sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Because Astaroth came to speak with me.”

“What?”

Max had never heard Ms. Richter exclaim in such a fashion or register such open shock upon her face. It was several seconds before she composed herself.

“When did this occur?” she asked quietly.

“The day before we declared war.”

“And what did he want?” she asked. Before Max could reply, she raised a finger in warning. “Do not omit anything. You will share every word of this conversation and then you will explain why you never reported it to me.”

Max did as he was told, repeating his conversation with Astaroth and the Demon’s offer to save Rowan in exchange for Bram’s murder. He also shared his subsequent discussion with David, including his roommate’s theory that Astaroth might also have told his grandfather about the proposal. By the time Max had finished, Ms. Richter looked ashen.

“And you never thought to share this with me?” she wondered, aghast.

“I almost didn’t even tell David,” Max replied sheepishly. “I wanted to forget about it … pretend it never happened.”

Ms. Richter closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in weary frustration.

“There are times I have to remind myself that you are still very young,” she murmured. “You are a young man at the epicenter of enormous happenings and may not always see things in their proper perspective.” Opening her eyes, she gazed at him. “Max, you cannot simply pretend that such monumental events ‘never happened.’ Did it ever occur to you that I might need to know about this? Do you understand that right now we are at war against a vastly superior force and may come under siege within a matter of days or weeks? You have been withholding information that could not just influence this war’s outcome, but absolutely determine it!”

“But you would never—”

“Sacrifice Elias Bram to save our realm and all of our people?” she interrupted testily. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not certain. I’d like to think I’d rise above such temptation, but as Director I still need to know our options. All of them! Even those that may be repellent. Aside from everything else, the fact that Bram might already know of Astaroth’s proposal puts you at enormous risk. Did you ever stop to consider that?”

“David did,” said Max heavily. “I’ve tried to meet with Bram, to explain and clear the air, but he was never at home.”

“I’m glad he wasn’t,” remarked Ms. Richter. “You should not meet with him alone. I will be at that meeting later today. We are going to clarify where Elias Bram stands on a number of topics, you not the least of them. Now, as long as I’m hearing confessions, are you certain there isn’t anything else you’d like to share?”

Max was mortified. “You mean like … impure thoughts?”

“No,” said Ms. Richter. “I was thinking more along the lines of Zenuvian iron. Your face assumed a rather knowing, hangdog expression when you overheard Zimm and I discussing it.”

“Oh,” said Max, flushing a deep scarlet. “I might have asked … er, ordered Tweedy to see if he could acquire some on the black market. My archers have only three arrows apiece.”

“Well,” said Ms. Richter, slipping the spypaper back into her folio, “I suppose I can’t fault a commander too badly for trying to get his troops what they need. If nothing else, it shows enterprise. I won’t have Zimm pursue the matter too strenuously, but next time let’s go through the proper channels. In any case, I’ve been thinking about your battalion.…”

As Max followed the Director back into the hall’s commotion, he saw that there were many people waiting to speak with her. She asked them to be patient as her eyes followed a distant glowsphere drifting toward the mosaic of spypaper. When it settled by a particular section, the sphere began to pulse.

“What’s happening?” asked Max.

“An intelligence update,” explained Ms. Richter, squinting. “From this distance, I couldn’t say whose report that is, but it’s from someone stationed in Blys. We’re getting news from all over—troop movements, naval estimates, Workshop rumors, counterintelligence, and everything else you can imagine. My hope is that there are names attached to this particular update. We suspect Prusias has several well-placed spies in the refugee camp, and we mean to ferret them out.…”

She trailed off as an apprentice hurried over and handed a transcription to the Director.

“Very good,” she murmured, scanning its contents with a decoding glass. Motioning for a nearby Agent, she showed him the names and offered a significant look. The man departed and Ms. Richter returned her attention to Max, leading him to stand before an enormous map of Greater Rowan that included not only the Old College, but also its outermost fortifications and all the lands in between.

Craning his neck, Max saw that it was marked with colorful labels that included the number, nickname, and standard for each of Rowan’s battalions and special regiments. There were hundreds of them. Some were old and storied companies—the Vanguard, the Wildwood Knights, the Bloodstone Circle—but others were new and the names they chose for themselves sounded more like street gangs or goblin tribes than military units. Among the many, Max spied Southgate Jackals, Tin Squires, Jawbreakers, Death Cheats, Rough and Tumbles.… His eyes drifted to the map’s northeast quadrant, where they settled upon the now-familiar standard of a black rat set against an ivory background.

“As I said, I’ve been thinking about your battalion,” said Ms. Richter. “How are your troops coming along? Tweedy’s reports are meticulous, but they read more like a purser’s list. I’d like to hear your candid assessment.”

“They’re improving,” Max allowed. “Some are very good fighters—tough, experienced. Others are totally new at this. They’re a work in progress.”

“Admirable. But can they hold that line?”

She pointed to a numbered trench set halfway between the outer curtain that protected Rowan’s outlying homesteads and the citadel walls that enclosed Old College as though it were a single massive keep. Three miles of open country and farmland separated the outer walls from the inner fortifications. The Trench Rats were one of the battalions responsible for defending that territory and preventing the Enemy from besieging Old College.

“That’s a critical stretch of ground,” she continued. “Your battalion’s close to Northgate and the sea. It’s conceivable that the Enemy could breach the cliff defenses and attack along your flank. I assigned it to the Trench Rats solely because of you, but in retrospect that might have been a mistake. I’m tempted to reassign it to a battalion that has more experience and Mystics support.”

“That’s your decision,” said Max. “But they’re a determined group. We’ll have more arrows, and don’t forget about Scathach. She’s worth a company by herself.”