eyes, but a glowing blue afterimage remained etched on the inside of his eyelids. When he opened them again, the barrel had been blasted into splinters. The metal barrel rings lay in a pile, scorched and blackened.
That had certainly gotten everyone’s attention. The crowd was still, all staring their way, wide eyed, trying to decide whether they should bolt or not. Even the fighters had stopped—one, because he’d passed out.
Madigan cleared his throat. “That’s better. It’s against army regulations for soldiers to be participating in underground gambling establishments, especially while on deployment. A violation of this regulation is punishable by flogging and a dock in pay . . .”
He noted a lot of panicked looks being exchanged in the crowd.
“But today is your lucky day; I’m only here for the Storm Knights. They can stay seated. Don’t even think of trying to sneak out, because my men will be checking everyone outside, and they don’t take kindly to sneaking,” he lied. “If you’re a civilian you’re probably breaking some law, but that’s not my problem, so get out . If you’re regular army, you’re also not my problem, so get out.”
The vast majority of the spectators got up and hurried for the exits. Cleasby stepped out of the way so they could file past. Everyone was wearing cloaks or coats, but he caught glimpses of uniforms beneath: long gunners, mechaniks, even stormcallers. The unconscious fighter was carried out by two trenchers, which suggested he was one of them.
Cleasby leaned toward Madigan and spoke through his visor. “We should at least take their names and report them to their commanding officers. They’re all in violation.”
Madigan was just scowling at the soldiers as they shuffled by. When he turned to Cleasby, the scowl was gone, and it was obvious the lieutenant was trying not to smile. “You shove twenty-two thousand extra troops with energy to burn into a city, and these sorts of things are to be expected.”
“Morrow warned against gambling,” Wilkins said to the soldiers as they filed past him. “Gambling will attract the gaze of Scion Bolis. Do not let yourself fall under the influence of the Dark Twin or her minions!”
“Wilkins, shut up,” Madigan ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
Once the room was cleared, Madigan walked to the interior. One man and two women still sat on an overstuffed leather couch that looked like it had been removed from a baron’s estate. The man had his boots up on a table and an arm around each woman. Judging from the piles of coins on the table as well as the chalkboard marked with betting odds, he was the fellow running this operation. He was a thin, pale, young man dressed in an aristocrat’s fine suit. Cleasby couldn’t help but stare, not that anyone could tell with his visor down. Both women were very attractive and not wearing much in the way of clothing.
“I said civilians can leave,” Madigan said.
“There was some confusion on that, since they’re employees,” the young nobleman answered with a smile. “Care for a drink, Lieutenant . . . ?”
“Madigan. No thank you. I’m on duty. You must be Corporal Gilford Thornbury.”
It took Cleasby a moment to get the clipboard out of the leather sack on his belt. The gauntlets made that difficult, but taking them off would increase the risk of getting electrocuted by his own sword. Thornbury’s name was on the list next to “Conduct unbecoming a soldier.” He found that a rather vague charge.
“Call me Thorny. Madigan, eh? I’ve heard of you.”
“And I’ve heard of you.” Madigan roughly kicked the young man’s boots off the table and sat on it. Thornbury looked mildly offended. “Sorry, ladies,” Madigan continued, “but this is a private conversation.”
They looked to Thornbury, who nodded. The women fled, though they flashed smiles at the two Stormblades on their way past. Wilkins turned away, somehow refraining from warning them about their
That had certainly gotten everyone’s attention. The crowd was still, all staring their way, wide eyed, trying to decide whether they should bolt or not. Even the fighters had stopped—one, because he’d passed out.
Madigan cleared his throat. “That’s better. It’s against army regulations for soldiers to be participating in underground gambling establishments, especially while on deployment. A violation of this regulation is punishable by flogging and a dock in pay . . .”
He noted a lot of panicked looks being exchanged in the crowd.
“But today is your lucky day; I’m only here for the Storm Knights. They can stay seated. Don’t even think of trying to sneak out, because my men will be checking everyone outside, and they don’t take kindly to sneaking,” he lied. “If you’re a civilian you’re probably breaking some law, but that’s not my problem, so get out . If you’re regular army, you’re also not my problem, so get out.”
The vast majority of the spectators got up and hurried for the exits. Cleasby stepped out of the way so they could file past. Everyone was wearing cloaks or coats, but he caught glimpses of uniforms beneath: long gunners, mechaniks, even stormcallers. The unconscious fighter was carried out by two trenchers, which suggested he was one of them.
Cleasby leaned toward Madigan and spoke through his visor. “We should at least take their names and report them to their commanding officers. They’re all in violation.”
Madigan was just scowling at the soldiers as they shuffled by. When he turned to Cleasby, the scowl was gone, and it was obvious the lieutenant was trying not to smile. “You shove twenty-two thousand extra troops with energy to burn into a city, and these sorts of things are to be expected.”
“Morrow warned against gambling,” Wilkins said to the soldiers as they filed past him. “Gambling will attract the gaze of Scion Bolis. Do not let yourself fall under the influence of the Dark Twin or her minions!”
“Wilkins, shut up,” Madigan ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
Once the room was cleared, Madigan walked to the interior. One man and two women still sat on an overstuffed leather couch that looked like it had been removed from a baron’s estate. The man had his boots up on a table and an arm around each woman. Judging from the piles of coins on the table as well as the chalkboard marked with betting odds, he was the fellow running this operation. He was a thin, pale, young man dressed in an aristocrat’s fine suit. Cleasby couldn’t help but stare, not that anyone could tell with his visor down. Both women were very attractive and not wearing much in the way of clothing.
“I said civilians can leave,” Madigan said.
“There was some confusion on that, since they’re employees,” the young nobleman answered with a smile. “Care for a drink, Lieutenant . . . ?”
“Madigan. No thank you. I’m on duty. You must be Corporal Gilford Thornbury.”
It took Cleasby a moment to get the clipboard out of the leather sack on his belt. The gauntlets made that difficult, but taking them off would increase the risk of getting electrocuted by his own sword. Thornbury’s name was on the list next to “Conduct unbecoming a soldier.” He found that a rather vague charge.
“Call me Thorny. Madigan, eh? I’ve heard of you.”
“And I’ve heard of you.” Madigan roughly kicked the young man’s boots off the table and sat on it. Thornbury looked mildly offended. “Sorry, ladies,” Madigan continued, “but this is a private conversation.”
They looked to Thornbury, who nodded. The women fled, though they flashed smiles at the two Stormblades on their way past. Wilkins turned away, somehow refraining from warning them about their
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