Free The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) by H. Anthe Davis Page B

action, but Sarovy had no answers for him.  Bahlaer, like the rest of the Illanic city-states, was under the control of the Imperial Crimson Claw Army, and with Field Marshal Rackmar in command, it seemed that it would just have to accept its treatment.  No blood-payment, no apologies.
    Finally, at the midnight mark, Sarovy had managed to retire to his new office.  It was formerly the garrison commander's, and due to the man's swift eviction had been left crammed full of furniture and maps, papers and superstitious bric-a-brac.  Sarovy's footlocker took up a bare smidge of space by the bed.
    In rifling through the commander's leavings, Sarovy had discovered the liquor cabinet and the bottle of Jernizan tawny whiskey.  He was not normally a drinker, but it had not been a pleasant few days, and he had already worked through a quarter of the bottle by the time Lieutenant Linciard knocked on the door.
    Linciard had his own glass now, but it was barely touched, while the level in the bottle had sunk to half.  He had been silent while Sarovy finished compiling his day's report, but it seemed he was now ready to air his thoughts.
    Quill-pen down, glass down, Sarovy held the lieutenant's gaze until Linciard looked away.  “I am not drunk,” he said firmly.  “And as I have been given the responsibility of garrison commander, I am authorized to confiscate any substance I deem necessary to the operation of the company.”
    “Sir, necessary whiskey—“
    “Yes.  Right now, yes.”
    Linciard slanted another concerned look at him, but he ignored it.  To tell the truth, the alcohol had done nothing; he still felt knotted tight, and had been grinding his teeth steadily since this morning.  He kept telling himself that he had trained for this, that he had the manpower and the mages and the intelligence to control the situation, but he knew better.  Two hundred and thirteen men were just not capable of holding a city, especially one infested with Shadow Cult.
    And though he was a fort-holder Trivestean and thus a lightweight when it came to alcohol, the whiskey sat in his guts like water.
    Across the desk, Linciard sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  In the light of the single lamp, he looked haggard, his broad shoulders slumped, his hair slipping from its war-braids.  He had been occupied for the past two days too, corralling rioters and taking over coordinating duties while Sarovy was in council with the Lord Governor.  Though he had done well, Sarovy wondered if he had raised the man from peasant soldier to officer too quickly.
    Recently, everything happened too quickly.
    He looked down at his piles of papers.  The garrison commander had left behind city maps, personnel notes, the militia roster and requisitions list, and a thick set of files on local businesses and persons of interest.  Though Sarovy normally left such documents to Lancer-Sergeant Benson, he had perused enough of them to see threads of extortion and blackmail tangled among the mundane details, which made the headache worse.  Trivestean cities were not run this way.  If ever a government needed a good scouring, it was this one.
    Beside the garrison papers were his own personnel files, plus the list he had been making for the mages' experiments and a quick sketch of the barracks and outbuildings with all the men's bunk-assignments filled in.  The city's militia had scattered when Blaze Company took over their garrison—not Sarovy's idea, for he would have preferred to keep a few under his thumb.  While he had addresses for all of them, he did not have the time to surveil their homes to see if they were meeting with cultists.
    He knew he should select a folder or a city map—should keep working for as long as he stayed conscious.  His men depended on him understanding the lay of the land and the mood of the populace.  Instead, he reached for the padded undershirt hanging at the edge of the table, and the thread and needle beside