The Lost War, Karl Gallagher [recommended reading txt] 📗

He shrugged. “I’m always going to lose some of it. This is just a matter of balancing the burn. Gotta keep it between wood and ash.”

“Looks like you’re getting a lot of ash.” The floor of the clearing was mostly grey.

“Not that much. The ash stays here. Unburnt wood goes into the next mound. We rake out the charcoal. The dirt and ash goes on top of the next mound.”

Pernach waved at the remains of his previous burn. Flecks of charcoal too little to bother picking up dotted the dirt. Lines from the rake still showed.

“The ash from the cookfires all goes into the dirt too.” Redinkle frowned.

“Yeah.”

“I might have to get a pot and burn some wood to get clean ash.”

“If that’s what you want, talk to Master Forge. He has a metal box for his furnace. What do you need the ash for?”

“If I mix it with meat drippings I can make soap.”

“Is that aimed at me? I swear I’ve been scrubbing hard in the river.”

Redinkle kissed him. “And it’s working. I want it for me. I miss being clean.”

***

Two royal guards strolled down the lane past the chiurgeon’s tent. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular. Constable thought they were walking for the joy of seeing everyone else get out of their way.

Every day the Court was more like the dealers and punks he used to arrest. The two guards walked liked thugs newly beaten into a gang and wanting to show off their colors. Constable trailed behind them, waiting for the trouble to start. He’d have to intervene fast if the guards drew their swords. The taller guard carried a wooden tourney sword—unlikely to kill with a single blow unless it hit the head. The other carried a rapier. The tip gleamed. It was newly sharpened. That could be lethal with one thrust.

A young boy, barely into his teens, crossed the lane without looking around. The short guard, Ranseur, ran forward, slamming his shoulder into the boy’s side, flattening him.

“Watch where you’re going,” snarled the guard.

The victim—Constable recognized him as Sparrow—rolled onto his back and sat up. “What?” He pulled a pair of earbuds out of his ears.

“You’re a clumsy fool. You need to stay out of our way.”

Constable saw a crowd gathering. More witnesses, good. He just needed them to have the nerve to testify.

“You hit me,” complained the boy.

“Get up.” The other guard, Bardiche, pulled the boy to his feet.

“Now apologize,” said Ranseur.

In normal times Constable would have intervened already. Now he wanted it to escalate to a crime so blatant Their Majesties would have to admit their royal guard was running wild. He kept watching.

“Apologize for what?” stammered Sparrow.

“Apologize for being a stupid, ugly, fool who got in my way.” Ranseur poked the boy in the chest.

Not, alas, hard enough to be a felony.

“Hey, he has music playing!” Bardiche grabbed the earbuds from the boy’s hand. The cord pulled an iPod out of his sleeve. The guard grabbed it. “It still has charge. It’s fully charged!”

“Give that back!” Sparrow’s attempt to retrieve his gadget was blocked by Ranseur.

“You have batteries? Where are you hiding them? All batteries were confiscated.”

“I don’t have a battery, just my iPod. Give it back!”

Ranseur grabbed the boy’s chin and pulled him into a nose-to-nose confrontation. “Bullshit. Nothing stays fully charged for three weeks. Where’s your juice?”

The boy used both hands to pry the guard’s grip off. “Leave me alone!”

The guard pulled his arm free and swung it around for a solid face slap.

His target just squawked.

“His music sucks.” Bardiche had an earbud in. He scrolled through the gadget’s list.

“Let go!” Sparrow shoved against Ranseur’s chest.

The short guard grunted, stiffened, and fell onto his back.

“Hey, what did you do to him?” Bardiche dropped the iPod in the dirt. He grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him around.

This time Constable saw bright white sparks as the boy’s hand reached for the guard’s chest, accompanied by a popping sound.

The second one fell prone.

The boy stood still, staring at his hands.

Six strides took Constable to the prone guards. The first one to go down was awake, moaning in pain.

“Don’t hurt me,” said Sparrow.

Constable lowered the head of his mace of office to rest on his boot toe. “I’m not mad at you, son.”

He raised his voice. He needed to put the right story in the witness’s minds, before somebody gave them another one. “You’re the victim here. I saw them assault you and steal your property. I just want to know how it happened.”

“I—I don’t know.”

A friendly smile was Constable’s favorite approach now. Be a friend, don’t rush him, let the silence push him into talking.

Except there wasn’t silence. The crowd was jabbering, witnesses telling the story to new arrivals attracted by the commotion. There was one arrival he was glad to see.

“Where are the casualties?” demanded Lady Burnout. She pushed through the crowd, emerging next to Constable.

“They’ll be fine,” said Constable.

The two royal guards were acting more hung-over than injured now.

“What happened?” she asked.

Constable said, “I have a theory.” He glared at Sparrow.

“I didn’t do anything! I didn’t hit them, I just touched them!”

The lawman stepped forward, grabbing the teenager’s upper arms. “I don’t believe you. You set it up with your two friends. They’re faking it. Just a big practical joke. I don’t think it’s funny.” He shook Sparrow in rhythm with his words.

The boy’s hands on his chest were gentle. The electrical shock wasn’t.

Lady Burnout tried to catch Constable as he fell. He was too heavy. She managed to turn him to land on his side instead of the back of his head.

“Augh,” he said.

“What did you do