“What man, Lieutenant Foster?” Could be one of the spies he’d sent out. But if it were, Foster would have just told him who had returned with news.
The spies knew better than to return without news.
“He didn’t give me his name, sir.” Foster licked his lips and looked as close to nervous as the Saint had ever seen him. “He’s waiting in your office.”
“I’m going to need more than that,” he said. “Where’s he from? What’s he look made of? Why’s he here?”
“Permission to speak plainly, sir.”
Alabaster Saint narrowed his eye. Then, “Granted.”
Lieutenant Foster relaxed his bearing just the nth of a degree and met Alabaster’s gaze.
“He’s tall, lean, and like nothing I’ve seen before.”
“Foreigner?”
“Not a kind I’ve put eyes on.”
“What’s your gut say, Foster?”
“He’s a killer. A butcher of men. And he enjoys it.”
Alabaster Saint didn’t see any of those traits as a downfall. Had made a point to bestow his rare praise on Lieutenant Foster for just those reasons.
“And why wouldn’t we welcome a man of that stripe, Lieutenant Foster?”
“I think he’s out of his mind insane.”
Alabaster Saint chuckled, a low, humorless rumble. “All men are insane, Mr. Foster. Just some utilize it better than others.”
Lieutenant Foster gave the Saint half a nod, though it was clear he was holding back words of disagreement. That wasn’t like him. Foster always told the general what was on his mind.
If other men had spoken with such frankness, Alabaster would have minced their entrails and served them with beans. But not Foster. Alabaster had learned quickly that the man’s mind was just as sharp as his uniform.
His insight had turned more than one plan to his favor.
“If you have something to say, Lieutenant, say it,” the general said.
“There’s something terribly wrong about him. Something Strange. It is my recommendation, sir, to have him on his way as quickly as possible.”
“Are you spooked, Mr. Foster?” the Saint asked, amused.
“No sir,” the lieutenant said. But his eyes betrayed his words.
Whoever was waiting for the Saint back in his office had managed to put a chill in the veins of a man the general would have bet good money couldn’t be spooked.
“Steel up, Lieutenant,” the Saint said, as he walked past his lieutenant, “or you’re no use to me.”
Alabaster Saint strode toward the building tucked far enough back in the rocks and scree that it was difficult to see from the surrounding ground, and, even more important, was nearly impossible to see from the air.
This was his fortress, his stronghold. When he called war—if it came to that—upon the eastern states, this would be his command center.
The only way a man knew of this place was by very careful invitation.
Or so he had thought.
The crunching of Foster’s boots over the rubble told him the man had courage enough to still follow him. Good.
Dawn had taken the bruise off the night and was pushing pale blue over the twisted trees and ragged mountain walls. No birdsong rode that light, an unusual omen on so clear a morning.
The house came into view, a large split-log and stone structure that looked like it had sat the mountain for centuries instead of just a few years. The barracks for the men was to one side, a long building with small windows and enough beds to sleep a couple hundred, though he had only half that many pressed into service right now.
To the north of the clearing was the huge shelter for the airships—made of wood and canvas cleverly secured to the side of the mountain to cut the worst of the wind. It wasn’t large enough to fly the ships into fully inflated, but once the air and steam was out of them, all three of his pride and joy could nest there together.
The men were waking, smoke from the cookhouse rising to mix with the mist that clung to the crags.
There was a single lantern polishing copper against the window of his office and home. A shadowed figure broke that light.
Even from this distance, the Saint could feel the eyes of the man who stood within that shadow, hidden as if light feared to touch him.
The hair on the back of the general’s neck pricked up. Those eyes, that man, were danger. The Saint had no doubt of that. And he knew that dangerous men could be very useful.
He strode up to the door and pulled it open, stepping into his office without taking off his hat. The man stood at the window, his back turned toward him, covered in layers and layers of coats, some of which were long enough to fall all the way to his heels. He wore a stovepipe hat, and a pile of scarves around his neck.