Wrath of Storms (The Raincatcher's Ballad Book 2) by Steven McKinnon

Author:Steven McKinnon [McKinnon, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Steven McKinnon DBA Vividarium Books
Published: 2019-08-04T22:00:00+00:00

Fallon ordered Khan to drive off without him. The sandstorm had died down, but a cutting wind still sheared the city streets—soon the protestors would return. My days are numbered.

He slipped his eye patch into a pocket and turned his greatcoat inside out, pulling its collar up and fixing a flat-cap to his head. Too many leaders before him stayed away from the streets and put too much stock in reports and second-hand accounts; Fallon liked to make his own mind up.

Private Najat Khan; RSF drop-out, desperate to prove herself. Corruption risk: Low.

She did well back there.

Weatherby, on the other hand, proved himself to be a liability, but Fallon needed all the men he could get. Anyway, if Fallon fired him, the moron would be a ripe candidate to enlist with the Lightbearers. They say it’s best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer—what about your asshole subordinates?

Something Akara had said stuck Fallon’s mind: I’ve been following the Council’s every instruction. That meant the editor was in someone’s pocket, and Fallon had vetted every member of the Council—except one.

He took the long way back to his headquarters, doubling back and changing route three times.

The courtesans on the corner.

The café owner shutting shop for the night.

The kids playing streetball.

The watchwoman stationed at the gate.

How do can I be sure they are who they say they are?

He sensed their eyes on him every step of the way, and made a mental note to investigate each and every one of them. When the Lightbearer threat was neutralised, he’d reorganise the military and form an inner circle of troops he could trust. Only the best—only the loyalists.

Commander Lockwood’s been distant—a sign of guilt?

‘Sir.’ The captain of the garrison guard offered a hurried salute after a double-take. He was a man of middling years and not enough war experience. ‘Didn’t recognise you, sir.’

Captain Arlo Renata; owes twenty thousand aerons to a Mercurian back-alley doctor who was the only person willing to operate on his wife. Saved her life, at the expense of her legs. Corruption risk: High.

Fallon returned the salute. ‘Captain.’

The tension in the general’s muscles eased the moment he stepped inside the barracks; it was the closest thing he had to a home.

His office still carried the weak smell of tobacco, even years after he’d dropped his habit. The two bookcases behind his scarred and dented desk flanked a life-size painting of Sir Raleigh Trevelyan, and the chair sat in the exact space he’d left it. His name plate needed polishing; like the medals Fallon kept locked away, it had lost its sheen.

The general bent low and spooled the thin razor wire running across the threshold into its cigar box container and set it onto his desk. He left the flashbomb inside the ceiling-mounted ignium lamp, and placed more aeron coins on the windowsill. That was an old early-warning trick, and one of the best.

He approached the bookcase behind his desk and yanked the copy of Captain Crimsonwing and the Armada of the Damned.

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