[b]Secondary Industry[/b]

Claes made herself busy after her subordinate left. She kicked her shoes off, for a start, stretching her sore feet out as she yawned to full extension, an unfeminine groan escaping her lips into the privacy of the chamber. She searched her mess of a desk for something to do; even in the few days she had been resident in the rooms she had managed to spray likely more than one tree around the well-upholstered office, thankful for the luxury of paper off the campaign trail. She found a note from Major Agallon, a long, precisely ordered list on creamy white stock, with his characteristically neat and florid script. His careful, precise nature was what made him such an excellent logistics officer, and she felt truly sorry for him. Logistics, as Claes well knew from her brief tenure as the logistician, was the job of telling superiors and subordinates precisely why they cannot have what they want. A thankless job, certainly, but perhaps the most necessary in the army: Claes could not remember who stated an army marches on its stomach, but a truer statement had never been made. She felt doubly sorry for him attached to a cavalry army, the nightmares multiplying upon themselves when the thousands of horses needed to be accounted for. The man had nearly collapsed from the strain the night before their boat journey, from overwork and the angry demands of his peers. She could only hope the storehouses and clarks of the God-King’s employ could live up to his exacting standards, and he could enjoy his brief reprieve from campaign travails. The note pulled her from  her brief ponderings, her listless mind reminding her of her fatigue, and she examined it carefully, immediately bored to tears by the dry analysis of mount condition and the availability of palatable food. She committed the important notes to memory before throwing the painfully dull piece of paper aside, it fluttering into the poorly-defined ‘read’ pile.

She found herself humming slightly, an old marching song she recalled with a smile, the lyrics coarse enough to appeal to the enlistee and entertaining, though obviously aimed at males. Almost all were, unfortunately, which had, for a time, led to her and her fellow female officers starring in the more bawdy numbers. A measure of discipline stopped those from being sung around officers, at the very least, though Claes would bet good silver that there was one being sung right now in some infected ale-house.

The general was picking through a disciplinary report from Major Hellon, entirely irrelevant to the grander scheme of things, simply highlighting a pair of floggings for conduct unbefitting the army, to be carried out at dawn. It was inevitable that no matter how high or low morale, some soldier would get carried away with some night-hawk or waitress and get whipped for his trouble. Mercenaries were not the best sort, she knew, and accepted their occasional misbehavior as an inevitability. She instead was proud that there were only two reports of misconduct (meaning likely a dozen more unnoticed or forgiven) in an army of nearly two thousand fresh off a boat ride of perdition. Just as she threw the paper to join the others in her growing pile a knock on the door, three times in particular rhythm. She called out to the door in an impatient voice.

“You know you don’t have to knock, Laurence.”

The door opened, and a man of average height and build walked in, a small box tucked under his arm and a fashionable if somewhat spartan outfit clothing him. His long blonde hair fell to his shoulders, and his handsome face bore a smile. Colonel Laurence Ostilla, 1st Battle Commander, as expected.

“Of course, General. Just being polite is all.”. His rich tenor filled the room.

“Take a seat. I presume you’ve spoken to Colonel Gordon? He’s getting the southern command, I need you for something more subtle.”
The blonde man sat, placing the ornate checkered box atop a sheaf of unimportant missives with a resounding clunk.

“I am sure you know what you’re doing, General.”

“I don’t need sarcasm, Laurence, it has been a long day.”

“Is meeting with deities taxing? I’ve only done it the once, and I spent most of my time kneeling.”

“He’s not as pompous as I would have thought. He does not strike me as an immortal deity, more a precocious lordling eager to make a name for himself.”

“Though, intelligent enough I hear? I should hope so, given his history.”

“I’m sure he will not disappoint, though I fear any further speculation may be counting unhatched chickens”

Laurence unclasped the box and unfolded it into two even halves, removing small leather pouches of assorted pieces, passing the darker pouch to his superior officer.

“Must we, Laurence? As I said, it has been a long day. I am not certain I have the mental fortitude for an hour of [i]thinking[/i].”

“Then you’ll just have to beat me quickly: I remember a certain bored General on a boat stating that” he assumed a mocking, high-pitched voice while he quoted her “’refusal to play will, from now onwards, be counted as surrender.’. Something about it being the true spirit of the cavalry officer or some seasick nonsense.”

“Nothing I said on that damned boat should be held as my honest opinion. That damned doctor’s medicine played havoc with my mind”

“You still won, though.”

“Of course I still won.”. 

Laurence finished setting up the board, their mirrored pieces glaring at each other over the checkers. They had picked up Lorent from an Adulisian trader, and taken to it like ducks to water. Their previous intellectual battlefield was a game of stone-placing territory control, which suited cavalry officers rather poorly. This Lorent was a game of swift, decisive action, and they played like masters.
Laurence moved a piece, a brazen opening auguring a brazen strategy he had been perfecting on the boat ride. Claes could not help but respond in kind, and the game began. It was not a silent game, and they chatted the entire time on matters big and small, Claes briefing her opponent on his mission between conversations on the merits of fording actions and their shared, intense desire for a damascated sword. Their conversation was amicable, each enjoying the other’s company. While Gordon or Niman were confidants, trustworthy men in the army, Laurence was her friend. They’d been rivals and allies, and for as long as Claes could remember the two had worked together to achieve their goals, slowly becoming reliant on enjoyable companionship free of machinations.

Their game was less friendly. Claes cut viciously towards the center with what she thought was a brilliant move with her Boar, and four moves later found herself fighting tooth and nail on a rearguard action after a well-placed sacrifice by her subordinate destroyed her interdependent defense. Their moves were fast, few taking longer than a minute, and their actions swift and decisive, the clack of marble on wood punctuating their conversation as a brisk staccato. Half an hour later, Claes toppled her opponent’s Lion with a flourish, sinking back into her chair after sitting on its edge for the final moves. It had been a close-run thing, but Claes had caught Laurence in a noose of his own design, and did not delay in hanging him by it.

Their analysis of the game was cut short by footsteps coming up the hall, and the tone shifted immediately, from one of jovial friendship to one of business. Laurence packed the game away with blinding speed, and the two officers straightened their attire and replaced their shoes. Laurence stepped to one side of the room and stood ramrod-straight, as Claes rose to return the salute of her personnel officer with one of dismissal, and accepted the handshake of the criminal. The Major turned out of the room, joining his men on guard.
Sitting back in her chair with some dignity, she regarded the still-standing woman with eyes harder than the emeralds they shared their color. All business. Claes let her left hand hover over a short sword leaning against her desk, and she noticed that the Colonel’s right was gravitating towards a solid-looking steel candlestick.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Ms. Tavellan, and I would love to get acquainted but I will not mince words so late at night: The Grey Winds need good soldiers for a capturing a city, and you come most highly recommended. We are willing to offer you immediate enlistment at the rank of Lieutenant, in command of your very own platoon of specialized infiltration and close-combat anti-fortification infantry. You will be paid double and a half, as is normal for forlorn hope units. You will be free of penal battalions, and though your assignments will be of similar danger, at least for your first operation, you will have the full support of the army and will be treated as any other soldier under my command. With time and the desire, promotion opportunities will arise. They Winds do not discriminate based on race, and though I cannot tell my men what to think they will have to grin and bear an elven woman commander or face court-marshal.” Claes paused for a second, her eyes never leaving her prospective recruit for the briefest moment.

“I am not in the business of wasting resources, Ms. Tavellan, and you appear to be a resource most valuable. What do you say? Will you enlist under my command and earn money, freedom and glory?”