In the end, Bujold Martens found me. The man with the gun took me up the hill, to a line where the artillery craters stopped. I passed over it, feeling the cold vibrations. Ward, a large one, but wobbly. More a residue than a proper ward.

  "Where are we going?" I asked. He'd been walking two steps behind me and off to the side the whole time. Not leading me at gunpoint, but close. At least there weren't any minefields, or he'd have walked directly behind me.

  "Not telling," he said.

  "How about your name?" I said. "Rank, unit, serial number?"

  I'd hoped for a smile, the man looking like an auxiliary. It got me nothing, not even a curse. His hostility was like a stone wall.

  Or maybe he was exhausted. He'd stumbled twice on the way up, that I noticed, and he didn't smell of drink nor had the manic grin of a bluegrub addict. Exhaustion turns your brain into mush as efficiently as alcohol. Lowers your inhibitions, too. Having a sleep-drunk man walking behind you with a gun is an unpleasant experience.

  It was a relief when we reached a low-slung bunker and he handed me off to a pair of guards, regular infantry by the look of their equipment, or a very well-stocked militia.

  The bunker was well-built, too, meter-thick walls, horizontal window slits, steel window covers so massive I'd have trouble raising them.

  Big bore gun on a mount bolted to the bunker floor. The gun looked large caliber, eighty, maybe a hundred millimeters, and home-made. Discarded brass casings large as my arm in a pile outside the steel door. Long and slim, no manufacturing template I'd ever seen. A rack of copper-jacketed shells by the wall. Those looked home-made, too, with scratches from a somewhat crude lathe job on the jackets. No detonator, so pure kinetic energy killers. Useless for indirect fire. Sabots would have been better, but harder to manufacture. Acidic smell, but that could have been the prevailing air. The bunker had the look of fresh construction. I almost expected the concrete to be wet.

  Five men inside.

  My guide spoke a few words to them, which I didn't eavesdrop on. Up-tuning my audio wards in a place with regular artillery fire seemed a bad idea.

  Still, I caught the term envoy. So being one wasn't completely useless.

  Two of the men peeled off, gesturing for me to walk ahead. Their equipment matched, unlike that of the outer ring troops. Red-and-black camouflage uniforms, helmets spray-painted the same colors, assault rifles.

  Canard Croniques. They were the right pattern, a long upper assembly and raised aim-point over a short bolt and cut-out polymer stock. No white Canard flying-duck logo on them, but Croniques were manufactured on license over half the galaxy. If I ever died and went to an afterlife, I'd find someone churning out Croniques on a home-built laser cutter. They were cheap, reliable, ugly, and ubiquitous.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "Come along" was all the greeting I got. These guards looked just as exhausted, but not quite as dirty as the ones further down the hill. The shell casings piled outside were fresh enough to smell, burnt metal and a rotted cheese overtone. Not very pleasant, but combat seldom is. No wonder the troops looked worn. The big question was why the fighting had stopped.

  Nobody thought to disarm me. It could be a good sign, or a sign that they had the means of killing me reliably.

  Or they didn't care. That would be worse, signaling a unit about to fall, with all that this entailed. I didn't want to be in a falling city. Getting killed in a sack happened, envoy or not.

  Crudmucking wars.

  The walk through Cant City was uneventful. No artillery fire. Barely any people, most hurrying by with the harried, exhausted looks of war survivors and parents of small children. Broad avenues, but no traffic noise and no traffic. No conversations either. The city was eerily quiet.

  It wasn't quite in ruins. On the outskirts lay one- and two-story row houses of gray concrete. Further in, they became long barracks, rising to eight or ten stories near the center. Everything was functional, square, spartan, and full of holes. Old polymer posters peeled from walls, their garish paints turned to thin strips that waved like broken fingers. The wind from the sea brought spray, and the ever-present, annoyingly astringent vinegar stench. Most windows were broken, only the ones closer to the ground whole.

  A few buildings looked like they'd been hit by heavy artillery or bombs, their insides collapsed, their walls fire-sooted. Not many.

  Most looked like they'd suffered heavy small arms fire, but only to their top stories and roofs. Near the ground, they looked normal, if somewhat grimy.

  But maybe that was the regular state of affairs on New Millet. The lamp posts were corroded, light blue splotches on their gray metal. I knocked the butt of my rifle against one as we passed, getting a hollow thump rather than a heavy clang. Aluminum, or some light alloy. Not the cheapest material. At one time, Cant City had been well-off.

  The guards passed me on to a fresh set of guards, these in black-and-blue city camo wearing machine pistols in black holsters. The building we entered had the look of neo-classical architecture, with concrete roof tiles and pillars, and the text "Cant City College" chiseled above big double doors backed by blocks of concrete. It had the feeling of a field HQ, lots of junior officers, every side room filled with troops talking, playing cards, eating, or sleeping on the bare floor.

  "Where are we going?" I said. I'd definitely caught the term envoy this time, meaning there was a reason they hadn't disarmed me.

  "The old man," said one of the guards, an older man himself. Not as much hostility as my previous guides, which boded well. Maybe their commander would direct me to Martens.

  We went deeper into the college, passing unguarded stores, mostly of food and bottled drink. No shortage of supplies, people walked in and took what they wanted.

  Not like any military I'd ever seen.

  The guard knocked on a door, massive wood, the guard's knuckles making a muted thump rather than the hollow tak-tak of veneer over a frame.

  "Come!" came a voice. Forceful yet controlled. Reminded me of something.

  Or someone.

  The door swung open. Small room, empty bookshelves on the walls, wooden desk, three chairs of dark wood padded with leather. Five people, all in red-and-black camo.

  The man behind the desk could have been the Knife's twin.

  Kid indeed.