The Ashlords will strike back, and they’ll do so with the gauntleted fists of their gods, but for now the rebellion has ridden out to a quick lead. It’d be easy to think of it all as a race if I could ignore the smell of burning bodies. Bastian turns a corner. Two guards part to allow him into their general’s office. The man stands over a map of the Empire. I can see some of the towns he has marked off. Pieces representing armies. Where will his troops move next? He sets his dusty hat over the etchings and takes a good long look at us.

“Thank you, Bastian. I’d speak to the girl alone.”

A piston in Bastian’s arm releases pressure with a hiss of steam.

“She’s not as familiar with wartime arrangements as I am. I think I’ll stay.”

The general considers him, nods a concession.

“That’s acceptable. Imelda, my name is Antonio Rowan. I am second in command of the Longhand Legions. First, I wanted to thank you for creating such a perfect opportunity. Your flight from the Races allowed us to strike clean and early against the Ashlord army.”

He pauses long enough for me to answer.

“You’re welcome.”

“With that noted, I would see the belt that you stole.”

The words are bold and direct, but not unexpected. Bastian warned me it would come to this. I’ve known all along that my way through the mountains would not be easy, not with that kind of price attached to my hip. Too bad for him I expected this from the beginning.

“Mountain rules,” I reply. “What I steal from an Ashlord is mine.”

“You’re not from the mountains,” Antonio points out.

“She is now.”

Bastian speaks a new truth into existence. I take heart from his words. I set everything I’ve ever known on fire, but he’s offering me a new home, a new family. It’s mine if I want it.

Antonio waves a lazy hand. “All beside the point. Our contracts with the mountain rebels carry weight, even with lesser known insurgents like Bastian. You might have stolen the belt yourself, but there’s a tax applied to all earnings during wartime. We won’t take from the hands of those who fight, but we have to fund our efforts somehow. You will find this is true of every man and woman in my army. You will find this is true of every man and woman who fights with us. There’s a tax taken from every spoil of war now. It is law.”

“How much?” Bastian asks.

“Thirty percent.”

Bastian makes a disbelieving noise. Antonio Rowan doesn’t reply. He simply folds his hands and looks my way again. “We saw the components you chose. We know their values, especially during wartime. You keep seventy percent of the profits. That’s more than enough.”