Fires of the Faithful (45 page)

“You saw the drill?” Then we knew his strategy. One of them, at least.

“Yes.” Camilla described the procedures the soldiers ran through. “He even had a soldier whose job was to go torch the grain. They’re onto us.”

“That’s what they think anyway,” I said. “Which building holds the grain?” Camilla pointed to one of the scuffs she’d drawn in the dust. “Then we know what to protect. What are the people like?”

“Scared. Beaten down. Demetrio keeps a tight grip; we saw two executions during the time we were watching. Both were escape attempts who got caught.”

“The soldiers?”

“Brutal. And loyal to Demetrio.”

Vitale arrived then with food and wine for the scouts, and they paused to have something to eat and drink. We finished the briefing before the rest of the commanders arrived, but I already had a pretty good idea of what I was going to do. Camilla’s seeing those drills had been a stroke of luck.

It was very late when we finished; I sent the scouts off to sleep and slipped out of my tent. Michel trailed me as I headed past the edge of the camp and into the wasteland, keeping a respectful distance.

The hills of the wasteland were silvery in the moonlight. Even on the darkest nights you could tell that the land here was dead. I sat down at the crest of one hill and opened my violin case. Learning to fight with a sword had callused my right hand, despite the gloves I always wore. It felt a little strange now to take my bow in hand and tuck my violin under my chin, but I could still make my violin sing. I tuned up and played for an hour, just for myself. I played the songs I’d learned with Mira and the violin part of some of the ensemble pieces from the conservatory. Finally I played the Mass. I glanced at Michel, standing watch a short distance away. I always wondered if he wanted to dance when I played the Mass, but tonight he probably just wished I’d stop playing and go to bed so that he could get some sleep as well. I had to admit that I was tired. I put my violin away and headed back for the camp. As I reached my tent, I turned to Michel. He was still trailing me sleepily.

“Martido and Fiora,” I said. “Whose unit are they in, anyway?”

“Severo’s,” he said.

I nodded. “Good.” I took the bracelet off my wrist and handed it to Michel. “Take this to Severo and tell him that
he
can deal with it. I have an army to lead.” Michel blinked at me, puzzled, as I went inside to bed.

Naomi Kritzer grew up in Madison, Wisconsin, a small lunar colony populated mostly by Ph.D.s. She moved to Minnesota to attend college; after graduating with a BA in religion, she became a technical writer. She now lives in Minneapolis with her family. FIRES OF THE FAITHFUL is her first novel.