Untouchable

7: Traitor

The first hour of the day progresses slowly. Quiet, familiar, pleasant. Jarvis wakes, kisses her good morning, showers, dresses, kisses her goodbye, leaves. She remains in bed for another ten minutes, rises, goes through the morning procedure herself. Heads to the dining room, is firmly ignored by the steward, sits down. Greets Lynch when he arrives, share the day's first meal.

Reading the morning missives brings a genuine smile to Lynch's lips, fork halfway to his mouth, frozen in place as his eyes go over the text. Holly doesn't have to wait long before he excitedly tells her that a guardswoman has been caught carrying a crate of provisions to a small hiding spot at the edge of camp during the night. Interrogations are in order.

After breakfast Lynch is still in a good mood. So good, in fact, that he abandons the paperwork he more and more frequently submerges himself in. Takes Holly out for a welcome walk, inspects the barracks, chats with the occasional more or less uncomfortable guardsman. The weather is nice today. A little bit of sunshine to warm them, though it melts the morning's light snow quickly, make the muddy roads more slippery than usual.

It is a nice change of pace. She would prefer to be sent on a hunt, but this is better than the office with the hard couch or standing guard outside the meeting room for hours.

"You're doing a good job keeping it tidy," he informs a man Holly vaguely recognizes. Neatly trimmed beard, ample gut, a fresh cut at the bridge of his nose up to his left eyebrow, just below where the helmet would protect him.

"Thank you, commissar."

It is clear that barrack 17 is ruled by a stricter hand than the rest. The higher-ranking guardsmen that live there evidently care a little bit more about folding, orderly storage of private property, and, she can't help but to note, regularly emptying ashtrays. There are actual ashtrays to boot, not just a sad cup enduring an undignified new existence. Jarvis would consider this level of order as tedious and performative pedantry, she has no doubt.

They stay a little while as Lynch talks to the man, apparently deemed a representative for barrack 17, asks questions, actually listens to the answers. Holly can't help but to notice that the answers are more or less the same as those provided in the other barracks. The food is alright. They appreciate that he allows the shoddily produced alcohol. The rookies are shaping up. It is cold.

She finds it telling that they are not complaining about the enemy, the mines they have to scour, or even the food. One and all they agree that the cold is what troubles them.

It troubles her too. It isn't even winter yet.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea to put up some proper barracks, sir," she says softly as they step outside again. The buildings that are referred to as barracks are, after all, repurposed storage facilities. Built to keep goods out of the rain and wind, not to protect a living being against the cold.

"That or use some of the cleared mines," he agrees. "I have suggested the same to..." he gestures upwards with a finger. Means the rest of high command, not the navy as she had thought the first time he used the sign. "Unfortunately, I am in the minority who is not convinced that we'll be done here before the real cold sets in. But perhaps I am wrong, and the captured traitor will be the key to sorting this mess out," he smiles at her, the smile looks genuine, hopeful. Holly has her doubts, yet she returns the smile as they push open the door to barrack 19.

She realizes that something is wrong instantly. First, a large group of guardsmen are standing close to the door, an area normally avoided as it is particularly drafty. Second, they don't disperse even as they are enveloped by her aura. Third, there is the issue of quite distinct angry curses and a loud crash further into the building.