Chapter Seven

THE OVERLORD

The Heath was a region in Alleria’s northwestern quadrant just south of the Ladle Archipelago. It was so-called because of the expanse of scrub vegetation that stretched across its flat open countryside. Wincox was one of numerous small towns that dotted the Heath like islands in an ocean of undergrowth and brush. One late March morning a car pulled into the shabby hamlet and disgorged two men. The first one lit a cigarette while the second carefully scanned the ramshackle structures that framed the village square. Although the heavy rains that had swept through the area the previous night had stopped, the air remained clammy and cold. Before the two men could exchange words, a truck on the side of the road less than a hundred yards away exploded. The two men fell to the ground as debris rained down throughout the square and remained there until the locals emerged from their shops and dwellings to investigate the noise.

As the two visitors rose and dusted themselves off, the shorter one snorted and shook his head. “This is the end of the line for me. You can walk the rest of the way. Fillipin is only about a mile down that road. From there you can catch a boat to Kirkwell.”

His companion doubted that it was only a mile to Fillipin, but did not believe that the vehicle could navigate the muddy and rutted road anyway. Besides, a walk would do him good after six hours in the car. It would also give him time to think. He shook the other man’s hand. “Make sure you visit Fillipin on schedule.”

Horace Oxenstera was a tall, lanky, raw-boned man in his late thirties with a lantern jaw and a thatch of black hair. He walked with a slight limp and wore a patch over what had once been his left eye. Shrapnel scars pockmarked the left side of his face and neck. After he retrieved a duffel bag from the trunk of the car and bid his companion goodbye, he ambled down the road past the crowd gawking at the burning truck. He was a bit worried about getting lost in the Heath or encountering the bandits who had just made their presence known in town. On the other hand, the air was fresh and the countryside interesting. As he expected, Fillipin was a good bit more than a mile away, but he appreciated the extra time to consider his mission.

By the time Horace reached Fillipin, the sun had come out from behind the clouds. Like Wincox, Fillipin was another squalid little village in the Heath. Its only distinction was the ferry that connected it to Kirkwell Island. Horace hiked through the town to the dock and bought a ticket at a small shack. While waiting for the departure time, he struck up a conversation with the boat operator, a squat man in his forties named Milo Jennings, as he prepared his vessel for the crossing. After exchanging pleasantries, the boat operator took a hard look at Horace.

“Where were you wounded?” he asked.

“Aurora.”

“Aurura? Last battle of the war. Bad luck.”

“Indeed,” replied Horace.

Jennings lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “I was wounded at Momoweb. First big battle of the war. Lost my leg, but at least I missed the ten years of hell that followed. I got this job after I was discharged and I’ve been ferrying people across the strait ever since. I’ll tell you, though, that I brought a lot more men over to the mainland than I took back.”

Horace gazed across the strait to Kirkwell. “You must know the local geography pretty well. How many ways are there onto the island?”

The boat operator thought a moment. “Well, there are plenty of jetties all over the island. However, most people and all the cargo come through the Eastern Docks because they have the necessary infrastructure.”

“I see,” said Horace. “But let’s say you own a bigger boat, one capable of traveling longer distances. Is there any place for it to tie up other than the Eastern Docks?”

Jennings bit his lip. “Not really. Or, more accurately, not officially. Smugglers used to use a dock on the northern side of the island, but it’s abandoned now. Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious how people on an island such as Kirkwell communicate with the rest of the world.”

Jennings grunted, checked his watch, and announced to the half dozen people milling about on the dock that it was time to go. He coaxed the engine to life and motored the boat across the strait to Kirkwell, only a couple hundred yards away. As the island grew larger, Horace felt increasingly anxious. He thought to himself that as soon as he grew comfortable with one phase of his journey, another loomed worryingly ahead.

After Horace disembarked and thanked Jennings, he trudged up the road to the center of the city. He spent a few minutes there getting his bearings straight before walking over to the Wendig Hotel, the largest and best such establishment in town, to check into his room. The proprietress and namesake, a plump and pleasant-looking woman, studied him with professional dispassion as he signed the register. There was of course nothing unusual about a disfigured man securing lodgings in her hotel, but her clientele usually dressed better. The important thing, though, was that someone had prepaid the room for three months. That thought suddenly jogged her memory.

“Oh, Mr. Oxenstera. A large package arrived for you yesterday. I had it sent up to your room.”

Horace thanked her and climbed the stairs to his nondescript second floor room. After opening the package and briefly examining its contents, he set an alarm, lay down on the bed, and soon fell asleep. He awoke several hours later more groggy than refreshed, and at first unaware of his surroundings. As his memory cleared, he could not help but wonder at the circumstances that had brought an Ippolacian bookkeeper halfway across the continent to this remote Allerian city. He slowly removed the package’s contents, the dress uniform and accouterments of a Rowowan army major, and put them on. It was not his uniform – the war was going so badly when he enlisted that he had never secured formal attire – so he was unsurprised that it fit poorly. He examined himself in the mirror with his one good eye and concluded that he had seen better days. He looked at his watch, took a deep breath, and glanced at the mirror one more time. He then left the room, walked down the stairs and past the front desk, and plunged outside. He was halfway up the street when the first person noticed him – or, more accurately, noticed his uniform. Fortunately, he reached city hall before anyone could do more than point and stare.

Kirkwell’s city council met every Monday evening in a nondescript room in city hall. When Horace arrived, the council members and a small group of spectators were milling about waiting for Mayor Juganhouse to call the session to order. Horace approached a large woman sitting at the clerk’s desk and spoke quietly with her. She nodded several times before she noticed his uniform. Flustered, she rose from her chair and scurried across the room to speak to Juganhouse. As she did so, Juganhouse looked sharply at Horace and started whispering orders. The room began filling with people, some summoned by the mayor and others who had seen Horace walking down the street and wanted to know why a Rowowan officer was on their island. Kargas and police chief Lattamore were among the former. They quietly took seats in the back row and scrutinized the Rowowan major awkwardly shuffling his feet by the clerk’s desk.

At six o’clock Juganhouse took his seat with the other council members at a long table at the front of the room and banged his gavel to call the session to order. After everyone had settled down, he said, “Unless anyone on the council objects, I want to introduce a speaker who has asked to say a few words. I know this is an unorthodox way to start a council meeting, but you will understand in a minute.”

Horace walked over to the podium at the front of the room, took a quick breath, and scanned the audience. Although he had rehearsed his statement in his mind during his walk to Fillipan, he remained nervous. On the other hand, he took wry comfort in his assumption that there was nothing he could say to generate enough good will to overcome the reality his uniform represented. That removed some, though not all, of the pressure.

“Ladies and gentleman, my name is Major Horace Oxenstera. The Rowowan government has appointed me overlord of Kirkwell Island.” He paused to let that sink in. “It is my job to represent the Rowowan empire and protect its interests here. It is not my intent to interfere in the day-to-day functioning of the local government as long as it conforms to the general principles of the Rowowan empire. With the council’s permission, if anyone has any questions, I will be happy to try to answer them.”

The audience and council members looked around at each other. A man in the back raised his hand and shouted. “When will the troops arrive?”

Horace squinted. “Troops?”

“Yes, the garrison.”

“Oh,” Horace said. “The Rowowan army does not have the resources to occupy every city in Alleria. So there is no garrison. Or, I guess you could say that I’m the – ”

Councilman Leonard Walker interrupted Horace. He was by far the council’s most belligerent member. After the initial wave of enthusiasm for the war had faded, most people focused on getting through the conflict with as little trouble as possible. Walker, though, remained jingoistic to the very end. Indeed, he continued to espouse resistance to the Rowowan empire even after the old king’s death. Despite his age – he was over sixty – he had tried several times during the conflict to join the Allerian army, but his arthritic knees prevented him from doing so.

Walker stood up slowly and pointed at Horace. “You, sir, represent a brutal, arbitrary, and aggressive occupying force, so I don’t believe we can or should guarantee your safety.”

Silence fell over the room. Kargas caught Juganhouse’s attention and rolled his eyes. At the podium, Horace rubbed his chin before responding.

“Well,” Horace deadpanned, “if anything happens to me, the Rowowan army would send a garrison to Kirkwell that you all would have to support, as well as a military governor who would rule by fiat. So it seems to me that my safety is in the interests of everyone here.”

Walker grimaced and sat down. Horace looked around the room expectantly, but saw no more hands, so he took a seat toward the back right next to Kargas and nodded at him. The rest of the council meeting was anticlimactic, consisting of the usual business of local government: hirings, budgets, taxation, easements, and so forth. As the routine tedium took hold, the room gradually emptied. By the time Mayor Juganhouse entertained a motion to adjourn, two hours later, the crowd was almost back to its normal size.

As soon as the council meeting ended, Kargas, Juganhouse, and Lattamore huddled in the mayor’s office. Juganhouse took out a bottle of whisky from his desk drawer, poured drinks, and asked, “Well, what do you think of that?”

Lattamore downed his glass. “He’s staying at the Wendig Hotel. I told one of my deputies to escort him back. The last thing we need is Walker and his buddies killing him in the street.”

Kargas nodded his approval. “Look, we knew that the Rowowans would eventually exert their authority here. It was only a question of when and how. I am surprised that it took them as long as it did. The fact that all they can spare for Kirkwell is a one-eyed major indicates that they are having trouble digesting Alleria and coping with their internal problems.”

Mayor Juganhouse shrugged. “What now?”

Kargas finished his drink and turned to Lattamore. “First of all, please assign one of your deputies to shadow him. And protect him. I want to know where he is at all times – and who he talks to. Then visit Mrs. Wendig and secure access to his room so we can look around. Talk to the postmaster about intercepting all his incoming and outgoing mail. I want to see everything he sends and receives. If he uses the telegraph, I want to see those messages too, so visit the telegraph office and get their cooperation. Finally, I’ll check my contacts to learn what information I can about him. We’ll meet again in a couple weeks. Okay?”

“It could have been worse,” opined Juganhouse.

Kargas replied, “Yes. He looks like a down-on-his-luck officer who drew the short straw. If that is the case, then I do not see the need to do much more than keep an eye on him.” Then, in a rare display of humor, he shut one eye, pointed at the other, and added, “So to speak.”

Horace slept in next morning. As he lay in bed, he wondered how long it had been since he spent the night under his own roof. The last eight years had been one dreary mission after another, varying only in their degree of unpleasantness. Worse yet, the war’s end had not stopped the process. Although hundreds of thousands of Rowowan soldiers had returned home to their loved ones, Horace remained on duty, performing more thankless jobs. At least he was on his own this time. Horace did not like authority. He believed that most of his superiors were incompetent people who did not understand their own jobs, let alone his. Indeed, the Rowowan empire seemed full of such petty bureaucrats who were more interested in advancing their own careers than in doing what was right. Heaven, he hoped, was a place without paperwork, redtape, and egos.

Horace had no intention of wearing his ill-fitting dress uniform again. Instead, he put on his old field jacket, trousers, and boots. He ate breakfast alone in the hotel dining hall, ignoring the stares from the locals while he focused on the newspaper spread out beside his plate. Then he walked over to the Kirkwell Regional Bank and asked to meet the manager. A surprisingly youthful-looking man named Ian Hollander emerged from a back office to greet him. Hollander’s icy politeness failed to hide the obvious distaste he had for a Rowowan official such as Horace. After inviting Horace into his office, Hollander explained that the Rowowan government had that morning telegraphed instructions for his bank to establish both personal and overlordship accounts for him. He did not, however, reveal that he had conveyed this information to Chief Lattamore as well. Horace and Hollander sat in silence for a few minutes while a clerk finalized the necessary paperwork.

Horace saw a photograph of a group of young men in uniform on Hollander’s desk. “Were you an officer in the war?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hollander replied.

Horace tried again. “What did you do?”

Hollander hesitated for a moment before letting his pride overcome his hostility. “At the end of the war I commanded a battalion. In fact, it was the one drawn from this island.”

Horace perked up. “Battalion commander? That’s pretty impressive for such a young guy. How old were you when you got it?”

Hollander thought for a second. “Twenty-seven. No, Twenty-eight. I led it for a year. Actually, by the end of the war, most of us battalion commanders were in our late twenties, so I’m not sure I was that unusual. War is for the young. Or anyhow battalion command is.”

Horace laughed. “I bet that a dozen years ago you never expected to lead seven hundred men into battle.”

“You’re right about that,” Hollander said. “I went from a bank clerk to a lieutenant colonel.”

“When did you get home?” Horace asked.

“Oh, eighteen months ago or so.”

Horace nodded, then squinted, puzzled. “How did you miss out on the Siege of Aurora? Were you wounded?”

“No,” responded Hollander. “For some reason the army demobilized the Kirkwell battalion early. Never knew why and I wasn’t about to ask. I was just grateful to get home in one piece.”

“Well,” said Horace, “I’m glad that the Rowowan army isn’t the only one that acts in incomprehensible and illogical ways.”

The clerk returned with some final papers that Hollander looked over one more time. “It looks like you’re all set up, overlord.”

Horace wondered whether his use of the term was sarcastic, but he let it pass. As he got up to leave, he asked one more question. “Has it been difficult running the bank with everything in such a state of flux?”

Hollander was unsure how much detail to relate. “Yes and no. We’ve been using the old Allerian regulations until we hear differently.”

“Oh,” Horace said, “I’m sure a couple Rowowan financial auditors will show up at some point with a new set of onerous rules. Until then, I suppose you’ll have to limp along on penny-ante local accounts until you get the wherewithal to operate regionally.”

Now it was Hollander’s turn to wonder if he had been offended. “Actually, we can still handle accounts and transactions of any size throughout most of the country if necessary.”

Horace smiled. “Really? That’s surprising. Well, I guess if there’s a will, there’s a way. Thank you, Mr. Hollander. You’ve been very helpful.”

After exiting the bank, Horace stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, and watched the city’s daily life unfold around him. From there he hustled down the street, ducked into an alley by a hardware store, and waited. A minute later, a panicky deputy scurried by, saw Horace, and suddenly stopped.

“Who are you?” Horace asked.

The flustered officer stammered, “Braxton. Deputy Braxton. Deputy William Braxton.”

Horace looked him up and down. “What exactly are you doing, Deputy William Braxton?”

Braxton hesitated and looked back down the street. “Um…I was…”

“Did Chief Lattamore assign you to shadow me?”

Braxton blushed. “No, sir. Well, yes. But it’s for your own protection.”

“Well,” said Horace, “there’s no sense in us playing hide and seek. You may as well come along with me. I could use a guide anyway.”

Braxton considered whether doing so would violate his orders and concluded that Horace’s suggestion was both convenient and practicable.

“Okay, sir.”

As they walked back to the street, Horace resorted to his usual icebreaker: “What did you do in the war?”

“Sir? Oh, I started as a rifleman, but was transferred to the engineers before my discharge.”

“I see,” said Horace. “Which way to the library?”

“Library, sir? Down on Front Street. This way.”

They threaded their way through both vehicular and pedestrian traffic until they came to a crosswalk. As they waited, Braxton asked, “What did you do during the war, sir?”

“Supply officer,” Horace responded. “I procured luxury goods for fat generals.”

At the library Horace secured a card, perused the stacks, and gathered several classic works of Allerian fiction. As the clerk checked out the books, Horace spotted the head librarian and asked her for a tour. She acquiesced with the gratitude of someone accustomed to being taken for granted. For an hour she showed him the facilities and responded to his rapid-fire questions about resources, budget, personnel, administration, history, and contingencies. By the time they were done, a bored Deputy Braxton knew more about the library that he ever wanted. Horace, on the other hand, seemed genuinely interested in the ins-and-outs of the place.

That day Horace established the pattern he followed in the ensuing months. Almost every weekday morning he and Deputy Braxton walked to one of the city’s commercial or government establishments and requested a tour, during which Horace peppered the proprietor or supervisor with questions big and small. In addition to the library, Horace and Braxton visited Barrington’s Creamery, Hailey’s Drug Store, the Kirkwell Memorial Hospital, Suzerine’s Dockyard, the Kirkwell school, the Kirkwell Daily News, Consolidated Brick Company, and innumerable other locales. At the school he spent several minutes chatting with Iona, unaware that he was conversing with one of the two most wanted people in the Rowowan empire. Iona found the exchange much more amusing than Kargas when he learned of it. In each instance, Horace exploited the almost universal desire people had to talk about themselves and their work, a vanity that overcame their hostility toward a Rowowan official. After each such inspection he and Braxton ate at the nearest restaurant before he retired to his hotel room for a nap. Upon waking, he spent the remainder of the afternoon in the hotel lounge or patio reading the books he procured from the library, or playing chess with other hotel occupants. Then he took a stroll around the city. He usually ate dinner at the hotel, and then sampled the city’s limited entertainment options by attending a show, lecture, sporting event, or exhibit. Sometimes he stopped by a pub, but he rarely stayed for more than a quick drink and look around. On weekends he toured the remainder of the island, often passing the night at an inn near Scrogwell’s Point, but was back in town on Sunday morning for services at one of the churches. No matter where he went or with whom he spoke, he was invariably polite and inquisitive, but maintained a certain reserve that discouraged questions about himself. He also refrained from flirtation and slept alone. His routine became so predictable that Lattamore limited an overworked Braxton to accompanying him during business hours only. Lattamore figured that he could rely on the locals to report anything Horace did out of the ordinary during his off hours.

Although Braxton initially found Horace frustratingly enigmatic, he gradually learned that the inscrutable overlord sometimes responded to blunt and interesting questions. Braxton appreciated this not only because it satisfied his natural curiosity, but also because it gave him information to convey to Lattamore. One afternoon at lunch Braxton asked Horace how and why the Rowowan army assigned a supply officer as Kirkwell’s overlord. As usual, Horace quipped that someone had to close up shop once the war ended. Braxton, though, decided to push for a more illuminating response.

“That’s not really an answer, sir.”

Horace stared at him for a second with his one eye. “Well, I didn’t enter the army until the war was nearly three years old. At the end most of my colleagues had more time in service than me, so the army decided that it was only fair to discharge them first. Also, my commanding officer didn’t like me much, so he sent me to the most remote city he could locate on the map.”

“What did you do to get into trouble?” Braxton asked.

“I told him the truth.”

Because Horace’s tone precluded any follow-up questions on that particular subject, Braxton tried another tack. “It took them three years to draft you? I got my notice the day I turned seventeen.”

Horace rolled his eyes. “Well, let’s just say that Rowowans often forget that bureaucracy and efficiency aren’t the same thing. At any rate, here I am, running out the clock until the Interior Ministry gets its act together and sends a professional overlord to oversee this place.”

“If that’s the case,” Braxton asked, “then why not just lounge around in an office all day. Why all the inspections and running around?”

Horace took a bite of his coffee cake. “Well, for one thing, I’m trying to see this posting as an opportunity, not a punishment. I’ve always been fascinated by how things work. Not devices, but rather how people interact in organizations. This assignment gives me the chance to investigate organizations without folks thinking that I’m crazy.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Braxton said. “I’m not sure your boss will see it that way, though.”

Horace chuckled, then turned serious. “Do you know what kind of training I got for this job?

“No, what?”

“The army sent me to Emerald City for a couple weeks to observe its military governor and his staff. Big city, lots of Rowowan bureaucrats. They spent their mornings in city hall in pointless meetings. Or they wrote and read reports that had next to nothing to do with reality. And in the afternoons powerful Allerians showed up to try to get their noses in the trough. You could feel Rowowan corruption merging with Allerian corruption. It was depressing. I figure that if I don’t have an office, then no one will come to ask me for favors that I’m not in a position to grant anyway.”

Braxton narrowed his eyes. “That’s a strange way of living your life, overlord.”

“Maybe,” Horace retorted. “I like to think of it as mitigating my penance.”

“Penance for what?”

“For being thrust into situations not of my own choosing.”

Two weeks after Horace arrived in Kirkwell, Kargas, Mayor Juganhouse, and Chief Lattamore met in Juganhouse’s office to review the information they had acquired about their unwelcome overlord.

“We’ve looked at his hotel room,” said Lattamore. “There’s not much there, except for a few changes of clothes and books. We didn’t even find a gun. As for his mail, he hasn’t received or written any personal letters.”

Juganhouse raised his eyebrows. “Seems like a lonely life.”

Lattamore nodded. “Yes. However, the Rowowan Interior Ministry mailed him a memo demanding detailed information on Kirkwell’s economic potential, demographics, geography, people’s attitudes toward a long list of issues, and so forth. Gathering all that stuff would be a fulltime job. Our overlord, though, just sent back a week's worth of local newspapers.”

“He does not sound like a man interested in impressing his bosses,” said Kargas.

Juganhouse guffawed. “What’s the story behind his daily inspections?”

“Well,” said Lattamore, “Deputy Braxton says it’s a weird way of killing time and satisfying his curiosity about societal organizations, or something like that.”

“What about his personal life?” queried Kargas.

Lattamore shrugged. “There’s not much to tell here either. He drinks a little. Doesn’t gamble. No apparent interest in women. Or men. He’s kind of like you, adviser, only uglier and with more of a sense of humor. His main vice appears to be laziness – not doing his job.”

Juganhouse turned to Kargas. “Did your sources reveal anything?”

“One of my contacts knows someone who got a look at a summary of his personnel file. He is apparently a supply officer who got sent here because he quarreled with his commander over something or another.”

“Sounds like you were right,” said Juganhouse. “He’s a down-on-his-luck major waiting to go home.”

“True enough,” said Kargas. “I do not see any reason to do more than keep an eye on him. He’s not a major threat to our mission as long as we take some simple precautions.”

“Are we done?” asked Lattamore as he pushed back his chair.

“Not quite,” replied Kargas. “There is one piece of bad news. Another of my sources stated that there is a Rowowan agent on the island. No word on how long he has been here or what his mission is. Maybe the overlord knows who he is, but probably not. At any rate, keep an ear to the ground for anyone asking questions about misplaced twins.”

From there the three men walked down the hall for the week’s city council meeting. The audience was small as usual, but Horace was again among them, sitting near the back not far from Kargas and Lattamore. As soon as Juganhouse gaveled the session to order, Councilman Walker, belligerent as ever, announced that he had a question for Horace.

“Major Oxenstera,” said Walker, “Can you tell me about General Order 445?”

Kargas groaned inside, certain that Walker planned to waste time posturizing on something anti Rowowan. Walker, thought Kargas, would rather make trouble than progress.

“No,” replied Horace as he stood up. “What is it?”

“General Order 445,” intoned Walker, “is a recent Rowowan Interior Ministry order that states that all government officials, including those sitting on councils such as this one, must swear an oath of fealty to the Rowowan empire.”

“Okay…,” said Horace, uncertain of Walker’s point.

“I want you to know,” pontificated Walker, “that I will never swear an oath to your tyrannical Rowowan empire. You Rowowans have waged an aggressive war against Alleria and committed atrocities against its people unparalleled in human history. What do you plan to do about it?”

All eyes turned to Horace. It was an unmistakable challenge to what little authority he had or had tried to exert over Kirkwell.

“Do about what? The alleged atrocities?” asked Horace.

Walker looked incredulous. “No. What do you intend to do about my refusal to swear this ridiculous oath?”

Horace thought for a long minute. “Well, it’s not that simple, Councilman Walker. You can’t just say that you won’t swear the oath. As you know, the Rowowan empire is highly-structured, legalistic, and bureaucratic. Your defiance isn’t official until someone in authority notifies the Rowowan Interior Ministry of the fact. I’m the only one on the island with that kind of authority, but there’s no way I’m doing all that paperwork. Now, you could turn yourself in, but to do so you must send a registered and notarized letter-of-intent to the Interior Ministry. A regular letter won’t suffice. The problem is that sending such official letters requires swearing an oath of fealty before a postal official, which would defeat your purpose. I know this isn’t the most logical way to go about things, but it is the Rowowan way.” He looked at Mayor Juganhouse as if exchanging information in confidence: “You have no idea how difficult it was to get things done during the war.”

All eyes turned back to Walker. “I won’t swear the oath, major! And I won’t vacate my position on the council either!”

“I understand that,” said Horace. “But, again, you haven’t officially not sworn the oath. Until you do so, it’s a moot point.”

After a long silence, Juganhouse ended the standoff by moving on to other business. Even Kargas chuckled at Walker’s obvious confusion and discomfiture.

Like Kargas, Horace did not take Walker seriously. He had seen enough of Walker’s type in the Rowowan army to recognize the difference between bluster and threat. He was more interested in establishing a relationship with Kirkwell’s dockworkers. They knew as much about what entered and exited the island as any office bureaucrat. Doing so, though, would not be easy. These working class men were fiercely loyal to the crown and unlikely to look kindly upon any Rowowan official. After the city council meeting ended, Horace strode down Broad Street to the Scrapyard Tavern. It was a seedy establishment close to the port that catered to dockworkers. Although he stuck out like a sore thumb, Horace bellied up to the bar and ordered whiskey. After a few minutes, a big burly man in his twenties walked over to him.

“Aren’t you the overlord?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Horace. “That’s me.”

The man looked back to his friends at a nearby table, turned to Horace, and exclaimed, “Fuck Rowowa! And fuck you, too!”

Horace finished his whiskey and replied, “Yeah, well, fuck you.”

Before the burly man could respond, one of his older friends hustled to the bar to restrain him. “What my friend means, overlord, is that we don’t want you in this establishment. We’ve killed plenty of Rowowans, and a lot of us are still willing to do so, war or no war.”

Horace arched his eyebrows. “Now where did you all kill Rowowans?”

The burly man puffed up his chest. “You should have seen them die at the Battle of Okbir River. We gunned them down in the water by the hundreds.”

“Oh,” responded Horace. “I know. I was at Okbir River. But it wasn’t you who killed all those Rowowan soldiers.” He pointed to the men at the table. “And certainly none of you assholes.”

As the men at the table got up and surrounded Horace, Horace asked the bartender for the large slate hanging on the wall nearby. He laid the slate on the bar, grabbed a nearby piece of chalk, and rapidly drew a crude map of the Okbir River battlefield. Although he had little trouble marking off the locations of the Rowowan units, he had to ask the men for help in identifying the Allerian ones. After he was done with the map, he explained the Rowowan plan, such as it was, and the various mistakes the Rowowan generals made in implementing it.

When he had finished his impromptu lecture, he said to the assembled group, “So, as you can see, it wasn’t Allerian valor that won the battle. It was Rowowan stupidity.”

The crowd was silent for a minute. Finally, the older man, one Donald Ollenright, asked, “How the hell do you know all this?”

Horace readjusted his eyepatch. “Well, I was a supply officer during the war. My job was to make sure that the generals got what they wanted or needed – trucks, machine guns, caviar, prostitutes, whatever. I sat in on all the meetings among the generals, wrote down whatever they said they required, and tried to get it. It was better than living in the trenches. I heard them talking about this kind of stuff all the time.”

Another man, this one with a gray beard, scowled. “Maybe your generals fucked up, but it was still us who gunned you sons-of-bitches down.”

“Oh,” Horace said, “there’s no doubt about that. The Ladle Archipelago division was one of the best in the Allerian army.”

An indignant murmur went through the group. Ollenright said, “What do you mean, ‘one of the best.’ We were the best damn division in the army, with the record to prove it.”

Horace beckoned the bartender for a towel to wipe the slate clean. “Okay, the Rowowan army had a system that measured Allerian divisions on a one to five scale, with five being the best. Of course, a division’s battleworthiness varied from time to time and place to place, but you guys usually rated a four to four and a half. Your big problem was that you usually lacked sufficient artillery.”

This led to an animated discussion of the reputations and performances of various Allerian divisions, during which Horace complimented the Ladle Archipelago division and directed everyone’s anger toward the Auroran division because it received a disproportionate share of Allerian resources. After an hour of this, the patrons’ initial angry taunting had mellowed into a gentler back and forth razzing. Horace eventually took advantage of a lull in the conversation to announce he was calling it a night. Before he left, though, he bought a round for everyone still present. Amid that catcalls that followed him out of the bar, he yelled that next time he would prove that the Rowowan rifle was far superior to its pathetic Allerian counterpart.

Next morning Deputy Braxton chided Horace for visiting the Scrapyard unprotected. Horace grunted and said, “Surely Mayor Juganhouse and Chief Lattamore have issued orders against killing me.”