Chapter 22: The Baton

Ambrose took the baton off his belt at midnight and laid it on the study desk.

It was black iron capped in gold, no longer than his forearm.

He had worn it for twelve years.

He had never once set it down in a room where he meant to stay.

The study was dark except for one lamp.

He turned the baton so that the Imperial crest faced the ceiling, and he looked at it for a long time.

Seven years of fever, and she had made every night of it herself.

He was not angry anymore.

Anger had burned out somewhere between the white room and the stairs.

What it left behind was colder and steadier.

He took a sheet of paper and wrote four lines in a steady hand.

He signed it, Ambrose Roark, and pressed his thumb in wax beside the name.

A voice spoke from the door.

"That looks like a resignation."

Wystan stood there with his coat buttoned wrong and his glasses pushed up on his forehead.

"It is."

"You'll be tried for desertion in the field. You're a sitting Marshal."

"I'll be tried for something. She has already named the crime."

"Ambrose."

Wystan did not use his name often.

He crossed the room, took up the letter, read it, and put it down again very carefully.

Then he put a hand inside his coat and drew out a small enamelled pin.

It was grey, with a thin gold bar.

His adjutant's badge, the one the Empress's office had issued him ten years ago.

Keep reading free with an account. Start The Drone Who Claimed the Marshal from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.