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"Kird Q. Pelgram," Valentine said. "I think you'll have to do better."
"If a Quisling troop train pulls out of New Orleans at twelve thirty, going twenty miles an hour toward Baton Rouge, and eight hours later their support train pulls out, going forty miles an hour, when will-"
"It won't. We'll blow up the bridge at Red River so the Quislings have to fight without artillery."
"When are you going to change out of that milita rag?"
"Near the border, at one of those shifty inns that does business with the Grogs out of a basement armory."
"Speaking of uniforms," Patel said. "There's a Kentucky gal in second platoon who used to be on some big bug's staff Ediyak-Private Ediyak now. She knows Kurian auxiliary forces from the Gulf Coast to the Lakes. She's got a design for a uniform based on their priority labor.
Moleskin, they call it, almost as tough as leather, with denim shirts, both dyed down to a foggy gray."
"I've seen something like that in the KZ. Those the guys who run phone lines?"
"Yes. Flying specialists that work their communications and electrical. Always moving from place to place, so strange faces won't raise eyebrows."
"Denim's easy to get. Labor troops. I dunno about the moleskin."
"Popular with ranchers. Rand says he can find some with his old LC connections."
"If she can modify them so they're Southern Command but still look KZ, that would be ideal."
"I'll speak to her about it."
Valentine decided to jump in with both feet. "Put Rand to work getting denim and dye and sewing supplies. He might as well get his baptism of fire with Supply or put his LC
background to work in the UFR. Worst-case scenario is they'll be a fresh set of civvies for our guys."
"These leathers are getting a little gamey anyway."
"How are the knees holding up?"
"I'm now a confirmed aspirin addict, sir."
Valentine extended his hand and they shook. "Give yourself a break, Patel. Let Glass take them through the twelve labors. No one's going to think worse of you if you pick the cane back up after these last weeks."
With that he rode out of camp, turning north into a November wind.
* * * *
For six gallons of root-beer syrup he got a Whitefang guide to take him up to St. Louis, the Grog clearing a path through the brush with a year-old legworm. His guide frequently stopped his mount to scout on foot, and at these rests Valentine would feed the horses and check their trail. The only thing that picked them up was a slight cold on their ride north. Both he and his guide took turns sneezing and blowing their noses, but it was better when they came into St.
Louis three days later.
He traded a captured revolver-he'd tinkered with it on the journey and modified the grip and trigger guard for Grog-sized fingers- for a foot pass and toted his bag full of toys to Blake's home.
Not that Blake lacked toys. The old Jesuit researcher, Cutcher, had been observing him constantly as he played with various puzzles, games, and toys, gauging the young Reaper's mental development.
They'd built another coop and chicken run in the side yard of the prairie-style house located high on the bluffs above the Missouri. The Owl-Eye Grogs had added a rock pile at either side of the driveway. According to the scratchings, this was a place of powerful good magic for the tribe.
He gave some bolts of cloth, seeds, and religious books to Narcisse. Along with her care of Blake, she'd started a little church for the human community in St. Louis. While the only holy spirit the human river traders took came in a square bottle, Narcisse had made it her specialty to invite human captives of the Grogs into her circle. She'd been traveling to a couple of different neighborhoods more or less strapped to a mule. Valentine would have to promote his pack-horse to the carriage trade and find her a little two-wheel cart. He could acquire the kind of thing high-ranking Grog chieftain wives used to visit relatives in the complicated tribal family structure, curtained to prevent lowlier Grogs from gazing on the high and mighty.
Valentine pulled the bell rope that told Blake that it was okay to come out of his comfortable basement room.
Blake, at just under four years, was as tall as a boy on the cusp of his teens, "papss," Blake hissed excitedly as he emerged. He wore an oversized jacket and jeans with the cuffs extended. Gloves dangled from his sleeves. When he'd go outside he'd add a scarf and a floppy old hat to disguise his appearance.
Wobble, Blake's little dog, picked up on the boy's excitement at having "paps" home and chased his tail in excitement.
