Blood Charged

by Lindsay Buroker

  One just took out lock picks and is heading for the back door. I’ll see if I can keep them from noticing me. In case the dust ball camouflage fails.

  There are no dust balls, Sardelle thought reflexively, but she was more worried about the intruders. Should she run home to deal with them? When this might be her last chance to access these archives? What would she do even if she arrived and the intruders were still there? Confront them?

  Fine, but I do find this collection of beer steins from around the continent somewhat alarming in its thoroughness.

  At least Jaxi didn’t sound that worried about the intruders. Meanwhile, Sardelle was once again reconsidering her decision to come to the city with Ridge instead of staying in his cabin by that nice little lake. Just because she couldn’t do any research there or get on with her life in any way…

  I thought it was your unwillingness to give up the long nights of bed bouncing with your soul snozzle that prompted the move.

  Not… entirely.

  They’ve opened the back door.

  Sardelle tried to remember if she had engaged her booby traps that morning after Ridge had left. She thought she had, but after several days without trouble, she might have grown lax.

  Are they—

  A creak on the steps outside her door interrupted her thoughts. Sardelle swept out with her senses. Yes, someone was walking down the stairs. The archivist. Sardelle lowered the lantern to the tiniest of flames. She didn’t think the light was bright enough to be seen beneath the door crack, but no need to take chances.

  The doorknob rattled. She hoped the woman would assume nobody was inside since Sardelle had relocked it, but she doubtlessly had the key. If she decided to come in and check…

  The steps creaked again. Sardelle let out a slow breath. The woman was going away.

  What’s your status, Jaxi? She grabbed the most promising registers and stuffed them into her satchel. She was going to have to borrow them, whether that was permissible or not. She would find a way to return them later.

  You know that large copper soup pot?

  Yes…

  It fell on the head of one of the intruders.

  That’s impressive considering the pot rack is over the stove and not the walkway through the kitchen.

  Yes, isn’t it?

  Sardelle started for the door but paused next to a bin of large rolled scrolls, each one at least three feet wide. She hadn’t investigated those yesterday and wondered if they might be graphical representations of lines. Three of them had edges that had been dipped in red dye. She grabbed them for a quick look. The scrolls wouldn’t fit in her satchel, but on the off chance they held something important, she didn’t want to abandon them without a glance. As she unrolled the first, it occurred to her that if she had known about the red-for-evil-witchiness categorizing system, she could have limited her search to those records to start with.

  “Lesson learned…”

  She sucked in an excited breath when she spotted a familiar surname at the top of the first scroll. Maricoshin. That family had founded Referatu and had claimed numerous powerful sorcerers even by the standards of Sardelle’s day. She was taking these scrolls with her whether they fit in her satchel or not. She would simply sneak past the archivist on the way out…

  A click sounded in the corner of the room near the door.

  Before Sardelle could do more than wonder what it might be, orange light flashed, and a cacophony of noise roared in her ears. A wave of power slammed into her, hurling her from her feet. She crashed into a wall of books, and pain pummeled her body from all sides. Her lantern disappeared beneath falling furnishings—or maybe breaking beams and a falling ceiling.

  Blackness swallowed the room.

  * * *

  Colonel Ridgewalker Zirkander ambled through the courtyard of Harborgard Castle, giving cheerful nods and smiles to the dour-faced soldiers stationed next to the doors to the various towers, halls, and dormitories that opened up off the main driveway. Most stared stonily forward, refusing to acknowledge him—there was some rule on the books about castle guards not interacting with anyone, except to skewer intruders with swords—though a few offered quick grins and abbreviated waves when they thought none of their stolid brethren were looking.

  The dourest of the dour stood in front of the grand marble doors leading to the king’s audience chamber. They were open, letting in the sunlight—a welcome change from the rain and snow of the past three weeks—but one had to pass the guard’s scrutiny before entering, or so the rifle crooked in the man’s arms implied. The weapon was one of the few modern inventions on open display within the castle walls. A steam-powered crane sitting next to scaffolding erected against one of the towers marked another exception. The castle had survived nearly a millennium and was considered a Super Important Historical Landmark, meaning about seven hundred people on a dysfunctional committee had to approve architectural additions and changes. It had taken twenty years for them to decide to fix the holes in that tower after the last castle bombing. Fortunately for the castle—and the committee—attacks on the capital had been rare since the dragon flier base had been built above the harbor.

  The dour door guard knew who Ridge was and knew the king was expecting him, but he lowered his rifle and opened his mouth to start the familiar state-your-name-and-your-business-and-whether-you-swear-undying-fealty-to-the-king-and-Iskandia preamble that all guests had to endure.

  “You forgot to button yourself in,” Ridge said, pointing to the man’s crotch.

  The guard blinked and looked down. It only took him a second to see that it had been a joke, but by then, Ridge had slipped inside, avoiding the spiel. He caught Mister Dour’s sigh at the same time as a familiar gray-haired man stepped out of the alcove by the entryway and held up a hand. His dress uniform was immaculate, the creases in his trousers pressed to rigid crispness, and his boots polished so brightly one could shave in the reflection. Neat rows of medals and ribbons lined the breast of his jacket.

  “General Ort, you were invited to this meeting too?” Ridge asked, though he was used to higher-ranking officers being present whenever he was invited to the castle. He was just the trigger for the gun that was his squadron, not someone who had enough clout to be a part of the decision-making process.

  “Someone has to hold your hand and make sure you don’t put your feet up on the king’s furniture. Or make inappropriate jokes about his wardrobe.” Ort frowned at Ridge’s leather jacket, olive green flight uniform, and mud-spattered boots—they had been clean when Ridge left the base, but it was sludgy and wet out there. Ort must carry a boot-polishing kit in his pocket.

  “I would never do such a thing,” Ridge said. “The king’s furniture is all five-hundred-year-old wood and scratchy upholstery. It’s not nearly as comfortable as the leather chairs in your office.”

  “They didn’t keep you in that frozen hole in the Ice Blades nearly long enough. Your sense of military courtesy and propriety hasn’t improved one iota.” Ort jerked his head toward one of the high-ceilinged hallways that opened up on either side of the entryway. The king wasn’t sitting on the ceremonial dais at the end of the runway of a throne room, but the general apparently knew where he could be found.

  “I don’t think one goes to Magroth to improve anything,” Ridge said.

  He followed Ort down the hallway, through a side door, and onto a balcony with glass ceilings and walls warming the space. Snow might still blanket the garden outside, but inside, the vines of tropical plants twined up support posts and along beams, and birds from all over the continent chirped contentedly from the branches of broad-leafed shrubbery and dwarf orange and lemon trees. A few windows were open along walls lined with flowering plants and bushes, but the birds didn’t appear tempted to escape.

  King Angulus Masonwood the Third sat with two uniformed men at the head of a wrought-iron table covered with a floral cloth and doilies that Ridge chose to believe were the queen’s influence rather than a suggest
ion of his taste. He was a stocky man with a broad face, a creased brow, and curly brown hair shorn close to his head, probably because his hairline was receding like troops fleeing an overrun front line. Despite that concession to age, he still had the muscular stature of a soldier, even if it had been twenty years since he had served. He’d been a cavalry officer in one of the few remaining units and was usually depicted on horseback in portraits. On paper, the king was only a few years older than Ridge, but he seemed far closer to sixty than forty. A stressful job, doubtlessly. He watched Ridge and Ort’s arrival, though he kept glancing down at a rolled up scrap of paper in his blunt hands.

  The general stopped at the foot of the table, clicked his heels together, and saluted. “General Ort and Colonel Zirkander reporting, Your Majesty.” He glanced at Ridge, probably to make sure he was saluting.

  Ridge was. The king had always treated him with respect, and thus he reciprocated, even if he often got the feeling Angulus wasn’t a fan of pomp and circumstance and would have preferred slaps on the back.

  “Good.” The king waved to seats near the head of the table. “Sit.”

  He wasn’t a fan of long-windedness, either.

  The men sitting to either side of the king didn’t budge from their positions. Both wore the uniforms and jackets of infantry officers, and both had the addition of silver badges highlighting crossed swords on their chests. The badges signaled placement in one of the army’s elite troops units. The stone-faced colonel sitting to the king’s right, his meaty arms folded across his chest, gave Ridge a hard, challenging stare. Ridge resisted the urge to make the same comment he had made to the door guard. Barely. The captain to the king’s left had a bland, forgettable face, brown eyes, dark brown hair, and tanned skin that, given the winter season, hinted of mixed blood.

  General Ort gestured for Ridge to sit first. Ridge sat beside the other colonel, bumping elbows as he pulled his chair into the table, and giving the man an insouciant smile as he apologized. The colonel’s fingers flexed, as if he was considering how much trouble he might get into for throttling someone at the king’s table. Ridge didn’t recognize the man, but he’d met any number of ground troops who were unimpressed with pilots and spouted nonsense about how real men fought hand-to-hand and face-to-face. As if most modern ground fighting didn’t involve hiding behind something and shooting at people from as far away as possible.

  “Gentlemen,” Angulus said briskly. “You’re here to be briefed on a secret mission you’ll be taking into the Cofah homeland.”

  Ridge sat up, all thoughts of annoying his table neighbor rushing out of his head. He hadn’t been sure what this meeting would be about—for the last few weeks, he had been living in a low-grade state of paranoia, worrying that someone would realize Sardelle wasn’t an archaeologist from Charkolt University on the east coast, as he’d been telling everyone—but he hadn’t expected a mission. Even if the snow outside was melting today, it was still the middle of winter.

  “My best spy was fatally wounded acquiring this information.” Angulus glanced at the captain—the man clenched his jaw but said nothing—and spread out the roll of paper, revealing a hastily sketched map with two lines of writing at the top.

  Ridge twisted his head to try to read the words, but they were encoded. The king gestured to the captain. “Nowon.”

  “Cofah intelligence has obtained viable samples of dragon blood,” the bland-faced officer recited, his fingers tented before him. “Experiments are ongoing in a secret facility. Viable prototypes have already been created.”

  “Dragon blood?” Ort asked. “And viable prototypes of what?”

  Ridge was glad his commander had been the one to ask the questions. Of late, he had been hearing too much about magic and sorcerers and how dragon blood in their veins explained their powers. He didn’t want to pretend he had any knowledge of the matter, though, because the average Iskandian subject—pilots included—shouldn’t. He certainly hadn’t before meeting Sardelle.

  “Dragons have been extinct for over a thousand years,” Ort said. “How could anyone have blood, viable or otherwise?”

  The king looked at the captain, but Nowon shook his head. “That’s all the note says. We’ve been aware that the Cofah have been working on weapons and military-funded science projects for some time, but this is the first time we’ve gotten… someone inside one of their secret facilities.” Nowon’s jaw had ticked during that pause before the word someone. He must have known the spy who had died, maybe been close.

  Ridge leaned back, framing his chin with his fingers. He knew the government had spies, of course, but he had never been invited into their world.

  “Is it possible your man was mistaken?” Ort asked. “That the Cofah are simply trying to synthesize dragon blood somehow? Maybe they’ve found some fossils or something.” The general’s forehead wrinkled. “Can blood be fossilized?” He looked at Ridge as he asked this last question.

  Ridge swallowed, hoping he wasn’t about to mention Sardelle. Was he supposed to be some archaeology expert now because he was supposedly living with one? Sardelle probably knew the answer to the question, but Ridge sure wasn’t going to volunteer to have her brought into this meeting. The last thing he wanted was for her to come to the king’s attention.

  “This man was very good,” the captain said. “It is unlikely he would have been mistaken. I not only suspect they’ve acquired blood, but from a few messages we’ve intercepted, I believe the Cofah might be very close to weaponizing it somehow.”

  “I want a more complete report,” the king said, holding the flimsy sheet of paper in the air with an irritated quirk of his lips. “And if they have dragon blood, I either want it destroyed or I want it brought back to Iskandia for our own new scientist to analyze.” His unsubtle gaze landed on Ridge.

  Ridge slumped back in his chair. Was that why he had been called in? Because of his dubious relationship with Lieutenant Caslin Ahn’s new… pirate? Ridge didn’t doubt that Tolemek “Deathmaker” Targoson could contribute on a scientific level, but Ridge had been somewhat bullied by Sardelle—and her telepathic sword—into vouching for the man. Even knowing what the man had done to help the city, Ridge worried that his loyalty wouldn’t last much longer than his infatuation with Lieutenant Ahn. There was a reason the man’s lab had guards on it at all times.

  “You know Deathmaker,” the king said. “How far can he be trusted?”

  Insofar as what? He seemed contented enough in his lab, but… Ridge shrugged. “I don’t know him well, Sire. He is—was—Lieutenant Ahn’s prisoner. I do trust Lieutenant Ahn.”

  The colonel’s eyes closed to slits. Ridge doubted the man knew anything about the situation, but he sensed a judgment there. He hoped this mission wouldn’t require working with the other officer. Judging by the gray in his hair, he probably had seniority.

  “I want you to talk to him, Zirkander,” the king said. “If you don’t think he’s a flight risk, he might be worth taking on this mission.”

  The colonel’s nostrils flared. “Sire, I protest. Deathmaker? The pirate? I don’t care who he’s mounting now; he’s killed thousands of our people.”

  Ridge’s fist balled. He could only imagine the expression that must have been on his face, but it made General Ort kick him under the table and tilt his head toward the king with great significance. Ridge kept his temper. Barely. But he loathed the way the other colonel—what was this bastard’s name anyway?—gave him that challenging look again.

  “Colonel Therrik,” the king said, the censure in his tone present but far too mild for Ridge’s tastes. “Lieutenant Ahn is a national hero—all of those in Zirkander’s squadron are—and an unparalleled asset to our armed forces. Respect, if you will.”

  Therrik, bah. Zirkander had heard that name from young officers recently out of the military academy. He’d taught combat classes there for the last few years and had a reputation for humiliating and pulverizing young men and women, particularly those going into n
on-combat branches of the army. Ridge wouldn’t have guessed he was still going out in the field. Maybe he was here to advise.

  “Of course, Sire,” Therrik said, though his face didn’t soften, nor was there anything apologetic in his expression.

  “If anyone can identify dragon blood and what strange things are being done with it,” the king said, “Deathmaker probably can.”

  Actually, Sardelle probably could. Ridge tapped his fingers against his thigh, wondering if there was any way he could take her without revealing… anything. Even though they had only been in combat together once—and technically it hadn’t been all that together since he had been flying and she had been fighting a shaman on the ground—he would much rather have her at his side than Deathmaker or Thugly the Tormentor of Young Pilots.

  “He has no loyalty to our people,” Therrik said. “He’ll go right back to them if he’s given the chance.”

  “He has no loyalty to the Cofah, either,” Ridge said. “Nor would they be happy to have him. My understanding is that he… plugged up both outhouses on the property, as one of my country-bred pilots would say.”

  “Classy,” Ort murmured with another head tilt that was probably supposed to remind Ridge that they were in the presence of royalty. Eh, if the king had been a soldier, he had surely seen an outhouse once or twice in his life.

  “I gather that he can’t return to the pirates, either,” Ridge said, “at least not to the Roaming Curse. His… lady friend is here. He has more reason to stay loyal to Iskandia than to leave us.”

  “Oh, sure,” Therrik grumbled. “I’m sure that’s the sort of romance that books are written about.”

  Ridge hadn’t been enthused at the idea of a mass-murdering pirate for his young lieutenant, but he would defend her right to pick whomever she wanted, with fists if necessary. Even if that would get him pummeled.