by A. C. Cobble
“She told me nothing, just that we could let you out of the room once she was gone. And...” Brinn paused, an uncomfortable grimace on his face. “Not to let you leave the city.”
“Do you plan to follow those instructions?” wondered Ben, handing the general a full mug of ale.
“I-I don’t know what to do,” admitted Brinn. “What you and your companions have done… You’re heroes, Ben. The demon army, here… I’d be shaming myself if I pretended it wasn’t true. You’re like heroes in the stories, but, Ben, the Veil is the Veil. I cannot defy her.”
Ben held up a hand. “Don’t defy her. Issue instructions to the men at the gates and the soldiers down at the docks. Tell them we cannot leave. You’ve commandeered most of the ships in the harbor, right? Tell those captains not to set sail with us on board.”
General Brinn sat back, eyeing Ben speculatively. “You’re right. I have commandeered most of the ships in the harbor. Highborn, merchants, even a few pirates. There are a few others, though, that we cannot touch. The Sanctuary’s vessel, for example. There are some other powerful foreign delegates which we would not risk angering, but you know that, don’t you?”
Ben nodded, a slight smile on his face.
“I don’t know how you do it…” said Brinn, shaking his head. “I’ll announce my orders publicly. You can have the run of the Citadel while you’re here. Anything you need, I’ll make sure you get it. If you lack for anything, I’ll let the men know you can come to me personally. Ben, I mean it. You are a hero. You and your friends saved us. I hate that it has to be like this. You deserve more, but this is what I can do. All I ask is that you don’t get caught walking out the gate.”
“I won’t,” assured Ben. “Give us the free run of the Citadel, and let your soldiers know to keep us here. Lady Coatney is the Veil, like you say, and disobeying her would be crazy.”
Brinn snorted and then raised his mug.
With a satisfied smile, Ben clinked his mug against it and sat back to share an ale with the senior general of the Alliance’s army.
Ben was slumped over in a chair, his head resting against one side when a slight shifting woke him up. He sat upright, wincing as a crick in his neck sent a jolt of pain down his side. He watched as Amelie yawned, letting her wake slowly. He smiled when a balled fist poked from under her covers and burrowed into her eye, trying to rub the sleep from it. After several long moments, her eyes finally blinked open.
“What-What happened?” she asked, her voice a reminder of how dry and painful his had been when he awoke.
He slid a cup of lukewarm water to her and answered, “You’ve been asleep nearly a week. Coatney has left. Avril is missing but presumed to be alive. Towaal is in Coatney’s custody, and no one has seen Rhys or Prem. On the Veil’s orders, Brinn has more or less confined us to Whitehall for the moment.”
“That’s a lot to take in,” mumbled Amelie after sipping the water and working the moisture in her mouth. “The city… was it bad?”
“There was some damage,” admitted Ben. “Several buildings collapsed or were blasted by lightning. Between the storm and the attack in the Citadel, several hundred lost their lives. The worst of it was prevented, thanks to you. You saved a lot of people, Amelie.”
She groaned softly. “It doesn’t feel like it. If it wasn’t for us…”
Ben shook his head. “The Veil and Avril have been plotting against each other for ages. We stumbled into the middle of it, but it would have happened whether or not we were there. Remember, Humboldt said she’d been planning this for decades. You prevented the storm from being worse than it was.”
“That sounds like something I would tell you,” responded Amelie.
Ben grinned. “You’re a hero, Amelie. Without question.”
“But we’re confined here, you said?
“The Veil ordered it, and while Brinn is our friend, he’s not bold enough to defy her. Not openly, at least.”
“We’re stuck then.”
“No, we’re not,” responded Ben, a smile on his face. “The gates of the city are barred and guarded, and most of the ships in the harbor are commandeered for military use, but there’s one vessel that not even Brinn or the Veil are willing to command.”
Amelie blinked at him, still waking up.
“O’ecca is here, waiting for us,” explained Ben. “Somehow, in the confusion, no one seems to have realized how well we know each other. She’s already announced that after Whitehall, she’ll sail to Fabrizo to treat with King Saala. The only thing she’s waiting on is us.”
“When do we leave?” asked Amelie.
“As soon as I can find Rhys and Prem,” replied Ben.
“Help me get up, then,” requested Amelie.
He put a hand under her elbow and peeled back her sheets. “Amelie, there’s something else I’ve been thinking about.”
“What?” she asked, putting her weight on Ben’s arm as she stood. She’d been unconscious for nearly a week, and was moving hesitantly on uncertain legs.
“Are you strong enough to contact the guardians through a thought meld?”
“Maybe,” she answered. “I’m strong enough to try, at least. Why?”
“I want to get in touch with them before they get too far east of Northport. The guardians and Hadra.”
“The Sanctuary’s mage?”
“Our mage now,” reminded Ben. “I think I have something more valuable she could be doing than hunting down stray demons. Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up and fed, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”
The ancient-looking barman eyed Ben up and down before drawling, “You’re back.”
“I am,” agreed Ben.
“Heard about what you did,” said the man. “Seems you saved an awful lot of us.”
“My friends did a lot of the work,” said Ben, leaning against the bar, his elbows on the counter. “Without them, it’s impossible to estimate how many people in Whitehall would have died.”
The old man poured Ben a draught, his eyes fixed on a group of soldiers in the corner or the room. “I suppose we owe you – and your friends. Owe you more than just a few ales, I reckon. Course, some of your friends can drink a lot more than a few ales. They’re the kind of drinkers that might empty out my storeroom if they stayed in it too long.”
Ben sipped at the frothy mug. “Aye, I think they would. If I was in your boots, I’d be ready to get rid of them.”
“The sooner, the better. I should warn you, though, not everyone feels the same sense of gratefulness as I do,” rasped the barman. “Might be a bit tricky to get out of town from what I’ve heard. Not just guards on the wall, I mean. Plenty of men from the City are still lurking around here. Can’t imagine they’ve got any reason to stay unless it’s you.”
“Could be,” agreed Ben. “Do you happen to know what time high tide is tonight?”
The barman scratched at his chin. “Seems like it’s always a bit before dawn, but I ain’t sure.”
“Sounds like it would be best to meet the tide around midnight then,” said Ben. “Down at the harbor, away from your precious barrels.”
“If I have any left by midnight,” muttered the man. He cut his eyes over Ben’s shoulder in warning then asked, “Care for another?”
Ben shrugged. “Why not? I’m not going anywhere.”
Heartbeats later, another pair of elbows settled near Ben on the bar.
Ben glanced at the man and saw a bulky, cleanly shaven blond whose loose tunic did little to hide the thick-ringed chainmail underneath of it. A broadsword hung at his hip, and Ben recognized it immediately. Venmoor steel. It was a simple, practical design, and he’d seen hundreds of them during his time in the City.
“How’s the ale?” asked the newcomer.
“Best I’ve had in Whitehall,” responded Ben.
“You’re the man who knows. Finest ale I’ve ever had? The stuff you were brewing back in the City. I think you made a mistake by going on this little adventure. Yo
u’ve got a real talent for brewing, and I mean that. Honest.”
“I used to have that talent,” replied Ben. “It’s been nearly a year since I’ve done any sort of brewing. I suppose I could get back into it if I could find a good space down in Whitehall.”
“You being serious?” asked the man.
Ben met his gaze, unblinking.
“I suggest you spend at least a week looking for that space, son. You understand me?” asked the soldier. “I really like your ale, but I got orders to make sure you stay around for a bit. There are worse things than staying in a place like this and drinking for free. I’d rather be your friend than your gaoler. Don’t make me and the boys over there have to remind you how easy you’ve got it.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” murmured Ben.
Strange, lacquered armor that was a size too small rubbed against his inner thigh, chaffing him something terrible, but Ben supposed half a finger-width higher would have been worse. He shifted the naginata on his shoulder and peered at the guards who patrolled outside of the harbor.
There were a lot of them, far more than he recalled on previous visits to Whitehall’s waterfront. Near midnight, they’d be sleepy, but they didn’t have the day’s business to deal with. The emissary’s departure would be the most exciting thing that happened on their shift. Still, under the cover of dark, it was the best chance to slip out unnoticed.
O’ecca led the party with two score of her soldiers following in a pack behind. They wore full armor, including the intricate helmets that were favored on the South Continent. Perfect disguises for Ben and Amelie to slink away.
The leader of one of the guard patrols, a sergeant by the tassels on his shoulder, stepped up to address O’ecca. “Where do you think you’re going, miss? All the ships down here are in the service of the king.”
“All but mine,” responded O’ecca frostily.
The sergeant shifted, like he was deciding whether or not he wanted to be a pain in the ass or to let her go and finish his shift quietly.
“Let’s move this along, sergeant,” barked a voice, and Seth stomped around O’ecca’s armsmen. “On behalf of General Brinn, I’m escorting the emissary of the emperor to her vessel so she can sail to Fabrizo. She’s going to meet King Saala. The quicker I get this done, man, the quicker I can get back to the missus.”
“Of-Of course,” stammered the sergeant, sketching a quick bow to O’ecca. “Emissary… the king you said? I was merely, ah, merely wondering if a pilot was on duty to take the lady to her ship, sir.”
“Of course you were, sergeant,” chided Seth. “Have no fear. I’ll get one of the lazy bastards moving in no time.”
The sergeant and his men scampered out of the way, and O’ecca’s party continued down toward the pilot house unmolested. Ben grinned at Amelie from underneath his helmet. She wasn’t looking back at him, though. She was cursing softly. The extravagant, over-sized lobster-shaped helm on her head had slipped forward, covering her eyes and nose. She was using the haft of her naginata to try to push it up, but it only tilted the thing sideways.
Ben raised a hand to help her with the helm but paused, thinking about the guards behind them. A real member of O’ecca’s soldiers would not need assistance fixing their helmet. Instead, Ben offered a hand held low and guided her until they were out of visual range of the soldiers. Then, he reached up and adjusted her helm. His grin was met with a scowl, which only made him smile bigger.
Halfway to the dock, two shadowy figures slipped out from behind a storage shed. A slender cabin boy and a muscular porter. The larger one was pushing a cart stacked with heavy barrels. The man with the cart wore a sock cap, no shirt, and loose, salt-stained britches. Bare feet slapped on the stone of the quay as the man grunted and muttered, trundling the cart in front of him.
“Wouldn’t just one of those kegs work as a disguise?” whispered Ben, nodding to the stack of barrels.
“We’ve got three weeks of sailing ahead of us,” grumbled Rhys. “One of them is the disguise, the other three are for drinking. You want to grab the other side and help me drag this thing?”
“Sorry. I’m pretending to be a soldier.”
“Hurry up,” chided Prem, poking Rhys with a finger. “I offered to help you, but you insisted I play the cabin boy.”
“You’re too small to be a porter,” explained Rhys. “People expect porters to be big and strong, like me.”
“If you’re so big and strong, then stop complaining like a little girl,” suggested Prem.
Rhys said something foul under his breath, and Ben wondered if he should cover Prem’s ears. Finally, the rogue got the cart rolling, and they fell back in line with the soldiers.
Captain Seth moved to walk with them, and Ben felt a flutter of nervousness. The captain’s presence had not been part of the plan.
“Thanks for the help with the guards,” said Ben.
Seth, lips tight, nodded. He walked a dozen paces before speaking. “If Brinn found out I was here helping with this, he’d be apoplectic.”
“You didn’t have to—”
Holding up a hand, Seth cut Ben off. “He’d be apoplectic publicly, and he’d slap me on the back and buy me an ale privately. The general supports you, Ben. He knows that without you, it could have gone much worse. He just can’t make a big show of it. He can’t let the Veil know where our heart lies. I came to help, but I also came to make sure you know we’re behind you. We’ll sail within days for Fabrizo. It seems the storm above Whitehall and the Veil’s personal involvement was enough to tamp down the discord in the city. Every highborn in the Citadel is eager to support King Saala now, and we haven’t had to deal with a rumor since the… that day. If you need us, we’ll be right behind you. Anything you need.”
“Can you help stop this war?” asked Ben.
Seth shook his head. “I’m not sure anyone can do that, Ben, even King Saala. It’s gone too far to turn around now.”
“Someone has to try,” replied Ben.
They walked in silence until they neared the end of the pier. A man was standing there, dressed in the livery of Whitehall’s harbormaster, flanked by two soldiers. Evidently, the pilots had been informed of the emissary’s departure and were waiting to see her off.
“I’d best turn around in case those soldiers recognize me,” murmured Seth. “Sail safely, Ben, and good luck.”
Ben gripped Seth’s hand and shook it once. “Thank you, Seth, and I hope we meet again.”
The captain nodded then dropped out of the column to let them pass.
“Is that the ship?” wondered Prem, looking past the pilot at a flat barge tied to the end of the wharf.
“No,” explained Ben. “That’s what we’ll use to get to the ship. That’s our ship out there.”
Ben pointed at a huge vessel which towered five stories above the water. It had three giant masts supporting sails that spanned the width of Prem’s old village. Lanterns outlined the deck in flickering, bobbing light. Sailors scurried about on the deck and in the rigging, preparing to sail.
“Oh my,” murmured Prem.
“When you travel with me, you travel in style,” said O’ecca over her shoulder.
“You’re doing well with the emperor, I see,” remarked Ben.
“I helped save him from the Red Lord,” reminded O’ecca. “Without my assistance, things could have turned out very differently. The emperor is generous toward those who are his friends.”
She fell silent, and Ben’s friends didn’t respond. All around them were soldiers of the emperor. The men would know who they were, eventually. There was no way to hide it, even on a large sailing vessel, when at sea for three weeks, but the men didn’t need to know every detail about their departure from Shamiil. Mentioning the flight out of the emperor’s window and then hiding in an empty ale barrel didn’t seem prudent, for example.
As far as these men needed to know, Ben and his companions were heroes. Even O’ecca could play ignorant if the emperor pres
sed her. No one else knew she was the one who’d warned them to flee. When the emperor heard she had encountered them, she could convincingly claim she didn’t know why they’d left before hearing the emperor’s offer to serve.
Without speaking, they boarded the pilot vessel, pressing close to allow room for all of the heavily armored men. Within moments, they were cast off and rowing toward the towering South Continent cog, which would take them on to Fabrizo.
A hemp net was thrown over the side when they reached the tall vessel. O’ecca, her men, and Ben’s friends scaled up, moving slow in their heavy armor. As soon as they were on board, O’ecca gave a signal to the captain, and they began to make way out of Whitehall’s protective harbor, passing between the two rock towers that guarded the way.
Ben watched from the rear of the ship as they moved further from Whitehall. The city rose like a pale shaft of silver, the moonlight reflecting off the white walls that climbed up toward the Citadel. Ben couldn’t help but think it looked like a shining blade, stabbing up from the Blood Bay into the dark cliffs and forest that lined the coast. It wasn’t the first time that Whitehall was at the center of a continent-spanning conflict, and he doubted it would be the last.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Amelie, looping an arm around his waist and drawing close.
“I’m thinking about what Lady Coatney said to me right before she left. War is part of us, she said. She admitted that she and the Sanctuary have been steering the Alliance and the Coalition toward this battle. It will bring peace for a hundred years, she claimed.”
“Peace through untold suffering,” replied Amelie.
“I know, I know,” agreed Ben, “but, what if there is something to what she said? What if war is a part of mankind, if it is something we cannot run from? Whatever we do, we’re locked into this cycle of violence. She’s been alive a long time, and she’s had time to think about it. Why do we think we are right, and she is wrong?”
“You think she is right?” wondered Amelie.
Ben was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure. We are capable of violence, and some of us are even inclined to it, but I don’t think it is inevitable. I hope it’s not inevitable. I do know one thing. As long as people like Lady Coatney foster conflict, there is no avoiding war. If, instead, our leaders only turned to violence in self-defense, then maybe war isn’t necessary, at least amongst men. There are real threats in the world, like the demons. It’s foolish that the men of this continent may cause just as much chaos as those creatures. The highborn and the Sanctuary played politics, all the while ignoring the real threat of the demons. Our leaders are our own worst enemy.”
