Blake, Devin and Graham all sat near Lady Montoya.
Lord Montoya won the first hand, smiled and took in his winnings. He lost the next four hands, leaving his three stacks of chips a bit smaller than the size they had started at.
The game was either honest or it was not. If it was not, how were they cheating? And which (or how many) of the five were doing it? Blake closed his eyes and slumped down in his chair, letting his awareness spread. Most likely, it would be the mirrors, but no…all four mirrors were solid glass set against solid walls, and all were angled away from the players.
Lord Montoya won the next hand, a small pot, then lost the next two. The game went on, the pots growing slowly larger.
There were many ways to cheat at cards. Blake knew this, and presumably, so did Lord Montoya, but Blake was hardly an expert at either cards or the subtle arts of cheating. He allowed his disembodied senses to feel along the cards. They seemed honest cards. If any of these men were cheating, it was not apparent to him. Finally, after another hour, one man yawned, shook his head and rose to his feet. The rest soon followed. In the end, Lord Montoya had won a few credits more than he lost.
Blake was relieved.
Lord Montoya was the last one to leave the table. He rose, shook a crick out of his neck and stretched his back, then he smiled at his wife and took two steps forward.
There came a creaking sound from somewhere. The candles flickered. Blake looked up. Slowly at first, then very quickly, the chandelier over Lord Montoya’s head rolled over and plunged down.
Chapter 18
Blake had practiced weaving soul-stuff for many years. The blue stone on his chest and all the candles in the room grew dim as he took their energy into himself, then he reached out with his mind and thrust. It would work or it wouldn’t. It was all he could think to do.
The chandelier fell, landing on the table to the side of Lord Montoya. It was heavy, made of brass and wrought iron, solid enough to crush a man’s skull. The table splintered and collapsed. Hot wax splashed upward and struck Lord Montoya on the side of his face. He grunted and raised a hand to his cheek. The wax was hot. It would blister, and might possibly leave a scar, but Lord Montoya was otherwise unhurt. Blake breathed a sigh of relief.
Servants and men at arms came running. One rug was on fire, which the servants quickly stamped out.
“What is this?” A woman stood in the doorway, tall, angry and imperious, evidently Lady Randisi. She had black hair, blue eyes and an upright carriage.
“An accident,” Lord Montoya said. He gave Lady Randisi a thin smile and rubbed at his cheek.
“My husband was nearly killed!” Lady Montoya appeared to be just as angry as Lady Randisi, and certainly with more reason.
The chandelier lay in pieces on the floor. It had been attached, Blake noted, by a thick bolt threaded through a wooden beam in the ceiling. Looking up, he could see the bolt, apparently unbroken, extending through the bottom of the beam. He knelt down and searched through the wreckage. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for, a metal washer and a clamp, clearly designed to fit through the bolt. The washer and the clamp were both undamaged. He held them up. “It appears that the fastenings came loose.”
Lady Randisi’s eyes flicked to the metal pieces in Blake’s hand. She glared at the wreckage.
“I imagine,” Lord Montoya said, “that these chandeliers are very old.”
Lady Randisi blinked up at the ceiling. “Three hundred years,” she said. “At least.”
Blake rose to his feet and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Candles do not last for three hundred years. Somebody has to replace them.”
Lady Randisi frowned, bewildered. “Gerald?” she said.
A small, thin man, pale, nearly bald, dressed in Randisi colors, bowed. “My Lady?” he said.
“How does this work?”
“The card room is not used every day. The candles are replaced as needed.”
“When were they last replaced?”
“Yesterday, in preparation for this event.”
“How are they replaced?” Blake asked.
“The candles are held on the end of an expandable rod and placed into the sconces.”
“So, nobody climbs a ladder and actually gets a look at the thing?”
Gerald pursed his lips and gave Blake a moody look. “No,” he said.
“I suggest,” Lord Montoya said, “that somebody should climb a ladder now, and check the bolts on the rest of the chandeliers.”
“Yes,” Lady Randisi said. “That is an excellent idea.” She glared at Gerald. “See to it.”
Gerald looked away. “Right away,” he said.
Lord Montoya smiled. “And let me know what you find,” he said. “It’s not every day that one escapes death by chandelier.”
The party continued, most of the guests scattered throughout the house having no idea that anything unusual had occurred. Lord and Lady Montoya, however, had lost their enthusiasm. They assured Lady Randisi that they bore her no ill will, thanked her for her hospitality and left. The ride back to Montrez was grim. Blake sat inside the carriage with his employers, while Devin and Graham rode alongside. “The bolt could have naturally loosened,” Lord Montoya said. “Three hundred years is a long time.”
“Just as likely that it would have all fused together.” Blake shrugged. “Or somebody could have loosened it. I doubt that we’ll ever know.”
Lord Montoya gave Blake a sharp look. “Could you have done it?”
“Loosened the bolt? Me?”
“Don’t look so innocent. Your abilities with phrygium are not a secret.”
Blake shrugged again. “It depends on how tight the bolt was fastened. Given enough time, almost certainly.”
“I know four of the men that I was playing cards with,” Lord Montoya said. “Minor nobility with no known political ambitions. I don’t know the fifth. He said he was a merchant, from Juno.”
“I will make inquiries regarding all of them.” Blake hesitated. “I wouldn’t expect too much.”
“No,” Lord Montoya said. “Of course.”
Lady Montoya, who had been peering out the window into the dark, said, “It could have been anybody in the room.”
“This is true,” Lord Montoya said. He sighed. “And it could have been an accident.”
In the end, the results of the inquiry came to nothing. Four of the men at the table were, as Lord Montoya had said, well known members of minor houses, who had never distinguished themselves in any way. The fifth proved to be a mystery. He had been dressed for the occasion. He spoke like a courtier. Nothing about his appearance had seemed remarkable. All who met him assumed that he had been invited and had a right to be there, but nobody, in the end could say who he was.
It was frustrating, but by now, neither Blake Pierce nor Emilio Montoya were surprised.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Primate said. “Loyal retainers all…” The Primate smiled at the crowd. The crowd smiled back, though it seemed to Blake that many of these smiles were forced. “I am pleased to announce that our armies have succeeded in taking the province of Rhodia and are even now advancing on Bretagne’s capital city, Lorraine. In the next week, I will be expecting a contribution of men and materiel from each of you, to the twentieth part of your available resources. These men will constitute an occupying force, in order to consolidate the gains that have already been made and to pacify the native population.
The Primate seemed happy, Blake thought, almost giddy. Much of the assembled nobility seemed bewildered. An invasion of their neighbor had occurred. A war was in progress, and none of them seemed to know about it. How had this happened? And one twentieth was barely more than a token. It should have been more. Much more.
“Questions?” the Primate asked.
A man Blake did not recognize rose to his feet. “Where will this force assemble?”
“Here. Outside the gates of the city, under the command of Lord Alejandro Garcia.”
>
Alejandro Garcia, standing at the Primate’s side, inclined his head to the assembly and smiled.
The Primate surveyed the crowd. “Anything else? No?” He waited another moment. “Then this meeting is adjourned.”
That evening, Lord Montoya requested Blake’s presence in his private office. A bottle of red wine and another of brandy sat on the table. “Something to drink?” Lord Montoya asked.
“No,” Blake said, “thank you.”
Lord Montoya looked grim. “For generations,” he said, “my family has tilled our lands and lived in peace with our neighbors. We knew our place in the world and we were happy with it.” Montoya shook his head. “Suddenly, I am beginning to regret my recent ambitions.”
Blake shrugged. “You knew what you were getting into.”
Lord Montoya raised a brow. “Do I detect a hint of rebuke?”
Perhaps more than a hint. Blake liked Emilio Montoya. He even admired him, but in the end, Blake was a mercenary. Montoya had made his choices. So long as Blake received his pay, he would serve Emilio Montoya. He had no intention of sharing his fate, however. Sharing Lord Montoya’s fate was outside the terms of their contract.
Blake shrugged again, at which Montoya barely smiled. “What do you think,” Montoya said, “of the Primate’s announcement.”
“I think that the Primate has bitten off much, much more than he can chew.”
Lord Montoya frowned, evidently not surprised by Blake’s statement. “How so?”
“The dead cities carry their own lessons. Devices that can destroy cities and leave the land poisoned for generations have been long forbidden to us. They are forbidden for a reason.”
“You think…what? That the Primate has some secret weapon?”
“Yes,” Blake said, “I do. Fomaut’s invasion of Bretagne has been carried out with a minimal number of soldiers and has proceeded much too easily for any other explanation.”
Emilio Montoya gave out a long-winded sigh. “Do you think the Viceroy will act?”
Blake eyed the bottles on the table, shrugged, and filled a goblet half full of Montoya’s excellent brandy. “The scholia teaches us that our ancestors came to this world at the bidding of a great and long-vanished Empire, to propagate our species, to multiply and grow strong. Exactly why the Empire wished us to do these things has never, to my knowledge, been explained.” Blake grinned. “Once, when I was very young, I asked. I quickly learned that such questions were…discouraged.” He sipped his brandy and shrugged. “The Inquisitoria teaches that our ancestors then forgot their place and their purpose. They grew selfish, and they grew arrogant. They were punished.
“For over a thousand years, one nation has fought another. There have been long periods of relative peace but sooner or later, war has always returned. The Viceroy—and the Inquisitoria—have never seemed to care. Swords and arrows and horses can cause only so much damage. To the Viceroy, and to the Viceroy’s rule, these things represent a minor threat. It has been many centuries since the Inquisitoria declared a city or a nation to be anathema. I think the Primate has allowed himself to forget this.
“So, to answer your question,” Blake said, “Yes. I do think that the Viceroy will act.”
“My father is worried,” Davida Montoya said. She grinned down at him.
“Really?” he said.
Blake was lying in bed, Davida on top of him, moving her hips with a steady rhythm. Blake hefted her heavy, firm breasts in his hands, gently kneading them. Remembering what Davida had said about her own ability to play a set of breasts like musical instruments, Blake was feeling some pressure to live up to Davida’s lofty standards.
Blake grunted, not wanting to talk about Lord Montoya’s worries at that exact moment. Davida’s grin grew wider, then the breath suddenly caught in her throat and she groaned, her hips snapping back and forth. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and gave a little cry, then, eyes closed, she slowly stopped moving and allowed herself to collapse on Blake’s chest. Her breath whistled out in a relaxed sigh. Blake moved his arms around her back, took two solid handfuls of her quivering rear end and pressed her down onto his groin. At that moment, he never, ever wanted to let her go.
They were in Blake’s quarters and it was nearly midnight. This was their third time together and it was the best, yet. Not that there had been anything wrong with the first two, thank you very much. He had expected the first time to be awkward, Davida being inexperienced (sort of), but apparently her experiences with Stephanie Valandraud, and however many others, had provided her with sufficient knowledge and confidence. Whatever, Davida Montoya knew just what she was doing in the bedroom.
“Lord Montoya has cause to worry,” Blake said.
She made a little sound in her throat and snuggled closer. “Let’s not talk about that, now,” she said.
“Fine with me. You’re the one who brought it up.”
She raised her head and looked at him from an inch away, her breath caressing his cheek. “I wanted to see if you would be distracted.”
“And if I was?”
“I would be annoyed with you.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
“No,” she said, and licked the side of his neck. “You’re supposed to be mad with passion, unable to think of anything but me.”
It was almost embarrassing to admit it, even to himself, but this was almost true. There was something about Davida Montoya, something fervent and wild, something that drove him a little insane. After ten years as a soldier for hire, Blake Pierce had come to regard himself as a man of the world, experienced and sophisticated, even jaded. Mad with desire? Pretty much. Even now, he felt himself stirring again.
He moved, rolling her beneath him. She giggled and let her fingers wander through his hair, then pulled him down into a fierce kiss.
“Mad,” she said. “Mad with desire.”
And for the moment, and for many, many moments after, he was.
Chapter 19
A Child’s Fourth Lesson Upon Entering Scholium:
Society is properly arranged in well-ordered layers. At the bottom, the citizenry goes about its daily pursuits, each member of society, by his or her individual striving, contributing to the good of the whole. Above the common citizens are the people’s chosen representatives and above these, the ranks of the Scholia and the Inquisitoria, who transmit knowledge to the next generation, ensure the elimination of incorrect ideas and encourage the propagation of correct ones. Above these are the Magisterium, comprised of the nobility and above these, the Anointed: the Imperator and his right hand, the Viceroy.
On this world, the Viceroy reigns. This was decreed in the beginning and so it shall be until the Imperator returns his mighty gaze upon his far-off children and their works.
Grow strong, the Imperator decreed. Multiply and prosper and fill the world with your descendants, and never forget that your rightful Lord is watching over you and everything that you do.
So far, this had been the easiest campaign of Garret Rogers’ long career. The mechanism that he held in his hands had made it so. As always, he looked down upon the thing with wonder. A wooden stock, a long tube of some material resembling glass, that was nevertheless harder than steel, a sighting mechanism and a lever. Select a target, pull the lever, and watch the target vanish in flame. From a distance! A distance far, far greater than the reach of an arrow! For a man trained to kill other men, always at risk of being killed himself, watching the head of an enemy explode and seeing his body fall twitching to the ground, with no possibility of any harm to himself, was a feeling like no other. It was ecstasy!
For five days, the forces of the Primate had advanced across the plain leading to the city of Lorraine. The peasants had clung to their tiny huts in their tiny villages, staring at the passing army with dumb eyes. Peasants were valuable. Once Bretagne was conquered and the Primate ruled here, the peasants would belong to him. Aside from confiscating a few sides of mutton and beef and availing them
selves of the reluctant services of a few of the better-looking women (a privilege of soldiers since the beginnings of time), the invading forces had left the peasants alone.
The armies of Bretagne had behaved predictably. At first sight of the invaders, they had charged across an empty field toward what had looked like a small, nearly undefended force, and been slaughtered. Since then, the pride of Bretagne had fled before them. And now, the walls of Lorraine were in sight.
Garret Rogers was a sergeant in the armies of the Primate of Fomaut, one of the best, which was the reason he had been chosen for participation in this venture. The weapons upon which their success depended were very old but to the modern world, utterly new. How they worked, and for how long they would function, remained a complete mystery. The Primate’s army intended to take as much advantage as they could while they still retained this priceless resource.
God save the Primate!
Garret Rogers blinked. What was that? The plain stretched out before them, with nothing but fields of waving wheat and almost ripe corn, and in the distance, the white, shimmering walls of Lorraine.
It was a sound, like some strange droning thunder, faint at first, growing steadily louder…but the skies were cloudless, blue and clear. The men looked all around, searching. The horses were suddenly restive, their eyes darting from side to side, chomping at the bit. One of the men pointed, up into the sky. Garret Rogers squinted. Five small dots…no, ten, then suddenly, more than he could count were hurtling toward them.
He had heard of machines that could fly but had always discounted such stories. They were legends, tales that grandmothers told to frighten little children in the flickering light of a winter’s fire.
Uncertainly, he looked around, wondering if they should run. The dots resolved themselves into round, shining globes, equipped with fixed, stationary wings and then, without warning, the globes were falling upon the Primate’s army.
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