Garret Rogers barely had time to wonder what this might portend before his body was reduced to a fine, bloody mist, and then even the mist vanished in a towering wall of white-hot flame.
News of the disaster trickled out slowly. Of the Primate’s invading forces, only a few outriders, far from the army’s center, were left alive, and once the defenders of Lorraine realized that the main body of their foes had been miraculously destroyed, they swept out of the city, searching for any survivors upon whom to wreak vengeance. In the end, only five escaped, to bring word back to Alejandro Garcia, and through him, to the Primate.
The Primate raged, but beyond cutting the throats of his returning scouts and letting them bleed out on the floor of his throne room, a course of action he barely resisted, there was nothing to be done. The Primate was by no means a stupid man. He was entirely aware that many foolish kings had been overthrown by his own unhappy troops. He needed his army to be loyal—now, more than ever. Grimly, the Primate thanked his scouts, gifted each of them a purse filled with silver and proceeded to drink himself into a stupor.
A day later, his head still pounding, he called for his principal counselor to attend him in his private chambers. Alejandro Garcia spent an unhappy hour with his liege, then was seen to exit the palace, his face pale, his expression grim.
The Primate had demanded a levy of men from his nobles. So far, that order had not been rescinded. The nobility all knew enough to assume nothing. The five scouts had not been told to keep their mouths shut. Within a day, the specifics of what had happened on the plain outside of Lorraine were common knowledge.
Plan A had failed. It was time, the Primate thought, for Plan B…if the Viceroy allowed it.
So far, the Viceroy had withheld his hand. Death had not yet rained down from the skies over Lausanne.
The Primate waited another day, then, dressing himself in humble clothes, his head bare to the noonday sun, barefoot and in the eyes of his people, he walked across the city and into the high portals of the cathedral. There, he threw himself upon the steps leading to the altar, at the feet of the Cardinal himself. “Bless me, Father,” the Primate said, “for I have sinned.”
The Cardinal, a small man with a large head and sharp, blue eyes, gazed down upon the Primate, as if wondering who this disreputable figure might be. He reached out and nudged the Primate with a toe. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You’ve sinned. Everybody sins. It’s why we’re here. Get up.”
Shakily, the Primate rose to his feet.
The Cardinal smiled at him. “Come inside,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
It had been many centuries since the Viceroy faced a serious threat to his rule. Minor threats were a different story. Minor threats were apt to pop up at any time. The Viceroy understood this. He allowed for it.
The Primate of Fomaut, for instance, was a smart, aggressive man. In the Viceroy’s experience, such men came in two flavors. The first had a keen sense of what was possible, of their own place in the wider World. Such men could be reasoned with. They were, as often as not, an asset. They could be guided…and used. The second, while perhaps no less intelligent in a very narrow sense, allowed their own history of early success (and perhaps also a lifetime of being fawned upon by adoring sycophants), and also, perhaps, by a whiff of insanity, to warp their perspective. Such men were convinced they possessed vision that others lacked, that they saw further than the common man could see, that they were unique, and ordained by destiny and the heavens to accomplish great things.
Such men were dangerous, to the Viceroy, to their own people, but primarily to themselves. It remained to be seen if the Primate of Fomaut exemplified the first type or the second.
Rank has its privileges. Everybody knows this. The wise man takes advantage of his opportunities and does not resent the privileges of those placed above him. Each has his place. The scholium and the Inquisitoria, after all, were open to every individual who wished to serve, and by serving, to advance. There was room in the world for those who wished to better themselves, if it was done the right way, according to custom and tradition. This had been decreed nearly two thousand years ago, and every Viceroy since had seen and confirmed its wisdom.
The Viceroy lay upon a padded mattress, his head resting on his folded hands, watching as four of his concubines played a game in the pool with an inflatable ball. They were all beautiful, all appeared young and all had been honored to be chosen. All of them were aware, in some subliminal sense, of his presence.
The Viceroy, every Viceroy, had many children. The current Viceroy was still almost young, not yet two-hundred, and he had sixty-one children. His predecessor had died at the venerable age of four-hundred-forty-two and had left two-hundred and eight children behind. The Viceroy, possessing the memories of every Viceroy since the very first, remembered these many children only as a blur. Very few had the strength of their fathers.
Having many children was one of the rules. The Viceroy was the wisest of the wise, the strongest of the strong. It was necessary that the genes for that wisdom and that strength be carried on and spread widely.
He listened as his principal advisor, the Pontiff of the Blessed Inquisitoria, padded up behind him. “My Lord?”
“You may approach,” the Viceroy said.
The Pontiff and the Viceroy both ignored the nearly naked woman leaning over the couch, massaging the Viceroy’s nearly naked body. “I have news from Lausanne,” the Pontiff said.
“Oh?” In truth, the Viceroy was only mildly interested in the news from Lausanne. The Primate of Fomaut would display sincere contrition, pledge to mend his ways and cooperate, or there would be a new Primate. One way or the other, it was all the same to the Viceroy.
“The Primate is not a fool,” said the Pontiff. “He has agreed to our terms.”
The Viceroy let out a little groan as the fingers of the masseuse pressed on a tender spot in his lower back. “Then he shall live for another day.”
“You do know,” the Pontiff said, “that our armories are not infinite.”
The Viceroy frowned. The databases held all the information needed to replenish the armories. Unfortunately, the industrial infrastructure required to do so no longer existed. After having to destroy over thirty rebellious cities over two thousand years, the Viceroy’s predecessors had reluctantly concluded that a lower tech world would be far more amenable to control.
Also, he could find it within himself to resent the Pontiff’s use of the word ‘our.’
“Certainly,” he said, “which is why the Primate will be allowed to continue with his no-longer-secret project.”
It was not generally known, even to the Magisterium, that the Viceroy, too, was bound by rules, perhaps more than any of them.
The rules had made sense in the beginning, so very long ago. Sadly, many of these rules made little sense today. The Viceroy was aware, as every Viceroy had been for over a thousand years, that the project—the experiment, rather—that had placed mankind on this world had turned out to be, at best, a marginal success.
As useless and outdated as those rules may have become, the Viceroy was unable to change them. The strictures that had made him the Viceroy forbade it.
But happily, a man may serve a Higher Purpose while still serving himself. The Imperator would return his mighty gaze upon this world or he would not. Probably not. Two thousand years with no contact between the world and the outside Universe made it seem unlikely, but such was not in the Viceroy’s power to control, anticipate or predict.
The Viceroy raised his head and looked at one of the concubines, the newest and youngest. He smiled, and crooked a finger. She blinked, the ball suddenly forgotten, and smiled back.
Chapter 20
Sacrifice, repentance, restitution, and ultimately, forgiveness.
The Primate was keenly aware that he had gotten off easy. He had allowed himself to be swayed by temptation and bad advice. This was his excuse, sorrowfully expressed. He had carefully refrained from menti
oning to the Cardinal that no head of state had been summarily executed by the Viceroy in over five hundred years. Best not to tempt fate and the Viceroy’s forbearance. It could happen. His nose had been rubbed in that fact. It had almost happened to him.
“Keep digging,” the Primate said.
Alejandro Garcia looked at him, his gaze doubtful.
“We have suffered a setback, but we have also been presented with an opportunity. The Viceroy has expressed an interest in your little project. Whatever you find will be shared with the Inquisitoria and the Magisterium.”
“Ah.” Alejandro Garcia narrowed his eyes. “Shared?”
The Primate sighed. “Surrendered...but we shall be well paid, in gold, silver and jewels.”
“I would rather,” Alejandro said, “have the weapons.”
In truth, so would the Primate, but it had been made clear to him what would happen if he failed to cooperate, even in the slightest. The Primate was entirely aware that he would not be given another chance. “So far, such weapons have done us more harm than good. With enough gold, silver and jewels, we can purchase as many horses, men and arrows as we may need. The Viceroy has been generous. He will allow us to conquer Bretagne.” The Primate ruefully smiled. “If we can conquer Bretagne…but we shall have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
Devin, Blake was amused to see, was nervous. Devin was a very large young man, with a simple view of life. He was a soldier in the service of his rightful Lord. This was all he had ever wished to be. As such, he had regarded Blake Pierce’s arrival at the castle as an insult to them all. Blake was from Cathay, a land of gardeners and poets. Blake, in Devin’s not very bright mind, was unworthy of Lord Montoya’s regard, and certainly unworthy of being placed over honest soldiers of Miramar and Fomaut.
Devin had made his opinion clear, at their very first meeting. “What makes you more capable than one of our own? Why should you be leading the men of Miramar?” he had said.
Blake had blinked at him, and wearily sighed. Aside from the fact that he had been appointed to do so? By Lord Montoya, who this idiot served and supposedly respected?
Blake had only just arrived, dusty, tired and dirty, looking forward to nothing more than a meal and a hot bath, but Lord Montoya had decreed that his assigned squadron meet him in the courtyard upon his arrival.
Graham, only recently promoted to Sergeant, glared at Devin and opened his mouth to speak. Blake laid a hand on his arm. “No, no,” he said. Blake peered at the rest of the men. “We’ll deal with this now. Do any of the rest of you share this man’s feelings?”
A few swallowed. One or two looked away. Another frowned and shuffled his feet. Blake mirthlessly grinned. He pointed at the sword hanging from Devin’s belt. “Do you know how to use that thing?”
“Yes,” Devin said. He was almost snarling. “Better than any foreign dog from Cathay.”
Blake walked over to a rack of practice swords. He hefted a few, feeling their balance, and tossed one to Devin.
“Let’s see,” Blake said, and proceeded to give Devin a decisive beating. He did it quickly, mercilessly and dispassionately, and when Devin was lying on the ground, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, one eye swollen shut, his breath wheezing, Blake had looked down at him and said, “Your technique needs work.”
Since then, Devin had become Blake’s most devoted adherent.
“Relax,” Blake said. “It’s only an exhibition.”
“It’s never only an exhibition.”
Blake raised an eyebrow, surprised. This was a more perceptive comment than he was used to hearing from Devin.
The room was round, about thirty meters across. Curved tables were set up near the walls, filled now with the nobility of Fomaut, their spouses and principal heirs, plus a few of the richest merchants. The Primate’s table was set on a dais. Sitting with the Primate was his principal wife, Isabella, plus Alejandro and Florensia Garcia and the former Irina Archer. Florensia seemed unhappy to be there, or perhaps, as could be surmised from the frequent dour looks that she cast at Irina, she was simply unhappy that Irina was there as well. Irina, for her part, partook of each dish with a pleased little smile on her face, chatted with both the Primate and Alejandro, ignored her mother-in-law and sipped modestly at her wine.
Dinner was nearly over. Finally, once dessert had been consumed and brandy poured, the Primate rose to his feet, held his glass high, gave a short speech lauding the mettle and bravery of the soldiers of Fomaut and expressing his sincere conviction that the natives of Bretagne, cowards all, would fly before their mighty forces.
The Primate finished with a smile and a simple, “Now, I call upon the principal representative of our Heavenly Father to consecrate this venture.”
The Cardinal, dressed in white robes, a blue silk biretta on his head, appeared from a side corridor. He was followed by eight young children, four boys and four girls, all dressed in white robes, who hummed a toneless chant as they walked. The Cardinal graciously nodded to the assembled nobles as he walked to the center of the room. The children sat at his feet and grew silent.
“Friends,” the Cardinal said, “colleagues, soldiers of the nation of Fomaut…”
Blake sighed. He had heard the same pious nonsense before twenty different campaigns: as if God cared about the glory and riches of one side versus another. The Cardinal droned on for nearly fifteen minutes, giving a recitation of the nation’s martial heritage and assuring them that their Heavenly Father smiled upon them all. The Cardinal’s blessing drew to a close. He smiled, bowed, and walked from the room. The children followed him out.
“Our cue,” muttered Devin.
The Primate stood once again, raised his glass and said, “Let the campaign begin.”
Blake, followed by Devin, marched out into the room. From the opposite corridor came Michael Civarisi, followed by his second, Robert Valandraud. Robert grinned at Blake.
It was not actually the campaign, of course. It was a ceremonial contest, the custom in Fomaut, to mark a war’s beginning, the previous abortive invasion of Bretagne having been officially erased from history. There were always two contests, the first between members of Houses Minor, the second between those of the Houses Major. The fact that the combatants were as often mercenaries as men of Fomaut was irrelevant. For the moment, at least, each champion represented their patron. Blake was unsurprised to have been chosen. His recent venture against Valandraud, and Lord Montoya’s elevated profile had made Blake into a figure of some popular interest. Michael Civarisi, representing Valandraud, seemed also a logical choice. Blake had never seen Michael Civarisi fight, but he had been told that Civarisi was good.
The referee, a grizzled veteran of the Primate’s guard, carefully inspected each man’s weapons, handed them back and said, “Begin.”
Michael Civarisi charged forward, swinging his blade in an overhead strike. Civarisi was from Venecia, and he fought in the style of his native land, with elaborate footwork, multiple feints and wide sweeps of the blade—a difficult style to master, and in Blake’s opinion, one that wasted energy and was more suited to a show than a fight.
Whatever, Civarisi was fast. Blake parried, thrust, and found his rapier pushed out of line as Civarisi spun to the side and swept his knife toward Blake’s side. Blake stepped back and parried Civarisi’s blade with a turn of his wrist.
Civarisi grinned. He jumped, his sword arcing over his head. Blake stood his ground for an instant, and Civarisi launched a kick toward his groin. Blake slid sideways and swept Civarisi’s leading foot from beneath him. Civarisi fell, rolled and bounced back to his feet.
The two men danced back and forth, Civarisi, stamping his feet and flicking his blades in complex circles. The crowd was impressed, Blake less so. It had been many years since he had allowed himself to be distracted by such obvious tricks. He kept his eye on Civarisi’s center of mass. The arms can go one way and the legs another, but all moves, in the end, followed the chest.
Thrust,
parry, counter, parry, riposte, parry. Blake’s rapier slid past Civarisi’s neck and Civarisi stepped inside Blake’s guard. His knife touched Blake on the side.
“Point,” the referee said.
Both men stepped back, saluted each other and came in. Blake feinted left with his sword, his knife striking from above. Civarisi was unable to dodge and the blow struck him on the shoulder.
“Point,” the referee said.
Civarisi was good, but after the first few seconds, Blake knew he could have ended it at almost any time. Civarisi was well-trained and fast but Blake was better trained, far more experienced and faster. He let it go on for almost five minutes longer, while the crowd watched, entranced, then with a cross-body feint and a snap kick to the knee, he brought the other man to the floor.
Civarisi frowned up at him, Blake’s sword at his throat. “I yield,” Civarisi said. He shook his head. “Well fought.”
The Primate had a huge smile on his face. “Excellent bout.” He tossed a small cloth bag toward Blake, who snatched it out of the air. The bag was part of the custom. It would contain five gold coins, signifying that the Primate could be relied upon to reward the loyal soldiers who brought him victory.
Blake saluted the Primate, bowed toward the crowd and walked over to Emilio Montoya’s table, followed by Devin, where he sat and accepted a glass of wine from his patron. “Congratulations,” Lord Montoya said. Lady Montoya favored him with a small smile, Davida with a larger one that promised much more than a smile, later in the evening.
Blake nodded back and sipped his wine. He had seriously considered letting Civarisi win. It would, to some small extent, have ameliorated Valandraud’s wounded pride and perhaps also might someday lead some future opponent to underestimate Blake…but no, he had accepted Lord Montoya’s commission. Lord Montoya had taken aim at Benedict Valandraud and was determined to displace Valandraud’s position as primary among the Houses Minor. Losing would not have been fair to his employer.
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