From the corner of his eye, he noticed Irina Archer. She was staring at him, her gaze intent, her face pale. Blake allowed his eyes to slide past her, as if he had no idea who she was. He stifled a yawn behind his fist and poured another glass of wine.
A trumpet sounded. From one corridor, marched Thierry Jorge Garcia, with two seconds. Blake blinked. One of Thierry’s seconds had a face that he recognized. The last time he had seen that face, its owner was dropping toad venom into Terence Sergei Allen’s wineglass; Ranald, standing tall and proud in the colors of House Garcia.
From the other side of the chamber came an enormous man with a thick brown beard, cold blue eyes and a scar running from the corner of his mouth to just beneath his left eye.
“Lars Sorenson,” Lord Montoya said. “He’s the combat instructor to Lord Croydon’s forces.”
“He appears formidable,” Blake said.
Lord Montoya grinned. “An understatement. The man is a tree trunk.”
Garcia and Sorenson faced each other and bowed. “Begin,” the referee said.
Thierry and Sorenson eyed each other, intent, each holding their weapons. Thierry shifted his weight to the left. Sorenson turned very slightly to face him. Thierry struck, a move like flowing liquid. Sorenson, for all his bulk, retreated, light on his feet.
Their swords clashed, three ringing blows, four, then five. They separated and began to circle.
“They’ve fought seven times before,” Lord Montoya said. “Garcia has won four. Sorenson is the only man who has ever beaten him.”
Blake sipped his wine. Apparently, the name and deeds of the long since deceased Terence Sergei Allen had been officially forgotten.
Sorenson struck with his rapier. Thierry flicked the blade aside with the tip of his knife and aimed a kick at Sorenson’s groin. The larger man turned to the side. Thierry’s foot struck him on the outside of the thigh, doing no apparent damage.
Sorenson stalked forward. Thierry smiled and met him, their swords dancing. Sorenson grunted. Both men stepped back. A thin trickle of blood dripped from Sorenson’s arm.
“Point,” the referee said.
“Tell me, Blake,” Lord Montoya said. “Could you beat him?”
“Which one?”
Lord Montoya grinned. “Either one of them.”
“Maybe,” Blake said.
Lord Montoya laughed softly and sipped his brandy. Truthfully, Blake was uncertain. Watching, he could identify no real weakness in either man’s technique. Sorenson was obviously stronger, but he relied on skill as much as strength. Garcia was perhaps just a touch quicker.
The two men came together, blades moving almost too fast to be seen. They separated, circled, clashed again, then again.
Sorenson tended to drop his point before attacking. It was slight, but consistent. Something to watch. It was also absolute bullshit. A man as experienced as Lars Sorenson would never have allowed a habit so predictable to creep into his technique. Thierry evidently realized it, too. He stepped back, smiled at Sorenson, who gave a small shrug, and then charged.
Their swords clashed, again too quick for the spectators to see exactly what was happening, and at the end of it, Thierry had a small cut on the shoulder but had scored a hit against the bigger man’s chest.
“Bout,” the referee said.
Sorenson sighed and gave the other man a grudging smile, saluted him with his sword and walked out.
The festivities were over, the start of battle consecrated by the words of their Heavenly Father and the blood of four champions. As they walked from the room, with Lord and Lady Montoya in front, Devin and the rest of the guard behind, and Davida Montoya companionably at his side, he could still, from the corner of his eye, see Irina Archer, her lips parted, eyes huge in her pale face, staring after him.
Chapter 21
“Come in, Blake. Sit down.”
Lord Montoya was sitting in his favorite chair near the fire. Another man sat in a second chair, across from the low table. Bottles of wine and brandy and three glasses sat on the table, two of them half filled with wine.
The second man appeared young, but then, they all did. Something about his eyes, though, the way that he examined Blake as he walked into the room said that this man was much older than he looked.
“This is a friend.” Lord Montoya waved a hand at the second man, who grinned. “Siegfried Connery.”
“Call me Siggy.” His eyes glinted merrily. “Everybody does.”
Siegfried Connery was tall and lean, but his face was tanned and his hands appeared strong. He wore a gold pin, in the shape of an oak leaf, on his chest.
“Siggy spends much of his time travelling. He’s only just returned from Venecia.”
Siggy nodded. “Venecia is a nation in the process of falling apart. Much opportunity for enterprising men to take advantage.” He grinned.
“I wanted Siggy to meet you, Blake,” Lord Montoya said.
Blake poured a little brandy into the third glass and sank down into the padded couch. He nodded to Siegfried Connery. “A pleasure,” he said.
“Siggy is an antiquarian. He has a particular interest in people like you.”
Blake frowned at the gold pin on Siggy’s chest. “I’ve seen a pin like that before.”
“Have you?” Siggy raised an eyebrow. “Where would that be.”
“The Summer Fair in Varanisi, many years ago.”
“Fat? Smiling? Straw colored hair?”
“Indeed.”
“That would be Brother Albus, a member, like myself, of the Antiquarians Guild.”
“And are you, then, Brother Siggy?”
“I am.”
“I’ve never heard of an ‘Antiquarians Guild.’”
“The organization is informal. We are not recognized as such by the Inquisitoria.”
No, Blake thought. He imagined not. He glanced at Lord Montoya. “And why did you wish the two of us to meet? And what did you mean by ‘people like me?’”
“You’re strong with phrygium. Siggy has a particular interest in the subject of phrygium.”
Siggy leaned forward. “Have you ever wondered how we came to be here, on this world?” Siggy said.
Blake shrugged. “The Empire of Mankind settled, or so we are told, over two-thousand worlds.”
“Yes,” Siggy said, “but why this world? Why us?”
“Why not this world? The air can be breathed. The climate is hospitable. How many such worlds are there?” Blake glanced at Lord Montoya, sitting comfortably in his chair, sipping his wine. “Empires seek to expand their domains, to spread themselves far and wide. It’s human nature.”
“The little we know of our ancient history tells us that the expansion of mankind beyond the home worlds was not easy, and not without incident. Other races lived among the stars, and some disputed the spread of mankind.”
Blake had never considered such a thing, though now that it had been stated, it seemed reasonable, even obvious. Any race, human or alien, that did not seek to defend its own territory, would soon lose it. “I can imagine that this would be so.”
“The Empire,” Siggy said, “sought to maintain hegemony among all men, but it was not deliberately hostile to alien races. It did not seek to destroy other intelligent beings, though it did not hesitate to do so if such beings posed a threat. In some cases, the Empire allied with them, and in others, more than a few such races sought to join the Empire, to participate fully in its politics and society. Such requests were usually granted.
“The Empire placed our ancestors here, on this world, in order to concentrate the genetic predisposition to weave what we now call ‘soul-stuff.’ Phrygium. There is nothing supernatural about phrygium. It isn’t magic. The brain, like every other organ in the body, uses and manipulates energy. Our hearts beat. Our muscles contract. Our brains contain trillions of connections between billions of cells, using electro-chemical energy to generate thought and consciousness. And some brains possess the ability to detect and
to manipulate such energy. This is phrygium.
“The Empire of Mankind had enemies, and some of these enemies were human. Not every world remained a loyal member of the Empire. Some wished to go their own way. Some revolted. The Empire had an endless need for soldiers, and the ability to reach out with one’s mind, silently and unseen, seemed an attribute worth cultivating.
“They took those people who possessed such an ability and isolated them here, so that the genes would concentrate and grow strong. Even now, the Magisterium and the Inquisitoria identify those with the ability. They are prized, and their status in our societies is high.”
Blake sipped his brandy. Everything that this antiquarian said made sense. “Why is this secret? And how do you know of it?”
“None of it is secret.”
“No? This is never spoken of. Nobody seems to know it.”
Lord Montoya frowned. His two dogs, both very large, very tame mixed breeds, raised their heads from their places on either side of Lord Montoya’s chair. The fire crackled, sending a shower of sparks upward into the chimney.
“The Inquisitoria knows it,” Siggy said. “The Viceroy. Some others.”
“The Antiquarians Guild,” said Blake.
Siggy nodded. “The experiment has not been as successful as the Empire might have wished. There is no single gene that endows one with the power to weave soul-stuff. The inheritance is multi-factorial. Many genes influence the ability, each working upon the other. Certainly, the citizens of this world are, on average, stronger in the uses of phrygium than were the people of the Empire, but even today, fewer than one in ten has any trace of the ability, and only a small percentage of those can manipulate more than a few specks of dust at a time.”
“Frankly,” Blake said, “it always seemed to me a talent of little real use.”
Lord Montoya frowned.
“That is debatable,” Siggy said. “Consider, for instance, a machine, a large machine, one that can lift tons of dirt, or propel hundreds of people through the sky. The Empire possessed many such machines. One would not have to be able to match a machine’s abilities in order to control its functions. The ability to work with phrygium would have a myriad of uses in a technological society.”
“But we don’t have such a society.”
“No, of course not. The Viceroy, and through the Viceroy, the Inquisitoria, has forbidden it.”
The fire crackled. Lord Montoya sipped his brandy, a strange, knowing expression on his face. Blake cleared his throat, feeling as if something momentous was about to be revealed. “We are taught, in scholium, and by the Inquisitoria, that such things are forbidden to us because we became greedy, that we forgot our proper place, and defied the will of the Anointed.”
Siggy smiled. “This is the truth—quite literally. Abilities grow when they are used. Technology, as you have pointed out, enables us to manipulate the material world by artificial means, through constructs, and machinery, without phrygium. Even so, a certain level of technology was not forbidden to us for at least one thousand years after the founding. Then things changed.”
Siggy sighed, peered down into his wineglass and raised it to his lips.
“And what changed?”
“The Empire changed. It vanished, or so we surmise. Men ceased to travel among the stars, or at least, they ceased to travel here. Many citizens of many nations on this world then decided that the mandate of the Imperator could be ignored or was no longer operative. They built ships. They tried to leave.
“We are not allowed to leave, not until the Empire gives us permission to do so. The dead cities are sad reminders of this fact.”
“But the Empire,” Blake said, “or so you surmise, no longer exists.”
“This is true, but all of us, and this includes the Inquisitoria and the Viceroy, are bound by its strictures. The Viceroy will enforce the Imperator’s will. He has no choice. It is the reason for his existence.”
“How do you know all this?”
Siggy shrugged. “Much of the data regarding the founding and our history, and even some of it regarding the technology of the ancients, was spread widely, before it was suppressed. The Antiquarians Guild has preserved some small part of it.” He grinned wanly. “We are always searching for more.”
“And what do you want with me?”
Siggy glanced at Lord Montoya, who sipped his wine and stared into the fire.
“What is the future to hold for us? We are subject to the will of an Empire long vanished, trapped on this one small world, all of our aspirations suppressed. We want mankind to advance once more, to regain the knowledge that has been kept from us, to join the community of worlds, if it still exists.”
“Grandiose ambitions,” Blake said.
“Indeed, but all of us have ambitions. Ambition, for one thing or another, is the common lot of mankind. It’s what propelled us down from the trees and out among the stars. Without ambition, the human race would long since have gone extinct.”
Blake was not quite so fond of ambition as Siggy. Ambition, in Blake’s opinion, was just as likely to lead to death, destruction and apocalypse as any positive outcome. Still, he could see the other man’s point.
“But you haven’t answered my question: what do you want with me?”
“In a sense, you, and the few others like you, are the culmination of the Empire’s plans. It occurred to us, long ago, that there might be more than one way for us to remove the Empire’s yoke from around our necks, and that is to convince the Viceroy and the Inquisitoria that the Empire’s goals for this world have been achieved.”
“By me?”
Siggy sighed. “Perhaps.” He smiled ruefully and shook his head. “A forlorn hope, I will admit it. Still, what is a life without hope?”
Blake was to think of that conversation often in the coming days, particularly when slogging through the mud and the rain in the middle of a cloudy night. A life without hope…everybody had hopes, things that they desired and wished for. It occurred to Blake then, that ‘hope’ and ‘ambition’ were much the same thing. Siegfried Connery’s hopes were larger but more remote than most. The Primate of Fomaut, Blake suspected, wanted to rule the world. Emilio Montoya wanted to elevate the status of House Montoya. And if he accomplished that goal, what then? Probably, to rule the world. Many men, and not a few women, wanted the same thing, and if any of them managed to achieve it, would they then be content?
Blake, right here and right now, hoped for the rain to end, for tomorrow to dawn bright and clear. And for the return of a little warmth, let us not forget warmth.
Terence Sergei Allen, gentleman of leisure and content to be so, would not have agreed with Siegfried Connery’s assessment of mankind. Not entirely, at least. Some men were content with what they had, but then, young Terence Sergei Allen had quite a lot to be content with.
Blake sighed, and shook his head. It was not at all a good idea to allow his imagination to run away with him. The rain was still dripping from the brim of his hat. He was in enemy territory. He needed to focus.
Emilio Montoya paid an excellent salary. His men were good. They had started out that way and Blake had helped to make them better. They surrounded him in the woods, flitting from tree to tree to copse to pile of fallen leaves, barely seen.
The Primate demanded and the Primate received. The original request for one twentieth of each Lord’s available forces had been raised to a tenth, following the obliteration of the original army invading Bretagne.
Emilio Montoya, like all his fellows, had been happy to comply, knowing that a successful war would increase his own holdings, power and influence. Blake Pierce, selected to lead Lord Montoya’s contribution to the combined army, was considerably less satisfied with the arrangement. Lord Montoya would remain safely behind in his castle while Blake would seek an ephemeral glory in the cold and the rain.
Blake held up a hand, the signal to halt, and surveyed the terrain. A patch of woods extended down a hill and opened up into a
clearing. In the clearing, perhaps fifty Bretagne troops were encamped. Blake was gratified to find that his scouts had accurately assessed the situation.
While the major part of the Primate’s forces had already made their way into Bretagne through mountain passes to the South, in this province, the invasion consisted of a series of infiltrations, small bands of men circling through the woods, hoping to come upon the enemy unawares. It was a game of cat and mouse, tread softly and hope not to be seen, and never forget that it wasn’t a game at all, and scoring points off an opponent in the cold and the rain would win you neither a few gold coins nor the respect of your neighbors.
At least half of the soldiers sleeping in that clearing, and at least a few of Blake’s own men, would be dead within the hour.
Blake crouched, his back to a tree, watching, while a steady drizzle dripped down the visor of his helmet. The Bretagnians had posted sentries. By now, all the sentries should have been neutralized, either silently killed or disabled. Finally, satisfied, Blake held up a hand, clenched his fist and made a circular motion. He heard barely a rustle through the leaves as all one hundred of his men spread out around the camp.
Fifteen minutes later, he made a hooting sound, simulating an owl’s cry. It was the signal. His men charged, Blake among them, sword and knife in hand. The Bretagnians slept with their weapons close by and they woke up fast. A soldier, snarling, threw himself at Blake. Blake parried his rapier, then three of Blake’s men thrust blades into his chest. He fell at their feet, still glaring defiance.
It was a slaughter. More than half the Bretagnians died as they scrambled out of their tents. The rest managed to grab a weapon and tried to fight but they were out of their armor, outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. It was over within minutes.
“Bring the officers to my tent,” Blake ordered. “Let’s hear what they have to say.”
A few minutes later, five officers, dazed, angry and disheveled, their hands tied behind their backs, stood before him, while Blake lounged in a camp chair, sipping coffee. Each officer had two of Blake’s men on either side.
“Did you have a plan, gentlemen?” Blake asked. “Or were you simply here to occupy space?”
The Towering Flame Page 15
