Devin grinned. He stepped over the edge of the fountain and sank down into the flowing water, his eyes closed in relief. “God, does that feel good,” he said.
Blake grunted. Twenty or more of the Primate’s soldiers followed Devin into the fountain. Blake sighed and willed himself to relax. They could hear fighting in the distance, but right here, right now, it was quiet. No reason not to take a quick break and sit for a few minutes. The soldiers were all well-trained. A few at a time splashed into the water. They took turns while the rest stood guard.
He gave them fifteen minutes, then heaved himself to his feet. “Time to go.”
A few sighed but nobody complained.
They encountered little further opposition. A few buildings, not far from the wall, struck by boulders from the siege engines, had collapsed. A few bodies lay on the pavement. Otherwise, the streets appeared almost empty. The soldiers of Bretagne had vanished from the streets, probably toward the palace, possibly into underground bunkers or tunnels leading out of the city. If it was the latter, then the only reasonable place for such tunnels to lead was the harbor, where they might take a ship and try to escape.
Such a plan was unlikely to work, however. Two whole battalions of their own troops had been assigned to seize the harbor. By now, the harbor should be secure.
Blake shrugged. They went on, meeting only sporadic resistance. A few short hours after charging through the walls of Lorraine, the army of Fomaut controlled the capital.
There were other cities in the nation of Bretagne, some mountain retreats, a few island fortresses, but with the fall of Lorraine and the capture of their king, Bretagne was effectively theirs.
Blake knew how it all worked; every battle—and every war—reached a tipping point, when the realization set in that defeat was certain. No sense in sacrificing yourself for a lost cause. The remaining barons would be eager to swear fealty to the Primate of Fomaut in return for being allowed to keep most of their lands and holdings. The Primate would be happy to agree—a good deal for all concerned.
Long live the Primate! Glory to Fomaut!
Blake’s company had suffered the loss of only five men, with another seven seriously injured. Fifteen more nursed minor wounds. Blake was satisfied. Casualties were unavoidable during war, and this time, happily, the casualties were low.
Each commander had been given an assignment: guard a warehouse, occupy a section of wall, patrol a neighborhood…assemble here for further instructions. The armies of Fomaut spread out across the city. A bit of looting was allowed and expected, but nothing too severe. The populace must, if Fomaut wished to avoid a sullen, ongoing insurrection, count themselves lucky and grateful to have escaped largely unscathed.
That evening, Alejandro Garcia held a feast in the Bretagnian throne room for his principal officers. Alcohol and saave, a mild hallucinogen brewed from the fleshy leaves of a succulent from the high desert of Trebizond, flowed freely. The food was the best the city had to offer, though the city’s best by now was indifferent. No matter, the feast was spiced with the taste of victory and therefore delicious.
The body of the former King was splayed out upon the floor, at the feet of his throne, three arrows impaling his bloody chest, the side of his head smashed in by a mace. If this morbid presence cast a pall on the party’s mood, none were inclined to say. The King’s sons had already been castrated, except the youngest, who could work soul-stuff and whose genes were too valuable to waste. The castrati would be taken back to Lausanne in chains, paraded before the cheering populace, and sold as slaves. The King’s three daughters would serve as concubines to the Primate, and perhaps, once he grew tired of them, given to a favorite courtier or two. None would ever be allowed to return to the nation of their birth.
Chapter 23
Emilio Montoya was granted five thousand hectares of fertile farmland, plus a small village of serfs and a manor house near the border. He was well pleased. His wealth was not yet on a par with Garcia or Vichy but was at least as great as that of Croydon and Estevez.
In wealth, Montoya had succeeded in pushing himself into the ranks of the major houses. Such an appointment took more than wealth, however. It took a history of accomplishment and a certain flair for the dramatic. A public display of devotion to the crown also didn’t hurt.
“It will come,” Emilio Montoya said. He sipped his wine, a man satisfied with himself.
Blake agreed with him. He nodded. The wine was both excellent and expensive, worthy of a celebration.
They had arrived back at Miramar on the previous afternoon. Davida had afforded Blake a hero’s welcome. By the next evening, he was still sore. Davida’s girlfriends, Blake reflected, must be a wild bunch. He was grudgingly grateful to them.
Sex was important, Blake reflected, but perhaps insufficient as the basis for a permanent relationship, though the fact that he was even vaguely contemplating a permanent relationship amazed him. Davida Montoya, however, was everything Blake had ever wanted in a woman: gorgeous, intelligent, perceptive, caring of other people, and seeming to share Blake’s outlook on life and the world. For a young woman who had grown up with every advantage that life could provide, she refused to take herself too seriously.
And she was crazy in bed. He kept coming back to that.
They had been lying together when she ran a hand down his chest, tickled his belly button with a finger, nuzzled his neck and said, “What is your history with Irina Garcia?”
Blake winced. “None,” he said. “I’ve never met her.” He hesitated. “I’ve seen her riding, with her husband.”
In the flickering candlelight, he could barely see Davida frown. He could, however, feel a doubtful puff of breath against his cheek. “I feel sorry for Thierry Garcia,” Davida said.
He stared down at the top of her head. “Why is that?”
Davida sighed. “Thierry Garcia would seem to have every advantage that a young man could ever wish for. He’s rich, good-looking, heir to a powerful House and powerful in his own right, and one of the deadliest swordsmen alive.” Davida’s voice trailed off.
“Yes?” Blake prompted.
“As a child, Thierry Garcia had a reputation as a nice boy. He was proud but not unkind. He had a dog, who followed him everywhere.” Blake could feel Davida shrug, her ample breasts sliding against his chest. “Something about Thierry’s demeanor bothered his father. His father took away the dog, and made the dog his own.”
“What did the dog think about this?” Blake asked.
“I don’t think the dog was given a choice. Neither was Thierry. I don’t really know the dynamics of the Garcia family,” Davida said, “but from what I gather, this pattern has repeated, over and over. To Alejandro Garcia, his sons, his wife, and all his relations are mere reflections of himself. They can have no independent existence. They are appendages to the family, and the family is Alejandro Garcia.”
“L’etat ‘cest moi.” Blake repressed a shudder. “And Irina?”
“Irina is Alejandro’s whore. He uses her in whatever ways he seems fit, a beautiful, seductive adornment. She exists to satisfy Alejandro’s whims. She’s had many lovers, including, at times, the Primate. I would assume that Alejandro either approves of these or he simply doesn’t care. I suspect, however, that Thierry does.”
Most would, Blake thought.
“Thierry has changed very much over the years. He is hard. He tolerates no slights and is easily moved to anger.”
“And what does Irina think of all this?”
“So far as I know, she is a willing accomplice to her father-in-law’s schemes. Her husband’s wishes seem to matter very little. Irina is said to be ambitious.”
From what he remembered of the former Irina Archer, Blake didn’t doubt it. “And why do you ask about Irina and me?” he said.
“She’s been inquiring about you.”
Irina had seen something during his fight with Michael Civarisi. Her gaze had been intent, almost fierce. Blake knew that he rese
mbled his old self, but nobody, seeing him standing next to poor, deceased Terence Allen, would think them the same person.
He hoped.
“How do you know this?”
“From Stephanie Valandraud, who heard it from Asher Reinhold, one of her lovers.”
“Stephanie seems to have a lot of lovers.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Davida giggled. “Stephanie is insatiable.”
“And who is Asher Reinhold?”
“The head of Irina Garcia’s personal guard.”
“And who is Irina Garcia asking about me? And more to the point, why?”
As a ronin with an increasing reputation, and as one now closely associated with Emilio Montoya, whose reputation was also increasing, Blake realized that he might well be a person of some general curiosity in Lausanne. Still, so far as he knew, nobody in Fomaut, beyond his contacts in the local Inquisitoria, knew anything about him beyond his public persona.
And Donal, of course, but even Donal knew him only as Blake Pierce. Donal had never heard the name Terence Allen.
“Her husband. Her husband’s friends. Her father-in-law.” Davida shrugged. “I don’t know why.”
Thierry Jorge Garcia and his father were not necessarily people whose attention Blake wished to attract. Thierry, Blake reflected, had made it a point to speak with him. He had even offered him a job. For a moment, Blake toyed with the idea of accepting it. He also toyed, and not for the first time, with the idea of slipping a knife between Thierry’s ribs.
The blood feud that Thierry Garcia had declared against Terence Allen, all those years ago, was still in effect, though nobody here knew it except him. By the laws of Fomaut, Blake had every right to kill Thierry Jorge Garcia, if he could. Thierry, himself, had given it to him.
Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
The Primate wouldn’t like it…unless he would like it. One shouldn’t automatically make assumptions…but the Primate couldn’t do a thing about it, not according to his own laws—not officially, at least. More importantly to Blake, the Viceroy wouldn’t like it. Blake had been cautioned, years ago, prior to his very first mission, to let the dead lie, to let the past remain in the past.
Thierry Garcia was a known quantity, and his father’s heir. Whoever replaced him in the hierarchy of Fomaut might prove unpredictable. The Viceroy preferred to deal with men he knew and could predict.
“What else does Stephanie Valandraud have to say?”
Davida grinned up at him through the flickering light. “She thinks you’re an attractive man. She wants to have sex with the two of us.”
“Really?” Blake thought about it. “What did you say?”
Davida huffed. “I said that I would bring the subject up.”
Clearly, Davida was not entirely agreeable to this idea, though just as clearly, she was not entirely opposed. Stephanie Valandraud…hmm… “How do you feel about that?”
“I’m uncertain.” Davida looked up at him in the dark. “Stephanie has an aggressive personality. She has this need to be on top in all her relationships. Occasionally, I find it tiresome.”
Blake distinctly remembered Robert Valandraud being on top, his buttocks flexing as he rammed himself from behind into his cousin Stephanie, but this was perhaps not exactly what Davida had meant.
“And yet she is your friend.”
“She is. I appreciate Stephanie. I enjoy spending time with her, but at the same time, I’m a bit wary of her. You’re my first man. Stephanie has had lots of men. I don’t think I’m ready to share you. She would regard it as some sort of victory. That would annoy me.”
Davida was silent for a moment. “She also wants me to have sex with herself and Robert Valandraud.”
I’ll kill him, Blake thought. The thought was instant and unforeseen, and not entirely welcome.
“And what did you say to that?” Blake asked.
“I said that for the moment, I would pass.”
Blake felt himself relax. “Good,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her on the lips.
“Come in,” Alejandro Garcia said.
The Priest entered Alejandro’s spacious office and sat in his usual chair. He said nothing, waiting for Alejandro to say whatever was on his mind. Alejandro, for his part, stared out the window at the woods bordering his enormous estate, his expression pensive. Finally, he sighed and turned back to the Priest. “How much insight do you have into the Viceroy’s thinking?” he asked.
“Very little. I am much too low in the hierarchy to be in the Viceroy’s confidence.”
“And the Cardinal? What of him?”
“I am fairly well-informed regarding the actions of the Cardinal, if not all of his thinking.”
Alejandro tapped a finger on his desk and stared at the Priest’s blandly smiling face. “I wonder, sometimes, why I pay you.”
“You pay me because I bring you useful information.”
“Dribs and drabs.” Alejandro waved a hand. “Hardly worth the price.”
The Priest shrugged. “It’s what I have. If you’re not satisfied, then you may cease paying me. I shall manage to live within my means.”
The Priest, Alejandro well knew, was bluffing. He was addicted to saave, which was readily available but expensive. His normal priestly income was insufficient to support his habit. The Priest did not know that Alejandro was responsible for his addiction, one of Alejando’s agents having first introduced him to the drug and then cultivated his dependence.
Alejandro examined the Priest’s face. He didn’t look worried. This worried Alejandro. There were other men, Alejandro reflected, to whom the Priest could sell his information, and in Alejandro’s experience, once a man committed treason, the second time was easier than the first. Would it be worth killing the Priest in order to prevent that? Alejandro inwardly shrugged. Probably not. Not yet, at least.
“What can you tell me about Blake Pierce?” Alejandro asked.
The Priest nodded his head, unsurprised. “A pious young man. He has visited the cathedral on more than one occasion.”
“Piety is a laudable trait. We should encourage it. Piety helps to control the masses and contributes positively to social cohesion.”
“And also fills our coffers.” The Priest shrugged. “As you well know, the Supreme Pontiff and the Viceroy share these goals. They both have an interest in continuing stability and social cohesion.”
“And which of these two, the Pontiff and the Viceroy, is in the pocket of whom?”
The Priest shrugged. “Beyond my paygrade.”
“So,” Alejandro said, “Blake Pierce?”
“He is always given the same confessor, one who sends regular reports to the City. I think that Blake Pierce is an agent of the Viceroy.”
Alejandro blinked, digesting this information. “This surprises me. Blake Pierce is a ronin, supposedly the son of a cobbler, from Cathay. When would he have had occasion to be recruited into the Viceroy’s service?”
“The Viceroy is a subtle man, when he wants to be, with a subtle organization. At other times, he is not subtle at all.”
“No,” Alejandro said shortly. “The Viceroy knows when to choose between the iron fist and the velvet glove.”
The Priest barely grinned. “The Viceroy has many agents in many different places. Mercenaries, for instance, wander across the world, drawn to the scent of trouble like bees seeking honey. I can hardly think of a better cover for a spy.”
Alejandro, who employed spies of his own, knew this to be true. He nodded.
“Officially,” the Priest said, “Blake Pierce is, as you said, the son of a cobbler, from the nation of Cathay. If this history is false, I wouldn’t know it.” The Priest hesitated. “Why are you interested in this man?”
Alejandro gave the Priest a brooding look. “It’s beyond your paygrade.”
The Priest shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Alejandro said. “I most definitely do.”
After the Priest left, Alejandro Garcia s
at in his chair, brooding. His daughter-in-law, he well knew, was an ambitious, dangerous woman—or could be, if given half a chance—with an agenda of her own. It pleased Alejandro, now and then, to allow Irina to service his own needs, which she did competently and with sufficient enthusiasm. A daughter-in-law should be obedient, keeping the good of her family paramount in her thoughts, and who was more important to the family than its indispensable head?
Alejandro Garcia enjoyed Irina. He enjoyed everything about her, including the crooked smile and the avaricious gleam in her eye when she thought he was not looking. The Primate, he well knew, enjoyed her as well. If these things bothered his son, Thierry, and Alejandro assumed that it did, he had learned to keep his feelings to himself. An elder son must also keep the good of his family paramount in his thoughts.
Thierry, Alejandro knew, would try to kill him one day. Alejandro had no doubt of this. Indeed, he would be disappointed in his son if he never tried. The consequences of this attempt would be a part of Thierry’s education. Unless, of course, he succeeded—doubtful but barely possible—in which case it would be a part of Alejandro’s education, for the few seconds that he had left to appreciate the irony.
Alejandro smiled ruefully to himself. So many plans…
Not for the first time, Thierry Jorge Garcia regretted ever having met the former Irina Archer. He well remembered the first time he had seen her, just turned sixteen, stepping down from her coach, a peacock blue dress hugging her figure, a small, lacy hat flaunting lavender and red flowers, with two blue ribbons perched jauntily on her curling, auburn hair. Her green eyes looked with imperious majesty at the marbled steps of the Doge’s palace.
“Who is that?” he had whispered.
He had been walking with another boy, whose name he had long since forgotten. The other boy had grinned. “Irina Archer. Be careful. I hear she enjoys breaking hearts.”
Thierry had gaped at her, his vision almost swirling. If Irina even noticed him that day, Thierry had no idea. All he knew at that instant was that he had to have her.
And to his wondrous surprise, he had…and to his endless regret, as well. He had bitterly thought that he had lost her, when she returned home to the Viceroy’s city, but he had pursued her, had persisted and had taken her from the boy she had stupidly become engaged to. He had won.
The Towering Flame Page 17
