True Power

by Gary Meehan

  He had found it: Edwyn the Third’s secret tunnel out of New Statham. It emerged by the Rustway beyond the south side of the outer wall, perfect for slipping away on a fast boat. Where did it start? Nowhere near the throne room or the royal apartments, which surprised Damon, but instead at the end of the east wing. That explained why no one had ever found it.

  A banging echoed around the room. “What’re you doing in there?” a voice demanded from out in the corridor.

  “Nothing, nothing!” Damon shouted back, hurriedly rolling the scrolls back up.

  The click of the door opening made him jump. The plans slipped out of his hands and fluttered to the floor. He tried to grab them but they slipped out of his grasp as if playing with him.

  A True soldier stood in the doorway. “What’re those?”

  “What those?” said Damon.

  “Those those,” said the soldier, pointing at the plans.

  “Oh, those.”

  The soldier crouched down. The plans had settled on the floor, one on top of the other, their ends curling around. He picked them up, his head cocking from side to side as he interpreted them. Damon inched toward the door. The soldier’s eyes narrowed. Adrenalin spiked in Damon’s veins. His nerves screamed for him to run.

  “Lines?”

  “Er . . . ?”

  “That all it is?” said the soldier. “Lines?”

  Damon breathed deeply to calm himself. “You know what it’s like. You start a grand project in good faith and get disheartened within a few minutes.”

  The soldier screwed the plans back into tubular form and held them out to Damon. Damon held back, fearful of some trap, that if he accepted them he’d be admitting some sort of guilt.

  The soldier jabbed the plans at him. “I don’t know where the sodding things go, do I?” he said.

  “Course not, course not.”

  Damon took the plans and dropped them on the nearest shelf. He’d got what he’d come for. The tunnel would get him out of the city; the coronation would distract the True long enough for him to get far away. Now he just had to find somewhere to run to.

  fifteen

  Megan watched with fascination as the tattooist worked at Afreyda’s bare back; his needle and ink in a slow dance, etching a whorl on her left shoulder. Desire pricked her own body, desire that made her want to reach out, feel the heat of the other woman’s body beneath her fingers, the softness of the skin, the hardness of the muscles. Megan swallowed down the feelings. This wasn’t the time or the place. A moan of desire came from an adjoining room. All right, maybe the tattooist’s-cum-tavern-cum-brothel was the place, but it wasn’t the time.

  She cleared her throat. Afreyda and the tattooist looked round.

  “For your parents?” said Megan, pointing to the half-formed tattoo. Diannons tattooed shapes on their body to commemorate the memories of their ancestors, a practice the witches had picked up during their stay in the empire, though Saviors knew what they commemorated.

  “I have put it off too long,” said Afreyda. She bent her head around so she could look Megan in the eye. “Do not make me get one for you.”

  “I promise.”

  Megan looked to the tattooist. “Could you give us a minute?”

  He looked back blankly. Afreyda said something to him in Hilite. He shrugged and sloped off.

  “Picked up the local lingo?” said Megan, settling herself on his abandoned stool.

  “A few phrases. Go away, come here, put it there, faster, slower.”

  “What more does a girl need?”

  They exchanged awkward grins. Megan shuffled on her stool. “We heard back from Janik,” she said.

  “The priests?” said Afreyda. “What did they say? Do they recognize you as queen?”

  “Not exactly,” said Megan. She had hoped the first victory over the witches, or at least stopping their advance for the first time, might concentrate minds, show the Faithful what could be done if they forgot about their own ambition and united. “They offered to set up a committee to examine my claim, which I understand is bureaucratese for ‘sod off.’ In the meantime, I’m to put myself and my troops under the command of the Supreme Priest.”

  “There is no Supreme Priest.”

  Not one that wasn’t smeared over the remains of the Endalays’ old palace in Eastport. “They’ve called a convocation to elect a new one,” said Megan. “Father Galan reckons Father Kimball’s going to get the job.”

  “Who is he?”

  “High Priest of Levenport.”

  “Is he a good man?” asked Afreyda.

  “According to Father Galan, his sole contribution in council was to demand tax breaks for aubergine farmers.”

  “Aubergines will not win the war.”

  “Not unless the witches have one hell of an allergy.”

  Megan leaned in close to examine Afreyda’s tattoo. Droplets of blood welled up as if the skin was weeping. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “That is the point,” said Afreyda. “But the hurt goes away and you are left with the beauty and the memories.” She pointed at a bottle of spirits. “But in the meantime, if you could . . . ?”

  After confirming Afreyda didn’t want to drink this one, Megan soaked a cloth in the spirits and dabbed. Afreyda winced at the contact. Without thinking, Megan bent forward and placed a comforting kiss on Afreyda’s shoulder. Afreyda let out a soft whimper. Megan swallowed hard. All-too-conscious of what she was doing, she kissed Afreyda again, a little harder, a little closer to the base of her neck.

  Boots stomped at the door. Megan jerked away. “Busy?” asked Willas.

  “Not particularly,” said Megan, heart fluttering. She really was going to have to start locking doors behind her.

  She re-soaked the cloth and applied it to Afreyda’s shoulder. A little too hard. Afreyda shrieked and swore at her. “Sorry.”

  “Fordel would like to see you both,” said Willas.

  “Now?”

  “You said you weren’t busy.”

  “Afreyda’s having . . .”

  “It is all right, Megan. I can come back another time.”

  Afreyda swung off the couch and began to dress, making no attempt to hide her breasts from Willas. He in turn paid her half-naked body no heed. The familiarity of barracks-life, or had he already seen it in a different context? Despite—or because of—what had just happened, jealousy stirred within Megan. It was silly, she tried to tell herself, but the two captains did spend a lot of time together and, as much as Megan wished otherwise, it wasn’t as if either was tied to anyone.

  Instead of heading to the mansion, Willas led them toward the docks.

  “Where’re we going?” asked Megan.

  “Out of the city,” said Willas. He looked apprehensive. “There’s something you should know. Aldred’s dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “The shock of sudden weight loss.”

  “That’s not funny,” snapped Megan.

  “Didn’t he try to kill you?”

  Megan shot Afreyda a look. She shrugged. “I did not realize it was meant to be a secret.”

  Megan’s anger at the pair wasn’t entirely due to their glibness at Aldred’s demise. Get a grip, she told herself. You’re meant to be a queen. Eleanor wouldn’t’ve behaved like this.

  “How did he really die, captain?”

  “He was a walking corpse when you found him,” said Willas. “No one survives the mountains, not this time of year. Surprised he got as far as he did.” He looked up to the brooding Kartiks. “Strong bastard.”

  “Did he say anything before he . . . ?”

  “Afraid not.”

  That was that. With Aldred gone and Damon who knew where, Megan would never know the truth about what had happened that day in Kewley. Maybe Aldred had had noble reasons for doing what he’d done; maybe Damon had; maybe neither had. It was in God’s hands now.

  Willas and one of Fordel’s clerks—Flóki, Megan thought his name was—helped Megan an
d Afreyda into a rowing boat. They cast off and headed down the still waters of the inlet. They skimmed past fishing vessels lumbering out to sea; raced the packs of seals who would occasionally break the surface to bark a challenge or a greeting; ducked as seabird swooped over their heads and dived into the water, emerging with a silver fish wriggling in its beak.

  The inlet meandered left then right, hiding the city behind hills and trees. Megan wondered if they were going to hit the open sea, but they docked at a ramshackle jetty. From there they trekked through a patch of pines, frost crunching beneath their boots. Their destination was a long, low hut that stood by itself among the trees and whistling wind. It was brighter inside than Megan expected. Dozens of lanterns hung from the ceiling, quiet creaks escaping their chains as drafts rocked them. Jars filled with powders and crystals and liquids of every conceivable color lined the shelves. Workbenches had been shoved against the walls to accommodate a trio of iron torsos. Guns.

  Megan looked to Willas. “You said . . .”

  “I said there was a little accident.” Willas indicated one of the guns. Looking closer, Megan could see it had ruptured, like a snake that has eaten too big a meal.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Fordel stepped forward. “The fewer people who know we have them the better.”

  “Why?”

  “The fewer people who know anything the better.” Fordel shrugged. “Plus, it’s better the witches think we no longer have them.”

  Megan swallowed her annoyance. She cleared a sheaf of papers covered with calculations from a bench and sat down, huddling into her furs. It was chilly in the hut. The fireplace contained nothing but ashes.

  Ími flitted around the guns like a child on Saviors’ Day. “These are fascinating,” he said. He looked to Afreyda. “How long have your people had them?”

  “A few years.”

  “And do you know anything about the construction?”

  “Apart from the fact it’s lousy,” said Willas.

  “It is a very brittle iron,” said Ími. “Most unsuitable for the”—he twirled his fingers, looking for the word—“pressures it must go under.”

  “Just like your swords,” Willas said to Afreyda. Her Diannon blade had been shattered by a Sandstrider during their escape from Ainsworth. “You might as well make your weapons out of cheese. At least you’d get a snack out of it.”

  Afreyda scowled. “What is it you want?”

  Ími pried open a barrel and scooped up a handful of gunpowder, which he let drain through his fingers. “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s in this?” he said, looking at Afreyda. “Sulfur, obviously, from the smell. Charcoal. But there’s something else. Something that makes it go bang.”

  “I do not know,” said Afreyda. “It is the Emperor’s secret.”

  “You didn’t try to find out when you had your little rebellion?” asked Fordel.

  “Please think,” said Ími. “Do you remember any rumors, overhear any speculation what was in it? Any kind of clue. Something I can start experimenting with.”

  “Always with the experiments,” said Fordel, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

  Afreyda shook her head. “I am sorry. I know nothing.”

  “Hmm.” Ími pursed his lips. “What about something your Emperor was very keen to keep to himself?”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Well, obviously he wanted gold and silver and iron and farmland, but what about something that made you go, ‘What does he want with that?’”

  “No,” said Afreyda, frowning. She gave an apologetic shrug. “I cannot . . . Wait . . . during the rebellion, we heard he had ordered a regiment to secure the p’ta caves.”

  “P’ta?”

  “I do not know the Stathian word,” said Afreyda. “It’s what comes out of bats.”

  “Bats . . . ?”

  Afreyda let out a sequence of screeches and flapped her hands. “Bats.”

  “Yes, I know what bats are. But, please, do that again. It was funny.”

  Ími browsed the jars lining the walls. “Aha!” He pulled down a jar filled with a salt-like substance and unscrewed the lid. “This the stuff?”

  Afreyda peered into the jar. “It could be. What do you call it?”

  “Sápet. I don’t know what the Stathian is either.”

  “Saltpeter,” said Fordel. “The Hálforans used it for fertilizing crops and curing sausage.”

  “And now we can use it for explosions,” said Ími. “It does explain why Hálforan sausage always gives me heartburn.”

  Willas coughed loudly. Fordel gave him a warning look. “If it is the right thing,” he said to Ími.

  “There’s only one way we’ll find out. Of course, we’ll have to find the correct proportions. The correct way of mixing it. Stuff that goes bang might go bang at exactly the wrong time.”

  “I’m not going to see you for the next few days, am I?” said Fordel.

  “You wouldn’t want me any other way, vulfi.”

  Willas sniggered. “Vulfi?” asked Megan.

  “It means ‘adorable little wolf cub,’” said Willas.

  “Just ‘wolf cub,’” said Fordel with a sigh.

  “I think the ‘adorable’ and ‘little’ are implied.”

  “Whichever,” said Megan, “it’s very sweet.”

  Fordel rolled his eyes. “This is all very well,” he said, flipping off the bench, “but we’ve all got work to do.” He gave Ími a kiss. “Try not to blow yourself up.”

  “I’ll take every precaution,” said Ími. He beckoned at Flóki, who had been observing proceedings quietly from the door. “This is how I want you to start . . .”

  When they docked back in Hil a servant was waiting to tell Megan Rekka was expecting her. Megan wondered if this was some power-play game cooked up by Rekka and Fordel, to have her scurrying this way and that, show her who was in charge. She thought of refusing the summons, but Afreyda and Willas had already presumed her acquiescence and after a brief goodbye had departed for the barracks in deep conversation.

  Megan found Rekka in the Lord Defender’s study along with the ash-blonde woman Megan recognized from the council table. Rekka smiled insincerely and hobbled to Megan. She was still using the stick, though the severity of her hobble depended on the number of people actively observing it.

  “Your Majesty,” said Rekka, “let me introduce Skúla, the ambassador from Trávi.” Trávi was the smallest of the Snow Cities, way off to the northeast of Werlavia.

  “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Majesty,” said Skúla, curtsying. Her Stathian was good but accented, with a slight slur around the s.

  “Er, you too, Lady Skúla.”

  Skúla stood there expectantly. Rekka’s gaze flicked to the couch the ambassador had vacated. Megan realized what was required of her.

  “Please, sit,” Megan said, wishing Eleanor had fitted some etiquette lessons in with all the knife fighting.

  Skúla did as bid. Megan took the couch opposite. Rekka made a great play of fetching wine. Megan waited until the glass was in her hand before affecting concern.

  “Is your knee still playing up?” she said. “You should have said something. I could have got the drinks.”

  Rekka smiled sourly. Skúla took a sip from her glass. “Percadian?”

  “Make the most of it,” said Rekka, nodding. “We only have a few barrels left.”

  It just tasted wine-y to Megan.

  “How did the archers we sent get on?” said Skúla.

  “They . . . um . . . arrived,” said Megan. The Trávians had sent a single squad, which had impressed Willas and Afreyda no start. Megan didn’t recall them making up in quality what they lacked in quantity.

  “We would have liked to send more, but we needed to defend the Death Pass. Don’t want the witches sneaking around the back way.”

  Megan thought anywhere called the Death Pass could look after itself. She’d possibly pushed her lack of
gratitude as far as diplomatically wise though. “Every contribution is valued.”

  “I understand the witches contributed to their own defeat.”

  “Huh?”

  “You captured some of their guns?”

  Megan thought about what Fordel had said, about keeping the existence of the guns secret. She assumed that meant from their own allies. Especially from their own allies, knowing Fordel.

  “Briefly,” she said. “They blew themselves up.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  Rekka swung her injured leg on to the couch next to Megan. “Do you mind?” she said. “Bit of a twinge.”

  Megan inched away from the invading leg as much as possible. Rekka leaned back and called out. A few moments later, one of her daughters scurried in. Vega, the oldest: a teenager who was all spindly limbs and copper tresses. She crouched by her mother and started to massage the back of her knee. Rekka let out a sigh of contentment. Perhaps her injury really was troubling her.

  “Have you given any thought to your coronation?” Skúla asked Megan.

  Coronation? That sounded a little premature, considering only a tiny fraction of the Realm recognized her claim and even then only as the least worst option.

  “Been a bit busy,” said Megan. “Besides, where does one pick up a crown these days?”

  “Funny you should ask that. Yrsa, be a dear and get me that box over there.”

  Yrsa—which one was Vega then? was there a Vega?—abandoned her mother and scuttled over to the desk. She retrieved a wooden box, so old dust was embedded in the grain, and placed it in front of the fire between Megan and Skúla.

  Skúla gestured to Yrsa. “If you would . . .” Yrsa struggled with the lid. It was jammed on tight. “You need to give it a good yank.”

  “Good lesson in many areas of life,” said Rekka.

  Yrsa pulled hard, rocking backward as the lid came off. Her eyes went wide as she peered inside. Her mouth dropped. The lid slipped out of her hand.

  “Don’t gawkgawp, dear,” said Skúla. “Show the queen.”

  Yrsa reached into the box and pulled out a crown, a latticework of gold with six tines that arced over and met in a circle in the middle. Grime had settled in the ridges, but the bodywork still shone enough to reflect the fire, the images of flames giving an illusion of life.