The servant sighed and reached into a pouch at his belt for the coin. Had it been earlier in the day she expected he would have haggled. As it was, his little mistress’s wrath proved too fearsome to be risked. Smiling, Sarine pocketed the payment, rolled the parchment into a tight tube, and wrapped it with a piece of twine tied in a simple bow knot. She handed it over with another curtsy and watched them go, sauntering down the street at the child’s pace.
She sat back down on the hot stones, reclining against the embankment behind her. Did the nobles notice, she wondered, the stares following them as they walked? Their world had an undeniable beauty to it, an allure she had indulged in often enough for it to be a permanent fixture in her idle bouts of fancy. But half the city was starving, and the rest close enough to shave with the difference. Like as not the nobles thought the stares that followed them were envy, if they noticed them at all, and the commonfolk knew better than to show anything more. Here in the market, the best way to an easy coin was deference, and respect.
Zi lay on his back, his scales glinting bright green in the midday sun. He seemed to struggle to find the right angle before relaxing and letting his body uncoil across the pavement stones. Frustrating that he refused to allow her to sketch him. A glint of mischief in her eye, she turned to a blank page in front of her, set one of her charcoals to the paper, and—
Don’t.
His gemstone eyes were locked on to her, a flush of red creeping into the scales around his long face.
“Only playing with you, Zi.”
Sketch them instead.
She turned to look, finding a pair of blue-uniformed city watchmen making their way through the crowd. Her stomach sank, remembering the thundercracks and blood from the Maw. It appeared these two were beelining for a street vendor, a thin man in spectacles with a crate lying open atop a blanket he’d spread on the ground. A pamphleteer, though this one hadn’t been hawking his text with the wordsmiths’ usual fervor. She hadn’t noticed him, or hadn’t paid especial attention anyway. Now she craned her neck to see, along with the rest of the street’s occupants.
At first the watchmen stopped and spoke to the pamphleteer, and the man nodded as if in response to a question. She gasped along with the rest of the crowd when they struck him, leather-clad fists taking the man by surprise. He spit blood, eliciting a horrified shriek from passersby as they scrambled out of the way. The watchmen struck again, and the pamphleteer crumpled into a ball atop his blanket. His spectacles clattered onto the stone as one of the watchmen continued yelling curses at him. The other turned his attention to the man’s crate, giving it a swift kick, splintering the wood and scattering straw and paper into the street. He called out, his voice ringing above the now deathly silent market.
“Fantiere’s filth is banned, by order of the Duc-Governor.” He gave the crate another kick. “Possession of banned texts will result in arrest and detainment.”
The first watchman pulled the street vendor to his feet, holding him up while he clapped iron manacles around the man’s wrists. Together they shambled away toward the guardhouse at the district boundary. The other watchman trailed behind them, picking up the ruined crate, made all the more difficult to carry by having destroyed it for the sake of spectacle. A cloak of silence hung over the street’s occupants until the ignoble procession disappeared from view.
And then the market erupted.
Some fled the scene, eager to be away from the violence hanging in the air. Others set to gossip, sharing what they’d seen with each other and newcomers alike. Many, many more inquired as to the contents of the now-forbidden crate. She managed to catch the title in a hurried exchange as a pair of would-be readers rushed past her display: Treatise on the Virtues, by Jaquin Fantiere. It sounded like a religious text, though she suspected from the reaction she’d just witnessed that it was not.
“Here,” a man said in a flat voice, handing her a sheaf of paper. She blinked in surprise.
“What? Who are you?” she stammered, accepting the proffered document by reflex. The man was a common citizen by the look of him, dressed in simple attire. “What is this?”
The man made no reply, only turned and walked down the street.
It seemed like you wanted to read it.
“Zi!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting to the title of the pamphlet in her hand. Sure enough, Treatise on the Virtues. She wheeled around and stuffed it into her pack, glaring at her companion. He’d done something to provoke the man, clear enough, but asking after Zi’s gifts was like trying to squeeze rain from a bank of morning fog. He’d never told her anything about what he could do, and said as much now, lowering his head to lie flat on the stones, his scales a mix of green and purple as he took in the goings-on around them.
Her heart thrummed as she glanced about, expecting someone to have noticed the odd exchange. A few moments passed before the street settled back into a semblance of normalcy. If anyone had noticed, they gave no sign, though that was no guarantee.
“This is lovely, dear, did you do this yourself?”
The voice startled her back to the moment. A woman looked up at her, lines on her face creasing around a smile.
“Yes, it’s a drawing of the Sacre-Lin chapel,” she said. “The main relief. I have a dozen or so, in different angles.” She gestured to a few more of her sketches, displayed in rows along the edge of the street.
“Lovely.” The woman paced a few steps, admiring them.
“A copper penny if you fancy any in particular.”
The woman considered for a few more moments before selecting one of the drawings of the chapel’s smallest glass window. The Oracle’s stern gaze rose from the page, charcoals capturing the distant look in the Goddess’s milky-white eyes. She accepted the woman’s coin with thanks, and a blessing.
By now the market had returned to its business in full, only a low hum of rumors suggesting the earlier excitement. She supposed that was how the people of the city bore it, living their lives in the shadow of the powerful: hope you escaped notice and make the best of whatever good fortune came your way. There was a certain virtue in that. The Exarch may extoll them to courage, vigilance, adherence to duty, but the Commoner preached keeping one’s head down. She laughed to herself at her private blasphemy. Her uncle would not appreciate her inventing new Gods, nor ascribing them virtues mocking the paths of Tritheticism. But what use were the virtues of heroic Gods, inspiring men and women to mighty deeds, when one’s most pressing concerns were scraping together enough coin to buy food and hoping the city watch didn’t take an interest in your affairs?
Her stomach twisted at the thought, recalling the contents of her pack. At least if it came to it, she had her gifts, and Zi’s. The combination had always been enough to keep her safe, to escape the notice of the watch, the priesthood, and the darker sorts, the toughs and street gangs she’d avoided growing up on the streets of the Maw.
“I knew it must be you,” a voice said from behind. “Please, don’t run.”
She turned and found herself face-to-face with the man in the red coat.
“Please,” the man repeated, holding his hands upraised and empty.
Words went dry in her throat. It was the same man she’d seen in the Harbor, and again in the Maw, of a surety. Middling height, on the old side of young, with the beginnings of creases in his skin but no wrinkles or gray in his hair. His red coat was every bit as fine as it had looked from a distance, with the sort of embroidery and rich velvet one paid for in gold, not silver. He wore a long, sheathed knife on his belt rather than the dueling sword favored by some among the noblemen, but otherwise she would have considered him right at home among the denizens of the Gardens, or perhaps the wealthiest merchants of Southgate.
Green, came the thought from Zi.
She frowned, which by itself seemed to elicit a look of surprise from the man. He recovered quickly, offering her an easy smile, the sort certain types of men practiced alone with a mirror before they used it in p
ublic.
“Who …” she began, then started again. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re an artist,” he said, looking over her sketches.
“I am,” she said, though instinct carried her a step forward, to interpose herself between him and her drawings. She’d seen this man scatter guardsmen like alley cats, thieving crates of goods from the Harbor and doing something to freeze half a city block of citizens and city watchmen in the Maw. He was dangerous, to say the least, whatever his proclivities for charity. If not for her sketches she might have run, same as she did before. But he took his time, as though he were no more threatening than any other customer perusing her work, as though she were any of a dozen vendors on the street.
“Such detail.” The man paused in front of one of her portraits of the ships in the harbor. “Tell me, these sketches, you did them from life, from observation?”
“Yes,” she replied, still on her guard.
“Do you always work from life?” he asked nonchalantly, thumbing through some more. She nodded.
Then he picked up a sketch of the nobles lounging on the Rasailles green.
“W-when I can.”
“Of course. These really are exceptional. Such a gift.”
“My lord, what is it exactly you want?”
He picked up one of the portraits, a sketch of the building where the Council-General, the elected assembly for the commonfolk, met to do whatever it was they did, ostensibly on behalf of the citizens of the colonies.
“I’ll take this one. And I’m no lord, merely one of the fools who sit on this council.” He made a slight gesture with the portrait to indicate his meaning. “This is a wonderful rendition of the council halls.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it when he reached into his purse and produced a gold mark.
“Yours, as a token of good faith. For the portrait, and your name.”
Suspicion flared as she looked between him and his gold.
“I saw you,” she said. “In the Maw.”
“Yes. And I promise you, I bear you no ill will. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“I also saw you in the Harbor, the day the Queen Allisée arrived in port.”
That gave him pause, his smile slipping for a moment.
“So,” he said. “It seems we already know some measure of each other’s secrets.”
Fear coursed through her. Did he mean he knew about her Faith? If he meant to threaten her, she knew damned well the magistrates would take a wealthy man at his word, no matter how absurd the claim. But he raised a hand in a calming gesture before he spoke.
“I assure you, whatever you think I am about, you will not find my message amiss.” He brandished the coin again. “Instead of suspicion, let this be the start of trust between us.”
“A gold mark, for the sketch, and my name?”
He nodded. “And a chance to speak further. That’s all I ask.”
“Sarine, then.” She reached to take the gold from his hand. “My name is Sarine.”
“A great pleasure to meet you, Sarine. My name is Reyne d’Agarre.”
At that moment another pair of city watchmen trotted into view at the end of the square, and d’Agarre grimaced. “This is a poor place for further conversation.” He tucked the rolled-up parchment into his belt pouch. “I’ll send an invitation to my salon. We can speak there, and come to a better mutual understanding.”
She frowned. She wasn’t about to refuse a gold mark, but neither would she betray her uncle’s trust by telling a stranger in the market where to send his invitation. Yet he didn’t give her a chance to reply, striding away as he called back to her.
“Watch for my letter. We will meet again.”
11
ERRIS
The Battle of Villecours, Left Flank
Sarresant Territory, Near the Coast
Hold, men!” she cried, wheeling her saber above her head. “Hold the line! Hold for Sarresant!”
Beside her, musket shots streaked through the meager protection of a guttering Shelter binding. Men fell. The smell of blood mixed with the screams of the dying. And still the enemy approached.
She’d started the day’s action with the first company of Field-Captain Regalle’s artillery but had long since committed herself to plugging gaps in the lines of the 9th Infantry. They protected the Sarresant army’s left flank, and the enemy was probing them, testing for weaknesses. They had fought for the better part of the morning, hotly engaged for the last hour.
A column of enemy muskets advanced past the safety of their makeshift fortification, trotting forward onto the deadly ground between their lines. Ox shit on a plate. These were fresh troops, and her right flank was already engaged. Had the enemy already committed reserves to this attack? How many of the Gods-damned Gandsmen were there on this battlefield?
“Hold, men,” she called once more. “Prepare for action. Hold fire until they’re on us.”
The men beside her went through the steps to reload with practiced efficiency. Tear the cartridge, pour the powder and ball, ram it down the barrel, set the cap, cock the hammer. A good soldier could fire three shots per minute. A far cry from the six-shot revolvers carried by the officers, but accurate to five hundred paces or more on a clear day, whereas her pistol was good for close-up work and little else.
She turned and called another order over her shoulder. “Sights to three hundred paces.”
The infantry captains took up her order, repeating the command up and down the line. The sharpshooters, men who had earned four and five stripes on their sleeves, stood twenty paces up the hill behind them. She’d committed the rest of her reserve to filling the lines. She trusted the sharpshooters to fire through the line, in spite of the risk of hitting their own. It was an edge, and she needed every advantage on offer.
Cannon fire whistled overhead as the enemy came into range. Gand soldiers howled and collapsed, but still they pressed on, a seemingly endless wave of red coats closing across the open field.
“Volley at three hundred paces,” she called out, waiting for the enemy line to approach. Twenty more paces. Ten. “Fire.”
A rippling thundercrack went off along her line, ringing a high-pitched whine in her ears. At this range Sarresant soldiers were deadly accurate, and through the musket smoke the front rank of the Gandsmen fell as if they had choreographed it for a dance. Still they came. Gods damn it, there were so many.
“Reload,” came the order from her officers.
She made a quick estimate of the numbers on the opposite side of the field as she watched the outline of enemy soldiers advancing through the fog of her volley. She’d take a single Sarresant marksman over a half dozen of their counterparts from Gand, but those were about the odds they faced today, if she had to guess. At least the odds that were left to them after the morning’s disastrous charge into the enemy center. Gods-damned virgin-blooded fool, whoever ordered that massacre. She held now along the left flank to try to provide cover as the Sarresant army retreated and regrouped. At least those were the orders high command sent by courier two hours past. She had other ideas. But for now, her position was being charged by at least a regiment of fresh reserves.
“Second volley,” she called. “Fire.”
Another belch of smoke and flame, and another rank of Gandsmen fell to decorate the grass. This time they were close enough to hear the screams. Two hundred paces. Closer. The enemy stopped to drop to a knee and send a volley into her line, musket shot knifing through the air around her as men screamed and fell.
She called another order over the top of the chaos. “Bayonets!”
The call was repeated, accompanied by the shink of metal being drawn and affixed to the barrels of their guns. From the look of it the Gandsmen were reloading to prepare another volley. Good. No better time to strike than when the enemy would be distracted ramming powder down their barrels.
“Charge!”
She bared her teeth, letting loose a battl
e cry picked up by her soldiers as they rose from behind their fortifications and swept toward the enemy line. A few stray shots rang out from enemy soldiers who’d been quick to reload. But no concentrated fire, and if she was lucky, little time for them to aim. Roars came from behind as Regalle’s heavy guns spat out their last shots before her charge impacted the enemy line.
One hundred paces. Fifty. Close enough she could see fear in the Gandsmen’s eyes, facing down hundreds of screaming-mad Sarresant soldiers led by a commander who’d decided an old-fashioned mêlée was preferable to letting them threaten to sweep past her flank.
The lines collided.
Tethering Body and Life, Erris tore through the enemy’s front rank in a flurry of blood and steel. She danced ahead of the bayonet palisade, ducking as a pair of fresh-faced Gand soldiers lunged at her together. One of them she parried with her saber, shoving herself backward behind the other one’s guard. She channeled leyline energy, punching the second soldier in the mouth. Without the binding she might have broken some teeth. With it she caved his skull in around her fist, soaking her forearm in blood. In the same motion she shoved off the second soldier’s body and spun toward the first, landing a deep cut, dropping him where he stood.
She went to work, an elegant dance from soldier to soldier. Her steel flashed around their bayoneted rifles, almost too fast to see. A cry went up in the Gand tongue: “Fullbinder! Fullbinder!” The least of their worries. She couldn’t maintain bindings at this strength for long without tiring, but she didn’t have to. As planned, the ground started to rumble shortly after the infantry lines entangled.
The cavalry had arrived.
A simple hammer-and-anvil technique, her infantrymen taking on airs of a desperate unit on its last legs, spread thin, making a show of plugging the lines with reserves. First bait the enemy into coming close enough for a charge, then the cavalry of the 14th could wheel around and trample their back line. The fresh reserves complicated things, but she’d overestimated enemy morale. They broke easily enough.
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