“Any surprises, sir?” one of her captains asked.
“Nothing new,” she said as a line of captured sailors walked past, hands folded atop their heads. “Vassail expects the battle decided soon.”
Gods send it was true, with as few casualties as they could manage. To think of Sarresant sailors as the enemy—it roiled her gut. At least her brigades had taken to the Need bindings like trout to a stream. Marquand’s philosophical objections notwithstanding, the remainder of her vessels had seen the power offered by Need and accepted it as another duty owed the army. So now their movements were coordinated as if she’d planned out every countermaneuver, every possible contingency. She could imagine the few admirals who still held out resistance despairing at the sight of it, seeing her reserves flow and surge with every shift of the line. A beautiful dance, and this was only the start. The rest of the army would follow suit as soon as she could put Need vessels in place. Gods grant her enough time to get them ready before the Gand invasion arrived, and perhaps a few winter squalls to delay the Gandsmen at sea while they were at it.
“Hold again,” she said, reaching for Need, and her connection to Marie d’Oreste.
“Ah, Chevalier-General,” Voren said, seated across from her around the wide table at the center of the room. “Just in time.”
A man standing at the other end of the room unbuttoned his bright red coat, a long knife coated with blood resting on the table in front of him. He looked up and met Marie’s eyes as his fellows found their seats to his left and right.
“So, Voren, this is your secret,” the man said, nodding toward Marie.
“No secret, Master d’Agarre,” Voren replied. “Call it a weapon now. One of the most effective in service to our cause.”
The man Voren had called d’Agarre smiled, taking his seat and gesturing toward his knife. “Can it compare to the blade that took the life of our Crown-Prince?”
Voren kept his eyes steady, focused on d’Agarre. “You did the deed yourself then?”
“It’s done, General. The Lords’ Council is broken, and my people are taking the streets. The city will be ours in a matter of days.”
Voren nodded, wearing a grim look. “As bloodless as we can manage.”
“What word from the army?” d’Agarre asked.
“The chevalier-general was about to make a report I expect. General, have you met with the High Admiral?”
“Not yet, sir. On my way to the tavern where he’s being held now.” She eyed the far end of the table. Strange to be making reports to civilians. “The rest of my division has secured the Harbor. Some last fighting with the sailors in the north of the district, near the border with the Riverways. I expect the matter to be decided within the hour.”
“So easily?” D’Agarre laughed. “You break the strength of the Sarresant Navy in an evening?”
“Best hope they are not broken, Master d’Agarre,” she said. “We’ll need those ships when the Gandsmen arrive.”
“Peace, Chevalier-General,” Voren said. “Keep checking in with us on the hour if you please. Thank the Gods for your Need bindings. Yours is the only quadrant of the city with clear reports thus far.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Sir, is the rest of the city—?”
“Chaotic, d’Arrent. To be expected, considering. From the sound of it Vicomte-General Dulliers is encountering opposition from the Duc’s loyalists at Rasailles, but we have little more than that for now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, sparing a long look toward the end of the table, where d’Agarre sat behind his bloodstained blade. What sort of man was this, to whom Voren had tied their fortunes? Not a thing she’d considered before; politics was the concern of men and women with titles and lands, not trappers’ daughters. Credit her binder’s training, perhaps, for instilling in her a sense that this sphere—the forum for deciding why and not how—was no province of hers. Yet here she was.
She released Need.
The streets had bloomed with activity around her, soldiers, prisoners, quartermasters, couriers, men, and horses tracking up and down the waterfront, as if it were a high summer afternoon and not a night that carried the beginnings of the first winter storm.
“Welcome back, sir,” Sadrelle said as her eyes regained focus. He’d done well these past months. Perhaps it was time to consider a promotion.
“The Crown-Prince is dead,” she said.
Her words hung in the air, muting the din of activity around them. The rest of her aides and officers trailed a half step behind as the weight of her news settled around their shoulders. Credit their discipline that they made no comment as they made way toward the lights of the Tank & Twine.
Already the tavern hummed with activity. The onetime headquarters of the 2nd Corps, though Voren’s flag had been moved in light of tonight’s affairs. Yet having secured the southern Harbor, the logistics officers were already moving back in, resuming operations as if violent revolution were no more a setback than a snapped wagon axle, a hailstorm, or a bog. There was comfort in that, in a job well done trusted to men and women of competence. Not for the first time she wondered whether Need wouldn’t have been better employed in service to the quartermasters.
The smells coming from the kitchen offered comforts of a different sort, warming the air with the scent of spices and simmering meats. Her people stepped behind her through the door, kicking snow from their boots and eyeing her for permission to place an order with the cooks. She gave it. This business was not like to be easy, or brief. Not bothering to remove her long coat, she asked after the prisoner and, receiving confirmation he was being held in Voren’s former chambers, made her way upstairs.
“He’s inside?” she asked the sentries posted to either side of the door.
“Yes, sir, General,” the senior of the two men replied, sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.
“You boys are with Vassail’s cavalry, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied together.
“How was the prisoner taken? Were either of you present?”
“I was there, sir,” the sergeant said. “It was a binder, one of ours I mean. She broke through their line and captured the admiral with a blade to his throat, out from the middle of a company of his sailors. Damnedest thing I ever saw, beg your pardon, sir.”
Bloody fool of a girl. Acherre had been ordered to keep herself out of the fighting. What if Erris had made a Need connection in the middle of Acherre’s heroics? The girl thought with her saber instead of her head. Still, if she’d captured the High Admiral by herself, perhaps Acherre had earned herself a medal along with a tongue-lashing when this was over.
“How is our prisoner’s disposition?” she asked. “I trust he’s taken to our hospitality with the grace typical of the nobility?”
“Ah, yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “I would say the typical amount of grace.”
She clapped him on the shoulder. “Rest easy, men. And fine work today.”
“Thank you, sir.” They saluted and she returned the gesture, then rapped twice on the door for politeness’ sake before pushing it open and making her entrance.
“Enter, by all means,” the prisoner said, beckoning her inside. “It is almost time for tea after all.”
“High Admiral Tuyard,” she said, offering a slight bow.
The High Admiral was seated on one of Voren’s cushioned chaises, reclining into the velvet with his feet resting on one of the armrests, looking more like a bored socialite at a salon than a captured flag officer of the Sarresant Navy. He was younger than she expected, not a day over fifty and likely somewhat less, with a full head of hair and a well-tailored uniform she expected saw more use at the aforementioned salons than it did on the decks of any warship.
“And whom do I have the honor of addressing?” the admiral said, eyeing the single star on her sleeves and collar. “Knowing how the governor hands out peerages, I expect you are the chevalier of the privy detail? Perhaps the marquis of a lumberyard?”
&nb
sp; “I would think,” she said quietly, closing the thick oak doors behind her, “that a defeated military commander would have better sense than to insult his victorious opponent.”
“Quite right, of course, General,” High Admiral Tuyard said. “You are to be commended on your noble victory. Tell me, what was the most difficult part? Was it the skulking in shadows beforehand or the actual moment when you knifed your fellow countrymen in the back?”
“No countryman of mine would have attempted to order this army to abandon its home soil,” she shot back, her voice suddenly heated.
His eyes widened, then he laughed. “Louis-Sallet actually gave the order? Bloody fool of a prince.”
She said nothing, merely stood, watching.
“Please, General, sit,” the admiral said, gesturing to one of the couches. “I told him this would happen. I bloody told him. Well, perhaps not this.” He gestured again, sweeping to encompass the whole of the Harbor. “But none of the docile compliance for which our Prince of the Blood was hoping.”
She frowned. “I am here as a courtesy, High Admiral.”
“You are here to persuade me to back your little coup. Or to begin the process of bribery in any case, whether you know it or no. Tell me, whose hand is pulling your strings, General? Is it the Duc-Governor? Has Cherrain turned his coat for good and all?”
“I am here at the behest of Marquis-General Voren, the—”
The admiral laughed again. “Voren? Oh, this should be rich. No pardon for the wordplay—I expect to be lavished like a Sardian haremite before this is through.”
She gave him a cold look. Gods but she detested this sort of officer. No doubt he’d made his lieutenant’s stripe before he’d even set foot on a ship, captain by the time he could shave. If High Admiral Tuyard knew enough about naval maneuver to avoid sailing his fleet into a forest she would eat boot leather for a month.
“Do you have a message for me to carry to Marquis-General Voren on your behalf, High Admiral?”
“Oh, I’ll do better than that, General,” he said, swinging his feet down to rest on the carpet. “I’ll accompany you to let Voren make his offer in person.”
“Admiral, that is hardly—”
“Chevalier-General, you have need of my men and ships, do you not? We may as well dispense with formalities. I have no desire to rot in a prison waiting for my shrew of a wife to pay an exorbitant ransom. You can tell Voren I’m open to being bought, or you can bring me to him and expedite this little charade.”
Her thoughts went to the Gand fleet. They were coming, and if High Admiral Tuyard could bring the loyalty of some number of his officers, they might stand a fighting chance of harrying the Gandsmen away from a favorable landing. Too much to hope they could field enough ships to defeat the Gand Navy on the open waters, but if they had sea power to back the army, if they could force the fight onto ground of their choosing, it might be enough to tilt the engagement in their favor.
The admiral smiled, watching her weigh his words. “What will it be, General?”
“Best fetch your coat, Admiral.”
47
SARINE
Sacre-Lin Chapel
Maw District, New Sarresant
She rolled to the left, trusting her instinct to dance away from danger.
Wrong.
She knew it, even as her body committed itself to the maneuver. He was ready for it, already pivoted into a lunge that would catch her through the heart. Hesitation only ensured the inevitable. Her guard was down, and she felt the point of the saber take her hard in the chest.
Coughing, she stepped back.
“Sarine, are you hurt?”
Donatien lowered his blunted practice sword, worry creasing his face. A few of the nobles who had been sitting nearby shared a collective wince on her behalf, only adding to the shame. They looked to her as a protector, and she made a mess of simple footwork?
She waved away Donatien’s concern, gritting her teeth and settling once more into an offensive posture. Rapier extended forward. Elbow bent, just slightly. Feet a pace and a half apart, facing her opponent at a quarter turn. Off-hand dagger held point-skyward at her side. Breathing even. Shoulders relaxed.
Are you sure you don’t want Red?
“Gods damn it!” she exclaimed, as Donatien’s first attack found its mark.
He stepped back, lowering his sword. The nobles winced again.
“Is everything—?”
“I’m fine,” she spat. “He distracted me. Go again.”
“Perhaps we should—”
“Please. Donatien. I’m fine.”
“We’ve been at this for some time now. I could use a rest.”
Her first impulse was to argue. A chorus of aching muscles supported Donatien’s notion, though, enough to give her pause. Body and Life bindings could spell them both, but perhaps he was right. She lowered her weapons, reaching instead for a flask of water on a stool beside their makeshift dueling ground.
All around them the nobles seemed caught by surprise, making hurried attempts to appear occupied by other means now that their practice bouts had paused. A hundred pairs of eyes, looking more like they belonged in the Maw with every passing day, dirt and dust soiling the finery they had worn to the Lords’ Council. She’d saved the majority of their number in the madness that followed d’Agarre’s attack, and earned herself a different sort of prison sentence for it, shackled to the chapel to protect her charges. She’d been a damned fool, bringing this lot to the Sacre-Lin. They would have died if she’d turned them loose; in the moment, it was all that had mattered. But now d’Agarre was out there, and she was here, trapped by the vise of her own charity.
“You’re improving, my lady,” Regiment-Major Laurent said, watching from the atrium wall. “One of these days you’ll have to let me show you some of the finer points of incorporating Body into your swordplay.”
“Better to learn the basics, in my view,” Donatien said, stepping forward to lay his practice sword against the wall of the chapel.
“Those are the basics for her, my lord,” Laurent said. “If she’s to learn to take full advantage—”
“Please, both of you,” she said, lowering her water flask. She’d just as soon avoid another of these sorts of exchanges. Laurent commanded a troop of loyalists, soldiers and priests who’d been swept up along with the remnants of the Lords’ Council during d’Agarre’s attack and now found themselves here, under her protection at the Sacre-Lin. She was grateful for the extra hands, and Laurent was a Body binder to boot, but from the tone of these exchanges, he felt the sting of confinement as sure as she did.
“Major Laurent,” she said, “how are things outside?”
“Quiet,” Laurent said. “It seems the revolution has drawn the inhabitants of the Maw elsewhere in the city. Spoils to be had in richer quarters, I expect.” His lip curled as he said the last, not hiding his contempt.
“Perhaps if the crown spent less coin on masquerades and warmongering,” Donatien said, “and more on stockpiling food for—”
“Enough!” she demanded.
Both men fell silent, Donatien bowing his head while Laurent held a knowing smirk. She sighed. Whatever she’d imagined when she led the nobles here to the chapel, it hadn’t been this. They’d been shut in for days, eating through her uncle’s larder. If the close quarters wore tempers thin from time to time, well, that was to be expected. And if she needed some space to breathe, who could speak against that?
“Sarine?” Donatien said. “Where are you going?”
His words grated on her skin, and she pushed through the atrium doors into the central nave, leaving both of them behind without another word.
All around her the nobles stirred, some offering greetings and warmth as she passed, with the rest giving her no more than dull stares. Fine silks and lace held dirt and dust as sure as common linen, and a few days’ sleeping on chapel benches had the nobles looking like a mummer’s parody of the council they had been. Yet
in spite of it all, their demeanor hadn’t descended into the spoiled whining she’d feared would greet her the morning after the prince’s death, when she’d lain awake in her loft wondering what in the Nameless’s twisted mind had possessed her to bring them here. No, the children of the noble houses of New Sarresant bore their ordeal with grace and poise. Perhaps it was only shock, left over in abundance from that terrible night. Whatever the cause, she said a silent prayer to the Oracle in thanks. She had enough on her shoulders. The small kindness of the nobles’ best behavior was a sure sign the Gods were good.
The smell of stew simmering over a fire pervaded the chapel, and she walked through the priest’s entrance to find her uncle leaning over a deep iron cookpot, testing the broth with a wooden spoon. His face brightened when she entered the room, and he beckoned to her, holding the spoon up for her benefit.
“Try a sip,” he said. “Tell me if it’s ready.”
She did, a hot mix of spices and chicken warming her throat and belly. “It tastes lovely, uncle,” she said, earning a nod of satisfaction. “But it also tastes as though you’re aiming to burn through our stores in a week.”
“Bah. How can I conscience stockpiling foodstuffs with so many hungry mouths to feed? ‘Charity reveals the best self, even as—’”
“‘—even as it raises us to new heights,’” she said. “Second virtue of the Veil, fourth parable.”
He smiled. “Give me a hand with the pot? More space if we serve it in the chapel main.”
“Of course,” she said, flicking her eyes closed to tether a strand of Body into them both as she leaned down to grip the pot by its iron handles. His eyes went wide as they hefted the pot, finding it no more a burden than her pack of sketching materials on a light day.
After a moment he realized what she’d done and gave her an easy laugh. “You are an exceptional girl, my child.”
“And you are still going to need to conserve our supplies, uncle. Those are winter storms outside, and this city has gone mad.”
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