Sweep in Peace (online draft) (complete)

by Ilona Andrews

  Arland’s eyes blazed. He gathered himself, somehow turning larger. “What do you mean, you won’t do it?”

  “I won’t do it! I swore an engineer’s oath. I own obligations to my profession, obligations which bind me to practice my craft with integrity and to preserve the precious nature of the Universe.” Hardwir stabbed his gauntleted finger in the direction of the engine. “It poisons the environment, it’s horribly inefficient, and it runs on fossil fuels. It requires a finite, high-pollutant resource to function. What idiot would build an engine based on a finite non-renewable resource?”

  “I don’t care,” Arland snarled. “You will fix it.”

  Hardwir raised his chin. “No, I will not. You’re asking me to repair something that makes toxins. If this was an engine of war, it would outlawed.”

  “You swore fealty to me personally. You swore fealty to our House.”

  “I am an engineer. I won’t betray myself.”

  Arland opened his mouth and said one word. “Ryona.”

  Hardwir snarled, baring his teeth.

  Arland’s face showed no mercy. “If we don’t fix this, we will be discovered, which means this peace summit will fail. All of the sacrifices of your sister on the battlefield will be for nothing.”

  Hardwir spun away from him, glared at the exposed engine, and turned back. “No.”

  Arland touched his crest. “Edalon? I’m sorry to interrupt your vigil. We need you. It’s an emergency.”

  A single word emanated from the crest.

  A moment later the inn chimed, announcing a visitor at the back of orchard. I opened the gates of the stables. A single vampire knight walked through the trees. He was of average vampire height, just over six feet, and lean, almost slender. His skin was the darkest of the vampire genotype, a grey with a blue tint, like the contour feather of a mature blue heron. His hair fell on his shoulder in a cascade of long thin braids. It must’ve been black at some point, but now it was shot through with grey. Vampires didn’t go grey until well into their seventies, but he didn’t look anywhere close to that. He wore long crimson and silver vestments over his armor, but unlike the single robe of a Catholic priest, this vestments were cut into long ribbons, eight inches wide. They flowed as he moved, streaming from his shoulders like an otherworldly mantle. Watching him approach was surreal.

  Arland had called on his Battle Chaplain. They must have a spacecraft in orbit.

  The chaplain strode into the stables. His face was completely serene, his eyes calm as he surveyed the cruiser, Officer Marais, and finally us.

  Arland stepped closer to him and spoke quietly his voice barely above a whisper.

  Odalon nodded and turned to Hardwir. “Your concerns do your credit.” His voice was soothing and even, a kind of voice that made you relax almost in spite of yourself.

  “I won’t do it,” Hardwir said.

  “Walk with me,” Odalon invited.

  The engineer followed him out into the orchard. They stopped by one of the apple trees and spoke quietly.

  Arland sighed. “All of this could’ve been avoided.”

  Lady Isur shrugged. “If not this, then something else. Robart is going to make this as painful as possible. You knew this going in.”

  Hardwir and the Battle Chaplain walked back.

  “Even if I agreed to do this, it wouldn’t work,” Hardwir said. “I would need a molecular synthesizer to repair the parts…”

  “They are standard issue on most military vessels,” Lady Isur said.

  “I wasn’t finished, Marshall,” Hardwir said. “We have a molecular synthesizer on board, but the repairs must match the wear and tear of the engine. For that I must determine the age and the degradation of the current engine, which means I need an age sequencer and specialized software. We don’t have that. We’re a military vessel, not an archaeological exploration ship.”

  The female member of Nuan Cee’s clan cleared her throat. We all looked at her.

  “Uncle Nuan Cee has one,” she said. “It’s very complicated. Very expensive. Far beyond my understanding.”

  George smiled. “Perhaps I can prevail on esteemed Nuan Cee to let us use it.”

  “I’m sure he would,” she said. “For the right price.”

  “The right price?” Arland growled. “More like a lung and half a heart. I’ve dealt with him before. He’ll squeeze the last—”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I told him.

  George and I found the esteemed Nuan Cee in his quarters. He was lounging on the plush furniture by a small indoor fountain. George sketched out the situation.

  Nuan Cee leaned forward, the glint in his eyes clearly predatory. “Age sequencer is a very delicate piece of equipment. Very expensive. I carry one because people sometimes try to sell me objects and I must ascertain their authenticity. Can you imagine if I sold something that might be a reproduction?” He chortled.

  This was going to cost us, I could feel it. “We are in awe of your wisdom,” I said.

  “And we count on your generosity,” George said.

  “Generosity is a terrible vice,” Nuan Cee said. “But of course, even I am not infallible.”

  He had us by the throat and he knew it. I smiled. “You have a vested interest in this summit succeeding. After all, if the war continues, your spaceport on Nexus will be overrun.”

  Nuan Cee waved his paws. “We have Turan Adin. Even if the Holy Anocracy and the Hope-Crushing Horde united, we would have nothing to fear.”

  Who or what was Turan Adin?

  “Still, the war is bad for business. I find myself being inclined to do you this favor.”

  I braced myself. There was a but coming.

  “But I require a favor in return.”

  “Name it,” George said.

  “Not from you. From Dina.”

  Of course. “How may I help the great Nuan Cee?”

  Nuan Cee grinned, showing me small sharp teeth. “I do not know yet. I shall think about it. Normally I would ask for three favors, but out of respect for your parents and the friendship between us, I restrained myself. Do not tell anyone. I do not want to lose face.”

  An unspecified favor to Nuan Cee. I would have to be insane to take it. There was no telling what he would ask.

  The peace summit had to proceed at all costs. I had no choice. I held out my hand. “Done.”

  Nuan Cee laughed, grapsed my fingers, and shook. “Delightful. I do so love this Earth custom. Talk to the Nuan Sama in the stables. She’s an expert in operating it.”

  Of course she is.

  We thanked Nuan Cee and made our exit.

  “I take it, you can’t trust anything they say,” George said.

  “It depends. All is fair while they are bargaining, but once they make a deal, they will honor it.” And I had just managed to get myself into a bigger mess.

  Five minutes later Hardwir and Nuan Sama walked off toward Nuan’s camouflaged craft in the field. I pulled the dashboard camera out of the car. I’d need to attach it to my car and park it in front of the inn so we could fake the footage.

  “What did you tell him?” Arland asked Edalon.

  The Battle Chaplain sighed. “I reminded him that engineer’s oath also obligated him to give freely of his skill and knowledge for the public good if so required. I cannot think of a greater public good than ending a war that devours lives but brings neither honor, nor glory, nor land. This misery must end, whatever the cost.”

  A soft beep echoed through the stables.

  “The Marshall of House Vorga has three minutes left.” I grabbed my dashboard camera and hurried back to the front room. The vampires and George chased me. All this running around would be comical if lives and the Gertrude Hunt weren’t at stake.

  I walked into the front room. The timer was down to fifteen seconds. The two vampires stood completely still, watching it.

  Here is hoping he was still alive.

  The numbers ran down to zero and flashed once. I melted the wa
ll.

  The Marshall of House Vorga walked into my front room. He was soaked. Blood dripped from a dozen cuts on his body suit. His right hand gripped his axe. His left carried a three foot long monstrous head. It was pale orange, covered with shimmering scales and looked like something that would be drawn on an antique map with a caption “Here be monsters” underneath.

  With a grimace, the Marshall dropped the head and the five foot long stump of the neck in the middle of the floor, stepped over it, and looked at George.

  “The Office of Arbitration is satisfied,” George said.

  Lord Robart turned toward the hallway. The two vampires picked up his armor and followed him without a word.

  “What do you want us to do with the head?” Orro asked behind me.

  The Marshall paused. “Do whatever you will.”

  They turned into the hallway leading to vampire quarters.

  “I think it’s time I retired as well,” Lady Isur said. “Arbiter, Innkeeper, Marshal, Your Grace, please excuse me. I must make myself presentable before the opening ceremony.”

  “Of course,” George said.

  Arland grimaced. “I suppose it’s best I go as well. By your leave.”

  The two Marshalls departed.

  Orro stalked out of the kitchen and grabbed the head with his long claws.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re going to cook that,” I said.

  “Of course I’m going to cook it.” He waved the head around for emphasis. “May I remind you that you’re on a limited budget?”

  “What if it’s poisonous?” Jack asked.

  “Preposterous!” Orro growled. “This is clearly a Morean water drake. They may not be the most tasty flesh the ocean has to offer, but I am not some short order cook.”

  He tucked the severed head under his arm and took it to the kitchen.

  “I shall have to make some preparations as well,” George said. He and Jack left the room.

  My legs gave out and I landed into a chair. Beast leaped into my lap.

  Caldenia looked at me across the room. “So much excitement and the peace talks haven’t even started.”

  I groaned and put my hands over my face.

  George wore soft charcoal trousers. Mid-calf high boots, made of supple dark grey leather with a hint of blue, hugged his feet. His shirt was pale cream and his vest, the blue-grey of a heron wing, was embroidered with a dazzling silver pattern too complicated to untangle at first glance. His long golden blond hair was brushed back from his face and caught at the nape of his neck into a horse tail. His walking stick was in his hand and his limp was back, but as he stood at the back of the grand ballroom, he looked like an ageless prince from some hopelessly romantic fairy tale.

  His brother stood on his right, wrapped in layers of brown leather. I could see no weapons, although he must’ve had some stashed somewhere. His auburn hair was slightly disheveled. George emanated an almost fragile elegance, but Jack was completely relaxed, his posture lazy, his face distant as if he had absolutely no interest in what was about to happen and couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.

  They looked nothing alike, but I was absolutely sure they were brothers. I never seen two people so skilled at pretending to be the exact opposite of themselves.

  Gaston had parked himself on Jack’s right. Of the three, he seemed to be the only one being himself, which meant he stood there like a short but unmovable mountain and scowled. I chose a place to the left of George and off to the side. I wasn’t really part of the ceremonies, but I was the host of this insane gathering, and the members of the delegations would need to know my face. I opted for a simple robe. I also turned my broom into a staff for the occasion. The staff would become a spear on very short notice. Not that I would need it, but you never knew.

  Behind us a long table waited, ready for the heads of the delegations to discuss the possibility of peace. Right now the prospect seemed rather remote, but the peace talks themselves weren’t my problem. Keeping the peace was.

  I glanced up. At the opposite wall Caldenia sat in a royal box, about thirty feet up. Her Grace wore a copper-colored gown with an elaborate lace pattern and sipped wine from a glass. Beast sat next to her. Until I had a better idea of the participants in the summit, I wanted Caldenia off the main floor. Her Grace could take care of herself, but I told Beast to stay with her as an extra precaution.

  George glanced at the electronic clock in the wall above the door. “We may begin.”

  I nodded and murmured. “Lights.”

  Bright light bathed the ballroom floor.

  “Release the Holy Anocracy.”

  The doors on the left side of the grand ballroom swung open. A huge vampire stepped out, dressed in blood armor. Enormous even by vampire standards, he carried the standard of the Holy Anocracy, black fangs on red banner. He faced us and planted the banner into the floor, holding it with his left hand. Music blasted from the hidden speakers, an epic march, relentless, unhurried, and unstoppable. Images slid along the walls of the ballroom: an armored vampire tearing into a centipede-like creature five times her size; two vampires locked in mortal combat, fangs bared; a vampire with a House standard atop a mountain of corpses bellowing in rage. This was the Holy Anocracy’s “We Are Scary Badasses” reel. The same images were now being streamed to the otrokar and merchant quarters.

  The terrifying footage kept coming. A citadel of the Crimson Cathedral, unbelievable in its size; endless rows of vampires poised before boarding a space craft; a vampire woman in the robes of a hierophant dashing up the spine of an enormous creature, leaping straight up and slicing into its neck. An image of a small group of vampires in blood-stained armor appeared on the wall, calmly, methodically cutting their way through ranks of the maddened otrokars. The Horde crashed against them again and again like an enraged sea against rocks, and fell back, bloodied and helpless. The message couldn’t be clearer. The otrokar were wild undisciplined savages and hundreds of them were no match for the six vampires.

  Nice. How to ruin the peace talks in two minutes or less. That had to be some sort of record.

  George sighed quietly.

  The images stopped and blossomed into one enormous picture that took up all three walls: the seven planets of the Holy Anocracy. As the image came into focus, the rest of the vampire knights marched out in three distinct groups, one for each house. They reached the standard bearer and froze.

  Three faces appeared against the starry expanse of space, one per each wall: the severe face of the Warlord, a middle aged vampire with jet black hair on the right, the serene face of the female Hierophant on the left, and an old vampire in the middle. His hair was pure white, his skin wrinkled, and his eyes probing. He looked ancient like the space behind him. It had to be Justice, the chief judge of the Holy Anocracy’s highest court.

  The vampires roared in unison. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  The vampire delegation turned as one and formed a line on the left side of the grand ballroom, the three marshals and the standard bearer closest to us.

  “We’re ready for the otrokars,” George murmured to me.

  “Release the Horde,” I whispered.

  The heavy door clung open on the right and the otrokars emerged, with the Khanum in the lead and her son close behind. Three giant otrokars followed, each bigger than anything vampires could throw at them, with the rest of the delegation at their heels. They didn’t move, they stalked like the great predatory cats, emerald, sapphire, and ruby highlights playing on their chitin armor, their ceremonial kilts falling in long plaits on one side. An ear-piercing whistle rang through the grand ballroom and broke into a wild melody, full of pipes and quick drumbeat. The walls ignited again, now bright with the endless plains of the Otroka, the Horde’s home planet. A group of otrokars rode through yellow grass on odd mounts with reddish fur, hoofed feet, and canid heads. The image fractured and exploded into a mountain landscape filled with crags and fissures. The hard ground bristle
d with metal spikes, each supporting a severed vampire head.

  The faces of the knights to my left were completely blank.

  The puddles of vampire blood at the bases of the metal spikes trembled. The ground shuddered. A dull roar, like the sound of a distant waterfall, filled the air. The camera panned upward, showing the glimpse of a valley beyond the heads. An ocean of otrokars filled it, too many to count, a horde running at full speed, howling like wolves, the impact of their steps shaking the ground. They swept past the camera, bodies flashing by it. A muscular otrokar appeared on the screen, his face savage with fury. He swung a long sword, the muscles on his forearm flexing as he slashed, and the image turned black.

  Okay. They weren’t called the Hope-crushing Horde for nothing.

  The music kept going. The image on the wall transformed into the shield of the Horde backlit by flames. The Khanum stepped aside, the otrokars parted, and one of them stepped forward. He was of average height and slight build, small enough to pass for a human. His black hair was cut short. The otrokar shrugged off his armor, letting it fall to the floor. Every muscle on his torso stood out. He wasn’t beefy like a bodybuilder, but he was cut with superhuman precision. His stomach looked hard enough to shatter a staff if someone hit him with one. The otrokar pulled two long dark blades from the sheaths on his hips.

  The Khanum clapped in rhythm with the music, and the otrokars followed her lead. The swordsman in the center spun in place, warming up. We were about to be treated to show and tell.

  A smaller otrokar brought a basket filled with small green apple-like fruit to the Khanum. She picked one and hurled it at the swordsman. He moved at the last second, catching the fruit on the flat of his left blade, tossed it to his right then back again with superhuman dexterity. The otrokars kept clapping. The swordsman tossed the fruit up. His sword flashed and the fruit fell to the floor, cut in a half.

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” Jack said quietly.

  The Khanum took a handful of fruit and passed the basket to her left. Dagorkun grabbed several and handed the basket to the next person. The Khanum gave a short whistle and the otrokars pelted the swordsman with apples. He spun like a dervish, dancing across the floor and slicing. The apples dropped to the ground, cut. Not a single fruit hit him.