by Ken Scholes
She pulled out a worn leather belt with a single long scout knife in an undecorated sheath. When she drew the blade it whispered against the leather sheath. She tested its edge with her thumb, drawing a beaded line of blood. She resheathed it and set it aside. She’d learned to fight at Hanric’s hands, though she’d not found herself very good at it. She’d mastered the sling but had virtually no sword or knife skills to speak of. She’d not taken to it, preferring instead to carefully write out her dreams and add them to the Book, trusting her shadow and the men he commanded.
Only now, I command them, she realized. She thought of Hanric sleeping in the ground and swallowed back the sadness that suddenly ambushed her.
Seamus was pulling bits of leather and chain free from the pile. “Some of these may fit you,” he said, “but they really weren’t intended for battle-more for training children.”
She nodded. He thinks we ride to battle. Winters feared he thought correctly. “What do you think we will find?”
Seamus paused, holding her eyes with his own. “Bodies,” he said.
She lifted up a leather cuirass from the pile and held it up to her chest. Cocking his head to one side, Seamus inspected it, then circled around behind her, cinching in the straps. She felt the hard leather flatten her breasts as he tightened it up. She held her breath until he finished, then let it out slowly. “And the attackers?”
He picked out a helmet-small and round and iron. He lowered it onto her head and frowned when it swallowed half of her face. He traded it out for another, then lifted her long, braided hair up and coiled it around the top of her head. “They are long gone by now, I’ll wager,” he said. “I’m more concerned about the others.”
Yes. Meirov’s rangers had been patrolling much farther north than custom since the assassinations, as had Turam’s border scouts. And with armies forming and marching slowly north these past few weeks, it was only a matter of time. The attack on the Summer Papal Palace could very well be what sparked war between her people and their neighbors to the south.
“I’ll send more birds from the trail,” she said. Winters strapped on the knife and turned; Seamus stepped back to inspect her. She drew the blade and thrust it menacingly. “How do I look?”
He snorted. “No offense, Lady Winteria, but you make for a ragamuffin of a soldier.”
She nodded, glancing to herself in the cracked mirror leaning haphazardly against her wall. “I do indeed,” she said. She turned one last time and sighed again. “But it will do.”
Ten minutes later, Winters rode at the head of a ragged line of soldiers and Marsh scouts. She unstopped the vial and tipped a mouthful of the voice magicks back into her throat. She waited, gently clearing her voice until she heard it catch and the sound of her cough rustled the pine trees.
“I am Winteria bat Mardic, Queen of the Marshfolk, and I ride under arms for the Summer Papal Palace. Who will ride with me and mine?”
The men and women around her roared, and it seemed each time she repeated the call that more and more voices cried out in reply around her.
As they rode, others joined them, bearded men fresh in their mud and ash, weapons tucked in belts or slung over shoulders, still strapping on their ragged bits of armor and in some cases still leading their horses and kissing their children good-bye.
Winters remembered the last time their army had gathered up, recalling vividly the pillar of fire and smoke that had once been Windwir, stark against the sky of Second Summer. She remembered Hanric’s bellowing call to arms, followed by that first War Sermon on the march south and those exhilarating, terrifying moments that marked the first time she’d left the Marshlands.
She remembered the armies-all of them-lined up below their standards at the edge of those blasted lands.
Funny, she thought, that she hadn’t wanted so badly to cry back then and she did not remember once being afraid for her people.
But now, doubt chewed upon her as she worried what waited for her and her people at the end of this road.
And try as she might, Winters found no War Sermon upon her tongue or within her heart to bring courage as they settled into their slow ride north.
Instead, she rode silently into the shadow of the Dragon’s Spine, her eyes fixed on the storm clouds that gathered ahead.
Rudolfo
Rudolfo growled beneath his breath and braced himself against the rocking of the ship. The storm had come up quickly, pummeling them the last thirty leagues into port, and now they hunkered down at the top of the stairs, waiting for the word to be given.
Rudolfo had wiled his days pacing the narrow cabin, taking no pleasure in the lavish meals but pretending nonetheless so as not to offend his host.
Rafe Merrique had changed little in the decades that had slipped past them. He was a bit more flamboyant and slower to speak, his long hair had gone iron gray, but at the core of him, he remained the pirate lord that Rudolfo remembered from his youth. Still, the vessel Kinshark was proof enough of how well the man had done in the intervening years.
It was smooth, well kept, and faster than fast. Merrique’s crew kept it well oiled, bringing down the sails each night and replacing them with sailcloth soaked in a portion of the hold that had become more a vat than anything else. He rotated his crew as often as his sails, giving them as much time off the powders as on.
Rudolfo had spent his life among his Gypsy Scouts, well versed in the ways of stealth and strength magicks, and yet he’d seen nothing like the Kinshark in all his days.
Still, even the wonder of the vessel hadn’t held his attention. His mind continued wandering north to his wife, to his son, when he wasn’t poring over the Kinshark’s maps and charts or seeking out Merrique’s insight as to where Tam’s iron armada might’ve fled.
“No one goes east but me,” Merrique had told him. “And that not so much now with the gray robes gone. That leaves south and west.”
Still, he hoped Petronus could shed light on that. If I can get to the old fox.
The ship rocked again, and Rudolfo heard the boatswain’s whistle. “Hang on to me,” Merrique said in a low whisper.
The hatch opened, and they scrambled out onto the wet deck quickly. Below Rudolfo’s feet, he saw nothing but roiling water, and the vertigo that took him tugged at his stomach. He forced his eyes closed and clenched the back of Merrique’s belt. Behind him, he felt his Gypsy Scouts doing the same with him.
They moved to the side of the ship and one by one, lowered themselves into the waiting longboat. Merrique pulled Rudolfo beneath a heavy canvas and they huddled there, pitching and tossing, as the magicked sailors pulled oar and guided them to shore.
Once they made landing, the tarp pulled away and Rudolfo stood, hopping lightly onto the waiting dock. They were in a seedier part of the city-a series of dilapidated river docks along the backside of a row of run-down taverns. Upriver, a cannery squatted over the river on wood pilings, smoke leaking from a dozen chimneys, rising up into the cloudy sky.
The rain pounded down on them, and Merrique motioned them toward the shelter of a rickety balcony. “We’re early,” he said.
At a nod from Rudolfo, the two Gypsy Scouts slipped into the shadows to keep watch.
Rudolfo’s eyes narrowed. “How well do you know this Esarov?”
Merrique laughed. “As well as I know you, I imagine. I met him when he was still with the Order, before he left it for a life of debauchery on the stage. There were certainly years of silence, but lately he’s meant good business for me.”
One of Rudolfo’s scouts whistled, low and long, from his position at the corner of the building. A group of men approached, laughing and singing as they came.
Rudolfo watched them, keeping Merrique in the corner of his eye. He felt exposed here, but it was easy to feel that way. Even now, he knew the captain’s men, magicked and armed, surrounded them. Still, he knew the fierce effectiveness of his Gypsy Scouts firsthand, had trained with them and watched them sweep a battlefield clean as
a grandmother’s floor. He was unaccustomed to trusting someone else’s men with his well-being. He found his left hand twitching for the narrow sword on his belt.
The group of men staggered toward them, and Rudolfo saw that they huddled close around two men at their center-both hidden in ragged sailor’s clothing and cloth caps.
One of the men slipped past his cohorts. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of silver spectacles, pushing back his long hair to slide them over his ears. “You are Rudolfo,” he said.
Rudolfo nodded. “I am.”
The men kept at their singing, all but the old one in the middle, as the short, long-haired man leaned closer. “I bear tidings from Petronus. And I bring a charge for you to keep watch over.”
Rudolfo’s eyes narrowed. “You are Esarov, then,” he said. “The Democrat.” When he said it, he found the word distasteful in his mouth.
Esarov nodded. “I am. I know you seek Petronus for reasons of your own, but I’m afraid he is not available.”
Rudolfo considered the man’s face and read the half-truth upon it. “Where is he? He is under my protection.”
Esarov smiled, and Rudolfo frowned at it. “Rumor is that you nearly rode him down on the highway to Caldus Bay for what he did to Sethbert and the Order. Interesting that you still consider the Androfrancine your protectorate.”
“Interesting or not,” Rudolfo said, “he is, and I would know of his circumstances.”
“He is under house arrest at Erlund’s hunting estate,” Esarov said. “He turned himself in for trial by Jury of Governors-in exchange for this man.” Here, he pointed to the balding old man.
Rudolfo gave him a closer look. The men had stayed near him, guarding him as closely as they guarded Esarov. Even now, they took up positions at each door or alley within eyeshot of the rendezvous. He was not quite as old as Petronus, though he looked older in this moment. He was haggard and pale, several days unshaven, and disheveled with dark rings beneath his eyes. This, Rudolfo saw, was a man who had not slept in a day or two.
“Who are you?” Rudolfo asked him.
The man blinked. “I am Charles, Arch-Engineer of the School of Mechanical Science.”
Rudolfo’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re Charles?”
I bear a message for the hidden Pope Petronus. The metal man that Aedric, Neb and Isaak now pursued in the Churning Wastes.
The man nodded. “I am Charles.”
“You created Isaak.”
The old man looked perplexed. “Isaak?”
Rudolfo smiled and dug in his memory. Rudolfo had given Isaak his name. Before that he’d been known by a title and number. Rudolfo remembered that day in the tent at the edge of Windwir’s ruins. “Mechoservitor Number Three,” Rudolfo said.
Charles paled. “The one Sethbert paid my apprentice to rescript. The one that sang the spell.”
Rudolfo nodded. “Yes. He goes by Isaak now. He heads up the restoration of the library.”
Charles’s eyes came to life. “Then you found it. Sanctorum Lux was spared.” Relief flooded his voice with emotion.
“No,” he said. “We’re rebuilding from the mechoservitors’ memory scripts. We’ll restore a great deal but not everything.”
“And Three. Isaak. assists in this?”
Rudolfo shook his head. “No,” he said, “he doesn’t assist. He leads the effort-he’s planned it quite thoroughly. He studies human leadership behavior and then practices it.”
Charles shook his head in wonder. “Unbelievable.”
Rudolfo nodded. “I consider him part of my family.”
A low whistle cut off their introduction. “We’re finished here,” Esarov said, looking in the direction of the noise. Rudolfo followed his eyes. Already two of the Democrat’s men scrambled back toward them, motioning for them to leave. He looked back to Rudolfo. “Charles is under your care now. We need to go.”
Rudolfo couldn’t keep the growl from his voice. “Petronus is under my care as well, and I-”
“Petronus chose to give himself for this man,” Esarov said, cutting him off. “There’s nothing more to say here.” A small group of black-jacketed men appeared to their north, walking quickly toward them with hands on the hilts of their knives.
Rafe Merrique was already returning to the dock, whistling for them to follow.
As Esarov and his man gathered up, Rudolfo led Charles to the dock. Magicked hands reached up to pull the old man into the long boat and under the tarp. Next, the Gypsy Scouts climbed aboard and Rudolfo turned to join them.
A low voice materialized to his left and he jumped. “Guard Charles well,” it said, “and find Sanctorum Lux.”
Rudolfo looked and saw nothing. “Who is there?”
“A friend of Petronus’s,” the voice said. “He bid me pass this to you.” A sheaf of papers appeared-magicked hands thrust them at him.
He took them. “Have you seen Petronus? Is he well?”
The men in the black coats were calling out to Rudolfo, but they were too far away for him to pick out the words. Everyone but Rudolfo and the pirate had fled or climbed aboard the magicked longboat.
“Grymlis, I presume?” Merrique asked.
“Aye, Merrique,” the voice answered. Then, he added, “The mechoservitors should be able to cipher out Petronus’s notes.”
The name was familiar, but Rudolfo could not place it. He looked down at the bundle of papers, then tucked them into his shirt. The black-coats were nearer now, calling for them to stop. Merrique was already climbing into the boat, and hands reached toward Rudolfo as well.
“I will guard Charles well,” Rudolfo said. “I trust you’ll keep watch over Petronus?”
Grymlis snorted. “As well as I can from outside. Now go.”
Rudolfo nodded and let the hands pull him down into the boat.
When they reached the Kinshark and were again beneath deck, the first mate passed Merrique a note. “The bird came while you were away,” he said.
The pirate read it and passed it to Rudolfo.
Rudolfo frowned at the simple, uncoded message.
The Summer Papal Palace has fallen. The Marsh Queen rides to war.
Pylos and Turam march north.
The Ninefold Forest would have to respond, he realized. Their kin-clave with the Marshfolk and their protection of the Androfrancine remnant would require it. Of course, Jin Li Tam would know that. He looked up. “Is there time for me to send birds?”
Merrique nodded. “Certainly.”
Rudolfo excused himself and went to his cabin. He sat at the small table and stared at the message paper and ink needle. Beside it lay the packet of papers from Petronus, waiting for his attention. But before that, he had messages to craft. What he knew he must write in them weighed heavily upon him.
I should be home now, he thought. But the image of his son’s small, gray face caused him to shake off that feeling and lift the needle. Jin Li Tam was every bit the formidable strategist that he was-more so, even. He could trust her with this work as he did his own.
He scribbled the first message out in practiced triple code, then paused to reread it.
Esarov’s words earlier struck him. He did consider Petronus-and all of the Androfrancines-under his protection still. He took his word seriously, as his father had taught him, and he had taken that mantle during the war when Petronus offered it. Those refugees were his responsibility not just because of that, but because Petronus-that clever Franci behaviorist-certainly had known that when he bequeathed the vast wealth of the Order to Rudolfo that the Gypsy King would care for its refugees. But not just the refugees of Windwir. All refugees-some from the now-failed book houses of Turam, many from the Entrolusian Delta.
No, not refugees.
He thought of Neb out in the Wastes with Aedric and Isaak, beyond the bird, last time he’d received word from home. And now Winters no doubt prepared her first War Sermon to face some strange foe that arose within her own people. Rudolfo’s family had broad
ened to include even a metal man who carried the sorrow of genocide on his accidental soul.
I truly am a collector of orphans.
He felt the wind grab the sails as the ship moved downriver toward the open sea. Then Rudolfo pushed all other thought from his mind and gave himself to the notes he needed to send.
But even as he did so, he felt something grow within him that he was not accustomed to. It grew greater and stronger with each league of river they put behind them. Soon, he would be leaving the Named Lands for the first time in over two decades to find a mouse in a hayfield and leaving his Ninefold Forest Houses and their complex bonds of kin-clave in someone else’s hands for the first time since he took the turban at the age of twelve.
Rudolfo named the emotion he felt and sighed.
“I am afraid,” he said quietly to the empty room.
Jin Li Tam
Jin Li Tam cursed beneath her breath and felt the anger prickling her scalp. “He’s done what?”
Second Captain Philemus shifted uncomfortably. “He’s fled with Isaak and the Waste Guide Renard.”
She forced herself to breathe. Last night had been her night with Jakob, and he’d not slept at all. That had meant sleeplessness for her as well, until Lynnae came for him just as dawn tinged the sky pink. Not long after, she’d been summoned for this audience. She reached out for the note, and the Second Captain placed it in her waiting hand.
She was incredulous. Neb had run off over a week ago-along with Isaak and that Waste mongrel Renard-and she was just now finding out. “And why,” she asked, laying the message aside, “are we just learning this now?”
“There have been problems with the birds,” he said. “They’ve lost several over there, and their magicks don’t seem to hold. We’re not sure why.”
“So Aedric is back at the Gate now?”
The Second Captain nodded. “He awaits your orders.”
She looked down at the other two messages that had brought Philemus tapping at her door and sighed. One was from Winters, the other from Rudolfo. Her eyes went to Winters’s. The girl gathered her army and marched for the Summer Papal Palace in response to the distress birds that had flooded the Named Lands two days before. To the south, Pylos and Turam also sent soldiers north. If Jin’s geography was correct, the young queen would reach the Palace later today. The other armies would be days behind, though, slowed by the harsh weather.
