by Amy Raby
“Have you heard anything from the Circle?” she asked.
“No,” he said, reaching for the belt of her syrtos.
“Nothing about the assassination? What about poisoning the enemy’s water? They said they would do that.”
“No. Nothing at all.” He reached up and kissed her, long and slow.
“Nothing about—”
“Shh,” he said, kissing her again. “I don’t want to talk about the Circle right now.”
31
The cliffside shelter had walls, shielding them from incoming arrows, but no roof. The rain fell in sheets, plastering Vitala’s hair to her face, dripping off her cloak, swirling about her feet, and carrying off the little rock shards by the hundreds. She squinted at Lucien, who, in the company of his fellow soldiers, was effortlessly drawing back a longbow. He loosed the arrow, and she tried to follow its progress as it plummeted toward the enemy forces in the gorge. She lost it in the driving rain, along with the other arrows in the volley.
“Do your arrows always strike their targets?” she asked as he nocked another arrow. “Because of your war magic?”
“I wish, but no.” He drew back the bow, aimed, and loosed. “It doesn’t operate at this range. I can’t even see individual targets. So much for never missing.”
She stared down at the gorge, narrowing her eyes to try to pick out detail. The visibility was awful. From their shelter on the cliff, the enemy forces were no more distinct than swarming ants. The rain, which had punished them for days, had not deterred the usurper’s forces from attacking. Today the enemy forces were bashing the walls with cannons and harquebuses. Lucien’s bowmen were targeting the cannoneers. They could not damage the cannons themselves, but picking off the men who operated them was nearly as effective.
Lucien shook his head, spraying raindrops everywhere, then mopped his face in exasperation. “Gods curse this weather! It will be the death of us all.”
• • •
Two days later, Lucien returned to the command tent in the early afternoon, pale and shivering and bedraggled, like a cat who’d fallen into a lake.
“Are you all right?” Vitala took his hand to draw him inside, where it was warm and dry.
He stayed put, refusing to be pulled out of the entryway. Perhaps he feared that if he had even a taste of comfort, he wouldn’t be able to resist it. “I’m not coming in. I have a mission for you.”
She stared at him. “What mission? Have you heard from the Circle?” She grabbed her oilskin cloak off a peg and flung it over her syrtos. Flavia, stir-crazy and eager for an outing, ran to her side.
“No. I want you to deliver a letter. Leave Flavia here.”
“A letter?” That sounded odd. “Has something happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he said, and pulled her outdoors.
He led her down to the river, which was muddy and bloated to twice its usual size. Four soldiers were sitting in a boat, bailing it and looking rather like drowned rats themselves.
“Here.” He handed her an oilskin pouch. “There was a flood in Stonemaw Pass. It destroyed two of our walls—”
“Three gods, Lucien! Our walls are down?”
“I want you to take this letter to my cousin Rhianne and apprise her of these events,” continued Lucien. “The details are in the letter.”
“But what can Rhianne possibly do about it? What can anyone do? Are our troops holding steady?”
His voice was flat. “I want Rhianne to know, and you’re the only person I trust to get this letter to her.”
“Wait a minute. Is this about delivering a letter, or is it about removing me from danger?”
“You have orders, Vitala,” he said firmly.
“Gods curse those orders. Deliver it yourself!” Furious, she grabbed him by the front of his syrtos and shoved the oilskin pouch into it. “You get on that boat, and you take it.”
“I can’t,” he said softly.
“You’re the emperor. You can do whatever you want.”
“No, I can’t. Vitala, please just do this.”
“I will not!” she cried. “If you’re going to stay here and die with your men, then I’m staying too. I’m their empress.”
“I’m not planning on dying. We’re fighting back, but it’s imperative you get to safety,” said Lucien. “You could be carrying the heir to the throne.”
“I’m not carrying any heir, and you know it!”
Lucien turned his head and gestured, but the gesture wasn’t aimed at her. She followed his gaze, and four soldiers materialized from behind the trees. Gods curse him, he’d set up an ambush.
Vitala drew her pistol, but one of the soldiers knocked it away so quickly she could barely see his hand moving. War mage, she realized. With a touch of her mind, she released a Shard and grasped it in her fingertips. One of the men seized her arm. She whipped her hand around, ready to stab him, and saw his face. “Quincius?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry, Empress. I have orders.”
She couldn’t kill Quincius. She couldn’t kill any of these men. She dropped the Shard, and the soldiers grabbed her. Two of them bound her hands behind her back.
Lucien stepped forward and tucked the oilskin pouch into her syrtos. “I love you, Vitala.”
“Gods curse you!” she called back as the men led her to the boat and seated her in the bow. Lucien watched from shore, his head bowed.
Quincius released the mooring line. He and the other officers stayed on shore, while the four soldiers in the boat rowed to speed their progress downstream. As Vitala floated down the swollen river, Lucien’s form dwindled, but he never took his eyes off her. It was only when he’d disappeared from view entirely that she wished her final words to him had been something else.
• • •
The following morning, the rain finally stopped and the boatmen untied her wrists. There was nowhere she could run to, not with the boat in the middle of the frigid river. She curled up in the bottom of the hull, feigning sleep, and pulled out the oilskin pouch. If Lucien thought she wasn’t going to look at the letter, he didn’t know her very well. Besides, after tricking her like that, he deserved whatever he got. She pulled the letter out of the pouch, slipped a fingernail under the wax seal, and opened it.
Dear Vitala, the opening read.
She almost laughed out loud. All right, he did know her well. Though the letter appeared short, there was a second page underneath the first. She flipped up the first page to see the second, which opened, Dear Rhianne. Vitala went back to the first.
Dear Vitala,
Shame on you! I knew you would not be able to resist reading this. By now you will know that a flash flood tumbled down the canyon in Stonemaw Pass and destroyed everything in its path—soldiers from both sides, and, most devastatingly, two of our walls. I’ve reinforced our troops at Stonemaw, but you are too much the Caturanga player not to realize that this is a bad turn of events. I shall have no peace of mind until I am certain you are out of danger. I’d have sent Flavia with you, but given her extraordinary swimming ability, I couldn’t be certain she would stay in the boat. You will see in the other letter that I have asked Rhianne to take you on board her ship. If the war is lost, she will evacuate you to Mosar. I know this plan does not please you, but if you love me at all, you will comply. If the usurper’s forces break through and death awaits me, I shall face my fate bravely, knowing that the woman I love survives. Please grant me this small measure of peace.
Yours now and forever,
Lucien
Vitala stared at the letter until the loops and whorls swam before her eyes. Then she read the one addressed to Rhianne. There were no surprises; it explained the situation and requested that Vitala be evacuated.
She lay quiet for a long time, thinking and occasionally wiping away tears. Then she refolded both letters and slipped them into her pocket.
• • •
When they arrived at Tovar, Vitala spotted several Mosari ships slippi
ng up and down the coast, patrolling the river mouth. Three other ships remained in the harbor, and as her boat approached them, Vitala saw they were damaged. Sailors were up on the yards, replacing torn sails and splintered spars. One ship had lost its mainmast.
She’d expected to be taken to one of the ships, but it turned out Rhianne and Jan-Torres were on land, still in the town hall. The soldiers handed her off to the Mosari guards, who led her inside. Her arrival had interrupted Rhianne’s and Jan-Torres’s lunch.
“Empress!” Rhianne’s eyes lit with sudden pleasure, then turned worried. “Is Lucien all right? How goes the war? For over a week, we have heard nothing.”
Vitala took a deep breath. “Lucien is fine, but the storm dealt us a nasty blow, same as it did to your ships.”
“A Kjallan fleet happened to those ships,” said Jan-Torres. “But never mind. What’s happened in the gorge?”
“We had walled off the Stonemaw and Ashfeld passes and were holding the enemy soldiers at bay, but a flood knocked down part of the wall, and now the enemies will be coming through.”
Rhianne and Jan-Torres exchanged stricken glances. “Did he send you here so we could evacuate you?” asked Rhianne.
“No, Your Majesty. He needs me to carry an urgent message to the Obsidian Circle. I’ve come to request a horse, supplies, and some local currency.”
“Why you?” asked Jan-Torres. “Anyone could deliver that message. Why send the empress?”
“On the contrary, Your Majesty, the Circle is famously difficult to locate. I am the only one capable of reading the signs and finding an enclave.”
“Did he send a letter explaining this?” demanded Jan-Torres. “He should have sent guards to accompany you!”
“He could not have sent guards. The Circle executes all Kjallans who come too near their enclaves.”
“When you are allies?” Jan-Torres shook his head. “Surely not.”
“Come and sit with us,” said Rhianne. “You must be famished. Have some lunch, and you can tell us more.”
“With all respect, I cannot. I must be off immediately.”
“Absolutely not,” said Jan-Torres. “Sit down. You must give us a better explanation than this.”
“Janto,” said Rhianne soothingly, “I’m sure she has her reasons.”
“Your Majesty, please,” said Vitala. “Lucien’s life may depend on this mission.”
“Then I’m sure you can explain why—” began Jan-Torres.
Rhianne placed a hand over her husband’s, and he fell silent. “Of course we shall provide you with what you need,” she said.
Half an hour later, Vitala was galloping south on a fine black mare with provisions and a bag full of tetrals.
32
Infiltrating the usurper’s encampment took almost no effort at all; young women like Vitala were more than welcome. She’d expected to pay a substantial rent for tent space, but half the tents were unoccupied, so she got it for a pittance. She was also able to buy a syrtos in the proper style for a camp follower—shorter, light, and gauzy—as well as a furred cloak to throw around it for warmth. Food prices, however, were five or six times the norm. No wonder so many women had left.
After securing accommodations and changing into her new clothing, she bought some ridiculously priced “pork” on a stick that tasted like no pork she’d ever eaten and wandered the camp to get a feel for the place. How should she approach this task? She needed to reach Cassian, but gaining entry to the officers’ pavilion would not be as easy as infiltrating the camp. The pavilion was well guarded. Camp followers weren’t allowed inside.
A pair of rank-and-file soldiers propositioned her as she walked, but she turned her back on them. She needed an officer with access to Cassian. And if she found one, how was she to proceed from there, when she knew nothing about Cassian himself? How different this was from her original mission! She’d studied Lucien for nearly a decade before trying to approach him.
“Three gods!” cried a woman behind her. “Vivian, is that you?”
A tingle of familiarity ran down Vitala’s spine. She turned just in time to catch Ista, who rushed into her arms.
Ista squealed and hugged her. “What happened? Was the action too slow in White Lion? Why do you look so dumbfounded? You can’t be surprised to see me.”
“No, of course not.” Vitala blinked. She’d never seen Ista “on” before; it was startling.
Ista slipped an arm around her waist and led her from the crowd. “You must stay with me. I’ve got a fabulous tent, lots of space. Just ignore the bitch next door. The men here are wonderful! I’ll introduce you to some of my beaux—there’s more than enough to go around.” She nattered on, talking of nothing, until they reached a large red tent with strings of beads hanging over the entryway. Ista parted the beads to go inside and dragged Vitala after her.
Vitala glanced around the tent. They were alone. “What’s going on?”
Ista put a finger to her lips.
Vitala leaned forward to whisper but was interrupted by a muffled wail, which emanated from the adjacent tent.
Ista pounded on the tent wall. “Shut it, you old bitch!”
The wailing intensified.
“Gods, she never stops.” Ista rolled her eyes.
“Why are the food prices so high?” asked Vitala, feeling that was a safe subject to discuss even if they were being spied upon.
“Not enough to go around,” said Ista. “Whatever you get your hands on, eat it quickly, because the battalion leaders may come through and confiscate it for the soldiers. The good news is lots of women are leaving. The bad news is there have been women attacked, even killed. Sometimes the men don’t pay enough for what they ask for, or don’t pay at all. And good luck to you if you try to seek redress.”
Vitala nodded, biting her lip. “And how is the war going?”
“Better,” said Ista. “For a while, we weren’t getting anywhere. The rebels had walled themselves into a gulch and our men couldn’t get through, but then we had a stroke of luck. A flash flood knocked down a couple of walls and drowned a few centuries of soldiers, and now we’re advancing steadily. We’ll probably have to pack up and move the camp again tomorrow. Have you heard the rumor that the rebel troops are commanded by the old Emperor Lucien?”
“I thought Emperor Lucien was dead,” Vitala said carefully.
Ista shrugged. “Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t.”
Vitala chafed with frustration. She had so much to ask Ista, and no privacy in which to do it. “Are your friends still here, or did they clear out when the food prices went up?”
The wailing next door intensified, and Ista punched the side of the tent a few more times. “Shut it!” she cried.
“We could go to my tent,” said Vitala.
Ista shook her head. “It’ll be as bad there, most like. My friends are gone. But now you’re here. We can look after each other. We’ll have fun together!”
So the Circle had presumably sent a team of assassins. And all of them were gone except Ista? What had happened?
“There’s a junior officer I’d like to introduce you to,” continued Ista. “His name is Glavius, he’s very handsome, and he always pays. I’m meeting him tonight. You should meet him too.” There was a gleam in her eye that told Vitala this meeting was important.
“That sounds wonderful,” said Vitala.
Ista lowered her voice. “Let me tell you what to do.”
• • •
“Izzy, you got company already?” The young officer poked his head into the tent, rattling the beads. “You know what I said—” His eyes found Vitala, and he fell silent.
Ista grinned. “I do have company. I was thinking we’d have a little extra fun tonight. Did you bring what I asked?”
The officer stepped all the way into the tent. He was a big man, tall and well muscled. He pulled a bottle of wine from his syrtos and held it up enticingly. “Of course.” He eyed Vitala appreciatively. “What sort of extra f
un did you mean?”
“This is my sister Vivian. She likes a good time too. Don’t you, Vivian?”
Vitala wrinkled her face into a pout. “It smells in here.”
“Vivian, who cares?” Ista turned to the officer. “She’s new to camp life, not used to it yet. But she and I used to have a lot of fun together. Vivian, this is Glavius. Isn’t he the most handsome man you ever saw?”
Vivian looked him over and nodded, giving him the ghost of a smile. “But it smells. And that old bitch never shuts up.” As if on cue, the woman next door started wailing again. “I couldn’t possibly have fun here. You two do what you like. I’ll leave you to it.” Vitala stood and headed for the tent-flap door.
“Vivian,” protested Ista.
Glavius stepped in front of the door, blocking it. When she paused in front of him, he lifted her chin and examined her face. He smiled. “What if we went to another tent?”
“They all smell bad,” said Vitala.
“I know one that doesn’t,” said Glavius.
“Where?” said Vitala.
“In the officer’s pavilion. My own tent.”
Ista gasped. “You would take us there?”
Glavius shrugged. “I think we can relax the rules this one time. The rebels are in retreat, and the camp’s going to pick up and move tomorrow. Why shouldn’t you ladies move a little early? Vivian’s right. It does smell in here.”
“Vivian, say yes,” said Ista. “The officer’s pavilion is so much nicer than here.”
Vitala gazed adoringly into Glavius’s eyes. “Yes.”
• • •
The officers’ pavilion was on high ground, surrounded by a makeshift fence and guarded by uniformed soldiers. Some of the guards looked like they wanted to say something when they saw Vitala and Ista at Glavius’s side, but after a look at his insignia and blood mark, they bit their tongues.
Inside the pavilion, Vitala passed a junior officer who looked right at Ista’s chest, then at Glavius with a raised eyebrow.
“Prisoners to be interrogated,” said Glavius.
