The spy shrieks inside his head–in triumph, in terror, he doesn’t know.
Alic–he’s more Alic than he’s ever been, at this moment–grabs Tander by the shoulder. “We’ve got to go!” His heart pounding in his chest, he tenses for the pain of incoming gunfire. He wants, desperately, to live. To hear his name toasted in the IndLib meeting hall. To make it back to the gentling-house and hug Emlin. To stay Alic.
“Run!” Sirens howl. Searchlights flare. They dive into the water, swim for their lives. A short, filthy swim through the garbage, praying that the light doesn’t find them. They reach the southern ledge again. Alic hauls on the rope, pulling Tander back up. Side by side, they crawl back towards the landing site. Towards the third mercenary, towards those breathing cages and the open harbour and Oona and the boat and safety and not dying on this fucking ledge…
The searchlight finds them.
“Move!” shouts Tander. Gunfire explodes around them. Shards of rock shower down into the water below. Tander’s hit, bleeding from at least three wounds, but none fatal. It’s a miracle, a bloody miracle granted by no known god that they’re not killed, either of them.
Fierdy sees them coming. He half stands to usher them into cover where they can put on their diving gear, then his head explodes as a bullet catches him. Brains and skull splatter the waiting helmets in their neat row.
Tander grabs one helmet and jams it onto Alic’s shoulders. Seals it roughly, slams the breathing tube home with such force that it startles the gill-creature in the tank.
“Do me!” shouts Tander.
It’s the spy who reaches down, the spy who lifts another helmet, nearly drops it–it’s slick with Fierdy’s blood–and places it on Tander’s head. “Quick, quick!” Tander turns around, gestures at the hook-up for the breathing cage. “We’ve got to go, got to tell Annah it’s real, that it’s here.”
Tell the war fleet of the Sacred Realm of Ishmere that Guerdon is defended. Tell them that the first god to trespass here–proud Lion Queen, resplendent Cloud Mother, sullen Kraken–will be struck down, annihilated so utterly that they will know death as mortals do. Tell them of their peril. Tell them to stay away from Guerdon, to keep to their present course.
The spy takes a knife and makes a quick cut, stabbing through the protective mesh over the gill-creature in Tander’s pack. The thing barely has enough of a nervous system to feel pain, but it still quivers as the steel slices through its fragile tissues. Then he clips the breathing tube home.
There’ll be boats on the way soon. They don’t have time to check their suit’s seals, don’t have time to do anything but clamp on the weighted boots and slither down into the water. Every step away from the god bomb is a blessed relief; the darkness of the water is cool and silent, like the shadows of the temple in Severast.
Tied together, they march into the lightless depths. The spy throws the last few flash ghosts ahead of them, clearing a path in case there are any more of those guardian polyps. He catches glimpses of Tander in the light from the flashes, but then it’s dark again, and he can only walk straight ahead, following the taut rope.
The rope slackens.
Goes limp.
He finds Tander, swaying back and forth in the tide. Rooted by his weighted boots, planted in the seabed like some strange anemone. Silenced forever.
The spy drops the last flash ghost and walks away.
Oona appears out of the darkness like a psychopomp, here to carry his soul to some forgotten sea god. The mer-woman frowns when she finds him alone. He holds up the tattered end of the rope. She makes a face to express her sympathy, then dives down and unbuckles his weighted boots. Freed, he floats up into her arms. Her tail beats the water, and they rush upwards.
Behind them, watch patrol cutters spread out, searching for the intruder. Soon, they’ll find the bodies. One, dead on the rocks. Another who tried to escape via the seabed, and never noticed that a stray shot had damaged his breathing apparatus. The poor bastard, marching to his death, not knowing he was running out of air. His remains shredded by the flash ghost, ensuring he could never be identified.
Oona speeds him out into the harbour. There’s the little boat, Dredger’s launch, idling in the water. Oona pushes him up, breaching the surface. Annah and Haberas help him in.
Annah’s face is expressionless, unreadable, even when Oona gestures that there’s no one else coming, that the spy is the only survivor.
Now is the most dangerous moment of all.
When Annah lifts the helmet off, he whispers to her, urgently. Like the words are fire, a burning torch he’s carried out of the dark waters, passed from hand to hand in a relay. Tander and the others died to bring you these words.
“They don’t have the god bomb,” he lies, “they’re bluffing. The city’s wide open.”
Annah takes a long, long, draw on her cigarette.
She cups the cigarette in her hand, shielding it so the little flare of light doesn’t give her position away.
She exhales.
Drops the butt overboard.
“That changes things.”
She turns, shoots Haberas neatly in the chest, dead centre. Fires again, into the water, hitting Oona. The mer-woman thrashes and flails in pain, her webbed hands splashing through the moon-silvered water, but then she sinks and vanishes. Annah fires at the water, twice, then sits down at the tiller and starts the engine.
The spy lies there, in the bottom of the boat, as they race south, away from Guerdon, following the coast. Passing the islands, past Hark and Shrike, past the Isle of Statues. Past the Bell Rock.
Exhausted, untroubled, the spy falls asleep next to the cooling corpse.
He’s woken by the sound of Haberas’ body slipping into the water, weighed down by the spy’s leaded belt and weapons.
It’s still night, but the eastern sky is brightening. It’ll be dawn soon. In the half-light, the spy makes out the shape of coastline to the west. They must be a few miles south of Guerdon. There’s a distant smear of light inland that the spy guesses is the Festival field.
Annah lifts the spy’s breathing cage to throw it overboard, then pauses. She peers into the tank, holding it up to the dawn light. “You were lucky,” she says, “the gill-fish died.” She opens the little grille, pulls out the remains of the little alchemical monster. A burn mark on its gelatinous flesh–a flash ghost must have caught it. A spark of arcane energy, arcing from Tander’s death to the spy’s tank.
“It was hard to breathe,” admits the spy.
“Surprised you weren’t dead,” mutters Annah. “Thank the gods.” She squeezes, hard, and the little creature bursts in a shower of goo. She rinses her hand off in the water.
They sail on in silence, the only sound the rumble of the boat’s engine. After a while, she turns the tiller, bringing them close to the shore, to land at a sheltered beach in the middle of nowhere. The spy hops into the surf and helps drag the launch onto the sand.
“Just leave it,” she tells him. “Ory will take care of it.”
She leads him up a narrow path to a little cottage atop the cliffs and knocks on the door. After a few minutes, a large man opens it. He yawns at them, but doesn’t betray any surprise as he hustles them both inside.
This is Ory, guesses the spy.
Wiping sleep from his watery-green eyes, Ory manoeuvres his bulk around the cottage like a man carrying a sack of fish. At first glance, the spy thought him old, but Ory’s voice is young. His skin glistens unhealthily, and when he brings over a plate of breakfast the spy sees how boneless and long his fingers are.
The fleet’s still far away. This saint can’t manifest the Kraken yet. But soon.
The spy is told to eat quickly. Ory finds him clean clothes–a fisherman’s clothes, ill fitting, and not really suited to Alic or Sanhada Baradhin or any of the spy’s other identities, but he can tie and tuck the excess fabric to not stand out overmuch. While he dresses, Annah and Ory talk in low tones. From some hidden coffer they pr
oduce three separate sums of cash–X84’s payment, recompense for Dredger–it seems the launch is to be buried, to conceal it–and a small amount of travelling expenses, enough to get the spy back to Guerdon.
All paid in Guerdon silver.
Ory tells him it’ll be easy. Just walk to the nearest village, and then he can catch a train up the coast. There’ll be crowds coming back from the Festival. Easy to blend in. Easy to be forgotten.
Annah goes out to watch the dawn. Once the spy has his gear packed away–the money and the weapons hidden beneath the absurd clothes–he joins her outside the strange high house. She’s staring out to sea, methodically chain-smoking through all her remaining cigarettes.
“I’m not coming back with you. I have my own channels,” she says. “Send the word. Then go silent. Maybe get out of the city altogether. We’ll contact you through the boy if needed.”
“I’ll need your blessing to send a message to the gods.”
“Aye.” She digs into her pocket, finds the little vial of oil and hands it to him. The Lion Queen’s face on the stopper is the same face he saw in the tent at Mattaur, half the world away.
He slips the vial into a pocket. “How will it happen? If it does, that is?”
Annah shrugs. “You were at Severast. It’ll be like that.”
Kraken’s seas, rushing into the city like a flood of molten glass. God-spawned monsters, riding the mists of Cloud Mother. Miracles like fire. Ships landing in the streets, disgorging priests and fanatics to tear down the altars of local gods and reconsecrate them to the invaders with sacrifices. War-saints striding into battle, a hundred feet tall. Beautiful and terrible at once, the hosts of heaven making war upon the mortal plane.
“Will She be there?”
“She is on every battlefield. Of course She’ll be there. But it’ll be Fate Spider first. He’ll weave our victory, and then She shall claim it.” Annah finishes her last cigarette, and throws it over the cliff.
The rising sun makes it look like she’s just set fire to the sky.
CHAPTER 28
The tail end of the king’s procession streams past Terevant, the same words on everyone’s lips. The king has returned! The whole fair’s electrified by the news. Guerdon’s suspicion of miracles doesn’t apply here–this is their king, blessed by the old gods of the city. The Festival may be ending, but the celebration is only just beginning. They’ll sing all the way back to Guerdon.
Terevant caught a glimpse of the king as he passed. Only from a distance–the new king, anointed by the gods, rode in a palanquin alongside the Patros of Guerdon, but still, close enough to recognise him. Close enough to see that distinctive nose, close enough for the king to catch Terevant’s eye and give him a private little shrug. As if being chosen by the gods and acclaimed king of Guerdon was just another indignity of fate to be endured by Berrick.
The procession passes on.
Terevant, still stunned, ducks back into the Haithi pavilion. There’s a private tent, off to one side, for the ambassador. Olthic and Lys went off there earlier. He brushes past Daerinth and his clerks as they tear down the main pavilion. He finds Olthic sitting on a cot half dressed, buttoning a shirt.
“Where’s Lys?”
“Already gone back to the city. To the Palace of the Patros. Or the palace of the king, I suppose. King Berrick the First.” He laughs ruefully. “I have to go to some official reception. Give me a hand, would you?”
Olthic’s jacket is heavy with medals as Terevant lifts it from its stand. “What happens now?” asks Terevant, cautiously. The defeat at parliament was losing a battle–now, it seems, he’s lost the war.
Olthic pulls on the jacket and sits back down, the cot creaking beneath him. “Lys has won. The new king–he’s the Bureau’s man. The Keepers will win the election, and they’ll give us the alliance Haith needs. What I couldn’t win by…” he shakes his head, as if amazed at his own folly, “by diplomacy, the Bureau wins by stealth.” He shakes his head again. “I owe you an apology, I think. She played us both.”
“Keeping the sword from you?”
“Indeed.” Olthic lifts the blade, testing its perfect balance. “Once it fell into her grasp, she held onto it long enough for her to work her scheme. If I have to lose, then at least it’s to her.” He shrugs. “Daerinth was less philosophical.”
“He suggested I take the sword,” says Terevant, “instead of bringing it to you. It was… bizarre.”
“Take the sword? Keep me in Guerdon?” Olthic laughs. “That’s desperate, even for him,” echoes Olthic. “I wonder if he thinks the new ambassador will finally get rid of him. Oh, I’m quitting,” he says in response to Terevant’s confused look. Olthic grins. “I’m going to go back home, and be the Erevesic. Lead our House army, like I should have done months ago. There is a war on, you know.”
Olthic springs up, and it’s like he’s left some huge weight behind him. He claps Terevant on the shoulder. “Done with politicking, done with diplomacy, done with Daerinth whispering in my ear, telling me what to say and which arse to lick. Done with this fucking city of Guerdon, and to hell with it.” He takes a deep breath. “All right. One last reception–have to stay on the good side of the alchemists’ guild. Each glass of sherry’s worth a thousand rounds of ammunition, or somesuch. Go and find a tavern, and I’ll join you when I’m done.”
The Erevesic walks out, humming.
Terevant stares in disbelief for a moment. When the Bureau rejected him, when his own future fell apart, he ran off and hid in the colonies for a year. When his brother has the Crown–the Crown!– snatched away from him, Olthic laughs about it.
Maybe Olthic’s right. To hell with Guerdon. He’ll drink to that.
Outside, the fair is ending. Hawkers and merchants whisk away their merchandise; dray-carts and wagons suddenly fill the laneways that earlier were crowded with people, here to haul the remaining goods and the collapsed stalls back to the city, to wait in some warehouse until next year. The clerks from the Haithi embassy lug heavy boxes back to waiting wagons; they watch Terevant keenly as he passes, no doubt jealous that he’s off to relax while they’ve still got back-breaking work to do. Ahead, the grand exhibition hall of the alchemists has already been partially stripped down to its steel framework, like the corpse of some titan, its flesh partially melted to reveal the skeleton beneath. The disassembling fairground has an air of apocalypse about it: it’s all frantic looting amid the ruins, or the melancholy emptiness of abandoned delights.
Terevant kicks himself. It’s just the last evening of a country fair, not a harbinger of doom. Not everything needs to be drenched in poetic significance. His instructors at the military academy used to despair of him. They’d show him a painting of a landscape, and he’d notice the hillside pines outlined against the sky, their branches like serried ranks of spearmen. He’d see the cottage in the foreground, a little island of light and laughter in a dark landscape. He’d notice the name of the artist, and vaguely recall which school she belonged to.
He would, however, completely miss what they wanted him to see–the strategically important bridge, the ridge nearby where a competent commander would put his alchemical cannons and rockets, the thicket where one should station one’s living troops, the bottleneck there where the Vigilant should stand, unyielding and undying. He can leave all that to Olthic again. Terevant wonders idly about his own future. There are still unanswered questions here in Guerdon, about Vanth’s death, and the god bombs, but right now they take second place to another, more pressing question.
Somewhere, amid the wasteland of abandoned delights, is there still an open tavern?
He finds the beer tent he’d visited earlier, but it’s closed. He walks around the back of the place, wondering if there’s a way in, if there are still a few staff finishing the last of the kegs. Nothing.
In the distance he hears music, and follows that instead. There’s a bonfire blazing up ahead, a circle of men and women around it. Mercenaries, he guesse
s; some are armoured, some are scarred, all of them drinking with determination, trying to cram as much life as they can into this summer’s evening.
A woman approaches him, a pair of drinks in hand. She’s partly dressed in elaborate, old-fashioned armour: bracers and greaves and a heavy steel collar. There’s no way she’d wear anything like that outfit into battle. She must be a mercenary recruiter, in full regalia to impress the customers.
“If the Crown of Haith’s looking to hire us, you’re too late, friend,” she says, passing him a drink anyway.
“No, I’m just looking for some company.”
“You have found the company.” She gestures with her goblet, “The Company of Eight.”
There are at least two dozen warriors behind her. Some of them cheer and echo her toast to the Company of Eight.
“Join us,” she says. “We’ve just signed on with Lyrix, so we’re celebrating.”
He does as she suggests, finding a space in the circle. The Company of Eight, he learns, actually did have eight people once upon a time. Five are dead, one’s immensely rich and living up in Serran; the fate of the other two is obscure, as that part of the story is told to Terevant by an old mumbling mercenary who starts snoring in the middle of the tale. They’re off to Lyrix, hired to bolster the defence of the island. One fellow desperately tries to persuade Terevant to buy a dragon-scale breastplate from him–he picked up the piece at the fair, and only later realised that going to Lyrix wearing the hide of a dead dragon might be deemed impolite.
The mercenary recruiter sits down next to Terevant. She’s exchanged her armour for a shirt and a long skirt that glitters in the firelight. She crosses her legs, and the skirt rides up, revealing a muscular calf. She leans in a little closer than she needs to, introduces herself as Naola.
It turns out she’s the new captain of the Company, the previous captain having died of plague down in Mattaur. She came home to Guerdon–the daughter of factory workers–to learn that her parents and her younger brother had been killed during the Crisis. She raises a drink to them, laughing. They worried that she’d perish on some distant battlefield, but the Godswar found them in the safest city in the world. So much for certainty.
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