by Bunch, Chris
Sooner or later, the flames would provide inspiration, and they did. Svalbard saw them first — men carrying lashed-together bundles of wood toward the tower. We shot them down, but others came, moving more stealthily along the walls.
Now I became ashamed of my lack of faith in the scullery woman. “Ah don’t want t’ burn,” she whimpered and hurried downstairs. I thought she’d gone to find a hiding place and wished her well, hoping that when and if the doors burned through, they wouldn’t winkle her out.
She shouted for the candleman, and he reluctantly went down the stairs. A few minutes later, the two tottered back up. They had a large pot, hung on a fireplace poker. The pot steamed and bubbled, and I remembered the ancient oilpots on Irrigon’s roofs.
“They’ll burn us,” she said, almost cheerily, “an’ we’ll boil them first wi’ laundry lye.” She went to the window overlooking the door, peeped out, then she and her assistant dumped the pot over the window ledge. Screams of pain racked the gathering twilight, and the woman beamed happily. “That’ll hold ‘em back.”
It did. For a time. Then I felt hot, as if I were an ant trapped in a sunbeam focused through a malevolent child’s glass. I smelt smoke, and saw, in our fireplace, the always laid firewood begin to smoke, curl, and blacken. There was more smoke, coming from above, from the wooden chandelier, from wooden fretwork on a wall, then from the paneling itself. They’d found a seer, and his spell was attacking every piece of wood in the tower.
I shouted for the soldier guarding the door to come up, and we hurled furniture down the stairwells.
Karjan grimaced at me. “Y’know, sir, I could’ve stayed wi’ th’ Lancers in Urey an’ none of this’d be happenin'. At least not t’ me.”
“Cheerful bastard,” I hissed at him.
I went to Amiel and gave her a hug. She, at least, welcomed the affection. “Do we have any chance?”
“Of course,” I said. “Nothing’s ever for certain.”
I looked at Marán, but her gaze was still chill, unforgiving. But I had to try. I went to her. “If the worst happens,” I asked in a low tone, “will we go to the Wheel as enemies?”
She began to say something, then stopped and took a deep breath. “No, Damastes,” she said finally. “You’re my husband. We’ll die together.” She was silent for a time, then coughed. The smoke was growing thicker. “Maybe, in our next, when we return, maybe …” She didn’t finish. I waited, but she just shook her head and stared out the window.
Amiel soaked handkerchiefs in water, and we tied them around our faces.
“The stone won’t burn,” I said, my voice muffled, “and their magic isn’t good enough to make fire from the air. We’ll wait until the doors burn through, and they come up, then see how long they can keep coming.” I hope my words sounded less futile to the others than to me.
Then an idea came. “Who can swim?” I asked.
No one needed an explanation. Marán swam, like an eel, and the soldiers had damned well better, since that was part of their training.
“I can,” Amiel said, “after a fashion.”
“I’ll swim with you,” Marán said. “Don’t worry.”
“Or I can,” Svalbard said. “You’ll have no worries.”
“I wager I c’n float,” the scullery maid said. “Better’n fryin', no matter what.”
The candle lighter just bobbed his head.
“All right,” I said. “Marán, go through our wardrobe. Try to find dark-colored clothing. Everybody should wear pants, some sort of shirt. No shoes. We’ll jump as soon as we’re ready. If you think you can take a weapon with you, take a knife. But throw it away if it’s a burden. Jump feet first, and keep your hands over your head. There shouldn’t be anything in the water to hurt you, and it’s deep under the tower.
“When you land, swim for the far shore. I’ll be the last to jump, and I’ll try to help anybody who’s in trouble. Try not to splash and draw attention.”
We hastily changed clothes, trying not to think about the long drop, and what terrible things could be at the end of it.
“I think,” Amiel said, “I think I want to pray. Does anyone else?”
All of us did, all except the scullery woman and Karjan. I prayed not only to my own gods, but to Varum, god of water, and hoped someone, anyone, would be listening.
The smoke was thicker, and flames flickered around the room. All of us were coughing. I peered out a river window and couldn’t see any sign of life below or on the water.
“Now,” I ordered.
The two soldiers went first, and hit the water cleanly. They surfaced and swam for the opposite shore, less than a hundred feet away.
Marán took Amiel’s hand and led her to the window.
“Ready?” I said and kissed her lips, then Amiel’s.
“Go,” my wife snapped, and the two leapt into darkness. I heard a little yelp, and winced. But it evidently went unheard. Next was the scullery woman, then Karjan and Svalbard. As they jumped, I heard screams of joy, and the roar of flames. The outer door must have gone down and the rush of air was feeding the fire.
I waited for a count of three, time enough for anyone below to swim clear, then jumped. I fell for an instant, splashed into cold darkness, and swam away hard. The flames of Irrigon made the water a dark mirror, and I could see bobbing dots moving toward the far shore.
I was about halfway across when a dark bulk clambered out of the river. One of the soldiers, I guessed. We were safe — but my hope vanished as I heard a shout. Two men ran out of the darkness, and a sword gleamed as it slashed into the man’s body. He cried out and fell.
“Downstream,” I shouted, and saw splashes as my people heard and swam away from the bank, back into the swift current. Torches flared up both banks. I tried to stay low in the water, keep my hands and feet below the surface. The current took me and swept me along.
I don’t know what the peasants thought, but none of the torches moved up- or downstream, but remained in tight knots on either side of the river, their fires dwarfed by the roaring cataclysm that had been Irrigon. Arrows, spears, rocks rained out, but splashed into emptiness.
The river narrowed about half a mile downstream where there was a ford. Once ashore, we could follow the road east, keeping under cover, and find safety in perhaps four days, beyond the Agramónte lands. I knew enough woodcraft to elude any pursuers, even foresters or hunters. We’d build mantraps to take care of them.
Perhaps, I let myself think, perhaps we wouldn’t all return to the Wheel this night. I swam strongly, looking around, looking for the others. I held to the center of the river, and then saw, ahead of me, the twin brick islands that had been built one on either bank of the river. The space between had been dredged for small boats. When someone wanted to cross, there were heavy planks with ropes on either end to pull across for a footbridge.
The current quickened as the river narrowed, and I swam out of it, felt pebbles and sand under my feet. I waded toward the bank until the water was waist-deep, and scanned the night. I saw a drifting head, waded to it, and pulled the scullery maid to me. She was nearly done, said she’d tried to help the candle lighter, but he’d flailed at the water, made a sudden sound, and vanished. She waded to shore and collapsed on the gravel. Then came Svalbard and Karjan. They’d seen no one else.
I heard splashing, faint cries for help, and swam toward the sound. “Help me. Help me.” It was Marán. She was in water over her head, but only chest-high for me. She was pulling a limp Amiel. “Thank Tanis,” I gasped and then Karjan and Svalbard were beside me.
I looked for the other soldier, but never saw him. I don’t know if he was killed with his mate, or if he drowned.
I pulled myself through the water after my wife and Amiel. “Be careful,” I heard Marán said. “There’s something wrong with her.”
I put my arm around Amiel, and she gasped in pain just as I felt the broken stub of an arrow between my fingers, just below her right breast. We carried her to
shore. There was a thicket nearby, and we moved into its heart and laid her on the moss. I unbuttoned her shirt and saw the wound in the dimness. Blood was seeping slowly around the arrow.
“Damastes,” Amiel said. “I hurt.”
“You’ll be all right,” I said.
“Damastes, I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t.” I tried to sound sure.
“I don’t want my baby to die. Please. Help me.”
“I’ll start now, sir,” Svalbard said. “I can make the edge of your land in two days, running hard. Bring help back. You travel slow, move mostly at night, and it’ll be all right.”
That was as good a plan as any.
“Take care, sir,” he said. “We’ll get our own back.” That was the most I’d had from Svalbard in the years I’d known him. Without ado, he vanished into darkness.
“Amiel,” Marán whispered, “I remember a witch. She’s two villages from us. I know she wouldn’t join these bastards. When it’s light, I’ll go for her.”
“Good,” I said approvingly. “And Karjan’ll go with you.”
“I’ll stay wi’ your lady,” the scullery woman promised. “Me an’ th’ tribune’ll keep her safe.”
Amiel’s lips quirked. “All right,” she whispered. “Now I feel like everyone’s going to help me. Now I know I’ll live. And my baby’ll live, too. Won’t she, Damastes?”
“She will,” I said.
“Good,” Amiel said again. Her hand fumbled out, and I took it. “Marán,” she said, “take my other hand.” I felt my wife move up beside me. “I love you,” Amiel said. “I love you both.”
“I love you,” I whispered, and Marán echoed me.
“I think I’ll sleep now,” she said. “When I wake, maybe the witch will be here, and help me stop hurting.” Her eyes closed.
Marán was crying silently. “Why in the hells do any gods let things like this happen?” she whispered fiercely. I shook my head; I had no answers.
Amiel, Countess Kalvedon, died an hour before dawn without waking.
• • •
Flames roared high into the cloud-whipped sky, taking Amiel’s body into its embrace. Nearby a second pyre crackled, consuming what little we’d found of Praen’s body.
There were three hundred soldiers around the field, all in full battle dress with arms ready. Svalbard had been lucky, and encountered an army patrol less than half a day’s run from the river. They’d gone at the gallop for reinforcements, then ridden back, following the river road, and we’d joined up a day and a half beyond Irrigon.
We’d returned to Irrigon, and the soldiers had combed the countryside. The prisoners they took were penned in a hastily fenced compound, more and more as the days passed. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about them and would cheerfully have freed them all and rewarded them with gold if Amiel could thus have been with us.
Marán and I stood between the pyres. Behind was the smoldering ruin of Irrigon.
“It’s over,” my wife whispered.
“What?” I said.
“Damastes á Cimabue,” she said, and her voice was firm, without a quaver. “I declare it finished between us. What was once, is no more, and will never be again.
“It’s over,” she said again.
FOURTEEN
TO SPEAK FOR THE EMPEROR
There were still the mechanics of dissolution, but Marán had spoken the truth, and there was no saving our marriage, our life together.
At least I still had my honor and my duty as a soldier. When we returned to Nicias, I immediately had those few things I wished to keep moved out of her house on the riverfront. I went back into the Water Palace. One of Kutulu’s emissaries came, and said the Tovieti were more active than ever, and I might be considered foolish to dangle my coattails in front of them. I smiled, a tight, hard grin, and said I wished them well, and they were welcome to try once more. He eyed me, the sword at my side and the dagger sheathed across from it, bowed, and withdrew.
• • •
I went to Kutulu and told him all of what had happened, including the meeting I’d had with Praen and his cronies, and the murder gangs that had resulted from it.
“I suspected something besides the traditional estate goons was occurring,” he said. “But you’ve given me the first clue these gangs are organized by a central group. I do wish you’d come to me when your brother-in-law — pardon, former brother-in-law — approached you.”
“I’m not a tell-tale.”
Kutulu inclined his head, didn’t respond.
“What about these Broken Men?” I asked. “Now there’s proof they’re being run by the Tovieti.”
“Within the past month I’ve had several confirmations of that information,” the warder said. “There’s been more than one outbreak of violence in the countryside, all of course appearing spontaneous.
“But there is a problem.”
I waited. Kutulu squirmed.
“Everything must be paid for,” he said finally. “Even spies and assassins. Perhaps them before anyone, since they work best for red gold.
“And there is no funding for any further investigation into the Tovieti. All secret service funding goes to working against Maisir. All of it.”
“At the orders of the emperor,” I said.
“Of course,” he said, and I read helpless rage in his eyes.
• • •
I tried to pretend Marán, and our marriage, had never existed, and so avoided Nicias’ polite society, where I might encounter her friends or her. Tales of what she was doing, saying, came, and I tried to ignore them, even though I was drawn, with a horrid fascination. Thank Irisu, Jaen, and Vachan I heard no stories that she’d taken a lover, for I don’t know if I could have handled that.
Now the only thing that mattered was the army, particularly the new Guard. I frequently journeyed upriver to Amur, to oversee their training. And there were always paperwork and intelligence summaries on Maisir to study.
I saw the emperor more frequently now, and he never brought up my marriage, for which I was grateful. Once or twice I saw him looking sympathetically at me, but he said nothing.
The Time of Births ground past, and the Time of Heat began. I tried to convince myself my wound was healing, but someone would inadvertently mention her name, or I’d glance at a broadsheet and read an account of the Countess Agramónte’s plans for the upcoming social season, and the scab would be ripped away once more. Marán didn’t return to her old ways, when she had scorned the butterfly whirl of court for intellectual pursuits. These days no court occasion or ball was complete without the countess, her hangers-on, her latest imaginative dress, and so forth.
I dully knew only time would end the pain.
Once it was discovered that “Damastes the Fair” was available, my post was filled with offers — some subtle, some most appallingly direct.
Even more obscene were the hints from brothers and fathers who’d have liked nothing better than to make such a high connection, either through marriage or in a far less formal relationship. I availed myself of none. I felt no desire, no lust. My appetites had been burned with Irrigon, had died with Amiel, had withered when Marán turned me away.
• • •
The bad news came to Renan in the person of a small, friendly little Maisirian. He was one of Kutulu’s agents and had been set up as a wandering sutler, dealing mostly in illicit alcohol, who moved from camp to camp of the Maisirian Army. His discovery was so important he chanced taking it across the border and through deadly Sulem Pass in person, rather than by the usual covert messengers.
King Bairan had called up three “classes,” or age groups, to serve full terms in the army, which hadn’t been done for at least thirty years to our knowledge. Also, the current class had been ordered to remain in service rather than being discharged. Maisir was mobilizing, and there could be but one cause, one potential enemy.
A day later, another, possibly worse report came, this one from our embass
y in Jarrah. King Bairan had summoned a conclave of the highest-ranking sorcerers to the capital for a special conference. Ominously, the topic of the conference was considered a state secret.
I ordered Petre to accelerate the Guards’ training schedules, with never a break in the schedule or between training cycles, and sent more recruiters out with the promises of greater rewards for the most successful.
War grew ever closer.
• • •
One night thunder rode the sky in a night-long drumroll, as if the cavalry of the gods were galloping past in review. Lightning flickered, then flared, not in comfortable white light but in reds, greens, purple — shades that no one could remember having heard of. It was a great storm, but during that long night, not one drop of rain fell.
A day after the storm, near midnight, I was summoned to the emperor’s palace. I’d been finding it easier to sleep if I worked myself into exhaustion, and so was still at my desk when the call came. I pulled on my sword belt and helmet and galloped hard for the emperor’s castle, Lucan easily staying ahead of my escort.
The Emperor Tenedos looked demon-haunted, as if he’d slept but little, and then his dreams had been more evil than reality.
“Damastes, this meeting must forever remain a secret,” he began, without preamble.
“If that’s your wish, sir.”
“I mean forever, no matter what happens.”
I was a little irked. “If my word isn’t enough once, what will make it stronger a second time? Sir.”
Tenedos began to get angry, then caught himself. “You’re right. My apologies.”
Even now, even with things as they are, even after all the betrayals, I still find it hard to continue, to break that now-meaningless promise. But I must.
The emperor paced back and forth, holding his hand near his heart, as if swearing an oath of his own. “That storm the other night was my magic,” he started. “I won’t … I can’t … tell you who or what I summoned. I was attempting to reach into the future, for some inkling of what comes next for Numantia. That sort of thing generally isn’t wise,” he said. “Those demons … or gods … who might have the power to look beyond this moment aren’t happy about being asked to help nonentities like ourselves.
