Guns of the Dawn

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  The word ‘republicans touched a raw nerve in Emily. She was reminded, for a brief moment, of her talks with Doctor Lam, as his prisoner: his words about the causes of the war. Before the radiance of the King it seemed mean and unimportant, and yet she clung to it.

  ‘You have met some of my lieutenants, Emily, some of my soldiers. There are many still loyal, willing to take up arms against the enemy.’ The King beamed as his gesture took in the ragged dozen gathered about the fire.

  ‘I have met them, Your Majesty. Some I have even met before now.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  She took a breath. ‘It is not excellent, Your Majesty.’

  His smile broadened. ‘Come now, Emily. It is rather early for you to be quarrelling with your comrades, is it not?’

  ‘This man I know.’ Her finger picked out Griff. ‘He rode with the Ghyer and avoided the draft. He preyed on those whose menfolk were at the war front. And how many others here are bandits, criminals? Your Majesty, they are not worthy of you.’

  ‘Well, Griff, she has you square,’ remarked the King to the brigand. ‘Emily, we live in difficult times now. The Crown cannot be so discerning as it once was when choosing its chiefest servants. Those who will come to me shall serve, if they be willing. I shall not turn a man away if he will act for me.’

  ‘Even if his motives are no more than avoiding prosecution for his crimes?’ She was aware that she had left off the ‘Your Majesty’, but was reluctant to go back and replace it.

  ‘His motives now are to serve the Crown, Emily, whatever else he may think. He will find his meanest action turned to purest gold if it be in service to his King. If I made it my wish, surely you would not turn from me if I asked you to take him as your brother? I cannot think that a woman such as you places conditions on her loyalty.’

  ‘Of course not, Your Majesty.’

  He smiled again, and all was well.

  ‘Then we must plan, must we not? When I leave here for Gosthorn, I must leave a plan behind, that you must carry out. The Denlanders must be harried like the quarry of a hunt. They must be chased and run ragged. Tell me what you think would be best for these fellows here. I value your opinion.’

  Hanging would be best for them, Your Majesty. Now was the time to make her case, though. She had thought she must overawe some youth or order around some veteran. Now she saw she must convince the King himself.

  ‘Your Majesty will be pleased, I hope, that I have already put some thought into this matter.’

  ‘How could I doubt it?’ he said. ‘You are a faithful servant. Surely action against the Denlanders is seldom far from your mind.’

  ‘Your Majesty may not know, but you have a great and faithful servant in Chalcaster already, and one who would transform your rebellion here from a mere gathering of thieves to a real and savage threat to Denlander occupation.’

  The King raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Of whom do you speak? Let us hear it.’

  ‘The man is Giles Scavian, Your Majesty, and he is one of Your Majesty’s Warlocks.’

  The King nodded seriously. ‘Indeed, I recall the man.’

  ‘Alas, Your Majesty, he is in the hands of the enemy.’ Emily’s words killed outright the murmur of interest that had started about the fire. The King himself nodded gravely.

  ‘Poor soul,’ he said softly. ‘I was told as much. It’s a wonder they’ve not killed him yet.’

  ‘They will, Your Majesty. Tomorrow, as I believe. He is held in the cells beneath the governor’s office. I myself have seen the place. He is as faithful a servant of the Crown as you could ever wish for. I’ve never met one more devoted. Surely it’s our duty to free him, in order to join the fight?’

  The men about the fire began muttering at that, for assaulting the governor’s palace was hardly in their line of work. Men like Griff and Balfor, they were opportunists forced into outlawry by Lascanne law, then to rebellion by the harsher laws of Denland. She saw on their faces that this was not what they had signed up for, when they took this late-offered King’s service.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, ‘please . . .’

  ‘It is a bold proposal, Emily, and I love you for it. It shows the spirit I have been seeking all over this land.’ His smile grew seamlessly apologetic. ‘But I cannot countenance it. We must harry the Denlanders, wear them down, weary them. To strike so swiftly at their heart would expose our strength too fully and too soon.’ There was no suggestion that the King’s will could not accomplish the feat she requested. He simply found other excuses for not attempting it.

  ‘But, Your Majesty, with a Warlock to fight for you . . . ?’

  ‘Of course, the Warlocks have always been the principal servants of the Crown,’ he agreed. ‘Once free, this fellow Scavian would be an asset most valuable in the rebellion against Denland. I say again, though, I cannot countenance making the strike to free him. It is too public, too fraught with risk. But your heart is rightly placed, Emily. I must have Warlocks to serve me.’

  ‘Your Majesty?’

  The King grinned at her, so lively and full of fire that she found herself grinning back. ‘Why, Emily, am I not the King? Does not ancient blood run in these very veins?’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Why then, where I once had Warlocks, I shall anoint more. The power has not left me because I have been driven from the throne.’

  She frowned at him. ‘But . . .’ But Scavian! ‘But from where, from what? What nobles . . . what men of good family?’

  ‘If only you had been born a man, my dear Emily.’ The King put a hand on her shoulder, sizing her up, and she felt the touch as hot and fierce as the campfire itself. ‘You would have made a fine Warlock, none better. It is true that in the past we trained our Warlocks over long years, and we picked them from the finest bloodlines – those which already bore an answering spark of royalty in them, so that our magicians would be both loyal and potent. Your family has given me good service before. Perhaps your sons shall serve so again. However, in these dark days, I must make do with what fortune has left me. I have few nobles, but of willing men I have a sufficiency.’

  ‘But . . .’ She glanced around at Griff and the other tattered villains, and to her horror there was a sordid hunger about their expressions. They think he means them.

  He does mean them.

  ‘But these are criminals! These are villains!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely you cannot think of giving them such power. How would they use it?’

  ‘In my service!’ The King’s voice, even slightly raised, halted her objections. ‘They will be my new Warlocks, and their power shall be mine to call upon, and no other’s. Let them be weak, let them lack the discipline and skill of the magicians of yore, yet let them be mine. It is meet that I should use every means at my disposal to free Lascanne from under the Denlander boot!’

  ‘Your Majesty, please reconsider,’ she said. Even to regain his throne, even to protect his own life, will he give such mad power into the hands of any greedy vagabond that swears to him? She thought of Justin Lascari, anointed Warlock, and what he had tried to do before the end. The touch of the King was no guarantee of virtue, and nor was a nobleman’s bloodline. In that moment she came perilously close to understanding the enemy: who could she ever trust with such searing power? Scavian. Only Giles Scavian.

  And she thought once again of Doctor Lam’s words, and all his dire prophecies of what would happen if Lascanne rose against its conquerors.

  ‘Do not worry, Emily,’ the King told her. ‘You will lose no honour by it. You will be my captain here. You will raise the people in my name, become my glorious banner! And you will start tonight.’

  ‘Tonight, Your Majesty,’ she said heavily.

  ‘For tonight the first blow will be struck for Chalcaster,’ he explained. ‘Tonight we shall deliver a message for the Denlanders that cannot be misinterpreted.’ He smiled, all warmth and glamour. ‘These are frugal times, Emily. This one thing must serve equally as the King�
��s justice, as our first blow against Denland, and as my gift to you, for service done and for all the service you have yet to do.’

  ‘I require no gifts, Your Majesty,’ Emily replied nervously.

  ‘No man nor woman may require gifts from the Crown, but the Crown may bestow them at the Crown’s own will,’ he declared. ‘You, over in the trees, bring forth your bounty!’

  For a moment Emily was waiting for a whole host of men, an army of rebels, to sprout from the darkness, but it was merely two men, as ragged and rough as the rest, and between them they dragged a third, hauling him forth and hurling him at the King’s feet. She saw a man dressed in dark clothes, lying curled up about his stomach. In this place she almost did not know him.

  But it was him: Cristan Northway.

  ‘Your Majesty . . . what is this?’ she asked, her unease deepening. What has been done to him? Has he been stabbed?

  ‘Know you all that this man is a traitor,’ the King stated. ‘He did not fight, come the war. He cowered in his office and, when the Denlanders came to Chalcaster, he gave himself over to them, to be their creature – to oppress his own people in their name. Here is a turncoat and a traitor, gentlemen.’

  Northway coughed and uncurled himself a little. Not stabbed then, but merely beaten. He had a flower of bruises across his face, and one eye swollen shut. The other eye flicked from the King to Emily.

  ‘This man is corrupt and venal,’ the King continued. ‘His entire history has been one of bribery, embezzlement and crime. He does not deserve to sit in comfort while you, my faithful followers, shiver here in the wilds.’ Luthrian IV’s eyes flashed righteous fire.

  ‘You never seemed to mind, while I was still in your service!’ Mr Northway wheezed, and Griff crouched down beside him and yanked his collar hard to shut him up.

  ‘This man, moreover, thought himself to be the one to catch me and hand me to the Denlanders,’ the King announced. ‘Did he not come to us, here in these woods, and lay a trap for us, saying that we should storm the governor’s palace to rescue this Warlock, this Scavian, this bait. I cannot doubt but that he had a squad or two of Denlanders waiting for just such an opportunity to cripple the rebellion, for all that he pretended to be contrite and loyal.’

  Gritting his teeth, Northway looked up at Emily, one arm wrapped about his ribs, and she stared down at him and did not know what to think. Did he or didn’t he? I’m so deep in lies, I cannot tell now what is real. I cannot judge.

  ‘And the Crown’s final charge against this man,’ King Luthrian concluded, ‘is a deeply personal one. Do not think, Emily, that I am ignorant of your grievances and the grievances of your family towards this man. Do not think that I do not know your father’s history, a loyal man hounded to his death by this creature’s villainy. Do not think, my Emily, that I do not know this man to be your enemy as much as he is mine.’

  ‘What?’ Northway choked out, trying to sit up. ‘Why . . . damn Your Royal Majesty, but that was in your reign, and you knew and made no move to stop me!’

  Griff kicked him hard in the back and he cried out, any further accusations stifled. Emily watched him shaking in pain, both hands crooked into claws.

  ‘Emily,’ said the King, ‘of all my subjects you are the most dear to me.’

  She looked him in his beautiful eyes, and still she thought, To how many others have you said those words?

  "This is my gift to you,’ he explained. ‘You are armed, as befits a soldier. He is yours. Draw your weapon and execute this man, in the name of your King. Your family’s honour shall be avenged, even as I too am avenged. Our causes are one and the same. Come, stand back from the accused, friends. Let her see him. Let her have a clear shot.’

  ‘You . . . want me to . . .’ The darkness of the woods seemed to wheel about her. The world was unreal, a patch of firelight and the awful, star-pricked darkness of the night sky. ‘To kill him?’

  ‘He is yours,’ said the King sweetly. ‘Have you not dreamt of this moment, to have this man in your power?’

  ‘I have, yes,’ she whispered, and took her pistol from her belt, staring down at him. He levered himself onto his elbow and tried to look her in the face, but could not.

  What now?

  She felt the familiar, comforting weight of the gun. How it had carried her through the Levant and beyond: her father’s gun, which carried the deaths of countless Denlanders, of one lusting master sergeant and of her father in its bloody history. One more notch on its grip, and who was counting anyway?

  Can I do this?

  Was he not a villain, after all? A villain against her family, against the King, against the people of Chalcaster, probably against the Denlanders as well. He was a man who played all sides for his own benefit, and now it had tripped him. He would have let Scavian die!

  What was he doing here? What deal had he really been trying to broker?

  She checked that the pistol was still loaded, the powder dry, the ball and wadding in place, but it had so seldom failed her before, and it was primed and ready, faithful as always.

  Can I? Can’t I?

  And would the death of Cristan Northway solve anything? Really, anything? It would not save Scavian. It would not save Chalcaster. Doctor Lam’s grim future reared as she levelled the pistol: women and children taken to the death camps; whole villages levelled just to catch one rebel. The more they were opposed, the more the demon of Denland would be unleashed, until on neither side of the border would there be anything one could still call ‘human.

  I wish Mallen were here now. Or Brocky, or Tubal, or Scavian. Someone to help me out of this. What will happen, if I do not shoot?

  They were waiting. The King was waiting. He was letting her take her time. He believed she had been waiting for this moment since her father died. Had he come to her a year ago, she might have pulled the trigger already, she supposed, but she was not that same woman any more. She had pulled many, many triggers between then and now.

  After all he did for me.

  And if Northway was a villain, then he was in good company here. Griff the bandit, Balfor the convict, and who were the rest, really? Men that had crawled from the same mould, cast from base metal in imitation of the real thing. Thieves and petty criminals who feared the Denland order that the conquest was bringing, or courtiers who had hidden out the war behind the King’s skirts. She could shoot any one of them, and call it justice.

  Standing there, her pistol directed downwards at Mr Northway, she had a moment of truth come to her, as calm and still as the moment before a battle charge. In her head, fragments whirled and spun, words and conversations: Mr Northway, Scavian, Doctor Lammegeier. The war was anatomized and picked apart like a diseased corpse – to find the cause, to excise the tumour. Lest it spread; lest the disease claim more lives; lest it claim them all.

  Past the lies of the broadsheets, past the history lessons at Gravenfield, past the muted platitudes that were all most soldiers could ever write from the battle front, there was a cause. All those dead men in red and grey rotting and being consumed in the Levant, they had been put there by someone. The butchery of the Golden Minute was no random tragedy, nor was the mass grave of the Denland dead, or Father Burnloft stammering over the latest casualties. She made herself recall Marie Angelline’s agonized face and Brocky’s grief, and what had it all been for? What had made it all? Who was the architect of this house of blood and corpses?

  And she felt her finger tighten on the trigger, and this once, this once only, she knew for sure that she was right. Doubt and worry fled from her, and she fired.

  The echo of the shot, passing backwards and forwards through the trees. The look on his face would be branded onto her memory for all time to come.

  The look on the face of the King, after she had shot him through the very heart. He looked hurt, as though she had rejected some courtesy he had offered. Flame crackled across his face briefly, and from one hand to the other: an aimless, failing discharge.

  He fel
l, toppling to the wet ground beside the low-burning fire.

  And silence fell. Silence like the moment before creation. Silence.

  The men around her, Griff, Balfor and the others, were staring at her with horror, but it was Northway’s weak voice that broke into the silence with, ‘God Almighty, woman, what have you done?’

  She let the pistol fall from her grasp and drew her sabre in a smooth, even arc of silver steel, looking from face to face around the circle.

  ‘Come on!’ she cried. ‘Come on, you rats. Come take your vengeance!’ and each one gaped at her, and did not dare. Griff flinched and looked aside, and Balfor was already creeping towards the horses, and within moments they had gone, every man of them, repatriated back into the shadows from their moment of glory.

  She fell to her knees beside Mr Northway Only now was she starting to shake with the enormity of it. No more rebellion. No organized resistance to Denland, not without the banner of the Crown. No escalating reprisals from their Parliament; no death camps; no terror. No more war. She had strangled her country’s freedom with her bare hands, in order to save the men and women who lived in it.

  ‘What now?’ came the faint voice of Mr Northway. ‘What follows that?’

  ‘There will be rumours,’ she decided. ‘Always rumours, but a dozen men who would not dare face a single sword will not come forward to make accusations. I think you and I will hold the truth of this in the daylight world, and we are both used to keeping secrets.’

  ‘That we are.’

  ‘Will you free Scavian?’ she said.

  ‘I?’ Northway blinked at her. For a moment it seemed as though the question had no meaning for him. ‘Why they’ll free him themselves, I should think. And joyfully.’

  She did not understand, and it must have shown on her face.

  ‘The King is dead.’ Northway mimed waving a tiny flag. ‘Long live those Warlocks who no longer bear his mark upon them. That was why you shot the royal person surely? To save your man there?’

  The mark . . . But of course, just as the Denlander magicians had been stripped of their powers when their king died, so too would Scavian and his fellows be waking up now, no more than normal men, no more or less a danger to Denland rule than any other man.