A War in Crimson Embers

by Alex Marshall

  Indsorith said something inaudible, and after the old woman leaned over and whispered something in her ear, she spoke into the lectern. Indsorith wasn’t as good a speaker as Eluveitie, but she sounded sincere, her voice quavering with candid emotion.

  “It is so. I have dedicated my life to serving my people, my city, my empire, but I have not always succeeded. At times … at times I have failed you absolutely. For any harm I have caused I humbly and sincerely apologize, and I welcome this opportunity to make amends for my errors. I will endeavor to be a better citizen than I was a queen.”

  Damn. That was both shorter and a hell of a lot more real than Zosia had expected. It made her like the woman even more, but from the fresh round of hissing Indsorith hadn’t quite won over her public just yet. To see these people who had never had to sit on the Crimson Throne passing judgment on her rule burned Zosia’s ass so bad there might as well have been a penitent’s candle blazing under her bench.

  “Thank you, Indsorith of Junius.” Eluveitie spoke forcefully into the lectern, her booming voice silencing the malcontents. “I have one more proclamation, but it will not come as a complete surprise to some of you, for I have been saying it for years. It has been the prayer of the good and the godless, the rallying cry of those faithful to our cause, and now, I am pleased to say, it welcomes home one of Diadem’s greatest daughters: Zosia lives!”

  Ever since Indsorith stepped out of the open door of the confessional to take her place at the front of the cathedral, quite a few curious faces had studied Zosia from the pews, no doubt wondering at the identity of the old woman who sat so close to their former queen. Now all eyes were on Zosia as she breathed a deep sigh and took her feet, much as she would have preferred to pull the confessional shut and hide out with Choplicker until everyone had filed from of the Chainhouse. Her devil clambered up, too, and gave a whiny yawn as he looked to his mistress with lazy curiosity. He was probably just as surprised as Zosia at how scared she was to face these people she had once ruled … ruled poorly, and then abandoned.

  They didn’t hiss the way they had at Indsorith, or maybe she just couldn’t hear them over the pounding of her heart, the thunder of her boots on the polished floor as she walked up the aisle. She tried to imitate Indsorith’s effortlessly regal posture, face pointed straight ahead, keeping her back straight though she tended toward the slouchy. From the corner of her eye she saw that row after row after row of Diadem’s populace had risen to their feet. She had cynically supposed only those with connections to the leaders of the various factions would be allowed entry to the actual summit in the Upper Chainhouse, but here she saw the grimy and the greasy-haired rubbing patched elbows with people of obvious means. A small child stood on the end of a pew, so riveted by the sight of Cold Cobalt’s return that Choplicker strolled right over and stole the bun he’d been eating out of his limp hand. Somewhere in the thick forest of faces someone was sobbing, and other people were grinning so wide she saw their pale gums. She hadn’t spotted Boris yet despite his promise to be there, but maybe he’d scored a seat near the front as reward for delivering two queens for the price of one.

  “Zosia lives,” Eluveitie repeated as Zosia mounted the pulpit and took her place at the left hand of the leader of the rebellion, Choplicker plopping down at her feet. “And she has come back to us in our hour of need. Our beloved hero, who rose to become a powerful general in the Cobalt Uprising …”

  Who, what now? Zosia hadn’t risen to anything in the uprising, Zosia was the uprising, period … but she tried to unclench her jaw, knowing there are worse places to be kicked than the pride.

  “Our beloved general,” the old woman went on, “who cut down the wicked King Kaldruut and became Crimson Queen by her own hand.”

  That was more like it.

  “Our beloved queen, who fell from Castle Diadem at the blade of Indsorith of Junius, and whose very name we were forbidden to speak in the dark days and years that followed.” Eluveitie looked back and forth between the two increasingly uncomfortable women at her sides. “Our beloved martyr, who swore to be the last despot of Diadem, to make all mortals free or die trying. Who we all thought died, trying. Who returns in our hour of need, as I said, or perhaps just a few minutes after …”

  The fuck…?

  “Who all this time has been thick as thieves with Indsorith of Junius, the actual Last Queen of Samoth, the tyrant of our age, and Zosia’s conspirator,” the old woman went on, not giving half a hoot that the two ferocious queens she was slagging off were right next to her loud mouth. “I have spoken with Cold Zosia here, and heard her song, and—”

  “I can sing my own song, Grandma!” Zosia barked, Choplicker up on his feet and growling at Eluveitie. From the smirk on the biddy’s face Zosia guessed she’d just played right into her hands; no small feat, considering the woman didn’t have any fingers. Glancing back at the representatives in the chancel she didn’t see any friendly faces, and turning back to really take in the Chainhouse she saw thousands of people who had counted on her, or believed in her after the fact. Thousands of people she had failed, and who were seeing her as she truly was for the first time.

  “Go on then, go on then,” said Eluveitie, stepping back and gesturing at the pulpit. “Tell them what you told me. About giving Indsorith the throne of your own free will. About faking your death. About … how did you put it? Retiring to the country?”

  Zosia was so livid she couldn’t speak, Choplicker snarling on her behalf.

  “I am sure I have gotten some detail wrong, so set them straight!” said the smug matron, still projecting enough to make sure her voice carried through the pipes and echoed along the vaulted ceilings. “You said you would sing your own song, well, now’s the time—all of Diadem’s listening!”

  It took everything Zosia had not to bust this crone in the jaw, and from the corner of her eye she saw Indsorith steady herself against the lectern. She had come a long way from death’s door but any sort of excitement could be exhausting in her condition, and this was the worst sort of excitement imaginable. Noticing Indsorith abruptly brought into focus just how precarious their position truly was, two monarchs blithely wandering into the middle of a revolution—what had she expected these people to do, throw them a parade? The insurgency Eluveitie had been leading ever since Zosia skipped town was predicated on the Stricken Queen being a martyr to their cause, which meant she was worth a lot more to them dead than she ever could be alive. Living people have a way of making their own decisions, of complicating the message, so if Zosia couldn’t be a martyr anymore she could damn sure become a scapegoat, same as Indsorith … and now she had to make sure these fuckers didn’t try to pull any of the usual things peasants did to goats. She wasn’t too worried about herself, because if Choplicker could keep her safe from armies and devil queens he ought to be able to handle some sassy serfs, but Indsorith wasn’t looking so hot. Much as Zosia wanted to smash Eluveitie’s teeth out, that wouldn’t help matters now … but neither would silently accepting the woman’s abuse and hoping it was all sizzle and no steak.

  “Easy, boy,” she told her devil, and he immediately muted his snarl, though his muzzle still curled back at Eluveitie. Giving Indsorith as wry a headshake as she could manage, she spoke into the Onyx Pulpit, addressing the people of Diadem for the first time since she had deserted them. “Yeah, I’m her. Zosia. And everything this wrinkled old asshole just said about me is true.”

  It was a wonder the candles didn’t all go out, swift as the air left the Chainhouse.

  “It’s not the whole truth, right, but it’s the version most convenient for her, and for this revolution of yours to work this time, so sure, let’s go with that. I’ll own it. I did that stuff.” Making an exaggerated frown and shrugging, she said, “I’m kind of a piece of shit. I tried to save the world. Failed. Tried to be a good queen. Failed again. Did I make things worse? Absolutely. You know the one thing I did right? Got the fuck out as soon as I could.”

  They
were all just staring at her, some slack-mouthed, some so red in the face they looked about to pop like a boil under a compress. Nobody said anything yet, but they definitely weren’t going to let her keep going for long. She was losing the room, and quick. A pity, since owning up to her public after all these fucking years wasn’t hard at all, now that she was doing it. It was a fucking treat. Her first day on the Chainite hot seat and already she’d come around to the idea of confession being good for the soul.

  “There are one or two things you need to hear, though,” she announced, and that was when the first boo came. They had only cupped hands and ash-coated lungs, however, and she had an acoustic system hewn into the very bones of Castle Diadem, designed to amplify her voice clear down to the Lower Chainhouse. “Eluveitie was right about most of that. About me. But one thing she got wrong: I didn’t show up at the last minute to save the day, nor a few minutes after. I didn’t show up for you at all. I came here to bust up the Chain, and that’s it, really, but I was too late to catch them. So I’m an even bigger cuntsmack than you thought.”

  She took a deep breath, and in that gap the boos and hisses swelled even louder than what they’d offered Indsorith. As well they fucking should. Pay the queen her tribute, knaves.

  “Last thing I’ll say, since if you’re anything like me I know you’re bored as hell after all the idealistic sheepshit, and that’s this: Eluveitie’s got me pegged, no question, but she’s wrong about Indsorith. You’re all wrong about Indsorith. She fucking tried. And when the Black Pope offered her a way out, to live for herself or die for her people, she chose death. It’s easy to blame her for the big stuff, since she’s queen, and for the little stuff as well. Easy to blame her for everything that goes wrong in your life … but most of it’s not her fault. Maybe a little of it is, sure, but not all of it.” Zosia felt a pinch on her arm, and as the jeers and shouts rose she glanced over to see Indsorith grabbing her arm and shaking her head, eyes wide. Yanking herself free, Zosia practically yelled into the lectern, because they needed to hear this, needed to know the real truth behind the agendas. “So she fucked up some. It happens, as you’ll find out when you’re running things. People got tortured? Well, so did she. People died? Ask her family how they feel about—oh wait, you can’t. But you know what? Indsorith cared about you people, and when shit got dark in Diadem she didn’t dip out on you the way I did, she stayed till the end. Till the end.”

  “Hooooly shit,” Indsorith breathed, staring agape at Zosia as the last echo of her proclamation faded and the baying for their blood took its place. Choplicker’s uncharacteristically anxious whine was not a welcome note to that chorus. “Holy holy shit, Zosia, what was that?”

  “Don’t thank me till we’re out of this church,” said Zosia, because despite the sincerity of her words she somehow hadn’t won over the crowd. There was a phrase Maroto had taught her from his days as an actor, when you went out and did your damnedest and it was nothing but crickets, or worse. That phrase was arsehole night at the theater. It wasn’t a very good phrase, but then he wasn’t a very good actor. “The good news is I think you and me are finished in local politics, so on to bigger and brighter—”

  “We have taken a vote,” Eluveitie announced, reminding Zosia she’d been so caught up with the front of the house she’d missed what was happening backstage.

  “Oh yeah? You decide you want me to be queen again?” She turned to see what the new parliament had made of her speech, but the whole lot must have cleared out through a door in one of the chapels or something, and standing just out of reach of Zosia were a dozen heavies in light armor … pointing big crossbows at her and Indsorith. Behind the screen of thugs Eluveitie looked awfully pleased for a woman whose neck was about to match her knuckles. Zosia gave Choplicker a light kick, annoyed that the bastard hadn’t tipped her off to the ambush … and her stomach lurched when her boot connected with a limp lump. Looking down she saw her dog shivering on the ground, eyes bulging and tongue hanging out, black foam bubbling from his muzzle. She’d been so absorbed in trying to talk to Indsorith over the thunderous wrath of the crowd that she hadn’t noticed he’d collapsed, and now he wasn’t even breathing. “Chop!”

  “As I said, we have put the matter to a vote,” said Eluveitie, but her voice was so remote it might have been welling up through the pipes from the Lower Chainhouse. Indsorith floated to Zosia’s side as she fell to her knees, lifting her dog’s drooping head and feeling his chest for a pulse. Nothing.

  “… While it was a close decision, we’ve moved to execute the both of you, instead of just the one.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  This right here was why Purna didn’t smoke saam on the reg—it made her either pass out or get paranoid, and neither one of those was conducive to a night out with your chums, nor to the bar fights that often resulted. What the deuce had even happened? To think an hour ago she’d been nervous about summoning up devils beside Sullen, and now he looked like he might be getting an even closer look at what lurked on the wrong side of the First Dark. He wouldn’t be the only one, either, if the mad mob from the tavern caught up with them. Hoartrap’s theatrical detonation of their leader’s head had sent the baddies scurrying, but from the rising clamor back at the burning building they might just be angry enough—and drunk enough—to come after them. They had a head start and were almost out of town, both good things, but then this was the only road through Black Moth and the Haunted Forest, so they wouldn’t exactly be hard to find.

  “Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in?” Hoartrap fumed, and it was unclear whether he was lecturing Sullen’s prone body, the random Raniputris who were carrying him, or all concerned. “Unbelievable. I just saved your skin, and this is what you do with it? Why in all the Star would you hang out in a tavern full of Crimson scouts, and Eyvindians at that! After what we did to them under Zosia’s command you would be hard-pressed to find a regiment who hates the Cobalts more than they do, and let me guess, you couldn’t help but mention your allegiances?”

  “We didn’t even know they were Imperials!” snapped Keun-ju. “This wasn’t our fault.”

  “You chaps said the boy stabbed him?” Digs asked the crew carrying Sullen’s bulk, a wildborn man to each arm, a mundane-looking woman to each leg, their leader with the face-ink and oiled beard necklace on one side and Keun-ju on the other with their hands stacked on his wound. “Whatever for?”

  “They bumped each other,” said the leader, “and quick as a kiss, it was over. That boy looked in fear of his soul when he pulled the knife. Might have been on ugly bugs, who knows.”

  “Best, did you see if—” Purna began, but then realized the woman was gone, and looking around saw her hightailing it back the way they had come. “Where’s she going?!”

  “A distraction to slow pursuit?” guessed the Raniputri man.

  “In practice if not design,” said Hoartrap, “which is better than I expected from the old girl, considering her refusal to take any first aid from Nemi or I.”

  “I just knew that batty woman was itching to stick her spear in something,” moaned Digs. “I talked myself hoarse convincing her to leave it back at the church, because there’s nothing more gauche than a bloody bar fight—I should have been more specific that it was her potential poking-people-with-sharp-sticks that I objected to, and not her spear in particular.”

  “A subtle distinction to be sure,” said Hoartrap, turning his surly mug toward the helpful Raniputris. “Also, by the by, just who the happy fuck are you scoundrels and why in all the Star are you risking your necks to save those of my miscreant apprentices?”

  “Innocent bystanders who have little love for the soldiers of the Crimson Empire,” said the leader. “Your big friend here bought us a round just before he was shanked, so I vouched for him when the tavern looked to be turning on him … though to be frank I never anticipated matters escalating so quickly.”

  “They have a way of doing that when we make t
he scene, and your assistance in effecting our exit will be richly rewarded,” said Digs, shaking the purse he had evidently recovered from Sullen’s pocket.

  “Doin’ the right thing is its own reward,” said the stockier of the two women carrying Sullen’s legs, a great bear of a girl with a coat of dreads halfway down her back. “We’re just happy we found ya when we—fuck is that?!”

  She let go of Sullen’s leg and went for her whipsword as a huge white shape bore down on them. The others would have dropped Sullen altogether if the great horned wolf hadn’t slowed and banked so they could all see the vardo it pulled, and Nemi jumping down from her riding board. The witch must have popped another restorative egg herself, fast as she was moving, and talking even faster as she threw open the door to her wagon’s interior and motioned them to bring Sullen inside.

  “Lay him on the bed and I’ll see to him at once but we can’t stay here, so Diggelby? Can you drive Myrkur? On her own she’ll trot too fast and I can’t be bounced around while I’m working with Zeetatrice to manufacture a cure.”

  “I can drive,” said Purna, though most of her experience on riding boards had actually involved passing the reins to Maroto so she could get comfortably plastered.

  “You … you’re coming with us?” Nemi sounded hopeful as the strangers carried Sullen inside the vardo.

  “She is not,” said Hoartrap, sounding just like Purna’s devildamned auntie declining an invitation to a yak race on her niece’s behalf.

  “I’m my own woman, creep!” she told him.

  “We have unclean powers to call upon,” said the Touch, his alabaster skin almost glowing in the darkness here on the edge of town. “And thanks to your ‘quick round at the pub’ we are running very short on time, as that light at the end of the street looks an awful lot like a burning tavern. I know from experience that burning taverns make for thirsty soldiers, and thirsty soldiers make for angry mobs. I’ll already have to adjust things since Sullen can’t take part, but if you or Keun-ju back out now there won’t be enough of us to summon the devils we need to see this thing through. And that means the Mighty Maroto is without his necessary reinforcements in the middle of Jex Toth, all so you could take the scenic route to Othean.”