“Colonel Ihernglass?” he’d asked. A realization crashed down around her like chill water. They’re here for me.
The black-clad figure had a knife in each hand. Cyte extended her sword, trying to keep him at bay, but the Penitent sidestepped and closed with her; when she flicked the blade toward his throat, he leaned back slightly, letting it pass him by less than an inch. His left-hand knife swung up, almost in passing, and slashed a deep cut across her arm. Cyte’s eyes went wide, and she stumbled backward but hung on to her sword.
Winter edged left around the table, toward where Bobby was standing. Her lieutenant, as though reading her thoughts, tossed Winter her own sword and darted back toward the desk to get Winter’s. Winter tore the short, unfamiliar blade from its scabbard and swung it overhand at the Penitent. He dodged the cut as easily as he’d avoided Cyte’s blade, but it forced him to give ground, giving Cyte the chance to regain her balance at Winter’s side.
On the other side of the room, the old man backed away from the bayonet-wielding guard, leading her toward the room’s other door, which opened onto a narrow stairway from behind Winter’s desk. At first Winter thought the old man wanted to escape, but he backed past the door without pausing. A moment later, the thin wood exploded as though it had been hit with a cannonball, fragments scattering across the room.
Standing amid the wreckage was another man, a giant, easily seven feet tall and broad to match. Winter was forcibly reminded of the fin-katar, the sacred eunuch she’d had to kill when she rescued Feor in Khandar. He had been huge, but running to fat, while this man seemed to be a slab of solid muscle. The giant wore the same blacks as the knife man, and the same glittering black mask.
Winter had to admire the courage of the Girls’ Own soldier, if not her good sense. She turned on her heel and lunged with the simple bayonet thrust that they’d practiced so often in the yard. The giant half turned, letting the blade sink into the meat of his side until the barrel of the musket pressed against him. Then he swatted the weapon aside and grabbed the guard by the shoulder. She had time for a scream as a huge hand closed around her face and twisted her head one hundred eighty degrees without apparent effort, bones snapping with an ugly crunch. The giant tossed the limp, twitching corpse aside and looked down at Winter, ignoring the blood matting his clothes.
“Balls of the fucking Beast,” Cyte swore. “What in all the hell—”
The knife-wielding Penitent came at Winter again, and she struggled to avoid him. He wasn’t fast, at least not any faster than any trained fighter, but he seemed aware of what she was doing almost before she did it, gliding smoothly around her clumsy attempts at parries and ripostes. Winter was only able to keep him off by exploiting her longer reach and giving ground, and even so she quickly accumulated a half dozen shallow, painful cuts on her forearm where his knives had scored. Her sleeve was dark and sodden with blood, and Infernivore screamed at the back of her mind.
It wants his demon. Infernivore could devour it, but she had to lay a hand on him to unleash the thing, and the Penitent in front of her seemed as insubstantial as mist. She hurled herself desperately to one side to avoid getting backed into a corner, taking a cut on the leg as she passed, and had a moment to spare for the rest of the room.
The old man had backed Cyte into a corner. He kept his distance, wary of the reach of her rapier, but shock and pain were catching up to her, and she was visibly flagging. On the other side of the room, the giant slammed Winter’s desk out of the way with one hand, coming toward her with strides she swore made the floor shake. Bobby, who had been wrestling to free Winter’s sword from its scabbard, found herself directly in the monster’s path. The giant aimed a casual backhand cuff at her head, and Bobby’s hand came up and grabbed his wrist. Both of them seemed surprised when she halted the blow in its tracks, leaving the huge man stumbling and off-balance. He brought his other hand around in a wild roundhouse punch, and Bobby caught his fist in her palm. Winter distinctly heard the crunch of breaking bone, but Bobby’s arm didn’t even waver. She leaned forward, matching the giant strength for strength, and the huge man gave a roar of anger and disbelief.
Then Winter had no attention to spare for anything but her own fight. She was backing into a wall, increasingly desperate sword strokes cutting nothing but air. If I can only lay a hand on him . . . She drove him back for a moment with a wild horizontal cut, then lunged. He slipped aside, as she’d expected, drawing the knife across the back of her hand. Her fingers spasmed and the sword fell from her grip, but she was already turning, grabbing for the Penitent’s arm. Almost, almost, her fingers brushed against his sleeve, but he danced sideways and behind her, one arm raised for a strike that would bury his dagger in her kidneys.
The sound of a musket going off, only a few paces in front of her, was shatteringly loud, and the muzzle flash was almost blinding. Winter saw blood explode from the giant, high on his right shoulder, and he took a staggered step backward. She was already twisting away from her own opponent, skin tingling in the expectation of a blow that hadn’t fallen. But he was backing away, hands pressed to his eyes, face contorted in agony. His knives lay discarded on the floor.
Jane stood in the doorway, breathing hard, the dead Royal’s musket in her hands. Winter barely had time to register her presence. She threw herself forward, wrapping a hand around the Penitent’s wrist, and sent her will down into the pit of her soul where the Infernivore dwelt. Now. Now!
The demon surged forth in answer, rushing through her hand and into the young man. Winter could feel his demon, a wispy, insubstantial thing, and feel its panic as Infernivore began to devour its substance. Energy crackled and sparked between them. Back in the physical world, she heard the Penitent scream.
Pain lanced through her, and her attention returned to her physical body with a lurch. The old man had two of his nails embedded in her arm, and he was bringing his other taloned hand toward her face. Winter released her grip on the Penitent, feeling the demons tear apart, the Infernivore’s hunger and frustrations hitting her like a punch to the gut. She collapsed to the floor, but instead of following her down the old man lurched backward, dragging his still-stricken companion. A moment later Jane came into view, the bayonet on her musket gleaming, standing in front of Winter like a growling attack dog.
The old man barked a word in a language Winter didn’t understand. He ran for the back door, dragging the young Penitent behind him. As they passed, the giant—as unhindered by the musket ball in his shoulder as he had been by the bayonet—tore free of Bobby’s grip and followed them, backing out through the door and around the corner. Bobby fell to her knees, breathing hard.
Winter struggled to her feet, clutching the deep cuts the old man’s nails had left in her arm. Jane, musket still raised, looked around the room and then back to her.
“What the fuck?” she said. “Holy Karis buggered with a bloody pike, what the fuck was that?”
Two soldiers were dead, Cyte was badly hurt, and Winter’s own pain was rapidly closing around her. But she couldn’t deny—even if it made her an awful person—a tiny bit of pleasure at the look of utter stupefaction on Jane’s face.
Chapter Thirteen
MARCUS
Standing in front of the polished dining room table of Twin Turrets, looking down at the hastily sketched map and deciding how best to deploy his forces, Marcus felt a powerful sense of coming home. It brought to mind memories of Khandar, which appeared increasingly attractive in retrospect; the situation had been desperate, but at least the sides had been clear and the enemies obvious. Until the very end.
He shied away from that thought, memories of his brief time with Jen Alhundt still too painful to touch, and returned his mind to the current problem. Desperate as Khandar had been, he didn’t think he’d ever led this small a contingent. His army consisted of six Mierantai riflemen, two half-trained rankers, one completely unblooded and the other female, plus himse
lf and a teenage financier. Oh, and the Queen of Vordan.
On the other hand, it was unlikely that the enemy expected them. This was good, because if Marcus had his way the whole thing would go off without a shot being fired. The Patriot Guard might work for Maurisk, but they were still Vordanai, and for the most parts they were patriots. We can’t shoot them just for being in the way, not unless there’s no other choice.
“This is what we know,” he said, tracing the outline of the big building on the map. “Cora’s people have been keeping watch for the past few days, so we have a pretty good idea of what to expect.”
The girl blushed at the mention of her name and kept her eyes on the table. Cora’s contacts, spread throughout the Oldtown and the rest of the South Bank, had been invaluable. Boys who normally earned a few coppers keeping tabs on food shipments coming up the Green Road or boat traffic on the river had instead turned their eyes to the innocuous warehouse off the River Road, so nondescript that it was only labeled with the number 192.
Raesinia stood beside Cora, one hand on her shoulder. Lieutenant Uhlan was there as well, along with Hayver and Andy. With only eight soldiers, the line between officers and men gets a little fuzzy, Marcus reflected.
“It doesn’t look like there’s any guards within the building itself,” Marcus went on. “There’s only one door, though, and there’s four men on it day or night. They’re all in plainclothes, but we’re pretty sure they’re Patriot Guards. Around here”—he tapped a spot on the map just in front of the warehouse’s front door, where a pier jutted out into the river—“they have a riverboat they tie up at night. Four more men there, two sleeping and two on watch.”
“There’d be less opposition during the day, then,” Uhlan said.
“We’re hoping we don’t have to fight them at all,” Marcus said. “You want to explain what you found, Cora?”
The expression on her face made it clear that she would rather not, but Raesinia squeezed her arm, and she spoke in a small voice.
“Th-there’s a back door. Or there was. Someone got rid of it, the last time they fixed that place up. But Gregory went up to have a look, and it’s not bricked in, just boarded up and plastered. A man with a crowbar should be able to make short work of it.”
Uhlan raised his eyebrows, and Marcus held up a hand to forestall his objection. “Yes, that’ll be loud enough that the guards will hear. So we’re going to need a distraction. That’s the part I’m still working on.” He tapped the pier again. “We’ll hire a boat to drop us by the door. After that, I’m thinking that someone needs to get onto the Guards’ boat from the river side and set a fire. Once that’s got them occupied, we should be able to get the door open and get in without anybody getting wise. Once we have what we need, we can get back out by boat.”
The Mierantai officer considered for a moment, then nodded. “Seems simple enough. When are we going in?”
“Tomorrow night. Before that, we’ll need a few things. Cloaks for everyone, and some hurricane lamps. That warehouse may be stuffed with flash powder, and I don’t want to take any chances.”
“I can get whatever you need,” Andy said. She sounded eager to be a part of things. “I’ll make a trip down this evening.”
“Good. Lieutenant, anything else you think of that we might require, let Ranker Dracht know.”
“Yes, sir.” Uhlan saluted. “I’ll speak to my men.”
He bustled off, and Marcus stepped away from the table to let the others know they were dismissed. Andy followed Uhlan, with Hayver trailing in her wake. Raesinia tried to catch Marcus’ eye, but he pretended not to notice, slipping out of the dining room and up to his office while she spoke with Cora in low, urgent tones. It might have been a cowardly move, but Marcus was expecting harsh words from his monarch, and she often didn’t give enough thought to the possibility of being overheard.
In any event, it only won him a few minutes’ respite. He’d managed to uncork his ink bottle and sharpen his quill by the time there was a knock at the door.
“It’s me,” Raesinia said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Come in,” Marcus said, making a show of setting his pen aside as she entered. “But I still need to write to our illustrious general.”
News of the great victory at Gaafen and the fall of Desland had come via flik-flik within hours, but only trickled into the rest of the city by more conventional means over the past few days. The mood was subdued. While the surrender of a League city was by no means a small triumph, the Hamveltai army at Antova made it a temporary one. It was widely agreed that Janus would have to confront the fortress next, or risk being cut off from Vordan in the event of a sudden enemy thrust. The general opinion of his prospects seemed low, though Janus’ messages to Marcus were nothing if not confident.
Raesinia frowned. “It hardly matters, does it? It’s not like he can send us any help.”
“I like to keep him up-to-date.” Marcus sighed. “Maybe it’s just for my benefit, but it eases my mind. But all right, shut the door.”
Raesinia did, then stood opposite the desk, looking thoughtful.
“I have an idea,” she said finally. “For the distraction.”
“Oh?”
“I talked a little with Viera, one of the students you rescued.”
“The Vheedai girl?” Marcus nodded. “What about her?”
“She was studying with your friend the Preacher.”
Marcus nodded again, a bit slower. She’d mentioned that, but it hadn’t really registered.
“And before that, she worked with an alchemist in Hamvelt,” Raesinia went on. “I think we should bring her in and put her to work on making our distraction a good one.”
“That does sound better than just lobbing a torch over the rail,” Marcus said. “But do you think we can trust her?”
“I think so. She seems to . . . have a lot of respect for you.” Raesinia looked slightly embarrassed, for some reason, and shook her head. “She certainly has no reason to help Maurisk or the Guard. And she was working with the Preacher before I was even attacked, so she can’t be a plant—”
“All right.” Marcus held up his hands. “Will you talk to her?”
“I can.” Raesinia fixed Marcus with a hard stare. “I also talked to Cora. She said you asked her to come along.”
Marcus took a deep breath and blew it out. “I did.”
“You know that’s crazy. She’s not cut out for this.”
“It won’t be dangerous if the plan works,” Marcus said, knowing as he spoke how weak that was. Since when has a plan ever gone perfectly? “We need someone who knows what to look for. We’ll probably only have a few minutes once we get in.”
“You can’t bring her,” Raesinia said flatly. “She’s my friend, and I love her, but she needs a book or a banknote in her hand, not a pistol.”
“No one said I was giving her a pistol. Besides, you were the one who got her involved in the first place.”
“She’s been involved the whole time. She was with us from the beginning, before the revolution. You saw what she did for the refugees before we even got there. It’s not that she isn’t brave, but she’s not a soldier. You can’t take her into danger like this!”
“I don’t have a choice,” Marcus said. “We’re shorthanded as it is. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d leave Andy and Cora here with you, but—”
“You . . .” Raesinia paused, and cocked her head. “You’d leave Andy and take Hayver? Hayver would trip over his own foot even if he only had one leg!”
Marcus had to admit that, if push came to shove, Andy would probably be more useful to have at his back in a fight than the awkward boy. But still. Seeing Andy with her face bruised and bloodied, and knowing she’d gotten that way defending him made Marcus feel deeply wrong. Inadequate, as though he’d failed in some primal duty he could barely articulat
e. It was not a position he wanted to put himself in again.
“It doesn’t matter,” Raesinia said brusquely, “because the solution is obvious. I’ll come with you, and Cora will stay at Mrs. Felda’s. I can find the evidence we need as easily as she can.”
“No,” Marcus said. “Out of the question.”
“I—”
“You are the Queen of Vordan. You are not going to come with us to skulk into some warehouse that could easily be a trap!”
“But you’re willing to bring a girl like Cora along?”
“Don’t think I like it, but yes. Raesinia—Your Majesty—you are more valuable than she is, whether you like it or not.”
“That—”
“If Cora were to die,” Marcus ground out, over whatever Raesinia had been about to say, “it would be a tragedy. She’s a wonderful person, and I understand that she’s your friend. But if anything happens to you, the entire kingdom will suffer. Millions of people, just as wonderful as Cora. You are the last of the Orboans. Without you, at worst we’d have civil war. At best we’d have someone like Maurisk claiming the throne.”
“Or someone like Janus?” Raesinia snapped.
“Janus swore an oath,” Marcus said. “As did I. We are bound to protect and defend the kingdom and the queen. I can’t do that if I deliberately take you into danger.”
“So you’ll leave me here,” she said. “Unguarded.”
“We’ll lock the building down. I should be gone only a few hours.”
Raesinia’s face was calm, but he could see rage in the depths of her eyes. “And if I order you to let me come?”
“Then you can find someone else to lead this raid.”
“I could have you thrown in prison.” She put on a vicious smile. “Or sent to the Spike.”
“That would be Your Majesty’s prerogative.”
There was another drawn-out silence. Then, without a word, Raesinia turned away, wrenched the door open, and disappeared, slamming it so hard it bounced off the doorframe and rebounded. Marcus winced.
The Price of Valor Page 30
