The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “Hello, Colonel,” she said, slurring only a little. “You want a drop?”

  “No, thank you.” Marcus pulled out a chair beside her and sat. “Are you all right?”

  “No injuries to report, sir,” she said, saluting with the bottle. A few drops splashed onto the tabletop.

  “Andy . . .”

  “Sorry.” She took a pull, then put the bottle down. “I’m just a little drunk.”

  “I can see that,” Marcus said gently.

  “I just . . .” She swallowed. “Hayver was screaming. He looked like a roast someone had left in the fire too long, and he was still screaming.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone burn to death before.” She took a deep breath. “Stabbed, bashed over the head, shot. I helped with the wounded after Midvale. I thought nothing could be worse than that. There was this girl, she kept calling for help, but when we lifted her up her guts just fell out. Like she was giving birth to a pile of snakes. And she’s still crying . . .” Andy closed her eyes. “I thought nothing could be worse than that.”

  Marcus fought a powerful urge to fold her in his arms. She’s still half a child. But she was a ranker, a soldier, and colonels didn’t embrace their rankers. But . . . hell. His lip twisted, thoughts a tired muddle.

  “When you told me to run,” Andy said, “and stood up to shoot . . . you thought you were going to burn, didn’t you? That woman was . . . throwing bombs, or something . . .”

  Marcus recognized the look in her eyes. He’d felt it himself, the sense of trying to reconcile what you knew was impossible.

  “I thought I had a good shot.” Marcus sighed. “Not that it did much good.”

  “Still. Thank you.”

  Andy blew out a breath, straightened her shoulders, and took another pull. “When you’ve been in a fight and you’re hurting, what you need is a bottle and a warm body to hold close. That’s what Mad Jane used to say, when we were fighting the tax farmers.” She looked at the bottle. “You want a drop, Colonel? You look like you could use it.”

  For a moment, Marcus strongly considered it. Lord knows I’ve crawled into a bottle from time to time. But he was the responsible officer here, for better or for worse. He shook his head, wearily, and pushed his chair back from the table. “What I need is sleep. Good night, Ranker Dracht.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Halfway to the door, Marcus paused. “I’m . . . sorry about Hayver.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Andy waved the bottle at him.

  Marcus stumbled twice on the stairs, and it took him far too long to figure out how to work the doorknob on his bedroom door. By the time he made it to the bed, it was just a matter of falling over in the right direction.

  When he opened his eyes again, it was still just before dawn, with the dull glow of Vordan City coming in through the window and a few bright stars twinkling in the sky. He’d managed to get his boots off, but he still wore his jacket, and the buttons had pressed painfully against his sternum. He groaned again, rolled over, and shrugged out of the sweat-stained blue coat.

  “We meet again, Captain d’Ivoire.”

  Marcus spun, heart suddenly thudding in his chest. His room at Twin Turrets was small, just a bed to sleep in and few personal effects. Sitting on the trunk that contained these was a figure dressed all in black, fingers steepled in front of a neat goatee. He wore a smile—closer to a smirk—that Marcus last remembered seeing on the other side of a set of iron bars.

  “Ionkovo,” Marcus said.

  His sword was four steps away, hanging from a peg on the back of the door. A nearby candlestick might do as a club, in a pinch. How the hell did he get in here? Presumably the same way he’d gotten out of a locked cell, murdering an Armsman in the process.

  “My apologies,” Ionkovo said. “I see that it’s Colonel d’Ivoire now. And you won’t need your sword, I assure you. I haven’t come to do you any harm.”

  “Then what the hell are you here for?” Marcus felt his anger rising. “You told me you had answers. You knew Orlanko had my family killed, didn’t you?”

  “I set you on the path to find the answer,” Ionkovo said. “Isn’t that worth something?”

  “You—” Marcus’ hands tightened to fists.

  Ionkovo shrugged and raised his palms. “All right, I admit it. I had hoped the search would . . . distract you, at a critical time. Obviously, that did not go as we had planned it.”

  It had nearly worked. Marcus had left Danton’s arrest to Vice Captain Giforte, and when Orlanko had interfered, a mob laid siege to the Vendre. Marcus had only barely made it there in time to take command, not that it had done much good. Only the timely intervention of Winter Ihernglass had kept that debacle from ending in a bloodbath.

  “If you’re not going to try to kill me,” Marcus said, “then give me one good reason I shouldn’t call the guards and have you thrown in the cellar. I know Janus would very much like to talk to you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Ionkovo said, “although we perhaps imagine difference circumstances for the conversation. But your guards will have their hands full in a moment. I have come, Colonel, to once again offer you my help.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Directory President Maurisk has finally decided to deal with his opponents once and for all. Tonight the long knives come out, and there’s a blade intended for you. Answer my question, and I will delay them sufficiently for you to retreat and fight another day.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Marcus’ heart beat faster. He had the arrest list ready. Could he have moved so quickly? “The Deputies wouldn’t stand for it. Neither would Janus.”

  “Maurisk believes he has General Vhalnich in hand. Whether he does or not . . .” Ionkovo gave an exaggerated shrug. “It will be all the same to you, however.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then you will die. Tonight.” Seeing Marcus’ eyes flick to the sword again, Ionkovo laughed. “Oh, I won’t need to dirty my hands.”

  “I—”

  There was a knock at the door, loud and frantic. Ionkovo frowned. “Time’s running out, Colonel. You have to decide.”

  “You haven’t asked me your question,” Marcus said, buying time.

  “I think you know what it is.” Ionkovo leaned forward and spoke in a hiss. “Where are the Thousand Names?”

  That’s what I was afraid of. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not.” Ionkovo rolled his eyes. “I must say—”

  The door broke open with a shattering crash, bits of the lock spraying across the room. Uhlan stood in the doorway, Raesinia at his side. Ionkovo looked them over, lazily. When he reached Raesinia, his face froze.

  “Here.” A slow smile spread across his expression. “You had her here. Oh, well done, d’Ivoire. Very well done.”

  “Colonel, down!” Uhlan raised a pistol.

  Marcus sprang sideways, landing on the bed and clearing the line of fire. Uhlan pulled the trigger, but Ionkovo was faster still. He leaned backward from his seat on the trunk, letting himself fall into a reverse roll that ought to have ended with him sprawled awkwardly against the wall. Instead he hit the stark shadow cast by light from the corridor and fell into it, the dark surface rippling like water. A moment later the pistol roared, and the ball punched a splintery hole in the woodwork.

  Uhlan lowered his smoking pistol, staring at where Ionkovo had disappeared. Raesinia pushed past him and ran to Marcus’ side.

  “Are you hurt?” she said.

  Marcus groaned and sat up. “Fine, thank all the saints. But I think we’re in trouble.”

  “I’m sorry to have broken down your door, sir,” Uhlan said, emerging from his paralysis. “She insisted.”

  Marcus looked questioningly at Raesinia, who
looked away.

  “I had a . . . feeling,” she muttered. “A sort of pain. I felt it when we saw that woman yesterday, and when it came back, I thought she might be here.”

  “Every naathem can feel others of our kind,” Feor had said. Marcus hadn’t considered that it might apply to Raesinia as well, but she’d obviously sensed Ionkovo’s presence. He glanced at Uhlan—at some point they were going to have to bring him up to speed, now that he’d seen this much. No time.

  “Tell me if you ever feel it again,” Marcus said quietly.

  Raesinia nodded. “It’s still there, but getting weaker. Who was that?”

  “One of them. The Penitent Damned. His name is Ionkovo.”

  “You know him?”

  “I took him prisoner during the revolution,” Marcus said. “Or he let me take him. I had no idea what he was. I think he wanted to find out how much I knew. When he was finished he just walked out of a locked cell.”

  “I heard him talking, and I thought you might be in trouble.”

  “He told me Maurisk is coming for us. For me, rather. I don’t think he knows you’re here.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Tonight.” Marcus got to his feet, head spinning a bit. “We have to get out of here.”

  “He just told you this? Why?”

  “He wants”—Marcus looked at Uhlan again, who was studiously pretending to ignore them, and grimaced—“the things Janus brought back from Khandar. He thought I could tell him where they were. I think the backup plan is to lock me in a cell until I let something slip.”

  “Oh hell,” Raesinia said. “That means it’s all happening tonight. The coup. I have to get word to Sothe.”

  Marcus nodded. “First we need to get out of here. Uhlan!”

  “Sir!” The lieutenant saluted.

  “We have to leave—now.”

  “I made sure the carriage was ready, sir. I’ll send word to harness the horses.”

  Marcus frowned. Fleeing in a carriage would have been a lot less conspicuous before the war had mostly banished horses from the streets of the city. Then another thought occurred to him.

  “What about the staff?” There were three Mierantai women who cooked and cleaned at the Twin Turrets, along with two stable boys and the carriage driver. “We can’t leave them.”

  “You think they’d be hurt?” Uhlan sounded genuinely shocked.

  “Maurisk will want to know whatever they know,” Marcus said. “That means grabbing everyone in the area for questioning.”

  “I’ll go and wake them,” Raesinia said as she hurried off.

  A hasty muster in the living room produced three middle-aged Mierantai women, looking stolid and unflappable even in their heavy cotton nightdresses. Uhlan ran to the stables to get the cart ready.

  “We’re leaving,” Marcus said. “And I think you ought to come with us. I won’t force you, but if you’re coming it has to be now. Get dressed and leave everything else behind.”

  The oldest of the three women looked at the other two, then nodded wordlessly. They bustled back to their rooms as Uhlan came back in.

  “The carriage will be ready in five minutes, sir,” he said. “But Aldio is missing.”

  “Hell. If he’s snuck out, I hope he has the sense not to come back.”

  Raesinia’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “Marcus! I can’t find Andy! Her room’s empty!”

  Marcus blinked, then got it. “Squeeze them into the carriage. Whoever doesn’t fit will ride outside. If you’ve got time, load some pistols.”

  “Marcus!” Raesinia’s voice again, more urgent now, from the landing window. “I see torches coming up the street!”

  Marcus ran toward the rear of the house, checking the hall closet, the spare room, and the kitchen. They turned out to be in the pantry; he hauled the thick door open to find a tangled blanket on the floor and the Mierantai boy frantically tugging his trousers back on. Andy, mostly naked, sat against the back wall.

  “Sir—” the boy began, accent even thicker than Uhlan’s.

  Marcus snatched his shirt off the floor, thrust it into his arms, and shoved him out the door. “The stables. Go!”

  Andy got up as the boy rushed off. Marcus kept his eyes resolutely on her face, but nevertheless she flushed under his gaze. “Are you sober enough to shoot?”

  “Probably.” Andy blinked. “What’s happening?”

  “Patriot Guards coming to get us. We’re leaving. Get something on and get to the stables.”

  “Oh.” She paused a moment. “Oh, fuck.”

  “Go!”

  She ran. Marcus followed her as far as the landing, where Raesinia had her face pressed to the window. Marcus could see a row of lights halfway down the street and getting closer fast.

  “There’s at least twenty of them, all with muskets,” Raesinia said. She had her hands cupped against her eyes to shut out the lights. “Maurisk isn’t fooling around.”

  “Get to the stable.”

  “Are we going to have room for everyone?”

  “We will if some of us sit on top.”

  Raesinia grinned. “I always wanted to try that.”

  Andy appeared at the top of the stairs, trousers and boots on, still pulling a shirt down. Raesinia raised an eyebrow.

  “I seem to be walking straight,” Andy said to Marcus.

  “Good.” Marcus led the two women downstairs and through the short covered passage to the stables.

  The carriage, four-wheeled and fully enclosed, sat facing the closed front door, in front of the empty stalls. One door was open, and Marcus could see the three Mierantai women and the two stable boys inside, while the driver sat in front on the box, nervously holding the reins. Uhlan was ramming a charge into a pistol, with another three lined up in front of him on an overturned feeding trough.

  “Raesinia, you take the top.” She was the lightest, and Marcus wasn’t at all confident about the carriage’s ability to bear weight on its roof. “Andy and I will take the doors. Uhlan, stay on the box.”

  “Yes, sir.” Uhlan handed a pistol to Marcus. Raesinia hopped up on the box and scrambled up to the roof.

  “Not much to hang on to,” she said. “If we take a turn too hard I’m going to fall off.”

  “Here.” Marcus grabbed a knife from Uhlan’s belt and tossed it up. Raesinia unsheathed it and stabbed into the thin wood as hard as she could, embedding the blade in the carriage’s roof. She gave it a tug, and nodded.

  Marcus examined the door. There was a metal rung to help shorter passengers step inside, and that combined with the leather strap that served as a door handle would make for a precarious perch. He climbed on, holding the strap in his left hand and the pistol in his right.

  Uhlan handed a pistol to Andy and passed another up to Raesinia. He went to the stable door and tugged it open. The gravel drive was illuminated only by a trickle of light from the house windows.

  “Where are we going, sir?” he said as he climbed up on the box and readied his own weapon.

  “Oldtown,” Marcus said. Mrs. Felda’s was the obvious place for a bolt-hole. “But not straight to the church, not unless we want to bring the Guard on behind us.”

  “Just get us to Oldtown,” Andy said. “I’ll tell you where to go from there. It’s an easy place to get lost in if you’re trying.”

  “All right.” Marcus looked back at the driveway. The end of it was starting to brighten, and long shadows flickered across it. “Get moving!”

  The driver need no urging. He snapped the reins, and the already-nervous horses jerked forward.

  “Are we shooting at the Patriot Guard?” Andy said. “Last time you wanted us to try not to.”

  “I think we are officially done with such niceties,” Marcus said. “But try not to waste—”

  “D’Ivoire!”
someone yelled from the end of the drive, now rapidly approaching. “Is that—stop at once!”

  “Keep going,” Marcus said.

  “D’Ivoire!” A figure, outlined by the torches, stepped in front of them. “I have a summons to—stop, stop!”

  “Faster!” Marcus shouted.

  The horses hadn’t had time to get up much speed, but the carriage was heavy enough that the prospect of being run over was not attractive. The Patriot Guard dove aside, dropping his musket. Behind him were several men with torches in one hand and muskets in the other, a combination that proved less than immediately effective.

  “Left!” Marcus shouted. The driver hauled on the reins, and the axle screeched as the carriage rose for a moment on two wheels and slewed around behind the team. Ahead of them, he could see more Patriot Guards. The group had apparently spread out to encircle the Twin Turrets. “Go through them!”

  The men up ahead had a few moments to react to the carriage bearing down on them. Several dove aside at once, but three braver men tossed their torches away and shouldered their muskets. Marcus took aim as best he could and pulled the trigger, hoping to scare them aside at the very least. The flash left him blinking, and the pistol’s report came simultaneously with the deeper sound of the muskets. His ears rang, and he swung wildly from the leather strap for a moment.

  He got a brief view of the musketeers, their weapons expended, rolling out of the way as the carriage clattered past. Then they were through, accelerating down the street into the darkness. More musketry thundered from behind them as the startled men at the end of the driveway recovered their wits, but though Marcus could hear the zip of the balls, none of the shots came close.

  “Everyone okay?” Marcus said. “Turn right at Saint Uriah—right—”

  The intersection passed in a blur. The team, at a full gallop now, strained at the traces, pulling the carriage at an impressive speed. Every rut and bump in the road was magnified, and Marcus’ next attempt to speak nearly cost him his tongue as his teeth came together hard.

  “I’m hit,” Uhlan said in a strained tone. “And I believe Delcot is dead.”