The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “I take it your plan worked?” Sothe said, setting her stub of pencil aside.

  “It was Cora’s plan,” Raesinia said. “But it worked brilliantly. This is going to make it a lot easier to feed and house everybody who needs help.”

  “It’s still only a stopgap,” Sothe said. “We can’t feed the entire population of the Docks.”

  “It only needs to be a stopgap. Janus is coming.”

  Janus is coming. That had been the refrain of the refugees, the mantra recited on every street corner. Janus is coming. Even the official papers could no longer deny it, though they continued to insist that only a few traitorous units accompanied him. Raesinia wondered if Maurisk, in the barricaded offices of the Hotel Ancerre, repeated it to himself. Janus is coming.

  “What about your side?” Raesinia said, looking down at the map.

  “As far as the streets go, I’m just filling in what Marcus has already sketched out. The Patriot Guard are preparing some kind of explosives in the buildings on the Green Road between the Lower Market and the Grand Span, but we don’t know why.” Sothe paused. “I did get a bit more information about the Thousand Names, but I’m not sure if it does us any good.”

  “You know where they are?”

  “Yes. As you might expect, the Patriot Guard moved them by wagon into the basements of the Hotel Ancerre not long after the raid on Willowbrook. Most of them don’t know what they moved, of course, but the total picture is unambiguous.” Sothe frowned. “Maurisk’s people talk too much.”

  “You can critique their operational discipline after we win,” Raesinia said. “I take it we can’t get to the Names?”

  “We might be able to get there,” Sothe said in a way that made it obvious that by “we” she meant “I.” “But then what? Spirit away eight steel plates that weigh tons? We’d effectively have to take and hold the hotel, and we don’t have the strength.”

  “But if Maurisk is just going to sit on the Names, we don’t need to worry. We’ll get them back when Janus crushes him.”

  “Unless Janus loses.”

  “If Janus loses,” Raesinia said, “I think the Names will be the least of our problems.”

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like Maurisk is planning to sit tight,” Sothe said. “He’s keeping it very quiet, but there’s a big Murnskai trading boat, the Rosnik, currently tied up by the water batteries. She was confiscated when the war broke out, and she’s been sitting there quite some time, but now it looks like the Patriot Guards are getting her ready to sail. And from the cargo they’ve been told to expect, he’s going to load either the Names or some very oddly shaped cannon.”

  “Balls of the Beast,” Raesinia swore. A boat would be the easiest way to get the unwieldy plates out of the city. Moving the Names in a slow-plodding wagon would be too much of a risk; if Janus got wind of it, his cavalry would easily be able to intercept them. But the Vor was navigable to the north for hundreds of miles, and even fast-riding troopers would have a difficult time catching up. “If they get out of the city, they could get all the way to Murnsk before we catch up with them.”

  “I suspect that’s the idea. I think our best chance is going to be once the plates are on the boat. If we can get a large enough party on board, we could take it over.” Sothe hesitated. “The trouble is going to be getting away. It’d be easiest to strike while they’re still tied up, but . . .”

  Raesinia saw the problem. A boat tied up in front of the water battery—Vordan’s primary defense against a downriver naval attack—was by definition at point-blank range from some of the largest guns the armories could produce. The needs of the war had stripped away every movable cannon for the armies, but the water batteries included some monstrous siege pieces never meant to be used in the field. Intended to blast holes in Borelgai warships, they would be perfectly capable of reducing a trading boat to kindling.

  Blasted to kindling. Raesinia mulled that over for a moment. It felt, oddly, like the beginning of an idea.

  “To make matters worse,” Sothe went on, “it looks like they’re planning to sail just as Janus arrives. Presumably they want to be sure his intention is fully engaged.”

  “That’s going to keep us busy.” Raesinia sighed. “So we’ve got to figure out what he’s up to on the Green Road, and then come up with some way to get this boat that isn’t actually suicidal.”

  “That’s about the shape of it.”

  “Raesinia!” Marcus shouted, from the bottom of the balcony stairs. “Are you up there?”

  “Something wrong?” Raesinia said.

  Marcus pounded up the stairs in his heavy boots, accompanied by another, lighter set of footsteps. This turned out to be Viera, whom he was dragging along by one hand.

  “I think,” Marcus said, a bit short of breath, “that I figured it out.”

  “I haven’t,” Viera said. “What—”

  “Just explain to her what you were just telling me,” Marcus said. “The last bit.”

  Viera blinked, looked irritable, and straightened up. “All I said was that if Maurisk was putting flash powder bombs together to bring down buildings along the Green Road, it wouldn’t make much of a trap for anyone not actually in the building at the time.”

  “Not that. The next bit.”

  “The next—” Viera furrowed her brow. “That we’d probably want to have firefighting teams ready?”

  “Yes,” Marcus said.

  “Flash powder starts fires,” Viera said, more irritated than ever. “If it was drier, or we used more straw in the city, it could be a serious issue, but as things are it’ll be more of a secondary problem. We just might want to have a few bucket brigades on hand.”

  Raesinia got it, and it must have shown in her face. Viera stared at her.

  “What?” she said. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “It’s fine. Can you give us a minute, though?”

  “What’s going on? If it’s to do with explosives, I can help—”

  “I think we’ll need your help,” Raesinia said. “But not right at the moment.”

  Viera sniffed, but turned about and went down the stairs. Sothe looked after her for a moment, then back to Raesinia.

  “I appear to be missing some important context,” she said. “Something about starting fires?”

  “The woman from the warehouse,” Raesinia said.

  Marcus nodded. “You saw what she could do.”

  “She could throw balls of flame,” Raesinia said. “But . . . more than that. She wasn’t creating the flames, she was controlling them. I remember her pulling little bits of fire from the guards’ lanterns.”

  “She must have kept that place from burning down,” Marcus said. “I was certain it was going to go up in our faces.”

  “And if she can put a fire out,” Raesinia went on, “it seems logical that she could start one. Or more than one. Help them spread once they’re going.”

  “He’s mined six buildings on each side of the road,” Marcus said, looking at the map. “That’s a stretch a couple of miles long. Do you think her power can reach that far?”

  “I don’t know,” Raesinia. “But he obviously does, or the Black Priests who are helping him.”

  “No wonder the bombs didn’t make sense to Viera,” Marcus said grimly. “She doesn’t know they’ll have a demon helping them along.”

  “So he waits until Janus’ army has fought its way to the Grand Span, which probably means thousands of soldiers in the city—”

  “At least,” Marcus said.

  “And then turns it all into a firestorm.” Raesinia’s mouth was dry. “He’s lost his fucking mind.”

  “Pressure does strange things to people in power,” Sothe said. “Also, I’m no longer certain if Maurisk is running things himself, or taking suggestions from his Penitent friends. The B
lack Priests certainly wouldn’t hesitate to burn down half of Vordan to get what they want.”

  “Which is why they picked that night to get away with the Names,” Raesinia said.

  “What?” Marcus said. “Get away where?”

  Sothe briefly ran down the information they had on the Names, the Rosnik, and their suspicions about the Black Priests’ plans. Marcus frowned, brow furrowed, and scratched his beard.

  “Even if we can get aboard, there’ll be guards,” he said. “That will take time. Then there’s the chance one of the Penitent Damned will show up.”

  “The one I fought could be overcome by a reasonably sized force,” Sothe said.

  “The giant might be more of a problem,” Marcus said. “Or the fire woman, if she’s not too busy. But even if we can get past them, how do we get the ship out of range of the guns before they start shooting holes in it?”

  “We could use the Names as hostages,” Sothe said.

  “How? They’re not exactly easy to break. What are we going to do, threaten to sink them in the river?”

  “Maybe we could rig a gunpowder charge—”

  Something shifted in Raesinia’s mind, and she had it.

  “I think,” she said, “we’re going about this the wrong way . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  MARCUS

  Why do I feel, Marcus thought, like I’ve been here before?

  Once again, he was in a small boat, on an empty, darkened river, rowing into the unknown. The muffled splash of the oars, regular as a heartbeat, was the only sound. To the right, the Island was a blaze of light, lanterns burning even on the abandoned battlements of the Vendre where it stuck out into the river like the prow of a ship. Ahead and to the left was the stretch of noble estates called the Fairy Castles for their fantastical, impractical architecture, where only the occasional glow of some servants’ kitchen was still alight. Those of the nobility who’d remained through the revolution and the outbreak of war had finally departed, along with everyone else who had the means, now that Janus’ army was camped on their doorstep.

  Tomorrow, or so the word went, the Army of the East would begin its advance into the city. Or Maurisk would surrender, or Janus would surrender, or they would meet between the lines to settle matters in single combat. The official presses had gone ominously silent, and in their absence a million rumors bloomed like fungi. Morning would settle the matter, one way or another.

  More important, for the purposes of the motley band of refugees and fugitive soldiers, a strong force of Patriot Guards was posted on the outskirts of the city, blocking the roads south. A few brave volunteers had tried to get through to Janus’ army in order to establish communication, but they’d all had the sense to turn back in the face of the well-manned patrols. Maurisk clearly knew that there were groups in the city more likely to lend aid to Janus than to fight him, and he was determined to maintain a tight cordon.

  Which means we’re on our own. Marcus still didn’t know if Giforte had escaped and reestablished the flik-flik station, but it didn’t matter now. We’re out of time. Which was why he was out here on the river with the Queen of Vordan, getting ready to board an enemy vessel with a cutlass in his teeth like a pirate in a bad play.

  Why carry it in your teeth? he wondered, idly, as Walnut and George the Gut strained to keep the boat steady in the current. What’s wrong with a sheath?

  “There.” Raesinia pointed. “That’s got to be it.”

  Directly ahead of them were the ominous fortifications of the water batteries, vast brick enclosures whose blank, gaping portals suggested the mouths of the cannon lurking within. A few lights were visible there, clustered along the small piers that jutted into the river directly under the guns. In front of them, with only a pair of lanterns burning, was a tall, dark shape. Marcus could just make out two tall, skeletal masts against the deeper black of the hillside beyond.

  “And we’re sure they’ve loaded the Names?”

  “Sothe is sure,” Raesinia said, which as far as she was concerned meant it was the next thing down from the word of God. Raesinia obviously placed a great deal of trust in the taciturn ex-Concordat agent, and Marcus had to admit he had no reason to doubt her. But he couldn’t help feeling a little strange around Sothe. The woman was reluctant to look him in the eye, and found excuses not to speak to him if she could help it. Maybe she just doesn’t like me. Or she doesn’t like my getting so close to Raesinia. The latter, he suspected, was more likely. Sothe was nothing if not fiercely protective of her charge.

  Convincing Sothe that her talents would be more valuable elsewhere this evening had been the work of a night’s furious argument. In the end, though, she had to concede that if they were going to both keep the Names out of Elysium’s grasp and prevent the Penitent Damned from reducing the Docks to ashes, someone needed to locate the fire woman and keep track of her, and that nobody but Sothe was likely to succeed in that task. Sothe had then argued that Raesinia should stay behind, but with a fatalistic tone in her voice that made Marcus suspect she expected the queen to overrule her. As expected, Raesinia had insisted on accompanying him to the Rosnik.

  Marcus tapped Walnut on the shoulder when they were a hundred yards from the boat. He and George stopped rowing, except for small strokes to keep them in place against the gentle current of the Vor. Marcus took a bull’s-eye lantern from its peg, checked the shutter, then opened it briefly to send a single flash upstream.

  A single flash answered him. That would be Andy, right in position. Turning in his place in the stern of their little craft, Marcus repeated the operation downstream, and got another answering flash. Viera. Marcus would have preferred not to bring the student along—she wasn’t going to be any use in a fight, certainly—but she’d insisted she might need to make some final adjustments. I think she just wants to watch the fireworks.

  “Everyone’s set,” Marcus said.

  Walnut nodded. He let go of his oar for a moment, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. The high, eerie sound echoed across the water for a moment before dying away. Then, taking up his oar again, he and George started pulling strongly toward the Rosnik.

  They seemed to cross the hundred yards between them and the riverboat in an eyeblink. If all was going as planned, Viera’s boat would be headed for the boat’s bow, while Andy’s took the stern. Marcus’ boat, squarely amidships, bumped up against the hull of the much larger craft, rocking gently. The Rosnik’s rail was only a few feet overhead, so fortunately actual grappling hooks were not necessary.

  Marcus put his hands against the pitted wood of the boat’s side, trying to hold steady. Raesinia, barefoot and in short trousers, took a hold of Marcus’ shirt and then swarmed up his back until she was standing on his shoulders. From there, she could grab the rail and haul herself aboard. Marcus looked up, waiting for the shout of alarm or even a pistol shot, but none came. A moment later, a rope ladder unrolled and landed in the boat, and Walnut immediately went to work securing their small craft to the bottom.

  Most of the equipment and expertise for this part of the plan had come from the big man and his Leatherback friends, who, after all, spent their days on and around ships. Marcus’ experience with sea and river travel mostly involved vomiting, so he’d been happy to let them take the lead. Letting Raesinia be the first one over the side had been against his better instincts, but as she’d said to him in private: “If someone’s going to get her head blown off coming over the rail, probably best that it be me. I can put mine back together.”

  Once the ladder was secure, Walnut went up it hand over hand, with an easy grace that belied his size. George the Gut followed, a bit more awkwardly, and Marcus brought up the rear. The Rosnik had the low profile of a riverboat, with a single deck and all cabins and cargo stowed below. One lantern burned at the stern, and another pair near the bow, where the boat was tied against the pier. Marcus could see on
e musket-armed guard by the boat’s wheel, and several more by the bow, but as they’d guessed the majority of the Patriots were waiting on the pier itself, protecting against an attack from the landward side. Maurisk needs to show a bit more imagination.

  “Something’s wrong.” Raesinia was shielding her eyes against the lights, looking toward the bow. “I don’t see anyone from Viera’s team.”

  Marcus looked the other way. The lanterns had ruined his night vision, but he could just about make out dark shapes slipping over the rail, only a dozen yards from the wheel and the guard. The Patriot, equally blinded, didn’t show any sign he’d noticed.

  “Andy’s here.” Marcus drew the pistol from his belt and checked the powder to make sure it was still dry. “Could they be having trouble getting the ladder up?”

  “I’m worried they went too far around—fuck!”

  A shape became visible on the bow rail, the head and shoulders of a boy of fifteen. His name was Peter, Marcus vaguely recalled, one of the refugees who’d eagerly volunteered for a chance to strike back against the Patriots and the seedies. But their boat had somehow missed its mark, and drifted too close to the pier—he was climbing up within a few yards of the pair of guards there. Even as Marcus watched, one of the Patriots turned and gawked at the boy, then yanked a pistol from his belt.

  “Stop right there!” he said, loudly enough to carry all over the Rosnik.

  The boy ought to have ducked back out of view. Instead he pulled himself upward, one hand fumbling over the rail. Marcus drew a breath to shout and distract the guard, but before he could the Patriot pulled the trigger. His pistol cracked, and Peter’s head snapped back as though someone had yanked hard on his hair. The boy’s hands gripped the rail for a moment, then relaxed, and he toppled backward and out of view. Someone screamed below.

  Marcus’ shout of warning became one of rage, and he sighted down his own pistol. While he badly wanted to shoot the guard who’d fired, military discipline made him target the other, whose weapon was still loaded. The pistol kicked back hard against his hand, and the Patriot spun and crumpled against the rail with a grunt. The second guard turned, empty pistol still smoking in his hand, and Marcus could hear shouting among the other guards on the pier.