The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “And freedom from the rule of people like you.”

  “Those who bear demons?”

  “Self-righteous hypocrites.”

  The Penitent actually laughed. “I doubt any nation anywhere will ever rid itself of those.”

  He was probably right, of course. Raesinia sat on the bed with a sigh and plucked at the sodden neckline of her shirt. “So, what do you want from me? Don’t you have a war to run?”

  “I wanted to ask you something. I don’t expect you’ll answer, but please remember I gave you this opportunity.”

  “What?”

  “The man who saved you from Twist. The creature of sand and darkness. Who is he?”

  Raesinia laughed. “There are many things I wouldn’t tell you, just on principle, but that’s one I honestly don’t know. I’d like to ask him a few questions myself.”

  “We’ll see.” Ionkovo cocked his head. “My colleague the Liar has a technique for extracting information from an unwilling subject. Thus far, it’s been invariably fatal for the person involved, so I’m curious to see what will happen in your case.”

  “I look forward to it,” Raesinia said. “I’m sure it’ll be exquisitely painful.”

  “I hope you maintain that bravado when you’re locked in Elysium,” Ionkovo said, opening the door. “It’s sure to amuse the pontifex.”

  “Don’t worry on that score. My friends tell me I’m incorrigible.”

  The door slammed shut. A moment later, she heard the bar dragged close, and the heavy snick of the lock.

  Raesinia stood up and took a deep breath. Being snide to Ionkovo was one thing; something about his thin-lipped smile made her want to smash his face in with a brick every time she saw it. But he may be right that things aren’t looking good.

  She hoped that Marcus had escaped—Ionkovo would have gloated if they’d captured or killed him. If he was still free, he and Sothe and the others would try to stop the firestorm in the Docks, and hopefully save Janus’ army. If they succeeded, that meant she had some chance of getting out of here, assuming the attackers could reach the Hotel Ancerre before Ionkovo found a way to smuggle her out of the city. That’s a lot of ifs.

  On the other hand, if Marcus had failed and Janus was defeated, it was very likely the Black Priests would carry her off into an eternal imprisonment. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale. What it sounded like, actually, was something she’d rather die than suffer, but she didn’t even have that final option.

  It had been a long time since Raesinia felt fear on her own account. She was used to fearing for those around her, fearing, especially, that they would feel compelled to sacrifice in order to “save” her, trying to rescue a life that had been lost years ago. At least Marcus and Sothe know the truth. Not that it will stop them from trying something stupid.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and rubbed her fingers against her temples. All right. Enough feeling sorry for myself. First things first.

  First of all, she stripped, throwing the ruined, bloody shirt into the corner. Her trousers were only spotted with blood, and would probably serve. There was a washcloth beside the basin, and after filling her glass again she set about using the rest of the water to get herself clean. Cleaner, anyway. Once she’d gotten rid of the worst of the bloodstains and rinsed her hands in the now-pink water, she put her trousers back on and stripped the sheet off the bed to wear like a cloak.

  That accomplished, she made a thorough search of the room, in case there was something useful she’d missed. All this turned up was a copy of the Wisdoms bound in soft leather, forgotten under the bed by some pious butler. Raesinia leafed through a few pages at random, then decided she wasn’t in the mood for theological study and left the book on the bed.

  She was making a second circuit, paying particular attention to the wallpaper in case there was a loose bit of plaster somewhere, when the door lock clicked open. She turned, clutching her makeshift garment at the neck, and tried to put on a queenly manner. The door open to reveal Maurisk, dressed in his usual severe blacks and grays, wearing an embroidered sash indicating his position as a deputy with extra embellishments to show his position in the Directory as well. Two Patriot Guards with muskets flanked him, but he stepped through the door and waved them away.

  “Lock it,” he said. “We’re not to be disturbed.”

  The guards saluted, and the door slammed. Maurisk stared at Raesinia, rage boiling in his eyes. He was swaying slightly, she noted. Is he drunk?

  “It’s generally considered proper to bow to your queen,” Raesinia said.

  Maurisk’s lip twisted into a snarl. He crossed the room in two quick steps, grabbed the edges of the sheet, and tore it away from her shoulder, exposing her breast. She felt his eyes on her, and her throat went thick.

  “I never thought you were the sort,” she managed, letting the sheet fall away completely. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands. Being dressed and undressed by servants her whole life had left Raesinia with very little modesty on her own account, but being half-naked in front of Maurisk made her feel small and vulnerable. She stood up straighter and looked him in the eye. “Well?”

  He reached out with his left hand, resting it on her shoulder. Her skin crawled, but she remained still. A step closer, and I can go for his eyes.

  Maurisk’s other hand emerged from his pocket, holding a long, thin blade. Raesinia barely had time to flinch before he struck, punching the tip of the knife into the soft skin under her breast, angled upward to slice through the lung and find her heart.

  Her insides went thick and stiff. Blood bubbled to her lips with her next breath, running down her chin. Maurisk jerked his weapon free, and Raesinia took a shuffling step backward, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed as her legs turned to jelly. The binding was already at work, drawing the rent closed and tingling all along the dagger’s path, but with her heart stilled her muscles refused to respond for the moment. She slumped backward, arms spread, staring at the ceiling.

  Maurisk waited, blood dripping from the tip of his dagger. It was less than a minute before Raesinia shuddered, coughing out a mouthful of blood and then sucking in a deep breath. She raised her head, blood and spit dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

  “Is that it?” she rasped. “Are you satisfied?”

  Maurisk nodded, not taking his eyes off her. Wearily, Raesinia rolled off the bed and staggered back to the basin, spitting into it several times before washing her mouth out with water from the cup. She took the soiled washcloth and wiped it across her lips, then cleaned herself where he’d stabbed her. She could feel him staring at where the wound had been, where the skin was now smooth and unbroken. Satisfied she wasn’t going to drip blood all over herself, she picked up the sheet again, winding it around her chest this time before tying it off. Harder to grab, and it leaves my arms free.

  “Ionkovo told me . . . what you were,” Maurisk said. There was a slight slur to his words, too, but his eyes were clear. “I had to see for myself.”

  “A demon,” Raesinia said. “A monster. I know.”

  “There was never any double, that night on the Vendre.” That was the story she’d used, to explain her “death” at the hands of the traitor Faro. “That was you. He shot you in the head and you pulled him off the wall.”

  “I might quibble with the order of events, but yes. We landed on a bunch of very sharp rocks. If it’s any consolation to you, it hurt quite a bit.”

  “How long have you been like this?”

  “Years,” Raesinia said. “You get used to it.”

  “Years.” Anger and bitterness were strong in the Directory President’s voice. “Since before you met us. Our little club in the back of the Blue Mask, playing at revolution.”

  “I was never playing at it. Neither was Ben. Neither were you.”

  “I was risking my life.
So was Ben, so was Faro, so was Cora. What the hell were you risking? A spanking?” Maurisk shook his head. “What the fuck did you get out of it? Was it really just a game?”

  “Of course not,” Raesinia said. “My father was dying, Maurisk. When he died, Orlanko would have declared a regency and taken the throne for himself. I didn’t want to spend my life married to some Borel, with Vordan back under the Sworn Church’s boot.”

  “So you came to us. A bunch of ignorant little pawns, to be used up and discarded when they were no longer useful.” He grinned viciously. “I’m so sorry everything hasn’t gone according to plan.”

  “It was going fine, until you hijacked the Deputies-General for yourself.” Raesinia crossed her arms. “It was your bomb in the square. Don’t deny it.”

  “Not much use in denying it now,” Maurisk said, with strange cheer. “Not much use in anything anymore. I just told a fucking witch to burn down half my city. Goddamned Janus bet Vhalnich just won’t give up, will he? Fuck.”

  “You know it’s over for you,” Raesinia said. “If Janus wins, you’ll end up on your own Spike. If he loses, then it’s the Black Priests who’ll be running things, whether they keep you on as a puppet or not. You’ve sold them Vordan, and for what? A few favors? Getting rid of anyone who got in your way?”

  “For peace.” Maurisk slammed his hand against the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster. “The Church will make the Borelgai and the emperor stop the war. Vordan needs peace, on whatever terms. Your friend Vhalnich can’t provide that, no matter how many battles he wins, but Ionkovo can.” He steadied himself and took a deep breath. “All he wanted was you, some Khandarai trinket, and Janus himself. It seemed like a good bargain. Still does, from where I stand.”

  The hell of it was, she couldn’t entirely say he was wrong. Except . . . “Assuming Ionkovo keeps his promises. Once he has what he wants, what’s to stop the Church from taking over?”

  “It’s a better chance than you and Vhalnich offer us. Or do you really think he can beat Borel and Murnsk together, with Ionkovo and his kind thrown in?” Maurisk snorted. “I wonder if even his madness goes that far.”

  “I know I’d rather fight than trust in the mercy of the Pontifex of the Black.”

  “You would rather fight. But that’s not much of a risk for you, is it? All those poor bastards in blue uniforms only get one life apiece.”

  That hit a little too close to home. Raesinia looked away, and said nothing.

  Maurisk shook his head, rapping on the door with exaggerated caution. As the lock clicked open, he said, “Dr. Sarton was especially interested to hear of your . . . condition.”

  “You told Sarton?” Raesinia said.

  Maurisk shrugged. “I believe he’s interested in hearing about the subjective experience of the victims of the Spike. He’s already hard at work designing an improved model. If there’s time, perhaps you’ll have a chance to assist him with his experiments.”

  “I’m sure his improvements will be a consolation when they’re strapping you down,” Raesinia spit.

  Maurisk snorted. The guards outside opened the door, and he brushed past them without a word, leaving them to close and lock it again.

  Raesinia sat down on the bed, arms crossed over her chest. She could still feel where Maurisk’s dagger had gone in, a residual tingle of the binding at work.

  How much worse could the Spike be, really? She closed her eyes, and tried not to think about it.

  * * *

  Sometime later, she was roused from her solitary contemplation by a rapping at her window.

  The Patriot Guard had been busy, rushing up and down the corridors and shouting at one another. The walls muffled the sound too much for Raesinia to understand what they were saying, but it was clear that something was happening, and she guessed it wasn’t good. She took this as a hopeful sign—anything that worried the Patriots was a positive step.

  The sound at the window surprised her, because when she’d stood on tiptoes to look out of the tiny glass panel, she’d discovered the room was at least five stories up, near the top of the hotel. Sothe might have climbed it, though. Heart suddenly pounding, Raesinia rolled off the bed and went over to the window, pushing a small trunk underneath it so she could see out.

  Nothing unusual was visible. It was late afternoon, the sun already sliding toward the end of the short autumn day. The window faced northwest, so she had a view of the North Bank and the Fairy Castles, where everything was dark and shuttered.

  There was another rap, and a flicker, as though someone had thrown a pebble at the glass. It came again, and Raesinia frowned, then gave a shrug. No harm in a little fresh air, at any rate.

  She pulled the latch and swung the pane outward. It was tiny, perhaps four inches by six, so there was no question of squeezing through it. But the sound of the city flooded in, and Raesinia was surprised to find she could hear the guns, flat thuds carrying across the river from who knew where. It was oddly comforting. Janus is still fighting. It’s not over yet.

  Something stung her cheek, then scraped across her nose. She put a hand up, and came away with a few grains of colorful sand nestled in her palm. At the same time, she felt a familiar pain bloom in her head. Oh.

  Raesinia jumped down from the box and backed away from the window, and sand rushed into the room in a torrent, rattling against the glass and swirling over the carpet to form a miniature whirlwind. In the center of the maelstrom, the sand mounded up to form a man-sized shape; then the wind died away and the sand fell to the floor, revealing the masked figure who’d rescued her, Feor, and Marcus from the giant Penitent Damned.

  “I was wondering what had happened to you,” Raesinia said. “I thought you were keeping me safe from Ionkovo?”

  “I did not expect you to run into his arms,” the man said, then tilted his head, expressionless mask gleaming dully in the lamplight. “Also, over water my power is . . . limited.”

  “That makes sense. You’d turn to mud.” Raesinia sat back down on the bed. “Won’t Ionkovo know you’re here?”

  “He is otherwise engaged at the moment. Janus appears to have thwarted his trap, and the Army of the East is pushing into the city.”

  Something tight in Raesinia’s chest relaxed, just a fraction. “Marcus and the others did it, then.”

  The man shrugged, sand cascading from the creases of his clothes. “I thought I would take the opportunity to speak to you.”

  “All right. Do you have a name?”

  “Once I was called Jaffa-dan-Iln. Now I am Malik-dan-Belial. The Steel Ghost, in your tongue.”

  “I think Marcus may have mentioned that. You’re Khandarai, I take it? What are you doing here?”

  The Ghost paused, as though considering. Eventually, he said, “I was part of a . . . religious order, of sorts. A very old tradition, who guarded the knowledge of naath—you would say, sorcery—against the day when it might be needed. Safeguarding the Thousand Names was one of our primary responsibilities.”

  “Until Janus turned up?” Raesinia guessed.

  “Vhalnich only took advantage of our weakness,” the Ghost said. “We had grown . . . complacent. Safe, hidden on the sacred hill among the other religious traditions. When the Redeemers turned the city against us, most of our order was lost in the carnage. We knew—our leader knew—that weakened as we were, our enemies would come sooner or later to take the treasure they had always coveted.”

  “Your enemies. The Priests of the Black?”

  “Yes. The abh-naathem, those who pervert the naath. The Penitent Damned, as they call themselves. We expected their agents, but we did not expect Vhalnich, who sought the archive for himself.”

  “Not for himself.” Janus had explained his reasons to her. “He was working for my father. I have a . . . a naath, a demon, and my father wanted a way to free me from it. He asked Janus to find one, and
Janus thought the Thousand Names might have a clue.”

  “No,” the Ghost said, the word ringing oddly through his steel mask. “That is not the whole of the truth. Vhalnich has some other purpose, I am certain.”

  “Then why are you helping us?”

  The Ghost sighed, an oddly human gesture. It would be easy to forget, Raesinia thought, that there was a man under the implacable mask.

  “I am the last of my order,” he said. “Our leader, who bore the naath I now carry, passed it down to me, along with as much of her knowledge as she was able to. She was too weak to do what was required. So I have come here alone, and I must walk a knife’s edge. If the Thousand Names is taken by the abh-naathem, it may mean the end of the world.”

  Raesinia gave a startled laugh. “The end of the world? I mean, I’m sure the Church would love to get its hands on more spells, but . . .” She trailed off, under the implacable blank stare. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I cannot speak further.”

  “Because your religion forbids it?”

  “Because I do not trust you,” the Ghost said bluntly. “The abh-naathem cannot be permitted to have the Names. But Vhalnich has some purpose of his own that I do not understand, and you are his ally. Revealing too much may create an equal catastrophe.”

  “I am the queen, you know.” She gestured around the tiny room, as though to acknowledge the irony of this claim under the circumstances. “Janus works for me, not the other way around.”

  The blank mask tipped inquisitively to one side. “Are you certain?”

  There was the sound of heavy boots in the corridor outside.

  “Ionkovo has returned,” the Ghost said. “Or his allies have sensed me. I regret that I cannot assist you to escape.”

  “I’ll survive. I haven’t got much of a choice.”

  Sand whirled around the Ghost again, rising into a miniature maelstrom. Over the sound, he said, “Be wary of Vhalnich. He plans deep.”