The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “What about the search for the host?” he said. “Any progress?”

  The scribe brightened. “Apparently so, Your Excellence. The fifty-fourth subject is in the eighth hour of recitation, and Father Milovic believes she may have the strength to complete the invocation.”

  Finally. It had been nearly a year this time. “I’ll see her for myself.”

  —

  The Pontifex of the Black descended.

  Down, down, down, past the basements that housed the bulk of the Priests of the Black, past the prison levels where the demons were bound, endless corridors of barred cells, each inscribed with the name of a fiend. The greatest demons had grand, poetic names—the Panoply Invisible, Wraith of Shadows, Caryatid—but the majority, those captured in relatively recent days, were more prosaic. Farsight #14, Heat Protection, Earth-Shaping #3.

  Each cell contained a miserable wretch of a man or woman, serving as a host for the demon so named. Some of them were “wild,” captured by the agents of the Church, but most had been created here in Elysium, forced to recite the names of the creatures they now bore. It all went back to the discoveries of Elleusis Ligamenti, the founding genius of the order. First, that while some poor souls were infected with demons “naturally” at birth, the creatures could be summoned more reliably by the recitation of their names. Second, that these names could be deduced by careful experimentation on captive subjects. And third, most important, that demons were singular—once summoned into a host, they were trapped there until the host died, unable to spread their evil to others.

  Those revelations had transformed the early Church. Instead of burning those who carried demons, the Priests of the Black began to collect them, imprisoning their hosts and learning their names. When a host died, another was created, a prisoner of the Church forced to recite the name of the demon and take the dead vessel’s place. Thus, one by one, the creatures of hell were removed from the world, bound up where they could not imperil the souls of the faithful. The monsters and sorcerers faded away as fewer and fewer children were born with the taint.

  Down, down, down. Past the cells, past the torture chambers where the Priests of the Black teased the names from their latest captives. Into the very bones of the mountain, where the air became hot and the walls were slick with moisture from the hot springs Elysium had been built on top of.

  The dangerous time for any demon was the period between when one vessel died and a new one was found. Not everyone had the strength to carry such a creature in their soul, and the greater the demon, the greater the strength required. During that interval, the demon was loose, free to be born into the world in some unlucky child. Fortunately, the more powerful the demon, the less likely it was to appear in such a way. To date, only minor demons had contrived to escape, but the threat was always there.

  At the very bottom of the long, spiral stair, a small suite of rooms was locked behind thick iron doors. Water dripped from ceiling to floor in a steady rhythm, pooling between the flagstones. Fungus grew in forgotten corners, and the air smelled of rot. This was the home of the greatest prisoner of all, the one the Church had been, in some sense, created to control. The Beast of Judgment, sent by God to destroy the world for the crimes of humanity.

  As the common folk told the story, Karis’ intercession had moved God to mercy, and the Beast had been banished until the postponed Day of Judgment. Only the Priests of the Black knew that the Beast was still here, bound by Karis himself, locked into a host so as to never again be born into the world. When the Beast’s host died, the Priests of the Black searched the land for the strongest souls and brought them here to test against the great name. Most died, unable to bear the burden. Once, the search had lasted for more than three years, and priests began to wonder openly if God’s mercy had finally been revoked.

  The last host had been in his fifties, dying unexpectedly of a vicious rot in his lungs. As the scribe had informed the pontifex, fifty-three potential hosts had begun to recite the name and all had failed, to be carried up the stairs in shrouds and interred in Elysium’s endless catacombs. The Pontifex of the Black slipped between the obsidian-masked guards and entered the chamber where the fifty-fourth was making the attempt.

  “. . . sa li nu pha vo ret kay . . .”

  Her voice was a hoarse, ragged whisper. She sat on a wooden stool in the center of the empty room, staring fixedly ahead. A masked priest held a long scroll of waxed paper, unrolling it at a steady pace to reveal large, neat letters. An endless string of nonsense syllables. Seven more fat scrolls lay stacked by the priest’s feet. Together they made up the dread name that would summon the Beast into a mortal body. Reciting the name required some ten hours, and once begun, any pause could be fatal.

  “. . . ga no ai ka ree cor . . .”

  Another, more senior priest scurried over at the sight of the visitor. Even under the obsidian mask, the pontifex recognized Father Milovic, who was leading the search for the new vessel.

  “Your Excellence,” Milovic said. “We are honored.”

  “I heard you had made some progress.”

  Milovic rubbed his hands together, one squirming inside the other. “We don’t like to count chickens before they’ve hatched, of course. But I admit I have my hopes for this one. She has a very strong will, and if God allows her to bear the Beast, she is healthy enough to last for many years.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  “Vordan,” the priest said. “Brought in by Shade, I believe, before he departed on his latest assignment.”

  Oh, yes. Ionkovo had chuckled when he’d told the story of how he’d acquired his prize, though the pontifex, more focused on the failures at Vordan City, hadn’t seen the humor. Still, she’d known Ihernglass and Vhalnich, so she’d been thoroughly interrogated before being sent to the ever-hungry queue of potential hosts. Now she looked like all the rest, hair shaved back to a pale red stubble, dressed in a shapeless gray coverall. Her green eyes gleamed in the lamplight as she stared fixedly at the scroll unrolling before her, mouth shaping the words.

  “. . . fa mo que bin xe za . . .”

  “If she does succeed, inform me at once,” the pontifex said. “I will wish to speak to her. To it.”

  “Of course, Your Excellence.”

  To speak with the Beast of Judgment was the sole privilege of the Pontifex of the Black. The Beast was ancient and cunning, and possessed much useful knowledge. Only the pontifex was considered wise enough to exchange words with it without risking his immortal soul. This Pontifex of the Black had spoken to the creature only once, on the day of his investiture, and had promised himself not to make use of it again. But these are not normal times.

  —

  JANE

  “. . . ha ren fo la wu bey . . .”

  She pulled the trigger.

  No, no, no, no. I didn’t want to, not Winter, not Winter—

  She pulled the trigger. The hammer came down. And then—

  Laughter, bubbling up inside her. Because—

  —this is what it feels like to go mad—

  All she ever wanted was Winter. To hold her, to kiss her. To watch her eyes go wide when I touch her, and hear that little gasp . . .

  She pulled the trigger. Because she was angry.

  At Vhalnich! Why can’t anyone see what he really is?

  “. . . zur ket ub gin lo po . . .”

  Jane was alone in the universe, hanging in darkness. In the distance, someone was chanting nonsense words, a hoarse, torn voice that was almost familiar. Something was closing in around her, rasping across her skin, twining gently around her hands and feet. It felt like silk, but cold as a winter stream. It pulled her through the darkness, down, down, down.

  Am I dead?

  Not yet, something replied.

  Is this my hell? The Prison burning. Mrs. Wilmore, staggering like a drunk, blood gushing from h
er mouth. The screams from the farmhouse. I pulled the trigger.

  It may be, something said, that it is.

  The black silk wound farther up her limbs. She felt it brush the back of her neck. Her hands and feet tingled from the cold, and she could hear the rapid thump of her heartbeat.

  Is it death that you want? something asked.

  I want . . . Winter, running her fingers through long, red hair. The look in her eyes after they’d fought the tax farmers. The look in her eyes when I pulled the trigger.

  “. . . kei ni si get . . . hi . . . s—sen . . .”

  The black silk knotted tighter, cold spreading through her body. Her heart slammed against her ribs, hesitated, skipped a beat, double-thumped.

  Jane Verity, something said, what do you want?

  Winter. The way she used to be, before. The way she ought to be. Before Vhalnich got his poison into her. I want her. Anger flared, hot and bright, and her heartbeat strengthened. And I want him.

  I can give you what you want, something said.

  “. . . f—fa . . . gil . . . t—t— . . .”

  Anything you want, something said.

  For what? What’s the price?

  Everything, something answered.

  “. . . tif . . . n—n— . . .”

  The cold reached Jane’s core. If she hesitated, she would die, frozen and alone, dragged into the endless dark.

  I pulled the trigger—

  I can fix it. I can still have her. I can still have—

  Everything, something said.

  I accept.

  “. . . ni ga vo tar!”

  Black silk wrapped itself around her, like a shroud.

  —

  The Beast opened its eyes.

  It could see nothing. Something was wrapped around its head, a heavy metal blindfold. It could feel the weight of the iron. Shackles at its wrists, shackles at its feet.

  “Can you understand me?” The voice was a thick rasp.

  The Beast stretched, savoring the aches and pains of its new body. Jane Verity. She was part of it now, in the way a field mouse becomes part of the snake that swallows it.

  “Can you understand?” the voice said again. A familiar voice.

  “I can understand you, Zakhar Vakhaven.” The Beast smiled, tongue scraping over dry lips. “I remember you.”

  PART ONE

  ALEX

  Alex stared up at the road from the ditch and licked her lips.

  Three men. Four horses.

  They were uhlans, light cavalry from the emperor’s regular army, with tall embroidered caps and smart uniforms. Their horses were good ones, and the saddlebags practically bulged with provisions and supplies.

  They probably have wool socks. For the past three nights, ever since she’d abandoned the last husks of her shoes rather than try to repair them for the hundredth time, Alex had been lusting after wool socks. In the old days she’d hardly ever thought about socks. They’d been hers for the asking, along with clever, noiseless shoes perfect for sneaking across rooftops or padding down darkened halls. Now she was barefoot, and the stony ground of Murnsk had sliced and blistered her feet.

  Socks, she had to admit, were probably not the most important thing in those saddlebags. If she was going to make it, she needed food, and most of all she needed those horses. They were there for the taking, and all that stood in her way were three young men who’d done nothing worse than sign up to wear a fancy uniform and ride in parades.

  They work for the emperor, which means they work for Elysium, which means they work for the Black Priests, whether they know it or not. But Alex knew that was thin. All of Murnsk works for the emperor, in the end. Does that make them all just as guilty? She’d been a thief—the best thief in the world—but she’d never thought of herself as a murderer. Once, she’d kept a count of the men she’d killed, when she absolutely couldn’t avoid it. Now she’d lost track, or purposely forgotten.

  It had been three days since she’d eaten, and that had been a squirrel she’d clumsily skinned herself, a few mouthfuls of stringy muscle and fat.

  Now is not the time for second thoughts. She’d left the Mountain because she loved Abraham and very much thought she loved Maxwell, and also because the two of them were the most sanctimonious, infuriating pair she’d ever met. They all agreed what had to be done, but even when an opportunity fell into their laps they refused to take it. So Alex had decided to take it for them.

  She stared at the three men. Abraham would have told her to wait, not to be impulsive, to consider other ways of getting the supplies she needed. Easy for him to say. He’s not eating squirrel.

  In the end, what decided her was the thought of going back. It seemed like the only alternative, apart from dying of starvation, and she couldn’t bear to think what they’d say to her. Especially Maxwell, with everything she’d said to him before she left. Bullheaded stubbornness was probably a poor reason to decide to kill three men, she thought, but honestly, did the reason really matter? Maxwell and his tutor can debate it in their endless hairsplitting.

  She rose from the tall grass and climbed out of the ditch, just beside where the three uhlans stood together, talking and smoking. One of them noticed her and did a double take, tossing his pipe down and putting his hand on his sword.

  “Hey there!” he said. “Stop!”

  The senior of the three regarded her and sniffed. “You’ll be getting no charity from us. Off with you.”

  “I believe it’s a girl.” The third uhlan peered closer. “Are you selling, is that it? I’ll give you a box of hardtack for a quick ride.”

  “I can’t believe you,” the first said. “She’s filthy.”

  The third uhlan shrugged. “Cunny is cunny.”

  Well, Alex thought, that makes this a little easier.

  She raised her hands and exerted her will. Two globes of darkness formed around her fingers, congealing out of the late-afternoon shadows like pools of ink. As the uhlans gaped, the darkness formed itself into three long, thin needles and stabbed out to catch each man just above the bridge of his nose, punching effortlessly through flesh and bone. A moment later the three tendrils withdrew, and the uhlans collapsed like puppets with their strings cut, blood leaking from neat holes in their brows the size of a pencil.

  Alex let out a ragged breath. Done. There was no taking it back. Now food, and socks, and—

  There was the crack of a pistol shot, and she stumbled forward, as though she’d been punched in the side. She managed to stay on her feet, turning to see a fourth uhlan stumbling out of the opposite ditch, his pants still unfastened. He was fumbling with his pistol, clawing at the pouch on his belt for another cartridge.

  “Demon!” he shouted. “M-m-monster—”

  Another line of darkness speared out, going through his throat like a flat-bladed spear. When it withdrew, blood fountained, drowning his cries.

  Four horses, Alex thought muzzily, and four men.

  She found herself lying on the ground, with no memory of how she’d gotten there. One of the horses had come over to investigate her, its hot breath brushing her face. Her side stung, the first tendrils of a pain that promised much worse to come.

  Get up. Find out how bad it is. Alex closed her eyes, then forced them open. I didn’t give up when they had me chained to the bed of a cart. I’m not giving up now.

  She raised her head and fumbled with her shirt. It was slick with blood, but it seemed to be leaking, rather than spurting, which was probably good. Her probing fingers found the wound, all the way to one side of her torso. She tried to remember long-ago lessons. If the ball had torn her guts, she would fester and die, sure as sunrise, but she didn’t think it had.

  I could go back to the Mountain. If she could make it that far, Abraham would help her whether he was angry at her or not. I could . . .r />
  No.

  Slowly, one hand pressed against her side, Alex sat up, then got to her feet. Gritting her teeth through the pain, she stumbled toward the nearest horse and pulled open the saddlebags, looking for bandages.

  The horses would take her south. And somewhere to the south was Janus bet Vhalnich and the army of Vordan, and the best chance she would ever have to get her revenge on the Priests of the Black.

  CHAPTER ONE

  RAESINIA

  Talbonn was not a city with a great deal to recommend it, in Raesinia’s opinion.

  It stood at Vordan’s northern frontier, the last major settlement before the Murnskai border. The highway that passed through it was an important artery of commerce, but it didn’t look the part. It barely looked like a road at all, more like a track worn in the mud by a bunch of animals all going the same way. Which was more or less the truth—the biggest trade here was cattle from the Transpale, driven north along this road in exchange for heavy wagonloads of timber and iron from the freezing forests of vast, empty Murnsk. Talbonn was the sort of city that grows up to cater to carters and cattlemen, with filthy, stinking streets, low, mean buildings, and an overabundance of winesinks and whorehouses.

  Nevertheless, it had made an effort to rise to the occasion. Uniformed armsmen stood at regular intervals along the main road, which had been swept clean of dung and broken glass for the benefit of the noble visitors. The largest hotel in the city, which called itself the Grand in pale imitation of the real thing back in Vordan, was a four-story eyesore of plaster and gilt with pretensions to architecture, covered with unnecessary buttresses and ornamental balconies. Raesinia rolled her eyes at it as her carriage drew closer and pulled into the circular drive, passing footmen with too many shiny buttons.

  “When we stop,” Sothe said, “remember not to open the door until the second carriage pulls up.”

  “We’ve been over this,” Raesinia said. “More than once.”

  “Forgive me,” Sothe said. “You have a habit of ignoring my instructions.”