The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “I don’t know,” Sothe said.

  Raesinia glanced at her. Sothe didn’t often simply admit to not knowing something. Unknowns were calculated risks for her, with evidence carefully weighed in the balance.

  “It depends on Janus,” Sothe said, at Raesinia’s look. “And I have observed him long enough to know that I don’t understand him. Most men and women are, at the very center, not terribly complex. They want power, or comfort, or sex; it’s only the way they go about attaining these desires that distinguishes them.”

  “Did Duke Orlanko teach you that?”

  “It’s the first lesson we learn in the Concordat. Find out a person’s deepest desire, and you have a lever to control them. But Janus . . .” Sothe shook her head. “He accumulates power as naturally as breathing, but he doesn’t seem to want it for its own sake. He appears to have no vices, no romantic entanglements, no great cause or ideology. And yet he has pushed himself to extraordinary heights at no small risk. Why?”

  “He told me it was all for my sake,” Raesinia said. “Because my father had asked him to.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No.” Raesinia shook her head. “Janus must have begun acquiring knowledge about the supernatural before he knew about my difficulty, or why would my father have contacted him at all? There has to be something else.”

  “That’s the basic question, then,” Sothe said. “Going behind his back is a risk. Whether it’s worthwhile depends on what you think he’ll do if you don’t.”

  Raesinia closed her eyes for a moment.

  Be wary of Vhalnich, the Steel Ghost had said. He plans deep. But how deep? Back to the very beginning? Was helping me only an excuse to go to Khandar and get the Thousand Names, in order to get . . . where?

  “Queen of whores.” For a moment she was back in the tent with Lidiya, the woman’s blood spattering the table between them. “We will build a mountain of your heretic corpses . . .”

  She opened her eyes and let out a breath.

  “Tell Whaler to arrange the meeting.”

  —

  The trick was getting out of the camp without attracting any attention. As usual, though, Sothe had the answer. Even with the partisans dogging the army’s heels, there was still a certain amount of clandestine traffic with the locals, villagers smuggling in liquor, tobacco, and occasionally girls with the supply convoys that trundled nonstop up the road from Vantzolk. Those peasants went back out the same way, and the guards who’d agreed to turn a blind eye weren’t overly concerned if there were more of them going out than coming in.

  In addition to Raesinia and Sothe, dressed in nondescript traveling clothes and hooded raincoats, Barely and Joanna had accompanied them. Sothe had reluctantly agreed that the two Girls’ Own soldiers were probably trustworthy, and evading them would be more trouble than it was worth. One of the servants remaining behind had instructions to tell everyone that the queen was ill and resting in her wagon.

  The army had crossed the Norilia the day before, filing across the ugly but functional bridge after one day’s welcome rest camped out on the south bank of the river. It took most of the day for the long column to wind past, minus the garrison that would be left there to safeguard the line of supply back to Vantzolk and the south, and wagons had continued rumbling and rattling over the torchlit bridge long into the night. The following morning, as the camp began to break up, Raesinia and her small party took advantage of the confusion to meet Whaler and slip away, following a riverside road to the west.

  “Thank you for your trust, Your Majesty,” Whaler said. “The duke will be very pleased.”

  Sothe glared at him. Now that Raesinia had made her decision, Sothe had reverted to her usual paranoia, and rode at the head of the group as though she expected to be ambushed at any moment. She wore two pistols and a long knife, in addition to whatever weapons she had concealed under her coat. Barely and Joanna had also donned plain clothes, but they still carried their muskets.

  “Might I ask where we’re going?” Raesinia said.

  “Of course. A small fishing village called Lyzk, perhaps ten miles up the river. The duke will arrive by boat.”

  Not a bad setup, Raesinia mused. It would be easy for Dorsay to arrange to have a signal set, in the event the meeting was a trap, in which case he could simply retreat to the other side of the river. Assuming, of course, the whole thing isn’t his trap to begin with.

  The ride passed in silence. By the time Lyzk came into sight, the sun was well up, and Raesinia’s long coat was feeling warm for what promised to be a genuinely hot day. The village was even smaller than Tsivny, without a bridge to bring traffic, just a small cluster of shacks and a pier with a few elderly boats tied up. It didn’t look like there was room to hide much of an ambush, but Raesinia nevertheless reined up alongside Whaler while Sothe, Barely, and Joanna rode ahead to scout. After a few minutes’ search, they reported that the place was abandoned, the villagers no doubt having fled rumors of the advancing Vordanai army.

  “If you’re satisfied,” Whaler said, “I should send a signal to indicate to the duke that it’s safe to land.”

  Sothe crossed her arms and looked unhappy, but nodded. Whaler lit a torch and waved it over his head in wide circles, until he caught an answering movement from the opposite bank of the river. He doused the torch and smiled at Raesinia.

  “Shouldn’t be long to wait now,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Raesinia said, then cocked her head. “Out of curiosity, how well do you know Dorsay?”

  “I wouldn’t be so bold as to say I know him,” Whaler said. “But I’ve served His Grace personally for more than a decade. That’s why he chose me for this assignment.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “He was sure of my loyalty.” Whaler frowned. “Of late, too many at court have been . . . uncertain. I do not pretend to understand why, but your Duke Orlanko has considerable influence. His Grace did not want to entrust such a delicate task to someone who might be tempted.”

  “I see.”

  A boat was approaching, crawling like a bug across the broad river on two pairs of oars. Raesinia retreated to the high ground outside the village proper, since the shacks and the pier smelled of many lifetimes’ use gutting fish. When the boat docked, she was surprised to see that Dorsay was accompanied only by a single pair of soldiers, who stayed behind as Whaler led him through the village. Raesinia motioned Sothe and the two Girls’ Own soldiers to take a few steps back.

  “Your Majesty,” Dorsay said, bowing. He looked much the same as the last time they’d met, though he was in an ordinary Borelgai uniform instead of the gaudy dress uniform he’d worn to the conference. Raesinia offered a nod in return, uncomfortably aware that she hardly looked like much a queen in a dirty coat and trousers. “You honor me with your trust.”

  “Duke Dorsay,” she said. “Likewise, I’m sure. I’m most curious to hear what you have to say and why it’s so important the First Consul not be aware of it.”

  “When we last met, I must admit I hadn’t taken the measure of the man,” Dorsay said. “I suspected that his victories over the Hamveltai had been the product of good luck, or incompetence on the part of his enemies. Needless to say, I have discovered he is every bit as formidable as his reputation.”

  “I could have told you that,” Raesinia said with a slight smile.

  “I thought his threats against Elysium were saber rattling,” Dorsay went on. “Terms that were certain to keep the war going, because he knew the Murnskai would be unable to accept them. Imagine my surprise, then, when he abandoned pursuit of my army after Gilphaite, and turned north along the Pilgrim’s Road.” Dorsay rubbed his famous nose, then shook his head. “He really intends to do it, doesn’t he? To attack Elysium.”

  “If you asked me here to try to get the details of Janus’ plans, Duke Dorsay, I’m afraid
you’re going to be disappointed,” Raesinia said. “But that certainly seems to be his goal.”

  “I don’t suppose you could enlighten me as to why?”

  That’s a deeper question than you know. “He explained his reasons at the conference,” Raesinia said aloud. “The Church has orchestrated the war against Vordan.”

  “But he can’t seriously think that taking Elysium will destroy the Sworn Church, any more than seizing Ohnlei Palace would destroy Vordan. I won’t believe the man is that naive.”

  “I don’t pretend to know what Janus does or doesn’t believe,” Raesinia said.

  “Do you believe it?”

  Raesinia met his gaze, her expression cool. “Is there a point to this speculation?”

  “Only this. If Janus succeeds, if he takes Elysium, the result will be a disaster on a scale to make the war thus far look like a summer festival.”

  Raesinia kept her face neutral. “I assume you don’t mean in some theological sense.”

  Dorsay snorted. “No miracles are required, I assure you.”

  “Then why do you say so?”

  He paused. “You were, what, ten years old when the War of the Princes began?”

  “Old enough to remember,” Raesinia said, allowing a hint of displeasure into her voice.

  Dorsay’s expression softened. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories. My point is only this—the War of the Princes is the only war you remember.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I am sixty-seven years old,” Dorsay said. “I have seen more wars now than I can remember. The Silverback War, on this very ground, more or less. The Six Years War in the east. The Bankbook War, where I was besieged in Antova, which Janus took so easily. And on and on.”

  “I’m familiar with your reputation.”

  “Did you know that my whole family are soldiers? It’s something of a tradition, though I’ve come farther at it than any of my ancestors. My father died young, on some battlefield or other, and I was raised mostly by my grandfather. He fought Vordan, too, in Farus the Fourth’s day.”

  “Duke Dorsay,” Raesinia said. “Your family history is fascinating, but I don’t think you called me out here to discuss your childhood.”

  Dorsay chuckled. “Sorry. The older I get, the more I tend to meander in my thoughts. Here’s the point, then. Nothing I’ve seen in all my years of fighting is half as ugly as the stories my grandfather told about his soldiering days, and from what I’ve read of the history, he understated the case. We live in a gentler age, and our wars are more . . . sporting. There are rules.” He waved at the village behind them. “When my grandfather’s company came to a village like this, they would shoot all the men, rape the women, then keep the pretty ones and some of the older children for camp followers. Everyone else they’d impale on wooden stakes, rank after rank of them, along the road. Babies, old people. A warning to whoever came afterward, you see. Then they’d steal anything they could carry and set fire to anything that would burn. And none of them felt a twinge of guilt, because they knew that somewhere the enemy was doing the same thing to one of their villages.

  “The Wars of Religion were some of the blackest years this continent has gone through since the Fall of the Tyrants. The only reason it all ended is because kings and priests quietly agreed to leave one another alone. Take the War of the Princes. We won, you lost, but no one in Borel suggested converting Vordan to the Sworn Church at the point of a sword. If it had been the other way around, your father would have done the same. A few territories ceded, a few restrictive trade treaties, that sort of thing. Civilized war.”

  Civilized for the survivors, Raesinia thought. Not for my brother, or everyone else who ended up in a shallow grave. Aloud, she said, “The Grand Army hasn’t been uncivil to the Murnskai.”

  “Not yet. But if Janus takes Elysium—if he truly means to destroy the Sworn Church—then all bets are off. It’ll be the Great Schism all over again, and it won’t end until half the continent drowns in blood. All of Murnsk will rise against you. Not on the battlefield, but in the middle of the night, until you fight back by doing everything my grandfather did.” Dorsay shook his head. “The thing about a civilized war is it ends when the king says that it’s enough. But when one people declares war against another, there’s no one to call a halt.”

  A mountain of corpses. Raesinia once again heard blood spattering on the table and the Murnskai woman’s defiant scream. They will fight us all the way to Elysium. “And what would you do?”

  “Me personally? I have no idea. But Borel would be against you. Georg would have no choice.”

  “You’re very passionate on the subject,” Raesinia said.

  “Call me an idealist,” Dorsay said dryly. “But it can’t be allowed to happen. You understand? Janus must not destroy Elysium.”

  There was a long silence. Raesinia looked down at the empty village and the river beyond, her face schooled to immobility.

  “Is it already too late?” she said, gesturing at the empty buildings. “The Sworn Priests are telling the peasants we’re here for their souls.”

  “I hope not. To be brutally honest, neither Georg nor the emperor are going to be swayed by a few angry peasants. But the fall of Elysium would light a beacon for every Sworn Church in the world.”

  Raesinia took a deep breath. “For the moment, let’s assume that you’re right. What are you asking me to do about it?”

  “In Talbonn I told you what peace would require.”

  “That I sheathe my sword.” Raesinia crossed her arms. “In return for a mere promise to negotiate and the return of a wanted criminal?”

  Dorsay looked solemn. “I can offer more than that. Georg has been in touch. If Janus leaves your government, he is prepared to guarantee peace, status quo ante.” He waved dismissively. “You may have Orlanko, too, of course.”

  Raesinia met the duke’s eyes and found them steady. He means it.

  “What about the Murnskai?” she said carefully. “For the sake of argument.”

  “We cannot, of course, make any guarantees on behalf of the emperor. But Georg will exert what influence he has.” Dorsay leaned forward. “But we must move quickly. The closer you get to Elysium, the more influence the Church, and by extension Orlanko, are going to have in Viadre. The opportunity for peace may pass us by.”

  Peace. With the Borelgai and the emperor, perhaps, but never with the Priests of the Black. They’ll come for me sooner or later, whatever I do here. But . . .

  The confrontation in the tent haunted her. It would have been easier to dismiss Dorsay’s warning if she hadn’t seen, firsthand, the kind of madness the Church could inspire. If we take Elysium . . .

  She imagined a thousand women like Lidiya, throwing themselves against firing lines. A thousand villages burning. A mountain of corpses.

  I can’t do it. She felt the world shifting around her. The Black Priests will come for me. But taking Elysium means war for all of Vordan, and not a war we can hope to win.

  I have to stop Janus.

  She blinked, jaw trembling, and took a deep breath. If Dorsay noticed her sudden discomfiture, he didn’t let it show.

  “It would be hard to explain to the army why I wanted to make peace when we were, to all appearances, winning,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “Not to mention the Deputies-General.”

  “I have every confidence that you can handle the Deputies-General. As for the army . . .” Dorsay cocked his head. “If you ordered a halt, do you think Janus would disobey?”

  “It’s possible,” Raesinia said. “This need to reach Elysium is almost an obsession.”

  “And if he did, who would the army follow? The queen or the First Consul?”

  That’s the ultimate question, isn’t it? The only question that really mattered. In the end it comes down to who holds the power.<
br />
  “I don’t want to force the soldiers to make a choice,” Raesinia said. “If it comes to that, the army might tear itself apart. This deep into hostile territory, that would be a disaster for Vordan.”

  “Then as long as Janus is First Consul, we will never have peace.” Dorsay’s eyes were hooded. “If he could be removed . . .”

  There was only one thing he could mean. “No,” Raesinia snapped. “I am not Orlanko. I do not solve my problems with knives in the dark.”

  Dorsay nodded, and Raesinia wondered if that had been a test, and if she’d passed. “We seem to be at an impasse, then. If you have any ideas, I’m ready to listen.”

  Another pause. Raesinia looked over her shoulder, past Sothe, Barely, and Joanna, toward where the Grand Army was camped. Somewhere to the north, over the horizon, was the Murnskai army.

  “Column-General Marcus has been tutoring me in strategy,” she said. “There will be another battle soon.”

  “It seems likely,” Dorsay said. “Neither Janus nor the emperor is inclined to try to avoid fighting.”

  “If we lose, then the question of taking Elysium is moot,” Raesinia said. “We will have to retreat to the border.”

  “Assuming . . . well, any number of things, but I take your meaning. I must point out, though, that Janus has yet to be decisively beaten in the field.”

  Raesinia nodded. “If we win, then the feeling in the army may be different. If I can meet with the emperor’s representatives and arrange a peace advantageous to Vordan, concessions of territory perhaps . . .”

  “I see.” Dorsay smiled slightly. “It might be more difficult for Janus to insist on continuing the war if the emperor is already offering a good deal.”

  “Exactly. And if he refuses to back down, then it might be politically possible to dismiss him from office.”

  “You’re gambling quite a lot on the emperor’s being willing to give up after a single battle.”