The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Marcus said. “You’re the queen.”

  “I’m not so certain.” She leaned forward. “I need you, Marcus. The army loves you. The generals respect you. If you’re at my side, we can avoid any confusion.”

  Marcus looked up at her with hollow eyes. “I wonder if this is what Adrecht Roston said to his men before they turned on me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Marcus got to his feet. “If Janus is such a danger, why did you bother to rescue him?”

  “Because there were thousands of other soldiers with him.” Because you were there. “I’m not heartless. I’m just trying to do what’s best.”

  “By asking me to turn on the one man I’ve trusted all this time. Who has saved my life more often than I can count, not to mention yours.”

  “Yes,” Raesinia said, fighting to keep a quaver out of her voice. “Because that is what’s best.”

  There was a cold silence.

  “What have you done with him?” Marcus said.

  “He’s in the old storage shed.” It was just about the only other building on this side of the river. “Sothe has got people from the Girls’ Own guarding him. The story is that he’s still too sick to move.” She took a long breath. “All we need to do is send him home, under a nice, discreet guard, and keep him out of the way for a few months.”

  “You have a lot of faith in Dorsay.”

  “I do,” Raesinia said. “I think he’s a good man.”

  Another silence. Marcus turned to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Raesinia said.

  “Where do you think?” Marcus snapped.

  —

  “What is he going to do?” Sothe said once Marcus had left.

  “I don’t know,” Raesinia said. She was slumped in her chair, drinking what was left of the wine for the look of the thing.

  “I could stop him.” Sothe sounded hesitant, and Raesinia looked at her sharply.

  “Don’t even suggest that we should kill Marcus.”

  “No,” the assassin said. “It has become clear to me that he is . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. But I could detain him temporarily, I think.”

  “Are you certain? Even the Girls’ Own might not be willing to hold him.”

  “You may be right.” Sothe frowned. “Then what do you propose to do?”

  Raesinia shrugged, exhausted. “Wait.”

  —

  MARCUS

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  He’d almost said it. All through the exhausting ride south, after the cavalry’s surprise attack had broken through the bone people’s line, he’d thought about his promise to himself. That it had been made when he’d expected to die didn’t make it any less binding, he decided. He tried to plan the conversation, but never got further than his own halting explanation of his feelings. He couldn’t imagine what Raesinia would do—laugh? Sneer? Be offended at his temerity? Or say . . .

  But he hadn’t even gotten the chance. She’d made it very clear what she thought of him. I need you, Marcus. As a general, as a tool, because he had the loyalty of the soldiers and the respect of the officers. Fine. That’s what she wants from me. I just have to accept it.

  Now, standing in the snow in front of the door to an innyard shed, he had to decide what to do about it.

  Two guards, both women, saluted as he approached. He recognized them, vaguely, from the group Winter had taken to rescue Raesinia from the Directory. Marcus gave them an austere nod, but softened a little as the smaller one grinned broadly.

  “It’s good to see you safe, sir,” she said. Her larger companion nodded vigorously.

  “Thanks,” Marcus said. “Though I don’t feel safe quite yet.”

  “I understand,” she said, then hesitated. “Sir—can I ask—”

  “What is it?”

  “Has there been any word of General Ihernglass?”

  “No word, as such,” Marcus said. “But we have . . . some reason to believe that he’s alive. Or was a few days ago, at least.” Assuming that our theory about the Penitent is true, and a dozen other things besides.

  “That’s something, sir,” the guard said. “Thank you.”

  Marcus nodded at the door. “Is he awake?”

  “I think so, sir. He hasn’t asked for anything, but I’ve heard him moving about.”

  “I’ll speak to him, then.”

  The larger guard dragged the door open. It was a heavy thing, hinges squealing with neglect. The storehouse was a squat, windowless building, thickly built from the same stone as the inn, with a high, peaked roof. Inside, only a few broken barrels and empty sacks remained from its original purpose. A bed had been dragged over from the inn, with a portable writing desk beside it. The only lantern stood on the desk, throwing long shadows.

  Janus sat on a cushion in front of the desk, pen laid neatly in front of him across a blank page. He looked up as the door opened, letting in the cloud-shrouded rays of the late-afternoon sun. After Marcus stepped inside, the guard dragged the door closed again, leaving them alone in the lantern-light. Janus’ gray eyes gleamed, but they were sunk in deep, shadowed sockets, like gemstones in the eyes of a skull.

  “Sir,” Marcus said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Considerably better now that I’m not spending my days in the back of a cart,” Janus said. “I’ve been trying to put together a picture of the tactical situation, but everyone is so damned solicitous of my health that it’s taken me longer than it should. I believe I have the basics, however. I must say, Raesinia has managed well in a difficult period, though she’s waited too long to take a few basic steps.” He turned to the writing desk. “We have five divisions at Tsivny, though three of them were rather roughly handled by Dorsay when he took Polkhaiz. But they’ve had time to recover, and they’re ideally positioned to advance against the Borelgai flank. If we can keep the bluff of negotiations going long enough for them to begin to move—”

  “Sir—”

  “Which reminds me. Rationing ought to begin immediately. Whatever food Dorsay sends us should be collected and as much as possible stockpiled to build up a reserve. Once he’s maneuvered out of his position, we should be able to cover him with a small force and slip by to the south. Then we’ll have a secure line to our base and a chance to regroup, and with any luck the weather will continue to improve.”

  “Sir. Can I ask a few questions?”

  Janus blinked. The fever-brightness was gone from his eyes, but there was still something off about his expression. It was a little too eager, a little too forced.

  “Certainly, Marcus.”

  “You intend to resume command?”

  “Of course.” He patted his chest. “As you can see, my health has returned, more or less. I’ll need some time to recover physically from the effects of being bedridden so long, but I should be able to at least sit a horse. Just don’t schedule me for any sword fights in the near future, eh?”

  Marcus forced a smile. “And you’re planning to resume the drive on Elysium?”

  Janus’ expression grew more serious, and he nodded. “That remains the objective, as it always has. We’ve suffered a setback, obviously, but we’re far from beaten. The Pontifex of the Black must be scraping the bottom of his bag of tricks if he’s willing to inflict such harm on his own people. Once we’ve extracted ourselves from our current predicament and spent some time resting the soldiers, Dorsay won’t have the strength to block us, and the emperor won’t be able to assemble a new army before the end of the year. There’ll be nothing to stand in our way, and we’ll have two or three months of good weather left. I anticipate a satisfactory result.”

  “At the peace conference, you said you wanted to occupy Elysium to ensure the Church’s good behavior. We won’t be able to stay there
long before winter comes.”

  Janus shrugged. “You know that was only for public consumption. If we can stomp out the nest of vipers that is the Priests of the Black, I will consider the campaign a success.”

  Marcus felt his mind turning, involuntarily, to follow Janus’ path. This had been his power, ever since Marcus had first met him, in a miserable little fortress on the edge of the desert in Khandar. When he was talking, everything he said sounded so right, so reasonable. It was a bit like the power Danton Aurenne had displayed over the crowds in Vordan, except that in Janus’ case there was nothing supernatural about it. Something about the force of his mind bent the course of everyone around him, like a mighty river carving out a valley that lesser streams couldn’t help but flow into. But . . .

  They’d been together a long time. Not much more than a year, in truth, but it felt like an eternity. Marcus thought he knew Janus as well as anyone could. I ought to know his tricks by now. While he swept you up in his vision, he was a master at leaving out inconvenient details and implications. And he doesn’t like too many questions.

  “And then what?” Marcus said.

  Janus cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Assume it all works. The Black Priests are destroyed, and we make it back to Vordan. What happens next?”

  “Ah.” Janus shrugged. “The next project would be freeing Raesinia from her demon. It’s possible that Ihernglass’ Infernivore would be able to do it, but the question is whether it will leave Raesinia alive or dead afterward. I hope to find some knowledge in Elysium to assist with that.”

  Marcus’ chest tightened. “You started this when the king asked you to help Raesinia, didn’t you? So what’s next for you, when that’s accomplished? Will you stay on as First Consul?”

  The smile was entirely gone from Janus’ face. His eyes bored into Marcus like steel-headed drills. “You’ve been talking to her, I see.”

  “Will you?”

  “If needed,” Janus said coldly. “As long as Vordan is threatened by its enemies, I will continue to defend it.”

  “And when will that stop?” Marcus said. “If we destroy Elysium, the Sworn Church nations will never make peace.”

  “Unless we force them to.” Janus’ eyes gleamed. “Is that what you’re worried about? I have plans, Marcus—depend on it. A rebuilt Vordanai fleet, to sweep the Borels from the seas. We will march into Viadre and dictate peace at sword point. And the emperor’s position isn’t as secure as it appears—weaken him enough, and with the right inducements the whole Murnskai house of cards will come crashing down. We only need play one petty lord against another until they never threaten Vordan again.”

  “War, in other words.” On and on, forever.

  “Until we finally win.” Janus’ smile returned just for a moment. “Don’t tell me the prospect upsets you. When we came back from Khandar, you were practically itching to get into the field. War is your profession, Marcus, and you have a talent for it.”

  The hell of it was, Janus was right. He had been eager to take his troops against the enemy after so long wasting away in the backwaters of Khandar.

  “I may have lost my taste for it,” Marcus said.

  “Ah.” Janus shrugged. “You have done well in my service, and you will be rewarded, never fear. If field command is no longer what you want, then there are any number of other posts. Minister of war, perhaps. I’m sure the queen can be persuaded to part with a title and an estate, as well.”

  “It’s not that,” Marcus said. “It’s not about me.” Andy. Hayver. Adrecht. God knows how many others. “It’s too much, Janus. The cost is too high. It’s not worth it.” He shook his head, throat getting thick. “If we beat them, in another generation they’ll get back up and start the next round. Again and again, forever. My children’s children will still be at war.”

  “They’ll be at war anyway,” Janus said. “In the last century, no decade has passed without a major war somewhere or other. War will always be with us. The question is whether you want to win.”

  “Is that really what this is about? Winning the war?”

  “Of course. What else is there?”

  “Who was Mya?”

  Marcus was watching closely. Janus’ self-control was awesome, except for the rare moments when his temper broke through, but it wasn’t perfect. There was a flicker in his eyes, a tension at the corner of his lips, just for an instant. No one who didn’t know him well would have noticed, but Marcus saw it, and he could see in Janus’ eyes that his commander knew he had seen it. There was a long moment of silence.

  “Where did you hear that name?” Janus said.

  “From you,” Marcus said quietly. “When you were ill. She seemed to be on your mind.”

  “Fever dreams,” Janus said, and blew out a long breath. “I see.”

  “She’s not real?”

  “She was real,” Janus said. He looked away, eyes hooded. “We all have our scars, Marcus. You of all people should understand that.”

  “And Elysium? Is it for her sake?”

  Another pause, just for an instant. “Don’t be silly. That’s the distant past, and we have the present to worry about.”

  He’s lying. The sudden certainty was like a weight on Marcus’ heart, dragging him into despair. Once again Janus could read his expressions like a book. His lip tightened.

  “What are you really doing here?” Janus said after a moment.

  “Raesinia is negotiating with Dorsay,” Marcus said.

  “I know that. But she can’t seriously believe he’ll keep faith longer than he needs to. You have to help her. She’s naive—”

  “She’s the farthest thing from naive, and you know it. She thinks Dorsay means it.”

  “It’s not her decision to make.”

  “She’s the queen.”

  “And this is an army in the field, and I am the First Consul.” Janus’ voice dropped toward a snarl. “Dorsay must know that. Any deal he makes with her will be purely for show.”

  “One of his conditions is that you leave your position,” Marcus said.

  Janus blinked, then stared at him in silence.

  “You’ll resign,” Marcus said, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. “You’ll return to Mieran County a hero. Whatever you need from the Crown—”

  “You support her in this?”

  “I . . .” Marcus shook his head. “I think she’s right. We’ve beaten every army they’ve sent against us. Now is the time to make a peace that will last. If we push on, if we sack Elysium . . .”

  “The Black Priests won’t give up.”

  “She knows that,” Marcus said with a fresh spike of pain.

  “And if I walked out this door right now and ordered the generals to attack?”

  Marcus closed his eyes. “Please don’t.”

  Another pause.

  “I truly never thought it would come to this.” Janus’ voice was small, almost lost. “Raesinia was clearly an alliance of convenience. But you, Marcus. I thought . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I really am. If there were another way . . .”

  “You know where you would be without me?” Janus looked up again, his eyes wild. “Decorating some Redeemer’s spit in Khandar! You’d have nothing without my help. You’ve been tagging along behind me like a tail on a kite, and now you have the gall to tell me you know what’s right?” Janus’ lip curled. “As though you could get the tenth part of my plan into your tiny mind. You could have been a great man, Marcus d’Ivoire, if only you were smart enough to shut up and do as you were told!”

  “Please—”

  “Don’t bother. I haven’t come this far to fail now.” Janus slashed a hand through the air. “If you and the queen are against me, so be it. You have no idea what you’re up against.”

  “Janus.” Marcus f
elt tears building at the corners of his eyes. “Please don’t do this.”

  “If you’re going to stab me in the back, at least be honest about it, you pompous, ungrateful—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Sir?” The guard’s voice was heavily muffled. “Sorry to bother you, Column-General, but there’s a message here for the First Consul. Says it’s extremely urgent.”

  Marcus looked at Janus. The mad anger had vanished from his face, replaced by his usual pleasant mask. Only the narrow set of his eyes betrayed a hint of his feelings.

  “Bring it in,” Marcus said, wiping his face on his sleeve. The door creaked open, and the guard came in with a single folded slip of paper. Marcus took it, thanked her, and waited until she had left again.

  “You may as well read it,” Janus muttered. “If you’re to be my jailer, you have the right to censor my correspondence.”

  “You know I can’t.” The note was meaningless to Marcus, a mass of random letters. He handed it to Janus, who scanned it briefly and grunted. “What does it say?”

  Janus stared at him for a moment, the mask back in place, gray eyes inscrutable.

  “Some time ago,” he said, “I placed several spies with Duke Orlanko. I thought he might eventually make a move, and apparently I was right.” Janus waved the paper. “His little cadre of hired killers will be busy tonight. Dorsay, Raesinia, you, and myself. Quite the catch.” He shook his head. “The Last Duke is not even original in his treasons.”

  “We need to warn—”

  “You have a choice,” Janus said. “This is exactly what we need. If Dorsay dies, the Borelgai army will fall into confusion and our task is much simplified. You know Raesinia can’t be killed. You and I have merely to protect ourselves, and everything will fall into our hands.” He paused, and Marcus was astonished to see his hands were trembling. “Please, Marcus. Trust me, just one more time. We’re so close.”

  Marcus turned away, and it felt like tearing a part of himself loose.

  “I’m going to warn the queen,” he said. “We’ll make sure you’re well protected here.”