Century of the Soldier: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume Two) (66 page)

"Looks like someone else is in need of a prayer, Father."

"It seems so, Sergeant," the priest said. "Be careful of those Fimbrians. They collect the ears of their enemies, I've heard."

"Bring him into my quarters, Sergeant, and be quick about it!" Aras barked, white-faced. "Enough chatter."

The Inceptine was escorted past the crowd of staring soldiers and into the cavernous interior of the warehouse. There was a little office within, divided off from the rest of the building. They left him there. Some young noblemen were bent over a map. They straightened and nodded at him, looking a trifle bewildered. Aras ordered the room emptied.

"You can throw back your hood now, General," he said when they had gone.

Corfe did as he was told. "I congratulate you, Aras. You have quick eyes."

The two men looked at one another in silence for a long moment, until Aras stirred, and reached for a decanter. "Some wine?"

"Thank you."

They drank, each watching the other.

"What now?" Corfe said. "Will you turn me over to your master - and the kingdom over to the Merduks? Or will you remember your duty?"

Aras flopped down onto a chair. "You have no idea what this has cost me," he whispered.

"To do what? Betray your country?"

The younger man sprang to his feet again, his face outraged. But it leaked out of him like water from a punctured skin. He stared into his wine.

"You were wrong," he said quietly. "Wrong to go about things the way you did. The great men of a kingdom cannot be trampled upon - they will not wear it."

"And in the end their own prestige is worth more to them than the kingdom. You know me, Aras. If a man has ability I could care less whether he's a duke or a beggar. Look at Rusio - I made him a general though he was one of my bitterest enemies. But Fournier - he is motivated by more than wounded pride, you must know that. He has his heart set on ruling Torunna, even if it is only as a pawn of the Merduks. You are all - all of you - merely his tools, to be used and discarded."

"He's going to negotiate a peace, and end the war with honour," Aras said.

"He is going to capitulate unconditionally, and feed off the carcass that the Merduks leave behind."

Aras turned away. "What would you have me do?" he murmured. "Betray him?"

"A traitor cannot be betrayed. These Fimbrians you are besieging - they served under you in battle. They held their line at your orders, and died where they stood because you asked them to. They are your comrades, not your enemies. When did Fournier ever set his shoulder beside yours, or face a battle-line with you? Give it up, Aras - do the honourable thing. Order your men to stand down and let me save this city of ours."

Aras said nothing for a long time. When he spoke again it was in a loud voice. "Haptman Vennor!"

A young man in the livery of one of the southern Lords put his head around the door. "Colonel?"

"The men are to stack arms and stand down. This priest here is to be escorted through our lines to the Fimbrian barracks. Dismantle the barricades. It is over."

Haptman Vennor gaped at him. "Sir - on whose authority -"

"Obey my orders now, damn it! I command here, now do as I say!"

The startled officer saluted and withdrew.

"Thank you," Corfe said quietly.

"I hope you will speak up for me at my court martial, sir," Aras said.

"Court martial?" Corfe laughed. "Aras my dear fellow, I need you in the ranks. As soon was we have this little mess sorted out, we have a meeting with the Merduk army to arrange. I cannot afford to lose an officer with your experience." He held out a hand. Aras hesitated, and then shook it warmly. "I won't let you down, sir - not again. I am your man until death."

Corfe smiled. "I think I knew that already, or part of me did - else I would have bolted as soon as you recognised me."

"What do you want me to do with these mercenaries?"

"They will remain under your command for now. Mercenaries or not, they are still Torunnans. As soon as Formio and his men have shaken out, we'll march on the palace together."

O
DELIA STOOD ON
the balcony and watched the smoke of war drift over the tortured city. Out by the north gate there were crackles of volley-fire rolling still, and the waterfront was a mass of fire above which the smoke toiled in billowing thunderheads. The masts of great ships stood stark and angular against the flames. Some of them had had their moorings cut to save them from the inferno and were now drifting helplessly down the estuary towards the sea.

Nearer at hand, the deafening roar of the artillery salvoes had subsided at last, to be replaced by a chaotic storm of gunfire and the massed roaring of men fighting for their lives. The Fimbrians were storming the palace, and terrified valets and maids had come running to her chambers to huddle in panic-stricken crowds, like rabbits fleeing a wildfire. And Corfe was alive. He and Formio were retaking the palace room by gutted room. Fournier had lost the gamble, and would soon surrender his life as well. It warmed her to think on it.

The doors burst open and a knot of grimy soldiers burst into the room, making the maids scream and cower. Behind them came Count Fournier himself, along with Gabriel Venuzzi and a gaggle of the southern nobles' sons who had marched into the city scant days before with such pomp and heraldry. They were all smoke-blackened or bloodstained now, with frightened eyes and drawn swords. Fournier, however, was as dapper as always - in fact he seemed to have taken special care with his toilet, and was dressed in midnight blue with black hose and a silver-hilted rapier. He held a handkerchief to his nose against the powder-smoke that eddied through the entire palace, but when he saw the Queen he pocketed it with a flourish and then bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty."

"My dear Count. What could possibly bring you here at this time?"

A crash of gunfire drowned out his reply and he frowned, irritated. "Your pardon, Majesty. I thought it the merest good manners to come and make my farewells."

"Are you leaving us then, Count?"

Fournier smiled. "Sadly, yes. But my journey is not a long one."

The roar of battle seemed to be raging just down the corridor. Fournier's companions took off towards it, yelling - except for Gabriel Venuzzi, who collapsed upon the floor and began sobbing loudly.

"Before I go," Fournier went on, "there is something I would like to give you - a parting gift which I hope will be of some little use to the - ah, the new Torunna which will no doubt come into existence after my departure."

He reached into the breast of his doublet and pulled out a tattered scroll. It was bloodstained and ragged, with a broken seal upon it.

"You see, lady, despite what you may think, I never wanted harm to come to this kingdom - I simply could not see any way to save it except my own. Others may save it - that is quite possible - but in doing so they will also destroy it. If you do not see what I mean already, I am sure you will one day."

Odelia took the scroll with a slight inclination of her head. "I will see you hanged, Count. And your head I will post above the city gate."

Fournier smiled. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Majesty, but I am a nobleman of the old school, who will take his leave of the world in the manner he sees fit. Excuse me."

He walked over to a table in the corner which had decanters of wine and brandy set upon it, ignoring the crash and roar of the fighting raging a few doors down. Pouring himself a goblet of wine, he sprinkled a white powder into the glass from a screw of paper he had palmed. Then he tossed off the liquid with one swift gulp.

"Gaderian - as good a vintage to finish with as any, I suppose." He bowed perfectly. When he had straightened, Odelia could see the sudden sweat on his forehead. He took one step towards her, and then folded over, and toppled to the floor.

Odelia went to him and, despite herself, she knelt and cradled his head in her hand.

"You are a traitor, Fournier," she said gently, "but you never lacked courage."

Fournier smiled up at her.

"He is a man of blood and iron, lady. He will never make you happy." Then his eyes rolled back, and he died.

Odelia shut the dead eyelids, frowning. The firing down the passageway reached a crescendo, and there was the clash of steel on steel, men shrieking, orders half-lost in the chaos. Then a voice she knew thundered out: "Cease fire! Cease fire there! You - drop your weapons. Formio, round them up. Andruw, come with me."

An eerie quiet fell, and then booted feet were marching up the corridor, crashing on marble. Through the door came Corfe and Andruw, with a bodyguard of Fimbrians and wild-eyed Cathedrallers. Corfe's face was badly bruised and black with powder. The Queen rose, letting Fournier's head thump to the floor.

"Good day, General," she said, aching with the need to run to him, embrace him.

"I trust I see you well, lady?" Corfe replied, his eyes scanning the room. Coming to rest on Fournier they narrowed. "The Count made good his escape, I see."

"Yes, just this moment."

"Lucky for him. I'd have impaled the traitor, had I taken him alive. Lads, check the next suite. That yokel down there says there's no more but we can't be too sure." Andruw and the other soldiers tramped off purposefully. Corfe noticed the bedraggled heap of the weeping Venuzzi and kicked him out of his way.

"The city is secure, Majesty," he said. "A force has been sent out to bring in the head of Colonel Willem. He is holed up to the east with some of the regulars."

"What of the other conspirators?" the Queen asked.

"We shot them as we found them. Which reminds me." Corfe drew John Mogen's sword. There was a flash as swift as lightning, a sickening crunch, and Gabriel Venuzzi's head spun end over end, attached to the body only by a ribbon of spouting arterial blood. The ladies-in-waiting shrieked; one fainted. Odelia curled her lip.

"Was that necessary?"

Corfe looked at her with no whit of softness in his eyes. "He had eighty of my men shot. He's lucky to have died quickly." He wiped his sword on Venuzzi's body.

Odelia turned her back on him and walked away from the puddle of gore on the floor. "Clean up that mess," she snapped at one of the maids.

The view out the window again. Fully a quarter of the city was burning, most of it down by the river. But the gunfire had stopped. Macrobius was still preaching in the City Square, as he had been doing since dawn. What was he talking about, she wondered absently.

Corfe joined her. One eye was swollen almost shut and he had black bruises on his cheekbones and jaw. He looked like a prize-fighter who had lost his bout.

"Well, you have delivered the city, General," Odelia said, angry with him for all manner of reasons she could not name. "I congratulate you. Now all you have to do is save us from the Merduks." Was it possible that Fournier's last words had registered with something in her? That disgusting murder in cold blood - right in front of her eyes! What kind of man was he anyway?

"Marsch is dead," Corfe said quietly.

"What?"

"He was killed while leading the breakout attempt."

She turned to him then and saw the tears coursing down his cheeks, though his face was set hard as marble.

"Oh Corfe, I'm so sorry." She took him into her arms and for a moment he yielded, buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder. But then he pulled away, wiped his eyes with his fingers. "I must go now. There's a lot to do, and not much time."

She turned to watch him go. He left the room blindly, tramping through Venuzzi's gore and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

T
ORUNN'S BRIEF BUT
bloody agony ended at last as the regular army stamped out the last embers of the abortive coup. The fires were brought under control, thousands of the capital's citizens mobilised to form bucket-chains. Safely perched on a cherry tree in the heights of the palace gardens, the homunculus watched the spectacle with unblinking eyes. As darkness fell, it took off again and flapped northwards.

That night, on the topmost battlements of Ormann Dyke's remaining tower, Aurungzeb, Sultan of Ostrabar, hammered his fist down on the unyielding stone of the ancient battlement.

"Who is sovereign here? Who commands? Shahr Johor, you may be my khedive, but you are not irreplaceable. I have indulged your whims once before, and forgiven you for the failure which resulted. You will now indulge me!"

"But, Highness," Shahr Johor protested, "to change a battle-plan when the army is only days away from contact with the enemy is - is foolhardy."

"What did you say?"

Hopelessly, Shahr Johor pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your pardon, my Sultan. I am a little tired."

"Yes, you are. Get yourself some sleep ere the great fight begins. Or you will be of no use to anyone." Aurungzeb's voice lost its harsh edge. "I am not a complete child in military matters, Shahr Johor, and what I am suggesting is not a complete rewriting of the plan, merely a minor revision."