The Champion (8 page)

“Not to them.”

She shook her head, feeling as if she couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. “I do not understand.”

“We cannot hold that miserable gate for long, but there is a possibility we may acquire some assistance.”

“What assistance?”

He shook his head. “I cannot tell you, not yet.”

“Not yet? Not
yet
? What have we just done? Who are you?”

The thief—Jacob—swore under his breath. Walking toward her, he crouched on the grate, bracing her bare shoulders with his hands, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “I’m a man who will do anything for you, who will come back through hellfire, if I must. For now, I must beg your trust, just a little longer.”

Trust?
She shook her head, tears blurring his outline.

“Your trust,” he repeated. “And your oath that you will stay in this tower, and unlock the door for no one, no matter what happens out there.”

She closed her eyes, bowing her head.
Who are you?

“Nadira, give me your oath.”

What point was there in withholding it, even if it meant nothing, an empty promise to a complete stranger?

“I swear it,” she said dully.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said. “Now I must ask for the diamond.”

Jacob crouched at the rampart battlement, wrapped in a black cloak, his gaze set on the last glow of sunset on the horizon. The surrounding cliffs had gone dark, their looming gods now just shadows in the murk, passive witnesses to the slow movement of soldiers and torches along the valley floor. Beneath the defensive wall, the Grand Vizier’s men busied themselves with siege preparations, pulling teams of horses together, organizing heavy carts of ammunition procured from somewhere unseen.

They were moving faster than he’d thought, a clear indication that the Grand Vizier had planned well for all contingencies. The man was also clever enough to keep himself out of sight, hidden somewhere in the maze of glowing tents, away from the watchful gaze of assassins.

When I face them, I want to remember only this, only how it feels to love you.
He closed his eyes, seeking distance, the strength to leave her, scale down the length of the wall and disappear into the darkness. The task was no easier for the knowledge that he planned to return—with help—once he made the airship rendezvous, or that she was safer inside the tower than she would be out here, with two thousand hostile soldiers preparing for battle. This was his world, out of duty, out of necessity. It should never have been hers.

Looking back over his shoulder, he clenched his teeth, focused on the partially open dome of the Star Tower. He imagined her sitting on a catwalk, just as he’d left her, numb to his touch, the sound of his voice, the hope he’d once inspired now lost.

“Wait for me, Nadira,” he whispered. “That’s all I ask.”

Smoothing his hands reluctantly over the stone, he climbed onto the parapet and swung out underneath it, his boots searching for footholds in weathered blocks, descending the sheer drop under the cover of night.

S
he felt their rage, their faces blurred with sunlight, a screaming tide of bared teeth and pinched eyes, their tight fists jabbing at the sky. They pushed and grabbed at each other, thousands wrestling to throw the first stone.
The blows will fall like rain to break my bones, to crush me, until the street is wet with my blood, until they decide to drag me to my death.

She cried out against them, her voice lost among stronger voices as she was pushed to her knees, her clothes ripped apart, torn from her shoulders. She shivered naked under the weight of their violence, folding inward, seeing only her own hands, one grasping the other, unable to let go.
The first stone, the first stone…

Crack!

Nadira startled from sleep, the sound echoing from the dark catwalks around her. The tower was empty, the war machine inert beyond the thin metal rails, its crown of lenses shining blue with starlight.
Not yet. They do not have me yet…
Closing her eyes, she covered her face with her hands and struggled for calm, for sanity, imagining that Jacob’s arms still held her, his hands gentle on soft, unbroken skin.

“Who are you?” she whispered. “Where have you gone?”

Crack!

She jumped again, hearing it clearly this time, a large stone hitting the metal doors of the dome, then bouncing back down to the yard below. Lifting her gaze, she focused on the swatch of night sky visible through the open doors above, hearing a voice rise on the breeze.

“Your Majesty!” An old man called.

Isban.
Pushing up from the grate, she followed the cool draft of air, climbing another ladder and crossing a brace of scaffolding to gaze through the open doors of the dome. The courtyard appeared below, small fires lighting the temple and library entrances, shadows looming along the ramparts. Leaning out further, she swept her gaze to the gate, seeing a large pool of scholars gathered before it, their lanterns held high and glowing.

“Your Majesty!” Isban called again. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” she replied, knowing that he could not possibly see her.

“Ah! Praise the old gods. Are you well?

“Yes, I am well.”

“More good fortune. I was afraid of what that outsider might do. Come, unlock the door. We must prepare quickly.”

“Prepare for what?”

“The Council of Abu Quardan has been negotiating with your senior army officers camped outside. They have agreed to spare everyone, if you present yourself to their envoy for identification. They will verify you are the Sultan and escort you past the others, safely back to Ruman.”

Nadira shook her head, feeling as if the scaffolding were collapsing underneath her. It was trap, surely. The Grand Vizier knew full well that, even with her powders and clays, she could never biologically pass for Osman. “I—”I cannot meet them.”

“But you must, Majesty. We can solve nothing without your appearance, nothing…”

“I cannot.”

The old man hesitated, sounding lost when he spoke. “But they will open the gate at any moment. The envoy will come here, to meet you. Please, Majesty, you must put an end to this. You must come out and be identified. I will gladly stay with you.”

“I cannot,” she whispered.

At the far end of the courtyard, the gate’s heavy chains pulled tight, horse teams dragging the rusted links through the pulleys.

No. No, please.

It was too late.

The scholars had made their fool’s bargain.

She watched, fear stealing her breath as the bolt lifted from its cradle, the iron-clad doors drawing open to the glare of torches on the other side.

Jacob found the rendezvous group waiting in a moonlit ravine, their sleek airship shuttle floating just above the sand, its anchor chains clinking softly in the breeze. The ship’s ornate gondola glowed with light behind curved glass frames, its fabric skin shining like dulled silver. Guards had been posted along a makeshift perimeter, their uniforms dark and neatly pressed, their caps drawn and their rifles slung with familiarity over their shoulders.

A special detachment.

He grimaced, reigning in the horse he’d stolen from the Vizier’s men, ignoring the lathered animal as it tossed its head in protest. The guards signaled each other at the sight of him, clearing the closest man to jog forward, his salute too quick, too enthusiastic, filled with awe.

“Colonel,” he stammered, taking the reigns as Jacob dismounted. “It is an honor, sir. His Grace, the Duke of Sutton, is waiting for you inside.”

Jacob ignored him, sweeping the hood of his cloak back and crossing the sand to the gondola steps. Grabbing onto the line, he climbed inside the cramped compartment, glowering as his eyes adjusted to steel rivets and cable trays, the steady and constant light provided by modern electric lamps.

The Duke was seated on a low bench behind a folding metal table, playing a hand of cards with the Royal Navy’s most infamous pilot, a woman with whom Jacob had once been well acquainted, at a time when both their lives had been different. She broke into a wide smile, her blue eyes sparkling. “Colonel, how frightfully dangerous you look.”

She extended her hand, complete with a fresh wedding ring, and he accepted it, bowing once over her fingers.

“Lady Sinclair.” He released her coolly. “Surprising, that your husband would agree to send you so deeply into hostile territory.”

“Well, I think he was just grateful to be asked this time,” she said lightly, blowing a stray curl from her eyes. “He does so long to be taken seriously when it comes to his husbandly powers, that he could hardly refuse a request when he was, could he?”

The circular logic of the woman had always caught him off guard, but he found even less patience for it now. “This is a dangerous place, Gilda.”

A hush fell at the improper use of her name, the sound of sand peppering the windows almost deafening. She held his gaze, unfazed, always seeing more than he intended her to.

The Duke of Sutton cleared his throat, peering over the gold rims of his spectacles, his maroon bowler sitting slightly askew. “I cannot tell you how pleased, and completely unsurprised, I am, that the two of you have met in the past…given what I know about you both. These little connections are so endearing. Nevertheless, Colonel, I assure you that we have the full permission of both Lady Sinclair’s overtly adoring husband and His Majesty the King. Now, if you don’t mind, perhaps we could get on with your report. I assume the Sultan of Ruman is dead?”

“Your grace.” Jacob tore his gaze away from Gilda, inclining his head in forced deference. “The Sultan has been dead for years, poisoned. I found an imposter in his place.”

“Ah, and did you kill him?”

“Her.”

“
Her
?”

“A woman of the Harem has taken Osman’s place, in disguise, and intends to transform Ruman into a republic.”

The Duke stared at him. “A what?”

“A republic.”

“No, the first part…”

“A woman from Osman’s harem.”

“You’re joking.”

“She is currently trapped inside the ancient complex at Abu Quardan, where she will be slaughtered by the Grand Vizier and two thousand of his turncoat soldiers if we do nothing to prevent it.”

“The Grand Vizier? The large one, always so brilliantly dressed?”

“Our true adversary, your grace, the man who ordered the attack on Kiris. I believe he wanted King Edward to send an agent, to make a martyr of the Sultan, to secure his own rule and make his war on us legal.”

The Duke put down his cards and stared at them. “I see.”

Jacob waited, feeling the valuable seconds pass into eternity, tortured by the image of Nadira sitting alone on a dark catwalk.

“And the war machine?” the Duke asked.

“Appears to be operational.” Jacob slid the stone from the pouch under his entari, its glittering facets catching the light as he placed it on the table. “But not without this stone.”

The Duke grimaced then lifted the large diamond, turning it slowly between his fingers. “Remarkable. The original version, the one that blew up the Inventor’s private potting garden, was miniature, powered with a diamond from a ring.”

Jacob felt his jaw tighten. “You knew it was a bomb?”

“A bomb… well, it was never intended to be any kind of weapon at all, but the plans were stolen, and there you have it.”

“But, he survived the blast?”

“The Inventor? Yes, of course. The force comes from the magnets, apparently, and he was above them, on some kind of stool. Knocked him off, I daresay, but it had already blown itself apart, by that point, and plasma, as he happily discovered, is heavier than air. It incinerated absolutely everything but him.”

“Then it’s usable.”

The Duke’s expression cooled, seemingly through force of will. “To save the harem girl? No, I’m afraid she is on her own.”

“Your grace?”

“Abu Quardan is indefensible, outdated even before the church’s knights went marching through. It will fall within a few days.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, but with a drop of weapons—”

“Two thousand soldiers, Colonel. A battle deep in the desert, for which we have no logistical plan in place…We cannot possibly launch a support campaign in so little time. Any airship that approaches will be easily shot down, any workable technology left inside that complex may be confiscated and used by the enemy. It is a risk we simply cannot take. We can however, with a few days more time, organize an ambush assault on the Grand Vizier when he tries to return to Ruman to claim the sultanate.”

“After he kills her.”

“Her ruse, brave as it may be, has placed her in an untenable position, and one that will not end well. There is too little time for us to intervene, for forces to be organized and transported, or even for such directives to be approved by the King’s War Council. You are familiar, I believe, with the harsh realities of war.”

Jacob felt himself grow cold. “Intimately, your grace.”

“Then you understand me when I say that the Sultan of Ruman is dead and you have, for now, ensured that the weapon cannot be used. That concludes your mission. I hereby order you to accompany us back to
Avenger
to file the necessary reports and regroup. You will have a chance to settle your score with the Grand Vizier soon enough.”

Jacob held the man’s gaze, feeling a lifetime of duty, of extraordinary sacrifice, poised over a precipice he would never have believed existed. Every year spent entirely alone, every drop of blood shed, every person he’d watched slip away…it had all been for this cause, for these people.

What kind of a monster had he become, for
them
? What an utter fool he’d been, in his skill and his arrogance, to think that he could halt the ‘harsh realities of war’ with a poisoned blade, stop battlefields from forming with a cord of rope around a tyrant’s neck, when all of human nature was the same, and the cause he fought for could be so easily undermined by a bureaucratic calculation, one that allowed a frail beacon of human hope to die.

“No,” he heard himself say, horrified at the finality of the word, knowing that he was choosing to sacrifice far more than his rank.

The Duke looked up at him, astounded. “I beg your pardon?”

When I face them, I want to remember only this, only how it feels to love you.
Jacob felt the words find tender acceptance in his heart, whether he deserved them or not. “I observed every directive I was given, withheld information she was entitled to know, took the diamond and left her in a tower surrounded by men who want to kill her. I am returning to Abu Quardan, your grace. I will attempt to extricate the Sultan of Ruman from danger and guard her life for as long as I am able to do so.”

The Duke’s expression darkened. “Colonel, you are a valuable asset to His Majesty, with years,
decades
, of dedicated service. I cannot risk you in a hopeless rescue effort. I cannot allow you to go back.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“Bravo, Jacob,” Gilda murmured.

“Lady Sinclair,” the Duke snapped, angry with both of them now. “If you step one foot into this mess, I will ground you for a thousand years, is that clear? And you, sir—” He leaned against the table, directing his rebuke back at Jacob. “We are taking this diamond safely away from enemy forces and you are ordered to come with us. Remember who you are, a member of the most revered military family in New Europa. Your father, your grandfather, I’m certain they were both given difficult orders, at some point, and they followed them, sometimes sacrificing their own lives to do so.”

“Their own lives, your grace,” Jacob agreed. “Not those of others.”

“This is war, Colonel.”

“Your war,” Jacob backed away. “Mine is in Abu Quardan.”

The Duke swore under his breath, his cards hopelessly scattered on the table. “A grave mistake, one that will cost us all.”

“Your profits and expenses will go on without me, your grace. This woman will not.”

The Duke conceded that with an unhappy gesture. “Oh, yes, I have no doubt of it. As you must, then. I cannot argue with this type of logic, as Lady Sinclair can well attest. I doubt the tender souls assigned to my protection would stand much chance against you in any case.”