The Guns of Empire (35 page)

Marcus nodded wearily. “He just insists that the weather will change in time. He's calculated it, somehow. Something about how much power a demon can have.” Marcus looked over his shoulder. “Ordinarily, I try not to meddle in the . . .
strange
side of things. Janus knows what he's doing. And I don't pretend to be able to understand what he's talking about, but it
feels
wrong. Like wishful thinking.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“What
can
I do?” Marcus ran a hand through his hair. “Sit here and hope he's right. Hope the weather changes before we get mass desertions or have to start eating each other. It won't be the first miracle he's pulled out of his hat.”

Raesinia let out an inward sigh. Even now, staring disaster in the face,
Marcus couldn't conceive of a world where he disobeyed Janus. If the First Consul ordered his troops to stand and die to the last man, Marcus would be the final one to fall.

“Is there anything I can do?” Raesinia said. “We know he's not likely to listen to me.”

“That's what I came to talk to you about,” Marcus said. His voice was grim. “You're not going to like this, I know, but please listen to me. I think you should go back, at least to Polkhaiz.”

He can't be serious.
“How will it look if the queen abandons the army?”

“What's going to happen to Vordan if the queen
and
the First Consul freeze to death in the middle of Murnsk?” He looked guilty at just voicing the thought out loud. “It won't come to that. Janus has always come through before. But . . . just in case. I'd give you a strong cavalry escort; the white riders won't dare attack.”

“I'm not leaving, Marcus,” Raesinia said. She took a deep breath.
Now or never.
“There's something I need to tell you.”

He sighed, and Raesinia hesitated for a moment.
He needs to know about Dorsay's offer, the deal to remove Janus in exchange for peace.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that he wouldn't consider it.
He might even think of me as a traitor.
Somehow
that
would be worst of all.

In the moment of silence, something shifted inside her skull, the strange pressure that meant another demon-host was near. Raesinia's expertise was limited, but the sense was strong this time and very close by.

“Where's Winter?” she said. She was the only demon-host likely to visit the command tent. Her captain, Bobby, barely registered to Raesinia's sense, and Alex was still carefully watched.
Unless she's a Penitent after all . . .

“What?” Marcus frowned. “The Second Division is camped about a mile east, near the edge of the woods. She's with them, unless something's happened.”

The sense of pressure increased. Raesinia turned her head, feeling it slide around the inside of her skull. “Someone's here. A demon, and I don't think it's one of ours.”

“Penitent,” Marcus spat. He grabbed his sword belt from the table.

Certain that he was about to order her to stay put, Raesinia darted past him and out into the snow. Her tent was on the slope of a hill by the banks of the Kovria, with the heights occupied by Janus' command tent and personal quarters. Slightly downslope were the smaller tents used by her servants and attendants.

“Sothe!” Raesinia shouted.

The assassin appeared, so suddenly and noiselessly that Raesinia would have sworn she'd materialized from thin air. “Your Majesty?”

“Trouble.” The pressure was coming from the direction of Janus' tents. “Penitents.”

“Raes!” Marcus said, blundering out through the tent flap. “You should—”

Raesinia started to run, ignoring him. Sothe fell in beside her, making better progress through the snow with her longer legs.

“This is well inside the picket lines,” Sothe said. “Are you certain?”

“I can feel it,” Raesinia said. “There. No, there!”

She pointed to where the hill ended in a steep scree slope down to the river. The water was invisible, a flat expanse of snow-covered ice, but a section of it was
bulging
. As they watched, it exploded in a spray of white, and a humanoid figure burst out and began crunching up the hillside.

“Under the ice,” Sothe said. “Clever, assuming you can survive in freezing-cold water.”

“We're under attack!” Raesinia shouted, gesturing wildly. “Over there!”

The half dozen Colonials on guard outside Janus' tent looked at her quizzically. It took them a moment to realize that it was the
queen
running frantically through the snow toward them, gesturing like a madwoman. When they'd got that, a further moment was required before they understood what she was saying. The man closest to the slope turned, following her pointing finger, and looked over the edge. He gave a shout, and a moment later the Penitent was on top of him, swinging a roundhouse punch into the side of his head that hit like a blow from a sledgehammer. He dropped, abruptly limp, and the Penitent turned to the second guard.

Now that Raesinia had gotten a good look at the attacker, she could see that something very strange was going on. It was clearly a woman, a squat, powerful figure in dark leather not dissimilar from Sothe's fighting gear. Her face was covered in a black obsidian mask. But her body was distorted, limbs thickened and bulging, as though there were a layer of something thick and viscous under her skin.

As Raesinia watched, the effect vanished, the woman's muscles writhing like snakes in a sack as they returned to something like normal. The Penitent raised her hands, and something gleamed—a mass of steel needles, no bigger than toothpicks, held between her clenched fingers.

The second guard thrust at her with his bayoneted musket. The Penitent turned, letting the blade scrape along her side, scoring her leathers but not
drawing blood. Her hand darted out and brushed by the Colonial's neck, leaving something stuck there. One of the needles, except that in the moment it left the Penitent's hand it had turned a sickly, malevolent green.

The little thing wasn't even large enough to draw blood. The guard backed off, raised his weapon again, and then staggered sideways. He let the musket fall, clutching at where the splinter had been, and then collapsed into the side of the tent, convulsing.

At the opposite corner of the tent, two more guards raised their muskets. The Penitent twisted, hands flickering as she whipped the tiny needles at them. One ball ricocheted off the frozen ground with a whine, and the other went high. Both soldiers collapsed almost instantly, clawing at wounds too small to see.

Sothe spun to a halt in a spray of snow, knives appearing in her hands as if by magic. The first whipped end over end and would have struck the Penitent square in the forehead if the woman hadn't ducked. As she came back up, she swept one hand out, a motion like wiping down a table. Raesinia couldn't see the steel needles, but Sothe was already moving, throwing herself flat. The assassin rolled and flipped to her feet as the Penitent ducked through the tent flap.

“Brass Balls of the Beast!” Marcus swore, running after them. “What the hell—”

“Come on!” Raesinia shouted, sprinting to cover the last few yards to the tent. Sothe was just ahead of her, throwing the tent flap wide and then ducking immediately. Something whined past Raesinia's ear.

Janus' tent was large, but modestly furnished, with only a camp bed, a folding table, and a few trunks. There were two more guards, but one of them was already down, eyes bulging and hands locked around his own throat. The other had drawn a sword, and behind him Janus himself was pulling a long, narrow blade from where it hung beside the bed.

“Don't let her cut you!” Raesinia shouted, charging the Penitent. The masked woman turned, hand moving in a blur, and Raesinia felt something bite her shoulder. The vile substance woven into the metal raced along her nerves, turning them into lines of agonizing pain that reached toward her heart.

But Raesinia was used to pain, and the binding was already at work, surging back along the pathways like the counterattack of a defending army. Raesinia managed a savage grin as she barely slowed her pace, and the Penitent, already turning away, spun back to face her in alarm.
Weren't expecting that, were you?

Raesinia slammed into the Penitent, putting every ounce of her inadequate
weight into the tackle. The woman rocked back on her heels but didn't fall. Raesinia twisted, grabbing for the woman's arm and holding on to it with both hands.

“Sothe!” she screamed.

There were advantages to a long history of working with someone. Sothe had made the same fast assessment of the enemy and come to the same conclusion. Raesinia held the woman's arm pinioned, and Sothe flipped another knife, sinking it point-first into the Penitent's palm. The woman gave a yelp of pain—the first sound Raesinia had heard her make—and launched a spray of needles at Sothe with her other hand. Sothe had already tangled one foot in a discarded blanket, however, and she kicked the cloth into the air as a makeshift shield against the tiny projectiles.

A shattering bang filled the tent as Marcus fired his pistol. The ball tore a hole in the canvas as the Church assassin ducked, and Marcus swore and drew his sword. The Penitent took a step backward, dragging Raesinia with her, and hurled the last of her needles from her good hand in the direction of Janus and the guard. The Colonial, shielding his commander with his body, took a dozen of the green needles and went down on top of Janus in a thrashing heap. Another knife zipped past, aiming for the Penitent's other hand and missing by a hair.

The woman said something in Murnskai that sounded like a curse. She moved fast, bringing her free hand around and jabbing it into Raesinia's throat. The blow alone would have been painful, but the Penitent's nails were sharp as razors, and as they pierced her skin Raesinia could
feel
them pulse with a massive flux of the green venom. Her hands twitched involuntarily, and she fell away from the Penitent's arm.

Unencumbered, the woman went for the exit. Marcus swung at her head, but she slipped under it, lithe as a snake, and he had to jump backward to avoid a slash from her clawed hand. Sothe was faster, twisting around to plant a knife in the small of the Penitent's back. The masked woman stumbled but didn't fall, bursting out through the tent flap. Sothe followed her a moment later.

Janus got to his feet, pushing the dead Colonial aside, rapier still in his hand. He whipped it through the air as he gestured after the fleeing Penitent.

“Column-General, do not let that creature escape.”

“Sir!” Marcus drew himself up, then looked to Raesinia. “Raes, are you all right?”

Raesinia had sagged against the tent wall, clutching the fabric to keep herself standing. The dose of poison had been so large that her heart had stopped
almost immediately, nerves burning out in a sympathetic cascade that went beyond pain and into blissful numbness. It took her a moment to get it going again, the binding wrapping itself around the twitching, dying organ.

“I'll be fine,” she croaked. “Immortal, remember?”

Marcus nodded and turned to the tent flap. Before he could leave, however, there was a clatter, and he turned back to find that Janus had dropped his rapier.

“Sir?” he said.

“Ah.” Janus' hand went to his cheek. There was the tiniest scratch there, little more than a paper cut, leaking a single drop of blood. A muscle in his face jumped. “It appears I may be in need of some assistance.”

Then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed.

“I
'm sorry, Your Majesty,” Sothe said, head bowed.

“It's all right.” Raesinia's voice was still a croaking rasp. “You were up against a Penitent Damned.”

Sothe's lips pressed tight, but she didn't argue.

The Penitent had escaped. She'd cut through a horse line, and a quick jab of her poisoned nails had sent several of the animals into a maddened frenzy, causing chaos. In the confusion, she'd taken a mount and ridden hard for the edge of camp, where the white riders were still skirmishing with the picket line. Once she'd joined them, the northerners had melted away, leaving only spent arrows and bodies.

Ihernglass had arrived at the command tent only a minute after the Penitent had made her break. He'd immediately sent for the Girls' Own regimental cutter, Hanna Courvier, who he assured Marcus was among the best in the army. When the woman had arrived, wearing only a jacket over her nightshirt, she'd immediately kicked everyone else out of Janus' sleeping tent. They'd reconvened in the command tent beside it, around the big map table.

No one who didn't already know what had happened was there. Rumors of an assassination attempt were racing through the camp, already on edge after the white riders' attacks. Marcus had told the generals to put their divisions on alert, hoping that standing guard would keep the soldiers from spreading gossip. It wasn't working; he could feel the tension in every messenger who came to the command tent. They peered discreetly around, looking for Janus or some evidence of what had happened.

In the tent were himself, Raesinia, Sothe, and Ihernglass. Sothe raised her head slowly and took a seat beside the queen. Ihernglass cleared his throat.

“I ought to have known,” he said. His right hand balled into a fist, and he winced. His other hand was heavily bandaged. “The second Penitent sacrificed herself to bait me out to the edge of camp and keep me busy. If not for that, I might have sensed what was going on here.”

“Assigning blame isn't important,” Raesinia rasped. “We need to worry about what happens next.”

As though the words had been a summons, there was a scratch at the tent flap. Andy's voice came from outside.

“Sir? The cutter wants you.” She sounded worried. Marcus hadn't let her in on the truth of the attack yet, but she could hardly miss the mood, or the half dozen dead Colonials.

“Send her in,” Marcus said.

Hanna was a solid, competent-looking woman, but her expression made Marcus' heart skip. She shook her head as she came in, apparently unintimidated by the presence of the column-general and the Queen of Vordan.

“Is he—” Marcus began.

“He's alive,” Hanna said. “But that may be about all I can tell you. I've never seen anything quite like this.”

Marcus let out a long breath in unison with everyone around the table. Raesinia said, “You'd better elaborate.”

“I looked at the cut on his cheek,” Hanna said. “It's not deep, obviously, but from what you've told me, there was some kind of poison involved. Ordinarily there'd be some residue of the substance used, on the skin or in the wound itself, but I couldn't find anything. I opened the cut a little wider, and the blood looks healthy.”

“It may have been an . . . unusual poison,” Sothe said.

Hanna nodded. “It'd have to be. Most poisons either act fast and wear off quickly or take a long time to work. I examined the guards, and it's clear that this substance has an extraordinarily rapid effect. But there's no evidence that it's wearing off in the First Consul.”

Marcus coughed. “What exactly is his condition?”

“He's unconscious with a high fever,” Hanna said bluntly. “The effect looks more like a festering wound than a poison, but I've examined him thoroughly and found no evidence of any other injury.”

“And what is your prognosis?” Raesinia said. In the brief pause that followed, the world seemed to be holding its breath.

“I have no idea,” Hanna said. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but as I said, I've
never seen anything like it. I'll do what I can for the symptoms, but as to whether he will ultimately recover or worsen, your guess is as good as mine.” She shrugged. “If the assassin could be interrogated about what poison she used, or if I could have a sample, that might help. Otherwise, all I can do is wait.”

“All right,” Marcus said. “Thank you, Miss Courvier. Please continue doing your best.”

Hanna gave a brief bow and withdrew. Marcus looked around the table.

“It's no surprise she doesn't know what she's looking at,” Raesinia said, and coughed. “It's magic, after all.”

“Ihernglass, you have the demon-eater, don't you?” Marcus said, with an uncomfortable frown. “Could that help?”

“Not here,” Ihernglass said. “Infernivore needs to come in contact with the demon itself, and that's in the body of the Penitent who fled.”

Sothe bent her head a fraction further, saying nothing.

“Do we have any idea if he'll recover on his own?” Marcus said. “He clearly survived the initial attack, unlike the others.”

“He got a much lower dose,” Raesinia said. “But . . . I don't think so.” She glanced at Ihernglass, who was looking at her quizzically. “From what I felt when it attacked me, the poison seemed almost
alive
. Like a fragment of a demon. I think it will keep attacking him until he . . . dies.”

“There must be
something
we can do,” Marcus said, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I don't pretend to understand demons and magic, but isn't there a . . . spell, or a potion, or something?” He paused. “I could send word to Vordan, ask Feor to look at the Thousand Names.”

“It would take too long,” Sothe said. “The flik-flik line hasn't been able to operate past Polkhaiz, and who knows what the snow has done to it. It could be weeks before we got an answer.”

“And even if the Names could help,” Raesinia said, “I can't see what Feor could do from Vordan.”

“There's only one thing I can think of,” Ihernglass said. “We have to find the Penitent and kill her.”

They all looked at him for a moment. Sothe said, “Are you sure that would work?”

“Of course not,” Ihernglass said. “But most of the time, when a demon-host dies, everything they've done stops.”

Marcus nodded, remembering the temple under the Great Desol. When Jen had killed the Khandarai boy, all the green-eyed corpses had collapsed.

“If I could use Infernivore on the assassin,” Ihernglass went on, “that might be even better. It devours every scrap of the other demon. I don't know if Janus would recover immediately, but at least the poison would disappear.”

“But the assassin's gone,” Sothe said.

“Then we go after her,” Ihernglass said.

There was another moment of silence.

“She's wounded,” Ihernglass said. “She won't be able to travel as quickly. If we start soon, with a small force, we might be able to catch up.”

“Through the snow and whatever else is out there,” Marcus said. “Not to mention the white riders. You'd never make it.”

“Then Janus is dead,” Ihernglass said. “If this is the only chance we have, I'm willing to take it.”

“You mentioned using Infernivore on the assassin,” Raesinia said. “Are you volunteering to lead the pursuit?”

Ihernglass blinked, as though he hadn't thought of that. He let out a long, weary breath. “Yes. I guess I am.”

“If anyone's going, it should be me,” Marcus began, but Raesinia shook her head.

“You're in command of the army for as long as Janus is incapacitated,” she said. “We need you here.”

“She's right,” Ihernglass said.

“Who will you take with you?” Sothe said.

“Some of my own people,” Ihernglass said. “I'll put out a call for anyone with wilderness experience. We'll need plenty of horses and as much food as you can spare.”

“Volunteers only,” Marcus said. “You can't order anyone on this kind of mission.”

Ihernglass sighed. “I don't think that will be a problem.”

—

“You can't just leave me here,” Cyte said. “You don't get to make that decision.”

“I do, actually,” Winter said, rummaging through her trunk. “That's what being a division-general means.”

“But . . .” Cyte stood in the center of the tent, biting her lip.

“Look at it logically,” Winter said. “That's what you're good at, right? I'm
going because I have Infernivore. Bobby's coming because she can bend steel with her bare hands. I'm not leaving you behind. I'm leaving you in
command
, you understand?”

“Abby should be in command,” Cyte said. “She outranks me.”

“Abby has her own responsibilities to worry about. You know that you've been running this division as much as I have since we started marching. Marcus is going to need all the help he can get.”

Cyte blinked, fighting back tears. It
was
logical, and Winter knew she could see that.
Sometimes that's not enough.

“The way you talked about it,” Cyte said, her voice almost a whisper. “That you were only taking volunteers. It sounded like you're not expecting to come back.”

“It's going to be dangerous,” Winter said. She closed the trunk slowly and got to her feet. Pain flared from her left hand, still bandaged and oozing. “But we're at war. Everything's dangerous.”

“There's a difference between dangerous and suicidal,” Cyte said. “Winter, please. Look me in the eye and tell me you think you can make it back from this.”

Winter crossed the tent and stood in front of Cyte, their faces inches apart. Cyte's lip was trembling.

“It took me so long to . . . figure things out,” Cyte whispered. “After all that . . . if you . . .”

“I'm not going to make any promises,” Winter said. “You're too smart for that. But I will do everything I possibly can.”

“You don't have to.” Cyte's voice was barely audible, as though the thought were too dangerous to speak. “I know Janus is your friend, but—”

Winter kissed her, hard. Cyte drew in close, arms wrapping around Winter's shoulders.

“I have to go,” Winter said, when they finally drew apart.

“I know,” Cyte said. Her voice was steady, though her eyes still glittered with tears. “Good luck.”

—

“I checked over the list,” Abby said. “They're all good people. None of them will let you down.”

There were only a few hours of daylight left, but Winter was determined to make as much ground as she could. The Penitent might be slowed by her wound, but she had a head start. For the moment the snow had stopped, and
following her trail would be simple enough. But that could change at any time—even a few inches of fresh snow might be enough for the pursuers to lose their quarry. Their only advantage was the strange sense that one demon-host had of another, and that faded quickly with distance. Winter was determined to make up enough ground to be able to feel the Penitent in her mind before more snow obliterated the physical traces.

Of course, that same sense meant that the Penitent would be able to feel
her
. But that couldn't be helped.

They were taking twenty-five soldiers, all from the Girls' Own. Abby knew her people better than most of the regimental commanders, and she'd quickly sorted out a group of volunteers she thought would be useful. The Girls' Own were also among the most dedicated to Janus, and hopefully less likely to react badly if things got strange. A side benefit was that Winter's gender was an open secret among them, which meant that she wouldn't need to keep up the charade—it could get tricky in close quarters.

“Thanks,” Winter said. “I'll do everything I can to bring everybody back.”

Abby nodded. “Bring yourself back, too.”

Winter smiled, a bit wanly. “Try to help Cyte, would you? She's up to this, but she may not believe she is. Don't let de Koste shout her down.”

“I'll keep him under control,” Abby said. “You're sure you don't want to talk to him yourself?”

“I haven't got the time.” De Koste would insist that he ought to go along out of sheer gallantry, and the prospect of arguing with him was exhausting. “Cyte's got written orders, and Marcus will back her up.”

“All right.” Abby clapped Winter on the shoulder, a little harder than was necessary, then saluted. “Good luck, sir.”

Some of the party, those who had experience with tracking, had already gone ahead to begin finding the Penitent's trail. The rest were mounting up near the edge of the Second Division camp. Marcus had scoured the army for the strongest, healthiest horses, ignoring the protests of the officers and cavalrymen he took them from. Each of Winter's twenty-five had two extra mounts, loaded with provisions—mostly fodder—and other supplies. A similar ransacking of private stores had provided everyone with greatcoats, though in wildly varying sizes.

At the edge of the group, Bobby was checking the load of a packhorse while Alex fought her way into a coat three sizes too large for her. When she finally got her arms the right way around, Winter almost laughed; the hem dragged on the ground, and the sleeves flopped over her hands.

“Needs a little stitching,” Alex said, seeing her expression. “But it's warm.”

“It looks like it,” Winter said, then paused. “You don't have to do this, you know.”

“I came here to help Janus,” Alex said. “Saving his life seems like helping. Besides, you said I can sense other demons better than you can, and I know at least a little bit of the country we're going through. You need me.”