The Price of Valor (22 page)

“Also,” he went on, “I'd like to know what the . . .” He paused, glancing at Andy, and then deliberately went on: “. . . what the
hell
is going on outside. If you wouldn't mind.”

*   *   *

The University's vaunted gas lamps were shut off, and all the windows had heavy curtains drawn across them. They made their way down the corridor by the light that leaked past the heavy cloth. Paintings hung on the walls, darkened and anonymous, and here and there sculptured busts or ornamental tables made for dangerous obstacles.

“It all started,” said the first student, whose name was Norman, “with one of those awful broadsheets.”

“
The New Patriot
, it calls itself,” said the other, who was called Geoff.

“Somebody got their hands on the University records—”

“Probably bribed the bursar, the man could have given Rackhil Grieg lessons—”

“—and found out that there were a bunch of foreigners still here.”

“Most of the students left when all this started,” Geoff explained. “And a lot of the rest volunteered for the army. That's why they put Captain Vahkerson's gunnery school here, and moved the casualties who need long-term care into our hospital. There was plenty of space. It's mostly just us medical types left.”

“Along with a few foreigners who couldn't go home or didn't want to. They're
not
spies
.” Norman gave a disgusted snort. “But this
New Patriot
person started giving the mob ideas, and before long they're convinced we've got a whole nest of conspirators in here.”

“What's that got to do with Captain Vahkerson?” Marcus said.

“Well, the thing is, there's nobody really in charge around here anymore,” Norman said. “The master and his people took off during the revolution, and now the bursar's locked himself in his cellar and won't see anybody. Captain Vahkerson's the only one willing to give orders, so people are listening to him.”

“He does have a talent for being obeyed,” Marcus muttered.

“He's using Professor Indica's office, since it's got a good view of the gate,” Geoff said. “Here. Captain? I've brought Colonel d'Ivoire.”

The door, one of many identical doors on the second-floor corridor, was so dark with multiple coats of resin that it looked as though it might be made of iron. It opened, and to Marcus' surprise a young woman stood behind it. It was the girl he'd seen at Farus' Triumph with the Preacher, her dress still severe, her tight hairstyle showing some signs of coming apart at the edges.

“Colonel!” the Preacher said. “It's all right, Viera. The colonel's here to help.” The Preacher strode over. The office was a large one, with a full table and chairs in addition to a massive desk and liquor cabinet. In the back wall, a large multipaned window was covered by a curtain, and three more students were clustered around it, peering through a narrow gap.

“Captain,” Marcus said. “I came as quickly as I could. It looks like you're having some problems.”

“Not really my problems, in truth, but I can't just leave 'em be. Did Norman and Geoff fill you in?”

“Somewhat. How many foreigners have you got here?”

“Just Viera and the three lads over there. She's one of mine, and the other foreigners are all medical types.” The Preacher's bearded face clouded over. “I'll not hand any of 'em over to be spiked, you understand? It'd be plain murder.”

A woman cannoneer?
Marcus looked at Viera, who stared back at him icily.

“I don't suppose you happened to bring about a company of grenadiers with you?” the Preacher said.

“Just the two you sent me. I didn't know we'd be standing a siege.”

He wished, momentarily, that he'd brought Uhlan and his men—if it
did
come to a fight, the veteran Mierantai riflemen would have been a reassuring weight on his side.
Then again, if it comes to shooting down unarmed civilians in the street . . .
He shied away from the thought.

“I thought as much,” the Preacher said. “How many do you figure at the main gate?”

“Maybe five hundred,” Marcus said.

“There's more now,” one of the boys called from the window. “At least a thousand. They're going crazy!”

“Listen.” The Preacher stepped closer and spoke quietly. “We've got to get these lads out of here. It's only a matter of time before someone decides to push through those Patriot Guard. I need your help.”

“You've got it, but I'm not sure what you want me to do.”

“If we can get them off the campus . . .” The Preacher eyed Marcus sidelong. “I hear tell that you're sneaking Hamvelts and Borels out of the city.”

Cora's refugees.
Marcus thought he'd been careful. Cargo ships left every day for the front, with army crews, and he'd impressed on them the need for silence about their extra cargo. The name of Janus bet Vhalnich was one to conjure with, as he'd found at the Gateway of Wisdom, and mentioning that this was all part of the general's plan was usually enough to secure enthusiastic cooperation. It made Marcus feel guilty, but only a little.
Janus would certainly approve, if he knew.

They'd been sneaking the refugees out slowly, one family every few days.
But if the Preacher knows about it . . .

“Don't worry too much,” the Preacher said. “Nobody's been telling tales. But sometimes I inspect those ships, when we're sending cannon and powder, and I saw something I shouldn't have. A few of the boys admitted it when I asked them, on the condition that I keep it quiet.”

“They shouldn't have even done that,” Marcus grumbled. But he couldn't bring himself to be too angry—the Preacher could be very persuasive.

“You're doing God's work, keeping those women and children from the Spike. You must be keeping them somewhere beforehand, so I thought if we could sneak this lot over the walls, then you could get them away to wherever the hideout is.”

Balls of the Beast. This is not what I signed up for.
Marcus sighed. “We could probably manage it. But are you really sure this is necessary? It seems like—”

“They're breaking in!” one of the young men at the window shouted. He had a broad Borelgai accent.

“What?” The Preacher whirled and sidestepped the desk, pushing the students aside. “What happened to the Patriots?”

“They just . . . left,” said one of the other students. “I was watching. Someone came to talk to them, and they just marched away!”

Marcus was only a step behind the Preacher, tugging the curtain farther aside. The window had a view of one of the main avenues through the maze of courtyards, ending in the Gateway of Wisdom. The halberds of the Patriot Guard were indeed nowhere to be seen, and the crowd—grown considerably since they'd passed through—had flooded past the walls out of sheer momentum. They milled in the first courtyard, uncertain what to do with their sudden victory, but before long a new wave of arrivals seemed to infuse the mob with a sense of purpose. Large groups fanned out in every direction, waving sticks, cudgels, and other impromptu weapons.

“Saints and
fucking
martyrs,” Marcus swore.

“Why would the guards leave?” said one of the students, this one Hamveltai. “Oh God.” He lapsed into his native language, muttering to himself. Another young man, who looked enough like him that Marcus guessed they were brothers, put an arm around his shoulders and spoke to him quietly in the same tongue.

“The Directory wishes to throw us to the mob,” Viera said. It was the first time she'd spoken, and her voice was as clipped and precise as her appearance. Her accent was hard for Marcus to place, with the Hamveltai tendency to turn
W
's into
V
's but without the broad vowels.

“Why would they do that? We swore to their inspector we were loyal to nothing but knowledge!”

“I do not think they care what we swore,” Viera said. She turned away from the window. “Colonel d'Ivoire. Do you have somewhere we can hide?”

“I might,” Marcus said, eyes still tracking the mob. “The problem is going to be getting off the grounds. There's plenty of them still left at the gate.”

“There's the Porter's Gate on the north side,” the Preacher said. “But that's locked up tight. I had hoped we could rig some kind of rope ladder to go over the walls—”

“We don't have the time,” Viera said.

“What about the Students' Gate?” Hayver said.

Marcus turned, startled. He'd forgotten the two rankers were there. Andy still stood by the door, looking nervous, but Hayver had stepped forward.

“There isn't a Students' Gate,” said the Preacher.

“I have never heard of one,” Viera said.

Hayver shrank a bit, cheeks burning. Marcus caught his eye and nodded encouragingly, and that seemed to hearten him.

“It's not really a gate,” he said. “It's a bit of a secret, really. Passed down among the older students. There's a spot on the south wall where there are holes
in the brickwork, under the ivy. You can climb over, and then some of the iron spikes come off.”

“How do you know this?” Viera demanded.

“I . . . talked to people. While I was here. One of the men in the hospital with me was a student who'd gotten hurt at Midvale. He told me all about what it was like when he was here . . .” Hayver swallowed. “Before he died.”

“Can you find this place?”

Hayver nodded. “Once I could get out of bed, I went to look for it. I know how to get there.”

“Then what are we waiting around for?” Viera said.

“Wait,” said the younger of the two Hamveltai. “Just wait a minute. If we go out there, if we run into them . . .”

“Maybe we should stay here. The Patriot Guards will be back eventually,” the other said. “If we barricade the doors, perhaps we'll be safe.”

“I wouldn't count on the Patriot Guard for anything,” the Borelgai said.

“I'm forced to agree,” Marcus said.

“Then maybe we could talk to them?” the younger brother said. “Someone must be willing to listen to reason—”

“Try it if you like,” Viera snapped. “I for one am not willing to take a chance on gang rape and vicious execution. Colonel?”

Marcus eyed Viera curiously. If she was afraid, it didn't show in her face. Her eyes were still ice-cold. He gave a quick nod.

“She's right,” he said. “We'll make a try for this Students' Gate, if Hayver's sure he can find it. If you want to stay, stay.”

The Borelgai crossed immediately to Marcus' side of the room, beside Viera. The two Hamveltai fell into a heated discussion in their own language, and the Preacher edged closer to Marcus and spoke quietly.

“I'm going to stay behind,” he said. “There's a whole hospital full of boys who can't be moved.”

“They're not foreigners,” Marcus said. “They should be safe, shouldn't they?”

“Maybe. But there's no telling what a mob will do when its blood is up.” He shook his head. “Besides, there's the powder magazine to think of. If they take it into their heads to start torching the place . . .”

“God Almighty.” Marcus hesitated. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“If the Lord wills it.” The Preacher smiled. “I expect He will, though. That lot are all cowards at heart.”

“All right.” Marcus extended a hand, and the Preacher gripped it. “Send a runner when things die down so I know you're all right.”

“I will. And if you could contrive to get a message to me, just to say that things worked out?”

Marcus nodded. “I'll find a circumspect route.”

“Right.” The Preacher looked at the window and grinned. “I feel like I'm back in Ashe-Katarion. Where's Janus when you need him, eh?”

In the end, the two Hamveltai—brothers named Karl and Fredrick—came along. The Borelgai student, Volaht, stuck close to Marcus' side. Hayver led the way, with Viera close beside him, while Andy had volunteered to bring up the rear.

“I'll take us out the back door,” Hayver said. “There's a courtyard that connects to the Longer Hall, and from there we can stay indoors most of the rest of the way.”

“What if they find us?” said Karl, the younger of the pair.

“Then keep your mouths shut and I'll try to reason with them,” Marcus said.

“What if that doesn't work?”

“Then we run,” Viera said.

They walked through the gloomy shadows of the Old Bully, Hayver turning corners and hurrying down stone-flagged passages without apparent hesitation. Marcus caught glimpses of comfortably furnished rooms, chairs drawn into circles or set around tables. Other doors opened onto tiled chambers like giant washrooms, with stained stone slabs. Surgeries, he guessed, or dissection rooms.
Or both.

At the far end of the seemingly endless hallway was another big double door, closed and bolted. A little sound leaked in from the outside, and Marcus could hear shouts and the occasional tinkle of breaking glass. Now and then there was a
crunch
as something toppled, followed by a cheer.

“What are they doing?” said Volaht. “I thought it was us they're after. Why are they wrecking the place?”

“When a mob gets loose, it destroys whatever it finds to hand,” Viera said.

“Oh God,” Karl said, shrinking against the wall. “They'll kill us. We won't even get to the Spike. They'll tear us to pieces.” He murmured prayers in Hamveltai, fast and nearly inaudible.

Marcus edged up to the curtain and twitched it back a half inch. There was a courtyard outside, longer than it was wide. Hedges ran around the outside, and a gravel path wound through a browning lawn. A small marble statue of a frolicking nymph had already been pushed off its plinth.