The Price of Valor (24 page)

The walk to Mrs. Felda's wasn't long, but Marcus felt every step of it, forcing himself to stop staring at everyone who passed with suspicious eyes. Andy, in the rear, kept a wary eye out for any tails, and when they finally stood in front of the old church she reported that no one had taken a more than usual interest.

Hell
. Marcus gritted his teeth.
I'm not cut out for this. Give me a nice battlefield and an enemy that wears uniforms.

He knocked at the church doors, expecting Mrs. Felda or her son, and when they squealed open was surprised to find himself facing Cora. By her little squeak of surprise, she was evidently taken off guard as well.

“Colonel!” she said. “We weren't expecting you for hours.”

“Expecting me?” Marcus shook his head. “How could you be expecting me?”

“I sent a boy to Twin Turrets,” Cora said. “Just a few minutes ago. He can't have even got there yet.”

“What's happened?”

“We found something. Me and—” She eyed the figures clustered behind Marcus. “—our mutual friend.”

Marcus shook his head. “I haven't been back there all day.”

“Then—”

“Let's get this lot off the street,” he said. “Then maybe we can straighten this out.”

Mrs. Felda took immediate charge of the four students, shuffling them off in the direction of a wash and a hot meal. She cooed over the bruise on Andy's face as well, but the girl waved off all offers of sympathy. She and Hayver stayed with Marcus, who followed Cora to the fortress of ledgers at the rear of the repurposed building. Raesinia was there, carefully tracing something in one of the books with her forefinger. She looked up as Marcus approached, and gave him a broad grin.

“We've got something!” Her smile faded as she took in his expression. “What's wrong? What did the Preacher want?”

“Help,” Marcus said. “A mob stormed the University because they'd heard some foreign students stayed behind.”

“Balls of the Beast,” Raesinia swore. “Was there a lot of damage?”

“When we left, they were still wrecking the place.” Marcus sighed and pulled over an ancient chair. He tested it with his weight, gingerly, and when it didn't collapse at once he sat down. “I got the foreign students here, but the Preacher stayed behind to take care of the people in the hospital. I'm not sure what happened.”

“Oh hell.” Raesinia came closer and put her hand on his arm. “I'm sure he'll be okay. Not even the maddest mob would hurt an army officer in wartime.”

“They did their damnedest with me,” Marcus said, flexing his right hand. Pain flared in his bruised fingers.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, the emotions he'd been suppressing came to the fore. Worry about the Preacher, disgust at the stupid, shortsighted anger of the rioters, and something more: a hint of despair.

This was, after all, Vordan City, a place he'd always considered to be the center of the civilized world. Watching his city tear at itself like a crazed animal affected Marcus more than he cared to admit. During the revolution, there had
been Orlanko and his black-coats to blame, but now there was no one but the Vordanai themselves.

Or maybe not.

“I think Maurisk wanted this,” Marcus said. “Or someone in the government, anyway. There were Patriot Guards protecting the University, but they marched off somewhere just before everything started.”

“That sounds like Maurisk,” Raesinia said. “He's running out of the food for the Spike. But listen!” Raesinia grabbed Cora, who'd been hovering nearby, and pulled her over. “Tell him what you told me.”

“What?” Cora said. “Oh. Yes. I went through the records you got me, from the Halverson Mill. Something is very wrong there. A lot of capacity is missing, and a lot of raw materials. They've tried to cover it up, but not very effectively.”

Marcus massaged his temples. He'd almost forgotten why Raesinia had come here. “So, what does that mean?”

“It means that there's a lot of gunpowder unaccounted for. A
lot
.”

“But it gets better,” Raesinia said, unable to restrain herself. “Cora figured out where it's going!”

“Probably,” Cora said, blushing a little. “I'm not certain. But there's a warehouse in the Docks that Halverson owns, and if you cross-reference all their wagon traffic, there's more trips coming out of it than going in. So either they're manufacturing horses and wagons in there, or somebody neglected to write down what they've been sending over. Officially, the place is standing empty.”

“So all we've got to do,” Raesinia concluded, “is go over there and take a look!”

“Go and take a look,” Marcus said. He blew out a long breath. “If there
is
something bad going on, it'll be dangerous.”

Raesinia's face fell. “I don't—”

“This is real progress,” he said. “Enough that we need to talk to someone who actually has some authority.” He paused thoughtfully. “I think I need to have a word with an old friend.”

IGNAHTA SEMPRIA

A
s best Wren could see, the city wasn't burning.

They'd been hearing rumors all day, from folk jamming the road to the north, laden with all the possessions they could carry. Poor laborers carried packs strapped down with food, tools, and small children, with their families flocking behind them. Wealthier refugees rode or drove carriages, though Wren had seen more than one man in expensive clothes staggering on foot after he'd driven his horses too hard.

He had a barrel of water, which he refilled periodically from a stream a few minutes' walk from the road, and offered a wooden cupful to anyone who asked. In return, they gave him information, of a sort. The Vordanai had won at Gaafen. No one was quite sure
how
, but the Deslandai didn't seem curious; their city did not have a glorious military tradition, and this defeat was one more in a long-standing pattern.

Instead the rumors focused on what the Vordanai, newly fired by the spirit of their bloody revolution, would do to the city. That they would pillage anything they could get their hands on and rape any women they could catch was taken as a given, and the stories only grew more grotesque from there. Whole blocks had been fired, one woman assured him, the doors of the houses barricaded so the occupants cooked inside. Sworn Priests were being sacrificed to dark powers on their own altars. Several well-dressed refugees swore that the nobility of the city was already being rounded up, and the Vordanai general had brought one of their horrible “Spikes” with them to begin spreading his new, vicious creed. A mother, clutching her young daughters, told him that the Vordanai had
a legion of unnatural woman soldiers with unhealthy desires, and that they were gathering all the virginal girls of Desland to induct them into their ranks in a perverted, orgiastic ritual.

Wren just smiled, nodded, and agreed that it was all terrible, while compiling the mad tales to try and extract some nuggets of truth. His demon, pressed into his ears, let him overhear conversations among those passing even when they thought themselves alone, and he added these to the mix as well. As evening fell, the flow of fleeing Deslandai slowed to a trickle, which was in itself a significant data point. He lit a fire beside his water barrel, offered drinks to the few stragglers, and waited.

To Wren's ears, the sound of horseshoes on the packed dirt of the road was audible long before the horses came into view. He could even pick out his companions' animals, having ridden so long beside them, and so he was not surprised when Twist's big gelding hove into view, followed the Liar's more modest mount. What did surprise him was the third man, sitting beside Twist, his hands tied in front of him. Shade could hear his heart beating in a panic and the breath that rasped in his throat.

“You were supposed to be back by sundown,” Wren said as the two Penitent Damned brought their mounts to a halt. The Liar slipped carefully from the saddle, favoring one leg in a long-suffering fashion Wren suspected was affected.

“We were delayed,” the Liar said, stretching his back, “by an unexpected opportunity.”

“Him?” Wren said, indicating the stranger as Twist lifted him, one-handed, to the ground.

“Yes,” the Liar said. “We should get off the road.”

Wren dumped the rest of the water and carried the barrel, and Twist led his horse with one hand while carrying the stranger over his shoulder. The Liar brought up the rear, leading his own mount and muttering about his aches. Wren let his demon flow into his eyes, until the growing darkness was as bright as noon and he could see every snag and deadfall. When they reached their little camp by the stream, where the rest of the horses were tethered, Twist set the stranger down on a rock.

He was an old man, much older than the Liar, with silver hair and a pained, wrinkled face. He wore neatly tailored black, as the better class of servant might, and he stared at his captors with a defiant expression.

“Who is he?” Wren said, examining the man with his enhanced vision. He
could count the hairs in the man's nose, and the signs of his fear were obvious, though he was doing a good job of concealing it from ordinary notice.

“I am assured,” the Liar said, “that he is the personal servant of no less than General Janus bet Vhalnich himself. A man who has accompanied him everywhere, including on the Khandarai campaign.”

Wren regarded the old man dubiously. “Khandar? Him?”

The Liar looked down at his inch-long fingernails. They were lacquered white, but the tip of each was stained the brown of dried blood. “So I am told. While my informants cannot lie, they may of course be mistaken.”

“Even if it's true,” Wren said, “does he know anything useful?”

“There's an easy way to find out,” the Liar said.

The old man had watched the conversation, head turning between the two of them in an oddly birdlike motion. Wren hadn't thought he understood—the two Penitent Damned had been speaking in Murnskai, which few understood this far south—but to his surprise the prisoner spoke in the same language, heavily accented but understandable.

“You may as well kill me and get it over with,” he said stiffly. “I'll tell you nothing, you know.”

The Liar raised an eyebrow. “Do you deny you work for General Vhalnich?”

“I have had the privilege of serving him for many years.” The old man raised his chin. “Whatever it is you think you can do to me, I guarantee it won't be enough.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I don't doubt it,” the Liar said. “After all, you're not in the best of health. There's a limit to how long we could usefully torture you. However.” He spread his hands, nails gleaming in the light of the small campfire. “Twist, hold him still.”

Twist grunted and put one hand on each of the old man's shoulders. The prisoner struggled uselessly against the huge man's colossal strength, and then froze as the Liar came close. The pointed tips of his thumbnails came to rest on the old man's forehead, and he cupped his wrinkled face in his fingers, tenderly as a lover.

“Now,” the Liar said, repeating the assurance that had earned him his name, “this won't hurt a bit.”

His fingers began to glow, blue and white, outlining the bones of his joints and knuckles. The light ran down to his fingertips, then out along his nails, caging the old man's head in a radiant web. Then, slowly but inexorably, the nails sank smoothly into the prisoner's face, cutting through flesh, skin, and bone
without pausing. Blood welled around them, dribbling down the old man's cheeks like tears. The prisoner opened his mouth and tried to scream, but his voice never emerged; instead a faintly glowing blue mist gushed out of his throat and swirled around his head in a thick cloud.

“What is your name?” the Liar said.

“Augustin,” the man said, slowly and precisely. “Jean Rigas Augustin.”

“Good. And do you know who we are?”

“Agents of the Elysian Church. Penitent Damned.”

“
Very
good.” The Liar glanced at Wren, then back to his prisoner. Augustin's eyes were locked forward, wide-open. “Now. Were you with General Janus bet Vhalnich in Khandar?”

“I was.”

“And were you privy to his private conversations?”

“Yes. My lord trusts me implicitly.”

“Well, then,” the Liar said, “tell us what happened there. In particular, tell me everything you know about the Thousand Names.”

Wren leaned forward as the old man began to speak, and listened with all the power of his demon.

*   *   *

“That was more informative than I expected,” said the Liar, wiping blood from his nails with a damp cloth.

“Vhalnich has the Names,” Wren said. “He knows what they are. He was
looking
for them.”

“As our lord the pontifex suspected. It's possible the entire Khandarai expedition was a ruse for that purpose.”

“We still don't know if he bears a demon himself,” Wren said.

“At least one of his subordinates does,” the Liar said. “This Ihernglass. He must be the power I can feel in the city.”

Wren nodded. His own magical senses, ironically, were far less developed, but as they'd come closer to Desland he felt the vague pressure of a powerful demon at the back of his mind.

Twist shoveled another huge load of dirt over his shoulder. His hole was already waist-deep, his massive strength making short work of even the dry, rocky ground of the woods. The body of the old man waited beside him, the cloth that covered him mercifully sparing them the sight of his final, twisted rictus. Even Wren, who had seen the Liar work many times, felt a little uncomfortable when he watched the man's demon slowly burn someone alive from the inside out.

Before the magic killed him, they'd gotten a lot of information, but Augustin hadn't known everything.

“We don't know the nature of the demon Ihernglass bears,” Wren said.

“I can feel its strength,” the Liar said. “I have only felt such power a few times before. A Demon Lord, for certain, and not the weakest among them.”

“It still need not be a threat,” Wren said.

Even the most powerful demons didn't always grant their bearers dangerous abilities. There was a man in Elysium, for example, whose demon allowed him to copy entire books in a matter of hours. While the Church made good use of such abilities, of course, Wren was glad his own demon gave him the strength to work in the field, combating the enemies of God directly.

“We know Vhalnich left the Thousand Names in Vordan,” he went on. “Finding them should not be difficult. If Ihernglass is here, so much the better. He will not be able to interfere.”

“So we assume. The powers of hell continue to surprise us.” The Liar shook his head. “We cannot leave a Demon Lord to roam unchecked, not so near at hand.”

Twist climbed out of the hole and pushed the old man's body into it, where it landed with an undignified
thump
. The Penitent lifted his oversized shovel again and started filling the grave back in.

“We will have to kill Ihernglass,” the Liar said. “It should be simple. He was injured in the battle, I'm told.”

“Attack him without knowing the nature of his demon?” Wren said.

The Liar shrugged. “A risk, of course. I will attempt to gather more information, but I suspect only Vhalnich himself knows, and he is still too well protected.”

Twist grunted. From the rare words he'd spoken so far, Wren had gathered he favored simply attacking Vhalnich to end the danger quickly. Twist always preferred the direct approach to any problem.

“So we kill Ihernglass,” Wren said. “Then retrieve the Thousand Names?”

The Liar nodded.

“Well enough.” Wren got to his feet. “We'll have to send word to Elysium.”

“There is a conduit in Desland. Well hidden. The Vordanai will not have found him,” the Liar said. “Are you finished, Twist?”

Twist grunted again, tamping down the earth with the back of his shovel. This far from the city, out in the woods, the old man's body would never be found. Wren closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer; even heretics were human,
after all. He did not bother with a matching prayer for himself or his companions. They had all chosen damnation the moment they spoke the name of a demon, and weighed against that monstrous sin, any other crime against God was paltry by comparison. All that remained was to make certain their lives in this world served His interests sufficiently to counterbalance the loss of their souls.

A Demon Lord.
Wren was human enough to feel a bit of curiosity, even anticipation, at the prospect. No matter how powerful Ihernglass' demon was, it was unlikely to threaten three trained Penitents, but the thought made Wren's pulse quicken a bit nonetheless.
I hope he can at least put up a fight.

*   *   *

THE DIRECTORY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE

Johann Maurisk, President of the Directory of National Defense, stared at the crystal decanter on his desk. It was one-third full of a thick, golden liquid, Hamveltai
flaghaelen
brandy, whose price had risen from merely expensive to unobtainable now that the war had begun. When he'd started his day, that decanter was full, as it was every morning in accordance with his strict instructions. He'd had one glass, a couple of fingers, no more, and yet here it was, nearly empty.

Someone was stealing it. Someone on the Hotel Ancerre's staff, most likely. The manager bowed and scraped obsequiously, but Maurisk had always found his protestations of loyalty suspect. Clearly, he was harboring a nest of traitors, right here in the headquarters of the Directory. The thought made Maurisk's head swim.
Traitors everywhere.

He reached for the decanter and splashed a little more brandy into his glass, then settled back in his chair with a grin.
Well, we know how to deal with traitors.
Sarton's Spike was operating with metronomic efficiency. One or two more traitors wouldn't tax it.

“Sir?” Kellerman said, standing by the door. “They're ready.”

“Send them in,” Maurisk said. “Let's get this over with.”

Kellerman opened the door. Maurisk's office was on the top floor of the hotel, in a suite that had once been reserved for visiting ministers or heads of state. It had an impressively large and polished desk, bookshelves lined with matching sets of all the great works, and deep leather armchairs just a bit shorter than the massive wingback throne in which Maurisk himself sat. Perhaps a
bit
too opulent for Maurisk's tastes, truth be told, but impressions were important.

Outside, in the well-appointed waiting room, three men stood between a pair
of Patriot Guards with sashes and halberds. Two of them Maurisk had expected: General Martin Hallvez, author of the disaster on the northern front, and Robert Zacaros, commander of the Patriot Guard. The contrast between them was strong: the former was a spare man with thin features and a white goatee, wearing an unmarked army uniform, while the latter was thick-bodied and sported a bushy brown beard shot with white streaks, and wore not only the blue-on-black sash of the Patriot Guard but a gold starburst pin he'd designed himself to denote his rank. Zacaros' hair was thinning on top, and he grew the sides long and slicked them over to cover his scalp. More gold gleamed at his collar and dripped from his cuffs.