The Price of Valor (53 page)

She threw the table, a clumsy effort, but enough that he had to step back into the bedroom for a moment. That bought her a moment to roll sideways, coming up with a knife in hand, whipping it at where he would have to be in order to attack. He twisted, letting the blade rip past his cheek by a hair's breadth, and snatched another blade from a sheath at his side.

Sothe bounced up and jumped, headfirst, at the window. It was four-paned, with a wooden crossbeam, but her momentum was enough to drive her through it in a splintering crash. Shards of glass surrounded her for a moment, and she felt cuts open on her cheek and forehead. Then she was falling.

The third-floor roof sloped out several feet beneath the four-floor windows, and Sothe hit it and rolled across the wooden shingles. The edge was just ahead—from there, it was an easy twenty-foot drop into an ornamental shrubbery, and then a quick run to the stables. She popped to her feet, jumped—

The next knife intercepted her in midair.
No, no, no. Nobody is that precise. Not possible.
It was a perfect shot, a kill shot, just under her left breast and in
between the ribs to find the heart. Sothe caught the hedge at an awkward angle, tumbled, and sprawled spread-eagled in the dust of the yard.

She felt no pain, though the cuts on her side and face were a spreading agony now.
But I don't feel dead.
Her heart, leash slipped now, pounded hard and strong in her chest.

Cautiously she brought one hand up and found no blade embedded in her ribs. She brushed herself where she'd felt the impact, and nicked her finger on a shard of glass. When she sat up, more pieces cascaded off her.

Part of the window must have lodged in my clothes.
Right there, over her heart, right at the spot where—

Lucky
. For a moment, it felt as though she didn't dare breathe, or the world would collapse on top of her.

Then she was in control again, up and moving, more glass falling away from her. There were horses in the stables, and arrangements with inns all along the road to Vordan City. This was not a completely unexpected result, though she'd been thinking more in terms of a small army than a lone intruder.

Either way, the game is up. Raesinia has to be warned.

*   *   *

THE DIRECTORY FOR THE NATIONAL DEFENSE

The President of the Directory for the National Defense, who was also in his person the Minister of War, looked across his desk at General de Ferre and saw a dead man looking back at him. De Ferre had always carried a few extra pounds, but his recent ordeal seemed to have left him half-melted, his face loose and jowly and his stomach sagging. His uniform, in contrast, was polished and immaculate.

Maurisk picked up the glass from his desk and tossed back the bit of wine that remained. Vordan might have run out of brandy, but wine it had in plenty, and with the blockade strangling the export trade even the finest vintages were being dumped on the market for whatever they would bring. This had come from a particularly dusty and distinguished-looking bottle, but it might as well have been paint thinner to Maurisk's numbed palate. He drank it anyway.

“He let you go,” Maurisk said after he set the glass down.

“Yes, sir,” de Ferre said.

“Why?”

“He said . . .” De Ferre paused and took a breath. “He said he wanted to be
sure you knew he was coming, sir. Asked me to be certain to tell you everything I'd seen.”

“Did he?” Maurisk tapped his finger on the desk.
Pretty thin.
“You are aware, of course, of how it must look from . . . my side of the table? In combination with your complete failure, there is a suggestion of . . . collusion.”

“I am aware, sir.”

“Do you have anything to say about it?”

“Only to assure you that any such suggestion is false, sir. I am the most loyal man in the army. If there is a man who presents any evidence otherwise, I request permission to meet him blade in hand on the field of honor.”

“I see.” Maurisk's finger tapped again. De Ferre swallowed. “I will consider the matter. You are dismissed, for now, but make sure to keep yourself . . . available.”

De Ferre looked surprised, then terrified and relieved in equal measure. He saluted, heels clicking, and left the office as quickly as decorum would allow. Kellerman opened the door for him, and slipped discreetly inside when the general left.

“Shall I have the papers drawn up for his arrest, sir?”

A corner of Maurisk's lip curled in what might once have been a smile.

“No,” he said, with a sigh. “No, I think not. I suspect we will find a use for him. After all, he's the one man in the army I can be absolutely certain won't go over to Vhalnich.” He sat back in his chair, staring at the empty glass. “Tell Zacaros to begin work on our little contingency plan. He's to have a free hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And draft orders to the colonel in command at Orlan. Tell him he is on no account to allow the Army of the East to pass. Burn the boats, burn the bridges, burn the town, I don't care. Tell him that if Vhalnich leaves the mountains, I will
personally
see to it that he and every surviving man in his command will wish they'd died on the battlefield.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“No.” The sickly half smile returned to Maurisk's face. “Yes. Send someone to fetch me the printers and pamphleteers. We must be certain the public is well informed.”

RAESINIA

J
anus.
A week ago, people had argued over the price of bread, the progress of the war, the stupidity of the Deputies-General, or the difficulty of getting coffee and sugar through the blockade. Now there was only one thing anyone wanted to talk about, though always in whispers or behind closed doors.
Janus.

He was coming, they said, with thirty thousand battle-hardened veterans of the Army of the East, or with a few hundred half-starved men. The Hamveltai army had been scattered to the four winds, or was chasing him over the passes, or marched
with
him as an ally. He'd recruited an army of
women
, unnatural creatures twisted by sorcery, who shrugged off musket balls and ate the dead. He himself was a demon, an agent of the Sworn Church, a spy for Hamvelt or Borel or Murnsk.

But he was
coming
. Everyone agreed on that.

The news had filtered into the city gradually, amid a profusion of other rumors about what had happened in front of the walls of Antova. All the papers were echoing the Directory-sanctioned truth—that Janus had turned his coat, like de Brogle, and brought his army over to the side of the Free Cities League. He was marching toward Vordan, they acknowledged, but loyal units of the army were assembling to stop him, and it was only a matter of time before he was captured or at least forced to withdraw.

The people Raesinia listened to were not so sure. Janus, it was widely agreed, was the best general in the Vordanai army—or any other army, some said—and the prospects of a scratch force confronting his (Hamveltai-aided, possibly sorcerous or female or both) troops seemed grim. If he reached the city, then . . . what?

Some said they would fight, house to house and street to street if necessary. The Patriot Guard had begun enlistments for Civic Defense militias, rough neighborhood mobs armed with improvised or antiquated weapons. These CDs, immediately dubbed “seedies” by the populace, were charged with keeping the peace throughout most of the city. Northside, Raesinia had heard, things were tense but quiet, with regular militia patrols and the semblance of a normal life. The Island and the Exchange were the domain of the Patriot Guard, who kept a tight hold over all the bridges and landings.

South of the river, though, the seedies had a different character. A responsibility for keeping the peace was, after all, also a license to break it, and the militias had begun enriching themselves at their constituents' expense. Food prices rose as seedies imposed impromptu “taxes,” or simply charged protection money to remain in their good graces.

On the South Bank, there were those who said they looked forward to the day Janus marched his troops into Vordan. It was Janus and the queen who'd saved Vordan once before, and now that the Directory had gone as bad as Orlanko, he was coming back to do it again. He would sweep away the politicians and the traitors, end the war, lift the blockade, make the streets safe again. When he arrived, it was whispered, he would send Maurisk to the Spike, announce his marriage to Queen Raesinia, and take the throne.

Raesinia was able to take this last rumor in stride.
It might come to that, in the end.
If Janus demanded the throne, with an army at his back, she wasn't sure she'd be able to refuse. Worse, she wasn't sure if she
should
. She'd started the revolution to take power away from Orlanko and give it to the people. So many had died—her friends had died—to keep Vordan free of tyranny. And then, as soon as war threatened, the elected representatives of the people had happily handed it all back to someone like Maurisk.
Maybe Vordan would be better off with Janus in charge.
Whatever his faults, no one had ever accused him of being incompetent.

There were public executions every day now in Farus' Triumph, enough to strain even the Spike, and they drew huge, jeering crowds. There was no longer a pretense that the accused were spies for the enemy; now they were simply traitors, heard expressing approval of Janus, criticizing the government, or simply turned in by overzealous or vengeful neighbors.

She, Marcus, and Feor had returned to Mrs. Felda's church after their escape from the Penitent Damned, and spent the next few days with their heads down, expecting another attack. Feor had been practically comatose, exhausted and feverish, and Mrs. Felda had taken on the task of nursing her back to health.
Marcus, at Raesinia's prompting, had explained what he knew of the Steel Ghost from his time in Khandar, which didn't help all that much.

When it became clear that black-masked giants were not going to break down the doors of the church, it left them with the question of what to do next. They'd been in the midst of an endless, circular argument with far too many unknowns when the news of Janus' march arrived.

*   *   *

“Marcus isn't going to like this,” Andy said.

“Marcus wasn't the queen of this particular country, last time I checked,” Raesinia said. She and Andy looked at each other, and Andy was clearly stifling a laugh. “Besides, he's got his hands full. Someone has to think about these people.”

Mrs. Felda's church was filling up. Some of the foreigners, mostly Hamveltai, had been sent home with the supply convoys, but lately their places had been taken by Vordanai. People from the Docks or Newtown who'd been forced from their homes by seedie “taxes,” or fled ahead of accusations of treason. It was all Mrs. Felda and her volunteers could do to feed them all and find them beds, and sooner or later word would get out to the Patriot Guard or the seedies about the church. Just having a building full of Borelgai women and children would be enough to send Mrs. Felda, her family, and everyone who worked with them to the Spike.

Unless we do something about it.
Andy stopped in front of a doorway, and Raesinia looked above it to the swinging sign, which proclaimed the establishment the Dead Dog. A canine skeleton, though wired to the wood, managed to look down at Raesinia with what seemed like an aggrieved expression.

Andy squared her shoulders and pushed open the door. Raesinia followed.

The last time Raesinia had done this sort of thing, it had been in the Dregs, in the hothouse intellectual environment of places like the Blue Mask. There had been wine, gallons of it, but it had always been secondary to the exchange of ideas. People came to argue about the deep questions of law and human nature, in the company of other people who understood the importance of such matters.

The Dead Dog, by contrast, was a place where people came to get drunk. It was dark, lit only by a few candles on each table and a fireplace at one end of the room, and smelled mostly of smoke and wine, with a faint undertone of piss. The tables were big, thick things built like ships, scarred and stained black by years of spills of smoke. The chairs were crates, barrels, or loose collections of planks nailed together by someone who didn't care much about comfort. There was no bar, but a trio of colorfully dressed women came and went constantly through a door to a back room, bringing clay jugs to the patrons.

The patrons were Dockmen, Raesinia surmised. There was a certain uniformity about them, big, heavy men with broad shoulders and arms like wrapped cords, dressed in rough leather and interested only in their drinks. There was practically no conversation, only the occasional exchange of grunts or the rattle of dice where a few patrons were doing a bit of desultory gambling. Aside from the servers, there were no women in evidence.

“What,” Raesinia said under her breath, “are we doing here, again?”

“Looking for people I used to know,” Andy said. “Just follow my lead.”

Raesinia was aware of eyes following them, from behind mugs and under slouched hats. Andy strode confidently through the tables, ignoring the gazes, and Raesinia stuck close behind her.

“Hey,” someone said as they passed by. “That's not Wee Andy, is it?”

Andy didn't respond, but a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Raesinia tensed. The man who'd seized her was old and running to fat, with gray hair under his cap. He looked up at her, blearily, eyes struggling to focus.

“It is!” he said. “Fuckin' Wee Andy. You used to grab bread for me from the wagons on the Green Road.” He turned to his companions, who'd all lifted their eyes to stare. “Wee Andy had the fastest fingers in the Docks.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “And the best tongue, too. She had this thing she'd do where—”

“It's good to see you, too, Harry,” Andy said, putting her other hand across his. “But I'm afraid I'm a little busy.”

“Aw, don't be like that,” Harry said, jerking her a step closer. “It's been, what, seven years? You can't spare the time to have a drink with ol' Harry?” He looked her up and down. “You went and grew some tits, too, didn't you? I bet you'd be good for a proper fuck now, what do you say? For old times' sake. Used to be only two bits, but I bet you could charge—”

“If you don't let go,” Andy said pleasantly, “I'm going to break your fingers.”

“Eh?” Harry's expression changed slowly, as what she'd said worked its way into his sodden brain. “The fuck? I'm just bein' friendly.”

“So am I. I haven't broken anything yet.”

“Better listen, Harry,” one of the other men said. “I heard she's one of Mad Jane's lot.”

Harry turned around. “So fuckin' what? Mad Jane fucked off to the wars, and good fucking riddance. Crazy bitch strutting around tellin' everyone what to do—”

A hand landed on Harry's shoulder. It belonged to a very large man with skin like old leather, and it gripped tight enough that Harry flinched.

“Jane will be back,” the big man said. “In the meantime, I won't hear that kind of talk.”

Harry's friends were suddenly all extremely interested in their drinks. Harry looked up at the newcomer, then released Andy's wrist, looking a bit sick.

“Sorry, Walnut. Just . . . you know. Wanted to catch up with an old friend.”

Walnut gave Harry's shoulder a squeeze before letting go, and Harry's face went white.

“Sorry, Andy,” he said.

“It's nothing,” Andy said, rubbing her wrist. “I came here looking for you. Can we talk?”

*   *   *

Walnut shared a table in the back of the establishment with two other men, who were introduced as George the Gut and Flopping John; the source of the former's appellation was obvious, and Raesinia was not sure she wanted to know the origin of the latter's. She and Andy sat across from the three, Raesinia crossing her legs underneath her to get a little more height and keep her chin above the level of the table.

“I didn't know you were still in town,” Walnut said to Andy. “I thought you marched off to war with all the rest.”

“Marched off, got shot, spent a while in the hospital at the University,” Andy said. “By the time I was better, they'd all gone.”

“All the worse for you,” John said. “I bet the food's better in the army. Bakers are back to filling out the bread with sawdust, and there's a good trade in rats again.”

“I got nothing against rat,” rumbled George the Gut. “I got a recipe.”

“I'm staying at Mrs. Felda's,” Andy said. “And the stories I hear from people who come in . . .”

Walnut sighed. “It's the fucking seedies. Worse than tax farmers. At least with tax farmers it wasn't our own people shoving the boot in.”

“Even the Oldtown gangs are having trouble,” Jack said. “Lots of fighting over there.”

“What about the Leatherbacks?” Andy said.

“Hardly any Leatherbacks left,” Walnut said. “The girls all went with Jane, and half the boys joined the army. Only us who've got families to feed stayed home.”

“That's something, isn't it?” Andy said. “Harry seemed to show some respect.”

“Harry's a prick,” Walnut said.

Raesinia took a long breath and said, “Janus is coming back.”

The table went silent. Eventually John, looking down at his fingers, muttered, “You want to be careful with that kind of talk.”

“Everyone knows it,” Raesinia said. “And if Janus is coming, Jane and the rest will be with him.”

“Who knows?” George said. “I heard he works for the Hamvelts now. Can't see Jane working for the bulls.”

“Besides,” Walnut said, “they're going to stop him at Orlan.” He grinned. “Has to be true—I read it in the papers.”

“He'll be here,” Raesinia repeated. “And he's going to need your help.”

“With all respect, miss,” John said, “who the
fuck
are you? Just 'cause you share a name with the queen doesn't mean you get to give orders.”

Raesinia glanced at Andy.

“The thing is,” Andy said, “I'm not the only soldier hiding out at Mrs. Felda's. Marcus d'Ivoire is there.”

“The Captain of Armsmen?” George said.

“The one who kept the black-coats from firing at the Vendre,” Walnut said. His eyes were wary. “Janus' right hand in Khandar, right?”

“Right,” Raesinia said. “And he's here to get ready for Janus' return.”

Jack's brow furrowed. “Get ready how?”

“There aren't enough troops at Orlan to stop the Army of the East,” Raesinia said, trying to sound more certain than she felt. “That's why the Directory is arming the seedies. They're going to fight, and it's going to be bad. Janus is going to have to cut through to the Island, and that means the Grand Span.”

This was an assumption, but not a difficult conclusion to reach. The bridges from the north side of the river were all small and mostly arched, and Raesinia could only imagine the nightmare it would be trying to force a passage over them. The Grand Span, on the other hand, was wide, sturdy, and flat, which made it the obvious choice for an army trying to reach the Island. Unfortunately, this would also be obvious to the defenders, and the approach to the Grand Span went squarely through Newtown and the Docks.