The Price of Valor (68 page)

“That was my fault,” Winter said. She took another step forward, raising her hands. “I was the one who came to the Leatherbacks.”

“Because he sent you there! You think he gave a fuck about you, or me, or any of the others? He
needed
us, so he used you to get what he wanted.”

“You were the one who got them to volunteer,” Winter snapped. It wasn't the right thing to say, it wasn't helpful, but she couldn't stop herself.

“Because he had his hooks in me, too,” Jane said. “It took me a long time to see my way clear. But I'm out now, and you will be, too.” Her voice dropped, nearly to a whisper. “Come with me, Winter. Away from this, away from the army, away from everything. Just you and me, like it was always supposed to be. Please.
Please.
”

It felt as if something in Winter's chest was tearing itself apart. “I can't,” she whispered. “You know I can't.”

“I love you, Winter. More than anything.
Please.
”

“I . . .” Winter's throat was too thick to speak.

Jane, pistol still trained on Janus, was looking at Winter, and Winter saw her eyes harden. She looked the way she'd looked the night they captured Bloody Cecil, when Winter had stopped her from executing her prisoner by a hair's breadth.
Mad Jane.

“Fuck,”
she said under her breath. “All right. New plan. I'll kill this fucker and we'll get you out of here until whatever he did to you wears off.”

“Jane, no.”

“Why not?” Jane's voice was high now, tinged with hysteria. “He's a traitor, isn't he? I saw the government's declaration, all official. I'd be a hero.”

Winter took a long step forward, placing herself in front of the desk, squarely in Jane's line of fire. Jane's eyes, brilliant green, locked on hers, and the hand holding the pistol trembled. There was a long moment of silence.

“Why?” Jane whispered. “Why would you go so far for him?”

“Because I have a responsibility to the people in my regiment. The rest of the army. Everyone. We
need
him. Vordan needs him.”

“You never believed that ‘glorious death for king and country' bullshit,” Jane said. “We used to laugh about it at the Prison, reading those old books! It was
Vordan
that put us there. It was the
Crown
that signed off on my ‘marriage' to Ganhide, signed me up for getting fucked by the stinking brute every night. You want to know the kind of things he did to me?”

“You killed him, didn't you?” Winter felt she was seeing Jane with new eyes.

“Of course I fucking killed him,” Jane said. “I burned him alive and I laughed while I did it. Then I went back to Mrs. Wilmore's and slit the old bitch's throat like the fucking pig she was. If I'd had my way I would have had them raped over and over, once for each little girl they sold to some old bastard—”

“Jane, stop.” Winter could feel tears in her eyes. “Please.”

“Don't take the high road with me,” Jane said. “You killed your Sergeant Davis, didn't you? And God knows how many others, the people you're ‘responsible' for, you send them to die when Janus gives the order, don't you? Don't you dare moralize at me.”

“Just . . . stop.”

“If it were me, I'd give it all up,” Jane said. “You know that, don't you? I'd give up everything for you.”

“I know.” Winter struggled to breathe. “But I can't.”

There was a pause. In the silence, Winter could hear boots pounding down the corridor, voices raised in alarm. Jane's hand shook, the barrel of the pistol wavering.

“I should have known,” Jane said. “If you loved me the way I love you, you would have killed Ganhide when I fucking told you to.”

The door burst open. Jane's finger jerked on the trigger.

Twice before, Winter had stared down the barrel of a pistol and known she was going to die. The first time, in Khandar, it had been the incompetence of Davis' cronies that had saved her. The second time, under the Vendre, it had been Sothe. This time—

—the hammer came down, spraying sparks—

—the powder in the pan ignited, hissing into smoke—

—and that was all.
Flash in the pan.

Dumb luck.

She sank to her knees, her vision blurred with tears. As the guards rushed into the room and Janus shouted orders, all she could hear was the distant sound of Jane's hysterical laughter.

RAESINIA

W
ith the Hotel Ancerre occupied by Janus' troops, Sothe had commandeered a suite at the Grand for the queen, hastily “returned” from her exile in the country. It was the same hotel where she'd once looked out on the Exchange and watched Cora ruin one of the mightiest Borelgai banking houses with little more than a rumor and the magic voice of Danton Aurenne. Neither the food nor the service was up to the standards of those days, the war having obviously taken its toll, but at least there was plenty of wine.

Organizing the Army of the East to control the city and guard against potential counterattacks by Directory diehards had taken most of a day, which had given Raesinia time to send to Ohnlei for some of her old things. It meant that she could at least greet Janus looking like the queen instead of a boyish revolutionary. She'd chosen a dress a bit less severe than those she'd favored earlier, still mourning black in memory of her late father, but accented with silver and a hint of lace. Sothe, her bandages carefully hidden beneath her own elegant attire, had helped her put it on without comment.

Now, waiting in the dining room beside the vast, bare table, she felt suddenly nervous. Janus had never given her reason to suspect he was anything but a devoted servant of the crown, but the fact was that he was in a position to do exactly as he pleased, at least for a while.

There was a deferential rap at the door, and a hotel footman announced, “Your Majesty, General Vhalnich has arrived.”

“Let him in,” Raesinia said.

To her surprise, Janus was alone, without the usual string of guards and aides.
He wore his dress uniform, Vordanai blue with a cape of Mierantai crimson, a thin sword on his hip. The footman, resplendent in the uniform of the Grand, came in just behind him.

“Do you require anything, Your Majesty?” the servant said.

“No,” Raesinia said. “See that we're not disturbed.”

“Of course.”

The footman bowed and withdrew. At Raesinia's gesture, Janus crossed the foyer to stand before her in the dining room. He also bowed, very low, his cape draped wide.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I can't tell you how good it is to see you in good health.”

She searched his face for the slightest hint of a smirk, and found nothing. He, of all people, knew that her health was not an issue.

“And you, General,” Raesinia said. “Please, sit. I apologize for my lack of hospitality, but I thought we should speak in private.”

They were alone in the huge suite. Sothe had herded all the servants out hours ago, then departed herself to double-check Janus' security arrangements. Mierantai guards prowled the halls, and blue-uniformed soldiers from the Army of the East stood watch at the doors and in the stairways.

“A break from being constantly assaulted with hors d'oeuvers is just the thing,” Janus said, taking the chair opposite her. “Everyone in Vordan seems to want to invite me to a feast. I sometimes feel like they're fattening me up for the slaughter.”

“They're grateful,” Raesinia said. “
I
am grateful. I'll say that officially, of course, but I want you to know that I mean it personally as well. You and your army saved the city from Maurisk and the Black Priests, and saved
me
from God only knows what fate.”

“Colonel d'Ivoire and Colonel Ihernglass had a great deal to do with the latter,” Janus said. “Frankly, I arrived too late to be much good.”

“I'll convey my thanks to them, too, of course.” She cocked her head. “You'll be able to retrieve the Thousand Names?”

“Oh yes. The river is barely ten yards deep at that point, and steel tablets won't drift in the current. It shouldn't take long to haul them out again.”

“That's good.” Raesinia paused, trying to decide how to raise the main issue. Her indecision must have shown on her face, because a quick smile flickered across Janus' features, like summer lightning.

“You want to know what I'm going to do with Vordan City,” he said, “now that I've got it.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Raesinia said, obscurely relieved. In a way, it was freeing to be so helpless. She had no army, no loyal followers, nothing to match the thousands of soldiers who would march at Janus' command.
But march where?

“The Deputies-General is in chaos now that the Directory has been arrested,” she went on. “Maurisk locked up most of the Ministry of War, and now they've been let free, but nobody seems to know what to do with themselves.” Giles Durenne had been one of the Spike's last victims. His second in command, Captain Robert Englise, was trying to keep the basic logistical apparatus of the army running, but it seemed like an uphill battle.

“The situation is confused,” Janus agreed. “I think that, just now, the country needs a strong hand to guide it.”

This is it, then.
The end of the Orboan dynasty, the moment where Janus elevated himself from general to king.
I wonder what he'll do with me.

“I . . . don't disagree,” she said cautiously. “But . . .”

“Let me speak plainly, Your Majesty.” Janus put his hands on the table. “I will not take the throne. Not only would it be against every oath I have sworn, as an officer and a nobleman, but I don't
want
it.” He gestured down at his uniform. “War is where my talent and interests lie. Once peace returns, I wish to . . . withdraw.”

Raesinia blinked. “Then what are you going to do?”

“What I swore an oath to your father to do. What I told you I would do, before the revolution.” He smiled again, there and gone in an instant. “I am going to win the war and make you the queen your father would have wanted you to be.”

*   *   *

MARCUS

There was a knock at the door. Marcus put down the paper he'd been reading—a rather lurid account of the battle of Jirdos, from one of the newly reopened presses—and pushed himself up a little higher in bed. His thigh throbbed abominably with every movement, and the skin
itched
under the wool bandages, which was almost worse.

“Yes?” he said.

“I wondered,” came Janus' voice, “if you might spare a few moments.”

“Oh! Come in, sir.”

The door opened, and the general entered. Marcus was mildly surprised to see that he was in the dress uniform he'd worn to Cabinet meetings before the revolution.

He saluted, as best he could from his seated position, and said, “Sorry that I can't stand to attention, sir, but—”

Janus waved a hand airily. “Enough of that. How are you feeling?”

“Not quite as bad as I was.” He'd nearly bitten through the gag when the surgeon extracted the metal fragment from his thigh. “Doctor-Professor Haartgen says that if the wound was going to fester, it would have done it by now, so I'll probably keep the leg. He says I may come out of it with a bit of a limp, but considering the circumstances I'd count myself lucky.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

Janus pulled a chair across the room and set it beside the bed, then sat, careful not to tangle his cloak or the decorative sword at his side. They were back at the University, something Marcus couldn't but find a little disconcerting given what had happened, but Haartgen had insisted that the facilities were superior. He had to admit it was more comfortable than his cot in the converted office building that housed most of the other casualties, although the vast, echoing emptiness of the halls attested to how few of its residents had returned.

“It's good to see you, sir,” Marcus said.

“Likewise,” Janus said. “I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, but matters have been . . . unsettled, as I'm sure you can imagine. I can't stay long, I'm afraid.”

“I understand, sir.” Marcus had been getting the news in bits and pieces of gossip and hysterical broadsheet articles, but he'd pieced together the gist. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

“I suppose they are. I'm due at the Deputies-General in an hour, where they're going to vote on . . . well, the forms are complicated. The legal scholars were up all night going through the precedents.”

“They're putting you in charge,” Marcus said.

“More or less.” Janus lowered his head, hands in his lap. “The Directory is officially dissolved. The queen and I have had negotiations . . .”

He trailed off. Marcus frowned.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“I didn't come here to discourse on politics,” Janus said. “I wanted . . . I felt that I ought to apologize. I believe I have done poorly by you.”

“Sir?” Marcus shook his head. “If anything, I'm the one who should be apologizing. You left me here to protect the queen and the Thousand Names, and I lost them both.”

“I left you with an impossible task,” Janus said. “I had hoped that secrecy would be sufficient to protect the Names, but in retrospect it seems obvious that the Priests of the Black would have more than ordinary means of gathering information. With the forces at your disposal, I could hardly expect you to stand up to the Penitent Damned.”

Marcus shook his head, not sure what to say. In the privacy of his own skull, he'd entertained similar thoughts, but he found he couldn't voice them, not to Janus.

“And yet,” the general went on, “you did stand up to them. I have heard the story of your attack on the fire demon, and seen the bombs the Patriot Guard planted. Thousands of my soldiers owe you their lives.”

“I had a lot of help,” Marcus said. “It was Raesinia—that is, the queen—who really took charge. And Sothe, Andy, and the others made it work. The Leatherbacks and the refugees.” He swallowed. “A lot of good people died there.”

“A great many people have died,” Janus said, “both good and bad, to get us this far. But we are not finished yet.”

“We're still at war,” Marcus said.

“I expect the Hamveltai will sue for peace, and the rest of the League will follow. They were always the least committed to the fight, and with Antova and Desland in our hands their ability to attack us is crippled. The queen will, I expect, offer generous terms. But Borel and Murnsk are still unbloodied, and the emperor in particular has barely begun to exert his strength.” Janus paused. “But that is not the heart of it. The queen tells me you know her secret.”

Marcus nodded. “She carries a demon.”

“The Thousand Names may eventually provide a key to help solving that problem. But the Priests of the Black will not make peace, not now. They know we have the Names, and they know a demonic presence sits on the throne of Vordan. A faith cannot be destroyed with cannonballs.”

“So how do we beat them?”

“We must go to Elysium,” Janus said. “We must break their power at the source, or we will never have peace.”

“Elysium.” Marcus stared. “You're—of course you're serious. You're always serious. But—”

“I know the objections,” Janus said, holding up a hand. “Elysium is deep in
Imperial Murnsk, surrounded by the armies of the emperor and a sea of hostile fanatics. It is a fortress-city that has never been taken, even during the Demon Wars, when the Church was young. And it is full of
things
like the one you fought on the Green Road.”

“That about sums it up, yes,” Marcus said. “So how do we get there?”

A brief smile crossed Janus' face. “The same way we get anywhere else, Colonel. One step at a time.” His eyes sparkled, but his expression became serious again. “I wanted to ask if you were with me. After what happened here, no one would blame you for wanting to be out of it, least of all me. I could arrange an easy post somewhere, or a comfortable retirement, whichever you'd prefer.”

“I . . .” Marcus shook his head.

He'd always considered himself loyal to crown and country, but it had been a vague, distant thing, buried under more pressing concerns. In Khandar, he'd fought for nothing more or less than survival, against what often seemed to be impossible odds. He'd followed Janus home, and when the revolution broke out he'd been mostly driven by a sense of duty to the men under his command, the Armsmen who'd become his responsibility.

Now Janus was willing to declare those responsibilities at an end. But while country had become vaguer than ever—Marcus wasn't certain what Vordan really meant anymore—
queen
had taken on a personal solidity. She wasn't some abstract ideal, a monarch whose honor his oaths obligated him to defend. She was a short, pretty woman with a quick smile, who wore ridiculous boyish trousers whenever she got the chance, never listened to advice when she ought to, and felt the pain of everyone who got hurt trying to protect her like a spear in her own heart. She'd been forced into this world, the world of demons and Penitent Damned, and for the crime of survival the Black Priests wanted to lock her away forever.

He wanted to protect her. But the best place to do that was on the battlefield.

“I'm with you, sir,” he said.
As though that was ever in question.
He wondered if Janus knew what he was going to say before he said it, whether he asked only for form's sake. “May I ask one favor, though?”

“Of course,” the general said.

“No more skulking on street corners, please. Just give me a command in the field. A battalion of good men.” Marcus waved his hands, a gesture intended to encompass the whole city around them. “I've had enough of this kind of war.”

“I think I can do considerably better than a battalion,” Janus said. “The
army will soon enter winter quarters, which will provide a welcome respite and a chance for reorganization. I'll find you a place deserving of your talents.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Again, it's the least I can do.”