The Guns of Empire (53 page)

Andy dove, rolled, came up with Viera's torch in her hand. It flared to life, embers reignited by the rush of wind. Andy ran along the fuse, looking for the place where it had gone out. She barely saw the bone woman in front of her, fierce-looking with her blood-stiffened hair and rattling fetishes, until it was much too late. The steel-headed spear went into Andy's belly and came out through her back, trailing blood. The bone woman yanked it free with another crimson spray and spun away, looking for another victim as Andy collapsed to her knees.

“Andy!”
Marcus' shout rose to a scream. He saw her turn her head, eyes meeting his, and she gave him a broad smile. Then she turned away, eyes following the fuse to where it disappeared into a dark cavity in the snow. As she fell forward, she hurled the torch, fire describing a circle in the air as it spun end over end into the hole and out of sight.

There was a moment of silence, and then the world went white.

Gunpowder had been the one resource the Grand Army had had more than enough of, and much of it had been left behind with the First Division. Viera had hoarded as much as she could, and her cannoneers had buried barrels of the stuff underneath the south wall, scooping out the snow and replacing it with hard wooden kegs. They'd packed the space around them with spare musket balls from canister rounds, but this turned out to be an unnecessary addition. The layers of ice on the wall shattered in the colossal blast, transformed instantly into a million flying, deadly fragments. They scythed through the tight-packed mass of bone women at the base of the wall, the cheering spearwomen and archers atop it, and the wounded Vordanai who'd been unable to get clear in time. The explosion lofted snow hundreds of feet into the air, a white spray that was followed almost at once by a rising cloud of black smoke. Viera's precious guns were tossed like toys, splintered wreckage landing in the river. Beyond, the masses of bone people waiting to cross broke up, fleeing for their lives.

—

Marcus sat on the wagon bed, looking out at the crater where the southern wall of his fortress had been. The survivors of the First Division mostly seemed stunned, unprepared for their good fortune; they sat in small groups, staring, or talked in low, reverent tones. The white riders had retreated, too, spooked by the blast.

But they'll be back.
It wouldn't be enough. The explosion, and the subsequent
counterattack against the shattered remnants who'd survived, had slaughtered most of the bone people who'd made it into the fortress.
Call it five or six thousand.
But there were still tens of thousands of enemy left, and Marcus hardly had enough bodies to man the walls, even if he'd still
had
walls.
Which I don't.
There was no way the dazed, shocked survivors could repair the damage overnight, and in the morning the bone people would resume their assault.

Andy and Viera were right. It bought us a day.
He looked at the sun, which was just touching the horizon. The light was slowly turning golden.
For however much good that does us.

Andy . . .

“Sir?” It was Fitz. “Do you want me to get the men started rebuilding the wall?”

“We don't have time.”

“The enemy may hesitate. If they give us another day—”

“They won't.” Marcus sighed. “Let them rest, Fitz. They've earned it, don't you think?”

“Yes, sir.” He paused. “I'm sorry, sir. She was a good soldier.”

“She might have disagreed with you,” Marcus said with a slight smile. “But you're right. In the end it's not all about crisp salutes and shiny boots.”

Fitz, who had both, kept a diplomatic silence.

As always, Marcus felt guilty in his grief. Thousands had died today, men whom he had ordered into battle, men whose names he hadn't even known. But he hadn't lived beside those men, hadn't watched while they bore up after losing friends, hadn't
known
them. One familiar face seemed more precious than a thousand anonymous graves, for all that he knew that was wrong.

The sun slipped slowly below the horizon, and the sky went from orange to red to black. The men began to feel the cold, and it roused them from their stupor. Even if they would die in the morning, there was still the night to make it through: fires to light, meals to cook, long-hoarded liquor to drink for a lucky few.
I wonder if the blast woke Janus up and what he thought of it.
If he'd been in charge, Marcus was certain, he'd have come up with something better.
But he's lost in dreams of Mya, whoever she is.

“Marcus!” At first he thought the voice was part of his reverie. “Marcus, is that you?”

“Sir?” Marcus turned to find Janus standing in the snow, wearing boots, his dressing gown, and a coat wrapped around his shoulders. “Sir! You shouldn't be out here! You're not well.”

“Marcus!” Janus took a careful step up onto the wagon bed. “Under ordinary circumstances I'd agree with you, but I seem to be recovered—” He lost his balance and wobbled, and Marcus hurriedly caught him by the arm. “At least somewhat,” he added a little sheepishly. “And since no one had come to see me, I thought I'd venture forth and see what all the commotion was.” He waved a hand. “It's a nice fortress, but it seems to be missing a wall.”

“We were forced to blow it up,” Marcus mumbled, grief and astonishment at war in his face. “Sir, are you really all right?”

“I suspect it will take some time to regain my good health,” Janus said. “But yes, for the moment.”

Ihernglass must have succeeded.
Marcus had long since written Winter and her company off for dead.
God Almighty, they could have gotten all the way to Elysium and back by now!

If Janus is awake, then maybe . . .
But no. Even Janus couldn't perform miracles. With what they had left, there was no way to resist the bone people's next attack, no matter who was in command. Marcus slumped.

“I'm . . . glad, sir,” he said finally. “I wish I had better news for you. About all I can offer is that we can die together, on our feet.”

Janus smiled his summer-lightning smile. “A noble sentiment, Marcus. But in this case a touch premature. That is what I came to tell you.” He pointed out into the darkness. “You see?”

Marcus struggled to follow his finger. Then, from the darkening tree line to the south, there was a bright flash and then another. Two long, one short, one long—

“That's a flik-flik,” Marcus whispered.

“Indeed.” Janus peered at it intently. “I only caught part of the message, but it seems—”

But Marcus didn't need a translation. Deep in his chest a tight knot let go.

“It's
Raesinia.”

“I
don't believe it,” Duke Orlanko said. “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” Ionkovo said.
You sniveling coward,
he added to himself. “We've had several reports, all saying the same thing. Vhalnich and d'Ivoire are alive and coming south.”

“Again.”
The Last Duke's plump face was going purple with rage, matching the color of his robe. His spectacles were askew. “Will
nothing
rid us of these heretics?” He rounded on Ionkovo. “
You
told me they were going to be dealt with!”

“So the pontifex informed me,” Ionkovo said. “But Vhalnich has proven most resourceful in the past.”

He was not about to tell Orlanko that he now received no answer at all from Elysium. Something had gone badly wrong.

For the last month he'd been stuck here, playing nursemaid to the ex-spymaster. In Ionkovo's opinion, the Last Duke's grip on sanity had been shattered by the revolution, and he'd been sliding steadily further into delusion ever since. Unfortunately, the Pontifex of the Black wanted him for a puppet king of Vordan, so Ionkovo's orders were to stay by his side.

“If Dorsay hadn't been so eager to cut a deal, Vhalnich wouldn't have an army to come back to,” Orlanko fumed. “He's a damned traitor.”

“Do you want him removed?” Ionkovo said. He yawned ostentatiously.

“Not yet,” the Last Duke said. “Let me think.”

He sat down behind the cheap wooden desk. Dorsay's army had taken over Polkhaiz, but the miserable little town didn't have much to offer in the way of accommodations. The only truly nice building was the mayor's house, and Dorsay had taken that for his headquarters. Orlanko was stuck with what had
been a general store on the edge of town; the front room still smelled of pickles and fish paste.

“Removing Dorsay by itself wouldn't be good enough,” Orlanko muttered, chair squeaking as he shifted his weight. “He's only a cat's-paw for those in Borel who want peace at any price. If we kill him and Vhalnich returns to Vordan, we're no closer to getting what we want.”

“If Vhalnich makes peace and returns to Vordan, we're even farther,” Ionkovo pointed out.
Though perhaps then the pontifex would agree that you've outlived your usefulness.

“Indeed. We need to rid ourselves of the whole lot of them all at once. Dorsay, Vhalnich, d'Ivoire, the queen. All of them.” Orlanko looked up, eyes suddenly huge through his spectacles. “When will they return to their camp?”

“Tomorrow, I'm told,” Ionkovo said.

“Good. My men will be ready.”

Ionkovo stifled a smirk. Orlanko had been making noises about rebuilding his precious Concordat, but all he'd actually done was sweep together a few hundred thugs and mercenaries from the ports along the Split Coast. They looked fierce enough in their dark coats, but they had none of the skill or discipline of the old Ministry of Information.
I suppose they'll serve as cannon fodder.

“We'll take them all together,” Orlanko said, half to himself, then looked back at Ionkovo. “Organize the teams. I want Vhalnich, d'Ivoire, and Dorsay dead by dawn of the day after tomorrow, and Raesinia in a bag at my feet.”

Finally.
Ionkovo gave a lazy grin. “As you say, Your Grace. Will there be anything else?”

—

That evening Ionkovo slipped through the vague shapes of the twilight world, emerging in a small copse of trees just outside of Polkhaiz. A small campfire threw long, flickering shadows, and he pulled himself out of one of them and into the light.

The man sitting beside the campfire was not surprised by this. The light gleamed across his face in a thousand tiny pinpricks, reflected from the shards of black glass that made up his obsidian mask.

“Shade,” he said. He spoke Murnskai with a Hamveltai accent, upper-class and cultured.

“Mirror,” Ionkovo said. “Anything to report?”

“The woods are just as empty as they were yesterday and the day before,” Mirror said, his tone an echo of Ionkovo's own impatience.

“Orlanko's ready to move at last,” Ionkovo said. “Tomorrow night, when Vhalnich returns. We're to take him, the queen, d'Ivoire, and Dorsay.”

“That should certainly stir the pot,” Mirror said.

“It will serve our purposes. At the very least it will provoke a battle between the Borelgai and Vordanai armies. Even with Vhalnich gone, we will need to carry the war forward to reclaim the Thousand Names and ensure Vordan is cleansed of heresy.”

Mirror nodded. “So where do you want me?”

“They'll see Orlanko's men coming,” Ionkovo said. “If Vhalnich doesn't have spies in our camp, he's not the strategist they say he is. But they can't know
you're
here.” He pursed his lips. “D'Ivoire doesn't matter. I'll take the queen, and you make certain of Dorsay. Once that's done, I'll meet up with you, and we can tackle Vhalnich. Ihernglass is still missing, and I've seen no sign of the Khandarai. If Vhalnich has any demons left, he'll be keeping them close, I'm sure.”

“Understood. And afterward?”

“Collect our communicator, then back to Elysium. Orlanko can handle the rest.”
Or make a mess of it, for all I care.
I need to know what the hell is going on.

“Another ride across the frozen wastes of Murnsk,” Mirror said dolefully. “Just what I was looking forward to.”

“M
arcus!”

Raesinia wanted to jump out of her chair and hug him. Considered doing it, even, but in the end decided not to. This was partly because it looked like, small though she was, she would bowl him over. Marcus was thinner that she remembered, his face sagging and gray, his normally neat beard shaggy and overgrown.

“Your Majesty,” he said. His eyes fell on a nearby chair with such obvious longing that Raesinia winced and hurriedly gestured for him to sit. He lowered himself into it with the characteristic hesitation of someone who had just spent an extended time in the saddle.

They were in one of the upper rooms of a two-story stone inn on the north bank of Syzria, just over the bridge from Polkhaiz. The main body of the Grand Army was camped a little bit to the north, but since beginning her negotiations with Dorsay Raesinia had moved her quarters here. There was a pleasing symmetry to the symbolism, and in any case, the inn, mean as it was, was considerably more comfortable than her tent.
And it takes me out of the direct reach of any of the generals who might be tempted to try something foolish.
The upper floor had a large bedroom and several small ones that all let onto a common room, intended for a wealthy traveler and his servants.

Marcus' uniform was nearly as gray as his face, dusty from the road and stained by sweat. Here and there faint dark patches marked where bloodstains had been scrubbed away, and a bulky bandage still circled one arm. Raesinia gestured to a servant, who ghosted over with a pitcher of wine and a glass. Marcus stared at these as though he'd forgotten what they were for, but once the deep, thick red was poured, he gulped it down convulsively.

“It's good,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked up at her. “I'm sorry for my poor state, Your Majesty. It's been a long ride, and before that—”

“It's nothing,” Raesinia said, accepting a glass of her own. The wine
was
good, another gift from Dorsay. “I'm just glad you're safe.”

“It was a close thing,” Marcus said. “Closer even than I knew at the time. Colonel Reinhardt had to fight through half a regiment of Murnskai cuirassiers before he could take the bone people from behind. He's a very gallant man.” Marcus shook his head. “Is Give-Em-Hell all right? They told me he made it here, but that he wasn't in good shape.”

“He was lightly wounded, but it was mostly exhaustion. He'll be fine. A few more of his men have trickled in over the past several days, too. That was a hell of a thing you asked them to do.”

“I know. I thought it was about the only chance we had.”

“It worked.” Raesinia smiled. “You saved the First Division.”

“Not all of it,” Marcus said flatly. “We lost . . . too many.” He poured himself another glass of wine. “Andy's dead.”

“Andy?” A hand tightened around Raesinia's heart. Andy had been with them all through the fighting in Vordan, including that awful skirmish aboard the
Rosnik
where Ionkovo had taken Raesinia prisoner. “God. I'm sorry, Marcus.”

“She probably saved us all.” He took a swallow, eyes closed. “Viera—Captain Galiel—was also amazing. We'll have to promote her. And Fitz . . .” He shrugged. “Not much more room to promote Fitz, I suppose.”

“I'm sure everyone performed wonders,” Raesinia said. She hated herself the moment the sentiment left her lips; it was an ingratiating,
political
thing to say, reminding her of the reason Marcus was here instead of enjoying a well-deserved rest.
Because I need him, and I want to make sure I get to him before anyone else does.
She cleared her throat. “What about Janus?”

“He's still alive. I assume the couriers have told you that much,” Marcus said. “We've been keeping the details from the men.”

“And?”

“I . . . don't quite know. Up until just before the force you sent arrived, he wasn't doing well. Sometimes he'd sleep, sometimes he'd talk, but . . . it didn't make a lot of sense. I thought he was dying. After Reinhardt arrived with the cavalry, things changed. They put him in the back of a cart, and he still sleeps most of the day, but he looks better and the fever is gone.”

“Do you think that Winter tracked down the Penitent?”

“I don't know what else
to
think. But it's been much too long. Even wounded, the assassin could have made it back to Elysium twice over.”

“Maybe she just died of the knife Sothe stuck in her. Even Penitent Damned aren't immune to a festering wound.”

“It's possible. I find it hard to believe we'd get
that
lucky.” He shrugged. “Regardless, I think he'll recover soon. It won't be long before he's fit to take command.”

So. There it is.
She'd rehearsed a dozen different versions of this conversation, varying based on Janus' health and other factors. This was going to be one of the hardest, but at least she knew where she stood. “Have you spoken with anyone since you returned?”

“No. They told me you wanted to see me as soon as possible.” He swallowed. “And there's something I need to talk to you about—”

She held up a hand, and he paused. Raesinia nodded at the servant—one of the few remaining from the entourage that had followed her all this way—and he left the room with a bow. Barely and Joanna were outside, making sure no one eavesdropped through the inn's thin interior walls.

“Things have been difficult in the army,” Raesinia said. “With you, Janus, and Fitz all cut off, and Winter still away, it was a bit . . . confusing.”

“That leaves . . .” Marcus paused to run down the seniority list. “Mor in command. General Kaanos, of the Third Division.” He grimaced. “I can't imagine he got along well with you.”

“He's under arrest.”

“Oh, saints and martyrs. What did he do this time?”

“It's a long story.”

“I'll bet,” Marcus said dryly. “So who
is
in charge?”

“I am,” Raesinia said. “With the First Consul gone, I argued that command reverts to the Crown. The others were . . . persuaded by my analysis.”

“You're not serious,” Marcus said. “But . . .” Raesinia arched an eyebrow, and he hesitated. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but you don't have any military training. The little bit I explained to you was just theory. The basics.”

“I know. Don't worry, I haven't decided that a few lessons make me Farus the Fourth come again.” Raesinia grinned. “Your Colonel Giforte and Winter's Captain Cyte have been doing most of what needs to be done. My main contribution has been preventing the others from doing anything foolish.”

Marcus relaxed a little. “Giforte knows what he's doing. I'm glad he's been
helpful.” He shrugged. “Now that Janus is back, we can straighten things out. Give it a few more days—” He frowned, looking at her. “What's wrong?”

And here we cross the line.
“You know we're facing a Borelgai army across the river.”

“I gathered something of the sort. Dorsay?”

She nodded. “He has our depots in Polkhaiz. Our own supplies are all but gone. We had to open negotiations.”

“Open—” Marcus' eyes narrowed. “You've
surrendered
to Dorsay?”

“No. So far we've just . . . talked. And he's agreed to keep us supplied while negotiations continue.”

“But he'll hardly settle for anything less than capitulation,” Marcus said. “He's got us trapped here, with no supply line, and the fact that we're willing to talk shows how weak we are.”

“General Kaanos wanted to attack across the river the first day we got here.”

Marcus snorted. “That sounds more like a Give-Em-Hell plan. Dorsay will be dug in, and even if we pushed through him, he could destroy the depots when he fell back. Mor ought to have more sense.”

“Don't be too hard on him,” Raesinia said. “He thought you were dead. He has a lot of respect for you, you know.”

“Mor? Really?” Marcus looked taken aback, then shook his head. “Regardless. If things are so bad, why is Dorsay still negotiating?”

“Because the situation is more complicated than just one army against another. Dorsay wants peace, and he's got the ear of the King of Borel. He knows that if he presses us to destruction, or outright surrender, Vordan won't give up the war.”

“Hell. This really
is
your territory and not mine. Can we bluff him, somehow? All we need is to get south of Syzria and back to Tsivny. There should be supplies there, fresh troops from the divisions we left behind—”

“Marcus,” Raesinia said. “Dorsay and I agree on this. The war has gone on long enough. If we have a chance for peace, we ought to take it.”

There was a long pause.

“If Borel wants to withdraw from the war . . .” Marcus said tentatively.

“It won't be just that. It may take a while for Murnsk to come to the table, but I believe they'll have no choice in the end. In the meantime, if we try to advance on Elysium, it'll ruin any chance of peace. Even if the king wanted it,
his people wouldn't let him.” She shook her head. “It has to end. Status quo ante.”

“Janus will never agree,” Marcus said. “And you know why. Nothing Dorsay can do will bind the Black Priests.” He looked at her carefully. “You're not still thinking about sacrificing yourself for the good of Vordan? Janus is recovering and the weather is getting warmer. If we can just get out of here and regroup, there's nothing to stop us from getting there the next time.”

“And then what?” Raesinia said, harsher than she might have liked. “Dorsay says it'll be the Wars of Religion all over again, and he's not wrong. Nobody is worth putting the country through that, not even the queen.” Her fists clenched. “And I don't need to sacrifice myself, not really. If I abdicate I could just . . . leave.”
We could just leave.
She banished the thought.

“It's not just you. Winter has her own demon. Feor, too.”

“I'll take them with me,” Raesinia said. “Go back to Khandar if we have to. Somewhere they won't find us.”

“You're talking about surrender,” Marcus said. “Not to Dorsay but to the Black Priests.”

“Yes!” She could see Marcus set his jaw, and something in her despaired. “Marcus, think about what you're fighting for. You and I wanted to save Vordan from Orlanko, and it's
saved
. I'm not going to drag millions of people into war for the sake of a handful, or to keep some ancient tablets out of the hands of a bunch of crazy priests—”

Marcus barked a laugh, and Raesinia stopped, surprised. He shook his head.

“There's the sticking point,” he said. “I'm talking about this like I get to make the decision. The Black Priests wants the Thousand Names, and Janus will never give those up, even if you
do
abdicate. So why bother . . . ?”

He trailed off, seeing something in her eyes. Raesinia looked away.

“One of Dorsay's conditions is that Janus be removed from his post,” she said quietly. “It makes sense. It presents their public with a victory and takes away a sword that would otherwise be hanging over their heads.”

“You want to sell him out,” Marcus said.

“He'll be given all honors,” Raesinia said. “He'll just retire to his own estate and be simple Count Mieran again. It's not a bad life.”

“After everything he's done for you.
We've
done for you.” Marcus' face reddened. “Orlanko would have had his regency without Janus. You'd be in a cell under Elysium by now.”

“You think I don't know that?” Raesinia said. “You think this is easy for me? But I'm the
queen
, Marcus. I need to think about what's best for the country. And despite everything he's done for me, I no longer think that Vordan is Janus' primary concern.” She waved a hand, trying to encompass their present situation. “Do you?”

“I . . .” All at once the fire seemed to go out of Marcus. He slumped in his chair.

“What's wrong?”

Marcus looked down at his knees and was silent for a while. Eventually, he said, “While Janus was ill, he would . . . talk. Sometimes to me, sometimes as though I wasn't there. I don't think he really knew what he was saying.”

“What did he say?”

“There was someone named Mya. I think she died. Do you have any idea who that could be?”

Raesinia shook her head wordlessly. Marcus went on, his anger replaced with a deepening melancholy.

“He talked about her a lot. He loved her, I think, though what their relationship was I have no idea. Assuming she was real at all. This could all be fever dreams and nonsense.”

“What does she have to do with all this?”

“I don't know. I shouldn't be telling you this.” Marcus shook his head. “Janus is my friend.”

“Please, Marcus.”

Another pause. “I think,” Marcus said, “that Janus is
looking
for something. He kept saying he wanted to help her, and he mentioned . . . a fishing line? It's hard to remember exactly. But whatever it was, he said we were close, just the way he talked to me about Elysium.”

“To help her?” Raesinia felt her skin prickle. She became aware of the binding, slumbering and quiescent, wrapped around her soul and keeping her dead body going. “I thought you said she was dead.”

“I could be wrong. Or . . . I don't know. It could be the raving of a man just this side of the grave.” Marcus shivered. “It wasn't easy to listen to. Janus is always so controlled. Hearing him like that was like seeing him without his skin.”

“But you think this
thing
that he wants is in Elysium?” Raesinia pressed. “
That's
why he pushed so hard to get there?”