The Guns of Empire (64 page)

The space she stood in was perfectly circular. For a radius of five or six yards around Bobby, the thin snow had melted entirely, leaving the clearing of dead grass. Beyond the forest, she could see the blued shapes of mountains, but they looked a long way off.
Where the hell are we?
How long were we flying?

“Bobby,
please
,” Winter said. “Get up. You have to get up.”

The statue made no response. Winter reached out with Infernivore, trying to feel for Bobby's demon, though she'd never managed that before. She reached
in
to the statue, searching for something her demon could get ahold of, and found only the emptiness of lifeless stone.

“No, no,
no
,” Winter said. She slammed her good hand against Bobby's shoulder, hard enough to bruise. “Not you, too.
Get up!
You have to . . . to . . .” Her eyes were filling with tears, and her hand throbbed. “Please. One more time? I promise, I'll never let you hurt yourself to save me again. Just . . .” Her knees trembled, and she sank against Bobby's cold, hard back. “Don't leave me here. Please.”

Infernivore shifted inside her. For a wild moment Winter thought it had picked up some trace of Bobby, but the demon's attention was elsewhere. The cold wind shifted against her cheek, turning hot and dry, and for a moment Winter smelled the baking sand of a desert more than three thousand miles away. Flying grit stung her eyes, and she had to put an arm up to shield them.

After a few moments the wind died, and Winter looked up. A tornado of sand fell away, revealing a man in the loose, dark robes of the Desoltai. His face was covered by a metal mask, crude and plain, with two rectangular gashes for the eyes and another for the mouth.

“You,” Winter whispered.
Malik-dan-Belial. The Steel Ghost.
Marcus had told her of his encounters with the Khandarai in Vordan. “What are you doing here?”

“It has required some effort to find you, Winter Ihernglass,” the Ghost said, in accented Vordanai. “I apologize it took me so long. Even dust on the wind can only travel so quickly.”

“You—” Winter shook her head and looked back at Bobby. “You were part of Mother's cult, weren't you? Just like Feor. Please, help her. You must know
something
. I'll do whatever you want—”

“She is gone,” the Steel Ghost said. His voice held surprising gentleness. “I am sorry.”

“No! Her demon—Feor's demon, whatever it is—it brings her back!”

“Not this time.” The Ghost sat on his haunches, bringing himself to Winter's level. “Feor carried
obv-scar-iot
, but Mother never truly taught her its nature. In our language, it might be called ‘Sacred Guardian.' The Church here calls it Caryatid. In ancient days, in times of great need, a young woman would be chosen to be imbued with the
naath
's power. After the ritual, the guardian would step into the sacred flame and be transformed from her mortal flesh into a creature of the divine. She would gain the strength to defend her kin.” He looked at the statue. “But only for a short time. A mortal spirit cannot ride the divine for long.”

“That's not fair.” Winter turned, putting her back to Bobby's, and sank to the ground. “No one told her that.”

“No. But Feor is not to blame. She knew only that her power could save your friend's life.”

“If I hadn't let her burn—”

“
Obv-scar-iot
would have claimed her anyway, in time,” the Ghost said. “You must have observed its progress.”

The marble patches, slowly spreading. Bobby's increasing strength and ever-faster healing. Winter lowered her head.
If I'd kept her safe, she still would have lived longer.

“It is the will of the gods,” the Ghost said. “Some lives burn out.”

“Fuck your gods,” Winter said. She rubbed her eyes again, cursing the tears. “What the hell do you want? Are you here just to taunt me?”

“I have been to the Mountain,” the Ghost said. “Alex told me she saw the two of you fly from Elysium.”

“You saw Alex?” Winter said. “She made it?”

The Ghost nodded. “And I have spoken with the Eldest. He told me what it is you carry.”

“Infernivore.” Winter spat the name like a curse. “You want it, don't you?”

“Infernivore”—the Ghost pronounced the name carefully—“is the great treasure of my order. The Eldest told you of the Mages' Heresy?”

Winter nodded.

“His people have preserved more history than ours, but there are things they never knew. It was not only the need to preserve their own lives that sent the ancient Mages fleeing to Khandar. They had discovered Infernivore, and for that the Priests of the Black wanted them destroyed.”

Winter gave a long sigh. “Did you really come here to give me a lesson in theological history?”

“The ancient Mages sought Infernivore because they wanted to destroy the Beast of Judgment once and for all,” the Steel Ghost said. “To the Priests of the Black, this was the darkest of heresy, bound to unleash the vengeance of their god against the world. They believed that holding the Beast in check was a sacred task, by which they proved humanity's worthiness to survive.

“But now the Beast is free of its prison, and even as we speak it spreads like a plague across the world. It has learned, in its captivity, and it will not allow itself to be wiped out again. The
naath
you bear, the weapon of the ancient Mages, is the only thing in the world that can stop it.”

The Ghost bowed his head and extended his hands, prostrating himself against the grass. Winter looked down at him uncomfortably.

“You asked me why I am here, Winter Ihernglass,” he said. “It is because I have come to beg for your help.”

“W
hat's wrong?” the Last Duke said. “Why can't you tell me what's happening?”

“I d-don't
know
, Your Grace!”

He leaned close to the terrified girl, though he was aware this did little good. Her blindfold had gotten lost somewhere along the way, and he could see the empty sockets where her eyes had long ago been removed. She was sweating, breathing hard, though whether her terror was of him or something else he had no idea.

“I can't feel her,” she said. “I can't feel my sister.”

“Is she dead? Is that it?”

“If she had d-died, I would be dead, too,” the pathetic creature wept. “She's
gone.
I d-don't understand.”

“I need to speak to the Pontifex of the Black,” Orlanko grated. “You
will
contact him, or I will have you stripped naked and whipped.”

“I c-can't.” She doubled over, sobbing. “You don't understand. I can't feel her at all . . .”

Disgusted, the Last Duke got to his feet. He gestured, and one of his black-coats came over.

“Lock her in a storeroom,” he said. “No food or water. We'll see if she's more motivated in the morning.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said. He took the weeping girl by the shoulders and frog-marched her out of the room.

They were in the coastal city of Vorsk, in what had once been a Concordat safehouse. In its heyday, the Ministry of Information had had them scattered all over Vordan and its neighbors, quiet buildings owned under untraceable names,
waiting until an agent had need of them. Duke Orlanko had never expected to use one
himself
, of course. But he'd never expected to be here, either, far from home, reduced to an escort of barely two dozen half-reliable men, with both Vordanai and Borelgai forces hunting for him. All he had left was
her
, his last connection to the Priests of the Black and their Penitent Damned, and even this seemed to have finally failed.

No,
he thought angrily.
It hasn't failed. She's just playing dumb.
Possibly on orders from the pontifex, he thought. No doubt his allies were displeased after the recent setbacks.
Once she's sufficiently cowed to let me speak with him, I can explain the circumstances.
There was still room to negotiate.

The safehouse's bedroom was a modest but comfortable one, with a large bed, a fireplace, and a private washroom. There were also—and he knew this because he'd checked for himself—discreet metal bars lining all the windows, two bolts on the door, and a kennel full of guard dogs downstairs. He'd put two men on the roof, and two men on the
neighboring
roof, watching the first two. More at the front door, the back door, and on the main stairs.

He would sleep, he decided.
There's nothing more to be done tonight.
In the morning he would have another try with the girl and personally investigate the ships in the harbor.
I need a captain I can trust.
If Orlanko had learned anything from the last few months, it was the importance of seeing to things himself.
Too much has been trusted to too many incompetents.
The
new
Concordat, when it rose from the ashes, would not tolerate such weakness.

Once he'd changed into his dressing gown, he blew out all the lamps but one. He never slept in darkness, not anymore. He checked, one final time, that the primed and loaded pistol was secure in its place beneath his pillow and then set his spectacles aside and put his head down. Sleep came easily; it had been a long day on the road, trying to make good time while not being so obvious someone would report his presence to Dorsay or Vhalnich.

“Your Grace.”

He awoke with a start, then pretended he'd merely turned over in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent.

“Don't bother,” the voice said. A woman's voice. “I can hear your breathing.”

Orlanko opened his eyes a fraction. A dark silhouette stood in front of the lantern, throwing a shadow across the bed.

“If I shout,” he said, “a dozen men will be in here in less than a minute.”

“Go ahead,” the woman said. “If you think any of your pathetic sellswords will be a match for me.”

“You,” Orlanko said very quietly. He reached out and fumbled for his spectacles.

“Me,” said the Gray Rose.

“I never believed you were dead,” he said. “Not really. Andreas was always so certain. But I made him leave you alone.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”

“Because I always respected you,” Orlanko said, heart pounding. His hand moved, a fraction of an inch at a time, under his pillow. “You were my greatest creation.”

“I was,” the Gray Rose said. “I was the only one who frightened you.”

“Are you here to kill me?” Orlanko said.

“I'm here to tie up loose ends.”

He felt his throat tighten and he shoved his hand all the way under the pillow, searching for the pistol.
Not there.
Where had the damn thing gone?
Maybe it slipped down—

“Looking for this?” the Gray Rose said, raising the weapon in one hand.

“Wait,” Orlanko forced out. He pushed his spectacles up his nose with one trembling finger. “Just wait a minute. We can come to an agreement.”

“I doubt that.”

“There must be something you want!”

“I've already gotten it,” she said. “I confronted my fate, and I was given a . . . reprieve.” She pulled back the pistol's hammer with a dull
click
. “When I face it again, I want to be sure to do so with no regrets.”

The Last Duke screamed as she pulled the trigger.

—

The carriage rattled along a lonely, winding road, through a forest tinted gold by the setting sun.

Janus sat in the neatly appointed interior, his chin in his hands, swaying gently with the motion of the vehicle. A young woman in a neat blue uniform sat across from him, a pistol in her lap and a musket resting on the seat beside her. She kept her eye on the window. The six Girls' Own soldiers changed positions in shifts, one driving, two riding alongside the carriage, two sitting on the roof, and one resting inside. Janus was impressed with their professionalism.

Ihernglass did a good job training them.
One of his better ideas, cultivating her.

It was not in his nature to dwell overmuch on failure. Once launched, a cannonball in flight was in the hands of implacable, impersonal forces. If it missed the target, no amount of wishing or self-flagellation would make it change course. He'd come close, but the machine he'd built to support him hadn't quite been up to the task.

Still. It wasn't completely useless.
The Thousand Names were much more conveniently located in Vordan than Khandar, and he ought to be able to reacquire them in due course.
Access to them, at least.
Physical possession of the archive was not a requirement, after all.

More important was the knowledge that the Mages still existed. The Steel Ghost's interventions in Vordan City had to be on their behalf.
I can use them.

The trouble, he reflected, was that Elysium was as much a symbol as it was an actual place. It was that, as much as anything, that he'd overlooked. Janus' logical mind had little use for symbols, but they were important to the masses.
Perhaps trying to get there at the head of an army was always doomed to failure. Too much history to get in the way.
Next time he'd be more circumspect.
A small force, equipped with demons to counter the Penitent Damned, perhaps armed with the knowledge of the Mages.
It would, in many ways, be a relief. War and the affairs of state always reminded him of his inadequacies.

For her, the Grand Army would have stormed Elysium. They would have stormed all the hells. A little snow would not have stopped her.

He closed his eyes.
I'm still coming,
he told her.
It will just take a little longer.

The young woman pulled the window ajar. “Beth?” she shouted. “Do you see—”

There was a
crack
from outside, a pistol shot at close range, and the high, humanlike screaming of a stricken horse. Almost immediately, more shots came from directly overhead.

“Beth!” the young woman said. “God
damn
it. Jenny, what the hell is going on?”

“Came out of nowhere!” someone shouted back. “I don't—”

Another pair of shots, and the voice cut off abruptly. The guard in the carriage picked up her pistol and glanced at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Stay put,” she said.

Janus gave her an innocuous smile. Behind it, his mind was already working, considering the identity of the attackers, discarding one possibility after another. There was another exchange of fire, and another scream, this one high and human. Something flashed past the window and landed on the road.

The guard opened the door, revealing two horses running alongside at a gallop. She steadied her aim and shot the first rider, a young man in a brown woodsman's outfit. A return shot splintered the roof of the carriage, and the guard yanked the door closed, then feverishly began reloading her pistol. Before she finished, another shot blasted the latch of the opposite door to splinters, and it flapped open. An older man in a torn coat swung off his horse and through the doorway, a long knife in his hand. The guard dove for her musket with its fixed bayonet, but he was quicker, grabbing her by the arm and shoving her back against the wall. Her fist connected with his jaw, but he plunged the knife into her chest, three times in quick succession, and she sank against the seat with a gurgle.

Loyalists from the army, come to rescue me? Unlikely.
The attack spoke of careful coordination between multiple forces, and he didn't think any officer with sufficient skill to plan it would be so foolish.
Assassins, then?
But why?
Orlanko might want to kill him out of sheer rage, but Janus doubted he could muster this much of an effort anymore.
Borel? Dorsay might want to make certain of his peace.
But he still rated it a distant possibility.
To the people of Vordan, I am a hero. If I die under mysterious circumstances, then that would threaten the peace, not ensure it.
The same went for Hamvelt and Murnsk.
And if the Priests of the Black had the resources left to try such a thing, you'd think they would have done it earlier.

He looked up at the man with the bloody knife and shrugged, one hand slipping to the hilt of his rapier.

“I must say, sir,” Janus said, “you have me at a disadvantage.”

“I thought I might,” the man said. “Janus bet Vhalnich.”

“Are you going to try to kill me?”

The man looked down at the knife, then tossed it aside. “Oh, no. You're much too useful for that.”

“Excellent.” Janus smiled. “Then I'm certain we can come to some arrangement.”

“I'm sure we can,” the man said. He leaned in closer. In the depths of his eyes, something glowed red.