Christopher G. Nuttall's Blog, page 21

Snippet – The Infused Man (The Cunning Man (Schooled in Magic Spin-Off) 2)

Prologue I

Background: The following is a transcript of a speech given by Mistress Irene, Administrator of Heart’s Eye, shortly after the university was nearly destroyed by a combination of student misbehaviour and outside infiltration.  It was surprisingly well received, as the speech represents one of the very few times senior authority figures acknowledged their own mistakes, and their roles in creating crisis that brought them to the brink of disaster.

***

It is not easy to admit one’s mistakes.

I take no pleasure in looking back at the last few weeks and acknowledging my own role in turning the minor disturbances into a major problem, one that threatened to turn the university into battleground, if not a smoking crater.  The decisions I made seemed logical at the time, after carefully weighting up the issues as carefully as I could, but – in hindsight – I can see my own emotions, and my preconceptions, had their thumbs on the scale.  I allowed them to blur my thinking and lead me to make mistakes, mistakes that led to misjudgements that cannot easily be undone.

In hindsight, the problem is clear.  No one has ever tried to found a university before.  There is no pattern to follow, no past examples we could study so we could emulate their successes or seek to avoid their mistakes.  This should not have surprised us.  Whitehall, Mountaintop and even Laughter did not spring into existence as the schools of magic we knew and loved, but began as very simple institutions and evolved over time.   We were blinded by our own preconceptions of what an educational institute should be and, when we ran into trouble, we drew on our own experience instead of seeking new answers.  Those of us who are magicians assumed Heart’s Eye would follow the same pattern as the other schools of magic.

We were not the only ones.  Those of us who are craftsmen, tradesmen and other such workers assumed the university would follow an apprenticeship model, in which the master would train his students in his subject and encourage them to band together with other apprentices to share their experiences, exchange tips and – very quietly – pass on warnings about bad or downright abusive masters.  They believed apprentice gangs would rapidly congeal, eventually becoming the core of new craft guilds even though they were strongly discouraged from taking root at Heart’s Eye. 

These misconceptions caused a toxic mess that came very close to destroying the entire university.  The magical students, raised in a culture that encouraged teenagers to hex each other so they’d learn to defend themselves, started using magic on mundanes.  They saw non-magicians as inherently inferior, and refused to admit they might have anything to learn from them.  The mundane apprentices, raised in a culture that expected them to band together against their enemies, started ganging up on the magical students, finding ways to get around wards and protective charms and striking back at the magicians.  They saw magicians as snooty brats who’d lucked into vast power and refused to admit, too, that they might have something to learn from them.

We, your tutors and supervisors and administrators, made the same mistake.  We assumed we’d have to segregate magicians and mundanes.  We assumed we’d have to separate the two groups so completely there would be no contact between them.  We were even on the verge of separating Heart’s Eye and Heart’s Ease …

… And yet, if a young magician and a young mundane had not become friendly, we might have died well before we realised the depth of our mistakes.

This is not what Emily wanted.

It was her belief that progress, real progress, could be achieved by combining the insights of both magical and mundane students and using them to advance towards a better future.  She told us, only a year ago, that we needed to come up with new ideas, to test them through experiment and learn from our successes as well as our failures.  I will admit that I was sceptical, when I first heard her plans for the university.  It struck me as a waste of time at best, a disaster waiting to happen at worst.  And yet, she was right.  We have made more progress in many areas, from steam engines to magical potions and runic charms, in the last year than has been made over the last few decades.  I can no longer argue with the results of her plans.  We will change the world, if we do not destroy ourselves first.

Our failing – my failing – was that we didn’t clamp down on trouble before it was too late.  We were blinded, as I said; we were convinced we should allow the victims to retaliate rather than protect them.  That ends now.  We will not tolerate open hostility, sabotage and anything else done with bad intentions.  Those who transgress will be given a very clear warning, then expelled from the university if they refuse to shape up.  It is not an easy step for us to take, particularly now, but we have no choice.

These are not easy times for the Allied Lands.  The Necromantic War is over – and yet, it has unleashed chaos in its wake.  Old disputes and grudges, buried while we had to deal with the necromancers, are bursting back into life.  Some kingdoms are adapting well to the new realities, others are restive … perhaps even consumed by revolution.  Many of us want to take sides, want the university to take sides, despite our neutrality.  And yet, we must remain neutral.  Our role is to birth the future, not get dragged into faction fights.

We made mistakes.  We have chosen to learn from them.  And we will not make the same mistakes twice.  If you cannot behave yourself, if you cannot act like a civilised person in a civilised world, you will be expelled.

There will be no further warnings.

Prologue II

The king is dead, Prince Ephialtes of Tarsier thought.  Long live the king.

He stood in the Royal Crypt, staring down at his father’s body.  His father had been a good man, and normally Prince Ephialtes – King Ephialtes – would have had no qualms about leaving his father on the throne until he died a natural death.  It wasn’t as if his father had been abusive, or kept all the power firmly in his hands.  Prince Ephialtes had been a partner in ruling as soon as he’d come of age, with lands to rule and money to spend and the promise of a princess’s hand in marriage.  Ephialtes had known, when the time came, that he would step into his father’s shoes and rule the kingdom until he passed it down to his son.  It had all seemed so simple.  But then, everything had changed.

Ephialtes struggled, sometimes, to point to the exact moment he’d realised his father needed to be removed for the good of the kingdom.  The old man had done well, when the necromantic armies crossed the Desert of Death – somehow – and started an advance towards the capital.  He’d summoned help from the rest of the Allied Lands and it had arrived, spearheaded by Lady Emily herself.  And it had worked!  The necromancer hadn’t just been defeated, he’d been killed.  If matters had ended there, Ephialtes wouldn’t have had a single word of complaint.  But they hadn’t.  Lady Emily had reignited the nexus point at Heart’s Eye, declared the former school her personal property and announced plans to turn it into a university.  Ephialtes wasn’t clear on precisely what a university actually was, but it didn’t matter.  It had become clear, very quickly, that Heart’s Eye had become a centre for all kinds of subversive activity.  The university – and the growing town nearby – was a source of radical ideas, up to and including suggestions countries didn’t need aristocracies, or monarchies.  And the ideas had been spreading fast.  They were even taking root …

… And his father had done nothing!

Ephialtes understood, a little.  His father had had good reason to be grateful to Lady Emily.  She’d saved the kingdom.  And she had a truly terrifying reputation, although Ephialtes – who’d met her – suspected it had grown in the telling.  And … it didn’t matter.  The kingdom could turn a blind eye to some things, particularly given the long-standing agreements between the monarchy and the school of magic, but ignoring the waves of subversion spreading from the university was too much.  It was like trying to ignore a sword sweeping towards your neck, threatening to slice through your skin and separate your head from your body.  It could not be done.  The university had to be shut down and quickly, before it was too late.  Ephialtes had tried to convince his father, but the older man hadn’t listened.  He no longer seemed to care about the kingdom his son was going to inherit.

He was scared of Lady Emily, Ephialtes thought.  He didn’t want to provoke her anger.

His lips twisted into a snarl.  His father had been king of a vast and powerful realm, master of all he surveyed.  The idea of him genuflecting before a slip of a girl was … it was unthinkable.  How could he be so weak?  Lady Emily really had done most of the things the tales insisted she’d done – Ephialtes had spent a considerable amount of time and money, trying to separate fact from fiction – but she wasn’t all-powerful.  She could be beaten, if one wasn’t hypnotised by her power and reputation.  The kingdom could take steps – easily, with the resources under the king’s direct control – to protect itself.  And his father had refused to take even the first steps towards saving his kingdom for his son.  Ephialtes had wondered, as the first seeds of treachery grew in his heart, what sort of kingdom he’d be leaving for his son.  It wasn’t a comforting thought.

He’d been the crown prince.  He’d controlled the secret police.  He knew, all too well, how far the ideas were spreading.  Radical nonsense – peasants should have land rights, taxes should be fixed, laws should be written down, kings should be accountable to their people – were growing embedded, no matter how hard the secret police worked to suppress them.  He’d watched, helplessly, as radicals fled to Heart’s Eye; he’d ground his teeth in frustration as they kept spreading their lies, showing no shame at hiding under Lady Emily’s skirts.  It was an impossible situation.  He’d needed to do something and yet, as long as his father blocked him, there was nothing he could do. 

And then, he’d heard the news.  Lady Emily had been arrested by the White Council.

Ephialtes was an experienced power broker.  He knew most of the people who’d made the decision to arrest her.  He was sure they’d take steps to make sure she never saw the light of day again.  Arresting her was a dangerous gamble, one that would explode in their collective face if they didn’t make it stick.  He was certain they’d rush through a farce of a trial and execute her, before her friends and family could rally to her cause.  And not before time, either.  The uprising in Alluvia was a stark warning to all the monarchies.  Curb radicalism now, before it was too late, or see your kingdoms fall into chaos.

He’d acted, with a little help.  And he’d killed his father.

It was hard not to feel a  pang of guilt.  He’d sworn to serve his kingdom when he came of age, pledging himself to serve as prince and then rule as king, and the good of the kingdom demanded his father’s death.  And yet, his father was his father.  Ephialtes’s heart twisted as he looked at the body, hoping and praying his father would be treated kindly when he stood before the gods for judgement.  Ephialtes had done the right thing – or so he told himself – but he still felt guilty.  His father hadn’t been a bad man.  He’d just been a poor ruler.  And he’d been on the verge of losing everything.

I will fix it, father, Ephialtes told himself, as he turned and walked back to the private meeting room.  And I will raise a statue in your name when all is done.

The magician was waiting for him, his hands resting on his lap.  Ephialtes swallowed a flash of annoyance.  The magician should be on his feet, bowing before the king, even though – as a magician – he was de facto nobility.  He’d come well-recommended, and he’d lived up to his reputation, but … Ephialtes scowled, inwardly, as he nodded curtly and took his father’s chair.  His chair.  He wasn’t keen on engaging people he knew little about, even if they were deniable assets.  They could easily vanish and tell everything from a safe distance.  And who knew what would happen then?

He’d be hunted across the Allied Lands, Ephialtes thought.  But I’d still suffer the shame of patricide as well as regicide.

“It was well done,” he said, once the privacy wards were in place.  He was used to being careful.  He’d had little privacy as the crown prince and he’d have even less, now he was the king.  “I don’t believe anyone was suspicious.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” the magician said.  His voice was as bland as his face.  He was a man who could vanish in an empty room.  “There was no evidence for the court magicians to find.”

Ephialtes kept his face blank.  His father had loved to hunt.  It had been the one bit of freedom he’d had in his life, the one time he could escape the endless rites and rituals of the court and pretend he was a free-spirited man of leisure instead of a king, the ruler who was also the ruled.  And he’d suffered a tragic accident that was nothing of the sort, his horse tripping at precisely the right moment to throw its rider into a tree … Ephialtes shuddered, despite himself.  His father had deserved better.  Really, he had. 

“I trust you will keep your part of the bargain,” the magician stated.  It wasn’t a question.  “The window of opportunity is already closing.   We must act fast.”

“My forces are already being prepared,” Ephialtes said.  “But I must be crowned first.”

A flash of irritation crossed the magician’s face.  “Lady Emily may already be free,” he said, calmly.  “Her enemies were unable to execute her before her allies came to her aid.”

Ephialtes blanched.  “But that means …”

“I believe she is going to be occupied for the foreseeable future,” the magician told him, calmly.  “But you must act fast.  If you fail, your entire kingdom will pay the price.”

He stood.  “And please let me be the first one to congratulate you on your ascension,” he added.  There was a hint of mocking amusement in his tone.  “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

Ephialtes shivered.

Chapter One

Adam felt … weird.

It was hard, so hard, to put the feeling into words.  His body felt … liquid, as if he’d drunk so much he could feel it sloshing around his insides.  His skin felt paper-thin; his body felt strong and yet weak … he honestly wasn’t sure, as he stared down at his hands, if he was imagining the feeling or if it was something real.  Flashes of heat washed through him, followed by waves of searing cold … he thought he saw, just for a second, lights pulsing beneath his skin, the radiance gone almost as soon as he looked at it.  The magic infused into his blood seemed to shimmer at the edge of his awareness, like something that would vanish the moment he turned to look at it.  It was hard to believe, at times, that there was anything there …

He closed his eyes, trying to gain a better sense of his own body.  He hadn’t known what would happen, when he’d thrown himself onto the clockwork device threatening to destabilise the nexus point and destroy the entire university.  He’d known it was possible to use blood as a storage medium for magic – he’d proved that himself, only a few short months ago – but the idea of infusing magic into blood within his bloodstream had seemed impossible.  He knew he was lucky to survive, yet … he wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or deeply worried.  It was galling to have magic and yet be completely incapable of using it.

A low hum echoed through the spellchamber as the last of the wards fell into place.  Adam opened his eyes.  Lilith stood at the edge of the circle, her green eyes watching him thoughtfully.  Adam smiled at her, despite his nervousness.  Their relationship was … odd.  They were boyfriend and girlfriend and yet, she was a magician and he was a mundane and their relationship was complicated.  It didn’t help, he admitted, that they’d spent a lot of time sharpening their claws on each other.  Lilith was smart and beautiful – the white coat she wore did nothing to hide either her red hair or her figure – but Adam couldn’t help wondering what she saw in him.  What could he offer, that someone born with actual magic couldn’t?

At least I tried to befriend her, when we first met, he thought.  The rest of the university treated her like a pariah because her father wanted to turn back the clock and chase the mundanes out.

“Adam,” Lilith said.  “Are you ready?”

“I think so.”  Adam felt a twinge of excitement, mingled with fear.  He’d only just gotten out of the infirmary.  He didn’t want to wind up back there in a hurry.  “Are you?”

Lilith nodded, curtly.  Adam wasn’t reassured.  Lilith had a sharp tongue and their new relationship had done nothing to change it.  The fact she wasn’t making a sarcastic remark was deeply worrying, even though they’d gone through the plans time and time again before reserving the spellchamber and isolating it from the rest of the university.  He knew what to do and yet they were heading into unexplored territory.  The whole experiment could easily blow up in their face.

“Do it,” she ordered.

Adam took a breath, gathering himself as he raised his hands.  He’d hoped, once, that he’d discover a talent for magic.  He’d clung to that hope even after he’d flunked the magic test time and time again, even working in an apothecary in a bid to be as close to his dream as possible.  And at Heart’s Eye, he’d made a breakthrough that he thought would change the world.  He’d proved mundanes had a place at the university and, perhaps more importantly, he’d won Lilith’s respect.

And you didn’t realise what Arnold was doing until it was far too late, his thoughts mocked him.  He still had nightmares about the final confrontation, when Arnold had threatened to take him as a slave – or worse.  Arnold had been a magician, hiding in plain sight, and Adam had missed the signs completely.  He was playing you all the way and you fell for it like a chump.

He let out the breath slowly, trying to centre his mind.  It wasn’t easy.  The entire world felt as though it was holding its breath.  Lady Emily had been arrested, Heart’s Eye had come within a heartbeat of being destroyed, King Vanunu of Tarsier had died in a hunting accident and … Adam had felt it, when he’d been allowed to get out of bed.  Everyone was waiting for something to happen.  The university rested on a knife edge.  It was hard to escape the feeling disaster was rushing towards them at terrifying speed.

Lilith cleared her throat.  “Get on with it.”

Adam smiled, then started moving his hands as he chanted the spell.  It was a very basic charm, one of the first taught to novice magicians.  Lilith had told him she’d felt the magic moving around her, shaped by her will.  Adam felt vaguely silly, as if he was doing a dance without music or partner.  His hands finished the motions and dropped to his lap.  A wave of disappointment washed over him.  The spell should have produced a light, hovering in front of him.  Instead, the air was empty.  He hadn’t really expected it to work, but …

“Try again,” Lilith said.  He thought he heard dismay in her voice.  If he was any judge, people were already talking about their relationship.  She’d probably already been teased for dating a powerless man.  It would be so much easier for her – and him – if he had power.  “This time, focus your mind.”

“I’m trying,” Adam said.  “It feels as though I’m trying to swim without water.”

He went through the motions again, chanting the words one by one.  His first master had humoured him, just a little, by drilling precision into him, insisting that everything had to be just right at all times.  Adam knew how to cut roots perfectly, how to pluck seeds from plants and grind them into power, how to measure weights so precisely there was no need to hastily adapt the potions recipe because something wasn’t quite right.  He knew better than to let even the slightest mistake get passed on, when his master might take it as an excuse to end the apprenticeship.  Adam had loved Master Pittwater like a father, but he knew – all too well – that the old man has thought he was indulging his apprentice.  Matt, Master Pittwater’s real apprentice, had pointed it out repeatedly.  And if Master Pittwater hadn’t sent Adam to Heart’s Eye …

“It doesn’t work,” he said, finally.  “I don’t even feel as if anything is happening.”

“And yet, you have a reserve of magic inside you,” Lilith said, as she cancelled the protective spells.  “You should be able to make some use of it.”

Adam nodded in agreement, although he feared it was impossible.  No one had been able to isolate the precise difference between a person with magic and a person without, but it was clear he was missing something.  His blood might be charged with magic, fully the equal of hers, yet … he couldn’t actually make use of it.  It bothered him to think all that power might be sloshing through his bloodstream, doing … what?  He didn’t know, but he’d heard all sorts of horror stories about people who walked into high magic areas and came out changed.  Was he becoming something else?  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He stepped over the circle, feeling oddly desolate.  He’d thought he’d come to terms with his lack of magic, when he’d discovered how to use his blood to provide the power he needed to brew potions.  He could hardly deny he’d done something remarkable, when he’d changed the world.  He’d even given the mundanes the tools they needed to teach the magicians a lesson … he cursed inwardly, all too aware he’d also given Arnold the tools he needed to bring the university to the brink of destruction.  He wanted to think he’d been enchanted, that Arnold had twisted his thoughts until he could no longer tell the difference between right and wrong, but he knew better.  The wretched sorcerer hadn’t used any sort of compulsion and yet he’d still been able to manipulate Adam effortlessly.

“We could try something else,” Lilith said.  “What if we cut your hand and allowed the blood to pool in your palm, while you cast the spell?”

Adam frowned.  “Would that work for you?”

“I don’t know,” Lilith said.  She sounded doubtful.  “It wouldn’t be easy to cast the spell through the blood.”

“No,” Adam agreed.  “You’d be too used to casting the spells normally.”

He studied her thoughtfully, understanding the frustration she couldn’t quite hide.  Lilith was powerful, perhaps one of the most powerful students at the university, but she’d never been allowed to develop her powers.  Her father’s obsession with regaining Heart’s Eye, and turning it back into a magic school, had ensured she didn’t have the chance to win an apprenticeship more suited to her talents.  Arnold had tempted her with the promise of proper training and, even though Lilith professed to have no regrets, Adam knew she’d been tempted.  He wondered, not for the first time, if that was the one thing they had in common.  They both thought they’d been held down unfairly …

She could have left her father at any moment, he thought, tiredly.  And yet she chose to stay.

“There are other things we could try,” Lilith said.  “We should go to the lab, see if your blood can be used in spells …”

“You mean, like yours?”  Adam glanced at her notes.  “We already know mine can be used to store magic.”

“Yeah, but can you do it without taking the time to charge it?”  Lilith grinned as she picked up her notebooks and headed for the door.  “Coming?”

Adam followed her through the door and down a long series of corridors.  They were surprisingly empty, even though it was a weekend.  Someone had hung a pair of signs on the walls – FREE EMILY, JOIN THE MILITIA TODAY – and added their contact details underneath.  Someone else had added a set of notes about events in Heart’s Ease, ranging from plays and music performances to political speeches and rallies.  Adam hoped, now that Arnold was gone, the events would go ahead without incident.  In hindsight, Arnold had done a hell of a lot of damage.  He’d had magical and mundane students at each other’s throats, giving him all the cover he needed to make his bid for power.  And he’d come very close to destroying the entire university.

There was no sign of Master Landis as they entered the lab.  Lilith set up a cauldron and started to brew with practiced ease, while Adam carefully cut his palm and allowed droplets of blood to fall into a glass bowl.  It wasn’t easy to measure the droplets – he knew better than to guess, when magical blood was involved – but he did it.  Thankfully, it didn’t seem to matter how powerful the magician was, when it came to donating blood for potions.  There was no need to calculate his own power, then determine how much blood he actually needed.  It was curious …

“Ready,” Lilith said.

“Here.”  Adam passed her the bowl and watched her drip the blood into the mixture.  “If we …”

He broke off as light flared, the cauldron shaking as the magic transmuted the liquid into potion.  He gritted his teeth, fighting back a flare of bitter frustration and resentment.  There was no way he could have brewed that potion, even if he’d had rune-charged blood.  No wonder he’d been relegated to cutting, chopping and other preparations, while Lilith and Matt and the rest of their counterparts had done the exciting part.  And to think some of them were completely blasé about the wonders in the palm of their hands.

“It works, like mine,” Lilith said.  “Interesting.”

Adam nodded, passing her a rack of vials.  “Does it have the same effect?”

“It should,” Lilith said.  She filled the vials one by one, giving him time to wash the bowl and dispose of his blood.  “But I’ll run them past the master first.”

Her lips twisted, slightly.  Adam understood.  Master Landis wasn’t a bad master – Adam knew there were far worse masters out there, from the ones who exploited their apprentices to the ones who abused them – but he wasn’t what Lilith needed.  She needed someone better, someone who could push her right to the limits … he wondered, numbly, if she’d leave the university if she found someone more suitable.  And what would happen to them then?

He slipped into the backroom and put the kettle on, then found a pair of mugs.  “Kava?  Or something else?”

“Kava,” Lilith called.  “And biscuits.”

Adam smiled wryly as he filled the mugs with water, then picked up the tin of biscuits and placed them on a tray.  “Coming …”

He stepped back into the main room, just as the door opened.  Master Landis stepped into the room, nodding politely to his two apprentices.  He looked tired, after a long session with the staff council.  Adam guessed they’d been debating the situation – Emily’s arrest, the uprising in Alluvia, the king’s death in Tarsier – and trying to decide what, if anything, they could do about it.  There was no easy solution.  The neighbouring kingdom had grown increasingly hostile to the university even before the king had died in an accident.  Adam had heard theories – and he knew many students shared them – that the king had accidentally stabbed himself in the back repeatedly.  The claim it had been a hunting accident was just a little difficult to believe.

“Master,” Lilith said.  “How did it go?”

“Poorly.”  Master Landis sat, resting his hands on the table.  “Did your experiments bear fruit?”

Adam passed Master Landis his mug.  “We learnt I can’t cast spells myself,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  “And that my blood is a fair substitute for a magician’s blood, in a blood-based potion.”

“Which may be useful,” Master Landis said, sipping his drink.  “It is always risky to use one’s own blood in brewing, as it is hard to determine where your magic stops and the blood begins.”

“It was easier to brew using Adam’s blood,” Lilith said.  “But there was no real difference between using his and using yours.”

“You’ll need to do a little more research,” Master Landis said.  He looked up, meeting Adam’s eyes.  “The council and I discussed your case extensively.  It was their feeling it would be better if you were released from your apprenticeship, so you could continue your experiments without obligations to me.  You and your friends” – his eyes flickered to Lilith, then back again – “are entering unexplored territory.  It would be unwise to limit your development by forcing you to remain within the strictures of a formal apprenticeship.”

Adam said nothing for a long moment, torn between the awareness the council was probably right and the grim sense that he was being effectively dismissed.  His thoughts were a tangled mess.  He had some savings, from his allowance, but they wouldn’t last long, even if he stayed in the university.  And if he wanted another apprenticeship later on … it would look as though Master Landis had kicked him out.  No master would give him a fair hearing …

Lilith’s thoughts were clearly running along the same lines.  “Will the council give him a research grant?”

“Yes.”  Master Landis looked torn between surprise and amusement.  “Adam will be given a grant, which should fund his research.  He will also be given free bed and board in the dorms, at least for the next five years.  Should he make progress, I am sure the council will look kindly on making additional grants and suchlike.”

He smiled at Adam.  “I think this is for the best,” he said.  “It will certainly offer you a better chance of making a mark, than staying with me.”

Adam nodded, slowly.  “I’ll take the grant and do what I can.”

“Don’t spend it all at once,” Master Landis advised, mischievously.  “You may have to account for every crown you spend.”

Lilith cleared her throat.  “Master, I must request to be released from my apprenticeship too.”

“You must?”  Master Landis studied her for a long moment.  “Might I ask why?”

“First, I am not suited to a potions apprenticeship,” Lilith said.  Her voice was very calm, but Adam could tell she was nervous.  “Second, Adam will need help exploring his discoveries and figuring out how to turn his theories into practical magics.  I can assist him while applying for an apprenticeship more suited to my talents.”

Master Landis frowned.  “Your father will not be pleased.”

“I am old enough to make the decision for myself,” Lilith said, flatly.  “And” – she hesitated, noticeably – “I believe that is my problem.”

Unless Master Dagon makes it Master Landis’s problem too, Adam thought.  He called in a lot of favours to ensure Master Landis would take Lilith as an apprentice.

“And not mine.”  Master Landis smiled, rather dryly.  “You will discover, I should warn you, that your next master may not be as forgiving as I.”

“I know,” Lilith said.

“Very well.”  Master Landis finished his drink and placed the mug on the table.  “I’ll prepare the paperwork for your release.  If you change your mind in the next couple of days, let me know and I’ll destroy them.  If not … come back and we can sign the paperwork then, after we discuss what access you, both of you, will have to the lab.  It won’t be your workplace any longer.”

Adam nodded.  “Yes, Master.”

“You probably don’t have to call me master any longer,” Master Landis said.  He grinned, suddenly.  “I’m going to need a new apprentice, aren’t I?”

What Next?

Hi, everyone

My family and I are hoping to take a long holiday this year – we normally go to Malaysia to meet the family and soak up some sun, but obviously we haven’t been able to go for the last two years.  Malaysia is currently opening up again and we are hopeful of being able to go this summer.   Hopefully, I’ll be taking a 6-7 week break in July-Aug.  Hopefully. 

I’m hoping to cram as much work as possible into the period before then.  My current plan is to write The Infused Man next, followed by Frieda’s Tale (for Fantastic School Hols).  What do you want after that?  By my rough estimate,  I can do two more projects before I hit a hard deadline.  Right now, the choices are:

-The Prince’s Alliance (The Empire’s Corps)

-All for All – (Cast Adrift III, provisional title)

-The Alchemist’s Secret (The Zero Enigma)

I think I can do two of the three.

Or something else?  Endeavour is still being edited, so I’m reluctant to commit to writing Book II just yet as I need to know the final version of the first novel.  I do have a huge list of other ideas, but none of them have really gelled yet. 

Let me know!

Chri

OUT NOW – Coup D’état

Executive Solutions is one of the world’s most capable mercenary units, a force designed to do everything from providing local security and training to hostage rescue, terrorist suppression and many other operations in places regular military forces can’t or won’t go.  In a world riven by war and chaos, with law and order breaking down everywhere, they are often the tip of the spear, a deniable assert who can be praised or discarded as their paymasters decide.  And yet now, they face a challenge that may be beyond even them.

Kabat has stayed out of trouble because the tiny kingdom’s government has avoided all involvement with the outside world, maintaining its independence and economic clout through careful development, quiet international alliances and the occasional use of naked force.  But now, the government is on the verge of going rogue, of turning the country into a rogue state that will either collapse or find itself in the crosshairs of the entire world.  There is only one hope – mercenaries, Executive Solutions, must launch a coup to overthrow the rulers and save the kingdom from itself …

…And yet, if they fail, they will find themselves trapped, abandoned and left to die.

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Snippet – The Chimera Coup

Prologue

The sun was barely glimmering above the distant mountains when John, son of John, made his way to the Seeker Guildhouse and took his place in the line.  The two people who’d arrived ahead of him – both young women, hoping for a chance to better themselves through magic – nodded politely, then turned away.  John didn’t take offense.  The town was a very small place.  A reputation could be destroyed by a single careless glance, let alone something more intimate.  The girls might hope to leave the town far behind, and perhaps never return, but they couldn’t rely on passing the tests.  If they had to stay in the town …

He took a breath as the day slowly grew brighter, the town coming to life around them.  It was supposed to be a day of rest – Mourning Day, in which the present day remembered the Cataclysm, was honoured right across the known world – but the townsfolk couldn’t afford to take more than an hour or two off.  The farmers were heading out to the fields, the shopkeepers opening their stalls and workshops … the schoolhouse was closed, thankfully, but the children still had to help their parents.  John had had to bargain hard with his father, to convince the older man to allow his son to attend the trials.  He knew he’d pass.  He had to pass.  If he failed …

The thought was unbearable.  He loved his parents, really he did, but he didn’t want to remain in the town for the rest of his days.  Once, if the older folk were to believe, a person could cross the entire world in a second.  Now, getting to the nearest city was a trial.  His world was small and confining, limited to the town and the surrounding fields.  Magic was his only hope of escape, unless he set out to the Frontier or even the Wildlands.  And who knew what would happen to him if he went west?  For everyone who returned rich, or found a place to rest, there were ten who were never heard from again.  No one knew what had happened to them.

He took a long breath as the line grew longer, nineteen youngsters between eight and fifteen waiting for their chance to face the magicians.  No one knew if the magicians had a quota they had to fill or not, although everyone agreed they sometimes closed the guildhouse without seeing everyone waiting for them.  John had risen so early just to make sure he was one of the few through the doors.  He could pass, if only he could take his place in front of the examiners.  And then …

“Hey, buddy,” a voice said.  “Let me get in?”

John looked up.  Bruno, a lout two years older than himself, was trying to push his way into the line.  John gritted his teeth, then shook his head.  It wasn’t fair.  Bruno was too dumb to count past ten without taking off his shoes – or his pants – but he was strong enough to beat the crap out of anyone who dared stand up to him.  What was he doing in line?  Everyone agreed one needed intelligence to be a magician.  And yet …

“Let me in,” Bruno said.  His dark eyes glinted at John.  “Please.”

“No,” John said.  It might mean a beating – anywhere else, it would – but he was damned if he was giving up his spot to the older boy.  Bruno didn’t have the wit to get out of bed early or even hire someone to secure a place for him.  “Go to the back of the line.”

Bruno drew back his fists, then stopped and darted backwards as the door rattled and opened with a loud crash.  John turned to stare inside the guildhouse.  It was normally closed and locked – the village was too small for a permanent guild presence – but now … inside, he could see a pair of tables, manned by magicians in fine robes.  They looked as gaudily dressed as the distant landlord, the man whose father had preserved order after the Cataclysm, yet lacked his sense of entitlement.  John gritted his teeth as the line started to inch forward, into the building.  It just wasn’t fair.  The old landlord had been respected even by those who hated him.  He’d done a lot to deserve it.  The new landlord was just a brat who’d inherited his father’s place.

“There is a wand on the table,” a magician said.  He was dressed as finely as the others, but there was something in his voice that suggested he’d been born a commoner.  “When I order you forward, pick up the wand, point it at the red circle on the wall and channel your magic through it.  If it works, you will have a place amongst us.  If it doesn’t, return to your homes and enjoy the rest of your day.”

A rustle ran down the line as the first girl was sent forward.  John kept his face under tight control.  The magician had been joking, surely.  It was rare for someone to return and try again, the following year.  There was no middle ground.  One either had magic or one didn’t.  John wanted to believe his chances would be better if he came back, but … the girl groaned, put the wand down and walked away, her dreams shattering around her.  John told himself, grimly, that he wouldn’t fail.  He couldn’t fail.

The second girl made her way to the table, picked up the wand and jabbed it at something John couldn’t see.  The wand glowed, a beam of light darting from the tip to brush against the wall.  The girl dropped the wand as though it was a poisonous snake, the light vanishing the moment she let go.  A female magician walked out of a side door, took the girl in hand and led her into the next chamber.  John burned with envy, even as he was ordered forward himself.  She’d made it.  Her future was assured.  And all it had cost her was leaving her friend behind.

His heart started to race as he stopped in front of the table and picked up the wand.  It felt warm against his palm, magic crackling under his skin.  A wave of excitement shot through him as he raised the wand and pointed it at the red circle, then jabbed it forward.  The magic rose, pressed against his skin … and went no further.  He felt a flicker of panic.  The magic was trapped inside him.  He could feel it.

“Put the wand down,” the bored-looking magician said.  “Good luck with your life.”

John felt his cheeks burn as he jabbed the wand again and again.  The magic boiled under his skin, but refused to come into the light.  It was there.  He knew it was there.  A strong hand caught hold of his shoulder and swung him about, its owner taking the wand out of John’s hand and pushing him to the door.  The magic was still crackling under John’s skin, but …

“Hah,” Bruno jeered.  “I knew you’d fail.”

“Be quiet,” the magician ordered.  “You could fail too.”

John barely heard him.  The magic was growing stronger, boiling under his skin.  He was overheating, the power pulsing violently as it tried to find a way out.  Bruno’s giggles – he didn’t even have the decency to laugh like an adult – were getting to him, fuelling his anger and desperation.  He was caught in a storm.  The power demanded escape and …

He jabbed a finger at Bruno.  The power blazed into the light.  He heard someone swear behind him as a mighty wind picked the lout up and threw him right across the street.  Bruno screamed, then fell silent as he hit the ground.  John felt his legs wobble, the world suddenly glowing brighter as he was suddenly aware – very aware – of the magic all around him.  He could barely stay on his feet.  He was a magician and yet … they’d thought he wasn’t.

A magician took his arm, steadying him.  “Very well done,” he said.  It was the same one who’d dismissed him only a few moments ago.  “Come with us.  There’s a place for you at the school.”

John nodded, stumbling after the magician into the next room.  He felt tired, so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.  The girl who’d passed the test looked up and nodded to him, seemingly relieved she wouldn’t be amongst strangers.  John sat down and tried to muster his thoughts.  He’d passed.  He’d barely passed.  And if Bruno hadn’t taunted him …

The magicians don’t know everything, he thought, numbly.  He was too tired to care about Bruno.  It was hard not to think the lout deserved to be crippled for life, even though it was little more than a death sentence.  They would have let me go, if I hadn’t shown my magic …

The thought haunted him as he drifted off to sleep.  They really don’t know everything …

Chapter One

“Your theory seems sound,” Katrina Amador said, as she sat on John’s bed.  “But are you sure it is actually practical?”

John smiled.  It was hard to believe, at times, that a girl like Katrina Amador could be interested in him.  They came from very different worlds, even though they’d spent the last five years attending the same school.  The College of Wizards – affectionately known as Greyshade School, after the founder and current headmaster – worked hard to ensure all students were treated equally, but some were more equal than others.  John might be a natural magician, one who could cast magic without a proper focus, yet he was still only a blacksmith’s son.  Katrina was the daughter of a proud merchant aristocrat, one who claimed his bloodline stretched back for thousands of years.  And yet, somehow, they’d clicked.

He studied her, drinking in the sight.  They were a study in contrasts.  Katrina was tall and willowy, with curly black hair and a pale heart-shaped face; she wore her student robes as though they were a formal gown.  John was short and stubby, his skin slightly darker than hers and his robes hanging from him as if they’d been designed for someone of a very different build.  He’d always considered the robes impractical and made sure to wear a shirt and trousers under the outer layer, but Katrina had never bothered.  It had surprised him, the night they’d made love for the first time.

“Well?”  Katrina smirked at him.  “Are you sure it can be made to work?”

“Yes,” John said.  He wasn’t fazed by the question.  Magicians were taught to question everything, as part of a long-term project to understand the changes to magic after the Cataclysm.  Katrina would have been failing in her duty if she hadn’t asked him to explain himself.  “We channel magic through focuses, right?”

“Most of us do,” Katrina agreed.  There weren’t many exceptions, even amongst the older and more well-practiced students.  It was just easier to use a focus, particularly one you’d carved for yourself.  “It certainly makes it easier to cast precise spells.”

John nodded, although he’d never been sure of how true that actually was.  He could cast magic without a focus.  In hindsight, he suspected his attempt to use a wand – five years ago – had been doomed from the start.  He’d grown used to focuses in the years he’d spent at Greyshade, but he’d never allowed himself to grow dependent on them.  Katrina was one of the most capable students he’d met, with an intellect that dwarfed his own, yet if she lost her focus she would be nearly helpless.  It was one of the reasons he’d helped her forge a ring-focus as well as an elaborate wand.  Anyone who wanted to kidnap her would take the wand – unless they were complete idiots – but they might just overlook the ring.  And then she’d be able to escape with ease.

“A focus is really just a channel for magic,” John said.  “The magic bubbles through them and out into the world.  It doesn’t have to be anything special.”

“Unless it’s something you made for yourself,” Katrina pointed out.  “It’s certainly easier to use a focus you forged yourself.”

She leaned forward.  “And your spells are less focused” – she smiled at the play on words – “without a focus.”

John nodded.  It wasn’t easy to shape the magic in his head, rather than channelling it through a focus.  Basic spells were easy enough – he’d practiced until his nose bled, mastering the art of channelling without a focus – but the more advanced spells were impossible.  He wasn’t sure why.  In theory, he should have been able to cast any spell he liked.  In practice …

Maybe I’m trying to do too many things at once, he thought, crossly.  He’d learnt the importance of keeping his mind on the task while watching his father, but unfocused magic relied upon the caster being able to do two things at the same time.  And yet, it should still be possible.

“If we can use a wand or a ring or something along those lines to cast spells,” he asked rhetorically, “why can’t we use our skin?”

Katrina made a face.  They’d debated the question time and time again.  Why couldn’t they use their skin, or their bones, as focuses?  They had yet to come up with a good answer, although – John had to admit – the thought of accidentally overcharging and exploding their bones was terrifying.  He’d exploded more than a few wands himself, back during his primary education.  He knew he’d been lucky.  A couple of students had lost their hands.

“It should work,” John said.  The debates had gone on and on without any clear answer.  “We need to know.”

“If this goes wrong …”

Katrina’s voice trailed off, but John understood.  Greyshade expected the students to practice their skills outside class, to the point of encouraging them to cast spells on each other, yet there were limits.  They were brushing against the rules, to the point they really should speak to their housemaster before taking the experiments any further.  And yet, he knew what might happen if they shared their theories with anyone.  The person they told might steal the credit or share the idea to the point they could no longer claim it as theirs.  It had happened before and he was sure it would happen again.  Katrina would be fine, whatever happened.  Her family would take care of her.  John …?

He scowled, inwardly.  His family had effectively disowned him, after he’d accidentally crippled Bruno.  They’d had no choice – and they would have lost contact with him pretty quickly, after his magic had been discovered – but it still hurt.  And what would become of him, after he graduated?  He wanted to be something more than a guildsman, or a courtly mage, or even a Grey Man.  He wanted to do something with his life, something so significant Katrina’s family could hardly object to his suit.  If he made a magical breakthrough, they couldn’t turn him down if he asked for her hand.

And then we could really make something of ourselves, he thought.  Katrina wasn’t her father’s heir, but her family would help her set up a spellhouse if they thought she could make a go of it.  Who knows how far this could go?

He reached for the tattoo pen and held it up, then pressed it against his right palm.  It hurt, a stabbing pain that made him wince.  He’d had worse, he told himself, but this … he bit his lip to focus as the pain grew worse, drawing out the rune on his bare skin.  Katrina watched, her eyes grim.  He’d been tempted to ask her to do the tattoo, perhaps to secure him first to ensure not a single stroke was out of place, but it was important he did it himself.  It would be his focus.

And she might balk at inflicting pain, he reflected, as he drew the final line.  She wouldn’t want to hurt me, even though it needs to be done.

He smiled at the thought.  He’d iHe’d met a number of well-born girls – from powerful families, even if their family trees were fanciful – and they’d all sneered at the common-born students.  Katrina wasn’t like that.  Her family might be rich, but they’d made their money through trade and knew better than to offend their customers.  She’d never talked down to anyone, even the younger students she’d supervised when she’d been their dorm mistress.  John had to admit it made her a better person than him.  He’d done his best, but it had been hard to keep his irritation under control.  It was difficult to believe he’d been just as annoying when he’d been twelve.

His palm itched.  He gritted his teeth, watching the rune darken as it settled into his skin.  It looked uncomfortably permanent, although he knew it would be simple enough to remove if the experiment failed.  And yet … it felt weird, as if there was something trapped beneath his skin.  It felt like a toothache, something so unpleasant he was aware of his teeth for the first time in his life, as if they were no longer part of his body.  He shook his head in annoyance.  There was nothing to be gained by woolgathering.  He needed to use the new focus before the tattoo faded away.

Perhaps I should have risked a more permanent charm, he thought.  Tattoos weren’t precisely forbidden, not at the school, but they were often seen as a sign of low breeding.  But that would have been an unacceptable risk.

Katrina cocked her head, her dark eyes worried.  “John?”

“It just itches,” John said.  “You’d better get over there.”

“Be careful,” Katrina said, as she stood and made her way to the door.  “If you feel uncomfortable, stop.”

John’s lips twitched.  The rune didn’t feel uncomfortable so much as weird.  He wasn’t sure how to put it into words.  He hadn’t felt so unsure of himself since … he shook his head, banishing his concerns.  They had to know, now, if the theory was anything more than a pile of complete and utter nonsense.  If it worked …

He held up his palm, shaping a simple lightglobe spell.  It was one of the first spells he’d been taught, one that could be mastered by a very young student and then endlessly modified to suit any situation.  The magic boiled under his skin, the rune feeling uncomfortably warm as he channelled the magic through the tattoo and out into the wider world.  A ball of light appeared in front of him, burning brightly as it rose into the air.  Katrina gasped.  John looked at his palm.  The rune was glowing, like the embers of a fire.  As he watched, the light dimmed and went out.  The lightglobe vanished immediately afterwards.  The room seemed to plunge into darkness.,

John blinked away floaters, then stared down at his palm.  The rune looked … weird, as if it had been permanently changed by the magic he’d directed through it.  He touched it gingerly and felt nothing, save for a very faint warmth that might have been his own body heat.  Katrina stepped closer, her dark eyes peering at John’s palm.  He let her take hold and examine it, turning his hand gently to make sure it was undamaged.  She’d always been better with healing magic than him.

“Curious,” Katrina said, finally.  “No damage at all, beyond the tattoo itself.”

“Why should there be?”  John grinned at the excitement in her voice.  Katrina was no coward, but she’d always been more concerned about the risks than himself.  “The tattoo is nothing more than a focus, allowing me to channel magic into the spell.  It isn’t as if it was overcharged.”

“True.”  Katrina let go of his hand, then leaned forward and kissed him.  For a moment, they were lost in each other, then she pulled back.  “But will it work for me too?”

John felt his grin grow wider.  “Do you want to try?”

“You have a talent for casting spells without a focus,” Katrina reminded him, as if he would have forgotten.  “I don’t.  You might have shaped the magic yourself and then cast the spell through the focus.”

“Which would probably have destroyed the focus,” John pointed out, choosing not to dwell on the implications of that.  “I think I kept the spell and the magic separate.”

He looked down at his palm, unwilling to admit she might have a point.  Intent was important in magic, particularly when you were only starting your studies.  It was quite possible his magic had responded to his desires, rather than his designs.  It was quite possible … he gritted his teeth.  They had to try again, with a different person and focus, before they wrote their paper and took it to higher authority.  Their supervisor couldn’t steal the credit then.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, reluctantly.  He held out the tattoo pen.  “Do you want me to draw it for you?”

“I’d better do it myself,” Katrina said.  She took the pen, eying it warily.  “The focus?  It has to be mine.”

John nodded, taking no offense as she pressed the pen against her palm.  She was right.  He’d only made the offer as a formality.  A pang of guilt rushed through him at her wince, her face twisting in pain as she drew out the lines one by one.  The rune took shape on her palm … this time, he thought he saw the magic twisting through the lines as she finished her work and put down the pen.  It was weird, like a ghostly rune hanging over the real one. 

“Done.”  Katrina sounded shaken.  “You get to the door.”

“Be careful,” John said.  It would work.  He was sure it would.  And yet, he felt nervous.  “I’ll be here.”

Katrina snorted.  John smiled, despite the coiling sensation in his gut, as he reached the door and looked back at her.  The room was a clear reminder of the gulf between them, a gulf closed only through magic.  To him, the small room was a wonder, a place of privacy in a world where everyone wanted to know his business.  To her, it was tiny, a place too small even for a little girl.  Katrina had once told him she had closets in her family mansion bigger than the private rooms, that her bedroom was the size of the primary dorms.  John believed her.  He’d seen too much of how the rich and powerful lived to think she was exaggerating.

She held up her hand, palm upwards.  “I’m ready.”

John felt his heart starting to race.  This was it.  If the tattoo rune worked for Katrina, and it would, they would have made a real breakthrough.  Their names would rank with Thande and Lombardi and Greyshade himself.  Their achievements would be taught in schoolhouses all across the Free States, inspiring other prospective magicians to carry out experiments of their own, experiments aimed at pushing the limits of knowledge as far as they would go.  If …

It will work, he told himself.  It will.

Katrina started the spell.  John leaned forward, frowning slightly at the way her tattoo rune lit up.  It was odd, something he’d never seen on a wand or a ring or any other kind of focus device.  Perhaps it was related to the light spell … his eyes narrowed as the lightglobe wobbled into existence, a flash of alarm running through him as he realised the spell wasn’t properly focused.  The lightglobe wasn’t a perfect sphere of light.  It looked like an angry pulsing baleful eye, glaring at him …

Focus, he thought.  He didn’t dare speak.  Katrina could not be interrupted, not now.  If she lost her concentration, who knew what would happen?  Focus on …

Katrina screamed.  Her hand caught fire.  For an instant, John was rooted to the spot, held frozen by absolute horror.  The flames grew and spread, racing up her arm and brushing against her face.  He saw her skin start to darken, to burn to ash … the shock jarred him out of his terror, shoving him forward to cast a series of cancellation charms.  The magic billowed wildly, resisting his spells.  He forced himself to think, grabbing at the bedding with one hand and summoning water from the air with the other.  Katrina’s face was frozen in agony as he splashed the water against her, the droplets flashing to steam and vanishing as the stench of burning flesh grew stronger.  John wrapped the blankets around her, heedless of the risk to himself, in a desperate bid to squash the flames.  The blankets grew warm and started to smoulder, then burn.  It dawned on him, too late, that she was fuelling the flames with her magic.  The rune was still glowing, the ghostly image visible despite the smoke and fire.

John didn’t hesitate.  He shaped a cutting charm, aiming it at her wrist.  The blackened mess – it was hard to believe it had ever once been a dainty pale hand – fell to the floor, the rune spluttering and vanishing as it hit the ground.  The flames were still burning … he tried to summon more water, only to find he’d drained most of his power.  It was hard to concentrate, to shape the spells he needed …

The door crashed open.  A pair of Grey Men raced into the room, followed by a wave of water that drenched Katrina and left her spluttering, a moment before she fainted.  The newcomers shoved John aside, then cast a series of stasis spells on Katrina before levitating her into the air and floating her out of the room.  John turned to follow as the last of the water drained away, only to be caught by a third Grey Man.  The masked figure kept a tight grip on him as he marched John down the hall, ignoring the doors popping open and students looking out to see what was going on.  There’d be hundreds of rumours rushing through the school by the end of the day, if John was any judge.  He was too dazed to care. 

His captor pulled him into a corridor that didn’t appear on any of the floor plans, then shoved him into a small room.  “Stay here,” he ordered, shortly.  “Wait.”

John didn’t have the strength to argue, as the door banged closed.  Instead, he sagged to the floor.  Katrina was … he shuddered, helplessly.  Was she dead?  Had the flames killed her?  Or … he didn’t know.  He tried to tell himself that Katrina was strong, that she’d been alive when she’d been placed into stasis, that anything magic could do could be undone … and yet, he simply didn’t know.  He loved her and …

… And, he realised as guilt crashed down on him, everything that had happened to her had all been his fault.

Updates

Hi, everyone

This is just a short update, as we’re going off for a short break tomorrow.  The Prince’s Gambit is out, and doing well (more reviews, please The Prince’s War is currently up for pre-order in audio format.  There will be a paperback version of both Gambit and The Family Secret shortly. 

My rough plan for the next few weeks:

–The Chimera Coup, an adventure story set in a post-disaster fantasy universe that will – I hope – be the start of a shared universe.

–Frieda’s Tale, in which Frieda of Schooled in Magic goes home and discovers something very dark lurking under the Cairngorm Mountains.  This is intended for Fantastic School Hols (for which we are looking for other writers, if anyone is interested.  Click here.)

–The Infused Man, the direct sequel to The Cunning Man.

-Not sure, something for Fantastic Schools 5(ditto other writers, click here).  I’ll post a thread about possible options later.

Coup D’état is being edited now – I hope to have it up for purchase next week.  Endeavour will be edited shortly afterwards, then I can start laying down the plans for 2 and 3 (plus another Ark story set during the war.) You can also see the audio timetable here.

And feel free to let me know … what would you like to see next?

Chris

Upcoming Audio Publishing Dates

These aren’t 100% solid – they can shift, if the narrator is ill or something else happens – but I thought people might be interested. 

The Prince’s War – March 15 (pre-order)

The Cunning Man – April 19

Child of Destiny – May 24

The Family Name – Jun 21

Standing Alone – July 12

The Prince’s Gambit – August 9

The Zero Secret – August 30 

The Family Secret – October 18

Chris

Her Majesty’s Warlord Afterword

This is the draft, so comments would be very welcome.

Afterword

I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, “The game’s afoot!” I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be – instead of the tawdry, lousy fouled-up mess it is.

-Glory Road, Robert A. Heinlein

It may surprise a few of my readers to know I had never heard of the term ‘isekai’ before someone used the term to refer to the Schooled in Magic universe.  The basic concept of portal fantasies existed in western science-fiction and fantasy writing well before manga introduced the word isekai to our language; a person is sucked into another world, or goes back in time, and finds themselves having adventures there.  Lest Darkness Fall is not the first example of the genre, of course, but it is one of the most well known.  It details both the advantages and disadvantages of an influx of modern ideas and technology into the past, as well as the difficulties involved in doing so and, perhaps most importantly of all, treats the locals as intelligent and sensible people in their own right.  Our ancestors did not have our technology, let alone our moral and ethical insights, but that did not make them stupid.  They were adapted to the world they had, not the present day.

There are, as a rule, four different kinds of isekai story.  First, a person or persons are transported to an alternate world and given a task to do, whereupon they are eventually returned home by whoever summoned them.  The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is a very basic example.  Second, a person or persons falls into the alternate world or time by accident (or thinks so) and has to find a way back to their home.  Amphibia and, after the end of the first season, The Owl House falls into that category, where Anne and Luz both want to get back to Earth, rather than spend the rest of their days in an alien world.  Third, a person finds themselves in an alternate world and either discovers their talents from Earth mean power (A Wizard in Rhyme or The Soprano Sorceress) or that, through an influx of ideas from another world/time, they can carve out a place for themselves.  Finally, and drawing on the article that prompted this afterword, there are stories where the hero, an outcast in their world, finds they fit in much better in their new world.

These rules are not absolute, of course, nor are they exclusionary.  Schooled in Magic fits neatly into the first, third and fourth category.  Amphibia has Anne, who wants to go home, but also Sasha and Marcy, both of whom would prefer to stay in their new world and make it theirs.  Generally speaking, the more fantastic the world, the less room there is for new ideas and social change.  There is no sense the heroes of the various Narnia books ever introduced modern technology to Narnia and the world remains in a kind of medieval stasis from birth to death.  This could also be said of both A Wizard in Rhyme and The Soprano Sorceress, with main characters that – again – make no attempt to improve the world around them.  The latter is a particularly odd case, as the heroine has good reason to do it. 

The article – drawing on The Owl House – that started all this, which I will link to on my site, takes a more cynical view and separates isekai stories into ‘male’ and ‘female’ categories.  The ‘male’ stories follow characters, mainly men, who impose their will on the world around them; the ‘female’ stories follow characters that either find themselves fitting into the new world and, eventually, deciding to stay or work hard to get home.  Their goals are often smaller and they change to fit in, rather than forcing the world to adapt to them; the article argues that Luz and (the presumably human) Emperor Belos are foils, in that Luz has no interest in imposing her will on the Boiling Isles, while Belos very definitely did just that.

This misses, in my opinion, a fundamental point.  Luz did not ever have to impose her will on anyone.  She found safety fairly easily and could, at least until the end of the season, return home any moment she liked.  She had room to breathe, to make friends and discover her talents and build a life for herself.  Belos may not have had any of those things.  He may have found himself trapped in a world that would kill him, if he didn’t take control of his surroundings, and eventually became the effective ruler of the known world.  The relative safety Luz found – relative, because the Boiling Isles are still a death trap for the unwary – may be due to Belos, a point acknowledged in one of the episodes.  Belos may be bad, and there is no disputing the fact he’s a tyrant, but the Savage Ages were worse.

I think this is true of a great many ‘male’ isekai stories.  Lest Darkness Fall had a hero who had to either introduce new technology or find himself being caught up and probably killed in the chaos that, in our world, destroyed Rome.  1632 and Island in the Sea of Time have protagonists who must either change the world around them, or risk being destroyed by the locals.  The Axis of Time books feature warships from the future, trapped in the past.  How can they escape the world around them?  What choice do they have, but to intervene?

Amphibia, in fact, seems to be both ‘male’ and ‘female.’  Anne finds herself in a place of relative safety – again, the world is something of a death trap – and she can work towards fitting in and getting herself home.  Sasha, by contrast, finds herself in a place where she must carve out a role for herself or risk being killed, which brings out the worst in her; Marcy, who doesn’t want to go home at all, spends her time trying to improve the world around her, to mixed results, while remaining blind to the shadowy manipulations surrounding her.  It doesn’t end well for her. 

The article notes that such stories are wish-fulfilment (it implies this is only true of ‘male’ isekai stories, but I think it’s true of ‘female’ stories too) and they tend to be power fantasies, in which the hero – scorned and rejected by his own world – finds another in which he is the admired superhero, after getting a chance to show what he can really do.  His rejection is the fault of a society that doesn’t recognise how great he truly is, thus justifying a series of conquests that eventually pave the way to empire and eternal fame.

I disagree, at least in the case of the third class of isekai stories.

First, a person from the modern world – with access to modern ideas – would be seen, at least at first, as astoundingly brilliant in the past.  What we see as trivia, things we have left behind long ago, would appear wondrous to them.  To us, a biplane from the First World War is a primitive joke; to Generals Grant and Lee, it would be a marvel beyond compare.  A person who knew how to churn out 1914s guns would have one hell of an edge over Napoleon, let alone William the Conqueror.  Or, in an alternate world, he might have new insights that the locals simply miss, because they know their world too well.  The application of the scientific method could change the world even if it doesn’t run on modern principles.

There is, in fact, a historical example of something along these lines.  Hernán Cortés, the conqueror of the Aztec Empire, was not – by European standards – a particularly good general.  Compared to the various city-states/tribes of the region, however, Cortés was brilliant.  He was playing from a far more advanced playbook – diplomatic as well as military and technological – and managed to lead a small force to victory over a far more numerous foe.

A writer who knows his stuff can do a very good job of outlining what happens when modern tech – and ideas – hit the past, or other worlds.  How do the locals react?  How do they take the new ideas, good and bad, and build on them?  What are the implications of future ideas entering the mainstream?  How do the great heroes – and villains – of history react to how the future sees them?  Is the future fixed, or can it be changed?

Second, what is wrong with adventure stories anyway?

Scott Palter, may he rest in peace, once commented that he’d grown up on studying history and reading fiction and the fiction was more fun.  I think that is essentially true.  James Bond, for example, may be a strikingly unrealistic spy, but he’s a lot more exciting than someone who sits at a desk all day.  The readers of pulpy adventures don’t want to be lectured: they want to see adventurers having adventures, they want to watch the world changing and developing … they even want to watch the heroes growing and changing too.  And they really don’t want people who are boring and/or reminders of their own failings.  Wesley Crusher was a poorly conceived, poorly written and poorly acted character, but the real problem was that he wasn’t the character anyone wanted to see. 

This may be a reflection of deeper problems within our society.  It is feeling increasingly small and, worse, increasingly confining.  The days in which one could go west in search of a better life are over; the space age is developing slowly and it may be decades before the average person can emigrate to another world.  There is less room for people to act out, let alone look for adventure or significance.  There is nothing new, right now, under the sun.  As Sue Townsend put it:

“They give us job creation schemes, when what we want are hopes and dreams.”

It is easy to say, of course, that many of the early isekai stories are, by modern standards, deeply problematic.  John Carter of Mars doesn’t read so well these days.  The Guns of the South made sense when it was written, based on what was known at the time, but it hasn’t aged as well as it should.  We know things, now, that Turtledove didn’t when he wrote the book.  And yet, that doesn’t strip them of their excitement.  One does not have to accept the beliefs of the main characters, let alone the unfortunate implications, to enjoy the stories.  And one can learn from the earlier stories.  Island in the Sea of Time has an empire-builder – William Walker – who is decidedly, in and out of the universe, the villain, as well as local characters who learn from the future and change the world, for the better and for the worse. 

But that isn’t the point.  The point is to have fun.  And, perhaps, watch modern jets scythe Nazi aircraft out of the sky.

And now you’ve read this far, I have a request to make.

It’s growing harder to make a living through writing these days.  If you liked this book, please leave a review where you found it, share the link, let your friends know (etc, etc).  Every little helps (particularly reviews).

Thank you.

Christopher G. Nuttall

Edinburgh, 2022

Her Majesty’s Warlord 29-30

This is the end of the first draft. The blog posts will be taken down shortly – before then, any comments are more than welcome

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The palace loomed up in front of us as we charged.

We didn’t bother with the main entrance.  The doors were firmly closed and probably barricaded.  An arrow flashed past us as we crashed through the windows instead, smashing glass – very expensive glass – as we landed in the dance hall and kept moving.  I barked orders, sending smaller units heading down to the council chambers while I led a force myself up to the throne room.  I suspected Sir Essex would be there, parking his butt on the throne.  It was a capital crime, if one wasn’t the monarch, but it wasn’t as if we could hang him more than once.  Believe me, I’d checked.

I silently blessed the warlords for forbidding the monarch from building a more imposing castle, even though I knew I would have to ensure Helen built one just to keep someone else from storming the palace again.  The corridors were wide enough for three men to move at once, designed for ease of movement rather than hampering attackers and helping defenders conceal themselves in the shadows before ambushing enemy forces.  We hurried past a row of statues, and walls upon walls of kingly portraits, keeping a wary eye out for ambushers.  The corridors were empty.  I wondered, numbly, what had happened to the servants.  The king had had hundreds tending to his every whim.

Hopefully, locked up below stairs, I thought.  We were going to have to carry out loyalty tests afterwards – I was fairly sure at least half the servants were on someone’s payroll – but right now, it wasn’t a major problem as long as they stayed out of the way.  The council wouldn’t want to risk someone freeing the princess, if they were more loyal to her than her father and his nobles.

I paused as we reached the antechamber, almost as large as the throne room itself.  Helen had told me it was designed to sort the men from the boys, or – more accurately – to make it clear who held the king’s favour and who didn’t.  Some courtiers would be waved in at once, others would be forced to wait and watch as others were allowed to enter ahead of them … personally, I suspected it was a good opportunity for networking.  I held up a hand to slow the charge as we pressed into the chamber, looking around warily. Someone had torn down all the paintings of the king, a clear sign he was probably dead.  Removing the king’s portraits while he was still alive was also a capital offense.

The heavy doors leading into the throne room – I couldn’t help thinking of them as stable doors, with smaller doors built into the larger ones – were closed and bolted.  I muttered a command to one of my followers, who slapped a shaped charge – our best attempt at a shaped charge – against the wood, then lit the fuse.  The explosion was lighter than I’d expected, but the doors fell from their hinges anyway and hit the floor with a deafening crash.  I charged forward, pushing through the smoke in hopes of surprising the enemy before they could react and start shooting.  Or running.  The councillors had to know they’d lost.  They might just get away if they ran for their lives before we sealed off the entire palace.

I cursed under my breath as I realised the throne room was empty.  An open coffin sat on front of the throne, waiting for us.  I felt a twinge of alarm as I hurried forward, all the old vampire movies coming to mind as I peered into the coffin.  Vampires were real, if not quite as depicted in Buffy.  The king’s lifeless eyes gazed up at me, in death somehow possessing a reality he’d never shown in life.  There were no signs of what had killed him, but … I knew he’d been murdered.  The coup plotters could hardly have risked leaving him alive.  Helen certainly looked like a far more attractive prize.

Which is clear proof they don’t know her very well, I thought.  And Sir Essex thinks he can go to sleep beside her, after …

I looked up at the throne.  It was funny how tarnished it looked, even though it was covered in gold, silver and precious stones.  It lacked the sheer gravities of the Iron Throne and yet … I felt an odd twinge of something I didn’t want to look at too closely as I slipped into the next room, my men following me.  The inner council chamber was just down the corridor … I saw something move and darted to one side, a dagger flying past my shoulder and striking the wall, clattering to the floor.  I fired at the same moment, the sound deafeningly loud in the corridor.  My attacker fell to the ground, grunting in pain.  My musket ball had taken him in the chest.  I gritted my teeth as I stepped over him.  There was no time to get him to a chirurgeon.  Even if we did, there was a very good chance he would die.

He was a traitor, I told myself, as I led the way into the inner chamber.  And he knew what he was doing when he did it.

The councillors – I was amused to note half of them seemed to be missing, either fled or imprisoned by their peers – stared at me, more shocked at my resurrection than the fact I’d stormed the palace.  I tried not to roll my eyes.  They hadn’t even had the excuse of seeing my – or at least a – body!  Idiots.  They could have paid through the nose, just for the pleasure of squashing me under their boot.  Instead, they’d trusted a rogue magician and placed their fates in his hands.

“His Majesty appointed us his daughter’s regents, shortly before his birth,” Lord Daladier said, pointing to a parchment on the table.  “We are in control of the city, at least until the princess is crowned.  And you …”

“Shut the fuck up.”  I jabbed the musket at his face.  It was unloaded – I hadn’t had time to reload – but he didn’t know it.  He recoiled so hard I thought I’d accidentally poked him in the face.  A couple of other councillors looked as if they wanted to faint dead away at such cheek.  The king had always been polite to them, even though he’d hated the bastards with the passion of a million white hot burning suns.  The idea of someone like me manhandling them …  “Where is she?”

Lord Daladier started to stammer.  “I … we are the council …”

I hit him.  He folded and hit the ground in a heap.  The councillors stared at me in astonishment, rapidly shading to anger and horror.  It was treason to hit a noble lord … even if he was a traitor himself.  I imagined they’d expected to be put under house arrest or quietly sent into exile, if their coup failed.  They really didn’t know Helen very well.  Given the chance, she’d execute most of them on the spot.  I didn’t give them time to think about it.  I didn’t have time.

“You have one chance,” I growled.  To them, I had to seem like a taboo-smashing monster out of nightmares.  “Where is she?”

“Upstairs,” Lord Bardwell managed.  “My Lord …”

“Quiet,” I snapped.  There was no sign of Sir Essex.  I feared the worst.  “My men will take care of you.  Do as you’re told and you may live to see the following morning.”

If not the day afterwards, I thought, as I hurried up the monarch’s private staircase.  Behind me, I heard complaints … brutally silenced.  The nobility would be more horrified at being pushed around by common-born troops than anything else, I figured.  My men would make the most of it.  The odds of any of them surviving long enough to see the next day are minute.

I slowed as I reached the top of the stairs, wishing for my pistol and enough bullets to see me though the day.  God alone knew what had happened to it.  I’d been carrying my gun when Fallon had enchanted me, but … I hoped the pistol had been left in the mansion, where it could be recovered after the fighting was over.  Or … perhaps it had been given to a local gunsmith, who would take it apart and figure out how to make something like it.  I’d resisted the urge to hand it over, knowing it gave me an advantage, but …

Don’t wish for things you can’t have, I told myself.  Never mind the pistol.  I wanted my old platoon, with modern weapons, training and experience.  I’d even settle for a bunch of jarheads.  You’ll just wind up heartbroken.

I’d never been in the king’s private chambers before, but I’d heard the stories.  The king lived in a gilded cage, surrounded by members of the aristocracy who were both his servants and gaolers.  They fought duels over who got to serve the king on his toilet, something that disgusted me even though I understood the logic behind it.  The chance to bend the king’s ear was not to be missed … I shook my head in disgust.  It wasn’t as if the king was that powerful.  And yet, having his signature on a document could make the difference between success or total failure. 

My eyes flickered from side to side, my ears open for stray sounds.  The chamber looked like an expensive suite in an expensive hotel, the walls lined with priceless artefacts and a handful of empty holders … I guessed they’d held swords, removed by the plotters to keep the king from launching a desperate final attack on his tormentors.  A small table was covered with unmarked bottles, probably wine so expensive that if you had to ask the price you couldn’t afford it.  I remembered all the stories about time travellers making booze for their new home and turning a profit … I’d never considered it myself.  The market was already oversaturated.

I saw something move, an instant before a man stepped out behind the curtain and levelled a musket at me.  It fired … the ball snapped past me and hit the wall.  I grinned and threw myself at him, knocking him to the ground.  The muskets really weren’t that accurate.  He was good at dirty fighting, I noted absently, and strong too.  His leathers absorbed many of my blows.  But I’d been a street kid who’d been taught by the army and I knew how to fight very dirty.  I slipped the blade out of my sleeve as he rolled over on top of me and rammed it into his chest.  Blood spilled, his eyes going very wide as I shoved him off me and cut his throat.  It was a mercy kill.  Even with magic, there was no way he was going to survive the wound.

Someone screamed, further down the corridor.  I threw caution to the winds, scooped up the dagger and ran, passing a handful of rooms – each one gaudier than the last – until I reached the bedchambers.  The king hadn’t slept with his wife, as far as I could tell.  From what I’d been told, he’d gone to her bedchambers whenever he wanted to have sex and otherwise left her alone.  I suspected the goldfish bowl had provoked a little performance anxiety.  I wouldn’t have cared to be watched by prying eyes when I made love to my life.

Unless he took pleasure in it, I thought.  The young men of Damansara had boasted in a manner that would make the average jerk jock blanch.  Or maybe he thought it would help ensure everyone knew the baby was his.

I crashed into the master bedchamber and stopped dead.  Sir Essex was staggering towards me, bleeding from a wound to his groin and another to his chest.  Behind him, Helen sat on the bed, wearing a dress and holding her virgin blade.  Sir Essex started to say something to me – I couldn’t make out the words – before vomiting blood and collapsing to the ground.  I stepped back hastily.  The wound was almost certainly mortal. 

“Helen!”  I stepped around the dying man and stared at her.  “What happened?”

Helen smiled, but there was a brittle edge to it.  “He wanted to have his way with me.”

I saw it, in a sudden awful moment of insight.  Sir Essex had known he was screwed, unless … if he had sex with Helen, he could force her to accept him as her consort.  Being raped would be held against her … he had to have thought, in his twisted mind, that she’d sooner pretend it had been consensual than admit the truth.  My stomach heaved in disgust as I glanced back at him, breathing his last, then looked at Helen.  She had a nasty bruise on her face, but otherwise seemed unharmed.  I hoped her bloodstained dress didn’t conceal more wounds.

Lucky he didn’t search her, I thought, numbly.  Didn’t he even think she might be carrying a blade?

“I should have aimed for the heart first,” Helen said.  She giggled, the sound somehow unnatural.  “I aimed for his groin and it took me three tries to actually hit it.  It was such a small target.”

I laughed, despite everything.  “I think you’d better get dressed,” I said.  I didn’t want to give her time to brood.  “And then we need to get the city under control.”

Helen stood, brushing down her dress.  “Good thinking,” she said.  “Wait outside.  I’ll join you in a moment.”

Sir Essex gurgled, and breathed his last.  I checked his body, just to be sure, then took hold of the dead man’s collar and dragged him outside.  The Life Guards were hurrying towards me, their commander in the lead.  They looked relieved to see the dead man, although I saw a pair of them wince when they realised where he’d been wounded.  Helen’s story would probably grow in the telling, until everyone knew she’d killed Sir Essex with her bare hands.  I wondered how many of her councillors would give her lip after she’d literally castrated a man.

“Sir,” Captain Ochre said.  “The palace is under our control.  The councillors are bound and waiting in the throne room.  The rest of their armsmen have thrown down their arms and surrendered.  Your men are requesting orders.”

I forced myself to think.  I’d come up with rough ideas of what I wanted to do, if we won the day, but it was dangerous to devise specific plans before you knew how matters had worked themselves out.  The city was still on a knife edge.  We hadn’t caught all the councillors, and the commoners were feeling their strength, and the warlords would probably never have a better chance to catch us with our pants down.  And …

“Send a trio of horsemen after the troops, tell them to stand down and wait for further orders,” I said.  Fallon would have to signal Wilhelm, to tell him to hold his position and wait too.  “Make sure the orders are proclaimed to the entire army, not just the officers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then send squads to take possession of the mansions,” I added.  “The councillors and their families are to be placed under arrest.”

Captain Ochre looked doubtful.  “My Lord, is that wise?”

“Yes,” I said, flatly.  We’d never have a better chance to break the aristocracy power, once and for all.  It had to be done quickly, if it was to be done at all.  Given time, either the aristos would retake power or the mob would destroy them.  “And hurry.”

The door opened.  Helen stepped into the corridor, wearing her father’s robes.  They looked a little odd on her frame – it was clear they’d been designed for someone far larger – but I doubted anyone would make a fuss, not today.  She stared down at Sir Essex’s body, then raised her eyes to meet mine.  I knew, in that moment, she had the backbone she needed to be a great queen.  And the warlords would never know what had hit them.

“Take the body to the gallows and hang it,” she ordered, curtly.  “And leave it dangling for a week or two.”

Captain Ochre looked as if he wanted to protest.  I hid my amusement with an effort.  It was customary for aristocrats to be beheaded, if they were executed at all.  Hanging was reserved for the lower classes.  I wondered if Sir Essex’s family would dare complain, when they heard what had happened to his body.  Personally, I was torn between thinking of it as pointless spite – the bastard was already dead – and a grim awareness she had to make an example of her would-be rapist.  If nothing else, proof she could kill a man would keep the lords from plotting for a few days.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Captain Ochre said. He corrected himself a moment later.  “Your Majesty.”

Helen nodded and swept past him, walking down the stairs to the throne room with a grace I could only admire.  The chamber was crammed with prisoners, lying on the ground with their clothes in tatters and their hands bound behind their backs.  They’d be whining about that too, I reflected snidely.  It was a decidedly improper way to treat aristocratic regicides.  Captain Ochre rested his hand on his sword as Helen stared at them, her face cold and hard.  I was pretty sure none of the traitors would live long enough to complain.

“Have them interrogated,” Helen said, seating herself on the throne.  “And then, when their associates have been uncovered, hang them too.  And then seize their families and property for the crown.”

Captain Ochre swallowed.  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

I smirked.  Why doth treason never prosper?  Because if it prospers, none dare call it treason.

The thought reminded me.  I had a traitor of my own to attend to.

Chapter Thirty

“Why?”

Sigmund’s hands twisted as he looked at me, his eyes darting to the window overlooking the street below … and the aristocratic corpses, blowing in the wind as they dangled from makeshift gallows.  I had seen some gruesome sights in my time, from men and women mangled in war to the atrocities inflicted by terrorists and insurgents on anyone who refused to bend the knee to them, but there was a cool deliberateness about the sight that chilled me to the bone.  Helen had flatly refused to have the prisoners beheaded, after their guilt had been proven beyond all doubt.  She’d told everyone they didn’t even merit a traitor’s death.  I feared it boded ill for the future.

But then, she does have to make it clear she’s in charge now, I thought, tiredly.  She cannot afford to be seen as weak, even if it means being seen as spiteful instead.

I held Sigmund’s eyes.  “Why?”

My castellan said nothing.  I glared.  It had been him who’d let the warlock into the mansion, him who’d distracted me long enough for the bastard to place Fallon under his control and use her against me.  I’d known he wasn’t happy, but still …

“My Lord,” Sigmund started.  “You must understand …”

“Understand what?”  I clenched my fists.  I could respect a man who fought me openly, even if I didn’t like him, but a traitor?  A man who put a knife in my back?  “Why did you betray me?”

Sigmund looked down.  “I love the house,” he said, finally.  “And you were ruining it.  You brought all the riffraff …”

“And you probably consider me riffraff too,” I said.  “Right?”

He said nothing, but I saw it on his face.  I felt a surge of hatred that nearly overwhelmed me.  Sigmund was a servant, yet he’d deluded himself into thinking he was actually important … that he actually ran the house.  He did, in a way, but … I remembered some of my ancestors telling themselves that they were really the ones in charge, a form of Stockholm Syndrome that was all that stood between them and utter despair.  I might have felt sorry for him, if he hadn’t nearly gotten me killed, and Fallon – and Helen – sent to a fate worse than death.

“You brought guttersnipe sluts into the house,” Sigmund protested.  “And slaves and thieves and carpenters and soldiers.”

I held up my hand.  “You had every right to disagree with me about anything,” I said, stiffly.  By local standards, that was a degree of liberalism that went all the way into cloud cuckoo land.  “But that disagreement didn’t absolve you from following my orders.  If you found yourself unwilling to carry them out, you should have resigned.  I know it wouldn’t have been easy to find another placement, at your age, but it could have been done.  Instead, you plotted against me.”

My eyes hardened.  “I know someone who sent a servant and his family to the gutters for betraying him,” I said, taking no pleasure in his flinch.  “And that servant had far better cause than you.”

Sigmund wobbled.  “My Lord, I …”

“Be quiet.”  I looked him up and down.  No one would have faulted me for beating him to death with my bare hands.  He’d had an obligation to carry out my orders, even if they included crimes and outright atrocities.  “I will buy you a ticket on a stagecoach, leaving tonight.  You can pack one bag and take it with you, wherever you go.  If I see you again, you will be executed on the spot.  Do I make myself clear?”

“But …”

“Yes or no?”  I held his eyes.  “Well?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Sigmund said.  “I …”

I dismissed him with a wave.  My guards would escort him back to his quarters, watch him as he packed and then shove him out the door.  Sigmund would find it hard to adjust, even if he went no further than Damansara, but he was an educated man.  There was always work for people who could read, write and count past ten without taking off their socks.  And … by local standards, I’d been remarkably merciful.  I could have drawn my pistol and shot him through the head and everyone would have cheered.

“You could have killed him,” Fallon said, as she stepped into the office.  “Or enslaved him.”

“It isn’t easy to confess one’s sins,” I told her, tiredly.  “If people think I might give them a second chance, they’ll be more likely to admit their failures to me.”

Fallon looked doubtful.  I shrugged.  I’d had a couple of commanding officers who exploded with rage every time a junior officer admitted he’d fucked up.  They’d been fools as well as assholes.  Some mistakes had been stupid – like all officers, I’d gone through my share of stupid greenie lieutenant moments – and I’d deserved the ass-chewing I got for them, but convincing one’s juniors that they wouldn’t get a fair hearing meant they’d start concealing things from you until it was far too late to do anything about it.  And then one got fucked in a very different way.

“I hope you’re right,” she said.  “You’ll be pleased to know the sorcerers have repaired the wards.  And they didn’t find any trace of your pistol.”

I scowled.  I’d had the mansion searched, to no avail.  The warlock might have taken the weapon, if he’d recognised it for what it was, only for it to be swallowed by the sinkhole.  I shivered, feeling another tie to my past fading away.  What did my wife even look like?  It was harder and harder to remember anything about her.  And my sons …

“I will live,” I said.  “Anything else?”

“You have a few hundred petitions from various aristos pleading their case,” Fallon said, rather sarcastically.  “Apparently, they were all locked in their rooms, singing very loudly, and utterly unaware of what their relatives were doing.  They’re completely innocent, so please – pretty please – could they have their property back?”

I snorted.  Helen hadn’t been happy to hear I’d promised debt forgiveness and general emancipation in her name, but she’d signed the documents anyway.  The slaves had been freed, the indentured workers granted the right to claim their wages; hell, the poor bastards who’d rented from the aristos – through a string of cut-outs to keep the riffraff from getting too close to the nobles – had simply been given their apartments for free.  It had made Helen – Queen Helen – very popular, as well as undercutting the nobility.  The weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth had been almost audible.  I’d seen some performative displays in my time, but this …

And they think humbling themselves before the queen will save them, I thought, snidely.  It’s too late to convince Helen they were on her side all along.

“Perhaps I should sell them onions,” I mused.  “It would make their tears a little more convincing.”

Fallon giggled.  “It might just work.”

I turned back to the window and peered over the city.  The streets had been surprisingly quiet, once the impromptu street party had come to an end, although there’d been the occasional quiet bloodbath as scores were settled before the forces of law and order were firmly back in control.  I’d put troops on the streets, despite the risks, while rounding up the remainder of the gladiators, mercenaries and armsmen.  They’d only been following orders, and they couldn’t be blamed for that, but I was reluctant to release them.  They would go straight to Cuthbert – or one of the other warlords – and offer their services.  It might be better if we hired them ourselves.

Which will be politically difficult, I reflected.  The city wants them dead yesterday.

Fallon joined me.  “What now?”

I said nothing.  The warlords were quiet, but I knew that wouldn’t last.  They’d probably backed the coup, in hopes things could return to normal without all-out war.  Now … I had the authority, finally, to accelerate our preparations for the coming conflict, but I was fairly sure we wouldn’t have the time to put together an unbeatable army.  The warlords would strike soon.  I was mildly surprised they hadn’t struck already.  They had to know the coup had failed.  And with word of debt relief and land distribution spreading north and south, the ground was shifting under their feet.  Their serfs would soon start demanding reform too …

And we can encourage that, by sending more agents into enemy territory, I thought.  If they all start demanding change, who knows what will happen?

“We’ll see,” I said, finally.  “If we can get ready before the storm, we can meet and break it.”

Fallon shot me a sharp look.  She’d meant something else.  We were together now and … people would talk.  Probably.  I was a powerful nobleman – Helen had made sure I got a bunch of titles, as had her other supporters – and Fallon was a magician from a commoner background.  It was one hell of a mess, even by local standards.  Which of us was socially superior to the other?  I sighed, inwardly.  A number of local widow – some styling themselves widows even though their husbands had fled, fearing Helen’s wrath – had already tried to propose to me.  It was absurd.  They didn’t even know me.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.  She was young enough to be my daughter.  I knew what I would have said to any man my age who’d come courting my daughter, even though – here – her family would be very pleased if she married up.  And yet, I liked her and perhaps I could have loved her and I had taken her virginity …  “Shall we see how it goes?”

Fallon looked displeased, but said nothing as a messenger hurried into the office.  “My Lord, Her Majesty requests your urgent presence!”

“Understood.”  I turned from the window and headed to the door.  “We’ll be there shortly.”

The messenger nodded and practically ran out the door and down the stairs.  I guessed he’d been shocked by Helen’s willingness to execute a bunch of noblemen, despite the crimes they’d committed … and, of course, the endless babbling over who the princess should marry that had made it impossible for her to find a husband.  I wondered how Helen intended to solve that problem, now she was the queen.  Could she find a suitable nobleman from the other side of the world, someone without a local power base?  Or … or would she have to keep an eye on her husband at all times, in fear he’d put a knife in her as soon as he sired a heir.  In some ways, being queen hadn’t made her life any easier.  I didn’t blame her for purging her enemies as violently as possible.  They’d deserved worse.

And there are people complaining the executed men didn’t have their heads cut off and mounted on spikes, I thought, as we strode past the dangling bodies.  It struck me as odd – hanged or beheaded, the dead men were dead – but I wasn’t a native.  Some people are never satisfied.

The palace looked more like an armed fortress than ever, although I doubted the defences would stand up to a serious attack.  I’d proven that, only a few short days ago.  The city was hastily throwing together proper walls, and riverside defences in case the warlords thrust up or down the river, but the palace really needed to be torn down and replaced with a proper castle.  Or perhaps not … our weapons were getting better and better with every passing month, to the point castles would rapidly become death traps.  I’d already smashed Aldred’s castle flat. 

Helen stood as we entered, her eyes flickering to Fallon and then back to me.  I wondered what she was thinking.  I was her strong right arm … she probably considered my marriage an issue of national security.  It was just another thing I’d have to get used to, I decided, even though it felt weird.  Did anyone really care who married the President’s closest friends and allies?

“It’s been an interesting couple of days,” Helen said, after we’d exchanged pleasantries.  “I had a few lords come to see me, urging I marry as quickly as possible.  I think they had a few names in mind, so I told them I’d think about it and sent them away.  The city council wants my permission to hold new elections, and the Nightingales want to expand their operations … even send people north and south.”

Her eyes sharpened.  “And we’ve been told there’s an emissary coming from the north.”

“From Cuthbert,” I said.  “What for?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect he’s going to tell us to give us what he wants or he’ll beat us up and take it anyway,” Helen said.  “There were some hints, from the interrogations, that Cuthbert supplied much of the money, as well as some of the gladiators.  We don’t know for sure.  The fixer vanished without a trace.”

“Or simply went underground,” I said.  That wasn’t good news.  A criminal might hide indefinitely, but a warlord’s agent couldn’t remain underground for long.  His master would be displeased.   “We’ll have to keep our eyes open for him.”

“Indeed,” Helen said.  “How long will it take the warlords to respond, after we reject their demands?”

I frowned, considering the matter.  There was nothing to be gained by agreeing to any of their demands, even if they were – on the surface – reasonable and cheap.  The bastards would take any hint of appeasement as a sign of weakness and up their demands, until they rendered us helpless or found something we literally couldn’t give them.  And they had to know we would reject them too.  We’d beaten Aldred.  The rest of the warlords had to have taken note.

“It depends,” I said, finally.  “Assuming their armies are ready to march, which I doubt, they could be on us within two weeks.  I’d say a month is far more likely, but even that may be giving them too much credit.”

“A month,” Helen echoed.  She took a long breath.  “Can we win?”

I owed her a straight answer.  “The odds are in our favour,” I said.  “We have better weapons and better training.  Probably.  I don’t know if they’ve set up factories of their own or simply bought weapons from somewhere else.  Given time, we’ll have more manpower too.  But it will be costly.  And yes, we could lose.”

“Wars are chancy things,” Helen agreed.  “But we have no choice, do we?”

I shook my head.  The warlords wouldn’t be satisfied with Helen’s hand in marriage, not now.  They’d want the army disbanded and slaughtered, the factories burnt to the ground, the railroads torn up and abandoned … they’d want to destroy everything we’d built, in a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to put the clock back.  They didn’t have the wit to see the world was changing, that my predecessor had started an industrial revolution that was going to render them obsolete, that they could either ride the winds or be blown away by them.   Or perhaps they realised they no longer had a place in the modern world.  Or perhaps they just wanted to see the world burn.

Damn them, I thought.

Helen stood, her dark eyes cold and hard.  “Prepare your armies, Warlord,” she ordered, firmly.  “The sword is drawn.  And it will not be seethed until the war is won.”

I bowed.  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

End of Book II

Elliot Will Return In:

Queenmaker

Coming Soon.

Her Majesty’s Warlord 27-28

Chapter Twenty-Seven

If anyone hears about this, I thought, I will never live it down.

The plan had seemed a good one, when we’d galloped through the roads to a farming town only a few short miles from the city.  We would hire a farmer’s cart, then Fallon would turn us into chickens and carry us into the city as if we were being taken to the marketplace for slaughter.  I’d seen plenty of live animals being sold on the streets, enough to convince me no one would see anything odd about a young woman being chickens to sell.  But, as I waited inside the wooden cage, it dawned on me the plan could go horribly wrong.  We could be killed quite by accident, the plan foiled by someone who didn’t have the slightest idea what he’d done.  And even if it worked …

They’ll be calling you chicken for the rest of your life, I thought.  Being a chicken was slightly less disconcerting than being a frog, but it was still thoroughly weird and unpleasant even though I knew – this time – the spell would eventually wear off.  And you won’t be able to do anything to them.

I forced myself to wait, clucking loudly, as Fallon guided the cart towards the walls.  There were guards on the gates, of course, but they looked hopelessly overwhelmed by the sheer mass of carts heading towards the city.  The farmers brought fresh produce every day – and, unless they had enough magic to cast preservation spells, risked losing it if they couldn’t get into the city.  I suspected the council hadn’t bothered to think through the implications when they closed the city, something that was going to bite them hard even if the plan failed completely.  They might have enchanted cellars, spelled to keep food fresh and healthy, but much of the population did not.  They were going to have a riot on their hands pretty damned soon. 

The guards eyed Fallon tiredly, then waved her through the gate.  I breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed the cart forward.  Damansara’s city guards had a bad reputation for harassing drivers, particularly young female drivers, and they were rarely dissuaded by anything short of naked force.  Fallon had used a spell to give her bad breath, just in case they tried to steal a kiss, but … the cart lurched inwards, making its way towards the market.  I prayed, silently, that we’d be able to take a wrong turning before too long.  The last thing we needed was someone paying too much attention to us.

Fallon cracked the whip.  The oxen turned into an innkeeper’s courtyard and crashed to a halt behind the inn.  I heard shouting as the innkeeper – or one of his sons – hurried towards us, ready to chase us back out again.  He had a right to be pissed, I suppose, although using that sort of language on anyone was asking for trouble.  His face pulsed with anger as he glared at Fallon, then stared in shock as she passed him a handful of gold coins.  I wondered if he’d have the sense to realise he was being massively overpaid.  A stagecoach, crammed to bursting with wealthy passengers taking a breather in the city, wouldn’t pay so much.  And if he realised no farmer should have so much money.

“Go away,” Fallon said, curtly.  “And don’t come back for an hour.”

I felt a chill run down my spine, insofar as I had one now, as I realised she’d woven magic into her words.  The innkeeper should have resisted – it was his courtyard, even though she’d given him enough money to put a down payment on another inn – but instead he turned and scurried away.  I’d heard all sorts of stories about witches convincing people to believe the most absurd things, from the money order being in the mail to them having enough power to turn the entire city to gold, but I hadn’t really believed it until now.  It was creepy as hell.  It made me wonder what would happen when – if – we had kids.  Would they have magic too?  Would they expect to go to magic school?

Fallon hopped down and opened the back of the cart.  I felt the chicken’s brain threatening to panic at the sudden immensity in front of us – me – although I was still in firm control.  It still felt weird, as she snapped her fingers at me.  The world shifted so violently I had to close my eyes to keep from being sick, everything suddenly becoming so wrong  … I found myself on my hands and knees, in a cage that was suddenly very cramped.  I crawled out, hoping the innkeeper wasn’t watching from a safe distance.  The courtyard had a wall, but it wasn’t designed for privacy.  The neighbours could peer down into the yard if they wished.

I felt my legs shake as I dropped to the ground.  “I’m beginning to see why people don’t do this all the time.”

“There’s a cautionary story about someone who had a sorcerer turn him into an object, so he could be carried into the enemy’s lair,” Fallon said, undoing the rest of the spells one by one.  She looked winded, as if she had pushed herself to the limit.  “It never occurred to him that he’d need to find a way to turn back.”

“Idiot,” I said.  I put out a hand to keep her from falling, then glanced at the others.  “Shall we go?”

I led the way out of the courtyard and down the street.  The innkeeper wouldn’t be amused when he realised we’d abandoned the ox and cart, but … finders keepers.  It wasn’t as if we wanted it back.  We’d already paid well over the odds for the pair, then paid the landlord to take care of it for a day or two.  I didn’t really care if the innkeeper sold it to a passing farmer or turned the ox into dinner and the cart into firewood.  Win or lose, it wouldn’t matter.

The streets grew quieter as we made our way towards the poorer parts of the city.  Clusters of guardsmen marched up and down, their semi-professionalism betraying their true nature as gladiators or mercenaries.  The new rulers of the city were making a show of force.  I was surprised they weren’t harassing the locals, but … I guessed the council had paid through the nose – with the promise of more – to keep them from angering the population.  It didn’t seem to be working.  There was a nasty feeling in the air, a suggestion of resentment and hatred that would lead, rapidly and inevitably, to extreme violence.  I feared the worst. 

I breathed a sigh of relief as we turned the corner and spied the soup kitchen.  The Nightingales were still at work, bringing food and medical advice to the poor.  I had feared they’d be ordered to go home, or leave the city if they didn’t have wealthy or powerful families, but the council had been wise enough not to poke that particular hornet’s nest.  I hid my amusement as we marched up to the door, sidestepping the line and hailing the sister waving people into the hall.  Her eyes went wide as she recognised me.  We were shown into Sister Anabella’s office at once.

“My Lord,” she said.  “We heard you were dead!”

“I got better,” I said.  She shot me a look that suggested my joke had fallen flat.  “What’s been going on, while I’ve been gone?”

Sister Anabella looked shaken, but made a game attempt to outline the situation.  “The king is rumoured to be dead.  No one knows for sure.  The council is in control.  The … the … ah, princess … is engaged to be married to Sir Essex.  She hasn’t been seen in public since you died … ah, reported dead.  There’s no word on when she will actually be crowned, or if her husband will be crowned alongside her.”

My lips twitched.  Helen was stubborn.  There was no way she’d willingly agree to have her husband crowned alongside her.  It wouldn’t so much dilute her authority as weaken it beyond repair.  I had no doubt her captors were doing everything in their power, from threats to beatings and magic spells, to convince her to submit to them.  And yet, as long as she held out, the council couldn’t legitimise its coup.  I had a nasty feeling they were already looking for possible replacements, even if it meant creating a family tree out of whole cloth. 

“Right,” I said.  “We have only a short space of time to do something to save the princess and ourselves.  I want you to send runners to …

I paced back and forth, issuing orders so quickly she had no time to object.  I didn’t want her thinking she could back out, that she could keep her head down and wait to see who came out on top.  She was probably safer than the rest of us, being a young aristocratic woman.  She might be stripped of her possessions, and declared a permanent minor child, but at least she wouldn’t be killed outright.  I had no doubt I – and the rest of my allies – would be killed on the spot if we fell into enemy hands.  The council wouldn’t risk leaving us alive.

“The broadsheet writers are on their way,” Sister Anabella told me.  “And so are the others.”

I nodded, curtly.  I was going to need them.  And many others … I’d sent runners to collect what information they could, but it was hard to tell truth from lies.  It was sheer luck the council hadn’t realised the possibilities of spreading rumours themselves, trying to keep the populace off balance long enough for them to make their control of the city permanent.  I guessed they didn’t really give a damn about anyone who didn’t have a title.  The aristocrats either backed the coup or were sitting on the sidelines, waiting to see who won.  I guessed some of the older families were playing both sides, in hopes they’d survive whatever happened.  I’d seen that in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Sometimes, it had even worked. 

“My Lord!”  I looked up to see Violet, running into the room.  She looked healthier than before, and very – very – pleased to see me.  “I thought you were …”

She broke off and started a curtsy, then stopped herself.  “I thought …”

“It’s alright,” I told her.  I resisted the urge to give her a hug.  “What happened to you?”

Violet’s face twisted, as if she’d bitten into something sour.  “The guards came for us,” she said.  “I decided it would be better to be elsewhere and crawled through the pipes to escape.  The others were taken into custody.”

Fallon bit off an oath.  “Sigmund,” she snarled.  “He must have been on their side all along.”

I cursed under my breath.  I’d wondered how the warlock had managed to get into the mansion without setting off alarms.  If Sigmund had helped him … it made a certain degree of sense, although I didn’t understand why.  Had I been that bad a master?  It wasn’t as if I’d kicked him around, molested the maids or anything else many other noblemen considered fun and games.  Perhaps he’d been bribed, or threatened, or … I shook my head.  Right now, Sigmund wasn’t an immediate problem.  I’d find out if he was a traitor later, then deal with him if he was.

“They have all the craftsmen under guard,” Violet told me.  “I don’t know what’ll happen to them.”

“They should be fine,” I said.  The craftsmen might be enslaved – again, in some cases – but I doubted they’d be killed.  They were too important to be murdered.  Probably.  My mystery predecessor had let the technological genie well and truly out of the bottle.  If the council slaughtered the craftsmen, and their apprentices, they would only be cutting their own throats and those of the entire country.  “I need you to take a few messages for me.”

Violet beamed.  “Anything.”

I gave her a set of instructions and sent her on her way, then spoke briefly to the handful of agents I’d sent out to gather what intelligence they could.  The council – to give them a certain amount of credit – was operating a pretty tight ship.  They’d taken over the palace, detained the monarch’s servants and generally made it impossible for us to know what was actually going on inside the building.  The only good news, as far as I could tell, was that they probably hadn’t been able to take the princess out of the palace.  It wasn’t as if they had anywhere else they could stash her, not without tipping the balance of power on the council beyond repair.  I wondered, idly, how they intended to keep Sir Essex under control.  Did they intend to let him father the heir, then arrange a quick accident?

And they may already have left it too late, I thought, grimly.  Helen is pushing forty.  What happens if she can’t have children any longer?

I told myself not to think about it as I went around laying the groundwork for an uprising.  The broadsheets would spread propaganda, both subtle and gross; the bards and other influencers would tell stories of the bastards who’d murdered the king, and how they intended to grind the poor and helpless under their boots.  They’d tell the city the land reform program was going to be halted, that landlords would be permitted to up their rents at will, that new businesses would be taxed out of existence and, perhaps, the nobility would even extend slavery to anyone who didn’t have a knighthood.  The stories would grow in the telling and they’d be believed.  Or so I hoped.

The second set of rumours, the ones we couldn’t afford to have traced in a hurry, were darker.  The councillors were already plotting against their partners, each councillor working to undermine the others and marry the princess for themselves.  I doubted they would all be believed, at least at first, but they’d have an effect.  The nobles might not pay any attention to such absurdities; their clients, the ones who had far more to lose if their patrons started to lose their power and influence, certainly would.  It wouldn’t be long before rival groups of armsmen started fighting each other, despite the best efforts of their masters.  I hoped it would lead to all-out war.  And then …

I moved from place to place, addressing the various semi-official political groups.  “The council will not recognise your right to exist,” I told them, time and time again.  They nodded in agreement.  The nobility had no interest in unions, let alone political clubs and pressure groups.  They hated the Levellers and wanted to crack down on them.  Hard.  They’d do it, too, as soon as they thought they could get away with it.  “Princess Helen, on the other hand, will be grateful for your help.”

Fallon nudged me, after one speech.  “Will the princess really free the slaves and cancel debt?”

I grimaced.  Helen would not be pleased, when she realised how many promises I’d made in her name.  Freeing the slaves who fought for her would be tricky and cancelling debts … it was going to be tricky, even though many of the slaveowners and loan sharks were closely linked to the rebel noblemen.  The other promises – freedom of speech, the right to bear arms, low taxes – might even be worse.  But we were in no position to bargain.  We needed their help and … we’d have to keep our word afterwards, or risk another uprising.  I hoped the princess would listen to reason.

“I think she’ll understand,” I said, finally.  “One way or the other, the current situation is unsustainable.”

The tension on the streets was sharper now, as we made our way around the city.  A handful of patrolling guards had been attacked and killed, their bodies abandoned and left to rot in the gutter.  I’d made sure to spread rumours about how the imported guardsmen were really nothing more than mercenaries, stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down and raping women, children, and animals.  The stories had been believed too, even after they’d grown in the telling.  I wasn’t surprised.  The local heralds were even less trusted than the tabloids back home.  The more they denied the incidents, the more the locals would believe them to be true.

“There was a fistfight between two armsmen in the upmarket tavern,” Violet said, when we finally returned to the soup kitchen.  “It turned into an all-out brawl, dragging in guards from all over the place.  They all think the others started it.”

“Good.”  I allowed myself a tight smile.  The city was on a knife-edge.  “Did you find the troops?”

“Yes.”  Violet’s face fell.  “They’re locked in their barracks.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.  I’d been sure the council wouldn’t execute the trained men I’d brought with me, but … I’d feared the worst.  Horst and Fallows weren’t exactly nobility, certainly not by local standards.  The council might have decided it would be better to disperse with their services …

“There’s also a story about a million men marching on the city,” Violet added.  “Apparently, your corpse has risen from the grave and is leading an army.”

“Charming,” I said.  It was strange, although not atypical, to think the locals preferred to imagine my zombie rather than Wilhelm taking command in his own name.  Idiots.  “And they still can’t count.”

“No,” Fallon agreed.  “A million men?”

“So they say,” Violet said, with a shrug.  “And no one dares gainsay them.”

I shrugged too.  A million men … if I’d had a million-man army under my control, there would have been no need to pussyfoot around.  They had to know it, didn’t they?  But most army counts were exaggerated beyond belief.  I’d heard stories insisting I’d led a hundred thousand men in the first battle against Aldred and I knew for a fact it had been just under a hundred.

“Get some rest,” I ordered.  I glanced at Fallon, then back at Violet.  “Tomorrow will be a very busy day.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The following morning felt very much like Baghdad, in the days before the insurgency exploded into life.

I could feel the tension in the air as I rose, ate a hearty breakfast despite not feeling particularly hungry, then heard the reports from my agents.  The city was technically under curfew, with the guardsmen authorised to arrest anyone on the streets between dusk and dawn, but hardly anyone paid any attention to their orders outside the wealthier parts of the city.  The guardsmen had been attacked repeatedly, a problem made worse by their orders going astray or being rewritten before they reached their recipient.  I had disliked the idea of spreading black propaganda at first, but I had to admit it had been effective.  The entire city was on edge.

And they’ll soon start looking for the people behind the rumours, I thought.  We’d caught them flatfooted – it helped most of the gladiators and mercenaries didn’t know the city very well – but that was about to change.  They’d start hunting for the printing presses soon enough, then sealing the city again.  I doubted they’d be in a hurry to break into the soup kitchens – the locals would riot, if there was any hint the council was going to shut them down – yet I doubted the immunity would last.  We don’t have much time.

Sister Anabella looked tired, tired and worn, as she entered the room.  She hadn’t had much sleep.  The Nightingales weren’t meant to get involved in politics, but a number had taken advantage of their relative safety – enforced by the gods and, more practically, a grateful population – to help spread the word.  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, given it would eventually rebound in my face, but there was nothing I could do about it.  They had every reason to want to get involved too, despite everything.  I just hoped the sisters wouldn’t wind up paying for it.

“We just got a message,” she said.  “The first groups are ready to move.”

I nodded, curtly.  “Tell them to proceed as planned,” I said, as I stood.  There was no more time.  The die was cast.  And other such clichés.  “They know what to do.”

My heart started to race as we made our way down to the streets, then headed towards the docks.  The city was quiet, but – as time went on – I could hear shouting in the distance.  The protest march was underway, hundreds and thousands of people demanding an end to the council’s lockdown and the release of the princess.  I hoped the councillors were quaking in their boots.  The broadsheets had told the entire city the princess was going to free the slaves and cancel all the debts when she took the throne, spurring all the people to take to the streets to demand her freedom.  They didn’t really give much of a damn about her personally – it wasn’t as it mattered to them who sat on the throne – but the prospect of being free to breathe, to live without serving ruthless masters?  They’d go to bat for her if she promised them their freedom.  And then …

Street urchins hurried past me, carrying the latest broadsheets and posters to encourage the people to rise against the council.  They’d spent much of the night sneaking around, putting up posters all over the city; they’d be ripped down in short order, once the armsmen saw them, but it would be too late to keep others from seeing them too.  I’d had the urchins send notes too, bombarding the lesser nobles with promises of amnesty if they kept their armsmen at home and out of the fray.  I had no real intention of keeping those promises, not completely.  This Emancipation Proclamation was not going to be screwed up by a President who failed to realise times had changed, and that he was very much on the wrong side of history.  I was sure Princess Helen was smarter than Andrew Johnston.  It would be hard to be stupider.

I put the thought out of my mind as we reached the riverbank.  The bridge had been sealed off by the council, but their guards hadn’t bothered to take a good look at the underside when they’d taken control.  It was simple enough, with Fallon casting a concealment spell, for us to clamber over the river and reach the island.  The river was teeming with boats – the fishermen were out in force, as were the bargemen and merchants who depended on the river for their livelihood – and no one paid any attention to us.  I glanced up the street towards the mansion – it looked dark and cold, as if my staff had been ordered to stay away – and then led the way down towards the barracks.  I’d hoped the gates would be guarded by regular troops – I might have been able to either overawe them or bluff my way through – but someone had had the sense to put their armsmen on duty instead.  I doubted it had been Sir Essex.  He’d never been the type to imagine infantry capable of disobeying orders.

“This way,” I said.  “Quickly.”

The house near the wall looked oddly out of place – and abandoned – as we walked up to the door and picked the lock.  I’d looked it up, when I’d realised what the house concealed, and discovered it belonged to a sergeant who was still on the rolls despite being dead for years.  It puzzled me – the sergeants didn’t need to sneak around the complex, nor did the officers – but right now I was glad of their foresight.  I closed the door behind us, found the passageway under the basement and started to walk through the tunnel.  It came up in the administrative building …

Perhaps it was put in place by the administrative staff, rather than the sergeants, I thought, as the tunnel started to slope up again.  As long as no one took a good look at the books, no one would guess it existed.

I put the thought aside as I peered through the peephole, then pushed open the hatch and stepped into the chamber.  It was empty.  I’d cut down on the sheer number of admin personnel when I’d taken office and the council had probably ordered the rest to stay home and wait.  I kept my ears open as Fallon and the others joined me, but heard nothing beyond distant shouting.  If everything had gone according to plan, the protestors should be pushing across the bridges right now.

Or someone greeted them with a hail of fire, my thoughts pointed out.  Protest movements had rarely taken off in countries ruled by monsters.  The protesters were beaten, or arrested, or simply gunned down in the streets.  These assholes don’t have anything like a fucking conscience.  They can shoot the protesters and laugh afterwards.

I kept moving, darting from side to side as we reached the outer door.  The barracks was shut up tight – the bastards had even covered the windows in cloth – with a pair of armed guards standing outside.  I guessed the other doors were locked and sealed.  If someone had done that back home, their court martial would be the shortest formality on record.  It had to be sweltering in there.  I glanced down at myself, then drew my flintlock and strode towards the two guards.  They were bored and clearly untrained.  I knew precisely what my instructors would have wanted to do to me, if I’d let a potential hostile get go close.  They might even have given into the urge to hit me ….

“Keep your hands where we can see them and no one has to get hurt,” I said, in my best impression of a gangster from a heist movie.  “Step away from the doors.”

I saw a flash of panic in their eyes, followed by fear.  I might shoot them – and if I didn’t, their master might have them shot.  Or tortured.  Or turned into slugs.  I motioned for them to move, my finger tightening on the trigger.  The longer I gave them to think, the greater the chance they’d do something stupid.  The noise from the distant crowd was growing louder, and closer, but I didn’t dare assume a gunshot would be ignored.  We were still years from practical silencers.

The guards obeyed, staring at us with fearful eyes.  I nodded to my escorts, who tied them up quickly, then threw open the doors.  It was like opening an oven.  A gust of warm air nearly bowled me over.  Inside, I saw Horst, Fallows and Captain Ochre, one of the King’s Life Guards.  I’d smirked, the first time I’d heard the title, but the Life Guards were a pretty good unit, even if I did think they should wear swimsuits instead of armour.  They all looked tired and drained, although – thankfully – the air wasn’t hot enough to cause heatstroke.

“Sir!”  Horst sat upright, nearly knocking his head against the upper bunk.  “You’re alive!”

“Yep.”  I was growing tired of that reaction.  I’d have to issue standing orders that no reports of my death were to be believed, unless they saw the body.  “How many of you are fit for duty?”

I did a quick headcount as the men staggered to their feet.  The barracks had been designed to hold a hundred men, and I’d considered that tight.  Somehow, they’d stuffed nearly two hundred into the building.  It had been rapidly turning into a hellhole.  I wondered, idly, what had happened to the rest of the troops.  Some had been on patrol, some had stayed picketing the approaches to the city, but the remainder? I hoped they’d been sent out to face Wilhelm.

“All right, listen up,” I said.  “We need to secure the armoury – quickly – and then the gates!”

I left Captain Ochre in command and took a small group to the armoury as quickly as possible.  There could be no mistakes now.  Fallon cast a pair of spells to conceal us as we approached, then a third to stun the guards.  Three of the four fell instantly, the fourth raised his hand and started to chant.  Ice washed down my spine as I raised the flintlock and shot him through the head.  It was hardly my pistol – the accuracy was terrible – but at such close range I could hardly miss.  I pushed open the door, breathing a sigh of relief the council hadn’t had a chance to loot the arsenal.  The muskets, rifles and the gunpowder were right where I’d left them.

“Grab what you need, quickly,” I ordered.  Time was no longer on our side, as if it had ever been.  “And then the gates.”

The guards on the gates saw us coming and ran, ducking and dodging to avoid musket balls and hexes alike.  I cursed under my breath as we secured the rest of the garrison and rounded up a handful of officers who’d been sitting on their hands, waiting to see who came out on top.  I didn’t know how quickly the enemy would react, how long it would take them to redirect their troops to the garrison, but we were desperately outnumbered.  We had to move fast.  I briefed Horst, Fallows and Captain Ochre quickly.  If we could take the palace and secure the princess, hopefully capturing most of the council in one fell swoop, we could win. 

If they flee now, I thought as the sound of the protest grew louder, they’ll effectively be conceding defeat.

I hoped that held true, as we marched out of the gates and up the streets.  There was little time to organise the makeshift hand-cranked Gatling guns, let alone the cannons.  If it came down to a real fight, we were going to be in deep shit.  I felt sweat prickling down my back as we picked up speed, pushing the troops to the limit.  If I’d been in command of the enemy forces, I would have sneaked the princess out of the palace long ago and left my enemies in possession of little more than a cluster of abandoned buildings.  But here … the mere act of withdrawing from the palace was a de facto admission of defeat.  The idea of a tactical withdrawal seemed to be beyond them.

They get half their power from their prestige, I reflected.  It was strange to note the commoners could probably have overthrown their aristocratic masters a long time ago, if they’d realised it could be done.  And when they look to be on the run, their prestige will sink with terrifying speed.

My lips quirked.  Thankfully, that won’t apply to Helen.  No one will blame her for losing control …

I cursed out loud as I heard the gunshots up ahead.  Muskets, lots of them.  Screams echoed through the air.  My heart sank in dismay.  Someone had panicked and opened fire on the crowd, a disaster that would either send the protesters fleeing for their lives or make them angry.  I picked up speed as the palace came into view, spying defence lines that had been thrown together in a tearing hurry.  I’d been concerned about how weak the palace was to attack, when I’d entered Helen’s service, but now … it worked in my favour.  The council hadn’t done a bad job when they’d set up their barricades, given what little they’d had to work with, yet …

There was no time to be clever.  I raised my hand.  “CHARGE!”

The defenders recoiled in shock as they saw us coming.  I wondered, numbly, who was in command.  He clearly hadn’t thought ahead.  Even if he hadn’t realised we’d free the imprisoned troops, he had to have wondered what would happen if the protestors attacked from the rear … judging by his visible dispositions, he’d moved everyone to the front when the protestors had pushed their way across the bridges.  I breathed a sigh of relief as I realised they didn’t have cannons.  There wasn’t going to be a real whiff of grapeshot today.

We crashed into their lines, scrambling over the barricades and coming down on them.  I shot a man in a fancy uniform, then jabbed another with my bayonet.  A third slashed at me with a sword, narrowly missing my arm as I darted back; he came at me, ready to strike again, before someone shot him through the head.  He flopped to the ground and lay still.  I reloaded hastily as the enemy lines crumpled, the defenders either dead or fleeing towards the palace.  They had enough sense not to run onto the streets, I noted.  That would have been certain death.

“Get the wounded to the Nightingales,” I ordered.  The soldiers had fired one volley into the crowd, with primitive weapons, but the carnage was still horrifying.  It was no real relief to know it would have been a great deal worse with assault rifles and machine guns.  “And prepare to assault …”

I broke off as I heard the sound of hoof beats.  The cavalry were coming around the palace and charging at us, lowering their lances as they picked up speed.  I stared, numbly.  Surely Sir Essex knew the cavalry was no longer the undisputed queen of the battlefield … he’d seen the cavalry suffer, when they went up against musketmen.  I had no idea what was going through his head, assuming he was the one calling the shots.  It was quite possible the cavalry were being thrown away to buy time for their masters to escape …

They have to make their stand here, I reminded myself.  They don’t have a choice.

“Take aim,” I ordered, coolly.  I wanted to send troops to the rear, to make sure the council couldn’t sneak away without being caught, but I didn’t have time.  “Fire on my command.”

I braced myself.  “Fire!”

The volley was decidedly ragged, something that would have irked me if it had happened on the training ground.  Clearly, we needed to do more training.  The problem of emergency drills leaving out the emergency had yet to be overcome.  But it didn’t matter.  The cavalry staggered, as if they’d charged straight into a brick wall, and came apart.  I saw men in gaudy uniforms falling to the ground, thrown from their horses as the beasts were either shot down or panicked into flight.  I felt a stab of guilt as I saw a horse collapse to its knees, then die as another bullet cracked into its head.  A pair of cavalrymen had the wit to turn and flee, jumping the low walls and vanishing into the streets as if the devil himself was after them.  I supposed they might have been right, if they’d thought so.  The commoners were not going to be gentle with their prisoners. 

I tried to shout orders over the racket as the crowd surged forward, but it was impossible.  Some cavalrymen had survived their falls … only to be torn to shreds by the crowd, or simply stamped into the ground.  A young woman lifted up a head and held it high, to the cheers of the crowd.  Blood poured down her hands and stained her shirt.  I shuddered, thinking of just how much hatred had been stored up over the years.  We might still lose – I hadn’t seen Sir Essex amongst the dead, nor any of the councillors – but it didn’t matter.  The aristocratic grip on power had been broken.  They were fucked.

Unless they run to the warlords and beg for help, I thought coldly.  But they no longer have much of anything to offer.

Captain Ochre hurried up to me.  “My Lord, the Life Guards are ready.”

“Good.”  I reloaded my musket and flintlocks, feeling oddly like a pirate.  I knew, now, why they were often depicted carrying two or more primitive firearms.  There was just no time to reload in the middle of a firefight.  “It’s time to put an end to this, once and for all.”

Her Majesty’s Warlord 25-26

Chapter Twenty-Five

All good things, as they say, have to come to an end.

The young man I’d been might have been tempted to stay where I was – with her – indefinitely.  The older and wiser man I’d become knew better.  We didn’t know where we were, we didn’t know how long we’d been captive and, worst of all, we didn’t know what was happening in Roxanna.  The more I thought about it, the more I feared the worst.  There was no way someone would strike at me, Princess Helen’s sworn man, without striking at her too.  It might already be too late to salvage the situation.

I looked at Fallon as we started to walk through the weird trees.  She was unnaturally quiet, for someone who was normally very chatty … at least when we were on our own.  I winced inwardly as I remembered what we’d done, and what it might mean for her.  She’d given me her virginity and she might have gotten pregnant and … and I didn’t know, deep inside, how it would work out.  Sorceresses had more freedom than most women in this world, but still … I wondered what she was thinking, and feeling, even as I was unsure of my own feelings.  It had been a very long and strange day.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” I said, finally.  “But how did he get inside the defences?”

Fallon shook her head, listlessly.  “I don’t understand,” she said.  “The defences should have been impregnable.  No one should have been able to get inside without triggering the alarms and …”

I kept my thoughts to myself.  Fallon wasn’t a master magician.  She was barely even an apprentice.  Our mystery captor might have figured out a way to hack her wards, to sneak through the defences and catch us by surprise, or he might simply have overpowered them and overwhelmed her before she could react.  I’d read tomes on magical warfare.  I didn’t pretend to understand how the spells actually worked, but it was clear they had their limits.  It was quite possible she simply hadn’t grasped her own ignorance, or the gaps in her spells that a more capable enemy could exploit.  I promised myself, if I got out alive, I’d hire someone to both improve the defences and teach her what she lacked, before it was too late.  She deserved better.

“I … he enchanted me,” Fallon said.  “I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself.”

I squeezed her shoulder.  I didn’t blame her.  Once the magician got his hooks into her mind, she would have been trapped and helpless, unable to do anything but follow his orders.  Or so I’d been told.  Some people could resist, perhaps by creatively reinterpreting their orders and hunting for loopholes they could exploit, but others … I smiled, inwardly.  I’d been lucky it had been her who’d turned me into a frog, even if it had been on her captor’s orders.  The spell she’d used had had a get out clause.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her.  We’d have to talk about the gaps in our defences, and the change in her relationship, and everything else when we got a chance, but right now it wasn’t an immediate problem.  “Can you use magic to point us home?”

Fallon shook her head.  I cursed under my breath.  There was nothing like being on foot – literally, since we were naked – to remind you just how big even a ‘small’ country truly was.  We could be anywhere, from twenty miles north of Roxanna to the other side of the world.  If we ran into someone unfriendly … I gritted my teeth at the thought, knowing it might well be inevitable.  The locals wouldn’t know us from Adam and Eve.  We didn’t even have fig leaves to cover our nakedness.

The landscape changed, becoming slightly more lush.  I spotted the telltale signs of limited cultivation, of tiny patchwork fields crafted to take best advantage of the land; I hoped – prayed – that the locals were inclined to be friendly.  We were in no state for a fight.  Hell, if they saw us as strangers …

No one likes strangers, not here, I recalled.  Back home, they talked about migrants and illegal immigrants.  Here, they moaned about travelling salesmen and bards, who had reputations almost as bad as mercenaries.  They might be less dangerous – they didn’t loot, rape and murder their way across the country – but they often seduced girls, then ran off when the poor women got pregnant.  We might be killed out of hand just for walking into the fields.

I glanced at Fallon.  “Can you manage a simple spell?”

“I think so,” Fallon said, slowly.  “But not … not any really powerful spells.”

A crashing sound echoed through the patchwork lands.  I braced myself, half-expecting to feel an arrow slamming into my chest.  The locals really did have good reason to hate and fear strangers, particularly if the settlement was off the books.  It was possible.  The forests were vast, easily large enough to hide a considerable number of farms and hamlets.  I’d seen outlaw camps in the woodlands, near my estates.  The locals might not have anything personal against us, but they wouldn’t want to let us take word of their existence home either.

I did my best to look unthreatening as a teenage boy burst out of the undergrowth and gaped at us, his eyes darting to Fallon before hastily looking back at me.  He looked like a peasant, clad in clothes that bore the signs of being constantly patched up, time and time again, as they were passed down to each successive wearer.  I guessed he was around fourteen, although it was hard to be sure.  His skin was lighter, a dark brown rather than black, but he reminded me of my sons.  I tried to hide the pang the thought cost me.

“Who …?”  The boy swallowed and started again, his eyes glancing past me as if he expected us to be followed by the devil.  “Who are you?”

“I’m Elliot,” I said, unsure if saying my name was a good idea.  I hadn’t met anyone else with the same name, not here.  “And we’re a little lost.”

The boy stared at me, his eyes wary.  “Did the warlock send you?”

“We killed the warlock,” I said.  “He’s dead.”

“Oh.”  The boy didn’t sound as though he believed me.  “Really?”

“Yes.”  Fallon sounded irked.  “There’s nothing left of his home, but a hole in the ground.”

“Come with me,” the boy said.  He added the next word almost as an afterthought.  “Please.”

I glanced at Fallon, then let the boy lead us through the thickets.  The trees closed in, providing all the cover a little community could want.  I stayed wary, unsure what to expect as we slipped down the tiny path.  The warlock – our former captor, I hoped – might have been a monster, or he might have been a good ruler.  I’d heard stories of magicians who traded protection for servitude, keeping their servants safe from local magicless aristocrats, or simply made sure no one dared defy them.  For all we knew, the warlock might have seemed better than the alternative …

The path widened suddenly, revealing a small hamlet, the thatched cottages blurring into the undergrowth to the point it would have been easy to miss them, even if one passed very close by.  A handful of people, children and the very old, stared at us as we were hurried past and into one of the larger huts.  Our guide found smocks and passed them to us, silently urging us to get dressed.  I pulled it over my head quickly, despite the smell and general itchiness.  I’d been in worse places and I’d worn worse things.  A moment later, an older woman appeared from a side door and looked us up and down.  She had the unmistakable air of someone who knew she was in charge.

“And who,” she asked curtly, “are you?”

“They killed him,” our guide said.  “We’re free!”

“Are we?”  The old woman looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my face.  “What did you do?”

“We were kidnapped,” I said, shortly.  I kept the story as simple as possible.  “The warlock brought us here.  We broke free, killed him and made our escape.  And we are trying to get back to Roxanna.”

“I see,” the old woman said.  “You will, of course, join us for dinner.”

It wasn’t a question.  I guessed she was going to send someone to check out the warlock’s home, just to make sure we were telling the truth.  I understood.  It was far from uncommon for a rumour to grow in the telling, to the point that the grain of truth within the story was buried under a mountain of bullshit.  The old lady might suspect we were liars, or that the warlock had sent us to test their faith, or … who knew?  Older people tended to be more conservative, more willing to put up with a bad situation than risk losing everything by fighting back or simply leaving.  She might see the warlock as the best of a bunch of bad options.

“If you’ll have us, we’ll be glad,” I said.  My stomach rumbled, reminding me that it had been a long time since we’d eaten.  “And then we must be on our way,”

Fallon leaned forward.  “Where are we?”

The old woman didn’t answer.  Instead, she ordered our guide to take us to the communal hall and feed us.  I ate carefully, resisting the urge to fill my belly to bursting point.  The locals might feel obliged to put on a good meal, but the chances were good they couldn’t afford very much.  There was no way in hell they’d willingly slaughter a chicken or a pig, let alone a fatted calf, for us.  We ate quickly, feeling  moderately human again.  I felt the locals watching us and resisted the urge to lift my eyes and watch them back.  If they took us for mercenaries, or tax collectors, no one would ever find our bodies.

“You really did kill him,” the old woman said, when we were escorted back to her hut.  “He’s dead.”

Fallon cocked her head.  “Who was he?”

“Our lord,” the old woman said.  She spat.  “Or so he told us, when he moved into the hall and took control.  What choice did we have?”

“I hope things work out better for you,” I said, feeling even as I spoke how inadequate my words were.  “Where are we?”

The old woman grinned, revealing a set of mangled gums.  “Why, we are here, of course,” she said.  “Where do you want to go?”

“Roxanna, eventually,” I said.  “Right now, I’d settle for a proper inn.”

“Somewhere you can get the news,” the old woman said.  I wondered, suddenly, just how much she’d guessed.  Neither of us looked like peasants – and peasants wouldn’t be worth kidnapping.  “Sami, escort them to the traveller’s inn and then come straight back.”

Sami bowed, then glanced at the skies.  “Now?”

“Yes,” the old woman said.  “You should be able to get there before dark if you set off now.”

I nodded – I would have preferred a rest, but it was clear we weren’t welcome to stay the night – and followed Sami as he led us out the door and down a long twisting path.  I’d spent enough time with native guides to be fairly sure he was leading us on a route designed to make it hard for us to find our way back to the village, something I found annoying even though I couldn’t really blame him.  The locals had to be concerned about the future, now the warlock was gone.  Perhaps they’d try to convince their neighbours their master was still alive.  I doubted it would hold for long.  The warlock had had no reason to kidnap us.  He must have been acting on someone else’s behest.

Fallon’s thoughts were running along different lines.  “What was he like, as a lord and master?”

Sami spat into the undergrowth.  “He took our crops, and our women, and made us serve him as he pleased,” he said.  “And once, he turned a young lad into a pig and ate him.  And …”

I listened to a liturgy of horrors that, after being turned into a frog myself, seemed very believable.  And yet … the worst of it, I had to admit, was that the warlock had actually been one of the better landlords.  I’d known worse on my estates, men I’d put under firm restrictions or even kicked out of their positions and cautioned not to misbehave again.  It was galling to concede anything of the sort, but … I shook my head as we reached a rough road, leading down to a travelling inn.  Sami bade us farewell, then faded back into the trees with a skill I could only admire.  I doubted I could have caught him, if I’d given chase.  He was a very crafty woodsman.

The innkeeper scowled at us as we entered the establishment.  “Cash up front, if you please.”

I scowled.  We looked like disreputable – and poor – peasants.  My temper flared, my fists clenching.  I wanted to hit him, even though I knew he was in the right.  We didn’t have any money and there was no way I could convince him I was the Elliot.  The old woman hadn’t even recognised my name!  I bit down, hard, on my anger.  It wouldn’t get us anywhere if we started a fight.

Fallon held up her palm, a green light hovering over her bare skin.  “I am Fallon, Magician to Lord Elliot,” she said.  The light didn’t change colour.  “If you give us a room for the night, and assistance in reaching our destination, we will see to it that you are rewarded.”

The innkeeper stared at her.  I saw fear, quickly hidden, on his face.  He knew, all too well, what she could do to him.  He lived and worked only a few short miles from a bad-tempered warlock.  And she was telling the truth … he saw him wet his lips, torn between the prospects for vast rewards and fear of what might happen if he helped us.  I felt my heart sink.  The warlock probably hadn’t advertised the fact he’d kidnapped us, and afterwards he’d been too dead to admit we’d escaped, which meant … what?  I had the nasty feeling it boded ill.

“My best room and dinner, on the house,” the innkeeper said, finally.  “It will be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” I said.  I promised myself he would be rewarded.  “What news from Roxanna?”

The innkeeper hesitated, noticeably.  My heart sank still further.  Innkeepers were normally happy to chat about the news, ensuring the stories grew and grew in the telling.  If he was reluctant …

“The king is dead,” the innkeeper said.  “There’s word the princess is going to marry and marry soon, before she takes the throne.  But no one knows for sure …”

I felt my skin pale and breathed a silent sigh of relief it wasn’t visible.  The king … dead?  I’d liked the old man and … even if I’d hated him, his death meant everything had changed.  Princess Helen should have become Queen Helen at once, the title falling to her … the fact it hadn’t bothered me.  If the rumours were accurate … I reminded myself, not for the first time, that the stories might have grown in the telling.  And yet, no one in their right mind would proclaim the king’s death, let alone the succession, unless they were very sure it was true.

“I see,” I said, finally.  What had happened back in the city?  Where were my friends and allies?  Where was Helen?  I feared the worst.  If someone moved against me, and someone had, they would have stepped over the line.  They’d need to win, which meant capturing everyone else, or face certain death.  And if they’d killed the king … they might have captured Helen, with the intention of forcing her to marry one of the plotters.  Or …  “I think … where are we, roughly speaking?”

The innkeeper gave me a sharp look, then produced a map and unrolled it on the table.  I frowned as he tapped a spot on the map.  It was hard to be sure – the map was very poor quality – but we didn’t look to be that far from my estates.  I forced myself to think as tiredness threatened to overcome me.  It couldn’t have been that long since I’d been kidnapped, or Helen would have been married off by now and her husband proclaimed as king.  There was still time.

“We’ll head to the estates in the morning,” I said, as we made our way up the stairs.  I would have preferred to leave at once – the innkeeper might see advantage in betraying us, if he realised who we were – but we needed to sleep.  “Once we’re there, we can decide what to do next.”

Fallon made a face as we entered the bedroom.  I’d slept in some dives in my life, but … he’d said this was the best bedroom in the inn.  I dreaded to think what the other bedrooms looked like.  I didn’t dare undress as I hit the bed, trying to ignore the unclean sheets and the telltale signs of lice and cockroaches.  When we got to the estates, I’d have a long shower before doing anything else.

“We don’t have to go back to the city,” Fallon pointed out.  “We could go somewhere else.”

I shook my head.  “I gave Helen my word,” I said, finally.  I did have some money salted away in various places, but getting it would be impossible unless I went back to the city anyway.  “And I’m not going to let her down now.”

“If it isn’t too late,” Fallon said.  “They might have beaten her into submission by now.”

“No,” I said.  “Helen is tough.  She’ll hold out long enough.”

And I hoped, as I drifted off to sleep, that I was right.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was not a comfortable night.

I slept poorly, tossing and turning as I fell in and out of nightmares.  It was hard to convince myself, as I floated between the waking world and the dreaming, that we really had escaped the warlock.  I feared, deep inside, that I’d simply taken refuge in my own mind, that I was deluding myself to escape the fact I was a frog and I would be a frog for the rest of my life and afterwards.  I jerked awake time and time again, checking my limbs to be sure they were human, before feeling myself dragged down into the nightmare again.  Fallon didn’t seem to be having a better night.  She shook and whimpered and made little noises as she slept, sounds that chilled me to the bone.  There was no thought of sex, not now.  I just wanted the sun to rise, so we could set out on our way.

Breakfast was a subdued affair.  We ate quickly, listening to chatter from the other travellers who knew little more than us.  The king was dead.  No, the king had merely been disposed.  Princess Helen was now Queen Helen … no, the Royal Council had imprisoned the princess for daring to be born the wrong gender and was now ruling in the name of a dead king.  The warlords were on the move, the warlords weren’t on the move, a giant army was sweeping in from the desert to lay waste to the land … there were signs and portents everywhere, most of which I was fairly sure were being made up of whole cloth.  I felt tired and irked as we took the proffered horse, the best the innkeeper could offer, and helped Fallon scramble up behind me.  I would have killed, right there and then, for a good mug of coffee or – even better – a proper night’s sleep.

“We’re only a few hours from the estates,” Fallon said, as we cantered down the road.  “Why didn’t they send us further away?”

I shrugged.  The warlock had been careless.  If he’d enchanted me, I would have been his slave until the end of time.  If he’d stamped on me, or simply locked the birdcage into place, I would have been his helpless prisoner … I wondered, numbly, just what he’d been thinking as he cast the spells.  He’d figured out there was something different about me, something he could exploit.  Or maybe he’d just decided not to do anything he couldn’t undo, just in case his sponsors didn’t take power.  He might have been powerful, compared to Fallon, but he wasn’t all-powerful.  Helen could have hired a more powerful sorcerer to blast him out of his mansion and chase him out of the kingdom itself.

Or maybe he was just planning to take us with him, when he left, I thought.  We never gave him the chance.

The country changed rapidly as we rode north.  It was odd to see people going about their lives, apparently unaware of the crisis, but what did the crisis matter to them?  The average commoner didn’t know or care about whoever was sitting on the throne.  Their lives wouldn’t get any better, or worse, unless the monarch started a war or raising taxes.  Helen had said, once, that the commoners should all be behind her, but why should they?  They didn’t have the time, when they were scrabbling a living from the soil, to take sides.  And they knew, very well, that the people on the wrong side – the one that lost, as a very wise man put it – wouldn’t live to regret their mistake. 

We paused to answer the call of nature, then continued the ride.  Here and there, I saw people staring after us worriedly.  They might know a little more of what was going on in the capital, to the point they feared the warlords moving in for the kill or the nobility demanding more taxes the commoners simply couldn’t even begin to pay.  It wasn’t as if most of them could pay in money, either.  Food was all they could offer and … I sighed, inwardly.  If I’d had a few years, crop production would have skyrocketed and everyone would have had enough to eat.  Now …

I don’t even know if I’ll be able to keep the estates, I thought, tiredly.  It was almost absurdly optimistic.  My enemies would divide the estates, and everything else I’d been gifted, amongst themselves.  And whoever gets their hands on my shit won’t be able to make any use of it without rendering it useless.

The thought mocked me as we headed up the road, slipping into my lands … if, indeed, they were still mine.  I’d been responsible for the men under my command, when the army had promoted me, but here … I was, no matter how I wanted to avoid it, a feudal lord.  It was sickening to reflect I might be no different from the lords of Game of Thrones or the slaveholders of Gone with the Wind, yet … I was responsible for each and every person who’d entered my service, willing or not.  And that meant …

Sure, I might not let it get to me, I thought.  I’d met quite a few officers who thought being officers made them smarter than anyone else, which was clear proof they were dumber than a box of rocks, and their promotion was nothing more than an entitlement.  But what about my children?  If I have children …

I shivered.  Would I have children … more children?  And if I did … if they were raised in this world, as the top of the tree, what would they become?  I’d met a few rich kids who were decent, by and large, but most of them had been spoilt brats, suffering from Affluenza.  Here, it wasn’t even a sick joke.  Would I be able to raise them well, when they could have practically anything they wanted for the asking?  Or …

We’ll see, I told myself.  Right now, it isn’t even a possible problem.

The manor rose up in front of me.  I was relieved to see troops on the ground, performing exercises under Wilhelm’s watchful eye.  I’d feared, despite everything, that my enemies would have sent their men to the estates ahead of time, trying to take control before I could return.  But they wouldn’t have left Wilhelm in charge, not after everything else that had happened.  He had too many enemies of his own.

Wilhelm gaped at me.  “My Lord!”

I hopped off the horse, silently grateful I’d left Wilhelm in charge.  “I need a status report,” I told him.  “And a good meal, and then I need a bath.”

“It will be done.”  Wilhelm waved to two servants and snapped orders, then turned back to me.  “I heard you were dead!”

“They tried to kill me,” I said, curtly.  I wasn’t going to give him the whole story.  “What news from the city?”

Wilhelm led the way into the mansion and up a flight of stairs into the war room.  “It’s hard to say anything for sure, My Lord,” he said.  “We got a message from a courier two days ago, informing me you were dead and ordering me to prepare the estates for transfer to a new master.  My … allies … within the city were not sure what had really happened, but as we were raising troops for Her Highness I decided to continue training the men anyway while waiting for further orders.  So far, they have yet to arrive.”

“I have arrived,” I said.  “What else have you heard?”

“The king is dead,” Wilhelm said.  “There’s been no formal announcement of his death, but rumours have been spreading widely and, so far, he hasn’t made any public appearances to dispel the stories.  Princess Helen has apparently gone into seclusion while the council debates the issue of her marriage, but – again – there has been no formal announcement.  I haven’t heard anything from Horst and Fallows at all.”

“Which could mean they’re dead, or being held prisoner,” I said, thoughtfully.  The princess would have kept them around, if she was in control, but the nobility would probably want a more through purge of my – and her – supporters.  “Is there anything else?”

“Very little,” Wilhelm admitted.  “The stories are growing in the telling, of course, but I don’t know how many are actually true.”

I nodded.  “We need to act fast,” I said.  “How many trained men are ready for immediate deployment?”

“Roughly, five hundred to two thousand, depending on how you consider trained,” Wilhelm said.  “We can double the figure if you want to bring in untrained men.  We have quite a lot of men on the waiting list to be trained …”

“That makes a change,” I said.  It hadn’t been easy to find recruits, at least at first.  “Have the men put on alert, ready to march in a day or two.  I need to think about how to proceed.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Wilhelm said.

A trio of servants entered, carrying dinner.  I ate while studying the maps, thinking hard.  We needed more intelligence, more reliable news from the city.  It would be a bloodbath if we tried to storm the defences, such as they were.  The aristocrats would take the army I’d built and turn it against me, destroying all hope of beating the warlords even if they drove me away from the city.  Hell, we didn’t have time to build siege engines or forge heavy cannons.  It wasn’t going to be easy to get into the city at all.  A frontal assault would be extremely costly even if it worked. 

“Send more people into the city,” I ordered, finally.  “We need to know what is actually going on.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Wilhelm said.  “I’ll see to it at once.”

“Good.”  I stood.  “I’m going for a bath, then for bed.  We’ll continue the planning tomorrow morning.”

“We should know more by then too,” Wilhelm said, with a frown.  “They may know you’re here too.”

I scowled as Fallon and I headed up the stairs to the master bedroom.  The manor was teeming with servants, not all of whom could be trusted.  I paid very good wages, by local standards, but I’d bet good money some of the servants had two masters.  Wilhelm had sealed the estate, ensuring no one could sneak out, yet … I knew wouldn’t be enough.  If one of the servants had a piece of chat parchment, or even a trained carrier pigeon, the word might already be spreading.

Which means they’ll know part of their plan misfired, I thought.  And that’ll push them into doing something desperate and stupid.

My mind raced.  There were too many possibilities, none of them good.  Helen could be raped.  Or drugged.  Or simply enchanted.  Or … they could find a distant relative, with a claim to the throne, and claim his penis elevated him over the rightful heir.  It would be chancy – Helen had said there weren’t many people with any sort of claim – but there’d be quite a few people who’d pretend to believe whatever genealogy the claimant cooked up to prove his claim.  It would be difficult to prove he was lying, too.  It was astonishing what people would overlook if the alternative was worse. 

We stopped outside my bedroom.  “You don’t have to come in,” I said, reluctantly.  “If you want to forget …”

“I’m coming,” Fallon said.  “Please.”

I felt like a heel as she followed me into the bedroom, then into bed.  The first time, we’d been consumed with the sheer joy of escaping certain death.  It had been easy to forget she was technically my subordinate, as well as young enough to be my daughter.  Now … I felt guilty even though I wasn’t sure if it was because of her youth or because I was betraying my wife, the wife who’d betrayed me first.  And … could I get her pregnant?  What would happen if I did?

My heart twisted, as we drifted off to sleep.  Her family would probably be delighted if she wound up with me …

I still felt guilty the following morning, as I took a long bath and ate a hearty breakfast before returning to the War Room.  Wilhelm was already there, making marks on the map.  He looked up and saluted as I entered, his fist crashing against his chest.  I wondered, idly, why the locals had adopted that method, instead of something more recognisable.  It probably had a meaning lost in the mists of time …

“We got word from a couple of merchants within the city,” Wilhelm told me.  “The streets are quiet.  There’s an army on the streets, apparently reporting to the council.  Anyone who causes trouble, or even goes out without permission, gets a beating on the spot.”

“How did they gets so many men into the city …?” 

I realised the answer even as I asked the question.  Gladiators.  The nobles had hired hundreds, perhaps thousands, of gladiators, practically moving their troops into the city right under our noses.  I kicked myself, mentally, for not having considered the possibility.  Back home, no one expected a football or baseball star to carry arms, no matter his political leanings.  They weren’t trained soldiers.  Here, gladiators fought for money and the cheers of the crowds.  I’d watched mock battles that were bloody enough to shock even a hardened soldier.  Given enough money, they’d do anything, even serve as an army hiding in plain sight.  I had to admit it had been a cunning plan.  They’d caught us completely by surprise.

Wilhelm frowned.  “They may know you’re here,” he warned.  “They’ve been making noises about having the army march out of the city, to an unnamed destination.”

I made a face.  There weren’t many possible targets, unless the council intended to pick a fight with the warlords.  I doubted it.  We hadn’t been ready before the coup and now … it would take weeks, if not months, for the council to repair the damage even if Helen submitted and I slunk off without a fight.  They’d need to replace the officers I’d trained … no, they didn’t need to do anything of the sort, but they would because they’d want to put their own people in high places.  I cursed under my breath.  There were a few aristos who had the skill to lead men in battle, but most of the others were feckless incompetents.   They’d just get themselves and their men killed.

And if they’re working for the warlords, they might intend to do it on purpose, I thought.  The balance of power had been shifting even before I’d entered the princess’s service.  Damansara could defend itself now and the other cities were raising their own armies.  They knew it could be done …  Get the army torn to pieces, then return the monarchy to its position of learned helplessness …

“There’s another piece of news,” Wilhelm told me.  “They announced the future Royal Consort.”

I blinked.  “Royal Consort?”

“They named Sir Essex,” Wilhelm said.  “Even as Royal Consort, he could do a lot of damage.”

I clenched my fists.  Wilhelm had a gift, a positive gift, for understatement.  Sir Essex was going to marry Helen?  He was going to be her consort?  It wouldn’t make him King, as I understood it, but everyone would expect Helen to follow his lead anyway.  He was going to be the power behind the throne?  I wondered, snidely, just how many deals Sir Essex and his family had had to strike, before the rest of the council had agreed to sell the princess to him.  Perhaps that was why he wasn’t being crowned himself.  As long as he wasn’t king, he could be removed if he stepped too far out of line …

“Right,” I said.  “When do they intend to force her to marry him?”

“It isn’t clear,” Wilhelm said.  “The marriage will have to be solemnised, but that will cause problems as long as they’re still refusing to confirm the king’s death. My best guess is that they will announce it shortly, then hold the wedding itself within the week as there would need to be a short mourning period between the death and his daughter’s wedding.  They’ll also have to crown her, which will be … tricky.  I don’t know how they intend to stage-manage it.”

“They’ll have a week to break her will,” I said.  “And there’s no way to keep them from simply enchanting her, is there?”

“No, My Lord,” Wilhelm said.  “They will be in complete control of the ceremony.”

“And there’s no authority that can confirm she isn’t acting under duress,” I said, grimly.  The whole ceremony would be a farce, yet … who cared?  There was no one to call foul, let alone do something about it.  “We need to act fast.”

I drew a finger down the map.  “The troops are ready to march today?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Wilhelm said.

“You’ll take command, march them down to the city,” I said.  “The march will take at least five days, and they’ll see you coming, but it won’t matter.  The real threat will be me, and a handful of others, sneaking into the city and causing trouble.”

“Causing trouble?”  Wilhelm sounded unconvinced.  “My Lord …”

“I have a rough plan,” I said.  It wasn’t quite true.  I had some ideas about what I wanted to do, when we reached the city, but it would depend on what we found when we got there.  Getting into the city was going to be problematic … although the council couldn’t keep the gates shut indefinitely without starving the populace and provoking a riot.  “I want you to distract them, while we land the fatal blow.”

Wilhelm paused.  “And if they block our way?”

I gritted my teeth.  We couldn’t afford a major engagement.  It would fuck us up even if we won.  “Hold the line and skirmish, as best as you can,” I said.  “And if you don’t hear anything from us, assume the worst.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Wilhelm said.