Eric Flint's Blog, page 239

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 37

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 37

Chapter 19

“They’ve got to be here somewhere,” Darryl said. The sun had come up, but the streets of King’s Lynn, being a warren of warehouses and chandleries, were still dark. There was already a muted hum and bustle; the bakeries were filling the air with the smell of damned tasty bread, cookshops were working on breakfast, and even the docks were busy. High tide was in less than two hours and several ships were making ready to pull out on the slack water to stand out on the ebb tide, whatever the hell that meant. Towson had come back with that story after a brief word with a dock-worker, and though nobody was about to admit it nobody but him had the foggiest what he was taking about. Cromwell mentioned that if they could get a ride on it — his actual words, he didn’t know anything about ships either — and there was a collier in port that would be a fast ship north in the right direction for Edinburgh. With, admittedly, a stop at Newcastle, but colliers went north from there too. It shouldn’t be too hard to change ships at the coal docks.

“I still think we should have asked on the ships if one of them had passage booked,” Welch said. “I mean, we’re trying to leave a trail, are we not?”

“Aye, but if the ladies have no place in a ship for us,” Cromwell said, “best not to spread word. I’d not like it to be the step we trip on, that we bring all to the docks and find we must fight to win through. Fighting with children with us — my children, I’ll remind you — is something we already decided was a poor notion.”

“Add to that,” Towson put in, “there’s all that river wharf and three docks at least, and did you see how many ships there were? Dozens, and hundreds of smaller tubs, luggers, fishing boats, all sorts. We’d get round maybe a tithe of the bastards in two hours between now and high tide and learn nothing but by purest good fortune.”

“Fair enough,” Welch said, “but how will we manage anything wandering about like this?”

“Man has a point,” Darryl said, “any suggestions for a plan?”

“Breakfast,” Leebrick said, wandering back, along with Hamilton, from a mosey down a small side street. “Think about it. It’s dawn. If they’re up, they’re only just up, and they know the ship won’t be sailing for at least two hours. There’s a cookshop down here, if we all go for breakfast and take turns wandering down the road there to the river front and up and down. They’ll be doing something similar, depend on it.”

“It’s the first thing Vicky would think about, right enough. She used to help with the cookshop the warders’ wives ran for the Hamlets boys when they were coming on for the morning shift and going off the night shift.”

“Hamlets boys?” Cromwell asked.

“You wouldn’t have seen them, you were under orders for a warder guard only, same with the Grantville party. The tower guard is filled out with lads from the Trained Band of Tower Hamlets, they get let off half their muster for it. They get sixpence a day and all the training they can stand, which is a fair amount, credit to them. And, of course, the ladies took a farthing of that back off most of them, stuffing them with bacon and eggs and eels and pease. We’d usually have thirty or forty of them in to walk the walls most days, until Cork dumped all those bloody mercenaries on us. That won’t have gone down well with the Bands, once word gets around; that guard pay was feeding more than a few families in the Hamlets. Anyway, she knows the importance of a good breakfast, and as we’ve wandered about I’ve been looking for the kind of cookshop she’d think well of. This one. And it’s been weeks since I had a proper breakfast. This way, people, bacon is calling. Fat bacon, and good bread. If I can get them to fry an egg for me, I may count this day a happy one and it’s barely begun.”

Darryl’s belly rumbled agreement. “I’m in.”

Hamilton got his fried egg, and Towson and Alex lost the coin tosses for who got the first beat walking the streets. Nobody else had to go out, as Alex came in beaming with his wife on his arm and Vicky right behind him. She came straight across to Darryl, grabbed him and kissed him thoroughly. “Later, you,” she said, and was straight over to the counter. “Got my order, love?”

The woman behind the counter had, and she and Vicky chatted like they’d known each other for decades as the crocks and pots and pans were pulled out from beside the massive range where they’d been warming and loaded into baskets. When all was done, Vicky passed over a handful of coins, by some complicated process negotiated a couple more plates for Alex and Towson and had the load divided among everyone but her. It seemed they were to head back to the house of a Committee of Correspondence member where they’d got a couple of rooms. Which they were repaying the use of by buying a hearty cookshop breakfast for themselves and their hosts.

Who turned out to be a pleasant family, more-or-less headed up by the oldest of three excessively large brothers and his wife, who was smoking a pipe with her feet up on a stool when they arrived. Stevedores, all three, and Darryl was a little confused that they seemed to be missing work to help out.

The biggest brother, Rob, who looked to Darryl like he’d unload a ship by lifting it out of the water, tipping it over and giving it a good shake, laughed like a small earthquake. “Bless you, no. The tides today, every ship that’s making sail will be making ready for it at first light and they’ll be standing out shortly. We got ’em all right stuffed by last light last night, and I’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

His wife swatted him behind the ear. “Tell the truth, you bloody goat. Here’s me with the chance of a lie-in for a change, and don’t ‘e know it.” She’d a grin on her face.

“Okay, more’n I needed to know,” Darryl laughed. “Breakfast, here. Get to it. Do we have a ship to leave on?”

“Oh, we sorted that last night, even loaded all your stuff aboard her,” Rob said. “Go to the collier right at the downstream end of the river wharf, the Magpie. She’s a Newcastle collier, going back deadhead this morning. She’ll have you in Newcastle by sundown tomorrow, with no more than ordinary winds, and from there it’s another day to Edinburgh. Be a day faster than you can manage on a horse to Newcastle, even if you didn’t so much as stop to piss. Couldn’t tell you about the road from there to Edinburgh, mind.”

“The ship should still aye be faster,” Alex put in around a mouthful of bacon. “Border country. Bad roads o’er worse ground. And that’s no’ mindin’ the borderers, who’re no joke. Ye ken the gang o’ savages I had under me when first I cam’ tae Grantville? Borderers, to a man. And they were the ones we could civilize a wee bit, mind.”

He grinned over that one. The Green Regiment lads — most of them now in various bits of the USE armed forces with chunks of newly-acquired education under their belts — were mostly a decent enough bunch, if a little rough around the edges. Because, in the wilder bits of land on either side of the border between Scotland and England, the chances to acquire any polish at all were nil, let alone enough to pass for civilized.

“Well,” he went on, “We’ve the horses left at yon livery, will I go and see to selling them if I can, or will the Committee here use them?”

“We’ll likely just sell them. We want to buy a press from Magdeburg,” Rob said. “It’s time and past time we stopped leaving things to the gentry around here. Most of them do all right, I suppose, but most of them have got religion so far up their arses it’s coming out their mouths the whole time.”

Darryl saw Cromwell open his mouth to speak, and then, apparently, think better of it.

Rob went on, “I’ve heard where there’s simple books for helping folk learn to read in German. I reckon if we could print a few of those in English, it’d be good. All you can mostly get around here is ballads or the Bible, and an almanac, and they’re hard to learn from. I’ve got the beginnings of my letters, I can read nearly all the prayer-book at church on Sunday, and I speak English and German handily, but I can’t write to save my life. We’ve got all sorts of plans around that, and there’s plenty of the dockers would go for it. Being as it’s all stop-go-stop there, there’s plenty of time for learning, see?”

Nods all round. And then Cromwell spoke up, “And if there was to be a godly element to such learning?”

“Well, most folk around here wouldn’t object, I ain’t what you’d call perfectly in line with the Book of Common Prayer myself, but there’s always the thing about freedom of religion to remember. Which is a good thing. As one of the sailors from Germany put it to me, what if the Lutherans are wrong, the Calvinists are wrong, and the Catholics are right? Or we’re all wrong and Our Lord is weeping over all our errors? What about that? Best not to force anything on any man, and each dispute with the other. Maybe we’ll find out which way is the right way after all?” Rob shrugged. “I’ve heard plenty out of the Germanies about what the wars of religion did there. Not here, thank you very much, we’ve hard times enough in old England without having another Tilly and another Gustavus roaring back and forth and leaving us all to ruin and want.”

“The king will surely strike at you for such a thing. An unlicensed press, for one thing?”

“Plenty of those already, Mister Cromwell. And how long does the king have, anyway? From what I hear you’re set on having the head off him a few years early? Yes, we heard about you, all right, from your boys there, and then we sent word to Germany, and now we know about the civil war that was to be. Well, speaking for the common folk, Mister Cromwell, if you can see your way clear to a bit more civil and a bit less war, we’ll thank you. But if it comes to war, then it’s a rebellion for everyone, not just the godly. And I say that as one of the godly myself, by my best efforts at any rate.”

Cromwell laughed, a deep and hearty roar. It was a minute or more before he could gather himself to say anything. “Two recording angels, is it now?” he spluttered out at last. “One for the Irish and one for the English? Colonel Mackay, will you watch me on the part of the Scots? And who will look to the Welsh?”

“All right, no need to get funny about it,” Darryl said. “But Rob’s got a point. Miz Mailey said one of the problems she had with you was that when you got told nine out of ten disagreed with you, you’d put a sword in the tenth man’s hand. And that ain’t right, not at all. If you’re going to be startin’ a revolution here, Oliver, then fine. Place needs it, far as I can see. But you’re going to do it right or not. At. All. Ain’t like there’s a shortage of experts to advise you. Bet Mike Stearns’d be able to tell you a few things about getting a revolution right, since from what I hear he’s doing it.”

“Hate to interrupt this consciousness-raising,” Julie put in, “but it’s time we scouted the way down to the river. And, Alex? I’d just leave the horses and we’ll write a bill of sale to Rob here. He can use the money and we don’t need it for now. I know what you’re like when you get stuck in to a deal about horses, you’ll be there hours. Days, probably.”

Mackay shrugged. “I had planned on just taking the first price offered. And if we leave a writing with Rob here, surely that will have that Irish scunner after him for information?”

 

The Seer – Snippet 43

The Seer – Snippet 43

“Pigs’ ass,” Mulack said loudly, grinning. In another context this insult was one Mulack was likely to use, but now he referred to the back end room at the Boar and Bull, an innocuous mid-city tavern that the Cohort sometimes used when they wanted to be away from palace eyes and ears.

“I’ll see if I can clear my evening plans,” Innel said, turning away, already knowing he would. Srel would let Sachare know so that she could handle Cern should the subject of Innel’s whereabouts arise.

Cern, the entire reason for the Cohort’s existence.

Technically she was a member as well, but Innel was sure Mulack would not be inviting the princess to the pig’s ass.

#

“Too many times,” Taba was saying, laughing loudly. She was a broad-shouldered woman and had been so even in her teens. Her eyes were a light green, the color of the seas she had made her home, and matching the shirt she wore. A red and black surcoat marked her as belonging to the king’s navy, but under that she wore Helata’s colors, green and blue. A long tradition, that, the navy showing House colors so openly. No one in the army would dare.

Mulack was grinning as Sutarnan poured more of the strong black wine into his cup. Dil leaned back in his chair. Tok nodded slowly at Taba’s story.

It had been some time since the Cohort had gathered, even this small a number.

The last time, all the other times, his brother had been there.

Keep a watch, Innel, Pohut might have said. Stay sober.

He intended to.

Around the table was a scattering of plates of food and mugs and glass goblets. A ceramic tumbler meant it was harder to track what had been drunk and what still remained. A clear goblet gave the appearance of not hiding anything.

Everyone was drinking. Everyone had multiple cups in front of them.

It was an old game, one they had played through the years to see who could be made to slip up while tempted by various intoxicants. Across the years they had tried every substance the wealthy boys and girls of the Cohort could get their hands on.

“Incompetence in a harbormaster is inexcusable,” Mulack said from across the table, now on his third glass.

Sutarnan, who was still sipping from his first tumbler, made a disparaging sound. “Harbormasters are set for life, you know that. Supposed to keep them honest, that appointment.”

“They’re perfectly honest if you bribe them,” said Tok with a straight face, at which Sutarnan snorted.

“Truss them and toss them off the pier! Problem solved!” Mulack said loudly, downing the rest of his glass and holding it out to Sutarnan for more. Mulack was slurring slightly, but that was one of his tricks, to pretend that he was drunker than he really was, to see what he could get away with. Sometimes he walked the line too closely.

A long, loud sigh from Taba. “If only.”

“Taba, surely your eparch will listen to you.” This from Dil, many steps removed from the eparchy of House Kincel but who made no secret of being perfectly happy behind the scenes, making sure his House of Stone had every connection to the palace it needed. Dressed mostly in reds and blacks, Dil was clearly planning to stay at the palace. Innel suspected he was lobbying to be Kincel’s liaison.

“If only,” Taba said again, laughing again.

“No one listens to us,” Sutarnan complained. “You’d think they would, what with all the royal education our heads are fat with, but no.”

“No one listens to you, you mean, and that’s because you won’t decide which house you belong to. Or have you finally made up your mind?” This from Tok.

Two Houses claimed Sutarnan. He was the son of a brief union between Sartor’s and Elupene’s eparchs, an unusual liaison, which — more unusually yet — the king approved. Restarn might have been distracted at the time by the second battle of Uled, some handful of years after Innel’s father had died in the first, but whatever the reasons, Sutarnan’s parents had stayed together long enough to produce him and then, after an impressive two-year-long fight during which time no armor was made in the city, managed to get a royal divorce.

“I have no plans to select one over the other. Two is better than one.” He smiled widely, then his eyes settled on Innel and the smile vanished. Innel, who had no House at all.

Which would not matter, Innel reminded himself, as soon as he married Cern.

“You really should taste this, Innel,” Dil said quickly, before the awkward moment had a chance to lengthen, pushing a small crystal bottle around the large table toward him. Taba passed it along to Tok, who, with a lopsided grin, handed it to Innel.

The room fell silent, everyone watching him expectantly.

A strange moment, this. It wasn’t long ago that none of them would much care what he thought of the wine. Or anything else.

It was hard to forget years of Cohort hostilities, schemes, broken bones, and broken agreements. Harder yet to forgive. He had one friend in all those years, one person to trust at his back. That trust, too, had been foolishly placed.

But now, fed and wined, it was evident even these last holdouts of the Cohort realized how things had changed. No one at this table would benefit from bad will with the princess consort. They needed Innel.

Of course, he needed them, too.

It was time to rewrite history.

“We are all brothers and sisters here,” he said, hands wide, smiling at them, putting as much joviality and warmth into his expression as he could stomach. He let his gaze come to rest on Mulack, arguably the most dangerous of the lot, and gave him the warmest smile of all, to which Mulack snorted in amusement.

With a nod of appreciation to Dil, Innel took a swig from the delicate bottle he’d been handed, not bothering with a cup. A deep, smokey concoction met his tongue and fairly danced down his throat. It was superb, and no doubt older than he was. Indeed, he would bet that every sip cost more than his boots.

He took another.

“You have the princess now,” Dil said, stating the obvious, with what appeared to be a genuine smile. Dil was good with the charm. Almost as good as Pohut had been.

“To your pending marriage,” Tok said, raising his tumbler to Innel.

Everyone did likewise, Taba making a thoughtful sound as she reached behind to the side table and selected another bottle, filling the cups of those who held theirs to her, putting some splashes in the rest, making the math more difficult. Not an accident.

“And how did he manage that?” Mulack asked no one in particular. “We all had the same damned anknapa. Why isn’t Cern in my bed?”

“Because you’re clumsy,” Taba said, who no doubt had first-hand knowledge. The Cohort had done a lot of practicing.

“There was some actual study involved,” Tok added. “Not something you really cared for, as I recall, Mulack.”

“I studied plenty!” he said, sputtering drunkenly. “The anknapa, she had a — ” He made a flopping gesture with one hand that caused everyone to laugh.

Study Cern, Innel thought, but didn’t say.

“A toast,” said Tok, motioning to Innel. “To the hero of Arteni. To whom we owe the very bread in our mouths.”

“Huzzah!” said Taba. They all drank.

“I hear the king was pleased with your efforts in Arteni, Innel,” said Tok.

Innel gave an affirming nod, despite that there had been no discussion with the king about the campaign at all. Which, he supposed, could well be taken as royal approval. The wedding was going ahead, and that was all the approval he really needed.

“To our beloved princess,” said Tok, raising his glass.

Soon to be queen, Innel thought. But no one would say that. Not quite yet. It was too close to questioning the king’s will.

“To the heir!” said Sutarnan with enough enthusiasm that he sloshed red wine across the table. A trick to help empty his glass? A distraction? An honest, drunken slip?

Did any of them make honest slips anymore?

“Oh, we’re not out of drink now, are we?” asked Mulack with a pout as he looked deep into his empty clear goblet.

 

The Seer – Snippet 42

The Seer – Snippet 42

Innel would need to get the generals on his side, and quickly. Lismar, the king’s sister, first and foremost. Make a point of showing great humility. Have it known he was only complying with the king’s direct command.

A tricky prospect, politically. It would take a not insignificant amount of effort to arrange. But it could be done.

Cern was watching him, waiting for an answer.

“It would be my great honor to serve the crown,” he finished.

“Yes,” she agreed, shortly, but she did not sound happy.

“What is it, my lady?” he asked, unable to contain his tension at this unexpected reaction. “Do you think it is a bad decision?”

It wasn’t. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it was a good outcome. A far better one than to promote him to colonel or even general. He was, after all, marrying the heir to the throne.

She stood, her hands waving about aimlessly, a motion that signified frustration. She turned away, took a bite of a smoked cheese flower and chewed slowly.

That she was not looking at him was not a good sign. With effort he said nothing, knowing better than to press.

“I’m to offer it to you,” she said at last.

“You? Forgive me, my lady, but you are no –”

A sharp gesture cut him off. “I know, Innel. I’m quite aware I’m not queen. I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course not, my lady.”

“Of course not, my lady,” she echoed, mockingly. “Because he told me to, is why,” she spat.

The king.

“But –”

“Shut up, Innel. I know perfectly well what you’re going to say. But here it is: you can have the lord commandership from my hand, or you can petition him for a colonelship.”

Petition? That’s what his hard, bloody work these last months had gained him? He would be allowed to petition?

Tempted as he was to reply, he had already opened his mouth once without thinking, and with Cern in this mood, that was a misstep. He clamped his mouth shut and considered.

He could not take the Lord Commandership from Cern. It would put him in a weak position and spark controversy, but to refuse it from her hand would be an insult to her, which he could afford even less.

A typical Restarn move, to force him into an impossible situation with no good choices.

He also could not push the decision back on her, tempting as that was; her faith in him was based in large part on his ability to navigate challenges like this one.

She watched him as he thought.

He desperately wanted to ask her to relate the conversation she had had with her father that had led to this outcome, to gain clues as to what was in the monarch’s mind, but that would underscore her weak position with her father, doing little to reassure in this difficult time. Cern’s confidence was already a thin thread.

It would be best to get through the wedding and coronation. Then any decisions she had made, like promoting Innel to the highest military position in the empire, would be far harder to question.

But here and now, what to do?

Well, he was wearing her colors. He had laid everything he had at her feet. Really, he could not refuse.

“It would be my great honor to serve you in this capacity, my lady.”

#

After a time he convinced Cern to wait to name him as lord commander until at least after the wedding. It would seem a more obvious move then, he explained.

And she would be one step closer to the throne, all her pronouncements carrying considerably more weight.

“Whatever you think best, Innel,” was all she had said. She was relying on him to make sense of the tangled political forces at play, a challenge she seemed to care little for. A challenge he had been studying his whole life.

She had been tinkering with one of her collapsible in-air creations, a set of wooden rods with twine and chain between them, some pulled tight, others balanced delicately on top of each other. In the years since she had shown him these works, he’d seen her use stiffened fabric, small lengths of metal and wood, and even straw.

This particular set was suspended from the ceiling, in an equilibrium of many parts. As she touched it on one end, the pieces of wood at the other clinked against each other, making an almost musical sound.

Collapsible so that they could be taken down and hidden quickly when her father came into her rooms without warning, as he used to do often.

From their conversations, Innel knew her father had not confided in her his embarrassment at her marrying a captain, as he had to Innel.

So be it. Innel would petition no one. Let Restarn decide how much embarrassment he could stomach.

Regardless, once they were wed, Innel would no longer be the mutt who had somehow survived the Cohort. He would be princess-consort.

The thought sent a chill through him. For a split second, he found himself thinking he must find his brother and tell him.

#

“I’m busy,” Innel responded to Mulack, putting a snap into the words, even though it was a good idea; it had been too long since he’d felt out his support in the Cohort.

He was truly busy; the king had called him back into service, and he now faced interminable council meetings that required summary reports, ongoing House contract negotiations with high-stakes outcomes, and again the near-daily work of sitting in the steam-filled royal bath to hear the king complain.

In a way it was reassuring that the king had not forgotten him, but it rankled that he had not yet made good on his promise to promote him, either.

Nor had he petitioned. Still a captain.

But, as the saying went, not all captains had the same rank.

“Taba is in port,” Mulack insisted. “A good sign.”

“It’s no sign at all. She was scheduled to be here.”

Mulack waved this away. “We must celebrate your victorious return.” He managed to keep his mocking tone to a bare hint of derision. “You’re a hero, after all.” He clapped him on the shoulder.

Innel looked down at the shorter, thicker man he had, for excellent reasons, not liked since early childhood. “I have a report to prepare for the king.”

“Oh, come on, Innel. Give us a chance to spend too much money on you.”

Too much money? Was this Mulack’s way of saying he knew about Tok’s investment and might be offering similar backing? He couldn’t tell, which was how Mulack liked it.

“How can I refuse, when you phrase it so seductively?” Innel said dryly, acting as if lack of coin meant nothing to him, as he and his brother had always tried to do.

Mulack probably knew better; he had a nose for money. Despite everything — the promotion to captain, Innel’s proximity to Cern, the assumption of wedlock to come, and even Tok’s support — with all the gifts Innel was giving to everyone from guards to maids to stablehands to keep rumors flowing toward himself instead of away, Innel continued barely short of poor.

A strange state in which to live, in-palace.

He hid it as well as possible, of course; only Srel knew how bad his finances really were.

Mulack, on the other hand, was House Murice’s eparch-heir and swimming in the coin of the House of Dye. With Murice’s multitudinous contracts for textiles and amardide, anyone who wore sanctioned clothes had paid to swell Murice’s holdings.

Innel took a look at what his cohort brother was wearing. Boots and gauntlets tastefully trimmed in red and black — a nod to the crown — but the rest entirely Murice’s purple and white. A bit of a cacophony of color, but clear enough, as far as loyalties went. Mulack was clearly done looking for his future at the palace.

Mulack’s father, as sardonic as his annoying son, was vibrant with health. Mulack would have a long wait to become eparch. In the meantime, though, he had plenty of money.

“Tonight we celebrate,” Mulack said decisively. “I’ll tell the others.”

“So be it,” Innel said, feeling it best to make a show of reluctance to impress on Mulack how busy he was with the king’s business. “Where?”

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 09

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 09

Chapter 9

Poplock caught a tenzili on the wing and crunched down. The glowy-stuff the little insects used gave them a particular tang that he liked.

“That’s…kind of eerie, Poplock,” commented Tobimar.

“What is?

“When you eat those things you end up with a glowing mouth for an hour or so. So I just see this little floating smile and sudden flash of you gulping something else down.”

“I didn’t realize that! Sounds neat!”

Tobimar chuckled. “In a creepy way, yes, I think.” The Skysand Prince finished putting the supper dishes away and then went to sit beside Kyri on the other side of the camp.

The toad noticed Rion looking pensively at them. The one-time Justiciar shrugged and frowned, then turned to look out into the darkness surrounding the camp. “If no one objects,” he said, “I’ll do a scout around camp before we all turn in.”

Kyri and Tobimar glanced around, both with some reluctance. Knowing what was on their minds, Poplock bounced up onto Rion’s shoulder. “I’ll come with you.” The relief on the others’ faces was obvious.

So was the wry smile on Rion’s, even in the near-blackness under the stars above Kaizatenzei. He walked a few moments in silence, moving easily and quietly through the brush. “Not letting me out of your sight yet, are you?”

“Would you, in our position?”

Rion didn’t answer right away; finally he let out an explosive sigh. “No, I suppose not.”

“Part of you was counting on that.”

“What?”

Poplock gave him a gentle kick to the side of the head. “I saw you looking at them. You’re not comfortable with that, are you? You figured one or the other would insist on coming with you.”

The blond-haired head dropped down in unmistakable embarrassment. “I…look, for me it’s two years ago. My sister hadn’t even noticed anyone aside from Aran and the Watchland, and now suddenly I find she’s…well, serious about this so-called prince I’ve never met before. Of course I’m a little worried.” He raised his head and cocked an eyebrow at the Toad. “And given what I now know about those other two, I think I have a little bit of a reason to be cautious about her judgment there.”

Poplock snorted. “Okay, you might have a point. ‘Cept it’s still not really your business.”

“No,” Rion conceded after a moment. “But after our parents died…I guess I still want to take care of everything. That’s stupid, though; she’s obviously taking care of herself perfectly well. Better than I took care of her or me, for that matter.”

“You got kinda suckered like everyone else. She still thinks you’re the greatest thing living; you don’t know how hard it is for her to let us stay suspicious of you.”

A quiet chuckle. “About as hard as it would be for me, I would guess.” He paused, then smacked his sword against a nearby bush; something hissed but scuttled swiftly away, recognizing Rion was much too dangerous to confront. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Don’t guarantee I’ll answer it, but you can ask.”

The one-time Justiciar hesitated again. “No one…no one really told me the results of your analysis, just that you had decided that I really was at least a part of Rion Vantage. Could you please tell me what you found out?”

Poplock considered. He obviously could tell Rion everything. The question was whether he should.

After a moment’s reflection, he decided that there was no real reason not to. It had been a few weeks. If Rion had a deeper game he was playing, it clearly wasn’t time for him to move yet, and nothing that they’d discovered would be a surprise to him.

“You’re not exactly human. I suppose you probably guessed that.”

“My human body was left in Evanwyl. I had hoped that it had been re-created here. No?”

“The samples we took…well, you were saturated with magical energies, no surprise there, and there were components that were human, some that were probably demonic, and…well, there’s no nice way to say this…some that were graverisen.”

Rion looked at him with faint horror. “I’m…graverisen?”

“There’s a part of some type of walking dead there–can’t tell what type, though. Plus demonic power and essence, and human. That all isn’t surprising, though. They probably took part of your original corpse as a pattern, and this Viedra guy used his demon-power to build you a new body.” He hesitated, because the next part was worse.

“What? Come, Toad, don’t stop now.”

“Okay, but you’ll really hate this one. He still needed a living human body as a base, something to take that fragment of your soul–something like making a new flickerflower bush by grafting a branch from it onto a simjin root. So–”

“Oh, great Balance.” Rion’s face, always much lighter than his sister’s, looked almost white in the starlight, and he stopped walking. “I…I’m wearing someone’s reshaped body?”

“And,” Poplock said, “one whose soul was used to rebuild yours. At least, that’s our guess. Wieran, or Viedraverion, or both were involved, and they’re like way out of my league and even out of Hiriista’s. What we found…could mean something completely different. But that’s our best theory.”

Rion did not move for several minutes. Finally he gave such a shudder that it nearly pitched Poplock off the tall man’s shoulder. “Myrionar’s Mercy. Someone was erased just to make an imitation of myself. For what purpose?”

Poplock gave a bounce-shrug. “No idea, really. We kinda hope that they just weren’t done with you, so you’re pretty much who you appear to be–”

“–but maybe I’m not at all, and I’m going to turn on you at some point. I may not even know I will.”

The Toad stared up at the sparkling sky, the edge of the Balance just visible above the trees. “No, maybe you won’t. Wieran sure managed to do that well enough with the Unity Guard, and if we’re right you were a special project for his biggest patron.”

Rion nodded, and began walking again–but more slowly. Poplock could feel the heaviness in the stride. “Poplock…just so you know…if that turns out to be the case, I want you to know ahead of time–I don’t care what happens to me. Just keep me from hurting Kyri. However you have to. Okay?”

“Trust me, if you try to hurt either her or Tobimar, I’ll stick Steelthorn through your ankle and then cut your throat as you hit the ground. Just so we’re clear on that.”

“That’s comforting to know.” The attempt at humor was weak but sounded genuine.

“But,” Poplock said.

“But?”

“But I do think there’s something of the real Rion Vantage in there. And if that’s true?” He looked straight into Rion’s startled eyes. “Then I’ve seen your sister in action, and if there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that there is nothing that she’ll let stop her from doing the right thing. So if you’re the brother she thinks is so incredible, then you should be able to fight any control anyone puts in your head. Don’t ask me to keep you from hurting Kyri. Do it yourself.”

Rion looked away, then looked back with an almost sheepish grin. “I…I guess you’re right. What kind of a Justiciar would I be if I let someone else turn me against my friends?”

“Not much of one, that’s for sure.”

They moved on for a few moments before Rion spoke again. “Thank you, Poplock.”

“Just speaking the truth as I see it. But you’re welcome.”

“But,” Rion said, pausing as he reached a small clearing that gave a view to the East and the faint red glow of Ajaska, the westernmost of the three volcanic vents ringing Sha Alatenzei, “if I’m really something other than what I seem…aren’t you taking an awful risk just having me with you? Without anyone else?”

Poplock knew Rion wasn’t just referring to the current situation–the little Toad alone with Rion–but to the small four-person party itself. “A risk? Sure. An awful risk? No.”

Rion raised an eyebrow at him. “How do you figure that? If I am a time-destruction spell or something, I could be–”

“–worse than what we’ve faced?” Poplock swayed side to side in his equivalent of a headshake. “If you think I haven’t already planned out how to take you out right now, you’re making a really big mistake. As for all three of us–we killed Thornfalcon. Me and Tobimar beat the hell out of Lady Shae. We survived an Elderwyrm. Tobimar will cut you from a hundred feet away and Kyri will level the whole forest to get you, if you backstab us. Maybe you could kill us…but I know which side of that bet I am taking.”

Rion threw back his head and laughed long and loud, the sound disappearing into the trees. “Well said, Poplock Duckweed. Well said. Then I say that if I am who I think I am…I am very, very glad my sister has gained such friends.”

“And if you are…I’m really glad you’re here, because she’s missed you. A lot.”

His face softened. “I know.” The little campfire was now visible again ahead of them; the two figures sitting near it were so close that they seemed to be one.

Rion smiled. “But not so much she closed her eyes. Good enough.”

 

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 36

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 36

Chapter 18

“Stop!” Finnegan realised he’d not managed more than a wheeze. Louder, “Stop!” Another series of explosions, then, and shots, and he yelled again. “STOP!”

He kept up a walking pace. The boyos that had heard him had converged on where he was, and some of them had run on a way, and besides, if he just stopped he’d never get going again. He took deep lungfuls of cool night air, trying hard to get his wind back. He positively burned to pull off the cuirass and open his coat, but it was suicide to do that if there was a single one of them hiding close enough to get a shot off, or to throw one of those grenadoes they were using. There was a miracle for you, those things going off and nobody on either side hurt. There wasn’t anything to like about them, either, outside of a siege, and wasn’t that a reason Finnegan was glad he’d never got into one of those? Take an iron pot and stuff it full of powder and gravel and birdshot and let it off, there wasn’t really any way it was going to end well for anyone. Frequently, not even the gealt that was flinging the bastard thing.

One of the Cooley brothers, of infamous memory, had positively loved the infernal devices, the bigger the better, and had once thrown one in to a cottage they were trying to evict. The family within had got out in a hurry, but everything they owned, including a half-grown pig, had been wrecked by the blast and shards of metal in such a close space. For a finisher, the blast had dislodged the turves under the thatch and half the roof had slid off in a sodden heap. Comical, in its way, but Finnegan had had to dock the cost of re-roofing the place from Cooley’s pay. Not least to stop him doing to people what he’d done to the pig, which wasn’t even any use for bacon after the grenado was finished with it.

No, those things gave Finnegan the shivers, and facing them was like to freeze his piss. It was a definite mark against the fen people that they had even brought the things. They were planning on more, too, because the distinctive scent of slow-match was still trailing around in the night air. And certainly not from his own people. None of his lads even had the slow-matches to burn, what with all being armed with wheel-locks. Now that the Cooleys were dead, of course, nobody had any grenadoes at all. Finnegan had put his foot down at the suggestion of anyone else learning to use the things.

“Go steady, lads,” he said, setting a brisk walking pace. “Smell that?” He took a deep whiff. “Slow match. Follow the scent of it, we’ll keep them with us.” Up ahead, there were occasional glimpses to be had of their fleeing quarry. Maybe three hundred yards, now he’d slowed the pace of pursuit, and gaining all the time. Gaining in a straight line and leaving plenty of sign, though, he noted. He could afford to be patient with them. He counted five, maybe six, judging from the trails and the hints of movement ahead, now he stopped to look.

Tully lumbered up, visibly laboring with some hurt or other. “Will we not be giving them time to form an ambush?” he asked.

“Perhaps, but they’ve to stop for an ambush and no great range for it in this country. We’ll be on them when they spring it, so we’ve only to rush through a first volley and we’re in. And if the smell of that slow-match gets stronger, we’ll know to be ready.”

Tully nodded. “Those pistols they’ve brought have a power to them. I’ve a hole in my cuirass, now. The coat stopped it after, mind, but I’ll have a bruise. And some burns, where my pistol fired when I fell. Still, I’ve something to remember it by. Queer-looking balls they shoot.” He held up a little lump of metal that looked like it had been squeezed through a small hole.

Effect of going through the breastplate, Finnegan supposed. Not usual for a pistol-ball, which would account for the unusual shape. “Could have been worse, then,” he said.

“It could, at that,” Tully acknowledged, pocketing the spent ball. “When we catch them, I want one of those pistols for my own, mind.”

“They’ve at least two,” Finnegan said, shrugging away the question. “maybe more. And I’ll be after the earl for ordering the like from Germany, surely there’s someone selling the things there that doesn’t mind a little fast freight. We might even get a rifle or two. Failing that, we’ll find a gunsmith that can copy them.”

Toole jogged up then. “O’Halloran. He’ll live,” he gasped out. “They getting away? I heard grenadoes.”

“They’ve got a Cooley back from the grave with them,” someone growled in the darkness, to a round of laughter. The Cooleys’ antics had not been popular.

Finnegan snorted, as much mirth as he had breath for. “They have, at that. Did anyone see of those three Englishmen were with them? The ones that killed the Cooleys?”

“Thought I saw Leebrick,” someone called out.

“Haven’t seen Mackay, if that was Mackay that I rode down the other day,” Tully added. “But I’m pretty sure that was Cromwell with the other one, him that shot me.”

Finnegan grinned. “Then we’re chasing the right prey,” he said. “Toole, how bad’s O’Halloran?”

“Not at all. He’d a ball go through his coat, and it creased the side of his belly. Burnt out maybe a spoonful of the lard of him. Not even bleeding much, but he’ll move slow for a time. I sent him back to the horses and told him to have the boys ride them down to Ely. I saw you headed this way and thought, well, better to press on and have the horses than have to walk back for the beasts.”

“And that’s a bottle of good brandy for you, Toole, when I get a moment. These bastards are faster on their feet than I expected.” It was so good to have a band well-leavened with bright lads who could think for themselves. Especially the ones with the tact to cover his own mistakes without trying to make a show of him over them.

They carried on another ten minutes. From the few glimpses they could catch — of a hat bobbing over low spots in the undergrowth, puffs of slow-match smoke hovering ghostly when the breeze lulled, Cromwell’s party had eased their pace as well, maintaining perhaps four or five hundred yards of gap. If the night was a whit less clear there’d be no tracking them at all, but with the moon so big and bright and right above, things weren’t much worse than daylight. He’d been abroad on winter afternoons with no more light.

“Road ahead,” one of the boyos up front, Toole by the sounds, called back, soft so as not to carry too far. The ground was rising slightly, the horizon that way shortening visibly, and although there wasn’t anything you’d call a hedge there it was creating a fine area of dead ground behind it. And, yes, it looked like a road ran along the top of the slight rise. Perfect for an ambush, and assuming they’d been careful about skylining themselves, they could have been up there for minutes already, with a clear view. Nothing for it but to get in there and do it quick. The cover they were in was good and thick, but would thin out as soon as they started up the upward movement.

Finnegan nodded, pulled out a loaded pistol and checked the priming by feel. He had a lot more wind now, and called out, “Good spot for an ambush. Smell for slow-match, boys. As soon as we catch sign, give ’em a pistol volley and in through the smoke and the flash-blinding. We’ve, what, eight to their five? Cudgels to put the fight out of them. I want prisoners for the earl to hang. Spread out, see if we can’t find a flank while we’re at it.”

The smell of burning match got stronger and stronger, the banking that the road ran on closer and closer. The sweat was running down Finnegan’s back, now, chilly on the base of his spine, and he relished the cool of it. The front of him was like an open oven door was pressed against his chest, the hard steel over leather trapping his body heat horribly. Pistol in his left hand, bata in his right, he strode quickly through the sedge, shouldering bushes aside. Let them think he and his lads were coming in stupid, let them think their ambush was working. He wanted to slow down, deep in himself, let the lads get in first, but to do that would give them leave to slow down as well, and the slower they were going the greater the temptation to drop and hide when they made —

Crack-crack-crack!

Those damnable American weapons. Winking like glow-worms in the dark. Well, for this night’s work he had better. “Fág a’ Bealach!” and a flare of wheel-lock fire, ragged in the darkness and without command, but with one eye shut he kept his night vision as he charged up the bank and across the road.

BLAM! BLAM-BLAM! More fucking grenadoes and he heard screams. Oh Jesus and all the saints let that have been quick for whatever poor bastard it was. But now Finnegan, with someone at his left, was falling on a pair of the ambushers, whipping his stick forward in a simple strike that would have a slow man’s teeth out and his head rung like a bell.

It was Cromwell he’d gone for, he saw as he recovered from the lightning-quick parry that knocked his blow aside. More shots. A round-strike and again parried, and the counterstrike came out of nowhere overhead and the double-handed block he fumbled up stung his hands even through his gauntlets.

“You’re quick,” Finnegan snarled, lashing out a belly-strike while Cromwell was recovering the bounce of his murder-stroke, feinted it back and went for the teeth again.

“Me too,” came another snarl and he had to sway back as a huge knife with a wicked claw-point came in at him. A backstep, and then another, merely knocking aside the blade as it licked at him again and again like a serpent’s tongue. Whoever this was he was fast, but had no great store of tricks. Toole was in on Cromwell now, his bouncing, swarming style of stick-fighting putting the bigger fellow onto his back foot, and Finnegan could put all his attention on the knife-man.

Who was growling out some truly bizarre insults as he stabbed away. What in the devil’s name was a pinkerton? No matter. One more thrust and he had the fool’s measure. A sweeping parry and the knife went out of line, the backstroke rapped the fingers that the idiot hadn’t so much as put a glove on. As the knife spun away he snapped a kick up to try for the kneecap, or failing that the balls, and split the difference with a firm hit in the meat of the thigh. Then he could stamp in, and another snap-strike with the heavy end and —

The world flashed purple and rang loud as a bell.

****

“Chief?” Someone was lifting him by the elbow. How had he ended up on one knee? “Just a belt to the helmet, chief, you’ll need the dent hammered out. Toole’s the same.”

And then he was back. Only the space of a few heartbeats, he’d been knocked to his knees. His vision snapped back into focus and a bite of pain took his forehead in a pincer grip. “Who’s down? Who’s that?”

“Tully, chief, I went on my arse from a grenado, I’m a touch sick but I’ll live. Toole’s on his arse with the teeth out of him, three more lads hurt, they’re running again.”

Rage filled Finnegan, rage like he’d not felt — no. Enough. Clear thought, that was the thing. “Any dead?”

“By the mercy of God, no. McGurk’ll limp a while, he’s a cut to the leg went through his coat-skirt.”

“How long was I out?”

“Not long, I’ve just this moment come on you. Nor even have I counted all the boys in.”

“They’re heading for Ely!” someone yelled back.

“We’ll have them there, then,” Finnegan said. “Toole sent the horses ahead, we’ll meet them there. For now we’ll stay back from these bastards, they’ve too much fire to give us. And that Cromwell’s a bastard with the bata, so he is.”

“They call it singlestick over here,” Tully said, “and did you spend more time in the alehouses in London you’d have seen it more. There’s some grand matches to be had.”

“Sure I found one,” Finnegan snarled, “and he’d have had my skull broke if I’d no helmet on. Boys! With me! Wounded, follow as you can, be wary. I’ll leave a man with your mounts at Ely and word of where we’re gone.”

Only two men dropped out, McGurk, who averred he could fight, “but not run worth a bollocks” and Toole, who was seeing double and could hardly breathe through a smashed nose. He’d not be running much either, and Finnegan told McGurk to make sure Toole didn’t go to sleep, for it was well known that trying to sleep off a blow to the head was a sure way to die of it.

“Call warning if you smell another ambush,” Finnegan said as he set a fast walk as their pace. “The fight’s more even than I thought and they’ve the defender’s advantage. We’ll not get in among them without guile, I’m thinking.”

As it was, the ground rose slowly from there on, growing drier and clearer as they came within a mile of the town now clearly visible on its slight rise, marked out starkly by the cathedral tower that stood silhouetted against the stars. There were more and more signs of human habitation, more than the few scraps that they had passed earlier, and here and there enclosures and small, tilled patches. Closer still, and they came on another road, following the line of a slight rise in the fen. Finnegan made a quick decision. “If they’ve stayed on the soft ground, we can get ahead of them. If they’re on this, we need to keep up. Fast march, boyos, we’re infantry for the next half-hour.”

That bought him a groan. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t just run five miles or more on foot, but for all the men of Finnegan’s troop were no more than glorified cattle-thieves, they still rather thought of themselves as cavalrymen. They’d walk when walking was to the purpose, but calling them infantry rankled. “My arse is no higher off the ground than yours is, you pack of vagrants, and there’ll be horses waiting in town.”

****

There were indeed, as Mulligan clattered into town at the trot at the same time they had got down to the river road to look for him and the three with him. All four of the bastards looked horribly fresh and ready, having spent the last hour at the trot from Earith. Even O’Halloran, who had his buff-coat open and a bandage wound about him, seemed fairly chipper.

“Get spread out, you four, and find a livery that’s open. We need these nags rested, fed and watered while we get out and quarter the country. The rest of us will take our mounts and go sit up by yonder church tower and get the feet of me rested.”

Half an hour later Mulligan and O’Halloran rejoined them, grinning. “The bastards have been and they’ve left while we’ve been here,” Mulligan said. “The only livery open at this hour was the one they had their mounts at, in care of a short-arsed Scotsman. Where they sold a wagon, yesterday, one I recognised the description of, having heard it so many bloody times before. They went by the road downriver, for the port of it, a town named Lynn.”

“King’s Lynn?” Finnegan asked.

“Livery man said just Lynn. Might be the same place, you know how towns get their names shortened.”

“That might be it. The port downriver is called King’s Lynn, on the map at any rate. Come to think, it’s a map I got from the king’s people.” A round of chuckles. “They’ll be faster than us, at that. We’ve worked the horses tonight. Did the livery have anything worth the money to hire?”

Mulligan shrugged. “Indifferent horseflesh at best,” he said, “We’ll be best with our own, do we give them water and a chance to rest. Cromwell and his lads will be going slow with the bad light. Do we wait for the first light of dawn, we can take that road at the gallop, the livery man says. It seems he’s no great liking for Scotsmen, nor has he.”

“That’ll be Mackay, will it?”

“Sounded like.” Mulligan shrugged. “But ‘short, unpleasant, freckled, sandy hair’ describes about every other one of the bastards. And before you say anything, no sign of his wife. I asked. No women with the party.”

Finnegan nodded. Mulligan had been at Stralsund with Wallenstein as well, and the Scots regiment there had been, from the sounds of it, a pack of bastard die-hards. And Mulligan hadn’t managed to get an easy job fetching and carrying for the artillery. “We’ll assume it is Mackay. That’s a thing to tell the earl when I next write him. If the Scots are coming back from the Germanies to make trouble, he’ll want warning. Even if it’s not Mackay, the warning’s still a good one, from the looks of it. Who knows, we may even get paid to kill a few of the bastards.”

Mulligan grinned in reply, and they set out for the Livery stable to get the horses right for the ride to come.

 

The Seer – Snippet 41

The Seer – Snippet 41

Chapter Twelve

The first thing Innel did when he returned to the palace from Arteni was find a bath. Caked in dirt, blood, and the ever-present dust of Arteni’s grain mills, he stripped off his clothes and kicked them away from the tub, lowered his aching body into the hot and salted soaking water.

“Burn them,” he told Srel.

Srel made a sound intended to convey acquiescence but which Innel knew really wasn’t. Coming from deep poverty, Srel was incapable of disposing of anything that could possibly be reclaimed or repaired. But Innel wouldn’t see the clothes again, and that was enough.

As for Cern and her father, well, this time they could both wait. He would be clean and fed before he faced either of them.

“Is she still marrying me?” he asked Srel bluntly.

Another sound, this time thoughtful. “The wedding plans were put on hold when you left, ser.”

Disappointing but not unexpected. The campaign had taken the three months he’d anticipated and then some, but if the slog of dirt and blood, the tedious meetings and hurried executions had earned him a promotion, it would be worth it.

Colonel, most likely, he thought. General would be far better, of course, but it would be a stretch. Still, if the king wanted it for him and pushed, it was possible. He wondered what the other generals, decades his senior, born to the Houses or royals, would think of the king promoting him that far, that fast.

“She has shown no favor toward anyone else, ser.”

The other men of the Cohort were his only competition now. That she was seeing none of them was good news.

“And my reports to the king?” From the field, sent by Cahlen’s birds.

“I am told he read them very closely.”

Carefully written to achieve that very end. When the Cohort had been taught by minstrels and versifiers how best to fashion a story, Innel and his brother had paid keen attention. Thus Innel’s reports were more than factual; each started with a triumph, however minor, and ended with an uncertainty, the pattern intended to make the king eager to read the next dispatch describing how Innel sev Restarn was taking Arteni in the king’s name.

The people of Arteni had been astounded at the force that had been called down on them for attempting to sell grain outside their contract. They had at first presented some optimistic resistance that Innel crushed with heavily armored cavalry that crashed through the rusted iron gates. The line of millers and farmers, holding pitchforks and scythes, had broken fast. Those who had not run had died quickly.

Those who had run had also died, but more slowly.

After that it had been a matter of rounding up the troublemakers and giving them the choice between providing names and being hung with the next morning’s executions.

Innel made sure bread was passed out to the watching crowds to help them understand that they now ate by the king’s mercy.

What had taken the most time had been restructuring the town’s governance. The old council had stood firm in their insistence that this should be a negotiation rather than a surrender, finally retreating with their families into the mayor’s house, where Innel explained that they were wrong by burning it to the ground. The ashes didn’t argue.

His nights had been spent crafting these missives to flatter and intrigue the king, working in repetition to cover for the one or two in ten messenger birds that weather or predation would prevent returning home to the palace.

Cahlen had assured him that all these birds would return. Every last one of them. She had come to his rooms early the morning he had left, a cowed-looking assistant in tow carrying cages of noisy and annoyed birds.

“My best,” Cahlen had told Innel. “No hawks or bad weather will stop these.” Her eyes were bright and too wide. “Don’t put your hands on them. They bite.” Innel glanced at the assistant handler’s heavy leather gloves.

“They bite?” Before Cahlen, messenger birds were not known for their temper.

“Make sure you feed them,” she had said, her tone cross, as though he had already forgotten.

He took the soap Srel offered him, and began to scrub.

“What was the bird count?” he asked, dunking his head, feeling months of tension and dirt come off in the hot water.

“Eleven.”

He made a surprised sound. Cahlen had been right: every bird had returned. He must remember to tell her so. With luck, she would take it as a compliment.

When he toweled off, taking clean clothes from Srel, he asked: “Who should I see first?”

The smaller man dug into a pocket and held out something to Innel.

An earring. A magenta sapphire.

Cern it was, then.

#

“Took you long enough.” Her first words were softened a little by her hand on his face. She gathered his fingers in her own and drew him into her room. He hid his relief that she was glad to see him.

When, much later, she called for a plate of food and drink, the food came arrayed like a miniature garden, cheese and olives cleverly cut into the shape of flowers, and surrounded by hedges of herbed breads.

This, he realized, was wealth. Great wealth. Not the mere substance of the food, which was by itself rare and extraordinary, as befitted a princess, but the presentation itself. For a moment he simply stared at the miniature landscape so painstakingly prepared, laid across a lace-cut red ceramic platter that sat atop a table polished to a deep mahogany sheen. Around the edge of the table, inlaid in ebony and cherrywood, was the star, moon, pickax, and sword of the Anandynar sigil.

“The earring is a nice touch,” she said to him with a wry half-smile.

The irony of this struck him; the sapphire in his ear was worth a tiny fraction of what was arrayed before him, but it was his gesture that mattered to her.

I thought of you every moment I was away.

No, she wouldn’t like that. Something more pragmatic.

He smiled. “Let no one wonder where my loyalty lies.”

To his surprise, rather than be pleased, as he had expected, her gaze swept away across the room, her half-smile gone. A spike of anxiety went through him.

“What excitement have I missed?” he asked lightly, pretending not to have noticed her ill ease.

Her lengthening silence did nothing to reassure him. She was, he realized, trying to figure out how to tell him something.

That by itself was impressive: the heir-apparent to the Arunkel throne was struggling with how to say something to him, the mutt. Flattering, to be sure, but it could not mean good news. He watched closely as she put on a grimace that meant she felt she had no choice.

And that meant it was about her father.

Dread slowly trickled down his spine. She could certainly take him to bed for entertainment and marry someone else if she chose. Had he been cast aside, after all? What had happened while he had been away?

She glanced at him, and he gave her yet another easy smile, the work of years of practice, hoping to calm her. Or himself.

At last she cleared her throat and gave a forced laugh. “How would you like to be the lord commander?”

Lord commander? The highest rank in the military?

“Of the Host of Arunkel?” he asked, incredulous, his careful presentation of equanimity swept away.

“Yes,” she said, tone suddenly dry, “that would be the one.”

Could the king have decided to elevate him that far, that fast? Surely it was not possible.

But then, perhaps it was.

He could not suppress a smile of elation. “How would I like it?” He asked. “It…”

This was as far from bad news as possible, to be made the commander of the empire’s armies. It made sense, now that he thought about it; coming as he did from outside the palace and far below the Houses, Innel could well imagine Restarn deciding such a rank would appropriately elevate him to marry his daughter.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 08

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 08

Chapter 8

With a slight groan of effort, Aran heaved himself over the sharp edge of the black-glass scar across the land. Ahead, he could see that the Necklace continued down a gentle slope a short distance away. If he’d been willing to walk down the dark-polished miniature canyon for another quarter mile, it would have ended due to that downward slope. But the slope rose again in the distance, and Aran Condor could see the smooth-crescent bite that had been carved out of the hill, directly in line with the glass valley.

Looking back, he could not repress another shiver of awe. The Elderwyrm’s rage had carved the land like a sword straight from the forge, in lines from the battleground that cut irresistibly through everything in their path for incredible distances. This glassy ebony mark on the land ran past Syratenzei and, he thought, had even left a mark on the far-distant mountains ringing Kaizatenzei itself; depending on how the ground rose and the curve of the earth had presented itself, it had reached depths of hundreds of feet at points along the way, at one point boring straight through the earth as a vast black tunnel that was slowly flooding from both without and within.

And the Phoenix–and her companions–defeated this thing, surely, or the Dragon would reign supreme here…if he had not simply leveled everything for a hundred miles.

The thought was beyond merely daunting–it was sometimes almost enough to make him reconsider his mission. Even the Demonshard Blade had hesitated at the thought of facing the Elderwyrm, and it was really the Demonshard that offered Aran his only hope to overcome the Phoenix and, finally, get his vengeance for Phoenix’s murder of his friend and adoptive father, Shrike.

He shook his head and took a grip of his courage. It’s a little late now. You asked the King of All Hells for his help hunting the Phoenix down; you’d been serving his son Viedraverion for the years before. Do you think there is any other way out of this?

Morbidly he mused that the best outcome might be his own death following immediately after striking down the Phoenix Justiciar.

Then he shoved that thought, too, away. I’ve done good since then. I have! Maybe I can’t ever make up for what I’ve done…or what I will do…but I can make the cost less. I can be remembered for something other than evil. There’s people here who won’t hear my name and spit, even when the truth comes out. At least I hope so.

As he got farther from that vile dead wound in the earth, the shining peace of Kaizatenzei returned, and with it some of his own spirit. He’d held off the Demonshard’s influence in this place, forced it to serve his ends, helped rebuild Sha Kuratenzei and Syratenzei after the disasters, rescued others along his way. He smiled wryly. “And I’ve been calling myself the Condor Justiciar of Myrionar. Who knows, there may even be a believer now somewhere along my route.”

Which would in its own way be quite a blow against his so-called master. Aran felt the smile tighten to a near-snarl. That was the real reason he couldn’t afford to die even after taking down the Phoenix. Phoenix was a personal issue. But the “Patron” of the false Justiciars? He–or to be more accurate, it–was the cause of the whole issue, and wouldn’t it be just indeed for the creature to meet its downfall at the hands, not of its greatest known enemy, but someone it thought was its puppet?

Aran reached the crest of the hill and looked down upon Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar.

The legendary Valatar Tower was fallen; most of the floating bridges that had crossed the town in lines of crystal and dream were shattered. Yet the beauty of the great city remained, and for a few moments Aran, the Condor Justiciar, could do nothing but stare, drinking in the shining rose-sunset tinted loveliness and feeling it ease, for at least a few moments, the tension and guilt and fear.

Finally he shook himself and moved down the last stretch of the Necklace towards the town. Evening now. Tomorrow…tomorrow I think I’ll have to go to the current palace, whatever they’re using while rebuilding the Valatar Palace, and see if I can get an audience with this ruler, Lady Shae. She must know where the Phoenix is…if the Phoenix isn’t still here.

There was of course a considerable danger in meeting up with the Phoenix here. Presumably the city knew–had probably watched–as the Justiciar of Myrionar and companions had done the impossible; they’d be uncontested heroes and any assassination attempt would probably result in him getting lynched. So he’d have to be somewhat circumspect until he discovered whether the Phoenix was still here. If his target had left recently, though, Aran could probably catch them on the road with no witnesses…

The gates were still wide open as he approached. He nodded to the two guards standing attentively at the sides, but evaded conversation. A quick glance at the buildings ahead showed him one with a sign–the Dawning Light–that was clearly for a travelers’ inn.

Aran hastened his steps slightly as he neared the inn. His legs ached–all of him ached, actually, because climbing in and out of the scar and walking down the slick glassy surface had been what he’d done for most of the day, and was far more wearing than ordinary walking. A meal and a good bed will do me a lot of good.

Arranging for a room took a little longer. Refugees had taken many spaces, and apparently Lady Shae and her right hand–Light Miri, whom he’d met earlier–had decreed that refugees be housed and fed at the inns (expenses, he heard, borne entirely by the Lady of Light). But he was able to get a small corner room finally, and sat in the quietest corner of the downstairs dining room that he could find.

In the middle of finishing his gyllidat–an interesting grilled dessert pastry he’d never tried before–he became aware of someone standing near his table.

Glancing up, Aran saw it was a young woman of about his own age. “Yes, miss?”

“Excuse me, sir, but…would you be named Aran?”

What in the Balance…”Why do you ask, miss?”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Because you fit the description. The armor you’re wearing, like a great condor?”

Cautiously now…”What description?”

“I was given a letter to deliver to you, if you ever arrived in Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar. Told that if you were coming, you’d show up in one of the inns soon. If your name is Aran.”

His heart felt as though it was sinking through his chest. Who would act in this fashion to get a message to him? Not the Phoenix. Not anyone he knew of an ordinary sort. But Viedraverion? Quite likely. “Yes, my name is Aran,” he said, trying not to sound too angry. It wasn’t her fault she was being used as a messenger. “Do I have to pay…?”

“Oh, no, sir–paid half in advance, I will be paid again once it’s delivered.”

And how will it know…

As he took the thick parchment envelope, he was surprised by its weight; more than ordinary paper was within. The seal on the envelope was also complex, and now Aran understood; once the seal was broken, whoever sent it would know the delivery was complete. “Thank you, then.”

She bowed and moved off–apparently with other deliveries. They have a delivery service in the city for messages? Well…yes, I suppose they must. We didn’t need any in Evanwyl, but I did see something of the sort in Sha Kuratenzei.

He finished his dinner first; there was no particular reason to rush, and the contents would be likely something he didn’t want exposed to public view. Once he was done, he went up to his small room, set as many wards as he reasonably could manage, and only then sat at the tiny wooden table and placed his hands on the seal. “Aran Condor,” he said, and bent the seal; it popped with a flash of green and eerie yellow.

Undoubtedly our Patron, he thought grimly, as the contents slid into view: a polished mirror-scroll, silver trimmed with gold. He remembered with a chill his last viewing of such a scroll–the mirror-finish replaced with the pure-black face and dead-blue eyes of Kerlamion himself.

With a sigh, Condor picked it up and held it before him. “I am here.”

There was no immediate response, and Condor had a sudden hope that there would be no response. Maybe something had happened in the intervening time. If his Patron was no more…

But if that were the case, he would have known; the powers it gave them would have faded away.

On his third attempt, the silver faded suddenly, replaced with the cheerful smiling face of their Patron. “Ah, Condor! How wonderful! You’ve made it all the way to Valatar.”

“Not without incident. I still haven’t caught up with Phoenix, always just a few weeks behind them, and in the meantime this…place almost got destroyed–by a Great Elderwyrm, no less!”

“Yes, indeed, Sanamaveridion himself. But about Phoenix–I’m afraid we were both a bit misled.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you would be very ill-advised to go talk to the lovely rulers of Kaizatenzei and bring up the subject; you see, while I had thought they were–in a general sense, mind you–on my side, both Lady Shae and Light Miri betrayed my cause, and that of the King of All Hells.” He looked sincerely apologetic. “I am afraid that while you thought you were following the Phoenix, they were just laying a false trail. The Phoenix was going the other way around the lake.”

For a moment Aran sat still, dumbfounded. Tricked? Following a false trail all that way? Hundreds of miles following NOTHING?

Then he cursed and turned away. “Myrionar’s Balance, how stupid could I be. Of course, that makes sense of everything.”

“Really? What does it make sense of?”

He gestured vaguely. “I kept running into problems–real people problems, monsters, kidnappings, all that kind of thing–that it seemed obvious to me were the kinds of things a real Justiciar would have to deal with. It passed belief that the Phoenix would just pass them by unless there was something just incredibly immediately important driving them on, but I never got a hint of what important thing that could be.

“But now I know I was just getting whatever false hints they wanted to keep me going in the direction I was already headed. Thunder and Fire!” He kicked the wall so hard it left a hole, and winced. Great, I’ll have to pay for that.

“Yes, I see. Quite correct, of course. From what little I got from Miri when she severed our relationship, Phoenix did indeed get involved in such things along the route the party actually took.”

“Do you at least know if Phoenix is still here in Valatar?”

It smiled apologetically. “I am afraid not. You are now, in actuality, in the position you thought you were in earlier–a few weeks behind the Phoenix. The last symbol of Myrionar is now on its way home–to Evanwyl.”

Aran closed his eyes and counted from fifty backwards to zero. This kept him from cursing again, at least, and saved the walls and furniture from more abuse. “At least I know where Phoenix is headed. I should be able to make up distance, unless they’re pushing forward on a hard march.”

“They shouldn’t be; they have no reason to think it is necessary, and why would there be? Everything’s fine at home.” The smile was suddenly just a hair too sharp and shiny, and Aran shivered. “Get your rest tonight, Aran. You will catch them this time. I guarantee it.”

“And if I don’t? If they reach Evanwyl? I–”

“Aran, Aran, I understand your oath completely. I assure you, none of us will stand in your way.” Its eyes lit up with sudden amusement. “In fact, I think we could help you.”

“What?” He was immediately–and he felt justifiably–suspicious.

“What do you think the Phoenix is going to do when he–or she–arrives in Evanwyl?”

“Now? After what they’ve done here? Come after you, of course!”

“But how will they find us?”

“They…oh.” He paused. “Oh, I see. If I work it correctly, I could lead them to you. And then…”

“And then,” agreed the other with a chuckle, “You can get your vengeance and we can…deal with the Phoenix’s companions so that no one interferes with you at all.”

The idea worked. If Phoenix had companions, and they’d even lived through that last battle, they’d be dangerous, dangerous adversaries. Having his Patron and his old comrades taking on those adversaries…”Agreed. If I don’t catch and kill Phoenix before we enter Evanwyl, I’ll find a way to get them to follow me.” He felt his lips twist in an ironic smile. “Given that Phoenix will want to kill me about as much as I want to kill them, that probably won’t be too hard.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so. Well, then, Aran, I leave you with wishes for a peaceful night’s rest. Good night!” It hesitated before making the final cutoff gesture. “Oh, this scroll–break it after we are done, please.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Farewell, then.” The scroll went blank. Aran immediately picked it up and bent it double. It split and cracked down the center, and instantly began to evaporate. A summoning or temporary creation…maybe a functional duplicate of some original our Patron has elsewhere? He’d never really studied magic in detail. The important point was that no trace of the mirror would remain in a few moments.

He grinned suddenly. Yes, an excellent plan, Patron. Bring your most powerful enemies to our stronghold, where they will be most vulnerable.

But you will be in greatest danger there, too, for there will be nowhere for you to hide…and once Phoenix is dead, no reason for me to wait.

 

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 35

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 35

More shooting. This time he saw the little flashes, nothing like the great long spout of flame and sparks you got with a wheel-lock, and certainly no flash from the priming. He broke into a dead run at where he’d seen the flashes.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m hit!” O’Halloran again. Couldn’t be serious, not at this distance. Wouldn’t feel like that to him, though. Finnegan grinned.

“Toole! See to O’Halloran!” he yelled, vaulting over where the man was on the ground clutching at his belly. No time to see if he’d been really unlucky and had a ball go through his coat. Unlikely, but it happened.

****

Darryl pumped his arms and legs for all they were worth. He’d fired once, a fast group of three. Hopefully he’d aimed high enough to miss everyone that was chasing them. He wanted a bit more of a gap before he slowed down enough to turn and fire again. He passed Cromwell, who was crouched ready.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

There was a scream. Cromwell hadn’t aimed high enough. It was a common beginner’s mistake for guys used to the old muzzle-loading pistols. They expected the things to buck right up on firing so they aimed low to compensate. Took a fair bit of practise to drill them right on the new firearms. Cromwell hadn’t had it.

Darryl pumped out a dead sprint for another hundred yards and turned in the shade of a low willow tree, not much taller than he was. He spat to clear the leaves out of his mouth. The bad guys were still coming on, hampered by heavy coats and armor. They’d only fired the two shots, and someone over there had definitely yelled something that sounded like “prisoner” — if that was what passed for an Irish accent down-time, it was going to take some getting used to after the brogues Darryl had heard on TV. He brought his pistol up as he spotted Cromwell coming, haring past him with a grin on his face. Turned out the big guy was faster over this rough country than Darryl. Not a big deal, but he could see he was going to come in for some ribbing over it later.

He realised he was in a proper shooter’s stance and thought no, damn it, always wanted to do this. He flipped the pistol on its side and fired one handed, using the kick of the weapon to fan half a dozen shots in the general direction of the air over the bad guys’ heads. A couple of them, gratifyingly, went headlong into the dirt as the rounds cracked over their heads.

As he turned to run again, he grinned to himself. Sure, you can’t hit shit that way, but if you don’t want to, it surely is fun. More yells from behind. None in pain, more in outrage. More shots — real shots, not wheel-lock nonsense, getting hit at this distance with one of those meant you probably shouldn’t have got out of bed that morning — and the attention of the bad guys was on someone else for the moment.

He could concentrate on running, then, and this kind of ground needed it. What wasn’t tussocks was hummocks, and what wasn’t either was flat-out squishy. It was quite comfy underfoot, right up to the point where it took your ankle over or face planted you. Cromwell had made them spend a couple of hours earlier practising running over the stuff. Man believed in preparing properly for things, and that was to the good. What wasn’t was that he regarded a whole lot of prayer as part of proper preparation. Bearable, though.

There he was again, he’d picked a clump of something thorny this time. Darryl pounded past him, slacking off the pace enough to rummage in a back pocket for a spare mag. Clutch between teeth, check. Old mag out, check. Into back pocket, check. Fresh mag, check.

Fortunately the headlong fall was right into a nice, soft tussock of something with lovely little whitish flowers. By daylight, a sort of pinkish-white. About the same color as the stars that flashed across his vision.

He grunted. By some miracle he still had gun and mag in his hands, and applied one to the other as he rolled over onto his back. Cromwell came pounding over. “Up, lad,” he grunted, stopping to extend a hand down to Darryl.

“Thanks,” he gasped back, coming to his feet to see a helmeted, breastplated guy with a big stick in his hand pounding up.

Aim for the head he’s got armor, something in the back of Darryl’s mind shrieked and then centre of mass! No time! Three quick shots, the first snatched, headed off to Lincolnshire somewhere, the second close enough to make the guy wince and the third producing a satisfying tonk as it hit metal and the guy spun over and went down in flail of limbs, roaring something foul-sounding. There was a flurry of sparks and then a dull, rupturing thud as the man’s pistol discharged, but by then Darryl and Cromwell were already turning to run.

There was a second one almost on them, and Darryl put his head down for another sprint, blowing and heaving to get air back into himself as much as he could. It’d be a bastard to get a stitch right now. He’d never been unfit, track and football all through school followed by mine work, but he’d just spent a whole damned year cooped up in the Tower. Exercise hadn’t been on his list of priorities beyond a regular stroll along the walls and some work on building the steam laundry. They hadn’t been out long enough to get back to peak condition, not hardly at all. Cromwell was just as bad; he’d maybe started out fitter, but he’d been locked in one room for a year.

More shots, more swearing, and a loud thud as whoever was behind them either dove for cover or tripped. Could be either.

Cromwell grunted. “Stitch.”

“Got it,” Darryl grunted back, and stuffed his pistol into its under-arm holster. He had a couple of sore spots from falling over, and he knew those were going to give him trouble tomorrow, but he was damned if he was going to say anything. Besides, they were now in the “getting away with it” phase of operations and the important part here was getting away. He dragged his zippo out of his pocket — a down-time one, the flint was bigger and the case prettier — and stopped.

One, two, three strikes. No flame. With the other hand he was pulling a short lump of dynamite out of his pocket. Three, four, five — and then it caught.

Turned. Close. Fuse lit.

He tossed the fizzing thing at his feet and lit off again. Maybe two or three seconds of fuse and — CRACK!

He staggered and stumbled, ooofing out all his wind momentarily, and with a hasty drag of cool night air dug deep for a faster sprint. He had to hope the others were ready for that as he was. Not likely he’d killed anyone, unless someone was stupid enough to step right on an obviously-burning fuse. No compression, no fragments, and a small charge. Not much more powerful than a Fourth-of-July firecracker — okay, a pretty big one — and you’d have to be right on top of it to get hurt. The flash and bang would have rattled everyone’s teeth and —

CRACK! From the sounds someone else had thought the bad guys were getting a bit close. Good. Stuff needed using up. He’d cleared out his own stock that he had in the Tower and replaced it with a box of Harry’s, but it was getting on to six months old and he’d had to be elaborately careful cutting the sticks down and fitting them with squibs.

He caught up with Cromwell. “Can. Ease. Off.” He puffed out in time with the breaths he was taking.

Cromwell gasped back. “Match.” He had pulled out two lengths of slow-match. “Light. Bombs.”

A moment’s thought, and yes, that ought to work better than stopping to spark his lighter. Could he get it lit on the run?

Cromwell had thought of that, and stopped and took aim behind them. Darryl stopped too. Their pursuers had dropped back some, cautious about the explosions. Cromwell emptying his magazine in their general direction sent three guys Darryl could see dropping for cover, and in the time that bought them he got the matches lit and someone else threw another stub of dynamite.

He handed off one match to Cromwell as they turned to run and both of them got stubs out. He watched Cromwell do his first — hold the fuse to the match, blow on it, drop the stub, run like hell.

He did the same, another sprint away from the blast, and they settled in to a steady lope that would let them open the distance a little, but not too much.

Ten more minutes of running and the sounds of pursuit had faded to their rear. By now, everyone had converged on the same spot and slowed to an easy jog. Cromwell looked like he was getting a second wind. The four professional soldiers looked in better shape, but then they’d not been cooped up for a year with no good exercise.

“This. Is why. I went. For cavalry,” Leebrick panted out. “Horse. Does. The work.”

“Little Downham,” Cromwell panted out, pointing off to their left, where a village was visible on a small rise. “Half way.”

“Ambush. At the road?” Leebrick asked. They’d hoped to have more of a lead at this point. By the time they reached the road with its banks and ditches — from which they could deliver a volley of bullets and bombs before running again — and got dug in and the pursuers caught up, they’d only just have their breath back. Ready for another three miles of running.

“As planned,” Darryl gasped out. Even a short break was better than no break, and they didn’t want the pursuers getting … unenthusiastic.

 

The Seer – Snippet 40

The Seer – Snippet 40

#

On the fourth day at Kusan, Amarta was using the washroom for her own clothes, soaping at the lowest of the waterfall basins carved in the stone, rinsing upstream in successive basins. She had wrung out her shirt, then Dirina’s as well, and hung them to dry on lines strung across an opening overhead that brought in dry air from the outside.

She sat on a low bench for a time and watched the Emendi across the room in their wash work.

Jolon sat next to her. At their feet was a small puddle of water that had gathered during her washing. Very softly, so that only she could hear, he motioned to it and said, “Is it in such water that you see the future, Amarta?”

Amarta kept her eyes on the puddle at her feet in which the lamps around the room reflected, points of light in dark water. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“We keep it to ourselves, Mara and I, but we guess it is so. Is it magery?”

“No,” she said sharply, realizing her answer for the admission it was, then pressed her lips tightly together.

He brushed her shoulder. “I hear your words. That does not mean I believe them. No one else knows, and we keep secrets well.”

She would say no more about it, she resolved. Not a word.

“I am also here to say good-bye.” he said.

“What?” Amarta scrambled to her feet. He stood with her.

“We continue our journey south, to deliver the goods we have come to trade and sell.”

“We can be ready in minutes. We –”

“No. We do not take you with us. Stay here. The Emendi have no more desire to be found than you do.”

“They won’t let us stay without you.”

“They will. You work hard. They see this. We have spoken for you.”

Spoken for them? Vouched for strangers they had known mere days? Jolon and Mara could not know what they had saved her from, but until this moment, it had not occurred to her how much they had risked in bringing them here.

But to be left here?

Her mind raced. She thought of Darad, of laughing with him. With Nidem. “Jolon, you have been so good to us. Why?”

He made a thoughtful sound, then drew a large circle in the air with a forefinger and jabbed at a point along the circumference. “Today you need something, so we give it to you.” His finger continued along the circle, stopping at another point along the arc. “Another day you give something to someone who does not have what you do. That other, perhaps –” his finger traveled further and stopped. “gives to another. And then” — his finger went back to the first spot — “who can say? It is a better place, the world, when we give what we can. But there is another reason.”

“What?”

His face turned sad. “Long ago,” he said, “a force came to Otevan, bearing weapons, claiming our lands. Before blood was shed, we showed them what we and the shaota do together. Not in challenge, but in display, you understand?”

She nodded.

“They saw the wisdom of having us by their side. So we fought with Arunkel and helped them take the lands, one hill after another.” His eyes narrowed, the ends of his mouth turned down. “We sold ourselves for freedom. For some of us, it is a great sorrow and a sharp shame that our ancestors did this.”

“But you had to, or –”

“Yes, it seemed so. But if we had all faced the invader as one? It cannot be known.” He sighed. “Now we have a debt. To those who come to us in need, we give what we can.”

“But it wasn’t your decision. It was your ancestors’. How is it your debt?”

“What affects one Teva affects all. With you and your sister it is the same, yes?”

She hadn’t thought about it that way, but now she could see it was so: Amarta’s visions caused Dirina and Pas to suffer. “But if you leave us here –”

“We come back to Kusan next year. If you wish to leave then, perhaps we can take you. Yes?”

“We’ll be here,” Amarta said, but even as she said it, the words echoed hollowly. She pushed away the tickle of vision that wanted to deny her words. No; they would stay or go as they decided.

Jolon gestured to the puddle below them. “I have heard this is how the future is seen, in still water. It is not so?”

Amarta thought of those who had come to her across the years with dead rabbits and birds. “No. Nor thrown sticks, nor animal entrails.”

“Then — since no blood or water is needed, will you tell me something of what is to come?”

She owed the Teva a debt, greater than they knew, but to foresee now felt like she was bringing her curse here into the tunnels, where she had the last few days felt safe and more.

Amarta glanced at the rest of the hall to be sure no one was listening. “I will,” she said, a soft whisper.

“Those who we meet in Perripur, can we trust them?”

Amarta took a deep breath. As she let it out, she cast her mind into the open space that was the future.

Perripur, he said.

A world of green and brown. Air wet and warm, full of scent. Walking and more walking. A dark-skinned woman by her side.

No, no — not for herself. For Jolon and Mara. She reached out a hand to Jolon’s arm, to help her focus. She saw the inked scars that circled his forearm and hesitated.

“Yes,” Jolon said, offering his arm forward for her examination.

“What are those?” Amarta asked of the circles around his arm.

“We call them limisatae. Life-doors we pass through. Our first shaota. The first mate. The first child.” He met Amarta’s eyes, and she saw for a moment a flicker of something she could not name. “A life taken to keep our people whole. That is limisatae as well.”

“What are yours for?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It is for me. Not about the telling, but the being.”

Not about the telling.

That she could understand.

“Do you have a life-door to mark, Amarta?”

She thought of Enana. Of her parents. Of the attack she had thwarted in the forest. Had any of it changed her as his three marks must have changed him? “I don’t think so.”

“In time, I think.” He took her hand and wrapped her fingers around his forearm. “Will you tell now? Those we meet in Perripur? How much caution? How much trust?”

With her fingers on his arm, she reached into his future.

Faint smells of flowers, spice, smoke, fish. A collection of people standing in a circle. Voices.

“This is your first meeting with them?”

“It is.”

A knife separated links of heavy twine; a roughspun pouch opened. A deep-throated woman’s voice, another language. Words, back and forth. Dark faces turning away, smirking. Secrets.

Amarta opened her eyes to the dark and drip of the cave, the images already fading, the meaning sorting itself out in her mind. Trust was too big a word for this meeting, too wide a river to cross. “I think you will offer them a lot. Too much?”

She closed her eyes again, tried to find the place in time where she had seen the dark faces, to see if another outcome might change their expression. It was hard to hold, hard to see.

The same faces, different expressions. Fewer bags.

“Keep back more of what you brought to trade. The bags of…” She tried to remember what she’d seen. “Rocks? See what they offer for a smaller set first.”

“Then we will know what the rest is worth. I see. Thank you for that good counsel.” He clasped her shoulder and gave her a gentle smile. “Amarta, if hundreds of Emendi are safe here, you might be, too. Kusan has stood for centuries. You are safer here than anywhere in the world.”

Could he be right? Here in the dark, underground, might she be safe from the hunter who pursued above?

“Now I must ask another thing of you,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Nidem was not wrong to doubt us, bringing you here. The Emendi are safe only as long as Kusan is also secret. We have trusted you very much.”

“We are grateful. We –”

“Yes, this I know. But Amarta, whatever it is you run from, do not bring it here.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 07

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 07

Chapter 7

“You know, I really hate to say goodbye,” Poplock said, as he shook Hiriista’s extended claw between his forepaws.

“As do I, more than I can express. We make excellent teammates, all of us, do we not?”

“Beyond any doubt,” Kalshae said with a laugh. “I learned this to my sorrow…and my joy. A strange yet satisfying end to many things, despite our losses.”

“And one that’s resolved so many of our questions,” Tobimar said. “Not just my quest, but some of Kyri’s as well.”

Poplock bounce-nodded. “Including where all those monsters came from.”

The experimental laboratory where Wieran had worked on his life-shaping had been–as Poplock had suspected–down the third portion of the underground portion of the Valatar Palace, the branch to the right as one came down the stairs from the Throneroom. Shae and Miri had both verified that it was a place that contained almost uncounted monstrous things–both “successes,” like the enhanced itrichel they’d encountered in Jenten’s Mill, and far more failures–which were the things that had come through the gateway at Thornfalcon’s estate.

“Wieran had some way of controlling them, preventing them from tearing each other apart–mostly,” Miri had said. “I asked him once why he didn’t just destroy them, and he looked at me–as he often did–as if I were an idiot, and gave two reasons: first, that they represented data that he might want to reexamine, and second, that even the failures might serve a purpose.”

“Yeah, like being cannon fodder, as Xavier once put it, for someone like Thornfalcon,” Poplock had responded.

But whatever might have been down there before, it was no more. The third corridor, and whatever lay beyond, had collapsed. Uncounted thousands of tons of rock had obliterated Wieran’s third laboratory.

Poplock bounced again, shaking off the memory. “Definitely good to have those answers, but now that we’ve got the one answer about who the Big Bad is, we really need to get moving.”

“I’m sorry we have to go–” Kyri began.

“Light, will you stop apologizing?” Miri said with exasperated fondness. “You came to our country, woke me to the light, defeated our enemies–including the Elderwyrm himself–and helped us get back on our feet. You’ve got to take care of your own people. Of course I wish you could stay–so does all Kaizatenzei. But you need to go.”

“Shame old Wieran’s upper workshop got ruined,” Poplock said. “We might’ve been able to get a couple of those teleport gems and cut weeks off the trip.”

Tobimar shook his head. “Do either of you really think you could have figured out how he did all that–even if his lab was intact?”

After a hesitation, Hiriista shook his head and hissed a sigh. “No. No, he was far, far ahead of us. He had clearly mastered aspects of magic that I have not an inkling of.”

“Shame he was a total nutcase,” Poplock said. Then he sat up higher on Tobimar’s shoulder. “I guess you guys let everyone else know we were leaving?”

Kyri stopped dead on the top step of the mansion they had been staying in while part of Valatar Castle was restored, and stared in consternation.

A cheer so loud and deep that it became a roar shook the air, and the gathered people of Sha Kaizatenzei Valatar waved and cheered again. “Kyri! Tobimar! Poplock!”

Miri and Shae laughed at Kyri’s expression. Poplock had to admit that she looked pretty funny. “Oh, how, now?” Shae said with a broad grin, and then gave Kyri a sisterly hug that almost tipped her over–Shae being significantly taller and bigger than Kyri. “Did you think we would let you leave our city without the people knowing, and at least telling you with their voices how much you will be missed?”

Her face three shades darker than normal, Kyri muttered, “I had hoped you would…”

“Come on, Kyri!” Miri grabbed her hand and started pulling her down the stairs. “You’re leaving now, but we’ve got something to show you on the way.”

“Something to show me?”

The crowd had looked disorganized to Poplock, but as the two women approached it parted in a straight line up Dawnlight Way, the central street of the city. The rest of the little party followed Kyri and Miri; Poplock glanced to his right.

Rion returned his glance. “I still can’t believe my little sister’s come so far, so fast.”

“She had a lot of motivation. And a little help,” Poplock said. Inwardly, Poplock still wasn’t completely convinced that “Rion” was who he appeared to be. Oh, the story made sense, and it was hard to imagine that someone could have planned out the sequence of events that put him in their party…but Poplock felt that there was an awful lot of evidence that the head baddie–this “Viedraverion”–was just exactly that good. Still, Rion had passed all the tests they could figure. There were a few minor quirks of magic around him, but since there was no telling yet exactly how his new body could have been supplied, that wasn’t very informative.

“Still…” He gave a disbelieving chuckle. “I thought I was the one who was going to be the Justiciar in the family, the hero to bring our parents’ murderers to justice. And here’s my sister doing the job for me, while I was…dead? Or something close to it.”

The crowd closed in behind them, not quite close enough to be intimidating, but following the group as they moved up the street.

“Just be glad she and the rest of us did, or you’d still be in that tank. Anyway, as I understand it, you’re something pretty darn tough yourself. We can use all the help we can get.”

Rion ran his fingers through hair vastly lighter than his sister’s; according to Kyri, Rion got all the traits of their mother, while Kyri and their little sister Urelle both took after their father. “I’m pretty good, yes–and now that I’m feeling more myself, I’ll be able to help.” He glanced down at the armor he was wearing. “This stuff isn’t bad, and I’m grateful to our hosts…but I need to get better armor and weapons. If we’re going up against the other Justiciars…”

“We’ll keep an eye out, but from what he said, the Spiritsmith was heading out a little while after we left, so I don’t think we can get you a real replacement for the one you lost.”

“I didn’t lose it. I was killed in it.” When he spoke with the angry iron in his voice, Rion did sound very like Kyri. “And I plan to get it back from the people who took it from me–the ones that played at being our friends.”

Poplock bounce-nodded. “That’s our plan, too.” He glanced up. “Ooo, looks like we’re almost to the show-and-tell–whatever it is.”

Miri and Kyri were standing in front of a building that Poplock thought, thinking back, had been some kind of large storefront before the big battle. Now the front was covered with a huge piece of cloth held in place by a few ropes; the little Toad squinted and was able to make out a few people standing on either side of the building, holding ropes. Ah, it’s an unveiling. They’ll pull those ropes, and the cloth gets pulled apart like a giant curtain.

“What’s going on here?” Kyri asked, staring at the cream-white cloth as it rippled in the breeze coming down the street. There was a similar ripple in the chuckles that ran through the crowd.

“We wanted to make sure that you all saw this before you left.” Shae raised her hand, and the veiling cloth fell away to each side.

Poplock stared, then wished he could grin as widely as Tobimar.

The face of the building had been reworked, its front now in deep sky blue with touches of silver and gold, and over the doorway, the symbol of the Balanced Sword. And clearly visible inside, by light shining down through what must be a skylight, was a statue of a tall woman holding an immense sword aloft–a sword that was suspending two great balance-pans on its point, one pan on each side.

Considering how they had to be doing this in little spurts of their spare time, probably dozens of them–they got her pretty well. The fall of the hair, the overall shape of the armor, and the stance–that was, beyond a doubt, Kyri Victoria Vantage, the Phoenix Justiciar.

“Oh, great Balance…” Kyri murmured, managing to combine joy, embarrassment, and shock into a single expression.

“I see we succeeded in hiding it from you,” Hiriista said proudly.

Poplock looked over to the mazakh magewright narrowly. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Ahh, my friend, your first loyalty is to Tobimar and the Phoenix; I would not have strained your discretion so.”

“Bah. It would clearly have been worth it.”

“But you already have your own temples of the Light,” Kyri was saying. “You don’t need–”

“We don’t need to,” interrupted Shae gently. “We want to. Within the first day after the disaster I had thirty-six requests for a temple to your god Myrionar, to honor Its emissary on our behalf.”

“But you put me as part of the Balance! That’s…that’s too much, it’s using me to symbolize Myrionar. Please…Please, if you must, keep the statue, but…but put up a plain Balanced Sword, all right?”

Miri started to laugh, then saw the deadly seriousness of Kyri’s face. “You mean it.”

“Yeah, she does,” Poplock said, bouncing to the Justiciar’s shoulder. “It’s a big thing in the religion–I’ve learned a lot about it, traveling with her. The fact that there isn’t a face for Myrionar is important. Makes it so there’s no arguing that Myrionar really favors humans, or mazakh, or Children of Odin, or Toads. It is purely for justice for all. Right, Kyri?”

“Yes, that’s it. Thanks, Poplock. I…I don’t want to offend any of you, it’s…its so incredibly touching, I never expected this, but that statue, it’s just too much…”

“Understood,” Shae said firmly. “We shall move the statue to a place of honor that is not at the altar, and place the simpler sword and balance symbol above. We have only begun to understand your ways–most of what we did here came from Miri and Hiriista, who were present when you prepared your more extensive teachings for those in Jenten’s Mill. We didn’t dare ask you for similar writings at the time, not if the surprise was to remain a surprise.”

Kyri smiled more naturally–it was easier to relax, Poplock guessed, if you weren’t worried that your image was being used in a sacrilegious representation of your own religion. “I guess not. We were leaving now, but…”

“Fear not; as you know, the Unity Guard are now preparing to return to their customary cities. I will have one of them–Danrall, I think–go to Jenten’s Mill and acquire a copy for use here in Valatar.”

“No, leave that to me,” Kyri said. “It’s my job to spread Myrionar’s faith, and we did plan to stop at Jenten’s Mill so that Zogen would know that he had been right to worry…and does not have to worry any longer. Maybe he’ll even bring it himself, and rejoin the Unity Guard.”

“If you would do that for us, we would be very grateful,” Shae said.

“I will be grateful,” Kyri said, face darkening with several shades of embarrassment anew as she looked back towards her statue, “for you give Myrionar new life, so don’t thank me anymore. Just…let us finish this quest. We’ll come back, I promise!”

“If we survive,” Poplock observed pointedly. “But yeah, all three of us will want to visit you again. Don’t think you’ve seen the last of us.”

Miri and Shae laughed and then bowed low. With a whispering rustle, the entire crowd echoed the gesture, a bow that rippled outward through the city like a wave. “Then be on your way, Phoenix Kyri, Tobimar Silverun, Poplock Duckweed, and Rion Vantage. May the Light shine upon you and illuminate your souls and the blessings of Kaizatenzei follow you always. Good luck,” and Shae’s face suddenly acquired a fierce grin, “and good hunting.”

The crowd rose and parted, and the four companions turned, walking towards the risen sun, from the steps of the Temple of Myrionar.