Eric Flint's Blog, page 246

The Seer – Snippet 19

The Seer – Snippet 19

Or maybe it would be easier for everyone if he shot her now, killed her dead, and got it over with. Then, perhaps, Dirina and Pas would be safe.

“Ama!” Dirina screamed.

Still she watched him. She needed to see him, see this next moment. With every step his horse was losing ground as their raft was caught in the downstream current, but his bow was still pointed directly at her.

Now everything was moving: the raft, the horse, the banks on either side. It seemed to Amarta that the place where the bow in his hand crossed his arrow was the only thing in the world that did not move.

“What do you want?” she yelled at him. “What?”

“Ama,” her sister hissed. “Don’t.”

As if in answer, he lowered the bow. His horse slowed, still following along the riverbank but falling farther behind.

Amarta sat heavily next to her sister. A half-hearted attempt to foresee only gained her a tangled, misty sense of fading danger as the man on the horse, still following along the shore, receded into the distance. At last they could no longer see him.

One thing she had seen clearly, though, was that she would meet him again.

#

Amarta began to tremble. Dirina held her, spoke soothing words, but she was shaking as well.

In time Pas calmed down enough to want to be fed and changed. Swapping one patch of moss for another, Dirina handed the pole to Amarta while she fed him. Amarta stood on the raft, keeping them at the center of the wide river. She glanced at the bank behind.

Would he follow?

Of course he would.

The skies cleared and the shadows lengthened. It was colder on the water than she thought it could possibly be without being frozen solid. They huddled together.

“We’ll stop soon,” Dirina said, bundling Pas in her arms. “When we find a road. We’ll go –” she broke off, then started again. “We’ll go —

“Diri?”

Her sister was silent, inhaling raggedly, as tired and worn as Amarta. She had never seen her sister so shaken.

“We’ll find a road on the other side,” Amarta continued. “Go inland.”

Dirina nodded as Pas reached for her hair. She kissed his forehead. “We will need to get off the river,” Dirina said. “Find food and shelter.”

But they would stand out wherever they went.

“Diri, if we cut my hair, could I seem a boy instead?”

Dirina gave her an assessing look. “Maybe. With a little change to how you move and what you say.”

Amarta pulled out their knife, grabbed her shoulder-length hair around front in a fist, and began to saw through it as Dirina had with the rope.

“Here, let me,” Dirina said, arranging Pas and herself closer. Then, after a time: “It will do for now.”

Amarta held a handful of the cut hair, some of her tresses nearly a foot long. About to toss them into the river, she hesitated, recalling the eyes of the hunter. The strands might float downstream, tangling with fallen leaves and branches. He might find them.

She tried to foresee. The future was cold and swirling and uncertain like the water around them. She put the strands in her pocket.

#

“Look,” Dirina was whispering to Pas, pointing to the moon in the deepening azure sky, “a shard of the first stone from which the world was born. And those lights? Those are stars, the children of the sun.”

Dark banks passed to either side, thick forests, an occasional campfire.

Lamps from houses in small villages. Amarta envied them their warm houses, their families, their food. What would it be like to live in a place with the confidence you would be there tomorrow and the next day? The next season? A year hence?

“There,” Dirina said, pointing.

A road along the bank. Dirina stood, poked the pole into the water, maneuvered them to the shore. After a little work, the raft was on the shore. Amarta stepped off into the frigid water. Together they dragged the raft partly up onto the bank. Good enough. Or was it?

Dirina on the ground, blood oozing wetly from an arrow in her leg. Amarta turning to see him atop his horse.

Dirina held Pas and the rest of their belongings.

“Diri, the raft. He’s seen it.”

For a moment her sister looked confused. Then she nodded. “We’ll send it downriver.”

They launched it with as much force as they could, and off it went downstream.

“Travel far, travel true,” Dirina whispered.

Amarta didn’t try to foresee the path of the raft. It would have to be good enough.

#

They stood by a tree at the edge of a fallow field, Pas deep in exhausted sleep against Dirina’s chest, and stared at the lights of a farmhouse.

“This one, or do we go on?” Dirina asked, tone flat.

They had been careful, walking on rocks, considering every step. No broken branches. No stray hairs.

Tired, cold, hungry. Would whoever lived in this farmhouse take them in, at least until tomorrow?

Beggars in the night.

Amarta looked at the farmhouse again, trying to foresee. She felt empty. “Maybe,” she said.

“Maybe?” Dirina said, her voice cracking. “Yes or no?”

They were both so tired that it was hard to say anything, let alone anything nice. Amarta squinted at the farmhouse. If they knocked on the door, could it lead to being warm?

The smell of hay. A place to lie down.

There was a way.

“Yes,” she said, too tired to explain.

They walked the rutted path to the house. It stretched back and away from the road under a leafless oak, a barn nearby.

Dirina took a breath, and knocked.

A woman opened the door, gray at her temples, a frown on her face. “What do you want?”

“We are travelers,” Dirina said, trying to sound hopeful and pitiful all at once. “Begging your mercy. With nowhere to go this wretched night. All we ask –”

“You’re letting in cold.” She scowled. “Get in.”

They did so, pulling the door shut behind. A fire in a large wood stove breathed heat into the room. Two men, young enough to be the woman’s adult sons, sat at a table and turned to look.

The smell of meat and spices hung in the air. They had food. They were eating. For a moment Amarta could think of nothing else.

“We were orphaned, ma’am,” Dirina said, moving the blanket a bit so that they could all see Pas in her arms. “Our parents fell off a mountainside and died. Our uncle took everything we had. We’re not beggars,” she said. “We can clean and mend and care for children…” she glanced at the young men and faltered. There were no children here.

Dirina ducked her head, eyes wide. It was the look she got when they were most down on their luck. “We can cook, and fetch water and collect wood and pick wildflowers and –”

Flowers? Dirina must be beyond tired. Her sister stuttered to a stop, only now seeming to realize what she had just said.

“Anything, really,” Dirina finished softly.

The woman, clearly reluctant, shrugged. “The barn has hay. Be gone in the morning. The donkey is mean and will bite, so don’t bother him.”

But the last thing Amarta wanted was to leave this warm room to share space with an unpleasant animal in a cold barn. More than anything, she wanted to stay right here and eat whatever they were eating.

They would share what they had, if they wanted to. How to convince them?

The woman didn’t trust them, Amarta could see that in her hard expression. What would it take to change her mind?

So tired. Too tired to look ahead.

Just a little ways ahead, then. Heartbeats in the future. A hint of what could be.

She caught it then, barely a whiff. A taste of stew from a future that might yet be.

“No,” she said to the woman. “I mean –” she glanced at Dirina, who gave her a dismayed look. “That’s not all of it.”

“Not all of what, girl?” the woman asked, moving to the door to open it. “Loham, take them out to the barn.” One of the young men stood and approached.

“It’s true we’re orphans,” Amarta said, talking quickly, “but there’s more. There’s a man after us. I think he means to kill us.” She spoke calmly. That was the thing, she realized, not to try to look ragged and pathetic. Dirina’s approach had worked before, many times, but it wouldn’t work now.

The woman gave them both a long look. “Why?”

“We don’t know,” Amarta continued. “But we have nowhere to go. We haven’t eaten today because we have no food or money. But we’re trustworthy, and we’ll work hard for you as long as you’ll have us.”

“Not the king’s men,” the woman said. “We don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“No, not that,” Dirina said.

The woman nodded slowly. Then, to Dirina: “Next time you let her speak.”

Dirina looked down, face reddening.

“Cafir,” the woman called to the other man, “put some blankets in the corner by the fire. Loham, ladle out two more bowls. You two, take off your packs, and –” she stepped toward Dirina. “Here, woman, give me that baby before you drop him.”

Dirina hesitated a moment, then handed her Pas.

Amarta took off her pack and looked around the room, feeling dazed as the future she had glimpsed moments ago became the present.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 13

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 13

Tully busied himself with a tricky bit of apple peel for a moment. “Sure, and I think I would, at that. I’m none of the best of fathers, but there’d be a reckoning if someone hurt my little ones. And God love them, they think the world of me and they’d be sad to see me put away in some castle somewhere, I’d want to let them know Daddy’d got out. I’m after thinking you’re right, so. Do we know where his children are?”

“Ely, but that was year before last, when he got caught. They weren’t taken, but what happened after that the king’s men didn’t bother their arses over. We’ll have to find out, I think. If it’s Cromwell.” Finnegan picked up the tankard — the innkeeper had given him the good pewter, as fit the chief man of his day’s customers “And I don’t know why he’d have headed out on the road to Chelmsford, nor do I. Wrong direction altogether.”

“A conundrum and a mystery, so it is,” Tully said. “Unless it’s as simple as this was where the wagon they wanted was left and it was the Chelmsford road or back to London and capture.”

“Well, when we know more, we’ll know how simple it is or isn’t. For now, I’ve the sun on me, the wind in my toes, and beer to drink. I’ll take the simple pleasures when I can, Tully, and so should you.”

“I’ll keep to taking them from upwind of the feet of you, Finnegan, whatever else may befall.”

“As you please, Tully. Now unless Mulligan comes riding in with great news enough to not mind his sore arse, see O’Hare gets his drink and leave me be.” Finnegan reclined against the wall and let his hat tilt forward to shade his eyes.

He’d spent the days before mostly sat in a public house in Southwark while his boyos went up and down in the world of London’s docks. They’d found plenty, just by being cheerfully ignorant paddies and micks, chatting to people, buying drinks and keeping their ears open. Most Londoners assumed that because they’d been born in the big city, and it certainly was that and smelt like it, they were three times the men and ten times the scholars that anyone from the rest of England could be, and double that for Irishmen, who were well known to all be illiterate thieving vagabond papists. To be fair, that was about two-thirds of Finnegan’s men to the life, but that didn’t mean stupid, it didn’t mean deaf, and didn’t mean not reporting to someone who was smart and well educated and thinking ferociously about how he’d do what had been done that morning. The facts that came to light were simple enough. There’d been shots, explosions within the tower and on the wall, and an explosion on London bridge. Two boats had been seen heading downriver and around the bend past Rotherhithe. After that, picking out the right boats from the general river traffic was impossible, and only a few had watched the boats all the way out of sight. Nobody around the bend in Rotherhithe had paid enough attention to pick one or two boats out of dozens.

A look at the site of the explosion on London Bridge showed that a lot of smoke and noise had happened, but no real damage. On the one hand, it was a bomb to discourage pursuit south of the river. On the other hand, did it make sense that people clever enough to put everything else together would make a bollocks of such a vital part of the escape? Lots of possibilities. Two escaping parties, one in the boats and one not, the land party’s diversion having failed. Or, two escape routes prepared, and they all went in the boats so the bomb on the bridge had its fuse burn down to cover nothing. Or, the bomb on the bridge was the purest of misdirections, a wild gesture at an escape to the south to get the hounds running that way. The earl had sent men away on all the roads to the south, he had enough to cover everything. Finnegan’s job was to get ahead of the quarry and wait — it was a poor hunter who just chased, after all. All of those king’s men, riding the roads into dusty exhaustion, were as far as Finnegan cared just beaters.

What decided the matter was collecting enough accounts from enough people. Nobody had really paid full attention to all of it — quite a lot of London Bridge was busy enough that people really hadn’t noticed a bomb going off four hundred yards away, or at least not enough to realise that it was important at the time. But, adding half-story to half-story, Finnegan had pieced together that whoever had placed the charge on the bridge had done it to go off barely a few minutes after the one on the outside of the tower. If it had been intended to stop pursuit after they went past, it had gone off too early and too weak. And nobody had seen any large movement of people between the Tower and the bridge at the right time. It was nearly a quarter mile; someone should have seen something if there’d been a flight that way.

And, indeed, nobody had seen anyone leave the tower other than by boat by any other route, either. If they had, they’d done it without leaving a trace that could be followed, and Finnegan had reported as much to the earl as soon as he was sure in his own mind, sending a runner with a brief in hand. He had got men far enough down the south bank to have it clear that at some point two boats had indeed become one, and that one had gone all the way down to Chatham and taken ship there. Said ship being one of the USE’s steam-ships that Finnegan didn’t remotely understand, despite the best efforts of a sailor with a beer in him to explain. Big ship, very powerful. Enough understanding for Finnegan’s purposes. So, the escapers had got some or all of themselves away over the water. The “some” was the important bit, and Finnegan felt His Earlship would want an answer on the point. So, nothing landed on the south bank as far as he could find by sending eyes and ears as much as ten miles down, perhaps four as the crow flew, what with the river being so bendy.

And this was why he’d spent the day at an inn table, enjoying the fine air and good ale while he read the documents the earl had given him. Wentworth would be one candidate to stay, looking to get to his political base in Yorkshire. The Mackays — and some of the shooting said Baroness Mackay had come down from Scotland — would be another, since the king’s agents knew that she’d been in Edinburgh visiting the in-laws. If she’d left, word hadn’t come down yet and reached the Earl of Cork’s spymaster, but it wouldn’t be the first time spies delivered the necessary news late or not at all.

 

Come The Revolution – Snippet 24

Come The Revolution – Snippet 24

Chapter Fifteen

I got in the express elevator going up and requested Level 237. I shared the compartment with a Varoki couple who moved to one side to give me some space, maybe because I was Human, maybe because of my dark expression.

I loved Marr in a way I’d never loved anyone in my life, in a way that had caught me by surprise because I’d thought it was beyond my capacity. And Tweezaa . . . sometimes it was hard to believe she wasn’t my child, my own flesh. And soon there would be a son, one more person to cherish, one more to enrich my life beyond anything I had ever imagined.

One more to let down.

I closed my eyes and just stood there for a while as the floors raced past, faster and faster, and I wondered if these things every had brake failures, if they every just kept accelerating until they blew right through the roof and tossed their passengers a thousand meters into the sky, to reach the top of their trajectory, pause there for a moment, and then start that long fall back.

I opened my eyes when the elevator began to decelerate. No brake failure today. It stopped at 200 and the Varoki couple left, silent and avoiding eye contact with me. As the doors closed I blinked up a search for travel services in the city. Marr always booked our travel through the office but I it occurred to me someone might be watching for that. I picked the first service that came up and put in a booking for a shuttle departure to Kootrin from the Prahaa-Rizz rooftop terminal, as soon as available.

We Are Sorry But Due To A Defense Ministry Night Aerial Travel Quarantine Over Sakkatto City All Shuttle Departures Have Been Delayed Until Hour Seven, Twelve of Eight-Month Waning. Would You Like To Make A Morning Booking?

“Yes,” I answered, confirmed the booking through my travel cover, and closed the connection.

Night? It was only coming up on Hour Fifteen, and this time of year it stayed light at least until Seventeen. Somebody was nervous, not that I could blame them, but it was getting in the way of my efforts to be a responsible adult.

I left the elevator and made my way to the apartment, went in, and paused in the anteroom to check the security monitors inside. Bela and Pablo were still strapped into their chairs, so I opened the inner doors and joined them.

“Change of plans, boys,” I said as soon as I got inside. “My shuttle doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning, so I’ll have to keep you under wraps until then.”

“I need go bathroom,” Bela said.

“Yeah, not surprising. What I’m going to do is cut you loose and lock you both up in the guest suite until I’m ready to leave. There’s a bathroom in there, and smart walls if you get bored. There’s also a comm sensor, so if you pull those jammers off your necks and try to call for help, I’m going to have to do something drastic. Understand?”

They both nodded and I traded the folding neuro wand for a neuro pistol from the gun safe. I moved it into my right hand, cradled in the sling, and took my old Kizlyar desantnyk knife from its scabbard in the safe, holding it in my left hand.

“I’m going to cut your feet free with the knife. Then I want you to get up, carrying the chairs strapped to your backs, and walk to the guest suite, down that hallway. Sit down in there with your backs to the doorway and I’ll cut your hands free. Do not stand up until I am out the door or I will stun you.

“This blade is very sharp, so try not to move while I’m cutting the tape. I’m more of a gun guy than a knife guy, so if you try something really stupid, like jumping me, and I have to cut you, I can’t guarantee it won’t kill you.”

“Understood,” Bela said. “We do as ask, not cause more trouble. Most people would kill us. I would kill us. Is very good of you not to. I am sorry we try hurt you, Mister Naradnyo.”

“Well, I’ll make a deal with you, Bela. If you don’t tell anyone I went soft and let you live, I won’t tell them about getting the drop on you.”

“Is deal. Thank you, Mister Naradnyo,” he said.

All very nice, but I still made them go through every step of the transfer procedure.

Once they were securely locked in I made my way to the living room, poured myself a real scotch, and walked out onto the balcony to think things through. I considered taking along one of the cigars Marr got me as a birthday present but I wasn’t in a good enough mood. Cigars should always be celebratory, even if only in some small way, like smoking one with a friend.

I thought for a moment and then went back in and got one, came out, and settled into a lounger. I snipped the end, got it going, and commed Marr.

Sasha? Are you all right?

“I’m fine, Babe. I’m out on a balcony, enjoying a birthday cigar and thinking about you.”

Can you get to us?

“Yeah. They shut down transportation for the night, but I have a ride lined up for tomorrow. No details, understand?”

Yes. As long as you’re safe you can tell me later. I miss you.

I watched a military shuttle bank and flare for a landing at one of Katammu-Arc’s upper bays and I swallowed to relieve the tightness in my throat.

“God, I miss you, too.”

*****

I finished my cigar and then showered and packed so I wouldn’t have to bother with it in the morning. I warmed up some frozen leftovers, and even made Bela and Pablo dinner, used the intercom to make them move into their bathroom while I opened the door and put the plates on the table, and then gave then the all-clear after I was out and the door locked again. All that took an hour or so and by then the light was fading. It was a beautiful autumn night, though, and I took another scotch out onto the balcony. Maybe things were settling down. I set the internal alarm on my commlink, stretched out on the lounge, sipped my scotch, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

I woke up about Two Hour on the Twelfth and at first I wasn’t sure why. I still had almost four hours before I had to leave for the shuttle. Something had changed in the background pattern of noise.

I stood up and stretched, then went to the railing and looked down. The city didn’t look much different than it had before except now it was dark, lit by street and building lights, scattered fires, and little patches of twinkling light here and there. It took me a minute to realize the faint sound of automatic weapons fire had woken me, and that’s what those little twinkling lights were. The sounds were muted and got to me after the light, so they didn’t really seem associated with each other.

The firing wasn’t continuous: a smattering here, then it would stop and there would be a cluster somewhere else, going on all over the slums of Sakkatto City. I had a set of long-range vision enhancement goggles somewhere in the apartment and I went in to find them. As soon as I did I heard Bela talking on the intercom.

“Mister Naradnyo! Are you there? Mister Naradnyo, better look this stuff on feed. Mister Naradnyo, where you are?”

“I’m on it,” I said into the intercom and opened a vid feed on a smart wall. I didn’t have to search for more than five seconds before the images started coming up.

I was looking at a Munie checkpoint which had stopped a military vehicle, a wheeled armored personnel carrier (APC), in uBakai Army urban camo pattern. A dismounted Army officer argued with a Munie in full riot gear.

“This was live just five minutes ago from a municipal streetcam at the intersection of Deliverance Way and the eastern maintenance trunk line,” a female Human voice said in English. She sounded short of breath, as if from fear or excitement. I recognized her face in the corner of the picture, the same woman I’d noticed earlier, the one named Aurora.

The Munie in the feed became more heated, shouting at the officer, gesturing wildly. Just watching you could tell the Munies — worn down, jumped back up on stimulants, and scared — were taut as wires stretched right to the breaking point. And then the wire broke.

It was over almost instantly. The Munie pushed the officer back and went for his sidearm, probably a neuro stunner, but before he even got it out of the holster the remote autogun on top of the ground forces APC punched him with a four-round burst, slammed him back against the police van parked to block the street. He crumpled to the pavement, clearly dead. The other four Munies opened fire with their assault rifles, hit the dismounted officer, and then the APC’s autogun went to continuous fire mode and just shredded them, opening up the side of the police van and setting it on fire in the process.

 

The Seer – Snippet 18

The Seer – Snippet 18

The strange musky smell of wet animal. Pas’s terrified wailing. Amarta tried to get to him but she could not seem to move. The wail abruptly ceased.

Softly Dirina breathed out, “We have to go somewhere, Ama.”

Amarta turned around slowly in the dimming light, looking for what, she didn’t know. A tree, a rock — anything that might connect her confusing vision to direction. She took a small step off the road in one direction, then another, but nothing changed. Then forward again on the road. Was it still there?

The ground was hard and cold beneath her, Pas’s broken, lifeless body just out of reach.

Amarta exhaled sharply, a soundless cry, and doubled over, fingers on the frozen ground.

“Ama?” Alarm in her sister’s voice.

Struggling back aright, she stepped close, reached out to touch Pas’s face where he curled in Dirina’s arms. At this he opened his brown eyes, smiled. She put her lips to his forehead gratefully.

They must move. Where? Swallowing hard, she again took a step forward on the road.

It was suddenly free of disaster.

“We can go forward now,” Amarta said.

“What? But why?”

“I don’t know.”

“But — are you sure?”

Another step. No warnings. “Yes.” she said. Her visions were sure, anyway.

They went forward, hesitantly, Amarta in the lead, holding the no-doubt-useless knife in front of her.

They rounded a curve, the land sloping up on one side and down on the other, then rounded another curve. With every step Amarta listened for warning, heart pounding in her ears.

When at last they came to the place there was barely enough light to see the broad, dark stains in the snow, the large animal pads where something had walked, the gouges where a body had been dragged away after a struggle.

Something had died here. Minutes ago. Instead of the three of them.

As they passed, they gave wide berth to the blood-soaked snow and bits of fur.

Darkness fell around them as the cold settled hard. Dirina took Amarta’s hand and led her forward as if she knew where they were going, but of course she could not possibly.

Another flash of vision, and Amarta squeezed Dirina’s hand, leading them by feel to the side of the road, then on a short path to a tiny cabin. The waystation, the dimmest of outlines. They felt their way inside blindly, finding the room empty and small enough that they could both barely stretch out on the wood floor.

But it kept out the wind, and the door bolted.

#

She woke her sister at dawn, feeling the pressure of pursuit.

By early afternoon they could see down the steep embankment to the river valley below. From this distance the Sennant was a thick gray and white rush, the sound a distant roar.

“You see,” Dirina said, her tone one of relief as she pointed out a small square of brown at a wide, slow area on the other side of the river where the road continued from the rocky banks. “The raft. It’s attached to a rope, strung between those two huge cedars. We’ll be able to draw it back over to our side and take it across.”

As they hiked down the switch backed road to the river, the roaring was a welcome sound. Amarta felt her spirits rise. Underfoot, snow gave way to rockier land and patches of dirt.

Once they found the town, what then? They were out of food, had no more coin, knew no one there. A woman, a girl, a baby — how much generosity could they hope for in winter, when strangers were even less welcome?

It would not take long for the talk in Botaros to follow them. The first thaw’s trade wagons would see to that.

“We won’t be welcome in Sennant, will we?”

A pause. “We’ll see when we get there.”

Beggars. That’s what they were. As welcome as mice in a granary.

Mice who knew things they shouldn’t.

They reached the riverbank, their feet crunching over rocks. On either side the tall rises were edged with snow-tipped firs and pines that rose to points against the flat, gray sky.

At last they reached the river’s edge and the short wooden dock where a pole for the raft was waiting. Dirina handed Pas to Amarta while she set to pulling the dangling rope. On the other side the raft jerked and began to move toward them.

Pas was restless, so she let him down to the dock, where he tried to stand, bouncing up and down, almost hopping. He looked up at her and smiled. Her fear eased. Dirina was right. She worried too much.

Then she looked back at the hills. At the high point of the road was a dark-clad horse and rider.

“Diri.”

Her sister looked and inhaled sharply.

The rider was trotting toward them.

Amarta let Pas’s hand go to help Dirina’s pull on the rope. Pas sat heavily on the dock and began to whine.

The two of them put everything they had into retrieving the raft. A glance back showed the rider halfway down the hills, now moving even faster.

No point in looking at him. She pulled harder, not thinking; grab and tug, grab and tug.

The raft bumped the dock on their side.

“Get on,” Dirina said.

Amarta snatched up Pas and stepped onto the raft.

Now the horse was past the switchbacks and on the bank of the river.

“Diri?”

“Downstream,” Dirina said curtly. She pulled the knife and began sawing at the ropes that held the raft to the pulley. “Not to Sennant town. He’ll follow there. Understand?”

“Yes, but –”

“He’ll track you along the shore,” Dirina said, strands of the thick rope parting as she cut fiercely. “It’s rocky, so you can go faster than he can ride, but stay to the other side.”

“Diri. Get on.”

The rocky bank slowed the horse, but not much. The sound of hooves grew louder.

The cut rope gave way. Dirina held tight to the end that held the raft. She turned on Amarta. “Take Pas. Get to a town. Hide. Pretend to be someone else. Find someone to take care of you. Use your visions, Ama. Use them!”

“Diri!”

“I’ll stop him. You go.”

With that her sister released the rope. At the same moment, Amarta grabbed her arm with the hand not holding Pas. The raft struggled in the current, held only by Amarta’s tight grasp on her sister.

“You have to come,” she said, struggling to hold both Pas and Dirina at once. A seeing haze came over her, a warning. They had to leave, and now. If Dirina stayed…

The horse and rider were nearly on them.

“You won’t slow him down,” Amarta cried desperately. “Not enough.”

Uncertainty flickered across her sister’s face.

Amarta’s visions were howling at her, one thing and one thing only: the shadow hunter was coming, and if he got her, she would not get away. Closer each heartbeat.

“I’m sure,” she lied firmly. “Get on.”

Dirina hesitated, a precious moment they didn’t have. Amarta jerked her onto the raft, and she didn’t resist, taking up the pole. With it she gave a hard push, propelling them away from the dock.

He was close enough now that she could make out details. He was well-wrapped against the cold, his chestnut-brown horse’s hooves finding traction on the ground to come alongside them.

Amarta knelt down on the raft, holding Pas, keeping the two of them steady. As the raft wobbled, Dirina took a wide stance, poling into the water, pushing them farther away from shore.

Now the rider held reins in one hand and in the other a bow and arrow.

“Down,” her sister shouted. Amarta went prone on the wooden raft, curling around Pas, who made frightened sounds. She whispered in his ear to comfort him, but he only cried louder. She went silent, letting him cry for the both of them.

Maybe there was no escaping the future. Maybe all you could do was trade one bad happenstance for another. She shut her eyes, not wanting to see what would happen next. But she opened them almost immediately, craning her head around to see him, this hunter.

Every part of the man was covered, gloves to high boots, a snug hood, only his eyes showing. He dropped the reins, but the horse continuing forward as if nothing had changed. He took the bow in both hands.

“Diri!”

Amarta sat up, grabbed her sister by the arm, and tugged her down. Dirina dropped by her side, still managing to hold the pole. Around Pas they hugged each other.

A hard thunk on the raft. An arrow stuck upward, a scant foot from Dirina’s back.

At that, fury overcame her. He was supposed to be coming after her, not Dirina. She was on her feet, struggling for balance. “Stop it!” she yelled at him. “Go away!”

The distance between the raft and the horse was widening slowly. Too slowly.

“Ama, get down!” Dirina shouted, grabbing at her hand. She shook off Dirina’s grasp and turned to face her pursuer.

He lifted his bow again, aimed at her.

She felt oddly calm, as though she had all the time in the world. She considered how he had almost hit Dirina with his last shot. From a moving horse. Aiming at a moving raft. He was very good at this.

Next time he probably wouldn’t miss.

Especially if she were standing.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 12

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 12

PART II

June, 1634

                                  Now Sark rins over Solway sands,

                                  An’ Tweed rins to the ocean,

                                  To mark where England’s province stands —

                                  Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

Chapter 7

Finnegan peeled off the second boot and let his feet wave in the breeze. He’d had the innkeeper’s wife bring him a footstool for just this purpose. She’d also fetched beer, bread and cheese, and his lads were behaving themselves. Which was to the good, since he was minded to question the lady further in a short while. She’d been quite forthcoming with the news about the party that’d arrived by boat and left by cart, but there was always some other small detail one could catch in conversation.

“D’ye have t’ do that, Finnegan?” Tully’d snagged a small barrel to sit on while he munched on a couple of apples. The inn was doing quite well out of travellers this day, it seemed. Everyone had arrived with a hunger and a thirst on him.

“What?”

“Have yer sweaty feet in the face of a man about his food, so?”

“You can always sit elsewhere. Besides, it’s not good for a man to be constantly shod, nor is it. The day’s been a warm one, and what poor oul’ bog paddy likes to wear boots nor shoes?”

“I can feckin’ tell it’s been a warm day, with the stink of you. Hold on while I move upwind, ye smelly gaimbín.” Tully matched deed to word and dragged his barrel around. “Now I’ve the sun in my eyes instead of warming my back, and all with the feet of you. I hope yer mother’s proud of the son she raised, Finnegan.”

“Oh, hold your noise. The boyos are all fed and watered, if you’ve time to complain like an Englishman?” Finnegan relied on Tully for details like that. You’d never describe the man as scholar nor saint, but he could see to the beasts and the men alike for their comforts. “Apart from the few that’re still abroad, that is?”

“O’Hare caught up with us a quarter-hour past. They’ve all found bedding above the stables, there’s rooms for the gentry of us in the inn, yer woman there promises a rich stirabout and dumplings for our supper at a good price for these parts, and the beer’s passable. So until Mulligan and Welch get back from Romford and we’re all together again, things are as settled as they can be.”

Finnegan raised an eyebrow. “O’Hare’s back from Tilbury and not a word for his chieftain?”

Tully sneered as he spat a pip across the inn’s yard. “Chieftain my puckered and sweaty ring, Finnegan. He says there was but the one boat at Tilbury, just as you said, and don’t ask him for a civil word until the aching arse of him has had a night’s rest to recover. A hard ride you sent him on, sure, and a long one. He did well to be on us this much before sundown.”

Finnegan took a pull on his beer. “He did, at that, and I’ll excuse much for a sore arse got by hard riding. If you catch the eye of one of the family here before I do, have them tell you what’s a good spirit hereabouts and to send a half-pint of it to O’Hare, he can soothe his bruised behind at my expense. Did we find out what the craic was with whores hereabouts?”

“Nothing to mention. I didn’t ask if there was an arrangement to be had with any of the serving girls yet, I told the boyos to get themselves and their horses fed and bedded before they unbuttoned their britches. They know the rules. Leave ’em smiling in unfamiliar country, so, or don’t leave ’em at all where they’ll be found. And we’re too busy to be hiding anything, with what we’re about.”

“Aye. Let it be known I’ll find some pretty ones out of the earl’s pocket to amuse them when we catch these birds. Until then, nothing that’s not quick and paid for. There’s a trail to pick up, and quarry to get ahead of, romance can wait.”

There’d been a couple of incidents before Finnegan made the rules. Only one after. He didn’t take much pleasure in disembowelling a castrated, crucified man, but he’d put his hand to the task again at need. You didn’t need to be a savage yourself to lead a crew like his, so long as they had the clear and constant notion that it was something you could do better and more imaginatively than they could if they drove you to it. Like most torai, their instinct about rules was that they were for the sheep, not the wolves. They required education in the matter, and if that took an instructive lecture over the expiring corpse of a gutted rapist, so be it. They’d take that lesson to heart where no amount of holy words would do a bit of good.

Tully nodded. After a decent interval to separate the subjects of whoring and duty, he went on, “Will ye have a wager on where this Cromwell fellow went to?”

Finnegan flipped a morsel of cheese — good cheese hereabouts, too — into the air and caught it in his teeth. A moment to chew and organise the thoughts that came so much better with his feet able to breathe. “I will not. For one thing, we don’t know that it was Cromwell came on this boat, for all the king’s got his arse in an uproar over the man. For another, if it is Cromwell, he’s heading for his children.”

“You’re that sure?”

“Would you not?” Finnegan shot Tully a sharp look. The man had a few bastards by an assortment of women, and as time and work allowed he saw most of them and cared for them in a rather negligent here’s-a-present-now-leave-your-mammy-and-me-be sort of way. He’d probably be quite irate if someone hurt one of them, even if he hardly did a thing toward their general welfare. It was something Finnegan really disapproved of, in as much as he could bring himself to care much about anything.

His own da had been as foul a scoundrel as you could turn up in a camp of cattle-thieves anywhere, but he’d actually been attentive in his rough sort of way. He’d sold his loyalty to Boyle — scraped up enough to sell to anyone, was miracle enough — to buy an education for Finnegan himself, for starters.

A few years paid for at the Cathedral Grammar School in Dublin had helped him enormously. Finnegan’s own sons, for the moment, were too young to need much beyond what the local hedge-school master could provide, and Finnegan made sure the man had a dry room to teach in and enough books to teach from. By happy accident it made him the big man in his home village, with a lot of respect that came in useful in seeing his own family was looked after. He sometimes wondered what it was like for everyone else, to feel that sort of thing was good, rather than just weighing it up and taking a decision. It generally ended with a little mental shrug and the conclusion that what a man never had, he never missed. He cared nothing but for getting on as far and as fast in the world as ruthlessness and a sharp blade would take him.

 

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 11

1635: A Parcel of Rogues – Snippet 11

Montrose nodded. There was always going to be a problem with the returning veterans of the wars in Europe, one that would require careful handling to ensure that such men saw nothing that got in the way of them returning to a warrior’s repose on their own lands. It would be distressingly easy for men accustomed to serving together abroad to band together at home if they felt that there was aught to remedy by force of arms to secure a retirement they felt was quiet enough. How like Charles Stuart to look for a source of fines in their return if it was in any way tardy. And, of course, to pick a method of doing so that would antagonise the USE. Gustavus Adolphus would more than likely welcome a pledge of service to the Protestant cause, but he was not even close to being the only political power in the Germanies these days. Montrose had more than a few friends and relations doing handsomely by themselves in the USE’s armed service these days, and there had better be some way of obeying the letter of His Majesty’s command while pissing on the spirit of it or there’d be a fine lot of trouble. Or — and it was a spur-of-the-moment thought, perhaps some of the more serious dissenters could be brought back in direct service? There was a plentiful supply of mercenary veterans of the German wars in service with His Majesty south of the Tweed. Surely a few could be found to deter rebellion north of it — and so much the better if they were native Scotsmen seeking to have peace in their homeland by making rebellion a fearful prospect for the would-be rebels? He’d have to weigh up the likelihood of the returners choosing the presbyterian faction instead. The numbers would be interesting to account.

“Your Majesty echoes many of my own concerns,” he said aloud, “and I have a good many friends and relations among such men whom I would urge to come home regardless, since the USE is so well found for armies in these times. If they can be persuaded to return to lend their strength to the common weal of Scotland regardless of the matters of faith, I feel much good may be done.”

“As you say, My Lord,” King Charles put in, “but see to it they are warned to leave the notion of religious liberty on the far side of the water. Our late father averred that with no bishops, there would be no king. We are minded to add that without an established church, there is no king worth the name.”

“As Your Majesty says,” Montrose murmured. Gustavus Adolphus seemed to manage, and the USE did without royal power and established church both. Charles Stuart would call it an illegitimate state, but if illegitimate it was, it was a big, powerful bastard that no cautious man would trifle with.

Cork cleared his throat and began reading again. “His Majesty desires that every presbyter who seeks to oppose the Crown and the Established Episcopalian Church should be most closely watched. The least evidence of wrongdoing, no matter how arising, is to be seized on to bring all such before properly-constituted consistory courts charged to ensure that all errors of clerics are suitably chastised.”

Montrose mentally translated that to harry the dissenters through the courts, and see that the courts are suitably stacked with prelates’ and king’s men; deprive them of their livings through the forms of law with a figleaf of criminal prosecution rather than by prerogative fiat. Failing that, ruin them with the costs of defending themselves.

It was, at least, an improvement over what would be Charles’ likely first response, which would be naked prerogative and a riot or two provoked at the very least. When it came to remedies for the abuses of Rome, Scotland vastly preferred Calvin’s to Luther’s, and would certainly see monarchical government of the Church as popery by the backstairs. Especially if it came to naked repression. On this one, he felt he could get away with simply making much of a few token prosecutions. It should not be beyond a smart clerk or two to find a small but steady stream of presbyters with their hands in the wrong pockets or their britches unbuttoned in the wrong bedchamber. Aloud, he said “Your Majesty will not find me wanting in the proper punishment of all wrongdoing.”

A sharp look from Cork led Montrose to think he might have laid overmuch stress on the word proper but schooled his own face against any exchange of speaking glances with the man.

Cork read on. “Further, His Majesty desires that the work begun under his father to bring the Erse away from the popish errors they are prey to and the barbarisms and cruelties they use. Efforts to educate them must be redoubled, both among the great and small of them. Such of them as are willing to recant their popish errors and confess the proper and episcopalian creed of the Church of Scotland may be found profitable service with His Majesty; there is much tumult throughout the kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland and the suppression of same is greatly to be desired.”

Despite himself, Montrose felt his jaw clench. The highlanders were, he’d be the first to allow, a fractious, quarrelsome, inconvenient lot of nuisances; the same people who’d turned back Rome’s legions at the Wall. But they were, in large part, his nuisances.

His Majesty’s father had been content with an outward obedience to the law, and provided you didn’t insist on that meaning not stealing cattle and feuding, the highlanders carried on as they had since time out of mind. They would cheerfully confess themselves good Protestants to your face and hear Mass every Sunday when your back was turned. For a certainty, they’d rally to any cause of plundering the presbyterian lowlanders who set such store by suppressing their language and religion and scorned them as illiterate savages. But whether they’d take mercenary service in England to allow Charles Stuart to continue to rule with French gold and without parliament was another question.

And, of course, there were all the thousands of them that were Campbell’s — which way would they go? Not red-hot, Your Majesty, but another hot enough to burn. There was already a great fear that the king meant to use Irish mercenaries to enforce his will, again with French gold — and wasn’t that a beautiful thing, after half of Scotland’s Reformation had been to get French influence out that country, that two reigns later the king should bring it back into England? They were already calling Cork the premier ministre in scurrilous pamphlets, Richelieu’s principal secular title being a byword for unprincipled tyranny throughout England.

“Your Majesty, the work of civilising the Erse of the highlands continues today as it did in Your father’s time and before that. Whatever my poor efforts may do to hasten it along will be done.” Again, not a direct lie. Civilising the wretches would do them direct and measurable good, no matter the religion they followed. The papists of Spain, France and Italy were, after all, civilized and seemed to do well by it. If the divines wanted them converted to the uncorrupted faith of Calvinism, they could get about the work themselves. Perchance it would keep them out of mischief.

The remainder of the king’s charges to his new Lord Lieutenant were considerably less disheartening. What was disheartening to Montrose was that he had been given the greatest office short of the crown itself in Scotland, and the charges laid on him with it were, indeed, disheartening him.

****

Later, awaiting their mounts to be brought from the stables to go to their respective London houses, Cork gave Montrose a wry smile. “I trust you’re seeing how I feel about great power in these times.”

“A burden, aye,” Montrose said. “I trust that should I choose to do more of the spirit of His Majesty’s charges than the letter, he’ll not hear any contradiction from you? I’m of a mind that that first charge, silence north of the Tweed, is the one that counts?”

Cork’s grin was twisted and rueful. “That’s about the size of it. Between Wentworth and Laud, we’ve a merry mess on our hands in England. Between Spain, France, and the USE, it’s our task to keep our feet and not end up provinces of one or the other. And I’m fucked if I know where Spain’s going to fall out on this now the queen’s dead — nor can I see any prospect of a new marriage for him to settle anything with anyone on Europe. Marriages of state are often cynical matters, but they have to be marriages for all that, and short of a miracle His Majesty can’t contract a valid one and keep it valid, if you take my meaning?”

Montrose felt a lurch in his guts. In his heart of hearts he didn’t think Charles Stuart the man was worth as much as a pot of piss, but there were some things not to be wished on anyone. He swallowed the lump in his throat and manfully suppressed the urge to grasp his own jewels. He tried to make a joke of it. “So it’s you and me the king’s only working cods now, is it?”

Cork’s laugh was a single, harsh bark. “Bollocks any way you look at it, My Lord. Bollocks.”

 

Come The Revolution – Snippet 23

Come The Revolution – Snippet 23

Chapter Fourteen

“Mister Naradnyo, you should not have taken the chance of coming here. It is too dangerous!”

I flopped down in the chair across from Gaisaana-la and took off the viewer glasses I’d been wearing. I hadn’t seen her since ah-Quan hustled her off just as everything had started going to hell and The’On and I flew out a window. She didn’t look injured.

“I was already in the arc so it was just a couple express elevators and then a ten minute autopod ride. I wanted to see you but I’m half-surprised to find you here at the office. Any other staff show up today?”

“A few. I sent them home at mid-day. Your arm is injured. I was afraid you and Executor e-Lotonaa were killed until I saw the vid of you in the water.”

“We’ve survived worse. Listen, I need you to get out one of the travel cover IDs we set up for you and book passage for us to Kootrin. We’re getting out of here and we’ll take ah-Quan if I can arrange it. I think Borro is still in the city as well but when I ping him his commlink doesn’t respond.”

“Why did you not comm me to see if I was here before coming?” she asked.

“I’d have contacted you if I didn’t catch you here, but the less we use the air the better.”

She nodded in understanding. She was executive service, not protection detail, but everyone associated with Tweezaa and Marrissa had to be somewhat savvy about security.

“Mister ah-Quan is in Med South, the same as the others injured from the first riot. I have visited him and he is in grave condition. The medtechs are confident he will recover but the next two days are critical. He cannot be moved now.”

“He’s that bad? What happened?”

Her face colored and her ears folded back as she remembered. “He picked me up, pushed through the crowd, put me in the corner of the room, and then covered me with his own body. At first the mob tried to beat him to death, then it pushed against him. He wedged his shoulders against the two walls and he continued talking to me until he lost consciousness although I could not understand him. Perhaps he was trying to keep me from fear, or perhaps keep himself from it. Perhaps he was praying. He spoke in a Zaschaan language.”

“Szawa?” I asked.

“No, a native language, spoken with both mouths at the same time. It was very beautiful.” She looked away for a moment, maybe remembering that voice.

“He suffered multiple traumatic joint compressions, two spinal fractures, and internal organ damage. He cannot be moved. I will not go either.”

“You? Look, I know you feel a debt to ah-Quan, but you can’t help him by staying here. You’re Marr’s executive assistant and she’s going to need you.”

“The Municipal Police have issued a material witness summons for me and frozen my travel privileges.”

“Right, same as me. That’s why you need the travel cover. If CSJ were manning the checkpoints it might not fly, but with the Munies we’ll be fine. Trust me, I just passed through four checkpoints getting here.”

I held up the viewer glasses with my left hand.

“These have built-in UV lights that throw off the biometrics of automatic facial recognition scans — not enough to raise a red flag, just enough to throw my eye and nose dimensions out of the program recognition window for my face. If they want a closer scan, my retinas match my travel cover, and you’d need a medtech to tell they’re skin contacts. They ran us a small fortune but they work against what the Munies have. You’ve got the same gear available with your travel cover.”

She looked into my eyes and shook her head slightly. “It does not matter. I will not violate the law.”

I sat back in the chair and looked at her. “The law? Have you looked out a window lately? There’s no law out there anymore, just fire and rage and blood, and it’s lapping at the foundations of the archologies. Have you seen the vid of the outside of Prahaa-Riz burning? That may just be a sample of what’s coming.”

She dipped her head to the side, and her ears slowly opened up, her skin coloring in a soft hue.

“Mister Naradnyo, you were born on the uZmatanki colony world of Peezgtaan, of Human parents who had renounced their Ukrainian citizenship. As I understand the law at that time, you were technically a stateless person until Peezgtaan received its independence, about ten years ago. This is correct?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Believe me, I mean no offense. In the time I have known you I have gained great respect for you. My point, however, is that for most of your life — I think for all of your life really — you have been a man without a country. I do not sense that you understand how this sets you apart from so many of the rest of us.

“I am uCotto’uBakaa” she continued, her voice firmer, “a citizen of the Commonwealth of Bakaa. It is my country, Mister Naradnyo, it is my home, and it is in desperate peril. I do not know that there is anything I can do to wake it from this terrible nightmare, but I cannot abandon it.”

*****

I didn’t try to talk Gaisaana-la out of her decision. It would have been a waste of time for both of us, and we had a lot to do. She didn’t think I understood what she was wrestling with, but in a funny way I did. I might not have a real good handle on nationalism, but I understood abandonment.

I also now understood her ambivalence about the adoption, and I felt small about questioning her loyalty the previous day, even if just to myself. One thing she had plenty of was loyalty, although it must have gotten pretty complicated for her, sorting her loyalties out and remaining true to all of them.

I hadn’t had a lot of hope of getting ah-Quan out even before I found out his condition, because we didn’t have an elaborate travel cover, or spook gear to back it up, for him. Before this all blew up he was another security guy, one of a couple dozen. Now things were different, but not in a way that was going to do him much good, at least not right away. I wanted to see him, though, say something to him before I went. Med South was not that far below our executive offices so I took another elevator down and watched the crowds of people through the clear composite wall looking out on the wide South Tower atrium shaft. I’d been just a few levels lower in the atrium yesterday morning.

Was that all it was? Just a little over a day?

The meeting had been on Ten of Eight-Month Waning–the tenth day of the second (waning) half of the eighth month in the Varoki calendar. They named their days and months with even less imagination than most of their enterprises. It was no wonder Humans were starting to do well in the arts — the competition wasn’t all that tough. I blinked up my personal calendar to be sure I hadn’t lost a day somewhere. Nope. Today was Eleven of Eight-Month Waning.

I left the elevator and walked down the broad corridor toward the main entrance to Med South but slowed as I saw a half-dozen Varoki in military uniforms out front, arguing with a couple Munies. There was a time I would have viewed this as an opportunity to slip past all of them while they were distracted, but I have learned from experience that a more likely outcome is for both Varoki parties to find common ground in working their frustrations out on the Human.

I felt as much as heard the repetitive thudding bass of a mechnod band and altered course, following the sound to a narrower passage. I stopped and glanced at the soldiers and cops, still arguing, and I decided I should kill ten or twenty minutes to give them a chance to sort things out and go about their business.

I followed the passage which led to a cul-de-sac surrounded by a half-dozen shop fronts. Two of them were shuttered and looked like they’d been closed for a while, and none of the others looked very prosperous, but the music escaped from an opened door leading to a dark room lit only by flickering colored lights. The sign above the door in both aGavush and aBakaa read “Koozaan’s Beverage Store.” Under it a sign in those languages as well as English read “Human’s Welcome!”

I resisted the effort to correct the punctuation, wrapped my left hand around the neuro wand I carried folded up in my trouser pocket, and went in.

Varoki bars aren’t like Human bars. For one thing, there’s no actual bar, just tables and chairs and a doorway to the back room. Two Varoki in suits sat at one table, already drinking some pastel pink stuff and arguing. I grabbed a table close to the door and punched up the drink options on the smart surface. They had what claimed to be scotch, a label I’d never heard of: Klan MacKlacklahaan, which claimed to be “the finest blended single malt scotch on Hazz’Akatu.”

Despite some doubts about the existential possibility of a blended single malt scotch, I ordered one over ice. I paid with the fund card associated with my travel cover, just to establish my identity and head off questions. This was the sort of situation where cash would have attracted unwanted attention. I added a nice tip in advance and pretty soon a middle-aged Varoki male server brought the drink, set it down politely, and then returned to the rear of the shop. No small talk but no challenging looks either.

I took a sip and was surprised that it actually resembled scotch after all, and not even the worst I’d ever had. Of course, given what drink fabricators could turn out, there wasn’t a lot of percentage in selling rotgut, which would come out of the same fabricator and cost almost as much to make.

Although I preferred jazz, the repetitive pounding of the mechnod music was strangely relaxing. Instead of distracting me, it cleared my mind. I stirred my scotch with the plastic straw and wondered what the hell I was doing here. Talk to ah-Quan before I got out of town, sure. But why?

I couldn’t take ah-Quan with me to Kootrin, so what was the point? He wasn’t counting on a visit and it would just endanger both of us. I could send him flowers.

So why was I hanging around in a bar watching the ice in my scotch melt? Why wasn’t I already on a shuttle for Kootrin? I was stalling. I was killing time, coming up with excuses not to get on that shuttle. I couldn’t figure out why, but it had to stop, right now. Get up, book the shuttle, and get the hell out of this mess.

I left most of my drink on the table and walked down the arched passage to the main corridor. When I got there I saw more military types at the main entrance than before. The Munies were gone and a couple high-ranking Varoki officers in the dress grays of the uBakai astro-naval service walked into the hospital like they were in a hurry. Whatever was going on in there, it was more heat than I needed, so I reluctantly turned and headed back to the elevator.

Why reluctantly? That didn’t make any more sense than me being here in the first place. I’d already decided to skip a visit to ah-Quan, so why had all that extra security suddenly made going in more attractive? Was it the little kid in me, curious about what all the activity was about? Or the adolescent pushing back against all those authority figures telling me what I could and couldn’t do? Or the danger junkie, hungry for an adrenaline high? Maybe.

But just maybe it was the loner, looking for any excuse to put off going back to all the responsibilities I’d accumulated over the last two years. Responsibilities I’d never had before.

 

The Seer – Snippet 17

The Seer – Snippet 17

Chapter Six

They took one last look around the shack.

“I’m sorry, Diri.”

With a bleak expression, Dirina shook her head as if to reject the apology. “I only wish we could take the chair and table,” she said softly. “We should have burned them for heat.” Her sister adjusted the straps that kept Pas tied to her chest, nuzzled him briefly, picked up her heavy sack, slung it over her shoulder.

At least they didn’t have much to carry.

Always leaving. Always because of her.

As they stepped outside into the frozen night, Dirina shut the door behind them. The heavy, dull sound of wood on wood echoed in Amarta’s mind, and with a light brush of foresight, she knew they would never be here again.

At least she didn’t have to worry about spring festival in this village.

Dirina was watching her, her expression a faint echo of the look the villagers sometimes gave her. Amarta felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night.

She followed Dirina past outlying houses and farms, now shut tight. Envy filled Amarta for their safe, cozy, warm houses.

As they left the village behind, snow crunching underfoot, the mountain road before them was free of footprints. No one traveled this road in winter. It was folly. She hoped her sister knew what she was doing.

But she was the one who had set them on this path.

High, thin clouds caught moonlight, casting barely enough light to show them the road as it led under tall trees and darker shadows. Pines and cedar and high maples cut black shapes against the night sky.

The thought of burning their chairs seemed so sensible now that she wondered why they hadn’t done it before. They could die out here from the cold itself, never mind the eyes in the shadows that she might have only imagined. What if this were a terrible mistake?

“We go to the river, Diri?” she asked softly.

“Did you not say we must cross the Sennant?”

“That’s what I saw,” she said apologetically.

“Then we’ll cross and go to a village a bit beyond. When the weather improves, we’ll find a way downriver.”

Somewhere new that no one had heard of them yet. Heard of her.

“Whatever is after us, maybe it only wants me.”

“No.”

“All I’m saying is that I could go to the river without you, cross and be safe, and you and Pas could go back to Botaros…”

“No.”

“I just think that maybe –”

“Amarta.” A sharp rebuke. “Whatever is coming, it isn’t getting you. We won’t let it.”

Amarta sobbed a little then, but quietly so that Dirina would not hear. She wiped her face with her sleeve, leaving her even colder.

The last time they had crossed the Sennant, they walked a high bridge connecting two cliffs below which the river crashed and boomed, a terror of white foam that still gave her nightmares.

“How will we cross?”

“A raft on an overhead rope with a pulley. At the end of the road. Or so I’m told,” Dirina added softly.

“I’m cold.”

“I know.”

Her mind numb, she marched behind Dirina, trying to step in her sister’s footprints.

“And tired.”

“We should find a way-house between us and the river.”

A place to be out of the cold. It sounded marvelous.

As they fled yet another home. How many had they left now? Three? Four? And how many more?

Whispers mumbled behind her heavy eyes, a swirling, muddy confusion trying to answer the question she had, in foolish exhaustion, begun to ask.

Taste and texture in her mouth, chewy and sweet, nuts and fruit and spices she had never tasted before.

Blue eyes above a wide smile. A warm hand squeezing her own.

Possibilities only. Nothing certain. She pushed it away angrily. A glimpse here or there, a tantalizing hint of warmth when she was so cold, of food when she was so hungry. No use. No use at all.

Distracted, she misstepped, caught herself. Dirina gave her a worried glance, then turned back to trudge forward, head bowed over Pas in her arms.

Amarta chastised herself. She must focus on the uneven ground in front of her. A poor step, a twisted ankle — she was already costing them so much.

“Ama,” Dirina said after a time. “Do you think we could rest a bit?”

Amarta stopped, confused for a moment as to why her sister was asking her.

Because she was supposed to know. The one thing she could do to help them.

She let her sister’s question sit in her mind like a lump of fat in a hot skillet. Atop some bread, perhaps, with a fried apple, or even some scraps of meat.

With effort she turned her thoughts back to the question. Was the shadow hunter close? Did they have time? A crawling sensation on her skin intensified. Warning or simply that she was freezing, she could not quite tell. “A few minutes, I think,” she whispered.

So they sat, backs against a large, towering fir.

Moments later Amarta woke, heart pounding, dread propelling her to her feet and then forward along the path. Dirina silently gathered Pas and followed.

By the time the sky began at last to pale toward dawn, Amarta’s legs felt leaden, and her eyes kept trying to close as she shuffled forward. With daylight, heavy clouds gathered across the sky and snow began to fall. At first it was a light sprinkling and then fat wet flakes, the gray-green of snow-crusted pines the only color in a world gone white.

When Dirina stopped, Amarta plowed into her, and they caught each other, Pas objecting wordlessly between them. Dirina pulled her under a bough of thick cedar that provided a bit of shelter. They sat and ate a few bites of hard bread in oil, nearly frozen. Amarta looked back at the path.

Before them was a crossroads. To the south another road opened, leading temptingly downhill, unlike the ascending road that was their direction.

“The village south,” Amarta said softly. “Isn’t it closer?”

“The river, you said,” Dirina answered. Was that reproach in her sister’s voice?

“You and Pas could go south, and I’d go to the river. We could meet at the town of Sennant later, and –”

“No.”

“What if there isn’t really anyone after us? What if I’m wrong?”

“Ama?” Dirina’s voice cracked. “Are you –?”

“I don’t know!” She swallowed the lump in her throat, looked into the woods. A winter finch fluttered to a fallen stick, pecked at it hopefully, fluttered away.

Dirina moved close and wrapped Amarta in her arms, the baby between them, and they huddled there a long moment. Then Dirina held Amarta at arm’s length.

“We will go where your visions say,” Dirina said, standing, helping Amarta up and hefting Pas in the sling at her chest. She caressed his cheek and, with a force that surprised Amarta, said: “We will not be among the fools who ignore your words.”

At that Amarta blinked away tears, brushing snow from her lashes.

They struggled their way up the incline, heads down in the falling snow. After a time, the snow lightened to flurries.

“Diri, if it keeps snowing…”

“Will it?”

“I can’t tell,” Amarta said miserably, too tired to think, let alone ask questions her vision might answer. “What if the way-house isn’t there? What if there raft is gone? What if the hunter –”

“What if, what if,” her sister snapped. “I’m not leaving you for him to find. Say no more of that. You understand?”

“Yes.”

A pause, the sounds of their footsteps crunching in snow.

“Ama. You must tell me when you foresee things. Even if it’s about me. I know what I said, but it’s different now. Yes?”

Suddenly Amarta felt cold inside as well as out. “Yes.”

#

Exhaustion forced them to stop more and more often as the short day wore on.

At another rest, leaning against Dirina, again Amarta felt herself dragged into unconsciousness, waking minutes later, gasping for breath, lurching to her feet and stumbling forward on the path. Dirina followed wordlessly.

Daylight began to fade. Dirina picked up her pace, and Amarta struggled to keep up.

Something like pain hit her abruptly. An echo of pain to come, it was. A wrenching, sick moment of tearing. “Diri,” she hissed. “Stop.”

“What?” Her sister looked around, face drawn, eyes wide.

“Something ahead. Something bad.”

Dirina took a quick step backward, eyes on the path before them.

Amarta felt the pressure of the shadow hunter behind, urging her forward, an ominous warning. But before her on the road, something sharper and sooner.

“Pull the knife, Ama.”

Reaching into the back pocket of Dirina’s sack still on her shoulders, Amarta took out their only knife, gripping it in her hand, wondering when they had last sharpened it on anything.

They both went still and silent, listening to the deep quiet of the woods. Overhead a cloudy sky darkened.

Dirina watched her. At last she whispered: “What now?”

Hunter behind, a horror in front. Overhead, a gray sky darkening with night.

“I don’t know.”

Dirina rocked Pas gently to keep him from making any noise.

Again and again Amarta tried to summon a clear thought, a way to vision. Her thoughts felt stuffed with hay, sluggish with cold.

If they went forward, then — what?

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 46

This book should be available now so this is the last snippet

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 46

“That seemed to be the logical choice, but the Vadal delegation wouldn’t hear of it. They didn’t care what was done with you, as long as you died by a hand other than your own, preferably in combat, but they grudgingly accept execution. They’re willing to take some risk to get their sword back, but they refused to simply throw it away. It took some debate before they agreed to turn you over to me. So no, Ashok, you will not kill yourself, though when you hear your orders, you may wish to.”

He couldn’t imagine what else it could be, unless they wanted him to walk from here to the Capitol, naked and barefoot, probably starving and dueling every desperate fool along the way, all so the whole world could mock him before he presented himself at the Inquisitor’s Dome to be strung up and sunburned to death. But if a penance walk was what justice required, then he’d gladly do it. “I will serve.”

“Have you been to the lands of Great House Akershan?”

“Yes. The Order has sent me before.”

“Good. I’m sending you again.”

Akershan was the far to the south. It was a cold, desolate place, with tall, rocky shores overlooking an icy sea infested with demons. Yet just beyond the ice coast was Fortress, the impenetrable island of criminal fanatics and their deadly magic. Ah, a suicide mission. This was a much better death than he’d hoped for.

Ashok’s expression must have changed, because Omand hesitated. The condemned should not smile. “Yes?”

“Since I’m to die, it is wise to let me take some lawbreakers with me. I will gladly attack Fortress.”

“You would, wouldn’t you!” For the leader of such a nefarious, secretive order, Omand laughed like a regular man. Ashok had expected something with more cruelty in it. He didn’t understand why the Grand Inquisitor thought that was so funny, but then Ashok pictured Angruvadal, lost on the floating ice or sinking to the bottom of the sea where demons lived.

“It would be best if I left my sword here. Once I’m dead, it can choose a new bearer. That is the most honorable solution.”

The Inquisitor wiped his eyes. Tears were just another form of saltwater. “I must say, Ashok, you’re everything they made you out to be and more. Breaching Fortress is a task that entire legions have failed at, but you would surely try. From your reputation, you’d probably even discover a whale that miraculously hadn’t gone extinct and train it to carry you across the sea!” The way Omand’s mirth disappeared so quickly suggested it had never existed at all. “I’m afraid your assignment is far more mundane than that. A prophet has risen among the casteless in Akershan and started a rebellion.”

He had heard something about that from Blunt Karno. It was surprising that over a year later this would still be a problem. “Do you wish for me to find and kill their prophet?”

“Finding and killing seems to be your solution for everything, isn’t it?”

Ashok shrugged.

Omand leaned forward on his chair and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Yes, you will travel to Akershan and find him.”

“Very well.”

“Only you’re not to kill him. You will protect him.”

Ashok blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Since it was your title for twenty years, I’d have assumed a greater familiarity with the concept. Your orders are to find the casteless prophet, pledge your services to him, join his rebels, and do as he commands. He is to be your new master.” Omand paused to let that sink in.

It was the Inquisitors who skulked about in the shadows, pretending to be things that they weren’t. Inquisitors often lied about who they were to infiltrate cults and criminal conspiracies. They were skilled in deceit and trickery. “I’m no Inquisitor.”

“I’m not speaking of going undercover, Ashok.” Omand’s voice had turned low and dangerous. “Oh no, you’re far too noble for that. You’re many things, but you’re not a liar. There’s no hiding your identity. You’ll present yourself to this prophet as yourself, Ashok the Black Heart, the casteless murderer, the fallen Protector, in all your infamy, and you will swear allegiance to his cause and his false gods, and you will follow his orders as if they had all the might of the Capitol and spoke with the voice of the presiding judge himself. You will serve for the rest of your days. That is your punishment.”

Mind reeling, Ashok couldn’t respond, couldn’t speak, could barely think. It was as if the prison cell was spinning around him.

Omand pulled out another piece of paper and handed it over. “Read this.”

It was as Omand said. The written orders were clear. Ashok was to join the casteless rebels. Ten members of the committee had signed off, and it was stamped by the presiding judge.

Their word was law.

“Why?”

“The why never mattered to you before. Do you question the validity of these orders, prisoner?”

“No.”

“Good. But the dumbstruck look on your face amuses me, so I will tell you why. Every man has a place. You’re a casteless criminal, so your place will be with the casteless criminals. This is your obligation. This is your sentence. The rest of your pathetic life will serve as an example to any who dreams of transgressing. If you were a normal man, I would take away your life, but your life is the Law, so I’m taking that instead.”

Ashok couldn’t breathe. This was worse than death. This was banishment, and not just banishment from a house, but banishment from all of society. This was the most dishonorable punishment imaginable, not just dying as a lawbreaker, but living as one. In a daze, he tried to unbuckle his sword belt, but his fingers had become too clumsy.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Leaving my sword here. Angruvadal can’t be dishonored like this.”

“The sword goes with you.”

“No. It can’t.” Ashok looked up, confused and hurt. The sword was more important than the bearer. Bearers lived and died, but the sword symbolized the strength of a house. “It’ll surely be destroyed.”

“The Law has spoken. You’re still the bearer.”

“But Great House Vadal –”

“Never should have let your foulness pollute the world. Now they will pay for their transgressions,” Omand hissed.

There had been no Vadal signatures on the second document. Judgment had been given to more than just Ashok today.

“Listen carefully now. For you to fail in keeping these instructions is to disgrace the sanctity of the Law even more than you already have. These are your final orders. You will take Angruvadal and you will leave tonight, in secret. You will sneak out like a thief. You will speak to no one. You will let no guards see you. All will believe you to be a coward and an oathbreaker. You will leave Vadal as quickly as possible and not look back. You will travel to Akershan without delay. Allow no one to stop or detain you. You’re forbidden from ever speaking of this meeting. You are bound from ever talking about these orders or the names upon them. As far as the world knows, you are nothing but a casteless criminal with a magic sword. Thus says the Law.”

“Thus…thus says…the Law.”

“Do I have your oath?”

Ashok couldn’t form the words.

“Give me your oath!”

“I swear to follow these orders,” he whispered.

Omand reached out and snatched the papers from Ashok’s fingers. “I told you that you’d rather kill yourself.” He stood up, walked away, and thumped his fist against the door. An Inquisitor on the other side opened it for him.

Ashok felt as if he’d taken a severe blow to the head. It was taking all of his concentration to stay on his knees and not fall over. He thought about taking Angruvadal out and plunging it into his guts. It would have hurt far less.

This was a betrayal of everything.

Omand paused in the doorway. “I must admit, of all the many terrible things I’ve done in my career, this is the harshest punishment I have ever dispensed. Farewell, Ashok.”

 

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 45

Son Of The Black Sword – Snippet 45

* * *

They were coming for him.

The footsteps were getting closer. Some of them weren’t wearing guard’s boots, or prisoner’s bare feet or coarse sandals, but fine soft shoes. The prestigious visitors were approaching his cell. Ashok’s pulse quickened.

It was strange to be so excited for his own death, but the wizard Kule had burned away all that he had been before and replaced it with devotion. He’d proven that he was an imperfect servant of the Law, but the Law was still his foundation, his purpose, and now it required him to perish. As long as he lived, he would remain an aberration, an element of chaos in an otherwise orderly system. So Ashok would go to his death, not just willingly, but eagerly.

They stopped outside. “This is him.” Jagdish. “Do you wish an escort?”

“We require privacy.” Ashok didn’t recognize this voice. “Go home, Risaldar. You’re bleeding on your uniform.”

“If you would allow it, your honor, I would like to stay and hear the prisoner’s fate.”

“Clean yourself up, you disgrace. You may return tomorrow.”

Footsteps retreated as Jagdish was cast out of his own prison. That was disrespectful. But then Ashok corrected himself. He had been away from society for a year, and too much familiarity with the lesser classes had made him soft. A judge could do almost whatever he wanted to his inferiors, and they’d best accept those decisions. Ashok got on his knees, ready to accept his.

The door opened. Three men were standing in the hall, and in the instant before he put his forehead to the floor, he saw that one was wearing the blue-gray and bronze of a Great House Vadal judge, another was wearing the white robes of an Arbiter Superior, but most importantly, the one in the center was dressed all in black and wearing the ornate mask of the Grand Inquisitor himself, one of the most powerful people in the Capitol.

Ashok kept his face down. They wouldn’t have sent such important men if the time of his judgment wasn’t at hand. His heart rejoiced.

“Rise, Ashok.”

He lifted his head. The three men had entered and spread out. There were lesser Inquisitors in the hall. The arbiter seemed very nervous about the hems of his fine robes touching the straw.

The Grand Inquisitor stopped directly before him. It was hard to tell in the uniform, but he seemed to be an average-sized man, gone a bit plump, and the only part of his body that was visible were his small dark eyes and the crow’s feet around them. “You are aware of who I am?”

“Grand Inquisitor Omand Vokkan.”

“Correct. I wish to make this official so that there can be absolutely no question as to the validity of your sentence.” He reached into his sash and pulled out a piece of gold jewelry, shaped like a raven. “You recognize the symbol of my office?” Ashok nodded, so Omand handed him some folded papers. “Here are my documents.”

Ashok had no reason to doubt him, but Omand must have been as much a stickler for the letter of the Law as Ashok was, so he carefully inspected the papers. They had been signed and stamped by several extremely high-status officials. The criminal Ashok the Black Heart is remanded into Inquisition custody to be dealt with according to the Grand Inquisitor’s wishes.

“Do you concur?” Omand asked the Vadal judge.

“He’s all yours.” This was the one who had insulted Risaldar Jagdish. The haughty judge spit on the straw. “Good riddance.”

Omand looked to the arbiter.

“This transfer of custody is witnessed and approved.”

“Thank you, honorable gentlemen. Now I need to speak with the prisoner alone.”

The two of them walked out. A lower-ranked Inquisitor entered, placed a stool behind Omand, then left, shutting the door behind him.

“Inquisition business.” Omand sat down and made himself comfortable. “This shouldn’t take long.”

And then Omand remained there, perfectly still, silently studying him for several long minutes. It was difficult to tell what a man was thinking when you could only see his eyes. Such silent judgment probably unnerved most prisoners, but it meant nothing to a man incapable of fear. So Ashok studied him back. What he found behind those eyes was intense, cold, and somehow broken. Ashok knew it well, because he’d seen something similar every time he had ever looked into a mirror. It took hard men to maintain the sanctity of the Law.

“I will truthfully answer any questions you have to the best of my ability,” Ashok stated. “If you wish to confirm the accuracy of my answers, I will not resist any tortures you wish to apply. You have my word that Angruvadal will remain sheathed in your presence.”

“It is my understanding that you were an unwilling victim in this fraud.”

“I had no knowledge of my true origins until last year. When I found out, I took action.”

“You never suspected the truth, or doubted the false past which was created for you?”

“I did not, but ignorance is no defense. I was born a casteless and took honors which were illegal for me to take, so I must be punished.”

“You won’t ask for mercy?”

“Of course not.” Mercy was a strange concept that Ashok had always struggled with. Mercy was merely the weak trying to rob judgment. “I’m guilty.”

“So the Law truly is your essence…Kule wasn’t lying about you.”

Kule? Ashok tilted his head. “You know of the wizard’s treachery?”

“Yes. He has been interrogated and punished.”

Had Devedas brought them to justice? His former brother would never forgive him, but Ashok had known that Devedas would do the right thing. “How?”

“That is not your concern.”

“Harta? Chavans?” Ashok had no problem going into the eternal nothing, but he would die easier knowing that they’d gone first.

“I’m aware of Bidaya’s conspirators, and they will all be dealt with in time.” Omand waved one hand dismissively. Harta was an extremely important man, so doubtless the Inquisition had to tread carefully, but nonetheless, Ashok was glad justice would be satisfied. “They’re not why I’m here. One other question, an unofficial curiosity really…If you are such a devotee of the Law, why kill a member of the First to avenge a casteless? Was it so personal because she was your mother?”

“Regardless of my personal beliefs, Bidaya had committed crime.”

“Oh, so you weren’t avenging your mother, you were avenging the Law? If only I’d known your motivations were so pure all along, I wouldn’t have had to come all this way.”

Ashok paused for a long time, mulling over the Grand Inquisitor’s sarcastic response. He had sworn to tell the truth, so he was obligated to continue, no matter how uncomfortable those truths were. “I’ve had time to think about it since. Bidaya didn’t just take my mother from me, she made it so that she never existed at all. Gone. As if they never were. I know that I shouldn’t care, but that offended me. Anger clouded my judgment that night. It still clouds my judgment now. There’s no excuse for the evil I’ve done.”

“It is good that you recognize the magnitude of your crimes.”

Even now, after all this time rotting away in a prison with little else to do but try to remember, he only had tiny glimpses of his real past before the sword — a white smile on a tanned face, eyes bright and proud of her boy, a gentle hand picking bits of grass from his hair as they huddled together for warmth in one corner of a crowded shack — and for all he knew those were fabrications of his imagination. “Forgive my words, Inquisitor, for they sound harsh, but to the ocean with Bidaya. I know that the casteless are little more than animals, but she was my mother.”

“You learned the truth in the Capitol. Having just made the same journey myself I know how long it takes.” Omand rubbed his lower back, as if he was so terribly road weary from what had probably been a ride in a carriage filled with cushions. “This was no heat of the moment, crime of outrage. You had weeks to calm yourself, to seek legal counsel from the judges or to speak with your Order, but instead you committed an act of public premeditated butchery, supposedly for the Law, but really for someone you can’t even remember.”

“I would do it again,” Ashok said.

Omand nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve come to give you your new orders.”

That was a strange choice of word. Orders implied some necessary action on his part. There was only one order that seemed likely to be given, and his sword would disapprove. “Am I to kill myself then?”