Jalen’s Heir
John Murphy
c Draft compiled March 6, 2004
Contents
Chapters
i
Part One: Ari
ii
1 The Siege of Mediter
1
2 Revelation
19
3 A New Start
37
4 A Moment’s Rest
51
5 Clippings
71
6 The Calm of March
79
7 Spring Storms
93
8 Preparations
107
9 Violence
121
10 The Article
135
Part Two: Dane
146
11 Flight of the Magician
149
12 Kendauer
163
i
13 Akrostira, On Foot
175
14 Changes
191
15 The Storm Approaches
199
16 A Night On The Town
207
17 A Change of Policy
227
18 History I
239
19 Routine
257
20 From North to South
269
Part Three: Andrew
281
21 History II
285
22 The Battle of the Gates
293
23 North
303
24 History III
315
25 Sean Clannon
323
26 Refugees
335
27 History IV
351
28 Resolve
357
29 History V
367
ii
Part One: Ari
iii
Chapter 1
The Siege of Mediter
General Warren ban Iris woke early, as was his custom. In the quiet of his
tent, he made up his cot, ate the breakfast that had been laid out for him,
and put on a clean mask while saying his morning prayers. He’d done this
every morning for fifteen years now since dedicating himself to the service
of his goddess, Pala. Since that time, no mortal man had seen the Paladin’s
bare face, not even the new Emperor, who he also served and indeed had
helped install on the throne of Fengar.
This same Emperor Wilhelm I had sent him and an army of ten thousand
to the border of Fengar and Mediter where they sat occupying the only rail
line between the two nations. They had sat there for three tense weeks.
Every few days a messenger would arrive with news of the negotiations so
far. His report would be encoded using a special pre-prepared pad, and sent
to the Fenne capitol, Palatine, by rail, or sometimes by telegraph. In the
meantime, ban Iris’s army waited as an ever-present threat, and the weather
got cold.
Fengar was a new nation, united at last after hundreds of years by a
visionary would-be Emperor and his Paladin supporters. It had enemies,
among its neighbors, among the Fenne diaspora, and among the Emperor’s
former revolutionary allies, who now styled themselves the “True Revolutionary Party.” These enemies had naturally banded together, and each
successive messenger came back more frustrated and depressed than the
last that Mediter would not give up its support of the TRP.
Every morning the telegraph would chatter for an hour while two weary
soldiers would both listen and transcribe the dots and dashes, and then
translate them into the day’s orders for ban Iris or for the diplomats in
Mediter. This morning, the twenty-third of November, it chattered for
1
2
CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
barely a few seconds. Warren ban Iris knew the order before the scrap
of paper was pushed into his hands. INVADE MEDITER.
The news electrified the nine thousand infantry in blue and gold, and
the thousand cavalry who had woken early that morning, and they now
breakfasted eagerly, breath steaming over chilled hands and warmed porridge. During the night, the great gleaming cannons had arrived by rail,
and proudly uniformed teams performed the necessary maintenance to bring
them up to working order.
Ban Iris marched them west into Poviarre, a quiet walled farming town
just inside the Mediter border. A large garrison had been stationed there,
but they were routed within hours, withering under a barrage of cannonfire,
riflery and musketfire. By nightfall, the town was surrendered and occupied
in the name of Fengar. Rumor of the general’s previous conquests had been
enough to set most of the Mediter soldiers to flight. The Paladins of Fengar
were widely known as resourceful, tenacious fighters, mysterious behind their
traditional masks, and ban Iris was the best and most mysterious of them
all. A clever, skilled tactician, he was widely considered responsible for the
impressive military victories a year prior that had put Wilhelm on the throne
of newly unified Fengar.
The campaign into Mediter could not be leisurely, its success hung on
the edge of a knife. Both Mediter and Fengar were reliant on the Imperium,
the trade empire across the sea west of Mediter. It would take time for news
of the invasion to reach Mediter, and it would take time for that news to
reach the Imperium. Their ruler, the so-called Eternal King, would almost
certainly threaten Fengar with sanctions if it did not withdraw immediately.
This order would travel back by the fastest ship in the Imperial Navy, and
when Wilhelm received it, he would be obliged to order a withdrawal and
issue an apology. At that point, there would be only a few days’ room
to maneuver and still plausibly claim to not have known about the order.
Ban Iris estimated that he had three weeks to invade, conquer a significant
territory, and negotiate under these somewhat more favorable conditions. If
he could capture, and keep, the city of Mediter, so much the better. It was
truly a continuation of politics by “other means.”
The nation of Mediter was not much more than a wide belt of farmland
and hills to insulate the city of Mediter from its neighbors, and to provide
that massive city with the food and materials required to support its large
population. Starving it out, however, would be impossible in the time given
him, and the empty space would cost him time while giving the enemy
considerably opportunity to whittle down his forces. That would be simple
to take care of, however, compared to the attack on Mediter itself. The city’s
3
peculiar layout, a difficulty to initial invasion, would be the key to conquering
it. His soldiers talked of little else than the possibility of occupying the
famous Tiered City, and, once victorious, climbing the tiers to the very top.
Mediter sent two advances to Poviarre, and both were beaten back with
ease. Mediter’s troops were unskilled, mostly farmers, and clumsy with their
weapons, and the advances were hastily put together. They had clearly not
believed that Fengar would invade. After these battles, the Fenne troops
scoured the field for salvageable ammunition to augment their supplies. The
supply lines would be long and tenuous by the time they got to the city, and
it was best to assume that they would be cut.
After the second battle, the Fenne Revolutionary Army abandoned Poviarre
and caught up to the retreating Mediter soldiers. Caught by surprise by their
desperate attack, ban Iris had to maneuver the artillery the long way around
a hill, losing six hundred men before his cannoniers tore apart the enemy’s
back lines with grapeshot. The Fenne cavalry, the fastest and best skilled
in the world, prevented any of the fleeing Mediterrans from escaping and
warning Mediter’s command of ban Iris’s advance.
The next morning, ban Iris swept into the fortification at Seret Hill
and captured it without a fight. From the old brick fort, he had a clear
view of the surrounding countryside, and access to the stored provisions of
the Mediter army. Mediter’s winters were notoriously and relentlessly cold,
but the land was rich, and Poviarre had provided a great deal of food and
winter clothing. With a thousand men already devoted to maintaining his
line of supply from Fengar, he could stay in Mediter indefinitely, if that were
politically possible.
His caution proved needless. Mediter’s remaining forces attacked the
fortifications the next day, and were scattered. Broken, Mediter’s generals
resorted to small-scale ambushes on scouting parties and the supply line.
Ban Iris wasted no time, and within days, the City of Mediter was within
sight. By the first of December, he was commanding his army from a hotel
in the outskirts of the city itself. By his estimate, a ship launched the day
of the invasion would have arrived at the Imperium. This left him ten days.
***
Wrapped in winter, Mediter sat cold and quiet as the sun rose. Smoke
and smog billowed like great skirts around the Tiered City, flowing out onto
the Bay as the air began to warm. The city, a great man-made mountain,
began to emerge from the cloud of haze, and the Grand Cathedral, the
highest building on the uppermost Tier, stood defiantly in the morning sun,
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CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
white like a mountain’s peak. The factories sat abandoned, and the great
chimneys spewed no smoke.
The Fenne Revolutionary Army, nestled at the foot of this mountain,
slowly stirred to life. Even with the bulk of the army barracked in captured
homes and hotels, hundreds of tents lay spread out in the streets of the outer
city, with only sentries daring to venture near the shadow of the massive
First Tier at night. The occupants of the buildings and tents emerged
and prepared their breakfast, all nerves and excitement at the prospect of
conquering the mighty industrial city.
The cannons, gleaming in the early morning sun, were carefully inspected, and tacticians began to lay plans for the most efficient pattern
and distribution of shots, arguing heatedly about prevailing winds and firing angles. Ban Iris gave them considerable discretion, and so far they’d
absolutely shone.
Warren ban Iris himself had been awake for an hour already when the
sunlight first greeted his masked face. A runner found him, and informed
him that his night crew had managed to place fourteen floating mines at
the entrance to the bay. He assembled his staff, offered a brief but heartfelt prayer to his goddess Pala, and set out his plans. Mediter, he told
them, would be impossible to capture outright. Without a naval blockade, they would need to seize or seal off the railroad and the ports. Going
around would expose them to sniper and cannon fire from the First and
Second Tiers. The nearest ramp to the First Tier was completely blocked
by garbage, and attempting to clear it would expose them to hours of sniper
fire. Barricades had been placed to slow down the advance and expose the
attackers to cannon fire from the First Tier. Worse luck, the city defense
was under the command of the Temple guardians, the Knights Templar,
whose Captain was well-known and well-respected as a friend of the Paladin
Order.
The clear solution – Dash right under them and occupy the ground so
that they’d be forced to block all four ramps and trap themselves in the
upper tiers. No disagreement was offered. They began the advance.
***
Within the city barricade, people milled like ants, preparing counterartillery and planning garrison positions. Teams patrolled all night and into
the morning, inspecting and evaluating the defense. They crept to their
stations along the makeshift blockades, wary of giving away their positions
to the watchful eye of ban Iris or his captains. Citizens slept fitfully, huddled
5
in the upper Tiers, waking to news that their homes and livelihoods had been
destroyed in the latest Fenne onslaught. After two days, the barricades still
held them off.
The barriers in the streets underwent a solemn changing of the guard
after dawn. Weary Knights Templar, exhausted by a night’s vigilance, retreated to safer ground. Each lonely Knight cast a long shadow in the
ghostly gas lights onto streets where the blotted-out sun never shone. Even
within the barricades, they stayed armed and alert. The ground under the
Tiers crawled with people more desperate and dangerous than ten Fengari.
None of this escaped the attention of a lone figure, absorbed in watching
from a window in the Borough called Sebarre, close inside the barricades and
just under the shadow of the First Tier. The window stood in the upper
level of a jeweler’s home, above his shop. The home was abandoned since
the first sighting of Fenne troops; the figure in the window had found it easy
to gain entry the day before. He and his partner had spent a tense night,
waiting for the opportunity to safely escape with their gains.
Robin stood back from the window and drew the heavy curtain, wary of
attracting attention to himself in the morning’s activity. The gas was on,
but Cesare made him keep the light low and only on a few fixtures, for fear
of discovery. The retreat to the upper Tiers had been sudden – the jeweler’s
breakfast was still on the table, and only the most valuable pieces had been
taken.
Faint shouts and gunshots marked the renewal of battle. Robin listened
to the muted blasts carefully, trying to imagine the scene at the barricade.
His spine shivered at the thought, and he left the window alone.
He found Cesare in the upstairs lavatory examining his bleary face in
the mirror, framed by stringy, unwashed red hair, no longer pulled back but
left to drape over his temples and forehead.
“They’ve started again, have they?” Robin nodded wordlessly in assent.
“Can you tell how close they are?”
“Close.” Robin thought a moment. “I went to the barricade while you
were sleeping —” A sharp look disoriented him momentarily. “I was careful.
They’re tired, Cee, and they’re talking about escape routes to the ports.
It’s only a matter of time.”
Cesare swore softly and fingered the sharpened knives at his belt. Robin
saw the exhaustion and worry beginning to show around his eyes. He
brushed past Robin into the parlor and collapsed into an overstuffed chair.
“They say it’s ban Iris in person,” Robin observed, adjusting the fixture
nearest him to a low flame. The small, darkly paneled room danced in
the ghostly yellow light, which played over books and furniture and cast a
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CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
deathly pallor on Cesare’s skeptical face.
“At least,” Robin amended, “That’s what the rumor is.” He paused
to examine the enormous leather globe sitting in its dark wood setting. It
didn’t move easily with a broken axle but Robin could make out the great
Ocean, with the Bay of Mediter a small gouge out of the continent east of it.
Further to the west, where the leather met the wood, he made out a fringe
of land, and the name of one of the famed Trader Cities, Rivos. It belonged
to the Imperium, and it was where Mediter had sent its fastest ships when
ban Iris invaded. Southeast of Mediter, crisscrossed by lines – the railroad –
was Fengar. This was an older map, Robin observed, since on it Fengar was
still divided into a myriad tiny Principalities and Baronies, most of which
were part of the Fenne Empire now. Palatine itself, the capital of Fengar,
was marked with a star and a gilded number 12.
Robin found the corresponding number on the curved wood circumnavigating the globe, on a little plaque – ”Palatine, Seat of Fengar. Home of
the Fenne King. Pop. 80,000” On a whim, Robin located the plaque for
Mediter, number one. ”Mediter, the Tiered City. Third Wonder of the
Modern World. Pop. 2 Millions”
“Where’s Kendauer?” No answer came. “Cee? Where’s Kendauer?”
“South of Fengar. Just follow the river.”
Robin traced a large sunken line down south of Fengar along the Ateke
River, through Attica, and finally to Kendauer. ”Kendauer, Birthplace of
Locomotion. Pop. 200,000”
“Find it?”
“Yeah, it’s smaller than I thought. Have you really been there?”
“Yep. Saw the Kendauer Grand Hotel, the electric lights on Rivers
Avenue, the works.”
“I can’t believe we’re leaving Mediter.”
Cesare chuckled. “Well, not with those bastards blocking the tracks,
we’re not. You’ve never been outside Mediter, have you?”
“Not since I was little. What’s Kendauer like?”
“You’ll like it, kid. Nice wide streets, modern shops, incredible food.
You can go anywhere on the continent from there, all you’ve got to do is
jump on a train and go. It’s fantastic.”
“What’ll we do there?”
“Not sure yet. Get this stuff fenced at least, split the money. Outside
Mediter, you can live for years off this kind of coin.”
Robin nodded absentmindedly and wandered to the window again. His
eyes widened, and he ducked just as an explosion rocked the house. Over
the echo came shouts and bugles, swelling in volume.
7
“Cee! Get your pack!”
“What the hell happened?”
“The barricade’s down!”
When Robin turned to get his satchel, Cesare was already gone. There
was a sudden crash downstairs. He started down the stairs, but was nearly
knocked over by Cesare on his way up.
“Other way. They’re breaking in.” They dashed up the attic stairs as
Fenne looters below battered against the table and chairs stacked against
the door. A window shattered, the tinkling of glass became a harsh grinding
as the shards were crushed under booted feet. Cesare kicked out a vent and
the two clambered onto the roof as the door below swung open.
The roof was flat with a raised edge, and in the absence of gaslight looked
like a pool of thick, dark shadow. The next shop was close, and lower, so the
two waited a moment as a group of soldiers passed below, and leapt down
to it. The next building was a little higher, but closer, and they managed
to somehow scramble up onto it. Robin looked back to the street, where
looters smashed windows and broke down doors. Each looter wore the blue
and yellow uniforms of the Fenne Army, the colors blending together in the
light of the street lamps. Most carried muskets or rifles with bayonets, but
a few clutched pistols and even swords as they raced through the streets.
Cesare pointed wordlessly across the street behind the building. The
edge of the Borough had once been a wall, but even with the wall long gone,
the border was still realized in impenetrably labyrinthine alleyways between
buildings both occupied and long abandoned. There was a space between
buildings right across the street from the alley opening. Watching carefully
for a break in the slowly dwindling stream of soldiers, Robin dropped into
the garbage-filled space. Cesare, being heavier, lowered himself gently down
the side. A shout from the street startled him, and he fell onto a stack of
broken crates.
The two held perfectly still in the blackness as a Fenne soldier held his
torch into the tight, garbage-filled space. Robin held his breath, concentrating, looking the soldier dead in the eyes. The Fengari took a few steps in,
peered around, then turned and ran back along with his fellows.
“Not like you to fall like that.”
Cesare, redfaced, gave Robin an evil look as he rubbed his scraped back.
“Fall, nothing. The bastard must’ve thrown a cobblestone at me.”
Robin smirked but said nothing.
They crouched, silent, waiting for a break in the stream of soldiers. Robin
counted fifty before quitting. Their blue and yellow uniforms were getting
torn and sooty, and Robin could tell that they were getting out of breath
8
CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
from running in the Mediter air. Like most Mediterrans in the lower Tiers,
Robin wore a thin mask in the noon and evening hours, when the heavy soot
and smoke had been stirred up by a day’s worth of heat and walking. The
streets this close to the edge of Sebarre Borough were narrow and dark, and
might as well have been underground. The few working street lights webbed
the cobblestones with shadow. Blackened brick buildings lined the avenue
close to each other, with only the occasional clean window or brass reflecting
any light at all. Far above, cloaked in black, the First Tier blanketed the sky
like a great concrete cloud, blotting out sun and moon and stars alike. On
the underside of the Third and Fourth tiers, great gas flames provided light
to see and work by, even though the Second and Third Tiers were sunlit
in the morning and evening. On the ground, there was nothing but inky,
eternal night.
Barely acknowledging the cease before acting, the pair dashed across the
street and into the alleyways. They crept west, slowly but surely, deeper
and deeper into the pitchblack passages. The rank smell of rodents and the
faint clicking of roaches enveloped them as they pushed through the strewn
and sometimes rotting garbage that lined the alleys. The two sought and
found a wider alley, with a little light. There was a rain grate there, leading
underground, but they couldn’t get it open. They instead followed the spots
of light to a place where they could move more freely. They turned a single
corner and before them was the entrance to a wide street, which widened
even further to intersect Rue Morgue. There, surrounded by four massive
pillars that loomed into darkness, and bathed in a pool of yellow gaslight
from a hundred open flames, was the statue of King Levi, standing on his
pedestal in Levi’s Square.
There was a great deal of activity in the Square and enclosed Circus as
Fenne soldiers bustled about, removing the detritus of the homeless, carrying
in timber and furniture for constructing barricades at each of the six major
entrances to the Square. The deep blues melted into the darkness, so that
all Robin could see around the fringes of light were darting, disembodied
blobs of yellow. More uniforms arrived, carrying tables, chairs, and finally
a great tent, which was set up twenty paces or so away from the statue of
Levi. As the huge green tent was erected, torches were set up in a circle
around it, providing illumination.
There was a sharp noise, and all the soldiers spun to face up the street,
away from the square. The noise became drumming, accompanied by footsteps. Robin strained in his crouched position to view the coming procession. From the haphazard shadows and bearing flickering torches, the Fenne
commanding staff approached solemnly and with little ado. They were not
9
marching, but they kept a quick pace. Pages darted in and out of the procession like bees, clutching papers. Older men in decorated uniforms walked
with heads held high, looking important, and pretending that people were
looking at them, and not the real focus of everyone’s attention, who walked
tall, but quickly, front and center so that all had to keep up.
He stood no shorter than six feet in height, and dressed not in blue,
but in white armored plates on heavy white cloth under which he moved
with surprising agility. A long, elegant rapier hung at his side, holding back
his long white mantle. Sweeping shoulder guards hung from his shoulders,
reflecting the light at their razored edges. His face was shielded by a metal
mask, revealing only eyes, ears and long, black hair pulled back into a tight
braid.
The Paladin General, Warren ban Iris. Robin stared, dumbfounded.
He’d heard all the stories that the beggars told, the amputees coming back
from the Fenne Revolution. They said he’d stayed loyal to the old king
right up until he was thrown in prison to be executed. The emperor himself
had rescued him, they said, and for that kindness, this terrible genius had
conquered all of Fengar and placed him on its throne. They said he never
ate, and never slept, and had personally killed a thousand men.
Cesare pulled Robin back into the alley. Disoriented for a moment, Robin
shook off his fascination with the Fenne commander, and followed Cesare
back into the darkness of the labyrinth.
***
The time was impossible to gauge when the Fenne Army breached the
next set of barricades. Chunks of stone and metal were thrown down onto
soldiers eager to break through by soldiers desperate to hold them off. The
entire city rumbled as sappers blew hole after hole in the barriade. Fenne soldiers hurled themselves at the fleeing Knights and soldiers as they retreated
to the last barricade, a towering wall of concrete, brick and steel that completely isolated the ports in Bien, Mediter’s lifeline. Shouts and screams
and bugles and gunfire echoed along the contorted Mediterran streets.
A small pack of Knights fled madly into darkened streets, snaking their
way through streets and avenues, but was eventually overtaken by their angry pursuers. The Knights of the Temple fought furiously, relying less on
guns than on steel and skill against Fengari bayonets and knives. Enemy after enemy fell around them, but the sounds of battle attracted other soldiers,
and soon the group of Knights was backed into a dead end. One Knight fell,
then another. They continued to fight furiously, and their commander, with
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CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, led them slowly but surely out
of the corner through a path of dead and wounded Fengari. A new group
of soldiers, frustrated by their inability to breach the new obstacle, threw
themselves at the company of Knights.
Their commander stood his ground, fighting fiercely. His sword flashed
again and again in the gas-light, hitting its mark again and again. However
bravely he fought, the Knights slowly gave ground, retreating slowly and
bitterly into uncertain darkness.
Without warning, the tight road filled with the green uniforms of the
Knights Templar. With renewed vigor and courage, the Knights cried out
in unison, and rushed the Fenne soldiers, sending them fleeing into the
darkness, dropping their weapons as they went.
And then it was all gone, and the original group of Knights stood alone
in the dark.
***
The Knights stood dumbfounded, surrounded by the dead and the dying.
The reinforcements, which they had all seen, had vanished. Their commander, drenched in blood, trembled in disbelief. He managed to bark out a
few orders, and they retreated down a dimlylit side street, where he could
hold his astonishment no longer, and dropped to his knees in thanks for the
miracle that had saved their lives.
His devotion was interrupted by his lieutenant, Jean Bruce, who brought
him a pair of captives, dressed in dark colours and not struggling. The
group’s commander struggled to his feet and reattached his fallen cape to
the gold epaulettes at his shoulders. He looked down at both captives, a
roguish pair. The taller one was older and stronger. His hair was pulled
back, and a scraggly beard obscured his face. Bruce held the man’s dagger,
dark with blood. His companion was younger and of slighter build, just as
dirty and shifty other. Unlike his fellow, however, the young one showed
absolutely no nervousness, but instead met the commander’s gaze straight
on, with a weary, tired look.
“They were off in the alley, sir.” The commander nodded thoughtfully,
but frowned at Bruce for capturing them. They were cut off from Bien, and
thus from the First Tier entirely.
“You are looters.” They were obviously not from Fengar – they were
both pale and had the finer features of Mediter. That did not, however, rule
out foreign sympathies.
11
“Yessir,” answered the taller, redhaired one. The commander was mildly
surprised at the admission. “But I don’t think that matters to you right
now.” He narrowed his eyes at the thief.
“Do tell.”
“Well, if you trust us, there’s no reason not to let this slide.”
“Trust you!” He barked a laugh. “Why on earth should I trust you?”
“Rob?” On cue, the younger one produced a pair of long, wicked-looking
daggers, and handed them to an astounded lieutenant. He stuttered briefly,
his face turning bright red.
“Captain, I swear to you, I searched this boy!”
The boy looked suddenly more interested. “Captain de Mediter?”
Ari de Mediter nodded, looking with keen interest at the daggers. He
had seen the boy’s hands, and seen his belt, but had not seen the daggers
until they were in his hands. The import of this was not lost on him.
“Very well. Lieutenant, release them. Keep their weapons.” Jean Bruce,
his face still quite red, took two steps back.
“It occurs to me, Captain – ” The older captive paused until Ari looked
at him. “It occurs to me that you may be a little bit stuck.” Ari stared at
him, very careful not to move his head. “I’ve got a proposal for you, then.”
This time he waited for a response.
“Go ahead.”
“Me and Rob here, we might be able to get you up to the First Tier. In
exchange, we want safe passage out of Mediter, possessions intact.”
Ari scowled. They couldn’t possibly have stolen anything particularly
valuable, not on the Ground, but still! He looked briefly at his Knights; several were wounded, one badly. One of his lieutenants, the recently-promoted
Claudere, had been shot in the shoulder and would die if infection were allowed to set in. Weighed against the lives of his men and his own need to
re-establish command from the Third Tier, he had little choice.
“Very well. Surrender any additional weapons on your persons. You are
clearly not in a position where you will need to defend yourselves.”
The older one nodded in assent, and the younger thief gave over a grappling hook.
***
Breaking through the stone gutter to the sewer below had not taken long,
considering that the Knights had worked under cover of darkness, blocking
off the gas light to avoid detection. Torches were made hastily and lit from
the street lamps, so that Robin and Cesare could lead the Knights through
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CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
the sewer to their destination. Captain de Mediter had objected that the
Bien barricade extended underground, but Cesare had another plan, turning
east away from the ports.
Fortunately, the passages were large, and many of the tunnels were dry,
just storm drains for Mediter’s heavy spring rains rather than real sewers.
This suited Robin just fine, who objected to wading in other people’s refuse.
There was some concern over the safety of the wounded, but their wounds
were bound tightly, and would be cleaned once they could find clean water
on the First Tier.
A little coercion had gotten news of the course of the war so far. Captain
de Mediter and his inspection team had been trapped on the ground when
the Fenne Army breached the barricade by destroying one of their cannons
up against a weak point. As per instructions, the North and South ramps
were completely blocked, leaving only the West ramp, well within the Bien
sanctuary. Unfortunately, the Fenne soldiers had gotten to the Bien barricades first, and they had been attacked while looking for a gate that was
unassailed.
The tunnels after a while became bone dry. They were in the access
tunnels now, and the taller Knights had to duck down to avoid hitting their
heads on the gas lines that ran near the ceiling toward the various junctions
under the city. Keeping their torches low and away from the pipes, Robin
and Cesare slowed down at a bend in the passage, allowing the Knights to
approach more closely.
Cesare carefully blocked the Knights’ view as Robin knelt by the wall. He
ran his hands over it, feeling the faint vibrations in the stone. He found and
tripped a hidden latch in the wall, and the lower section dropped slightly.
Robin fell to his hands and knees and pushed on it until it swung inwards,
revealing a passageway no more than three feet high. He gave away his torch
and climbed inside.
***
When the First Tier was built, Mediterran students learn, the builders
were utterly ingenious in their use of materials, constructing massive supporting pillars stronger than ordinary concrete. These supports, huge cylinders over sixty feet in diameter each, would hold up the massive slab upon
which people lived and worked. The Burgher of Mediter was gifted with a
huge, elaborate mansion overlooking a grand avenue, at the end of which
stretched the Bay. It was an age of uprisings, however, and the paranoid
Burghers had devised an escape route, through the cellar of the mansion,
13
and on down a ladder that went straight through one of the great pillars
and into the sanitary passages below. Sadly, when the inevitable uprising
came, the Burgher was killed without even a thought to his escape plan.
When the Second Tier was built, the First Tier gradually sank into
poverty and the outskirts were eventually overrun by factories. The Burgher’s
Mansion crumbled over time, and the old escape route became the Thieves’
Road. A seventy foot climb from under the city to the First Tier, it was
often the road to safety for those fleeing the top Tiers. Robin wryly noted
as he climbed that he was creating history. He was likely one of few people
to ever flee from the ground to the First Tier, and he was certainly the first
to bring the Knights Templar along with him.
The climb proved long and gruelling. As he ascended the suffocating
darkness, he could hear the Knights below him, huffing and puffing as they
struggled just to put one hand over the other. Neither the top nor bottom
was lit, nor torches brought in for fear of asphyxiating. Robin climbed, hand
over hand, foot over foot. His muscles burned and his back ached, but in his
mind’s eye he saw himself stopping, and knocking over the Knight behind
him.
After a long while, his hand struck a familiar object. With newfound
vigor, Robin pushed with all his might, and removed the thin metal grate
from over the entrance. He scrambled from the gaping hole and waited to
hoist up the Knight following him.
The entrance to the Thieves’ Road stood in a small brick enclosure in
the basement of the hollowed-out shell that was once the Burgher’s Mansion. Without a torch, Robin had to find the latch in the inky darkness.
After scraping his hands considerably on the stone walls, he found the catch
in the wall, and the fake brick opened easily under his touch. He knocked
cautiously on the door, listened a moment, then opened it onto the Antechamber.
The Antechamber had once been the wine cellar of the Burghers of
Mediter. Its new function was decidedly more practical. Most times, the
Antechamber was populated by three or four homeless whose job was to
restrict, sometimes lethally, travel on the Thieves’ Road. Now, however,
the room was eerily empty, and into it Robin led the four or five exhausted
Knights who had emerged already from the hole. Slowly the room began to
fill with Knights, then Cesare and finally Captain de Mediter.
The Captain, tired but alert, looked over his men in the dim light. He
called out the names of those who lay motionless. Of the six called, only
one, Claudere, did not respond. A cautious inquiry showed that he lived,
but was sleeping and hot with fever.
14
CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
A tattered robe was found in the dust, and onto it the injured Lieutenant
was carefully rolled. They carried him gingerly up the stairs and through
the burned out husk of mansion to the street outside. Robin spied a look of
dawning comprehension on the face of one of the Knights as they emerged
onto the famous street. Why, he had once asked, had the Knights never
found the Thieves’ Road? Because they never knew to look. Cesare lagged
behind a bit and caught up with Robin in from of the mansion where the
Knights had congregated while a few scouted the area. He had closed the
door, and given both the state of the war and the usual inhabitants of the
room, none of the Knights would likely ever see the Thieves’ Road again.
Robin pushed a slip of paper into Cesare’s hand and indicated a thinner,
younger Knight.
“Quite the cartographer,” Cesare mumbled as he tore it into pieces.
Captain de Mediter had a few words with a returning scout, and approached the two thieves.
“I thank you, both of you. You have been of inestimable help and service,
but it’ll be some time before you can leave the city. If you’ll give me a
moment, I’ll give you a writ to make sure you’re left ‘possessions intact’ if
you run into any more of my Knights.”
Ari chuckled, and for the first time, Robin got a good look at the fabled
commander, smiling, no less. He was tall and solid looking. His polite
demeanor and fastidious appearance were almost surreal in a man whose
once-green uniform was nearly brown with blood. The Templar uniform
bore in gold the interlocking circles of the Temple. There were a great
many buttons on the greatcoat itself, which was, even after a battle and an
exhausting climb, neatly buttoned. Robin felt quite impressed, even awed.
He had taken a scrap of paper from his pocket when a shout came from
up the street. “Hallo!” All weapons were drawn in a flash, when a ragged
group came into view, led by a dozen soldiers in an unfamiliar red uniform.
The soldiers looked grim and dark, foreigners mostly. Robin thoughts they
might be Ebrons, but he couldn’t be sure in the dim light. The tallest
by head and shoulders was a huge black man, in a clean red uniform and
carrying a brand new rifle. This was the one who approached Captain de
Mediter and offered his hand with a broad smile.
“Well met, Captain, what a stroke of luck to find you!”
Ari took his hand cautiously. “Who are you? What outfit are you with?”
“My name’s Janus Kepler. These soldiers are my men, mostly, in private
employ. The fine citizens with us desire safe passage to their ship, and have
hired us to provide it.” Kepler waved back at them. “We are, however, a bit
lost. We were unable to go straight from the Second Tier down the ramps
15
to Bien, and our shortcut has left us all turned around. If you would be so
kind as to point us in the right direction?”
Ari scowled. “The Bay’s been mined. No ships are leaving until it’s been
cleared.”
“Thank you, sir, but that makes no difference to me. They paid to go
to Bien.”
“We’re heading there in just a moment. You can follow us.” He looked
back at the ‘fine citizens’, dressed much too nicely for refugees, with very
obviously little faith in the defenses of the city. “At a discreet distance, if
you prefer.”
Robin wandered away as the Knight Captain detailed the route to the
last open ramp, and found himself on the main road. Most of the gas lights
either didn’t work or burned unchecked through cracked nozzles, bathing
the streets in a dreamlike shadow. People always walked quickly through
the unlit areas, moving from island to island of light in the sea of dark.
There were alleys off the road that hadn’t seen light since they had last seen
the sun, a hundred fifty years ago.
A few hundred years ago, this had still been a wealthy neighborhood.
The streets were still well paved, and the main road was wide enough for
three horsedrawn carriages to pass, shoulder to shoulder. These same streets
were now strewn with stone and broken wood, in some places entirely blocked
by rubbish. The air cooled quickly, as the unseen sun sunk below the horizon,
casting, for just a moment, a single golden ray to stretch down the wide
avenue and illuminate the broken husk of the Burgher’s Mansion before
disappearing entirely. Robin watched the outline of the building glow and
define itself before dimming. He was lost in thought still when Cesare came
up behind him.
“Robin, quit daydreaming and come on. We’re going with them.”
“What? Why?” He let himself be led back without an answer. The
Knights had moved on, and now Kepler’s group was getting ready to go.
Kepler himself was talking privately to another mercenary. This one, too,
wore red, but faded and worn. Over his uniform was draped a long, battered
brown coat with deep pockets. He was ruddy, with a fortnight’s beard –
probably a Northerner, from the Imperium’s Northern Territories. While
those around him, some of whom stood a head taller, looked grim and tired,
he wore a shrewd expression, with eyes that seemed to search and calculate.
He could barely be thirty years old, but his calm, confident gaze was not
met by any other. He was not tall, but Janus stood well away from him so
that he never had to tilt his head to converse. At first glance he appeared
unarmed. A closer look, however, revealed a fine weapon – slung low on
16
CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
either side of his hip, hung on a pair of crisscrossed leather belts, were a
pair of black revolvers. One revolver alone cost a fortune, but to carry two,
he must have done very well at his trade.
It was to this mercenary that Cesare led him when his conversation had
finished and Janus had begun rallying his group. “Robin, I want you to
meet Andrew Dolohov. I knew him a couple years ago.” Dolohov nodded
his greeting. “We’re going along with him to his ship, the Mourning Dove.
We’ll set sail as soon as the Bay’s clear.”
The group set off in a vaguely western direction, presumably following
Captain de Mediter’s directions. The whole Tier must have been abandoned,
there were no signs of human life, just the scratching of rats and the everpresent wind. They made their way through empty streets, making a few
turns to stay on the main roads, but mostly just going due west as much as
possible. Up ahead, Cesare, Dolohov, and Kepler talked in low voices and
occasionally gestured at each other, or up the road where they were headed.
After a while, Kepler slowed his pace a bit and fell back, eventually
matching Robin’s pace for a moment. “Your friend’s all full of ideas,” he
said after a little while, “but you’d do him a favor to remember the difference
between being decisive and being impulsive.”
Without explanation, he turned back and started a conversation with
the “fine citizens” behind him, who immediately started to complain about
their feet and their stomachs. Robin ignored them and thought for a long
time as they walked. He and Cesare did most of their work on the First
and Second Tiers, but he didn’t know this part of it well. Old parts of the
city like this were usually full of gangs who liked to take a hefty cut of any
business going on in their territory, so he and Cesare left the whole place
alone.
It was dark by the time they got to the really nice part of the First Tier,
out under open sky. Patrols were going back and forth along the rim, and
their group was stopped twice. They were finally allowed on the ramp, and
it took them a long time to make their way down. It was already mostly
barricaded, and there were a good half mile of snipers’ nests already prepared
to overlook the narrow path. That narrow path itself would be strewn with
caltrops and garbage if the Knights were forced to retreat to the First Tier.
The garbage would force them to take a meandering path, while the sharp
caltrops would tear through their boots into the soles of their feet. All the
while, snipers would be picking them off. Robin didn’t know whether any
such precautions had been made for a retreat to the Second Tier.
There weren’t many ships docked; most were anchored out in the bay
where they couldn’t be attacked from land. Robin’s feet and legs burned
17
from the running and climbing and walking, so that he could barely climb
the Mourning Dove’s gangplank. A short red-faced man with a pompous
air demanded information first from Janus Kepler, then from Cesare. They
talked for what seemed like forever, then told Robin and Cesare to find a
corner in the hold and stay out of the way.
Robin curled up on the floor and tried to sleep, but Cesare was nervous.
He clutched his bag, listening attentively to the faint sounds of gunfire and
cannons, even now after dark. It was infectious, and Robin found himself
jumping at every creak and groan the ship made.
“I don’t like being cooped up like this, Rob,” he said finally. “The
Fengari are going to break through, I know it. There’s too many places to
defend.” He stopped for a long time. “Go to sleep. I’ll need you to be rested
tomorrow.”
Robin slept.
18
CHAPTER 1. THE SIEGE OF MEDITER
Chapter 2
Revelation
Cesare shook Robin awake. His eyes snapped open and he sat up without
making a sound. He’d been woken like that many times in his life, and it
usually meant danger. The lights were down low, and there were a lot of
people still sleeping, in cots and on the floor. Cesare crouched over him and
pointed to the stairs up to the deck.
Up on deck, Dolohov waited for them with a lantern and a blank expression. The bay was inky black, and the sun hadn’t come up over the city
yet. Already Robin could hear gunfire and cannons over the water slapping
against the hull of the ship.
“Are you sure, Mr. Christie, that you want to go through with this?”
Cesare agreed that he did. “We’d better go now, then.”
They walked off the ship, but started to run once they hit the dock.
Dolohov led them south along the boardwalk, between the water and the
warehouses and customs houses. They got to an empty dock and got into
a rowboat. Robin had stayed quiet the whole time, and accepted the oar
handed him.
“Where are we going?” Dolohov turned and shot Cesare an accusing
look when he heard that, but Cesare just pointed under the boardwalk.
“Aim for that pipe there, the open one.” Robin saw it even in the very
dim light of Dolohov’s lamp, with dark water pouring out. Cesare lowered
his voice. “We’re headed underground. A couple of the underground barriers
were broken though this morning, and we’re going to use the confusion to
get into the main sewers. First we lead him to where he wants to go, then
we turn south and head for Diron Borough. They’re just patrolling there.
Are you up for it?”
“I think so, but you’d better row.” Cesare scowled, but took the oar.
19
20
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
They ran aground and entered the sewer.
***
They crept slowly through the water, keeping the splashing to a minimum. Robin’s shoes and trouser legs were soaked through and felt cold and
slimy. He heard shouting and gunfire ahead, echoing through the tunnels.
Cesare found a side tunnel with clean water, runoff from the melted snow.
It wasn’t as bad, but his feet felt numb. The gunfire got closer, and Cesare
turned for a moment.
“Robin, are you ready? Good, just like we did before. Put out the
lantern, he can’t hide that.” Robin concentrated, and just before the light
went out, the world seemed to dim. “They won’t be able to see us, but
they’ll hear you if you’re not careful, and they’ll feel you if you run into
them.”
“I don’t understand,” Dolohov started, but Cesare cut him off.
“You don’t have to, just follow me and be careful.”
They walked in the dark for a long time, following the sloshing sound
of Cesare’s feet in the cold water. A group of Knights suddenly passed
by them, their torch blinding. Robin put his hand over his eyes, and saw
Dolohov going for his gun, and Cesare put a hand on his arm to calm him.
They ran by without noticing.
“Are we invisible?” Dolohov stared after them.
“No, but close enough in this light,” Cesare whispered. “Come on, let’s
follow them.”
They jogged as quietly as they could after the Knights, slow enough
that Robin could keep his concentration. They came on the breach pretty
quickly. The barricade had just been a pile of stone and garbage that filled
the tunnel, and the Fengari had knocked it down, probably with the thick
beam lying on the tunnel floor. Robin saw a wire overhead and realized that
it must have been let go when the barricade fell.
The Knights had pushed the Fengari back into a junction, and fought
hand-to-hand with swords, knives, and bayonets. Cesare pointed to the
right-hand tunnel, past the barricade debris, and away from the fighting.
“There,” he whispered. “On three.”
They tensed in the passageway, barely breathing. “One.”
One Knight fell, clutching his belly where a bloodstain spread. Then a
Fengari with a gurgling scream. “Two.”
Someone in the crowd was fighting like a madman, with a chunk of wood
in one hand and a knife in the other. A Knight, Robin saw, a street officer
21
with short, stubbly hair and scars on his face, a real bruiser. Every time he
turned a Fenne soldier went flying, and there were nearly none left. “Three!”
They dashed for the tunnel, and Robin barely saw the officer take a
swing with his club. The Fengari he hit reeled back and slammed into
Robin, smashing him into the tunnel wall.
Dolohov realized immediately what happened and whipped his guns from
their holsters. He shot down the first Fengari to come at him. Cesare turned
too late and stumbled into a soldier coming from behind, the first of half a
dozen joining the fight. He slashed wildly with his dagger then backed up
to the wall with a strange expression. Robin struggled to his feet, his head
swimming.
The only thing he could see was the mercenary, a black revolver in each
hand. Robin saw him fire once, twice, not even seeming to aim but hitting
dead-on with each shot. Somebody was yelling, but he couldn’t tell who.
There was light, suddenly, and an acrid smell. Dolohov’s profile shifted like
a snake, still shooting, ducking suddenly as he ran to the side tunnel. Cesare
slumped to the floor. Robin felt heat on his face, and looked up to see a
pipe near the ceiling shooting blue flame.
“Get down!” somebody yelled.
Robin hit the wall when it exploded, just confused and concussed enough
to watch, detached, as Dolohov leapt to his feet and ran stumbling down the
tunnel. Robin struggled to his feet and splashed through the filthy water to
where Cesare lay, glazed eyes wide open, under the burning gas line. The
Knights wasted no time getting to their feet and swarming the area.
The Knights hauled Robin to his feet, and checked Cesare, but he was
clearly dead, so they left him there. The tunnels filled with the echoed
thunder of running boots, then splashing, as Fenne soldiers began to home
in on them.
Robin followed the Knights to the hole in the underground barricade,
then turned around. He looked up slowly, his haunted face deathly pale
in the low, flickering light. He listened quietly a moment, then, without
speaking, stepped forward to where the Knights had begun frantically piling
rock to reconstruct the barricade. He braced himself against the wall, and
suddenly a phantom wall appeared in front of the barricade.
“They can’t see us,” he whispered. “Finish the wall.”
Dumbstruck, the Knights could only watch as Fenne soldiers entered
and searched the tunnel where the bodies lay. The soldiers puzzled over the
burning gas pipes, but could not turn the gas back on. They searched the
tunnels thoroughly, walking at times right up to the phantom wall, but then
turned away. Slowly, as the gas burned away, the lights dimmed and the
22
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
soldiers left, carrying Cesare’s body among others. The Knights rebuilt the
real wall as fast as they could and rigged the alarm again. Robin’s knees
buckled, and he was out cold before he hit the floor.
***
A wind from the north blew in that night, carrying with it heavy, swollen
clouds which slowly blanketed the fields of Mediter with a thin coating of
pure, white snow. From the Grand Cathedral, the world looked as if it had
been swept away, blotted out by an unseen hand, now a blank canvas waiting
for the brush. The railroad was gone, the farmers’ fields and gently rolling
hills, obliterated by millions upon millions of tiny, white crystals. All was
bright and new and waiting.
Ari de Mediter took in the sight as the dawn sun fell on his haggard face.
He should have been home with his wife, to finally relax after handing over
command to his lieutenant. He had neither slept nor eaten nor taken drink
in his vigilance over the sleeping boy. The worst of it was now over. The
doctors had worried at first that he would not pull through, that his skull
might be fractured, but the boy had shown incredible strength. He never
woke, but at times Ari could see him stir in his sleep.
He was young still. Ari’s best guess gave him eighteen years, at most.
He was dirty, and his old clothes, folded neatly on the chair beside the bed,
were torn and ragged. What Ari had initially taken for black cloth was
in fact dingy brown corduroy when washed. The nurse had bathed him in
his sleep, groomed his hair and cut his ragged fingernails. His head was
bandaged with a soft pad covering his badly scraped ear.
Ari had to remind himself that the youth laying in the clean bed was not
at all harmless. He carried a number of weapons, of which Ari had no doubt
about his skill. He radiated an aura of mystery and danger. The Knight’s
pulse quickened as he remembered the events of their first meeting, and the
reports of the morning before. He scarcely believed it, but his men had told
him flat-out that they’d watched him do it.
Scripture had it that such men are monsters. The penalty for wizardry
is to be put out of the sight of the Holy, and cast into the night, where they
shall surely perish. This was prescribed thousands of years ago, by ancient
and wise men who had never met this boy who had saved Ari’s own life, and
those of his Knights.
The boy stirred, and woke. He made no noise, the Knight noted, and was
probably used to sleeping without betraying where he lay. The boy turned
and looked at Ari, pupils dilated into wide black discs in the low morning
light.
23
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Ari nodded silently. The older thief had been taken by the Fengari and
his body probably searched.
“It’s my fault. I wasn’t careful.”
“You saved their lives, Robin. Thank you. But, how do you do it? Is it
some device that you left down there? Something else?”
Robin lay back onto the pillow and closed his eyes tightly. Ari could see
a small tear working its way down the boy’s cheek. He wanted to leave him
alone, but this matter was too important.
“I need to know.”
The boy sat up again, and shook his head, biting his lip. “I don’t know.
I could do it since I was a little kid. I just think of it, and it happens.”
“But it makes you black out?”
“It’s hard to concentrate sometimes. I can’t – I can’t always do it,
whenever I want. Sometimes it’s harder than others. Last night, with the
soldiers, I was dizzy, my head hurt, it was all I could do to stop thinking
about – ” His voice trailed off and his eyes welled with tears again, even as
he clenched his teeth and fists against it. Ari saw the boy’s jaw muscles flex,
contorting his face.
Ari flipped open his watch. It was nearly seven, the ornate hour hand
pointing squarely at the dragon. The Cabal of the Worthy would meet,
traditionally, at exactly noon, when the sun was at its highest. Then they
would discuss the fate of this young wizard, even in the middle of a war.
”Dolohov.”
Ari blinked. ”Excuse me?”
”What happened to Dolohov? The mercenary, with the black revolvers.”
Ari thought a moment and shrugged. ”Killed in the explosion, I expect.
I’m told that he was right next to it.”
“So was I.”
Ari took a breath through his nose and held it a moment. “Anything is
possible.” He fell silent again, and then produced an old, leatherbound book
from the nightstand. Its yellow pages fell a little open, worn slick from years
of study. The front bore, in gold leaf, the interlocking circles of the temple.
Robin flipped to the first page, where the words, ”The Book of Life” were
carefully handwritten. In the lower right hand corner was the name ”Alonso
de Mediter” in the same script.
“My great-grandfather,” Ari said. “He was a Trader. He came here to
Mediter over a hundred years ago and loved this city so much that he took
it for his name. He was also a deeply religious man, and copied this book
24
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
himself, as an act of devotion. He never finished. I myself copied the last
five chapters.” He paused a moment, eyes closed.
“When the Temple tells me that a thing exists and is wrong, I believe it.
Not because I have to, but because that is the way I choose to live. When
I see something like – with abilities such as those you display, I consider
myself obligated to turn to the Temple and to Scriptures for advice and
guidance. I think perhaps that you may find benefit from Scripture yourself
in the next few days.”
Robin looked at him for a long time, making Ari a little uncomfortable.
“Our Chaplain has agreed to perform a funeral rite for your friend, if
that is your concern. However, I should find it amiss if I didn’t tell you that
there will be a trial this afternoon. You will be tried before the Cabal on
the charge of wizardry.”
“A trial...”
”I shouldn’t be overly concerned. Death is not an option in this case,
especially after the bravery you showed, though you may have to eventually
account for your presence there. You may be banished from Mediter, but as
I recall, you planned to leave. With these, I believe.” He opened the drawer
again and withdrew a pair of jewel necklaces. Robin’s eyes grew wide. “You
had my word. Possessions intact. I know my reputation on the streets , but
please believe me, Robin, when I say that I am a just man.”
“I know.”
“I know you think that now, but you should also know that I am obliged
as Captain of the Knights Templar and Defender of the Faith to act as
prosecutor during your trial.”
Robin nodded, but said nothing, flipping through the pages.
“I will be fair, and I will argue justice at all costs. But I cannot predict
the mind of the Cabal, especially with so many other worries.” He paused,
as if wanting to say more, but shook his head slightly instead, and looked
out the window.
“Is there any news of the war?”
Ari thought carefully for a moment. “We held them off underground
long enough to reseal the barricades. They haven’t tried that again. Fengar
overextended itself yesterday. It’s a long barricade and they thought they’d
find a weakness if they tried everywhere at once. It almost worked, but it
didn’t, and the lost a lot of men.” His voice lowered. “So did we.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A young page in a white
uniform entered, carefully stealing a glance at Robin as he did so. He saluted
and gave Ari a folded paper. Instead of giving him leave, Ari held up a finger
to the page.
25
He crossed to the writing desk and wrote a few words on a slip of paper.
He carefully blotted it and handed it to the page.
”Telegraph if you can, otherwise by messenger.”
The page saluted and left, stealing a second glance at Robin. Ari, meanwhile, read the message with a furrowed brow. Robin could see that the
message was short, but could not make out the words.
Ari abruptly let out a long sigh. ”I have to go, Robin, though I should
have liked to speak with you further. Please do not leave this room; there
will be someone around periodically to tend to you. As for the trial,” He
paused. ”I promise you that I shall do all that I can to protect your best
interests. Good day.”
He walked to the door, and before leaving, slowly creased the message,
and slid it deliberately on the bedtable toward Robin. He smiled, winked,
and exited, closing the door behind him.
Robin waited a long moment before picking up the thick paper with the
heavy, uneven boxy script.
“B IRIS RQSTS MTNG Stop YR PRSNC RQRD IMM End”
***
Ari had to run to arrive at the session on time. The Cabal of the Worthy
had assembled, and ten of the eleven members sat already in a semicircle
in the small room. The ceiling window allowed sunlight to stream into the
room through holes in the snow, casting a dappled pattern on the dark
carpeted floor. Gas fixtures lit the rest of the room, so that every shadow
was cast towards the center of the floor.
The Knight Captain was dressed in full uniform, cleaned and pressed,
but he hadn’t shaved, and hadn’t slept. He looked frightful, and he knew it,
but there was no question of putting this off. He stood in the center of the
room, the focus of all attention. He waited until the door was closed and
barred behind him.
Roland Gier, a priest of the temple, rose slowly. ”Gentlemen, we gather
today in the name of the Righteous Host.” He paused as those present
gestured in devotion. ”We have been chosen by Holy and Proper selection
to represent to our people the will of the Gods. May we carry our burden
with Grace and Honor.” They again gestured and the priest sat.
Pierre St. John, the most recently elected member of the Cabal, stood
up and turned to address the group, saying, “Our ambassador reports that
Fengar has received a visit from the Imperial envoy. Immediately afterward,
26
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
a telegraph was sent to ban Iris. We intercepted that telegraph, and let him
know that we did.”
Ari spoke up. “Have we broken their code, then? I was told it was
impossible.”
St. John smiled slyly. “No. We, ah, bluffed, if you gentlemen will
pardon the phrase. But he requested a meeting on the spot. We expect
him to agree to leave our borders with all possible haste. In return, Mediter
pledges to cease hostilities with Fengar, and to no longer support the True
Revolutionary Party.”
“We just purchased a sizeable supply of arms – ” on of the seated members objected.
“It will be delivered as planned. I have spoken to the TRP’s man here
in Mediter, and he understands our need to appear impartial. Nevertheless,
this invasion has more than anything strengthened my conviction that this
fraudulent emperor must be contained.”
“We cannot weather another invasion,” Ari commented, feeling weary.
“Should we risk his anger any further, especially considering the nature of
the TRP?”
St. John shook his head. “At this point, the True Revolutionary Party
is the only active resistance in Fengar. They keep Wilhelm busy enough to
prevent him from directing his full energies toward Kendauer and the Free
States.”
“But not Mediter, apparently.”
“I think that the Imperium’s response to this invasion will be enough to
prevent another. In any case, I’ll be able to report more after I meet with
ban Iris. Please continue, Captain de Mediter; I gather we have other things
to attend to.”
Ari shifted uncomfortably, and settled into the speech he’d mentally
prepared on his way. “There is a boy in the Grand Cathedral at this moment,
not yet 18 years of age. He stands accused of the practice of wizardry. He
has displayed in front of me and in front of no fewer than two dozen different
witnesses, all Knights of the Temple, the ability to change what men see, to
create phantoms from the aether, and to make himself invisible.
“This became known to me only yesterday. In the midst of battle, myself
and my lieutenants were aided when an overwhelming phantasmal host came
and so frightened the enemy that they turned and fled without hesitation.
Without his aid, I am certain that, though I should have slain many of my
enemy, I should also have perished upon the battlefield. Lieutenant Jean
Bruce, who himself showed considerable valor, observed two men immediately after the end of the engagement, and took them into custody. After
27
searching them thoroughly, he presented the two to me.
“I was not, at first, interested in detaining them, until it came to my
attention that one of the two had managed to prevent Lieutenant Bruce from
disarming him. That one was the boy named Robin, who stands accused. I
observed him to be not entirely alert, as though exhausted. At that point,
I did not make any connection between him and the previous events, nor to
those events and his ability to hide his weapons.
“For various reasons, I permitted these two to accompany us to the
First Tier, where we parted ways. They fell in with a group of citizens who
followed us to the ports. These citizens were led by a group of soldiers acting
privately. These were led by a man named Janus Kepler,” He thought he
detected recognition in the faces before him, but continued, “His men were
questioned afterward.” Now he definitely saw a look of alarm on St. John’s
face. “One of his men, by the name of Andrew Dolohov, apparently had been
hired to assassinate General ban Iris. None could say who hired him. He left
his ship early yesterday morning in the company of Robin, and one Cesare
Christie, Robin’s apparent accomplice. Robin confirmed this morning that
he knew the name Dolohov.
“The Fengari managed to knock down several of the underground barricades without realizing that we had a special alarm system in place to let us
know exactly which ones had been compromised. A group of Knights was
dispatched to each breach, where they fought off the Fengari and rebuilt the
barricades. In this case, Robin and his two companions attempted to use the
melee to get into the Fenne-occupied city. They were surprised by a second
group of Fengari, and in the fight, a minor gas line was hit by gunfire and
exploded. Dolohov disappeared, Christie was reportedly killed, and Robin
remained with the Knights. They set to repairing the barricade, and Robin
stood next to them. At that point, Lieutentant Bruce reports, it appeared
as if there were a perfect seamless wall in front of them, and this illusion
continued until after the next group of Fenne soldiers left, whereupon he
collapsed.”
Ari paused again, and motioned for the cupbearer, who provided him
with a sip of wine. The Cabal listened without stirring, each of the ten were
patently attentive. They were dressed heavily, in dark trousers and heavy
vests, but showed no signs of discomfort, despite the warmth of the room.
They were all older gentlemen, some priests but the majority were laymen,
and most of these nobility. A few wore long sideburns or beards, but most,
like Pierre St. John, were cleanshaven, giving a few of them a very lean,
almost hatchetfaced look. Ari handed back the cup and cleared his throat.
“I believe that this boy’s powers come from the practice of wizardry,
28
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
as expressly forbidden by Scripture. He has testified, to me, that these
phantasms are in fact an effect of his thought and concentration, made
substantive by a process of which he is not aware, or is unwilling to explain.
He shows no remorse for possession of this ability, and has displayed no
intention of disavowing it.
“His very presence in Mediter is unfortunate, and can only lead to an
interest in witchcraft by the population as a whole. I do not infer that he is
evil, but that he is too naı̈ve to control a power which is not possible to take
away. My recommendation, therefore, is swift and immediate deportation,
to satisfy Ostracism as prescribed in the Code of the Lawgiver, where it is
specifically stated that practitioners of wizardry and witchcraft shall be put
out of the sight of the Holy. The wise and gracious Cabal has in the past
numerous times interpreted such statements to mean banishment. It should
do so again today. This is my opinion, so please it the Gods.”
Ari turned and sat in the seat which was brought to him. He had been
given a generous space of time in which to speak. That, however, was
nothing, for now the questions would begin.
***
Robin jumped a little as the door opened. Ari paused in the doorway.
“May I enter?” Robin was a little confused at the request, but granted
it quickly. Ari closed the door behind him, and sat gratefully on the chair
opposite the room from the bed. He was cleanshaven now, and the sudden
lightness of his face only highlighted the darkness around his eyes. Robin
felt a little guilty when he realized that over the entire day, he had rarely
left the bed for more than a few minutes at a time.
Ari sighed again, and stood, producing a neatly written paper. He unfolded it carefully.
“Robin, please rise.” Robin was again confused, but slowly got out of
bed and stood on the cold floor, wearing only the coarse white sleeping gown
he had woken up in.
“The Cabal of the Worthy, voice of the Gods in this Holy City, has spent
time in deliberation on you and your abilities. Know that the practice of
Illusion is expressly forbidden by Holy Scripture, and, in turn, by the laws
of the City and Nation of Mediter. You have been shown beyond a doubt
to posess these abilities, and have shown no remorse, indeed, an eagerness
to use them to your own personal ends.
“Be this as it may, The Cabal of the Worthy recognizes that you are a
patriot and have thus far endeavored to protect and serve your City. For
this, we commend your aims, if not your methods.
29
“You are aware that the nation of Mediter and its allies are at war with
the illegitimate Emperor of Fengar, and his self-styled Revolutionary Army.
We have achieved great victories over this Army, but it is clear that Fengar
is intent of pursuing battle toward the goal of the destruction of the Temple
and the overthrow of its place as the rightful Government of the Nation of
Mediter.” He paused. “It is also clear that we will eventually lose a battle
fought entirely with military might.
“So it is that it is believed that the Gods have delivered you to us. It is
the Will of the Cabal of the Worthy, with dissent noted, that you, Robin, are
hereby forbidden to leave the City of Mediter. From now until a contrary
decision, you are the ward of Captain Ari de Mediter, Defender of the Faith.
In all things and endeavours, you are under the Aegis of the Cabal of the
Worthy. In exchange for this protection, you are ordered to labor in the
dedication of your talents to the Defense of the City of Mediter.”
Ari folded the paper and handed it to Robin, who stood speechless.
Neither of them spoke for a long time, but scrupulously avoided meeting
the other’s gaze. Robin’s mind raced from one thing to another, hardly
believing what he had just been told. Hands trembling, he unfolded the
paper, to verify that what Ari had read was still written upon it. While he
stood that way, Ari slowly picked up the chair from across the room and
placed it behind Robin, who immediately sat.
“I’m very sorry, Robin, in more ways than one. I feel that this decision
was neither appropriate for the Cabal to make, nor was it made in your best
interest. However, it must be abided, which means that you and I must come
to an understanding.” He began to pace, an expression on concentration on
his face. “As soon as the Fenne Army leaves the city, I cease to be responsible
for the war effort. This will be, I hope, soon. When this happens, I will
be able to devote to you more attention. For the time being, however, the
Cabal has selected two very,” he paused, “capable men from the University.
They are men who are familiar with the past and who may be helpful in the
exploration of your abilities. One of them is an acquaintance of mine, Dr.
William Trent. I do not know the other man who has been chosen, but I am
assured that he has had dealings with the Temple before and is considered
knowledgeable and trustworthy.” His voice trailed off as he wandered to the
window, hands gripping the edges of his shirt and, as he stood in front of
the window, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I don’t understand your abilities. I do not believe that we should be
encouraging you to develop them, but my voice is insignificant.” Ari smiled
a little at Robin’s silence. “Does that surprise you? Outside here, I run
things well. My Knights are well trained and I take care to exercise my
30
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
duties with wisdom and competence. In the Cabal, however, my voice is
small, and I take care not to raise it often. I was brought up to understand
that, compared to the power and wisdom of the Gods and their chosen
servants, my own abilities pale. So, I understand that my disagreement
with the Cabal is not a matter of a difference of opinion, but rather proof
of my own limited ability to understand the situation.
“That being the case, please be patient with me. Even when I am not
properly supportive of your efforts, be assured that I am trying hard to
assist you.”
Outside, the snow had started falling again, and Ari had to wipe the
glass with his sleeve to see through it. Through the wavy lead glass could
be seen the fields of Mediter, which had just begun to peek out from under
the thin blanket that had fallen overnight. Many of the farmhouses were
burned out, and the fields were ravaged by hungry Fenne soldiers. It would
take years, perhaps, to rebuild. Ari turned and looked at Robin, and began
to nod slowly, unconsciously.
***
That night, Robin was moved to Ari’s home. The abode was tall, but
thin, only a section of a larger building which housed nobility and clergy.
The outside imposed on the brick street with a stern, marble facade, hung
periodically with black iron fittings, each holding a blue gas flame in the
cupped palm of a stylized human hand.
Ari’s wife, Marie, was a plain woman much younger than he. She reacted
woodenly to Robin’s introduction, though she treated him graciously. She
kept a clean, if spartan, house, all dark wood with little metal in sight,
according to the latest Naturalist opinion. She had prepared for Robin the
guest’s room, small but comfortably furnished after their son had moved
out. A fireplace dominated the wall opposite a small window with obscured
glass such that only shapes could be made out on the street below.
The walls of the room bore long wool hangings, dyed bright colors in
intricate patterns. They hung almost to the glazed clay tile floor; some with
tassels just barely brushed it. Marie adjusted several of them impatiently
in the course of showing Robin the various features of his new room. There
was a narrow bed, primly made up with a quilted cover laid carefully over it.
Across from the foot of the bed was the fireplace, done up in red stone. Next
to the bed stood a low bedtable with a new candle, and on the other side
stood a white washbasin on dark wooden legs, with a thick towel hanging
on the side. A simple wooden chair sat under the small round window.
31
Marie was courteous but businesslike. Robin could see her stealing
glances at him, particularly when he stood near anything valuable. Captain
de Mediter, then, had told her a little about him. He, for his part, noticed
quickly his habit of standing in shadows, and consciously corrected himself.
Still, he could see suspicion in her eyes. When she left him in his room, he
did not leave it, but rather buried himself in his book.
He read for several hours the story of Immanuel Crest, the Famous Adventurer. It was the second book by a popular author, J. F. Carpenter. As
the day faded to an early dusk, Crest crossed the great Sea to the North,
disembarking in that wild land, Ilium. Carpenter described the Steppe, and
the lakes, and the glacial forests with sweeping grandeur as Crest explored
every crevice and valley in search of his true love, Isabel. Around the time
that Robin noticed in a detached way that he hadn’t had dinner, Crest found
a walled village, full of savages whom he fought at first, but eventually befriended. Instead of living in their village, though, he hollowed out a huge
tree, and made for himself a small home outside the walls.
Robin looked up in the early dusk, and the newly lit streetlights painted
a pattern on the wall, swirls and little rainbows from the pale gas light
refracting through the window. The shadows and light areas twisted and
pulled into whorls and lines. Under Robin’s lazy gaze, they began to turn
and contort, drifting across the wall like clouds. He pulled them apart, and
twisted them together, idly unsure how much was him and how much was
the flicker of the light.
“Excuse me.” Robin looked up with a jolt, where Ari stood, looking
uncomfortable. “The door was open.”
Robin nodded mutely, and the illusion vanished.
“Your teachers have arrived, and are waiting for you in the parlor. The
older gentleman is Doctor Trent, the one I spoke of earlier. He is a very
respected scholar and a man for whom I have a great deal of respect. The
other gentleman is Professor Clannon, of whom I know little.” He waited
patiently as Robin rose and put his book back in his satchel. “Before we
join them, I would ask a favor. Please do not use your abilities in this house
when you are not with your teachers. My wife finds them disturbing, and I
would not burden her more than I have already.”
Robin agreed, and followed Ari down the darkened stairs. The walls
were of dark wood, and hung with linotypes, paintings and the occasional
ceremonial weapon or religious icon. The parlor was on the first floor, just
off from the front door. Two men immediately rose from their seats by the
fire.
One was a shorter gentleman in his late fifties. He was cleanshaven,
32
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
with grey hair slicked back and a pair of wire spectacles. He wore a slightly
rumpled brown suitcoat, and his shirtsleeves, peeking out from underneath,
were worn smooth, and smeared with ink. He introduced himself as William,
his voice was quiet and gentle, but firm.
The other man was younger, perhaps in his mid thirties. His dull red
hair was clipped exactingly, and he wore long sideburns. His suit was new,
black all over with a bright white shirt under the waistcoat, and a gold watch
chain hanging from the pocket. He introduced himself as Sean Clannon and
shook hands, holding a top hat in the other.
Ari closed the door, and sat unobtrusively in a wooden chair near the
far wall, under a large cloth mural. Robin was invited to sit in a large
overstuffed chair in the center of the large, luxurious carpet, facing the low
fire. Trent and Clannon sat on opposite sides of the hearth, facing him. Dr.
Trent set his elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned forward with a keen
look on his face.
“Professor Clannon and I are both of the University of Mediter, Robin.
He is a professor of History and Theology, and I myself teach a broad range
of Antiquities, including Archaeology, Natural Philosophy, and Scriptural
Studies. Naturally, we are both interested in your abilities, and are, of
course, obligated to aid you in putting them to a constructive patriotic
use. We are only here for a moment this evening, just to meet you. The
gentleman from the Temple was somewhat vague in his descriptions, I’m
afraid. Perhaps it would would be best to observe for ourselves our object
of study?”
“What he’s trying to say is,” interjected Professor Clannon, leaning forward. “Perhaps you could demonstrate your power for us.” He shot a quick
look at Ari, but did not otherwise move.
Robin nodded thoughtfully, and cleared his very dry throat. “What
would you like to see?”
“See?” Clannon blinked. “Why, anything at all.”
Instantly, a man appeared in front of the fire, arrayed in a long brown
coat that was just slightly translucent so that to Ari he seemed to glow from
head to toe. The man, facing the fire extended his left arm slowly, maddeningly slowly, until held horizontal from his body was a pistol. He shifted,
the elbow moved imperceptibly, and with an unnaturally loud report, the
phantom vanished.
Clannon instantly sprang from his chair to inspect the far wall, as the
room silently held its breath. Robin watched without expression as the
Professor examined the plaster of the wall, then finally turned to Ari and
Dr. Trent and simply shrugged, astonished. He resumed his seat as Dr.
33
Trent regarded Robin over folded hands.
Dr. Trent took a quick, dry breath and held it a moment. “Where did
you learn?”
Robin tried to answer but could only shake his head. Clannon interrupted.
“Captain de Mediter said earlier that the boy didn’t know. Perhaps this
ability is inborn?”
It was Dr. Trent’s turn to shake his head, with a hint of a smile on his
face. “No, no. The historical record is admittedly sketchy on the subject of
magic, but there are multiple references to schools where Warlocks were instructed. That would seem to imply that innate ability is either nonexistent
or very, very small.”
“Yes, but until today, both of us considered those passages to be merely
allegorical, or stemming from local legend. We’ve not had time go over
them in light of this.” Professor Clannon’s eyes gleamed with excitement in
the firelight. “The most likely situation is so: This boy was born to some
lowborn woman on the Ground Tier. He grew up as a criminal, and at some
point discovered that he possessed these abilities.”
Dr. Trent thought for a moment and glanced meaningfully at Ari. “Why
do you say lowborn?”
“Well, it has been shown time and time again that the lower classes are
much more prone to criminal lifestyles. Poverty and repression naturally
lead to antisocial behavior.”
“Yes, well, social determinism is all well and good, but I think that we
may be looking at a case well outside it. Besides, this is irrelevant to the
matter at hand. Robin, what else can you do? Can you move objects?”
“No. Nothing else.”
“Not even small objects,” he pursued.
“No. I can only make illusions.”
“And sound,” Clannon added quickly. “You made that sound.”
Robin shook his head. “I’ve never done that before. It just happened.”
“Did it happen because you expected it to, Robin?” Dr. Trent asked
gently. “That’s how it works, isn’t it?”
The boy thought a moment, watching the low fire crackle. “Yes, that’s
it.”
“Very well, then, Robin. An experiment.” Dr. Trent rose and retrieved
a footstool, which he placed gently in front of Robin. From his pocket he
removed a pipe cleaner, which he lay on the top of the footstool. He then
backed up carefully. “Now, bend it. But don’t think about it, just expect
it to bend.”
34
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
All four occupants of the room watched, spellbound, as the pipe cleaner
began slowly, very slowly, to curl into a circle. Dr. Trent suddenly dashed
forward, and snatched the pipe cleaner, which he held aloft – perfectly
straight.
Clannon leapt to his feet and inspected the pipe cleaner from where he
stood, reluctant to approach the older academician. “Amazing. Was he
deceiving us, then?”
“No, no deceit, I think. This is exactly what I suspected would occur.
You tried so hard, Robin, to bend it, that you expected it to bend, and
once you began to fool yourself with your own illusion, it simply escalated.”
With that, he hefted and donned his threadbare greatcoat. He set the pipe
cleaner upon the mantel with great care, and walked out from the circle of
the fire’s glow.
“Thank you, Robin. You have provided me with a great deal to think
about tonight. With your leave, Captain, Professor, Robin, I have other
matters to attend to tonight. You may report that I will certainly cooperate.”
Ari stood and made to open the door for him. “Surely you can stay for
a bit of supper, Doctor?”
“I’m sorry. No rest for the weary, I’m afraid. I shall try to be here
tomorrow after I’ve lunched. In the meantime, good night, all of you. And
thank you, Captain de Mediter.” With that, he left, and Marie showed him
to the door.
“Professor Clannon, will you be staying to dine with us?”
The young professor shook his head quickly, suddenly conscious of the
fact that he was still standing. “I’m afraid I must be going as well. With
the University open again, classes will resume in a few days, and I should
like to prepare my lectures. I shan’t be over tomorrow, I think, but the after
will suit me perfectly.”
With this, the professor fastened his coat, adjusted a large scarf about
his neck and finally donned his tall black hat. He left in the same manner,
but allowed Ari to escort him to the door, leaving Robin alone in the room.
The meal that night was rather lavish for three people. The dining
room was dominated by a huge, dark wood table, draped with a fine linen
cloth. The gas lights were dimmed – conservation, Ari said – and the rest
of the light was provided by candles in an elaborate bronze chandelier. The
silverware was fine silver, as were the platters. The meal was a fowl that
Robin wasn’t familiar with. Small, and prepared oddly but well. There
was a soup course as well, clear broth from porcelain bowls. There was no
conversation during the meal. Ari sat at the head of the table, and Robin
35
across from him, at the foot. Next to Ari sat Marie, looking as if she were
trying to fall off the table, she sat so close the end.
Robin ate quietly, and winced when he made a noise drinking his soup.
Marie constantly watched him with cold eyes. Even though the soup needed
salt, he was terrified to ask her for it. Three courses went by, all in silence,
each delivered by an plump elderly woman wearing all white. After the
platters were cleared away, Marie herself retrieved three crystal goblets from
the shelf, filled with cake and a liqueur. She placed one in front of Ari, and
one at her own setting. With not a little trepidation, she strode briskly to
Robin, placed it in front of him. She took her seat quietly and quickly, and
ate sparingly. Ari finished his with relish, glancing periodically at his wife
in dismay.
Marie excused herself and left the table. Ari sat for a minute, expressionless, then begged his leave of Robin and followed her. Robin heard his
slow, heavy footfall on the stairs. He finished his dessert, stood, and folded
his napkin carefully.
He went to his room, did his toilet, and undressed for bed. He did
not sleep for a long time, drifting off only after the gas lights outside were
dimmed to simulate twilight.
***
As Robin continued his hike across the vast tundra, laden down with
water and food, but no weapon, he stopped to shave a piece from his great
ashen walking stick. This piece he held in his hand tightly, until his palm
turned white. He felt words coming from his mouth, then hurled the splinter
into the air.
It stopped, as if it struck an invisible ceiling, and stayed, suspended in
the air. It began to rotate hesitatingly, then halted abruptly. Robin looked
up, and traced its point to the horizon, where loomed above high mountains
a great structure, glittering in the arctic sun.
The Ice Palace. Tall, quiet, majestic, standing head and shoulders above
all creation.
He finally tore his eyes from the horizon, and looked down at himself,
older and terribly thin, but somehow still healthy. As he watched, his right
hand, clutching the staff, began to bleed, but the blood ran up the slender
length, coating it in a slick rust, until it reached the top, and began to bubble
over like a fountain. He dropped it in disgust, then watched in horror as
the ground under it began to rot. The crabgrass smoked and twisted and
turned black. The ground, too, turned a bluish black, and began to crumble
36
CHAPTER 2. REVELATION
away to sand, and Robin felt it shift under him, and he began to fall and
fall and fall, and he suddenly knew that something waited for him below.
***
Robin woke with a start, his head still on the pillow, and his hands
clutching the sheets. He’d had dreams about a palace of ice or a tower
of crystal or a statue of glass, but it had never ended like that before. It
bothered him, but something else did too.
He nearly leapt from his bed, and stood beside it, staring dumbly. He
finally dressed himself, sloppily. He turned the doorknob slowly, then pulled
up on the door as he opened it, so that the hinges opened without protest.
He crept down the dark stairway, and made his way to the parlor, and
lit the fixture to give a low light. He paused, his mind racing, then walked
purposefully to the fireplace, and looked upon the hearth, satisfied and terrified all at once. He picked up the pipe cleaner, and felt as well as saw that
it had curled itself into a tight circle.
Chapter 3
A New Start
A lone figure trudged through snow that reached nearly to his knees. His
coat dragged along the top of the snow in places, and sometimes caught on
broken shards of wood and the occasional length of twisted, rusted barbed
wire protruding from the thick drifts. Here and there he found the remains
of winter grape frames, but the vines were all picked clean.
The Fenne Army had been through not even a fortnight before, displacing the Mediterran farmers who grew winter grapes on the slopes. Many of
the houses stood, abandoned and ransacked. Just as many had been burned
to the ground. No rhyme or reason to it, one would be burned while its
neighbor was left alone. Stone chimnies stood like monoliths dotting the
hillside and plains. The figure shuddered from something more than cold
when he saw them in his path, burnt black on one side and, often, spotless
on the other.
He instead watched the ground, careful of dips in the snow, and watching
idly for spent shells. When he found one, glittering brass in the clean white
snow, he would pick it up, inspect it carefully, and toss it aside. A few
years ago the rule of the day was musketry, long lines of soldiers firing volley
after volley that killed more out of sheer stubbornness than anything else
sometimes. Ban Iris was no fool when it came to that, there were a lot of
rifles and carbines in his army. At least, he was no fool on the battlefield.
Word had it he’d gone south to put down a rebellion without taking on
troops or supplies.
The figure chuckled to himself as he thought of the city assault, aborted
over a week ago when the Imperium stepped in. All sides came out thinking
they’d won. Mediter patted itself on the back for expelling the demonized
adversary. Fengar positively glowed at the notion of having taken Mediter
37
38
CHAPTER 3. A NEW START
out of their precious war. No word from the TRP, but surely Marta Slake
was pleased.
He came to the top of the hill and looked out at the countryside. Far
to the southeast, he could see patches of brown on the ground. Hot, dry
Ibra was a faraway joke from where he stood. The land of rocks, mountains,
desert and canyons lay far to the east almost as a challenge to the traveller,
or a daydream. He laughed in spite of his dry throat, and cracked lips. It
was far away in many ways. He had a few things to do before he could
contact his employer.
Without warning, he drew his gun and fired a single shot. The rabbit
made a right angle in the air, and came down in a motionless heap even
before the shot had finished echoing in the cold air of the surrounding valley.
He inspected the black revolver to make sure that the sudden temperature
change hadn’t made a crack, and, once satisfied, holstered it and retrieved
his kill – dinner.
He could see one more thing besides snow, a pair of shining rails far in
the distance, that steel river that would carry him to Fengar’s border and
on into Palatine. Out of the frying pan, and straight into the fire.
***
Robin was standing outside, adjusting his new clothes when he heard
the faraway sound of a gun report. He stood a moment in the cold air of
the Fourth Tier, head cocked slightly, then went back to fiddling with his
cravat. Ari returned, walking quickly, his breath steaming.
”Come along, Robin. We need to get to our box.” Robin followed the
Captain through the great doors of the Opera House and into the palatial
lobby. Being on the outskirts of the Fourth Tier, he was under open sky,
something that just couldn’t be ignored with the huge ceiling windows in
the dizzyingly tall vaulted ceilings. Chandeliers hung down, glittering with
crystal and brass in the last light of the day. Once the sun set, jets of gas
would erupt from them like dragons’ tongues, and the opera would begin.
Robin felt very important in the crowd of people milling about. He
could see splendid uniforms, both the green and gold of the Knights and the
red of the Imperial Navy, and also suits and gowns in the latest fashions,
brought in from Kendauer. There were older men in crisp, black suits, and
younger men – though all older than himself – in the dull violets and reds
that dominated the fashion, and each with a stunning young woman on his
arm.
Robin felt a slight pang when he noticed this, but shook it off. He’d
been feeling slightly ill of late, and blamed the tinge of melancholy on that.
39
A low, mellow bell sounded, and the various crowds began to disperse as
people leisurely took to their seats. Robin himself followed Ari up a grand,
sweeping staircase to the midlevel boxes. Ari stopped and greeted several
men and their wives on his way up, but did not tarry with any of them.
Part of this was Ari’s natural impatience, but Robin also got the distinct
feeling that Ari didn’t want him to be seen too often in public.
They found and entered their box, and stat quietly in their seats. The
stage was empty still, and the stagelights were still off. The seat was a bit
narrow for Robin, yet another reminder that the only reason for his presence
was Marie’s illness. Ari had already committed to be present for the opening
night, so he took Robin, who had jumped at the chance to experience one
of those things he had only read about. He had had another chance once, a
few years ago, but Cesare –
Cesare.
The funeral had been four days ago, conducted with great pomp and
irony, as if he were a hero or martyr. His body had never been recovered,
or if it had, nobody felt obliged to show it to Robin.
He shook off these thoughts as the house grew dark, and the stagelights
came on.
The audience only quieted once the first performer came onstage, a great
fat man dressed in bright, oldfashioned clothes. The first few notes, very
quiet and inflective, rose from the orchestra pit, and shortly the man began
to sing in a sonorous baritone, and also in a language Robin wasn’t familiar
with. He had heard something like it, on the docks. But certainly never
exactly like this.
That decided, he sat back in his seat and listened to the music. Strings
came in, and the music swelled; the man’s voice seemed to ride atop the
swell, only opposite. When the strings would go high, he would go low, and
vice versa, so that it sounded almost like he sang a duet with the orchestra.
Robin looked through the book Ari had given him, and found the actor’s
name, Benicio. Robin wasn’t sure what nationality the name was; probably
Ebron, or maybe even from another Continent.
His solo ended, and the curtain came up, revealing a lavish set, a palace
courtyard set in a vast desert, with palm trees painted on huge cloth backdrops. Two young men came in from either side, wielding rapiers. They
sang as they fought each other, and both the music and the fight got faster
and faster until they both collapsed on the stage, laughing.
Robin began to look around the opera house idly, just to see all the
different faces in the boxes and in the crowd. His eye was caught by a flash
of pale skin two boxes to the right – a young woman turning suddenly away
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CHAPTER 3. A NEW START
from him, baring an ashen cheek and the graceful slope of an elegant throat.
He saw that she was not quite as fashionable as the other young ladies,
but rather classically dressed, subdued, natural colors. She returned her
attention to the opera, and placed a folding fan in front of her mouth and
nose.
With her was an older gentleman, wearing a dark grey uniform with
gold epaulettes and a sabre hanging from the back of his seat. He sat bolt
upright, and his uniform collar was very tall on his shaven neck, reaching
almost to his grizzled grey beard.
At the end of the song, in which three men had been singing, Robin
nudged Ari and pointed to the next booth. The Captain looked confused at
first, then responded, softly, ”Elias Winsor, from Kendauer. The mayor’s
uncle.”
”The girl?”
Robin wasn’t sure, but he thought a grin crossed the Templar’s face.
”Grandniece. Mona.”
Robin turned to question him again, but a woman made up and costumed
to look very young had just walked on stage, to the exhultation of the
audience. When the applause died down, she began to sing, in a very clear,
strong voice, without the orchestra at first, then just with the strings and
some sort of reeded instrument. He settled in his seat and listened to her
fine, crystalline voice.
***
With a cry and a bugler’s blast the Fourth Brigade leapt the earthworks,
bayonets hefted on the end of useless guns, and charged the Fenne flank.
Fifty men, weapons shining in hand hurled themselves at the enemy, and
pierced the flank almost effortlessly, screaming and shouting all the while,
when, without warning, the imposing figures of the Fenne cavalry charged
through the mass of dead and dying, splattering mud and gore with every
fierce footfall. From atop the beasts, they hefted massive sabres, glinting
ruddily in the dying sun, bringing them down mercilessly on the heads of
the Brigade. Not far behind rode the fearsome, snow white figure of the
Fenne commander, ban Iris, bellowing commands.
The sight of so fearful an adversary brought fear to the remains of the
Fourth Brigade, and even the stoutest men among them felt something quail
inside. The great Paladin gripped his reins as if to spur forward, but then,
with a crack, like the sound of a roof beam snapping, he halted, and swayed
in the saddle. A great shoulderguard fell to the ground, cracked along its
length, and all realized what had come to pass – the great Warren ban Iris
had been shot from his horse.
41
The tide of battle turned, as the Fengari raced to save their marshal
from certain doom, and when the fighting stopped, Fengar had lost the day,
and conceded a patch of land which not a soul called home.
The Fourth Brigade did not celebrate that night. To a man, they had
died.
***
Robin flipped the pages of the little book, trying to follow along, and still
feeling slightly ill. Ari pointed out at intermission that the book contained
a synopsis of the plot, and Robin had begun to follow it closely. He had also
kept a quiet, discreet watch on the young woman two boxes over.
Onstage, the older actress playing the young girl, Lia, walked gracefully
in. The stage was set up as the ”Aviary”, which looked to Robin like a
simple garden. The centerpiece was a stone bench on which she sat, and
began to sing again, a languid, almost exhausted song. According to the
book, she sang ”A well known piece, where the heroine, Lia, exhibits her
feelings of imprisonment resulting from her simultaneous courtship of the
two possible princely heirs and the impending duel between them. Inherent
in her lines is the parallel between her own, self-inflicted plight, and that
of the Squire Caiglin, caught also between his master’s wishes and best
interests, the direct victim of Lia’s plotting. Here the composer does a
particularly delightful and ironical turn in the fourth mark, where she sings
her own plea for mercy in Caiglin’s ’theme’.”
His head swimming slightly, Robin sat back and listened. The song,
however, seemed to drone on and on, and soon he felt himself being lulled
to sleep. Instead, he sat upright in his chair and watched the nearby girl.
Seized by a sudden, impish whim, he made a tiny spark to appear next to
her cheek. When she gasped slightly, it disappeared, only to reappear a
moment later a little further away, a little dimmer.
She did not gasp this time, but looked at it curiously. Her companion
made no notice, appearing instead to have fallen asleep. When she tried
to catch it, it dodged her pale, delicate hand easily, and travelled around
her wrist and up her arm. The spark flew away from her suddenly, outside
the box, hovering over the audience. After doing a little loop to ensure
her attention, it floated beneath the box between theirs, then up, up into
Robin’s patiently waiting hand. Their eyes caught for a moment, and the
moment turned into a second, and when Robin motioned toward the back
wall, she checked her escort, and left her box.
Robin mumbled something by way of excuse to Ari, and left their box
as well. He stood for a moment, shocked that she wasn’t there in the red
carpeted lobby. It took him only a moment to realize that the lobby was
42
CHAPTER 3. A NEW START
slanted so sharply that the exit to her box had to be on the floor below –
he raced down the incline, and nearly ran straight into her.
They stared at each other for a moment, she mesmerised by him, and he
enraptured with her. They could hear the noises of the opera, the orchestra,
the singers, the snoring, and the occasional opening of doors, but neither
moved or spoke. Robin suddenly leaned back on his heels, a grin on his face;
her expression didn’t change. Thinking quickly, he brought up his hand. In
it lay the semblance of a flower, formed perfectly, but clear, as if of ice. Eyes
wide, she brought her hand to it, then gasped as it went right through to
Robin’s palm, which grasped her hand.
With a slight cry, she tore away, holding her hand limply as if it were
wounded. Her eyes watched him with the astonished fear of a kicked alley
dog, and she suddenly fled.
Robin’s mouth dropped open, and he stood in the middle of the lobby,
absolutely destroyed. When he heard footsteps behind him, he too broke
into a run, down the slope, through the archway.
Through the lobby he ran, aware only dimly of the tears streaming down
his face. The great front doors flew open with a sound like a gunshot, though
Robin had not touched them. He only stopped running once he knew where
he was – safe, in the enclosing darkness of an alley.
***
Ari only found the boy by accident. He had searched, it was true, but
his mind was elsewhere, and he found himself almost hoping that he would
never find the poor child with the magnificent power. As he walked, he
thought instead of Marie, his wife, terrified of this same child. She would
not speak to him, and had only recently began to even look at him, though
only with peculiar eyes, frosted by faraway thoughts. Ari had almost hoped
that Robin’s illness would arouse motherly sentiment, but she remained cold.
He stopped instinctively at the busker. A small crowd stood clustered in
the pale pool of the streetlamp’s light, around a small table where a busker
stood performing slight of hand tricks. Cards appeared and disappeared.
A red rubber ball went from cup to cup under the performer’s deft hands.
Flowers materialized out of the air. Ari’s eyes, honed by years as a Knight
and a man of the law, went on their own across the brick street to an alley,
where he could see the boy’s outline, slumped against a building and staring
intently at the performance. He sidled up to the boy quietly; Robin was
aware of him already, but a sudden motion could always cause him to flee.
”Look at him, Captain.” Ari moved his head, but continued to advance
on the boy.
”I see him.”
43
”Do you?” The boy just laughed, quietly. There was pain behind it.
”It’s not fair, Captain. It’s just not fair.”
Ari could see now that the boy – he really was just a boy, after all –
had been crying. His eyes were red and swollen. His lips were pale, pressed
together so tightly they trembled. No matter how intelligent he was, or what
powers he possessed, he was still no older than 18, maybe younger. He had
seen crime, and death, and war, but here he was, tears clinging to his bare
face.
The crowd dispersed quickly when the busker’s act finished. Ari watched
the magician pack up his cups and cards and silken scarves, his beatup table,
and press it tightly into a small trunk. Ari turned back to Robin as the
man walked away, and did not see him trip and fall suddenly to the street,
bloodying his nose on the curb.
They returned home, instead of to the opera. Ari had seen it before at
the premiere, and did not particularly like the soprano, anyway.
***
Andrew Dolohov arrived ten minutes overdue at the train station in
Palatine a week later, just as dusk was settling over the sprawling city. The
platform bustled with men in military uniforms of various ranks, all anxious
to either board the train, or get to whatever post the tardy train had kept
them from. No attention was paid him as he retrieved his valise, passing by
the engineer heatedly arguing with the station manager. As he walked away
through the wide brick streets, workers scurried by with long, hooked poles
which they used to hang lanterns from the tall iron posts.
Proud marble buildings stood along the road, eventually yielding, as he
walked, to rows of more modern, often brick, shops and houses. He pressed
on, into increasingly narrow, dark, and poorly conditioned streets, avoiding
the constabulary when he could, but not worried if he couldn’t. The last
time he had been in Palatine, he had killed a man, a minor diplomat and
translator. Walked into the palace, shot him to death, and left without a
word. There probably had been witnesses, perhaps even good ones. Three
years was a long time for an arrest warrant in such turbulent times, but this
was the capital of the Fenne Empire, and Dolohov, who was not entirely
unknown in certain circles, made sure to err on the side of caution.
The city looked sleepy at night, but he knew that it was seething and
contorting underneath. Plans inside plans inside plans had begun to unfold.
The injury and convalescence of the Paladin, ban Iris, and the invasion
of Mediter before it would trigger a landslide that would bury the Fenne
Empire.
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CHAPTER 3. A NEW START
Dolohov would do his part before the end.
***
Robin’s illness began to take a turn for the worse. He sat in Dr. Trent’s
study, only half listening to his longwinded explanations.
”This clearly, then, illustrates the principal of reaction. Namely, each
force applied to an entity in the aether engenders a reactive force. Depending
on the angle of approach, this reactive force can absorb the initial force
entirely, or change its direction in such a way as to send the entity caroming
at an entirely different angle.
”We have been able to use the principal of universal attraction to our
benefit. Indeed, your limited success with levitation is very encouraging,
and I ...” The words trailed off, and the elder academician looked at the boy
with concern in his eyes. ”My word, Robin, you don’t look well.”
Trent cleared away the books and papers from the sofa against the back
wall, and Robin shuffled over and reclined on it. Flakes of plaster fell onto
his dark clothing like snow as the back of the sofa scraped against the wall
under the new weight. He peered at Robin over his spectacles, felt his
forehead, and shook his head softly, then pulled the bellcord next the to
large painting of Mediter that hung on the wall opposite the door.
Trent’s manservant, Stanley, an elderly gentleman with a gracious smile
and cloudy eyes, appeared at the entrance. Trent gave him instructions to
usher in Professor Clannon as soon as he arrived, and to send a message for
Captain de Mediter advising him that it might be best for the boy to stay
at the Trent home that evening until his fever abated.
Robin closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
***
William Trent watched the boy in silence as he slept. Not a fitful sleeper;
even when sick, he slept like the dead. His breathing was even, but his eyelids
fluttered from time to time, suggesting that the boy dreamt. Trent wondered
briefly what might happen if Robin’s fevered dreams manifested themselves,
but that worry proved senseless. There was nothing but silence until Sean
Clannon’s knock on the heavy study door.
Trent admitted him quietly, pointing to the boy to explain the discretion.
The young professor watched the boy intently, then turned to the older man.
”Is it his studies, then?”
Trent shook his head. ”That is a possibility, but I am suspicious of
it. For that matter, I am wary of assigning to it any cause except simple
sickness. The pharmacist, perhaps, will have a better explanation.”
45
”I can’t help but think that the boy would be better suited to a country
climate, Doctor.”
Trent nodded, faintly annoyed at Clannon’s formality. ”I agree with you,
but the Temple would never permit him to leave Mediter.”
”He wouldn’t have to. My parents, when they died, left an estate in the
south. Nothing but farmland for miles in all directions.”
”The City of Mediter, I meant, but point taken. If we could show that
his life is in jeopardy, that would be a different matter, but as it is?” He
shook his head. ”They will say, quite correctly, that such a fever would be
life threatening no matter where he is located, whereas he is more physically
safe in the city, under the eye of Captain de Mediter.”
”I think it’s unwise to keep him in the city. There are certain political
factions sympathetic to Fengar – ”
“Bah!” Trent waved his hand dismissively.
“I should also point out that the de Mediter woman does not like him.”
”Marie?” Trent’s eyebrow went up a little. ”Why do you say that?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. She knows about the boy’s talents, has for a
while, I think. They frighten her.” He paused a moment. “Sometimes they
frighten me, Doctor, but her reaction seems a bit more visceral, though
perhaps hysteric might be the proper term.”
Trent nodded slowly but forcefully, so that his spectacles slid a little
down the bridge of his nose. ”I can see how that might be so.”
”Still, so much good could come of him.”
The conversation ended there. Clannon had no desire to wake the boy,
and so left shortly with a promise to return the next day. Word came from
Captain de Mediter an hour later agreeing that the boy should be left there
for the night. Accompanying the message was a young Knight, who stood
guard outside the boy’s door.
During the evening, Robin woke once or twice, briefly. He ate, and by
nightfall appeared to be regaining his strength. Stanley brought an old
quilted blanket from somewhere, beat the dust out of it, and gave it to the
boy for the night. With a knowing wink, he brought a cup of tea for the
Knight as well.
Trent watched over the boy intermittently, and slept in the parlor so as
to be nearby if he cried out in the night. His house was small and the rooms
cramped into two floors, so sound traveled well, but it gave him a better
peace of mind to do so.
The pharmacist came around noon the next day. He was a short man
of slight build, a pronounced stoop, and thinning white hair. His interview
with Robin, supervised by the exhausted Knight, went slowly. The older
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CHAPTER 3. A NEW START
physician poked him and prodded him and felt his skull for bumps. He had
him drink two foulsmelling oils, the second of which made the boy vomit.
He then went through the entire examination again. He emerged from the
room after over an hour, and told Trent that the boy was simply exhausted.
Trent thanked him, paid him, and sent him on his way. Robin stayed
that night as well, and slept soundly.
***
Robin returned from his stay with Dr. Trent, still feeling ill, but better
than the day before. Professor Clannon had explained, during the hansom
cab trip back to the de Mediter’s, that sometimes intense study and development were accompanied by physical discomfort, and that sometimes
such discomfort could be, in fact, debilitating. Dr. Trent had looked unconvinced, but had said nothing. Being late in the evening, both men paid
their regards at the door, and left without entering.
Upon his arrival in the house, Robin knew immediately that something
was amiss. Knickknacks displaced, rearrangement of rugs, doilies – all these
pointed to a restless mind in the house. Nothing obvious, of course, but
Robin had learned to pay attention to such things.
Ari was occupied with business, so Robin climbed the stairs to his bedroom. A light area on the wall where a picture had been moved. A sword
slanted left instead of right. Robin reached the top of the stairs, and entered
his room, only now with eyes watchful for anything out of the ordinary.
His room shocked him from the moment he swung open the door and
entered it. Not because of what he saw there, but because of what had gone
by unnoticed. Nothing in his room had been touched at all. It had not been
dusted in a week, a tapestry hung aslant, the basin had a faint watermark.
The bedclothes, however, had been changed, offering further confusion.
Robin was still deep in thought when he was summoned to dinner.
He came down the stairs and took his place at the table, away from Ari
and Marie. She looked at him with the usual icy calm, but Ari was just the
opposite – He was, in fact, in unusually high spirits.
“Fengar’s ambassador returned today,” he said by way of explanation.
“I expect a treaty to be signed within the month.”
Dinner went quickly. It was standard fare for Ari’s home. Not extravagant, but certainly not poor. Three courses, of greens, fish and bread, came
and went without comment, but by the end of the meal, Robin had begun
to feel ill again.
Once the last course was cleared, Marie retrieved the dessert from its
place on the near wall. She served Ari first, and he started on it immediately.
47
She set a dish at her own place, then walked back, retrieved Robin’s, and
turned to deliver it.
”None for me, thank you,” Robin said quickly, anxious to lay down
and rest. Marie stopped cold and stared at him, uncomprehending. Ari
swallowed quickly and interrupted.
”He’s probably not feeling well, Marie. I’ll finish his.” Marie’s expression
tightened, and she clenched her jaw.
Robin saw another expression flash across her face for just a moment,
and then she turned, and lurched, and the dish shattered musically on the
floor.
Marie gasped, and fled the room before Ari could get to his feet. He
looked at Robin, clearly confused, then followed her.
Robin could hear the parlor door shut, and the soft sound of sobbing.
He waited a moment to collect his thoughts, then retired upstairs, where he
lay down and was immediately asleep.
***
He woke in the night, feverish. Stumbling from his bed, he took the
stairs down to the dining room to get a glass of water or wine from the
kitchen. Instead, he paused by the table.
The wreckage of dessert had not yet been cleaned, nor the table cleared.
In the spilled mess, two mice sat feeding at the edge of the puddle of cream.
Robin clapped his hands to frighten them, but they did not move.
He knelt on the floor beside them, but still no movement. He poked one.
It fell over.
Robin nodded a little, in understanding, and returned to his room, where
they found him, deep in a fevered sleep.
***
The tunnel echoed with sharp voices, as figures resolved themselves from
the void.
The gunman’s profile shifted like a snake, shooting with a sinewy movement, but the soldiers kept coming, and there was an acrid smell, Cesare
gasped and slumped to the floor, gasping and bleeding. Robin tried to help
him, but he couldn’t move, and the tunnel lit in explosion.
The world turned red, and again went black.
***
By the time Robin finally woke, the decision to move him had been made.
He was allowed two days to recuperate, which he spent in Dr. Trent’s home.
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CHAPTER 3. A NEW START
Ari came frequently to visit. He bore a guilty, tired look, but treated Robin
gently. He spoke mainly about religion, and the importance of tempering his
ability with faith and compassion. On the second day, he brought Robin’s
satchel, possessions intact, and his handwritten copy of The Book of Life.
”This is for you,” he had said, ”It will guide you well, if you let it. The
Master was a very wise man, and I believe he understood the power that
you are beginning to come into.”
After he left, late that evening, Robin knew he would not see him again
for a long time.
The next day, Robin was woken by Trent’s manservant Stanley for breakfast. The household was in something of a disarray – paintings taken down,
sheets covering furniture, bookshelves bare. His breakfast was sparse, only
a boiled egg, bread, and a small cup of the bitter drink Dr. Trent called
”chocolate.” He ate it quickly, for his appetite had readily increased. Stanley
shuffled about as the boy finished his breakfast, moving slowly but efficiently
to gather warm clothing.
Robin dressed obligingly, uncomfortable with the heavy clothing. He
was then ushered outside to a waiting carriage, in which a number of Dr.
Trent’s possessions had already been stacked. He sat by a small, curtained
window, on a red cushioned bench. Through the open door, he could see
Stanley carefully lock the heavy door, set modestly into the red brick edifice.
The elderly man came slowly and unsteadily down the steps, where he was
helped into the cab by a pair of hands whose owner Robin could not see.
The door closed tightly, and latched. The carriage was jostled for a
moment, and Robin heard faintly the sound of reins snapping, and the wheels
began to turn.
Watching through the window, Robin watched the Third Tier neighborhood begin to pass by, slowly, lit brightly by huge gas flames far above. It
was midafternoon, and people walked by, mainly women in clean, but plain
dresses and wide hats, shopping for food at various stands and booths along
the wide road. These Robin watched curiously. Some of them dragged children with them; young children in clean gowns, older children in decidedly
less clean pants or dresses.
The carriage turned onto a wider, main road. Robin could see horses,
and hansom cabs and other carriages, some fine, others modest. Soon the
light changed from the pale yellow glow of gas to the harsh white glare of the
sun, and Robin had to close the curtain for a moment to let his eyes adjust
better. Stanley was fast asleep, snoring softly and wetly. Across from him
on the bench was the painting of Mediter which Robin had seen hanging
in Dr. Trent’s study. It fascinated him to look at it, though it made him
49
a little dizzy to see it lying on its side. Each massive tier looked slightly
different from the others, getting progressively smaller and thinner going
from the First to Second, Third, Fourth, and finally the platform which
held the Cathedral. The tall spire was hidden behind another painting, as
was most of the Cathedral, painted in white even though the tall building
had long ago turned a faint grey from the smoke of the factories. Robin for
the first time noticed that the First Tier was actually thinner than the one
above it, but shook off the observation as an effect of the angle.
Everything in the carriage shifted as it began to tilt slightly. Robin
looked out the window and gasped. They were on one of the ramps now,
facing the Bay of Mediter, with the Middle Earth Sea just beyond. Being
close to the edge and high up in the carriage, it looked as if they were resting
on nothing at all, just hanging in mid air, overlooking miles of water. Far
away in the distance, Robin could see one of the Pillars, tall natural cliffs
of chalk that faced each other across the entrance to the Bay. He imagined
that he could smell the salt, although he was much too high off the ground
for that. He could, however, faintly hear the gulls, crying into the wind.
This he watched for a long time, until the cab turned again and took to
the roads of the Second Tier. The air here smelled slightly acrid, and there
were fewer people on the streets. Those who did walk did so rapidly, and
some wore kerchiefs around their noses and mouths. The carriage did not
enter the shadow of the Third Tier, but kept to the edge, in the sunlight,
and soon descended into the smoky First Tier. The factories had restarted
after the war, and Robin had to shut the curtain to keep out the foul, damp
smoke that cloaked the First Tier.
Here, too, they did not tarry long, and Robin was glad when they started
down the wide ramp to Bien, the port. They stopped and started sometimes,
because the ramp was slightly crowded. Of the ramps that had been detonated, none had been rebuilt enough for horses to travel, leaving only the
Bien ramp remaining. Here, Robin could smell the salt of the sea, strong in
his nostrils and strangely invigorating. The smells of the ships reached him
as the ramp went alongside the docks. Spices, fish, leather dye. He stiffened
a little as the unmistakable smell of gunpowder wafted into the carriage for
just a moment.
They left Bien and travelled along the outskirts of the Ground Tier.
They stopped twice at the roadblocks, left behind from the barricades of
the battle, over a month ago. At the last stop, the door opened, and there
stood Professor Clannon in a new brown suit.
Two large coaches stood in a cobbled circle. Each, upon the door, bore
the interlocking circles of the Temple. One was already full, and two workers
50
CHAPTER 3. A NEW START
quickly emptied Robin’s carriage into the other. Robin got out and stretched
his legs. His ears hurt a little, but felt better after they popped. Dr. Trent
emerged from a nearby building in travelling clothes, carrying a large map
and talking to a tall, thin man, who listened carefully, then took the man
when Dr. Trent finished speaking.
Once everything was loaded, Robin got into one of the coaches with
Dr. Trent and Professor Clannon. The other carriage leaned as into it
climbed a sturdy Knight with short bristly hair, a street fighter’s scars, and
Lieutenant’s lapels. He did not immediately recognize the Knight as the one
from the tunnels, although when Clannon pointed him out as Jean Bruce,
their escort, the name was familiar.
The trip got underway quickly, and with little ado. Robin was sad to
see that Ari could not see them off, but understood that he was needed
elsewhere, by someone else. He waved back to Stanley at the side of the
road before closing the shutters.
***
Soon they had left the City of Mediter. As Robin watched through the
Coach’s back window, the city grew taller and more magnificent; a huge
stone sculpture rising from a dim black fog. It took an hour of travelling
before the spire of the Cathedral could be seen through the window, but by
then, Robin’s attention was on those things beside the road. Houses made
of wood and plaster, with sloping, tiled roofs. Grass everywhere, peeking
out from underneath rapidly dwindling snow banks. Trees so tall and wide
that they put buildings to shame.
All this he watched for hours in amazement, noting the new birds as
they distanced themselves from the sea, and the feel of the dirt road under
their wheels. Eventually, his exhaustion won over, and he drifted, happily,
to sleep.
Chapter 4
A Moment’s Rest
The mass of people pushed into Miahl Yard the moment the palace gates
were opened. The surge of bodies ceased only at the foot of the high scaffold,
which had been erected overnight. Men of all parts of society were present.
Women, too, and the occasional child. From his vantage point at the very
back of the crowd, Dolohov, dressed still in plain brown clothes, could see
several small children, clinging to their mothers. The mothers, in turn, were
ignoring the children in favor of the spectacle about to begin in the center
of the courtyard. Men with boxes hung on thick straps around their necks
milled about the crowd, selling sweets and pastries.
He watched all this as he waited calmly for the prisoner to be brought
out. It would be, perhaps, a double execution. It was common to use a
highprofile crime as an excuse to get rid of a petty criminal or two that they
could not otherwise execute with a comfortable amount of public support.
Sure enough, once Emperor Wilhelm – a short, cleanshaven man who had
once been a barrister – was seated behind a highup balcony, four men were
paraded through a gap in the crowd and made to mount the platform.
Dolohov examined each terrified face in turn. None was his sharpshooter,
but one of them would die in his stead.
Each man was made to stand under a rope, and a great fat man stood
behind each in turn, reading aloud a list of offenses. He paid special attention
to the oration for the last man:
”For the heinous crime of the attempted assassination of our beloved
servant of Pala, Warren ban Iris, and for possession of an illegal firearm.”
The crowd’s cheering grew to the point where the man’s address could not
be discerned. His comments were brief, anyway, and each man was hooded,
and a rope passed over his head. A Priest of Pala, in a sky blue cassock,
51
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
mounted the scaffold, stood before each man and made a gesture over each
bowed head.
A sudden cheer went up from the crowd, and Dolohov followed the gazes
of those around him up to the balcony. There, behind the Emperor, stood
ban Iris himself, looking impressive even without the shoulder guards. He
sighed inwardly, and found that he couldn’t watch when the beam swung
and the four men lurched with an audible choke. The cheering was more
than he could stand.
The crowd had not yet begun to disperse when he arrived at his rented
room to find a letter on his floor, written in the firm, clear hand of his
employer. He tore off the amorphous wax seal – simply a drip of red paraffin,
without an impression – and scanned the letter.
He sat down in the roughshod chair and looked through the glass, grimy
though it was, at the street below. He didn’t pretend to understand the
order, but he could see through the corner of his eye that the money was
indeed folded in with the letter. Moving again so soon would be suspicious,
but he’d be glad when Palatine was at his back.
***
The coaches slowed to a halt, and Dr. Trent gently waked Robin. It was
still bright outside, and Robin sneezed from the sudden light. He found at
that moment that someone had put a blanket on him.
”We’re stopping for a quick lunch, Robin. Do you feel well enough to
eat?” Robin nodded and, with help, clambered out of the coach into the
bright sun and cool air. A blanket had been laid upon the ground, and
the coachman, looking weary and hunchedover, was patiently putting out a
simple meal of a few slabs of waxcoated cheese, round loaves of bread, and
apples on funnylooking steel plates, while the tiredlooking Knight worked
to extract an unyielding stopper from a bulbous bottle of wine.
The coachmen ate near the coaches while Robin, Bruce, Dr. Trent and
Professor Clannon sat crosslegged on the blanket. Bruce had a familiar face
– lean, without looking starved, dark, sunken brown eyes and a somewhat
pronounced nose. Scars of various sizes and shape decorated his face and
neck, and the backs of his hands. Some of them were recent, most looked very
old. Part of his left earlobe was missing. He wore simple traveling clothes,
but his thick woolen traveling cloak bore on the back, in fine embroidery, the
interlocked circles of the Temple. He was one of the city guard, the Knights
who went into the rough neighborhoods, broke up fights, hauled in robbers,
and otherwise kept the peace.
53
The cheese was extremely salty, and Robin, being tired, accidentally ate
a piece of wax, so by the end of the meal he wasn’t feeling entirely well.
He returned to the coach and curled up under the blanket in a position to
watch out the back window. Professor Clannon returned to the coach and
climbed inside, making the whole vehicle rock slightly. He twisted a little
to remove his outer coat, held it outside to shake off the dust, then put it
back on.
“Enjoying yourself, Robin?”
Robin nodded, watching the picnic get packed up. “I’m not feeling too
well.”
Clannon nodded thoughtfully, then pulled a brass watch from his vest
pocket, and examined it. “We’re about a third of the way there, I think.
We’ll have to stop overnight, but our coachman tells me that he knows
a comfortable little town on the way.” Robin nodded but said nothing.
Clannon thought a moment, and produced a tarnished metal object from
his trousers pocket, which he handed to Robin.
“What’s this?”
“A rifle’s shell casing; I found it by the road. Part of the Fenne Army
must have come up this way. I didn’t see much else, so it was probably just
a scouting party. Exciting, eh?”
Robin examined the shell with interest. It was hollow, and the metal,
which looked like brass, was thin, heavily tarnished, and slightly dented in
places. On the bottom was a discolored spot, caved in like a dimple. He
handed it back to Clannon, who glanced it over ponderously.
“When I was a child, my grandfather had a pistol, a flintlock that was
old even then. He let me hold it once, when I was five – it was nearly the
length of my arm. I only remember him firing it once. Gunpowder wasn’t
quite as expensive then, but people still didn’t waste it. Now instead of
slugs or shot, they manufacture these bullets. They’re supposed to be much
faster to load, and don’t misfire as often.” His eyes fixated on the boy as
he put the shell back in his pocket. “I wonder what they’ll use after these
bullets?” He shrugged, continuing to watch Robin, and shook his head a
little.
Dr. Trent approached the coach, standing just close enough for Clannon to take notice and move over on the bench. He methodically emptied
his pipe, and entered the coach, smelling strongly of sweetly cloying smoke.
Robin always found it strange that anyone living in Mediter would intentionally inhale smoke as a pastime, but said nothing. Trent greeted them
both, and closed the door gently.
”Our driver tells me we should reach Direauville by dusk. We will want
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
to leave before midmorning, if we are to arrive at the Clannon estate before
sunset tomorrow.”
***
The air had a crisp chill when the coach door swung open in Direauville.
The three occupants braved the cold air, enjoying the chance to exercise
their stiff limbs. Robin observed the small town with senses benumbed by
cold and weariness. Tiny wood and stone buildings were spaced wide along
old brick streets, overgrown in places with brown grass and patches of dust
and mud.
The rooms Dr. Trent rented were small, but comfortable. The floors
were a rough, light wood, and the walls were the same. Knots caught the
eye by surprise as one walked by. The mattresses were uneven and full
of lumps, but the sheets were clean. Robin lay down without dinner, and
drifted into a restless sleep. He woke several times during the night. Well
after midnight, a faint jangling outside his window roused him. He closed
his eyes to concentrate, and made out an even fainter singing, so low that
he at first thought he might have made it up.
He got up silently and went to the window, with its cracked glass and
unfinished pane, and opened it a little to hear better. A shock of cold air
stabbed at him through the crack, but Robin was already entranced by the
sound. He could hear a violin now, with the jangling noise like coins in a
pocket, and a couple voices, men and women.
“Gypsies,” came a low voice from behind him. Robin turned to see Bruce
sitting in a chair near the door.
“Who are they?”
“Transients. Thieves.” His emphasis on the second word sent an involuntary chill down Robin’s spine. “They wander around Mediter and Fengar,
stealing and making nuisances of themselves. Old women tell stories of Gypsies stealing children in the night, and replacing them with their own.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“Haven’t slept. I’m used to a night patrol, so being out in the day is
tough on me. Still sick?” Robin nodded, and the Knight chuckled a little,
gravelly. “It’ll pass. I was sick like that once. Night sweats, vomiting, you
name it. You’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Robin turned again to listen to the singing. Away among the trees, he
saw a flicker of orange light, which lingered for a moment, and went away,
making the trees look suddenly darker.
“This your first night away from the city?” Robin replied that it was.
“Hell of a way to spend it; sick and kept awake by gypsies.” He stopped
55
abruptly when Clannon moved in his sleep. He and Robin both held silent
for a moment until the Professor settled back to a peaceful sleep.
Bruce nodded his head for a minute, watching the floor. “Captain de
Mediter didn’t tell me much about my duties here, kid. I’m just supposed
to watch you and make sure you don’t get hurt or into trouble or anything.
I wanted to say, though, that I was glad for the help you gave me and my
men. Even if you did make an ass of me.” He chuckled, then fell silent.
Robin returned to the window and listened until the music stopped.
***
They arrived at the Clannon estate late in the afternoon. The frost had
burned off as the morning chill disappeared. It would not have been a warm
day later in the year, but the travellers shed their coats and mantles and
rode in shirt sleeves and vests. Robin took off the blanket, and spent the
day watching the world through the wooden slats over the windows. As
they went further south, the lay of the land changed subtly. The landscape
segued from a dull green flatness to the gentle rolling of hills, dotted with
fewer and fewer trees, of a different type. Orchards and vineyards gave
way to empty dun-colored fields that stretched by and away, waiting to be
planted.
Tall, spindly black iron gates set into a low, red stone wall greeted them
as the first coach approached, raising a cloud of dust as it rolled to a halt. A
younger boy walked slowly to meet the coaches, ambling down the main path
towards them. He tossed aside a partially eaten apple core as he unlatched
the gates unhurriedly. He swung them open wide, waved to the coachmen,
and shuffled out of the way.
The coaches started up the path, and climbed a low hill that hid the white
manor house ahead. Behind them, the young man closed and latched the
gates before Robin lost sight of him. The road to the house, dirt interspersed
with gravel, didn’t quite lead around the hill, but rather over it, providing
at its highest point a superb view of the grounds. Patches of snow still clung
stubbornly in the occasional ditches and ruts, the stark white contrasting
the muted greens and browns.
The stone wall with the fence in it extended in either direction without
more than one break, on the left side, by a stream half hidden by reeds and
tall grass. Few trees stood on the landscape, none yet in bloom so that all
of them like dark twigs stuck in the ground. The road they had followed
had another branch, which seemed to parallel the wall in a full circle around
the estate. A small pond near the stream played host to a handful of loud
brown geese.
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
When the door to his coach was opened, after some shuffling around,
Robin tentatively set foot onto the hard brown earth. He stretched a little,
and turned to look at the manor house. From the gate, it had been tall
and grand, but up close, it was not nearly as impressive as it had seemed.
The stone was not white marble, but some other kind of speckled stone,
covered with a sort of whitewash that made it seem not so much haughty
as humble. The sense of grandeur Robin had gotten before was displaced
by sudden warmth, even in the early spring chill. The whitewashing gave
him an impression, not of the unearned vanity that Clannon always saw in
it, but of a quiet pride that reminded him of Captain de Mediter. As he
was ushered up the wide, graceful steps and through the double doors, he
thought to himself that he would like this house.
***
There were not many servants in the house, and they all were related.
The valet’s name was Robert; his wife Adele was the cook and housekeeper,
and his son, Jean, occupied himself at various chores about the grounds.
Their family had served the house back through several generations, and
their pride in it showed through in the upkeep and cleanliness of both the
house and the grounds. Robert, who was well into middle age and balding,
took immediate control of the process of moving in the new occupants.
Dr. Trent’s belongings were moved into the largest available room, not
including the master bedroom, which already had been furnished with items
of Professor Clannon’s. The great painting of Mediter was, with Trent’s
permission, placed in the drawing room, above the hearth – as a reminder
to all present of the object of their labors. Above it was the Clannon family
coat of arms, with a bronze sword signifying a Baron.
Robin was situated across the hall from Lieutenant Bruce, in a room
of similar size to the guest room in the de Mediter household. There were
no gas lights here, only candles and a hearth in each room. Robin found
that the metal basket in his room was filled completely with firewood that
was still slightly sticky of sap, and a bundle of old yellowed newsprint, tied
neatly with string, sat next to it on the wood floor. An antique bronze
mirror hung on the far wall, recently polished so that Robin could see his
face in it quite well, though the color and slight indentation distorted the
image perceptibly. His toiletries had been seen to in grace and simplicity,
and everything that he might have needed was arranged sensibly on hooks,
or put away such that each item was found in the first drawer that suggested
itself.
57
Robin’s belongings were few, so there was nothing to unpack but the
small trunk of clothes that Ari had bought, using money given him by the
Cabal. He had a few shirts, a couple pairs of trousers of varying quality,
underwear, and a coat. He had new shoes as well, the old ones ruined in the
sanitary tunnels. His satchel, he placed undisturbed in a drawer by itself.
Even touching it gave a chill. That life seemed so far away, so long ago. He
had found during the worst of his illness that when he woke, he had stopped
expecting to find Cesare keeping watch.
The room had a single window, of thick but clean glass divided into
four parts. He was on the first story, looking out onto the back part of the
holdings. Through the window Robin could see a nearby copse of trees, and
through that a bridged stream that fed a small pond, which emptied into a
small brook that ran beyond Robin’s line of sight, probably the same one
he had seen driving up.
Through the trees, in the distance, he caught sight of a large covered
wagon, pulled by a pair of oxen. Robin watched it for a moment, until it
disappeared into a ravine or behind a hill, out of his sight. As he gazed out
the window, he became aware that he was being watched from behind his
back. He put his hands onto the windowsill, and, gripping it, leaned back
a little so that he could see Lieutenant Bruce in the bronze mirror, quietly
watching him from the hallway. He did not look as tired as he had the day
before, and seemed rather to have an impish smile on his face, obscured by a
delicate flaw in the bronze. Robin could not distinguish anything else in his
scarred, rocky features to suggest emotion, just curiosity. After a moment,
the Knight shook his head and continued down the hall.
Dinner that evening was informal and unrushed. The servants ate at the
same table as everyone else, though they took turns waiting on Clannon and
his guests. The travellers were all weary from their trip and desired little
more than to retire early, so conversation was light, and limited to venial
topics, like the cold snap that was expected despite Adele’s sincerest hopes.
Robin ate little, less from sickness than simple lack of appetite.
He excused himself early, and retired to the drawing room, since there
was already a fire there. A threadbare overstuffed chair sat lazily askance of
the hearth, with one leg on a worn oval rug. Robin settled into it, sinking
slightly into the huge cushion.
He was joined shortly by Professor Clannon, now in a smoking jacket,
who sat in a wicker chair opposite Robin on the rug. He took a pipe from
an ornamental box, tamped down a small quantity of tobacco, and smoked
it quietly for a moment, watching the fire.
”I’ve been thinking, Robin, about your dreams of late.” He paused
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
thoughtfully. ”Do you attach any significance to the ones where you feel
as if you were someone else?”
Robin shook his head, but thought carefully about the question. ”I’ve
had them before. One especially, that I started having a year ago.”
”Oh? Tell me about it. There’s a doctor in Akrostira who says that
recurrent dreams are a way for your mind to tell you things about yourself.”
Robin furrowed his brow and worried his lower lip with his teeth. ”I feel
like I’m in a room with another person, a tall man in black and red. I’m
someone completely different. Stronger, and angry. There’s a person on the
floor that I recognize, but he looks dead. I step over that person towards the
man, who offers me a rose in one hand, and a gun in the other. I take the
gun, and he slaps me. Then he stretches out his hands again, and there’s
the rose and another gun. I take the gun again, and this time he smiles and
bows, but he’s crying. Then the dream’s over.”
”When’s the last time you had that dream?”
”The night before ban Iris attacked.”
Clannon made several humming and hawing noises, and chewed the end
of his pipe. ”I am not proficient at the science of analysis, I should warn
you. But my personal interpretation would be that you must overcome
an old paradigm from your past. Perhaps an ideological one. That’s the
familiar body on the floor that you must step over. Then you are given
a choice of ways to solve a problem. You may take the easy way, or the
hard way. You attempt the harder way, but fail. You attempt it again,
however, and succeed, though perhaps with some sacrifice.” He smiled at
the fire with a cunning look in his eyes. ”It is perhaps a worthy subject on
which to reflect.”
Robin nodded vaguely, not having listened to every word, staring instead
into the flames. Here and there among the yellow flame he could see tinges
of blues and whites. Hot spots.
***
The next morning, Robin was awakened by a sharp knock on the door.
Bruce had been up for more than an hour, since dawn. He waited patiently
while Robin finished his toilet, then brought him to the kitchen where a
simple breakfast of bread and an egg waited for him.
”Young people tend to sleep late,” he said while Robin ate, ”It’s not a
desirable trait.”
”Oh?” Asked Robin mildly, still slightly disoriented.
59
”I’ve decided that a morning exercise might not be such a bad thing for
you. I get itchy without a sparring partner, and besides, ” he added with
a mischievous gleam in his eye, ”I’ve been curious how good you are with
those knives I took off you.”
”Tried to, you mean.” Robin didn’t even look up at the Knight’s expression.
After breakfast, the two went outside to a clearing near Robin’s window.
Sections of round, twiglike wood was cut into three pieces, one long and
two short. A sword and two daggers. Bruce disappeared for a moment, and
returned with two heavy grey vests.
”I brought these from Mediter. They’ll take any kind of beating you can
give them. Just don’t go for the throat or face, and they’ll do you fine.”
The vest was a bit too large for Robin, but a little ingenuity with the tie
strings made it tight enough to not restrict his movement. The ’daggers’,
too, were uncomfortable, but not unbearably so.
Bruce made Robin stretch a few times, to prevent muscle knots, then
the two began to spar.
They stayed away from each other at first, circling and edging back
and forth. Robin observed that Bruce, like many Knights, held the ’sword’
twohanded and down low near the side of his hip (Cesare once described
it, ”Like he’s got a second prick,” to which someone had replied, “What,
who gave ‘im a first one?”) Robin himself decided to go with a simple pose,
the first one Cesare Christie had taught him, holding a dagger in each fist,
overhand with the blades sticking up like his thumbs would.
Bruce’s attack came unexpectedly; before Robin knew it, the Knight’s
weapon was across his chest in a slashing position.
”Again,” Bruce said simply, and retreated to his former position. His
attack this time was anticipated, though Robin’s parry was disgraceful and
he quickly lost a second time.
”Again.” Another slipup let the Knight drag his stick across Robin’s
vested chest.
”Again.”
”Again.”
Robin watched a smug Bruce retreat once more. This time, when his
opponent went for the kill, his weapon went through thin air, throwing him
off balance. Robin simply placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder from behind
his back, not bothering with his weapons.
”I wondered how long it would take,” Bruce said grimly. He retook his
starting position, but instead of readying himself again, he hunkered down
into a squatting position on the ground near a patch of bared dirt. He
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
reached out a thick arm and steadied himself by grasping a clump of grass
in his hand.
“”Kid, I’m willing to teach you to fence. Hell, there’s nothing else for
me to do here in the middle of nowhere. I’m not the book type like Ari or
these two, and I don’t have much interest in whatever it is you do, either.
I’m being honest here – I don’t like it at all. Maybe it’s because I’ve already
been on the butt end of it once, I don’t know. I don’t like guns, either, so
don’t feel insulted or anything. Hell, you saved my life in the tunnels, don’t
think I don’t realize that.”
He sighed and tore loose a few strands of grass. ”If you want to learn a
real weapon, I’ll be glad to teach you. If you’d rather just stick with your
whatever it is, then I’ll just find something else to do.”
Robin nodded thoughtfully, and readied his weapons by way of reply.
Bruce grinned.
***
William Trent woke early, as was increasingly his custom as he aged.
One of the servants, up earlier still, had prepared warm water with which
to wash, and a hot towel. These were quickly used, and much appreciated
by the scholar, who was no longer accustomed to travel.
William sat on the edge of his bed a moment, slightly disoriented by
the strong light coming from the east-facing window. His room had been
furnished the night before with a writing desk, sitting opposite the offending window. A fresh parchment blotter had been provided, and although
William carried all of his own writing implements, he would be embarrassed
if even one of the serving family were to notice him putting the provided
amenities aside.
And so, he dressed himself quickly, in brown trousers, a white shirt, and
a somewhat incongruous black vest (being the only one he owned), and got
to work unpacking his books and papers from his trunk and portable desk.
The task was not hard, nor unpleasant, but it took him quite a bit of the
morning, owing to his propensity to examine each item he had packed as
if totally new to him, and to leaf through each book for not less than five
minutes apiece.
He had brought with him books on the modern sciences, such as a student’s book on forces, a few instructionals on various geologies, and a manual
of basic chemics. The goal of each was to instruct young Robin on the nature
of the physical world. By this, he hoped to work out a method by which
to teach Robin to change it. Or at least, William amended to himself, to
61
keep Robin’s old goat of a teacher from being completely lost when Robin
displayed some of the impressive, though haphazard, knowledge he already
possessed.
William was still dwelling on his student’s abilities when he began to
haul out the historical and philosophical texts. Here the old professor was on
much more solid ground. His commentaries on scripture – which he scolded
himself for not bringing – were considered by many on the Continent to be
the seminal works in that field. In fact, he was thought of in quite a few
circles as the world’s leading expert in Jalenic study. This was not by any
means coincidental to his position as tutor, he well knew.
Being well read in the philosophy and history of the period, he was quite
at home with all the books he brought. Most were of a natural philosophy,
and two of the texts he had brought were intended as a parallel study to
the science of forces. It had been fruitful so far to instruct Robin at once
in the physic of a phenomenon, while also studying its interaction with its
environment and the ether. He in fact owed much of Robin’s success with
levitation to the boy’s excellent understanding of the theories of gravitation and mutual attraction, in combination with a decent grasp of some
of the various explanations of matter, motion, and position. While leafing
through the newest physical philosophy book, William noted a chapter on
fire’s relationship to chemical kinetics, and marked the page by folding it
down.
The historical texts were somewhat different, in nature and purpose.
Many were of a vaguely heretical nature, speculating, contrary to Templar
teaching, on the use of magic in ancient society. Despite the strong prohibitions on ownership of these, William nevertheless consulted them often,
even if he avoided citing them in his work. He felt at times that his own
body of work was little more than a thin veneer of orthodoxy over what he
felt was the completely opposite truth.
Most of these were also Imperial in origin, although having a text written
in Standard Imperial – or ”Trader”, its local name – was not nearly the
status symbol it was even twenty years ago. Even the boy spoke enough of it
to get by. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the Cabal had recently mandated the
use of certain ideograms from Standard Imperial on certain signs and official
documents. The transfer of Imperial written symbology into Continental
writing was something long of interest to the scholar, though his linguistic
skills were most certainly not up to the task of writing a pamphlet on the
subject. Indeed, it was rare anymore to find written documents, including
letters, that did not use some of the simpler ideograms. Fashion also dictated
that a person knew how to write his name in the Imperial style.
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
William paused at this line of thought, chewed his lower lip a moment,
and retrieved from his letter box an older correspondence in a firm, clear
hand from a gentleman he had met several years ago, an Ebron man. The
letter was of no consequence, other than its persistently old-fashioned style,
and the author’s impeccable formality. The tides of war, William reflected,
made people brusque and hurried, sometimes downright rude. This gentleman had at the time William knew him already been embroiled politically in
the Fenne Revolution, working diligently to prevent hostilities toward Ibra.
Nevertheless, he seemed to allow himself no quarter when it came to simple
etiquette.
William resolved to show the letter to the boy as an example of these
virtues, although he quickly forgot, and given the growing untidiness, would
soon be unable to find it, even had he remembered.
Once he was unpacked and had jotted a quick note in his journal about
the morning’s activities, he put house shoes on his feet and walked leisurely
to the breakfast room.
Not quite there, he stopped abruptly when an icon on the wall caught
his attention. He stopped and stared at it, a painted likeness of Jalen, in
wonder, and was still there when Adele happened upon him.
“Do you like it?” she asked cheerily, shifting the bag on her back, which
evidently contained one or more chickens. “I saw him at the market this
morning, and thought to myself, what a marvellous similarity to young
master Robin, and of course, it never hurts to spend a little metal on a little
bit of holiness.”
William just turned and looked at her strangely, as if she had said something absolutely shocking.
Adele herself smiled, attempted an off-balance curtsey, and shuffled off
to the kitchen, leaving the scholar to inspect the icon as if the painted wood
carving were a familiar manuscript worth yet another reading.
***
Sean Clannon was already displeased when he finally found Robin, sticky
with sweat and sprawled asleep in the tall chair in the drawing room. He set
down the armload of books and papers onto the table, and closed the door
quietly. With a thoughtful expression, he carefully selected a sheet of paper
of slightly different quality from the others and pulled it free from the stack.
Folding out the creases didn’t make it particularly more legible, but it was
the sort of thing that Clannon was used to doing; an action more form than
function.
63
He scanned it carefully, looking up periodically at the boy to make sure
he was still asleep. He had read the letter before, but it still perplexed
him. It had arrived in the same manner as his other correspondence, but
was written in a sharp, abrupt script with the crisp black line of a practiced
hand. The message was simple, but confusing to Clannon. Although signed,
no seal was impressed into the wax, nor was there evidence that a seal had
been obliterated. The paper, thick and expensive, bore no watermark. A
few grains of dark sand caught in the folds bore witness to a method of
blotting normally reserved for one with a great deal of time on his hands.
It was clear to Clannon that the letter spoke of Robin. His mind reeled at
the possibility that someone could have pierced the careful shield of secrecy
that surrounded the boy. He periodically had the mad desire to learn the
identity of his contact in Akrostira, but quickly dissuaded himself from that
destructive notion.
Fed up with the matter and having committed the troublesome message
to memory anyway, Clannon crumpled the paper and threw it into the low
fire.
The flames leapt at the contact, and the paper seemed to burst in a
bright flash, waking Robin with a start.
Clannon put away the rest of his correspondence, and with one thing
and another, did not read any of it that evening. “Have you slept well?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m feeling much better today. Lieutenant Bruce and
I spent the morning sparring.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said after a pause, then began his lesson.
***
”Gypsies,” Bruce pronounced, finally.
William frowned, so that his thick white eyebrows seemed to move nearly
an inch. ”Why do you say that?”
”Just look at the other icons. That Jalen on the left wall is the traditional
type. Anyway, I’ve seen them once or twice on the trip here, as has the boy.
It’s a common trick to appeal to vanity to sell their little crafts. Takes
advantage of the local piety. I’d run them off, but that would make the
people in the town suspicious, and the worst of them’d be back in a week
anyway. Safest thing is to just keep an eye on them, don’t buy anymore of
their junk, and hope they move off on their own. Can’t imagine why they’d
be this far north in the winter anyway.”
”Fengari persecution, I’d imagine. They probably can’t cross the border
into the Free States.”
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Bruce nodded sagely. ”I’d not be surprised.” He shifted the heavy canvas
bag on his back. ”You wanted my advice, here it is: Don’t worry about it
too much. If there’s a danger to the boy, I’ll be on it. If there’s not, then I
don’t see any reason to draw attention to ourselves.” He thought a moment.
”Just the same, I think I’ll speak with the valet and his wife.”
***
Later that afternoon, William and Robin sat on the veranda with a few
science books. These were put aside for the moment once Adele brought out
the afternoon tea, a somewhat less fancy blend than William was used to,
and somewhat astringent, but nothing a little sugar and cream didn’t fix.
”I couldn’t help but overhear, Robin, my colleague lecturing you on
current political affairs.”
Robin nodded. ”It’s really interesting, some of the stuff going on. I used
to think everything was black and white, you know? But I had no idea what
was really behind, say, the Fenne Revolution.”
William pursed his lips slightly behind his teacup. ”He brought that up,
did he?”
”Yes, well, not really, I guess I did, now that I think of it.”
”I didn’t know you were interested.”
”I wasn’t, really. It just occurred to me to ask him about it.”
William sipped his tea, careful to avoid burning his mouth with too large
a gulp. He observed with a faint smile that Robin waited to take a drink
until each time William replaced his cup. ”What did you learn, then, I’m
curious.”
Robin thought a moment, eyes downcast. ”Well, he told me about Emperor Wilhelm, who used to be a lawyer in Palatine. He defended Warren
ban Iris, who was charged with treason when King Ethelbert began persecuting the Paladins. Except, when ban Iris was thrown in prison, Wilhelm
rescued him and the two ran off to join the Fenne Revolutionary Army.”
”Where did they run to,” William asked mildly.
”Ibra.”
The scholar suppressed a show of surprise. That was hardly common
knowledge. ”Go on,” he said.
”When they were there they joined Marta Slake and some other guy
who ran the FRA, which had been started by Andrew von Krieger a long
time before. I kind of wasn’t paying attention for part of this, but I remember Professor Clannon mentioning that von Krieger was the one who
assassinated the old King, and after he died, people said he was a sorcerer.”
65
”Yes, I remember that. Quite a sensation at the time. The sorcery part
is not worth repeating, however. That was a rumor started by Ethelbert’s
advisor, Paladin Norman, who needed to quell sympathies for the Revolution, and who felt that casting aspersions on von Krieger was the most
expedient way of doing so. But please, continue.”
”Um, after that, they convinced the Earl of Pell to give them soldiers,
and they overthrew the King and set up an elected assembly. Then when
the other guy – ”
“Gunther Kasia, if memory serves. I met him once, though I must confess
I remember nothing about him.”
“When he died, Wilhelm split with Marta Slake, and he and Warren ban
Iris marched on Palatine and made Wilhelm emperor. Marta Slake had to
flee, and she formed the True Revolutionary Party.”
”Close enough. Did he talk to you about the TRP’s role in Fengar
invading Mediter, by any chance?”
Robin shook his head. ”He said he’d already wasted enough time.”
”Interesting.”
The two finished their tea in peace, each keeping a fascinated eye on the
other. William found to his displeasure that Adele did not use whole tea
leaves, and the look on his face upon drinking a piece of one made Robin
chuckle and spill his own tea.
William only looked up from his cup when he realized that there was
no splash – indeed, Robin was staring down at a rivulet of amber liquid
hanging in thin air, just above his shirt. Thinking quickly, William held out
his own cup, into which Robin let drop the liquid.
”Your reflexes are improving, I see.”
”Thank you,” came the mumbled reply.
”I think that our time would best be spent on a forces lesson, don’t
you?”
Robin assented, and after the tea was finished and cleared away, William
picked out a thick book full of mathematical symbols and occasionally
printed in red ink.
”I bought this book before we left. I apologize for my lack of skill in the
Calculus, but I found the text quite illuminating and relatively easy for me
to follow.
”Now, since the last time we worked on this, you were still having problems with lifting grave objects, I decided to start with the section concerning
simple machines. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure if it will help, but its discussions on balance and center of gravity should be instructive.” He flipped a
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
few pages until he came to a passage that he had marked, which he had
Robin read as he spoke.
”You see, Robin, one of the first advances in science was to demonstrate
that force and distance are in many cases interchangeable. For instance, the
simplest machine is the lever. When one is operated with a fulcrum and
sufficient cleverness, even a small child can lift a heavy weight. A famous
philosopher once said that were he given a lever long enough and a place to
stand, he could move the world. It is true. What is traded for this excellent
force is length and distance. A longer lever is required, and the end on
which you find yourself must travel further than the end with the load.”
William adjusted his spectacles and peered over the top of the book at the
page Robin was reading.
”This was eventually explained by the theory of force conservation. Mechanical force cannot, if you’ll excuse for the moment the obvious exception,
come out of nowhere. The mathematical people write down force in terms of
energy and distance. But they are completely interchangeable. In this case,
and in others which we will see, you are actually exerting the same force
overall, which manifests itself in your maintaining a smaller but constant
force over a longer period of time and distance.
”What this means for you is simple. Your main problem to date has been
the maximum amount of force you have been able to produce. I believe the
largest object you’ve lifted so far has been Captain de Mediter’s sword. But
you are able to sustain this force for lengthy periods of time. Don’t argue,
Robin, I’ve watched you do it. In any case, the promise here is that all we
need to do is find a way to redirect the energy you can produce, and make
it do more work for you.”
Robin nodded thoughtfully, but William wasn’t quite through.
”I have a theory,” he started slowly, ponderously, ”but I want to test
something first.” He removed the cufflink on his right sleeve, which he then
carefully rolled up. Robin could see, as he did so, a tiny snow of starch fall
to the tabletop where it was whisked away by the warm late winter breeze.
This done, he laid his bare arm against the table, shivering a little at the
cold. ”I want you, Robin, to cause my arm to lift. Give it as little thought
as possible, and try to keep it at a short height for five minutes.” With his
other hand, he retrieved his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket. ”Try
it now.”
Robin sat for a moment, looking for all the world like a dullard whose
mind had wandered. After that moment, William felt a push under his arm,
which began to rise steadily, stopping only at a height of about four inches
from the tabletop. As the first minute passed, he slowly became aware of
67
exactly which part of his arm was being pushed. Even though there was
pressure on most of his arm, there was a distinctly focused force almost
exactly between his wrist and his elbow. It felt like an odd spring through
a chair’s cushion. With some embarrassment, this revelation made William
aware that he himself was keeping his hand elevated on a line with his wrist;
he let it drop, slowly, so as not to disturb Robin’s concentration.
By the passing of the third minute, William detected tiny beads of sweat
at the edge of Robin’s scalp, where the auburn hair had been pulled back.
The slightest downward pull on William’s part caused Robin’s features to
tighten almost imperceptibly. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened
ever so slightly. Conversely, when he aided the push upward, the boy seemed
to breathe just a little easier.
Clapping the watch cover closed marked the passing of the fifth minute,
and William’s hand dropped so fast that it nearly hit the table. Robin
sighed audibly, his breath coming out in a puff of steam. The old scholar
inspected his arm, and showed Robin the expected red mark, where a bruise
would almost certainly set in.
”I wanted you to observe that even though, as you’ve described to me,
it feels as if you are exerting equal pressure on the entire underside of the
object, this is clearly not the case when you begin to tire.”
Robin flushed, and started to apologize, but was cut off short with a
curt, ”Tut! This is exactly what I’d thought; I’d be more put off had it not
happened.” William leaned in, almost conspiratorially. ”This proves that
you can focus your attention on a single spot. I’m going to propose that
you can divide your attention into lifting with two spots. With two hands,
almost. You’re a dexterous lad, I know you can move both hands separately
and concurrently. What I want now is for you to separate that ability from
your body and isolate the happenings in your mind that allow you to do
that.”
”Like when I juggle,” Robin said, his face starting to glow with a familiar
look of understanding.
”In a way, yes. The motions of your hands when you juggle are partly
aware, and partly reflex – or so I assume, as, I confess, I cannot juggle. But
this is precisely what I wish to develop in you. A kind of mental agility that
will allow you to put your abilities to better use.”
With that, he brought out two round stones he had found that morning
while walking in the garden. Each was roughly the size of his palm, and flat.
Not at all heavy. These he placed on the table, gently, to avoid leaving a
mark. Robin eyed them warily, as one might a cunning adversary. William
tapped the one on the right.
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
”Lift this first.”
Obediently, it rose a few inches into the air in a smooth motion without a
hint of wobbling. After it had been there a moment, William silently tapped
the other.
Nothing happened for a long minute. The first stone dipped slightly, so
that William’s attention was diverted in the split second in which the other
slowly, tremblingly rose part of an inch above the table. Robin’s eyes had
a peculiar, faraway look, until William realized that he was focusing on a
point beyond either stone in order to keep his attention on both.
The two stones met each other halfway, the one falling as the other rose,
and for just a moment, they hovered, side by side.
This was by no means to last; with a sharp exhalation, both stones
dropped to the tabletop.
”That’s fine, Robin. I am extremely impressed that you were able to do
it in only one attempt. Why don’t you take advantage of this extraordinarily
warm afternoon and see what there is to do on such a lovely estate, hmm?”
Robin thanked him, and left him to his thoughts. Up until this month,
it had been a great long time since William had indulged in thinking on the
subject of magic. But indeed, lately, he had thought of nothing else. He
was acutely aware that his own understanding would likely prove necessary
in Robin’s education, but that he seemed to have given his consent to teach
without really thinking on the subject.
It was probably too late to stop now, and still maintain any influence in
the Cabal. That of course assumed that he wanted to stop. After all, dusty
old books found in mouldy old basements and debated by old men often both
dusty and mouldy were one thing. But this was the real thing. It thrilled
and frightened him at the same time. Now that some of the truth about
magic had come to light, there would in fact be more room to conjecture,
and more details to debate. Who knew what would come out now.
And at the root of it, a boy no older than eighteen. With a shaded past,
a hazy future, and no clear idea of how he fit into the present.
William sighed, and collected his things to bring inside. Sitting out in the
cold sounded excellent before tea, but afterwards it was just an annoyance
to old bones.
***
Robert dragged the load of kindling into the kitchen on a sled, grumbling
and cursing as he did so. The door held open, but a piece of the slate tile
69
came away under a sharp tug, sending him stumbling back into the kitchen
table.
His wife Adele rushed into the room, with an alarmed look on her face.
”I’m fine, I’m fine. Go back to what you were doing.”
”Oh, you’re in a fine mood this evening, aren’t you? Where’ve you
been?”
”Collecting dry wood for the little stoves. It’s not easy to find with this
warm weather; the snow on the ground’s started to melt already.”
”Well, I’m just glad we didn’t get the cold the almanac threatened.” She
paused, wiping her hands on her apron. ”In any case, Master Sean requested
an early dinner, and they’re already eating, but I saved you a bit of my meat
pie, and there’s wine in the jug by the door.”
Robert ignored the pie for a moment, and got himself a drink of port.
”Has your son eaten?”
”I’ve not seen Jean all afternoon. I let him take off for town when he
finished his chores.”
”All right, all right,” he said, nodding in resignation. ”I’ve got to hand
it to you, Dell, you’ve got things in hand. I suppose I’m just anxious.”
”Whatever about,” she asked, preparing a plate of food for her husband.
”Things are all right about here, if maybe a bit strange.”
”That’s just it,” he said after a moment’s thought. ”I’m glad Master
Sean is back, it’s been right lonely since the Baron died. And I don’t much
mind his cousin, or the tutor either, for that matter. But the Knight bothers
me.”
”He seems all right to me. Looks like a brute, but he’s got manners.
Gentlemanly, even, if not very cheery.”
”Oh, he’s a fine man, but why is he here?”
This gave her pause. ”To be honest, I don’t think they’re cousins at all.
Master Sean has always been fooling around in politics, and I’d bet that the
boy’s high nobility. Probably traded a nice safe place in the country for his
son after the war, in exchange for some grand favor. I’ll wager,” she said
wagging a wooden spoon, ”that when he returns to the city, we get a nice
letter saying he’s been named to some important post at the University.”
”What, and the Knight is his bodyguard?”
”They’re foolish folk up north, Robbie. What do you expect of them?”
He nodded in resignation. ”Right as usual, Dell. Probably why he’s not
in the best spirits, either.”
”Oh, that reminds me. He says to have nothing to do with the Gypsies,
he does.”
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CHAPTER 4. A MOMENT’S REST
Robert raised his eyebrows. ”They’re around again, eh? I don’t see as
that’s a problem. For that matter – Adele! You didn’t!”
”Well!” She punctuated her exclamation with a slap of the wooden spoon
on the table. ”What makes you think I had?”
He gave her a level gaze. ”Why else would they be close enough to the
house for him to know they’ve been on the grounds?”
She met his gaze for a moment, held it, then broke away with a blush.
”I always go down to say hello, you know that. I got the prettiest icon
from them.” She pointed the spoon at her husband with a playful menace.
”You’d do well to mind your devotions, too, you know.”
Robert stood with a sigh. ”Whatever. Just avoid them from here on.
No wonder the poor man’s put off.”
With that, he wandered into the pantry, to emerge from the kitchen
later with a half loaf of bread and a quarter hour’s worth of scolding from
his wife.
Chapter 5
Clippings
On the date of March 3rd, 1444, the following letters happened to be delivered by the Mediter Postal Service to various addresses, including the
Kendauer transfer.
“Dear Sir: “This letter is in response to your enquiry dated April 1442,
in regards to certain land holdings in the Upper Ateke Valley by Mister
Daniel Rivers (deceased). In fact, there are two properties registered to his
name, which will of course be tendered to the proper individuals following
approval by any official in the Fengar Provincial Government of rank Senior
Supervisor whose jurisdiction includes the Province of Ateke. In the event
that the claimant is not a citizen of Fengar, as is likely given that Mr. Rivers
was a resident of Kendauer, there will be certain fees levied, which this office
will be obliged to collect upon claim of these properties.
“Although only two properties are discussed above, our records show
that Mr. Rivers did indeed own a third property, in Albright Township.
This, however, was sold legally to an individual of Fengar citizenship, and
cannot be included in your claim, regardless of the status of the property
under Kendauer Inheritance Law. All fees have been paid by the purchaser,
and a copy of the receipt of purchase is included with this correspondence.
“We hope that this information is of use to your firm, and we apologize
for the length of time involved in our response. In the event of the necessity
of personal handling of this case, we will be happy to provide the paperwork
required for an entry visa.
“Ateke Province Government Office, Southern Branch, Fengar Empire”
***
“Dear Sir:
“It has come to my attention that you are in possession of a most re71
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CHAPTER 5. CLIPPINGS
markable student. Being myself a teacher held in some regard, I must say
that I am quite envious of your find. Please forgive the guardedness of this
letter; I understand the delicacy of your situation, perhaps a bit more than
you do.
“You see, I learned of your circumstances in a way that you would find
uncomfortable, and I feel that I must warn you that you tread a very precarious path. You are engaged in what some may consider treachery, and
I am afraid that I cannot permit you to deliver this most excellent student
into the hands of his enemies. Toward that end, I have asked an associate
of mine to keep watch of your activities. He will not interfere so long as you
remain loyal.
“I see no reason to report this information to those who would have
cause to do you harm for it, as this would harm your student potentially
more than I should desire. At the same time, I have my own interests to
protect. You must therefore forgive me for not signing this letter.”
***
“To His Excellence, Eliot Winsor,
“Thank you for your expressed interest in my talents in the field of
Theoretical Electrics. To receive such a letter from the Mayor of Kendauer
is indeed an honor, one that I will not soon forget.
“In response to your question, I must confess that the Theory of Electromotive Power, which you correctly attributed to my paper last spring in
the Mediter Sciences Quarterly, has not been properly tested for weights
above 3 Ips. (If you are not familiar with the Imperial System of Measures,
one Ip is roughly the weight of a largesized apple.) Frankly, I do not believe that Electromotive Force can be applied reasonably to weights above
10 Ips. Further, by simple extension, it is shown that the amount of Electrical Power needed to run a locomotive would be prohibitive; the locomotive
and its train could not carry the batteries required, nor can Electricity be
generated on a moving platform. The sheer cost would outweigh any gains
made by not having to rely on coal power.
“Still, Electricity may prove to be a valuable asset to such a progressive
city as Kendauer. Under Dr. Wistschaft, my teacher and mentor, your
Winsor and Rivers Avenues were both lit with his invention, the Electric
Lamp. Although you chose to stop there, I believe that it is possible to
thoroughly Electricize the city of Kendauer, and would be delighted to make
a proposal to the City Council toward that end.
“ Sincerely yours,
“ Sir Erdreich Baedecker”
***
73
“Dear Sir: Thank you for your interest in the Mediter Evening Post.
Enclosed is a copy of the requested article, and a receipt for the total of 12.56
Imperial Marks for reproduction and mail to Fengar by way of Railroad. We
hope that you will find this useful in your research.
“ Henri Miteranor
“ Archivist”
RIVERS FUNERAL HELD IN KENDAUER
AUGUST 11, 1438
(Artur Gozen reporting for the MEDITER EVENING POST)
KENDAUER Daniel Rivers, son of railroad pioneer John Rivers and one
of the giants of progress of the 15th Century, was today memorialized in
his beloved home town of Kendauer in an event that can only be called the
most amazing spectacle since the train wreck that killed him.
Shortly after the break of dawn, the funeral procession – a remarkable
sight, all black and brass – began in the Engine Yards, where the late Mr.
Rivers was director and master. At the head of the procession marched Eliot
Winsor, Mayor of Kendauer, followed closely by Gendahl Sotheby, Rivers’s
chief and top contender for Mr. Rivers’s muchcoveted position.
Despite the somber beginnings, the funeral quickly became farce. The
procession was soon deserted by fully half of those in attendance, so that
the number was far smaller once the church was reached.
Winsor delivered the eulogy, but his devoted and respectful tones elicited
not tears but laughter from those present. Upon utterance of the word,
“humanitarian,” even your own normally solemn reporter, having dealt with
Mr. Rivers in the past, was swept up in the merriment of the occasion. The
eulogy was delivered with all possible haste, then came time for the next
amusement.
The pallbearers, it seems, had been chosen by lottery of prominent local
merchants and families. The desire for public exposure, however, was not
sufficient to prevent these six gentlemen from becoming quite intoxicated.
Along an aisle easily fewer than one hundred feet, the ceremonial casket was
dropped not once but twice on its way out of the chapel.
Upon the steps of the chapel, the gentleman in front stumbled, allowing
the casket to come open, and a bag of sand to fall out. The bearers quickly
set down the casket, and opened it – not to replace the bag, but to remove
those sandbags remaining inside. This completed, the procession and train
made considerable haste to the prepared place in Kendauer Park, which
this reporter has learned narrowly missed being renamed Rivers Memorial
by two votes out of ten.
Only at the gravesite itself did the deceased receive anything in the
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CHAPTER 5. CLIPPINGS
way of respect, in the form of a funerary band made up of workers from
the railroad. These, however, were quickly dispersed courtesy of Kendauer
police in an order of the Deputy Mayor to make room for those members of
the community who had decided to be present today.
Services were held off for some time to allow for the taking of photographs, after which the brief dedication took place and the traditional
shelter erected to allow for the three days customary in Kendauer before
actual burial. A statue has been commissioned for placement over the
gravesite. Though the artist is currently unknown, the Winsor family is
widely rumored to be financing the entire project.
Mr. Rivers is survived by no known family, and his executors are unknown, as there has yet been no public reading of his will. The law firm of
Crowley and Hatch is expected to be named to this position.
***
One stone rose cautiously into the air. There it stayed for a moment, then
dipped slightly as it was joined by the second. The stones themselves were
completely ordinary. Round ones, picked from the flower garden and still a
little dirty. The only remarkable thing about them was that they hovered
six inches from the top of Robin’s palm, as he peered at them intently. As
he concentrated, he could make them move a little, rotating around each
other in a rough circle. When he let his mind wander, they began to fall.
Robin sat idly watching the two stones, as they moved slightly in the
breeze, or rocked in his shallow breath. He himself was sitting with his
back up against the side of the house in a small dry spot sheltered by the
eaves where there had been no snow. He kept his legs tucked closely under
him, and his other hand rested loosely on the ground. One of his more
interesting observations had been that sitting in certain positions allowed
him to concentrate more easily. At the same time, the longer he could
concentrate, the more comfortable certain positions became.
A third stone rose to join the previous two. Robin barely paid it any
attention; the moment he wondered how he’d done it, the third stone disappeared. With a sigh, he let both stones fall.
***
At that moment a few hundred miles away, an inkwell dropped to the
floor. It rolled in a sweeping semicircular path to where it stopped against
a polished black shoe. The owner of the shoe glanced down at it, and with
a sudden motion kicked it across the room, throwing ink upon the far wall.
He leaned down and adjusted his trouser leg over his expensive black
shoes, so that his silver ring glinted in the dim light. His companion, also
dressed impeccably in the latest style, shifted to a more relaxed position,
75
putting his hand on the table, showing his own silver ring.
“You understand,” he continued, playing his fingers over the wooden
desktop, “that your actions on behalf of His Majesty the Emperor are well
appreciated.”
“Of course!” came the stammered reply of the man behind the desk,
a gentleman of some renown. “I’ve always acted on behalf of Emperor
Wilhelm, always in his interest.”
The man with the leonine face, who had kicked the inkwell, simply chuckled and pulled from his black suit jacket a small silver pistol. He leisurely
broke open the action, put in a single bullet, and flicked it closed with a
wrist motion, all as casually as if rolling a cigarette. Nothing moved but his
hands; his expression did not change, and he remained standing perfectly
straight and still. All this was completely ignored by his companion, but
watched carefully by the man behind the desk. Each click was reflected by
a twitch on his face.
“I know who you are. I never believed them when they said that the new
Emperor had a secret police, a secret army of murderers and blackguards.
People turn up dead, they tell me. They go missing in the middle of the
night.”
“All, I assure you, in the name of freedom. Fraternity. Equality.” The
more talkative one stroked his mustache as he spoke in calm, sinuous tones.
“We are building a nation, do you understand that? There is no time for
niceties like justice and legal process. That will come later. For now, there
is only the Emperor, and his word is life and death.”
A single shot and the gentleman slumped forward on his desk. A moment
of quiet ensued as the assassin carefully cleaned the powder from the pistol
with a black handkerchief before replacing the firearm in the pocket behind
his lapel. “That’s the nice thing about working for Bill.,” he said with a
smirk, “Bastard’s got some style.”
His companion laughed a little. “You really seem to enjoy the brutal
aspect more than you do the political importance of what we do.”
“You actually buy that shit? The freedom and equality bit? I mean,
you used to be a law student, right?”
“Does it matter? They think I believe it. It prevents all that bothersome
pleading and bargaining. Further,” he said slowly, pausing for a moment to
lift the corpse off the desk, “it leaves just a lovely frightened look. Do you
suppose it’ll be an open casket funeral?”
***
In Ibra at almost the same time though further east and closer to nightfall, a group of ragged looking men in red uniforms arrived at a guard station
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CHAPTER 5. CLIPPINGS
in Montgomery, near the border of the Free State Etheora. They presented
themselves, and their credentials, to the captain, who relieved them of their
cargo and showed them to where they could sleep for the night, even though
it was barely evening.
The leader of the men, a tall soldier who called himself Janus, sat down
for tea with the captain, a smaller, well muscled man so burnt by the sun
that he was almost as black as his guest. They spoke briefly, but in friendly
tones about the trip from Fengar while the samovar warmed. Tea was served
in the Ebron fashion, with cream in a chipped white saucer, dried Ebron
licorice in a small bowl, and mint already in the tea. The captain proffered
a cigar from Kendauer, which Janus gladly accepted.
The conversation drifted to a mutual friend, where it stayed for quite a
while. He had left them in Mediter to pursue separate orders and was now
in the Palatinate, but had sent warm words for the captain and his family.
The captain speculated that their friend might be missing his own wife, but
Janus simply shook his head sadly, without comment.
***
Shortly before dinner at the Clannon household, a messenger on horseback came up the path and rang at the door. Robin heard the bell, and
came around the side of the house to see the messenger hand a telegram to
a puzzled Robert. Robert thanked the man, paid him a few coins, and then
closed the door. Robin watched the messenger mount his skinny dappled
horse and ride away.
Once the messenger had passed out of his sight, Robin went around
the back of the house to pick up his coat, which he had left draped over
the railing around the veranda. He was slightly surprised to find that it had
frozen slightly, so that when he unfolded it, it crackled and gave off a shower
of ice crystals onto the ground. He put it on, shivering slightly, and went
inside through the back door into the kitchen.
Nobody was in the kitchen, but he could hear people coming into the
dining room behind the open door. On an impulse, he sat on the counter
behind the door to listen.
Bruce’s voice, impatient, came first: “Absolutely out of the question. I
don’t care who she is.”
“She’ll be more suspicious if I say no,” Clannon’s reply was so insistent
that Bruce paused. Chasing, the professor took quick advantage of the
slight edge. “She’s my cousin, I’ve known her for years. She’ll accept any
explanation I give. Besides, she’s a citizen of Mediter; the whole reason for
her return is to survey the damage to her parents’ land near here. She’s
likely to be so distracted by that, she’ll barely be here at all.”
77
“I’m not worried about suspicion. The chances of her hitting on the
truth are nil. It’s what she might see with her eyes that worries me.”
“And what will she see? Trent and I are both discreet. The boy can be
ordered to only practice in his room. Besides, Emma’s a bookworm – she
won’t notice anything unless we go out of our way to show it to her.”
“That’s a chance I’m not prepared to take.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s no way I can prevent her from coming to
the house. If we turn her away, the servants will become suspicious and
start paying more attention to what’s really going on. On the other hand,
her presence will make them all the busier, while not making our situation
significantly more dangerous. It seems to me that you should be glad for
the change.”
“I’m never glad for a change.”
“That’s what I’d expect from a Knight. In that case, unless you wish
to argue further, please find Robert and send him to me so we can discuss
sleeping arrangements. I promise you all discretion.”
The dining room door slammed shut. Robin was about to try to sneak
away when he heard a knocking in the other room, and Robert’s voice.
“You wanted me, sir?”
“Yes. Close the door, please. Thank you. You may be aware that the
boy, Robin, is somewhat important in certain political circles.”
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s not my place to speculate.”
“Well, it is now. There is some concern in Mediter City that our Knightly
friend has a few political ambitions of his own. They have decided to send a
Miss Emma Thoren to keep an eye on him. She will be posing as my cousin.
I expect your complete cooperation.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“That means, keep your eyes and ears open around him. I want to know
where he goes and what he does, especially in regards to the boy. Do you
understand?”
“Completely, sir.”
Robin became suddenly aware that he was being watched. He turned to
see Jean sitting on the tabletop, chewing thoughtfully on a pear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”
“S’ok. I followed you in. Awful weird stuff going on, huh?” Robin
suddenly realized that Jean was quite a bit younger than himself – no more
than 13 or 14, though tall for a boy.
“Yeah, I guess so. Is it normally like this when he’s here?”
“Dunno, he hasn’t been here in a long time. Mostly it’s just me, mom,
and dad. I get to sleep in the big bedroom sometimes when I’m good or if
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CHAPTER 5. CLIPPINGS
it gets real cold.”
“Do you wish we weren’t here?”
“Not so much. But it’s only been a fortnight, and it’s pretty exciting
with new people here.”
“I bet it is. What do you do around here?”
“Me? I chop wood sometimes, make people’s beds. If I’m bad I have
to empty the pots. But I’m the one they send to town on errands, so it’s
ok. Oh! I almost forgot.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket
and scrutinized it carefully. “Does this sound right to you? Got up real
early, played swords with the Knight, had breakfast, talked to Mr. Trent,
talked to Mr. Clannon, played with rocks in the garden, and. . . ” He jotted
something down quickly, “Talked to me.”
Robin blinked, surprised silent. “But that’s what I did today!”
“Well, yeah. But is it everything?”
“I guess so. Why are you writing it down?”
“A guy I met in town yesterday asked me to. Said he’d give me a real
bullet if I did, so I said sure.” He looked a little concerned. “I wanted to
do a good job, though, and I get kinda bored just following you around, so
I figured I’d just ask you.”
“So you’re spying on me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh. . . ok.”
“Thanks! Here you go!” Jean held out the paper and a stubby pencil.
“I’m not going to write it down for you!”
“Huh? How come?”
“You want that bullet, don’t you? Then you better do the work yourself.”
Jean scowled as he put the paper and pencil back in his pocket.
“Tell you what – How about if I spy on you, too?” The boy’s face
brightened considerably, eyes wide. “Then at the end of the day I’ll tell you
what you missed, and you tell me what I missed. Deal?”
“Deal!”
Chapter 6
The Calm of March
Robin sat by the side of the pond, on the soft cold grass in order to better
see the geese as they jostled each other for the crumbs of bread he tossed
onto the water’s surface. Honking and jabbering, they gobbled up the most
contentious pieces first, then dove for the ones closest themselves protesting
loudly upon getting nipped or headbutted. Two of the braver ones swam
right up to the bank where Robin sat and demanded attention from him.
Robin amused himself by blowing them, flapping and honking, back into the
center of the pond like giant, angry toy sailboats. The wind he brought up
rustled the new grass and cooled his back enough to make him shiver.
That had been an easy one to learn. Going from focused motions and
forces to general coaxing of the air or snowflakes had been like suddenly
seeing a room from an entirely different angle. Everything was both familiar
and at the same time refreshingly new, in much the same way spring had
insinuated itself at the Clannon estate.
The warm weather had come quickly, so that when Robin went barefoot
he had to avoid patches of snow that hadn’t yet melted. The sensation of
a cold ground while standing in warm sunshine was odd, but comfortable.
The entire household was just the same way – odd, but comfortable.
Professor Clannon had largely given up trying to teach Robin magic,
leaving that instead to Dr. Trent, who seemed to understand the subject
better. Instead, Professor – Sean, Robin corrected himself. A week or so
ago Sean had begun to insist being on a firstname basis. Instead, Sean had
decided to teach Robin Imperial. Robin didn’t consider himself good with
languages, but he had picked up a lot of Imperial on the docks, where they
called it the Traders’ language.
He was learning politics, too – at least, as much as he could remember.
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First the Fenne Revolutionary Committee, then the True Revolutionary
Party, except the first one became the Fenne Empire, and the second one
hated them. All very confusing. Of course, it wasn’t nearly as bad as
everything with the Imperium. Rivos, Luxor, Hanamachi – those were some
of the Trader Cities, but not all of them. Of course, nobody knew the names
of the cities in the Interior, or even whether there actually were cities in the
Interior. Robin found it all very strange, but exciting nonetheless.
He abandoned those thoughts, leisurely stirring the water, moving ripples
from one side of the pond to the other. Then he let it go, watching the water
go calm, then get rippled again by the geese, then go calm again. Whenever
the water stilled, Robin could make out objects on the bottom. Rocks
mainly, but a few bright fish. A large angular object caught his attention.
Jagged and white, it resembled nothing so much as a fairy tale castle, like
the ones in storybooks. The longer he watched it, the more it looked like a
castle or palace, all pearly white, like ice, with smooth walls and tall towers.
“Robin! There you are!” He turned to see Sean Clannon coming down
the path with a young woman following him. “There’s someone I want you
to meet.”
Robin stood and brushed himself off.
“Emma, this is my student, Robin. Robin, this is my cousin Emma.
She’ll be staying with us for a little while to take care of some difficulties with
her parents’ estate.” Robin mumbled a pleasedtomeetyou and somewhat
awkwardly shook her hand when she offered it. Emma was shorter than
him, not very tall, even for a woman, and she had long brown hair tied into
a knot or braid of some sort in the back and tucked into her long black
coat. Her large blue eyes were open wide, making her look almost comically
attentive.
“Oh, very pleased to meet you, Robin. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Sean smiled condescendingly and smoothed back his red hair, impossibly
mussed by the wind. “I’m sure it’s all right. Robin has a lesson with Dr.
Trent in a little while that I needed to remind him of.” He took out his
watch and glanced at it a long time. “I have a few things that I want to
get taken care of to get you settled in. Why don’t the two of you talk for a
little while before Robin has to come up for his lesson?”
With that, he retreated back up the path to the house, leaving Robin
and Emma silent. After a moment, Emma glanced back up the path.
“I’m sorry about my cousin, I’m sure you know how he is.” Robin nodded
mutely, feeling distinctly ill at ease and wishing he weren’t barefoot. “He
mentioned that you’re his student. Are the two of you working on a paper
together?”
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“No, he’s teaching me Imperial.”
“Imperial!” She thought a moment and rattled off a staccato phrase
much too quickly for Robin to understand. When he shrugged, she simply
laughed. “I asked what kind of teacher he is. I’m not sure now whether you
understood me or not.”
“Not a word, sorry.”
“Well, I suppose that’s an answer, too.” She pursed her lips and looked
at the house again. “What does that other fellow teach?”
“He’s teaching me mathematics and some science.”
“Really?” Emma looked very impressed. “I know a little science myself,
though nothing practical. Forces, I suppose?”
Robin nodded, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Mostly. He wants
to teach me about chemicals and electrics, but I think it might be a little
too hard.”
“Oh, it can’t be that hard. Do you know who Sir Erdrick Baedecker is?”
“He invented the light bulb.”
Emma shook her head. “That was his teacher. Sir Erdrick is just a fat
pompous drunk, who happens to know everything there is to know about
the subject of electrics. I suppose that if he could learn it, anyone could.”
A long moment passed, leaving Robin utterly scandalized. “You can’t
be serious! He’s a genius – he’s written books and everything!”
She only laughed at that, so loudly that Robin could hear it echo musically. Still smiling broadly, she pulled her black coat tighter around herself.
“Oh, what he wouldn’t pay to hear you say that. In fact, I wouldn’t be
surprised if he already has,” she added with a wink, then, by way of explanation, “My uncle is the Provost of the University’s College of Physical
Science, and he tells such wonderful stories about Sir Erdrick that your jaw
would positively fall to the floor!”
Robin attempted a smile, feeling dazed and a little outclassed. “Did you
just come from Mediter?”
“Oh, no! I’ve been down in Akrostira and Meliora for the last year.
That’s why I’m so cold, I’m not used to Mediter’s winters after being so far
south for so long. I only came back when I heard that the family estate was
damaged by the Fenne Army when it came through.”
“Really? Those are two of the Free States, right?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “They call themselves that, but they’re no
more free than we are, really. Have you been there?”
Robin shook his head. “I’ve never been out of Mediter. Until this February, I’d never been out of the city.”
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“Good time to leave,” she intoned meaningfully, though Robin only
stared at her blankly. Uncomfortable, she motioned toward the house. “Why
don’t we start back so you won’t be late for Dr. Trent?”
Robin agreed, and followed her up the path slowly since his legs were
stiff from the cold ground and from being bruised while sparring with Lt.
Bruce that morning.
***
From ‘MEDITER, History Of’, Encyclopedia of Kendauer:
“[T]he worst of Mediter’s internal problems were to start in 1444. In
November of that year, Emperor Wilhelm I of Fengar carried out his threat of
invasion, rendering negligible the Mediterran Army with his decisive victory
at the Battle of Seret Hill. [. . . ] Even though he withdrew from Mediter
City rather than occupy, considerable damage had been done to the Mediter
economy[, and] by March of 1445, rioting in the streets of Mediter City was
commonplace and growing more destructive by the day.”
Copyright 1490, Kendauer University Press. All rights reserved.
***
The arrival of a guest meant unexpected activity around the house. Dr.
Trent arrived in the sitting room carrying a stack of books, blissfully unaware
that the hair on the left side of his head was sticking up in a manner not
dissimilar to the reeds by the pond. Outside the room, Robin could hear
the moving of objects, and the heavy footfall that accompanies the carrying
of a trunk or chest.
Trent was not particularly eager to begin that morning, and instead fumbled with his pipe for an extraordinarily long time. So long did he play with
it, he nearly burned himself on the match. Finally lighting it successfully, he
adjusted his spectacles, and puffed busily, chewing on the pipestem. This
endeavor completed, he proceeded to examine his pocketwatch, humming
and hawing to himself and looking, in his rumpled vest and longshirt, like
nothing so much as a large owl.
During this time, Robin amused himself by watching the old professor intently. He made himself slightly darker in a way that he knew by experience
would make him less obtrusive, and less likely to be noticed suddenly.
“We’ve been here more than a month now, you know,” his teacher started
suddenly, still peering at his pocketwatch as if to look away would allow the
time to speed up. “The Cabal has written to request a report of our progress,
and I’d like to hear what you have to say about the matter before I write
anything on the topic.”
“What does Sean say about my progress?”
A raised eyebrow greeted the question, and a few seconds of furious
83
puffing. “A great deal, and at the same time not a lot. His report seems to
boil down to your having made great progress, and his complete inability to
understand what on earth is causing that progress.” The noise of a chewedupon pipestem caught Robin’s attention. “It would be fair of me to say that
I myself am not entirely sure of the cause of your, ah, increase of ability.
However, I prefer to write a note of substance, and so I would like to hear
from you on the matter.”
Robin took his own turn of silence, his mind suddenly completely blank
of any topic whatsoever. He supposed that he looked deep in thought, but
in fact he found himself searching desperately for a thought to dwell on.
Twice his mind returned to the pond, and to Miss Emma Thoren, who was
at the moment upstairs supervising the unpacking of her belongings.
“You see, then, the difficulty,” Trent said finally. “Moving objects we
accomplished in Mediter. Since then we have refined and strengthened that
ability. This is progress. I’ve taught you a few tricks for emptying your mind
because concentration seems to help you. Not progress, but I can mention
it. Is there more, do you think?”
“I don’t fool myself as often anymore.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s getting harder for me to create an illusion and believe it. It’s all
more forced, less natural.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “But at
the same time, it’s not. It’s harder for me to make the vision appear, but the
actual vision itself comes easier. It’s strange, sometimes, and I sometimes
surprise myself by what I see.”
“Go on.”
Robin chose his words carefully. “If I want to see a cat, I look away, then
look back and expect to see a cat, and of course I do. But it’ll be a black
cat, maybe, and scratching at the dirt. It seems perfectly natural until I
realize that I hadn’t planned that, and maybe it wasn’t what I originally
had in mind at all.”
“Interesting. It sounds as though you’ve gotten a finer control over your
original abilities. The visions don’t happen spontaneously, even though the
content of the vision itself is more spontaneous.”
“Yes, exactly.” Robin waited as Trent retrieved from his stack of books
the blank one in which he had been taking notes. Just as he suspected,
there had been quite a bit more written since he had last seen it. Steeling
himself, he levitated his penknife slowly, keeping a bored look on his face.
He turned it in the gaslight to catch Trent’s attention with a glint off the
blade.
Robin closed his eyes, and felt the knife move, vibrating slightly as he
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breathed. Closer, he drew it, now turning. Slowly he drew it toward himself,
seeing it in his mind’s eye turning level to his arm, now moving toward his
right, rotating and getting closer. He stay perfectly still, knowing that it
would move if he did, and tried to look as if he were dozing off, rotating left
now and moving closer – there. He felt it, a slight resistance.
He quietly picked the knife out of the air, and saw Trent with his head
in the book, but he knew the older man was watching.
“How much can you do?” Robin asked finally.
Trent looked surprised, but Robin met his gaze impassively. After a long
moment, Trent sighed.
“I wondered how much was too much,” he said wistfully. He straightened
in his chair and closed his book. “Quite a bit.”
Robin nodded, feeling quite a bit less triumphant than he had imagined.
“You can levitate things.” Trent nodded. “You can make illusions, sound.”
Again a nod. “You bent that pipe cleaner.”
“I –”
“That’s all right,” Robin interrupted. “I knew I didn’t do it. I wasn’t
trying right. I’d thought it was someone else.” His voice trailed off for a
moment as he sunk into thought. “Then I came here and couldn’t decide
who was doing it, you or Professor Clannon.”
“So you experimented. You stopped showing progress when he taught
you.”
Robin shook his head. “I really wasn’t learning anything from him other
than how awful the Fenne Emperor is, and why Mediter needs to establish
civilian authority separate from the Temple.” He shrugged. “Interesting,
but not really useful.” He felt on the verge of something, but found himself
searching for words, and sounding strange to himself.
“I see. How much more do you know?”
“I know that you can do at least as much as me. That you know more
than the books I’m reading.”
Trent nodded and examined his pipe as it relit itself. “I was probably
mistaken to try to keep it from you. You really felt the pressure on the
knife, eh? Amazing. What did you intend to find out?”
“Why did you let me think I was the only one?”
“I never thought of it that way. I apologize. I myself had a teacher, and
in fact several fellow students. To my knowledge, there were none in this
part of the world.”
“Are there any more in Mediter?”
“No, not anymore. There was one, but he went to Akrostira fifteen years
ago. Never liked the Mediterran winter, and then he saw Akrostira in the
85
paper when it got the railroad, and he bought a ticket and went.”
“What about Fengar?”
Trent chewed his pipe thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. There was von
Krieger in Madras up north, but I don’t think he had any students. He’s
long dead, in any case.” He dumped his pipe in the ashtray, impatient with
it. “Tomorrow, I think, we will have” he paused to choose his words, “a
more advanced lesson. In the meantime, however, I have some thinking to
do, and perhaps some preparations to make. I would ask first, if you don’t
mind the request, that you refrain from speaking about my own ability. I
do not envy the position you’re in, and would like to remain anonymous, if
I might. Do you understand?”
Robin nodded, still feeling less than triumphant. Not only was he still
more or less alone, he was no longer the most talented person around. At
least he could really learn now.
***
Ari de Mediter pored over the reports for the day, spread out on his
desk. Insurrection, insurrection, arson, insurrection, the list went on. All
on the ground, under the First Tier, in the poorest quarters of the city.
Bread prices were up a lot, since stores of wheat had been destroyed in the
fighting. Potatoes, sweet potatoes, beets, those were all available, but they
were being snapped up in the markets on the Second Tier.
He leaned back in his chair with a slow creak, thinking. The trip to Rivos
took about a month by ship, so two months round trip. So the traders there
knew that food was in short supply. But most of the ships coming from
the Imperium were full of gunpowder, weapons and raw metals. One ship
came from Hanamachi with a cargo of wheat, that was it. The captain had
promised to bring another, but the trip to Hanamachi is even longer than
to Rivos, and his ship didn’t have Rivos papers.
The colonies in Briuni, on the other hand, were capable of sending rice,
black beans, and sugarcane on short notice, but in good weather the trip
back and forth took four months. The city manager would probably have
notified the governor there back in January. Even so, that’s up until almost
May.
If the city manager had bought grain from Kendauer or one of the Free
States, however, it would have been here by now on the railroad. The city
had the money for it, that wasn’t a problem. So why?
Ari shook his head. Why on earth did the Cabal agree to buy two
shiploads of gunpowder? Of course, he knew the probable answer – all the
captains had to do would be threaten to sail up to Madras and sell their
cargo to Wilhelm, and along came the Temple, cash in hand.
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With a sigh, Ari got out a sheet a paper and began drafting a letter. He
took an hour for the task, then had it sent overnight by railroad.
***
Dinner that evening was much busier than normal. Bruce, who had
chosen to dress in his uniform, glowered as he wandered the house waiting
for the meal to begin. Emma Thoren arrived at the table chatting amiably
with Clannon about the political climate in the Free States, who were, from
her description, practically climbing over each other to appease the Fenne
Emperor. Robin found it odd to have conversation at the table, after a
month of quiet dinners according to the provincial manner.
Sean and Emma did the most talking, for the most part gossiping about
goingson at the various departments in the University of Mediter. Dr. Trent,
who arrived late, joined in to some extent, confirming that the head of the
Philosophy department was an alcoholic, and assuring them that a certain
Chemics professor was not insane, just eccentric. Robin noticed that Sean
uncharacteristically avoided any sort of Mediter politics, keeping to idle
rumors as he ate his fish.
***
Dolohov read about the Mediter riots in the day old copy of the Mediter
Evening Post he’d gotten from Mrs. Roteg downstairs. Much of the ground
was affected, the riots were disorganized but totally spontaneous. No leaders
identified, just a bubbling over of resentment and frustration. The article
suggested, absurdly, that the city was on the verge of collapse. A vague
feeling of apprehension passed over him as he read, but he ignored it and
went on to the financial section. There, of course, was painted an almost rosy
picture of Mediter’s recovery. Massive outlays of money by the Temple in its
repair efforts were inflating prices on basic goods, which the article described
as a positive step toward rebuilding economic stability. Apparently, Dolohov
mused, the two editors didn’t talk to each other. Interestingly enough, both
articles attributed the respective projected failure or recovery to the City’s
closeness to the TRP. Crazy.
“Mr. Johnson! You have a guest, Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Roteg shouted
from downstairs, clomping up a few stair steps to project better. In her
old age she could no longer climb the stairs to the second floor, so Dolohov
obliged her by descending to her parlor to greet his guest. “Ah, there you
are, Mr. Johnson. That nice boy is here to see you again. I gave him the
dessert you hadn’t wanted. He’s in the kitchen right now.”
Dolohov thanked her warmly and found Jean from the Clannon estate
just finishing what had been an overlarge slice of pie. The boy finished
quickly, and produced a stack of grubby, uneven papers, which Dolohov
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took and began to read through as the boy watched him. One item in
particular caught his attention.
“ ‘Talked with the new lady,’ you write. What new lady?”
Jean thought a moment. “Her name’s Emma Thoren. She’s Master
Sean’s cousin, I think.”
Dolohov pursed his lips and nodded. “Does he talk to her often?”
“Just today. She got here this morning, and I had to help carry all her
stuff in!”
“Emma Thoren. What’s she look like?”
Jean had to think even longer on this one. “She’s kinda short, even for
a lady. She’s got really long hair – ”
“What color?”
“Brown, I think. She kept it under her big coat.”
Dolohov suddenly felt as if things were beginning to fit together. “Big
coat, eh? Black coat, real thick, bright yellow buttons?”
The boy brightened at every word. “Yeah! That’s right! Do you know
her?”
“I think I might. That’s very interesting, I wonder what she’d be doing
here.” He folded the papers into his shirt pocket. “Well thank you, Jean.
You said the boy’s name is Robin, didn’t you?” A nod. “Did you hear his
last name?”
“Nope, sorry.”
“That’s all right. You did good, kid.” He drew his gun from under his
shirt, and the boy’s eyes got as wide as saucers. Hiding his smile, he made a
show of spinning the cylinder, and popped it open so that one of the rounds
bounced out into his hand. He ceremoniously handed the bullet to the kid,
then snapped the cylinder back into place and flipped the gun back into his
holster, which he covered again with the flap of his shirt.
“Thanks!” the boy finally blurted before dashing out of the house. Dolohov chuckled and after paying his respects to Mrs. Roteg, returned to his
rooms to finish the paper. Before retiring to bed for the night, he wrote a
quick note to his employer at his Mediter address.
***
Robin was already awake when Jean Bruce knocked on his door. He
finished dressing, then went out for his daily fencing practice. Instead of
giving him a practice, however, the Knight leaned against the house and
gave Robin a hard look.
“I suppose you know already about the problems in Mediter?”
Robin shrugged. “Not a lot.”
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“Rioting in parts, food shortages. University’s closed, a lot of people
are heading for the country. I don’t think they’ll call me back, but I’m
wondering if they’ll want to call on you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I know, it seems silly here, but who knows what they’re thinking?
It’s not likely, but I wanted you to start thinking about it.”
Robin nodded wordlessly. After a moment, Bruce went back into the
house and came back with the pads and practice swords. The practice wasn’t
long, and Robin even managed to score a few hits before Adele called them
in for breakfast.
After he wolfed down two boiled, salted eggs with a few pieces of buttered
toast, Adele told him that Master Sean was hoping to see him as soon as
possible. Robin thanked her, took his leave of Bruce, and changed his clothes
quickly before going up to the drawing room, where Sean liked to have his
lessons.
The window that had been behind a hung rug in the winter was now
wide open, letting in a fresh breeze smelling faintly of grass. The rug on
the floor had been beaten that morning; Robin could still see impressions of
the flower-shaped pattern of the metal instrument Adele had used to beat
the dust out of it. On the wall near the window was a curious braided loop
made of beads and multicolored thread.
When Sean walked in, Robin pointed to the loop and asked about it.
“That? It’s a prayer bead, of some sort. The housekeeper probably got
it from the Gypsies before they moved on. They use them in Ibra, I think.”
“Is that where the Gypsies are from?”
“Possibly. They certainly look Ebron, since most of them are brown and
the older ones grow their white hair long. I’ve seen a few with Ebron-looking
swords, too. You know, the curved ones, scimitars they call them.”
Robin was impressed. “The Gypsies have scimitars?”
“No, the Ebrons do. I’ve no idea what the Gypsies call them.” He
looked irritated, for a moment, then smoothed his red hair back with his
hand. “Anyway, unless you have questions about yesterday’s lesson, I think
I’d like to leave the Imperial alone for a little while.”
Robin shook his head.
“Good. We need to talk about your future, Robin. Things in Mediter
are getting dangerous. It seems that perhaps the only way to fight Fengar
may be to fight Mediterrans.”
“What do you mean?” Robin asked noncommittally.
“Well, your abilities may prove useful in quelling riots. Keeping people
back from afar, putting out torches, maybe even scaring them off.”
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“Without hurting anyone?”
“Absolutely. Right now, people get hurt all the time, clashing with
the Knights. Some of the ship captains have even hired Campertines.”
Robin shuddered at that. The Campertine Detectives were among the more
unpleasant people he’d ever met. The company hired large, angry men who
were perfectly happy to club a man to death for suspicion of theft. That
way they didn’t waste bullets. “If you were there to stop the riots, things
might work better.”
“Why are they rioting?”
Sean shrugged. “Even after an invasion, there’s still a lot of people who
support Fengar. Don’t ask me why, it’s unthinkable to me, but they do. I
think once the riots have stopped, then they’ll go away for a while. What
else can we do about them?”
Robin forced himself to nod in sympathy, still thinking. Things were
beginning to make sense to him, but he was still just as confused as that
morning.
In the end, Sean ended up drilling Robin on Imperial verbs, then a few
recitations of sentences like, “I see your ship is long and made of wood”
and “I would like you to accompany me to the theatre for the viewing of
an entertainment.” Sean wasn’t paying attention, though, and didn’t even
bother correcting Robin’s slip of “evacuation” for “entertainment.” In the
end, he let Robin go well before lunch.
***
Robin found out from Adele that Dr. Trent was awake and reading at
the table on the veranda, so he went there, eager to begin his lesson. He
hadn’t finished his breakfast, so Robin waited impatiently while he ever so
slowly ate his sausage and eggs, then broke a piece off the toast, wiped it in
the egg yolk and chewed on it without for a moment taking his eyes off his
book.
“Make no mistake, Robin,” he said at last, “This is magic, right here,
what I’m doing now.” He finished his toast quietly, leaving his student
bewildered. Robin watched carefully as he drank his tea, curious what he
was doing differently. In the end, he closed his book, tucked it away under
his chair, wiped his hands on his napkin, and finally faced Robin.
“Now you’re going to ask me what was magic about all that,” Trent said
with a small smile.
“I was thinking about asking that.”
“Where do your powers come from, Robin? From the thin air? From
your mind? You are exceptionally in tune to the way things work in this
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world of ours. But your body requires energy to coordinate these amazing
things. That comes from breakfast. You, Robin, are a machine for turning toast into magic.” They both smiled at that. “Your breakfast is real.
You, Robin, are real. Your powers too, then, must be real. Just because
illusionary tea isn’t wet, that doesn’t mean it’s not there, in some way.” He
thought a moment. “What I’m trying to say, Robin, is that your powers are
not something separate from this world. They are as much a part of it and
you as any other daily thing that everyone does.”
“Can everyone levitate stones?”
“I think so, if properly trained. Long ago, Robin, these powers were
commonplace. My master, my teacher, told me about an ancient nation
that used magic every day to make their lives easier. They had schools to
teach it, he said.”
“Maybe there were just more people like me.”
“That’s possible. I don’t know. Nobody knows.” He paused again, deep
in thought. “I told you a long time ago that Andrew von Krieger was not
a sorcerer. That’s true, in a way. He himself had little magical ability, but
he was my fellow student under my master in Hanamachi. When he left to
return to Madras, he was roughly at half your ability, but he knew about far
more. Andrew was always interested in the history of magic. He believed
that Master Jalen, in the Book of Life, was a sorcerer. When he was driven
out of Madras for his political intrigues, he went in search of Cove, thinking
that he might be able to learn from the people there.”
“Did he find it?”
Trent shrugged. “I doubt it. Shortly after he fled Madras, he was killed
by an Imperial Marshal in one of the territories. My point is that there are
varying opinions on the subject. Part of my reason for wanting to work with
you is to test my own theories on how people learn magic.”
Robin wondered if that were true. “What more do I have to learn?”
“Good question.” Trent again fell silent. “There is some little more
that I can teach you. I can create fire with little difficulty. I can levitate
considerably more weight than you can, and I think I have a finer control
over objects I’m manipulating. More importantly, though, I have a better
understanding of how and why this works. My teacher was very good. I
learned a great deal from him.”
“Who was your teacher?”
“Master Ashe. He was not himself a magician. At least, the entire time
I was with him, a matter of some years, I only saw him use his abilities
outright a few times.”
“Really? Why not?”
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“I think he wanted us to understand the importance of not stressing our
abilities. Making it a daily part of ourselves, and not anything extraordinarily important. You see, he was teaching us how to use our abilities, but
more importantly, how to live with them. That’s partially why I disapprove
of this manner of your education – I think we’re stressing too much your
abilities at the expense of the rest of your life.” He frowned. “Master Ashe’s
classroom was his studio and home. The room that we practiced in was the
room where he painted, cooked, ate, and slept.”
“He wanted it to be routine?”
“No, not exactly. He wanted it to be special, just not so special that we
spent our lives on it. He was an artist of high regard.” Trent patted his
pockets the way he always did looking for his pipe. Robin knew by now to
wait while he dug it out of the jacket pocket where it always was, filled it
with tobacco and it began to burn when he placed the stem in his mouth.
Trent just smiled and puffed. “I remember one time. In back of Master
Ashe’s house was a causeway through his garden to the well. Wood planks
raised up on stones over a stream. My morning chores required me to go
fetch water from the well to boil for everyone’s rice. Two big buckets I
carried, on a pole on my shoulders. I did this every morning, while he sat
in the garden and meditated. One morning, I walked on the causeway out
to the well, filled the buckets, and walked on it back to the house. All of a
sudden, the Master called out, ‘William!’ I looked at him, and he pointed
behind me. I turned, and saw that the causeway was gone, washed out in
the night when the river flooded.”
“You just walked on air?”
“Well, I don’t know. Master Ashe saw the whole thing, and just he sat
there, grinning. He never ever told me whether he’d done it, or if I’d done
it. That’s what really made it special to me, Robin, that one mystery.” He
stopped short, arching his eyebrows. The door behind Robin opened, and
Adele came through to clear Trent’s dishes.
“Good afternoon to the two of you. I’m off to market, but if you need
anything, Robert’s upstairs repairing that old wicker chair.”
“Thank you, “ Trent smiled warmly. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“Now, don’t be waiting until he’s done if you need something. If I know
him, it’ll take him all day if he thinks he can get away with it. If you see
Miss Emma, please tell her I saved her some bread and preserves for her.”
“Did she not have breakfast?”
“No, I’ve not seen her all day. She may have gone into town to see the
solicitor. Silly girl shouldn’t be skipping meals. Now, Master Clannon, he
could stand to skip a few himself lately.” She caught herself with a little
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gasp. “Oh, now I’m at it again. I’ll see you two at dinner.” She winked and
went inside with the breakfast dishes.
Trent chuckled to himself around his pipe, observing his own stomach.
“Charming woman, that Adele. A bit batty, maybe, but quite charming.”
Chapter 7
Spring Storms
Ari de Mediter stood before the Cabal, dressed in full uniform, examining his
audience carefully. They looked tired and ragged, just like he felt. Fending
off rioters was taking its toll. He stood in the center of the room, the focus
of all attention. He waited until the door was closed and barred behind him.
”Gentlemen, we gather today in the name of the Righteous Host.” He
waited for those present as they gestured in devotion. ”We have been chosen
by Holy and Proper selection to represent to our people the will of the Gods.
May we carry our burden with Grace and Honour.” They again gestured.
”The Holy City has scarcely known such terrible days, even when violated by armies from Fengar.” He paused, and decided to dispense with
the formality. Time enough for that later. “My men have reported twenty
serious injuries in the last three days, many of which will result in amputation or death. Most ground level factories have been destroyed. The ports
in Bien are mostly unusable, and we’ve not been able to bring people in
to repair them because of fighting between rioters and the hired men the
shipping people brought in. Two Imperial ships were turned away by rioters
yesterday. The only one that came in all week was an armed ship carrying
gunpowder from Luxor.
“The railroad lines to Kendauer, however, are still in perfect working
order.” Ari removed a small telegraph from a pouch on his belt. “In fact,
Eliot Winsor, the Mayor of Kendauer, has agreed to waive many of the
fees involved in food transportation, and is willing to take a shipment of
gunpowder in exchange for two shipments of wheat, one of potatoes, and
one cattle car. It is clear – ”
Pierre St. John, a thin, sallow man from the University, waved his hand
dismissively. “We will not accept. The Temple has uses for those munitions,
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and the rioters can be dealt with without resorting to bribery.”
“Bribery!” Ari exploded, “How is feeding our own people bribery? It’s
our own fault that they’re starving. Had we not angered – ”
“That is enough!”
“Had we not angered the Fengari by arming that Slake woman and her
people – ”
“That is enough, Captain de Mediter!”
“Then what am I supposed to do with these people? If they don’t eat,
they’ll die. But before they die, they’ll take out the docks, our communications and half of the first two Tiers!”
“There is a new shipment of rifles and shot guns awaiting your Knights
in the Cathedral armory.”
Ari’s mouth went dry, and he said nothing.
“Do you understand, Captain de Mediter?”
“No.”
Silence filled the small room. Henri Case, a Bien merchant, licked his
lips and coughed wetly, then continued in an uncertain voice, “It should be
clear, Ari. If they will not stop on their own, you must fire upon them. For
their own good.” He trailed off uncomfortably.
Ari closed his eyed and chose his words carefully. “I understood you. I
refuse.”
“You cannot refuse. You are Captain of the Knights Templar, and subject most of all to the will of the Gods as spoken through their Cabal.”
“And when the Gods speak I will listen. Until then, I am no longer a
Knight of the Temple, and I no longer recognize the authority of its Cabal.”
With a deliberate gesture, he untied the epaulettes on his shoulders and let
them fall, with his cape, to the ground. No one moved. Ari watched the ten
men keenly, his eyes shining with defiance and his hand not on his sword,
but on the pearled grip of his pistol. “Do I make myself clear?”
He slowly backed toward the door, opened it and instructed the guards
inside to barricade the door until he returned. They did so as he fled.
***
Jean Bruce was in a doubly foul mood that morning, clutching a letter
and a news paper while he waited for Robin at the breakfast table. When
Robin asked, he simply gave the letter to the boy without a word.
Robin read the letter, dated April 3rd, to himself.
“My dear friend Jean,
“I must apologize deeply for my actions two days ago. I prepared for
most of the consequences of my retirement, except the need to name a
replacement. This is twice of a pain to my heart, because instead of you,
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Philip Arvind has been named Captain of the Knights, a choice which I feel
to be a grave mistake. However, I have no voice in such matters now. Such
is the fleeting nature of power.
“I do not know what Philip has planned for you, or for Robin. He is
reasonably well informed of the situation at the Clannon estate, but I fear
that he does not understand it. My hope is that you will escape his attention
for the duration of the present crisis. I earnestly pray that he will be granted
the wisdom to conduct his duties well, but I have no faith in those who give
him orders.
“I myself have taken Marie and the household, and brought them to her
parents’ home in a whaling town north of Mediter. You will find the address
on the postal tag in case”
Robin turned the paper over, but it was blank.
“What happened to the rest?”
Bruce shrugged. “It got lost in the post, I suppose.” He drummed his
fingers on the table, staring alternately at the floor and at the newspaper
in his hand. “I know that you look up to him. I didn’t want you to worry
about him when you found out he retired.”
“Why did he retire? He’s not that old.”
“I don’t know. Used to be he kept the peace between the Temple and
everybody else. Toned down the Temple’s orders, kept people in line. That
way they can live together. Now that’s blown to hell, I guess he figures he’d
better step aside. He’s a smart guy, but he’s got no pride at all.”
The two sat in silence for a moment until Adele came in to fix their
breakfast.
“Good morning, you two.” She tied her apron as she walked, yawning a
little, to the stove. “Oh, it’s already lit. Have you eaten, then?”
Bruce stood, ignoring her. “I have to go into town today, to take care
of some things, so I can’t fence with you this morning. I’ll be back after
dinner; we can talk then.”
***
“Sean, listen to me!” Emma scowled at the recalcitrant professor. “This
is why we got into all this in the first place.”
“No, that is why you got into all this, Cassia. You love what’s happening
to Mediter, don’t you?”
“Oh, shut up! You’re only saying that because the rioters are against
the damned TRP.”
He smirked at her. “It’s ‘the damned TRP’ now, is it? How quickly your
allegiances change!”
“You told us all that the TRP was just a means to an end.”
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“It still is. But we’ll never get what we want unless Fengar is defeated.”
“Forget Fengar, Sean. They just want us out of their damn reunification.
If we leave them alone, they’ll leave us alone.”
“Until after they’ve swallowed Kendauer, Akrostira, Depolisti. Ibra.
Hell, they’re even claiming the Steppe! You think they’ll be content to own
the continent, except for a little piece here? You’re being foolish.” Sean’s
cheeks burned with anger and excitement.
“All the more reason to take control of Mediter’s navy. Do you think
Marta Slake can stop them? All she’s got is a couple Paladins and a tiny
little army.”
“And more weaponry than either of us has ever seen.”
Emma just sat and stared at him. Sean ran his hand through his hair,
and searched the room, looking everywhere but at her.
“Fine, Cassia. Go to Mediter if you want. Of course, since I can’t very
well manufacture another cousin, my job here gets much harder.”
“I want Robin.”
“What!” he hissed.
“I want Robin. We need him. You showed me what he can do, and we’ll
need that.”
“Oh! Of course! I’ll just write a nice little letter to my superior in the
TRP explaining everything. ‘Dear Dr. St. John, This is to inform you that
I am turning the extremely important and potentially pivotal boy over to
your political enemies in the hopes that he can sever the TRP’s main access
to Imperial traders. I hope you approve.’ Is that good? Oh, excuse me,
where are my manners? ‘Sincerely, Professor Sean Clannon.’ Is that what
you want me to tell him?”
She stared into his eyes. “I want you to tell him you’re turning the boy
into a revolutionary.”
Sean bit his lip. “We don’t even know this Olivier person. He’s not one
of us. Even in the early days, there was no Olivier at the pod meetings. But
here he comes out of nowhere, leading the great unwashed in their struggle
for, whatever they’re struggling for.”
“He’s probably some factory worker with a bit of charm and bravado.
Give me a week, and I’ll have the old pod in charge of the whole thing. A
charge on the prison’ll get us Louis and the Kendauran, John Baker. Meier’s
in Akrostira, Rand’s in Etheora. Even if they’re not already on their way,
they can get here in a week by railroad.” She cast her eyes at the floor. “It
won’t be the same without the pod leader, though.”
Sean smiled wistfully. “I know. But I can’t. My position is too important
to leave vacant right now, and so is my charge.”
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He moved to embrace her, but she pushed him away. “No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Sean.”
Sean nodded, feeling numb. He turned away from her and looked out
the sitting room’s single window. “I suggest you leave this afternoon, while
the Knight’s in town. I’ll come up with an excuse for your departure. The
boy stays here. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She paused by the door. “Really, Sean. I’m sorry.”
***
Lieutenant Bruce fumed all through dinner. He ate little of the mutton
stew, but drank fully three glasses of wine. Finally, he set down his silver.
“Robin, please leave the room.”
Surprised, Robin stopped eating and looked at the Knight.
“Now, please. I must discuss things with your tutors. I trust you not to
listen at the door,” he continued without even looking at the boy, who put
down his own silver and left.
Bruce turned to Professor Clannon and Dr. Trent. “Excuse me,” he
said, getting up and bolting the door to the kitchen. “Now. One of you
please tell me what’s happening here.”
“What are you talking about,” Clannon asked, mystified.
“I’m talking about your cousin leaving in the middle of the afternoon
with all her belongings. I’m talking about finding yesterday’s newspaper
on the breakfast table this morning, all the headlines screaming about the
riots in the city. I’m talking about finding this,” he held up a scrap of dirty
paper, “on the path to the house this morning.”
“What is that, may I ask?” Trent asked.
“I’ll just read it to you. ‘Got up, had breakfast, played at swords with
the Knight, sat for a lesson in the sitting room, ate lunch, sat for another
lesson on the veranda, talked to Miss Emma in drawing room, played with
fire, watched ducks, ate dinner, read a book, talked to me, went to bed.’
The only thing that’s not obvious is who ‘me’ is.”
“Let me see that,” Clannon said, his interest piqued. He scanned it
quickly. “This is the boy’s handwriting.”
“Robin did not write that,” the Knight growled.
“No, the other boy. Jean. The servants’ child.”
“I know, I already spoke to him. But he couldn’t tell me what a veranda
is until I brought him out to it. And when I asked him why he wrote it, he
just said it would earn him a bullet.”
“Preposterous!”
“All I know is that someone is passing information about Robin on to
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someone outside, and had the gall to threaten a child to put it in his handwriting.”
Sean thought a moment. “You can’t possibly suspect Emma.”
“How well do you know your cousin?”
“Extremely well. We were children together.”
“Lately. How well do you know her lately?”
“We’ve done a great deal of catching up these last two weeks.”
“That’s not an answer, Dr. Clannon.”
“Not very well at all, I suppose.” Clannon mumbled the words, but kept
a keen, curious eye on Trent.
The Knight sighed, still angry, but feeling defeated. “I doubt she’ll
return. If she does, she is to be restrained until I can question her. She may
be your cousin, but she may also be a spy. For that matter, either of you
may also be spies. I should need not say that neither of you is to leave this
house until I tell you otherwise.
“There is also Robin’s safety to consider,” he continued, “I don’t want
him to know any of this. Do you think he may be a flight risk?”
Sean shook his head vigorously, but Trent thought carefully. “Possibly,”
he finally said, “Robin seemed to be getting quite close to Miss Thoren. I
dare say that if she were the spy, then he would be inclined to follow her.”
Bruce listened carefully. “I shall keep that in mind. In the meantime,
he is not to be left without supervision. His walks in the woods will have to
stop, at least for a few days.”
“Won’t that suggest to him that something is wrong?”
“Yes, Professor, it will. I don’t care. If he starts asking, then tell him
to talk to me about it. I am responsible for his safety, and he knows that.
Are we in agreement?”
Both tutors agreed, but eyed each other very carefully.
***
Sean came away from dinner with his head spinning. Could Trent be a
spy? Cassia was of course relaying information, but all of it through Sean
himself. Or was she? King had gone over to Fengar, and the two of them
had been close. Might –
He shook his head in an effort to clear it. It had to be Trent. The note
had said both ‘Miss Emma’ and ‘me’. Cassia was clever, but that much
misdirection would of course be too confusing to the poor girl. No, she
would have written a simpler note. Referred to herself as ‘me’ both times.
And she certainly would not have threatened to shoot young Jean!
But the Knight had to know all that. Why, then, would he accept that
explanation, unless it confirmed something else?
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These thoughts still raced through his head as he readied himself for
sleep, and kept him awake for some time with a vaguely sick feeling.
***
Robin woke early the next morning, and found Bruce in the sitting room,
poring over maps and other papers.
“What are those for?”
Bruce looked up, startled. He fumbled for words for a moment, then
said, “I’m talking the Inspector’s exam when we return. I have to know the
layout of the city better.”
“Why?”
The Knight looked irritated. “I just have to. Now that Inspector
Arvind’s the new Captain, it’s important for me to know these things.”
Robin craned his neck a little. “What are those markings on the map of
Bien?”
“The big ones are ships. The small ones are stacks of cargo.”
“So the little flags are country of origin?”
“Yeah. Each Trader City has its own section of the port. That way,
when the captain of the ship pulls in, he knows immediately where to go, or
if he has to wait.”
Robin nodded, and looked more carefully at the map. Oddly, there were
ships in some ports but not others. The marks looked like they were drawn
more recently than the rest of the map; the red used for the ships was
brighter than the red for the flags. He also saw that in the pile of papers
were torn open envelopes from rail post.
“Are we going to practice this morning?”
“I’m sorry, Robin, no.” The Knight didn’t even look up from the maps
he was reading and marking.
“I think I’ll go to the pond, then.”
“Wait.” Bruce stared at him a moment, then pursed his lips. “I need
your help for something.” He dug through the short pile of maps, and
brought out a large one with an irregular grid of streets. “This is the ground
level of Mediter, at least twenty years ago. Do you think you could tell where
it’s inaccurate?”
Robin took the map and sat at the low table with the Knight. He located
Levi’s Square and traced the main roads. The barricades had already been
drawn on, but they were out of date. The places where Ban Iris had broken
through weren’t marked; it was just a solid black line. He pointed this
out, but Bruce told him that was all right. He just needed to know whether
there were any streets shown there that were blocked. The other way around
didn’t matter.
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He went back to studying the map, but after half an hour, he could find
only one street that he knew was now blocked by garbage. He had grown
hungry by then, so he excused himself for breakfast.
Adele was already awake, and had made hotcakes with malt sugar and
butter. She told Robin when he came in that both his tutors were awake
and had eaten already. Robin thanked her, had a plate of food and a cup of
winter pear juice, then went back to his room, and read.
***
Dr. Trent and Sean Clannon both let Robin alone that morning. Trent
was the first to notice the dappled horse of the messenger coming up the
path, but he let Robert answer the door, though he watched the proceedings
with curiosity. Only a single item had come that day, a telegram, which
Robert handed to him.
“RETURN BOY TO MEDITER IMM Stop. FRTHR INSTR ONCE HERE Stop.
ARVIND End”
Trent delivered the message to Lieutenant Bruce, who he found in the
sitting room, surrounded by a pile of marked papers. The Knight read the
message silently. He read and reread it several times, then shut his eyes tight.
After a moment, he stood and rang the little bell by the door. When, after
a few minutes, Robert appeared, Bruce instructed him to bring Professor
Clannon, then to take the carriage into town to post certain letters and
purchase a clothing trunk. When Robert left, Bruce sighed deeply and sank
back into the overstuffed chair.
“I suppose,” he started, “that it goes without saying that the boy isn’t
going to Mediter.”
Trent stayed silent.
“I would guess that I have a week before they’ll expect a response. I can
stall them for another week, maybe, after that.”
“That’s a large risk.”
“You don’t know Philip Arvind like I do. He’s a good inspector, very
good, but I don’t like to think of what he’d use Robin for.”
“What do we do with him, then?”
“I’m not sure. You can’t stay here much longer. Kendauer looks good,
but I don’t know anybody there.”
“And you?”
“I have unfinished business. I have to stay.”
Trent thought a moment. “I know someone in Akrostira who might be
useful.”
After a moment, Clannon came through the door, closing it behind him.
Bruce wordlessly handed the message to him, which he read.
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“All right,” Clannon said, “I’ll have him ready his things. My own
articles can stay here, of course.”
“He’s not going,” the Knight interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not letting him go.”
“But you’ve been ordered to. That’s insubordination. What about your
career?”
Bruce took a long glance at the maps. “That doesn’t matter.”
“But he has to go!”
Trent put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not ready. We both know that.
Sending him back now would do irreparable harm to his development.”
“They wouldn’t call for him if he wasn’t needed.”
Bruce shook his head, watching out the window. “Arvind doesn’t know
a thing about what goes on here. At most, he’s read the status reports we’ve
been mailing back. He thinks he has a weapon in Robin, and he wants his
weapons near. Besides, we’re under the direct control of the Cabal. My
orders come from Captain Arvind, but yours don’t.”
“Of course the Cabal will support him!” Clannon suppressed the feeling
of panic that was beginning to rise.
“If the Cabal’s still giving orders when it comes to that, then I will take
full responsibility,” the Knight said in a low voice.
Clannon froze, wanting nothing so much as to break into a run. “I see,”
he managed to hoarsely whisper. All he could think of was the boy telling
that council about his own anti-Cabal teaching. “Do what you think is
proper, then. I wash my hands of it.”
With that, he left the room. Trent and Bruce could hear his footsteps,
then the hall door closing.
“Was that wise? He may go into town and send a telegram.”
Bruce shrugged. “Not until Robert comes back with the carriage. That
will be four hours at least, which means that we can work on him later.
Now, let’s discuss your friend in Akrostira.”
***
Sean Clannon wandered the hall, collecting his thoughts. This could
destroy his reputation in the Cabal. But what if the Cabal were overthrown?
Could the new government be made amenable to the TRP?
The boy cannot remain here, he decided. A stalemate between the two
sides would be absolutely disastrous, but whichever side had the boy could
very well win. And whichever side he delivered the boy to would be extremely grateful if that were the case.
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He broke away from these thoughts when he reached the kitchen, and
went outside. Just as he suspected, both horses and the carriage were gone.
Just as he turned to go back inside, he faintly smelled wood smoke. He
quickly found Adele.
***
“Robin?” Dr. Trent’s voice came, muffled, through the door. Robin
opened it before he could knock again. Trent closed the door behind him,
and sat on the tallbacked chair against the wall.
“We need to talk, Robin.”
“About what?” He knew perfectly well, of course, that the order had
come for him to return to Mediter. He had gone to the house library earlier,
and since it was directly above the sitting room, he could hear much of the
conversation.
“Captain Arvind in Mediter has suggested that we bring you back to
the city. We, however, myself, Lieutenant Bruce, and Professor Clannon, all
agree that we should stay here, at least for the duration of the riots.”
“To see who’s still in charge?”
A pained expression crossed the academician’s face. “I wouldn’t put it
that way. The newspapers are all very confident that the Knights will prevail
against the rioters.” Robin knew it was a lie, but he let it pass. “We are,
however, extremely concerned about the way your powers would be used if
you were to go and defend the Temple. In the event that we cannot prevent
that, I think it would behoove you to not show any evidence of your powers.”
Robin blinked. He wanted to say something, but found himself unable
to find the words. Instead, Trent continued.
“It will be a serious blow to your pride, I understand. But I would rather
that all of the Templars believe you to be a fraud than for them to use your
talents, your gift, as a weapon.”
“Will it come to that?”
“No, I hope it won’t. I have a good friend in Akrostira who will, I think,
be willing to let you live with him away from those people who would use
you as an instrument of war. His name is Loben Vin, he has an antiquities
shop there. He has the same magic that you do, but he’s getting on in years,
and I dare say he could use someone like you in his shop.”
“Won’t the Fenne Army attack there, too?”
Trent had no answer for that. Robin stared at him, and finally said,
“That sounds good. I’d like to be away from the fighting, I think.”
Trent smiled thinly. “You don’t have to make up your mind now. Bruce
tells me that we have two weeks to prepare and decide. You owe yourself
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at least a few days to make this decision. For now, I believe that dinner is
nearly ready.”
***
There was no conversation at the table. Robin saw glances exchanged
by everyone present. Even Adele gave Sean a reproachful look when she
brought in the roast. Robin ate quickly, and excused himself early.
He dressed for bed and sat reading for a while before blowing out the
candle and drifting to sleep.
***
”Really! This is childish. Think about the situation you’re in. You’re
actually willing to die to prevent me from killing your enemy,” taunted the
man on the platform. He held his long black gun in his hand, pointing
straight at where Cesare stood, working frantically to turn off the gas, only
dimly camouflaged. Robin could see himself crouching, concentrating.
The man on the platform continued shouting, screaming at the cowered
forms in the darkness. His words shot incomprehensibly into Robin’s ears,
and then he raised the gun in his left hand.
“No!” Robin screamed, and suddenly the man lurched backward and up,
his muscles all tensed, his fingers clutching wildly at the guns in his hands
as they slipped out of his control. He suddenly straightened his other arm,
his strong arm, the one Robin couldn’t control, and it pulled the trigger,
and the chamber roared as Cesare fell, plummeted off the platform. The
man raised the other gun, pointed it right at Robin, right between his eyes,
then turned suddenly and fired, and the tunnel lit bright with gas, exploding
orange into the blackness.
***
Robin screamed into the hand clamped over his mouth. Warm wet
breath clouded over his face. A pair of gleaming eyes looked straight into
his.
“Be very quiet, child. This is your own good. Don’t struggle, or I have
to knock you out.” The voice was heavily accented, straining to stay at a
whisper. Robin gasped in air as the hand was exchanged for a cloth gag. “I
take it off when we are safe. You trust me now.”
Strong hands lifted him out of his bed. Robin, too terrified to move,
stiffened as his hands and feet were bound and he was wrapped in a blanket
or sheet, then he was lifted and passed through his own window, the one
he’d left open when he went to sleep. His things were gone, he could see in
the corner of his eye.
He was passed feetfirst to a pair of waiting hands, as strong as the first.
In the twilight, Robin could see three people, maybe four people crouching
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nervously near the house. He started to thrash, but a second pair of hands
seized hold of him. He felt himself being passed to another, stronger person,
and suddenly he was moving, fast, over uneven ground. The blanket slipped
over his face, and he saw nothing more except the ground, and bootshod
feet.
***
Some time later, he was finally set down on the ground. The blanket
was pulled off him, and he was rolled onto it. Someone rolled him onto his
stomach and cut the bindings on his hands, then turned him onto his back
again and removed the gag.
He was sitting in a grassy area, near a fire that cast flickering yellow
light over him and his surroundings. Several men stood around him. They
were short and dark, strong, but quicklooking, and all of them armed, either
with pistols or long knives that shone in the amber light. Directly in front
of him sat an old woman who peered at him with evident excitement.
“I apologize, boy, for the roughness. It is necessary,” she said in a
surprisingly deep, soft voice, with only the slightest hint of a rasp. “Your
teacher, he pays us to take you, but I have wanted to meet you for a great
long time.” She smiled, her lips stretched into a thin line on her wide face.
“There is great power in you, like there is power in me.”
She set a deck of thick, worn cards in front of him. “With these, they say
I tell the future, but I only ever know what’s happening now. Sometimes
most interesting this is real, sometimes it’s in the person’s heart. Many
times I deal the cards for you, Jalensen. Many times I puzzle over what I
read. I see anger and fear, always. I see lust too, for a little while. These
are not good things, Jalensen. In a boy with power, these things are very
bad.”
“My name’s Robin.” He felt ashamed of the wavering in his voice.
“Aye, it is. Jalensen what I call you. Robin Jalensen. Good name for
a confused boy. You the heir. There nobody like you, not for a thousand
years.”
She sighed, breezy and rattling. “The man be here soon to take you.”
“Where?” he asked with growing alarm.
“He be here to take you,” she continued, ignoring him. “I want you be
standing. If you on your feet when you meet him, maybe you’ll not be so
scared.”
The two men on either side of him helped him to his feet. On handed
him his pack, and made a show of placing a bright knife into it. The other
knelt and with a long curved sword, cut the bindings at his ankles, and as
soon as Robin stepped off the blanket, it was swept away.
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Momentarily, a two horse coach pulled into the clearing. The driver,
dressed in black with a black cloth mask, jumped down and walked up to
Robin. He looked the boy over, then walked back and opened the door to
the carriage. He signaled to the Gypsies, but the old woman gave her own
sign. Robin nodded to her, and entered the carriage on his own. The driver
closed the door, and Robin, immersed in darkness, heard the crack of a
whip. The coach began to move, and soon they were on the road, travelling
quickly.
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CHAPTER 7. SPRING STORMS
Chapter 8
Preparations
The Ebron gentleman scowled into the tarnished mirror as he clipped his
mustaches. Angling the scissors delicately, he took off minuscule, almost
invisible bits of hair with each snip. The well manicured white hairs stood
out sharply against his dark Ebron skin, ivory on olive tan. He then wetted
and combed his thick shock of white hair neatly against his skull. A scoop
of thick, oily hair tonic went into it, then another thorough recombing. A
dash of Ebron brandy into the palms of both hands, applied with a slap to
his neck and jowl.
He washed his hands carefully in the cracked, pitted basin, careful not to
spill the brown water on the floor. After carefully drying his hands and face,
he inspected himself again, clipped an unsightly nostril hair, and replaced
the scissors in his cloth case, which he rolled tightly and tied closed.
He stepped back, avoiding the places where the missing floor tiles left
exposed dark mildewed wood, and looked in the mirror again. He adjusted
his black shirt, tucked it further into the black trousers, tightened the grey
suspenders, and finally took his red sash from his suit bag, and tied it around
his waist so that one end draped down along his right leg. Into this, firmly
against his waist, he wedged his long, curved sword, which he had polished
to a mirror shine the night before.
The gentleman went back across the room to the straw-filled mattress on
which he had carefully laid out certain papers. The ones on the right were
written correspondence from his employees. These he stacked according
to which employee sent it, and put them in his attaché case in the side
compartment that was invisible when closed.
The ones in the middle were copies of correspondences he had written.
Each bore in red ink the name of the person to whom it was sent, and a brief
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description of the contents. These also went into the side compartment.
The papers on the left were notes he had taken over the last few days.
Some were his own observations, but most were hand copies of certain intercepted documents. These he placed squarely in the middle of the attaché
case, between a few old books. He checked the money in the side pocket,
and made sure he knew which bundle was counterfeit currency, and which
was authentic.
The gentleman gave the room a cursory once over, then opened the door.
Immediately he could hear the distant roar of gunfire, faint shouts. He took
the stairs to the main room, paid his hostess, and left with a bow and a few
murmured words in Ebron.
***
The man with the leonine face sat leaned against the marble pillar,
languidly stretched and scratching his ankle. He looked down over the edge
of the bridge and spat into the water. It was still not yet dawn, but the
lantern men had kept the palace area lit, so he had a good view of the nicer
streets in Palatine. The urge to urinate occurred to him, but he waited
where he was. Instead, he fingered the silver pistol hidden in his jacket.
Shortly, a tall plain woman approached him from the direction of the
palace.
“Could I trouble you for the time?” she asked quietly.
“Fuck you.” he replied in the same tone as one might give the time.
“Gregor said I’d be meeting with ban Iris.”
“General ban Iris?”
He rolled his eyes. “Is there any other?”
She paused, and smirked. “General ban Iris does not leave the Palace
anymore. I speak for him in this matter.” She paused. “You are George
King.”
“Yes, I are George King,” George retorted. “What’s he want now? More
telegrams? There haven’t been any. Wire’s dead out of Mediter.”
“He requires a book,” she said.
“A book!” He jumped down onto the bridge floor. “He wants a book,
he can go to the fucking library. God damn it!”
“This is not an ordinary book, Mr. King.”
“What’s he doing in there, anyway? I’ve brought him telegrams, letters,
three scientists. I’m not some page boy.”
“About those three scientists.”
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“Plus or minus a few fingers, yeah. He’s trying to research something, I
want to know what.”
“He wants to formulate gunpowder.”
“Bullshit. I was a chemics student. Everyone knows you need charcoal,
potassium nitrate and sulfur. Unless he’s got a way to make sulfur mines
appear out of thin air, no gunpowder. Unless he’s got a way to make ammonia in large batches, again, no gunpowder. Two of the guys I brought
in know less than nothing about chemics, and the telegrams were all about
some fucking kid. Now fuck you, I’m going to go get drunk.”
He walked briskly away from her, but clearly heard the distinctive click
of a pistol being cocked. George swore at himself and stopped.
“Look, lady. I work for the Emperor, not ban Iris. See this ring?” He
took his hand out of his pocket and held it aloft, still facing away from her.
“You have no idea what this means I can do to you.”
“The Kept Men. The insignia is an eagle with wings spread clutching
a fish in its talons.” George wavered a moment, then took his hand down,
surreptitiously checking the insignia. Gregor was right, then, it wasn’t a
banana. “You’re the Emperor’s secret bodyguard. Except he has a new
assignment for you. Something I think that even you will enjoy.”
He turned to face her, and saw her clearly under the lamp light. Tall,
wide shoulders for a woman. Black hair in a braid. Couldn’t be any younger
than her forties. Shit. He wondered whether anyone had bothered to mention to him that ban Iris had a sister. Probably.
“What do you think even I will enjoy?”
“The book, Mr. King?”
“I’ll get your damned book. What do you think I will enjoy?”
She smiled and motioned him to follow her back toward the Palace. He
decided to find out just who this person was, anyway.
***
The guard on duty clutched his musket as he leaned, half asleep, against
the wall. A couple torches were set up, since the gas was off, but he still
didn’t see the elderly man dressed in black and red until he stood right in
front of the guard, and stopped.
Odd old bird, he thought, what’s a guy like him doing with a sword like
that?
The man bowed to him and set down his attaché case. “Hello to you,”
he said in a thick accent. “My name is Ian Mestrava.” Yawn, he pronounced
it.
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“You are, are you?”
“I am, and I am here to meet with Mr. Olivier. I have business with
him.”
The guard looked him over skeptically, but called back. “Hey, Arons! I
got a Yawn Mestrava out here, wants to talk to Olivier.”
Yoshua Arons came out, rifle laid across his shoulders. “Who’re you?”
“My name is Ian Mestrava. I have business with Mr. Olivier. If you will
please but give him my card?” He took an ivory card from his pocket and
handed it to Arons. Arons glanced at it and nodded.
“All right. Ain’t gonna explode, I guess. You wait here.”
“Of course.” He sat down on his attaché case and waited patiently.
The guard was amused by the way the older man sat, with his legs slightly
crossed, hands on his knees and eyes closed. Arons appeared momentarily,
and led the man inside.
***
A young woman met Arons and the older man in front of a barred door.
Arons winked at her, handed her the man’s card and left to his post. “Mr.
Mestrava?”
“That is me.”
She smiled and shook his hand. “I’m Cassia Shaw, Mr. Olivier’s assistant. He asked me to speak with you.”
“That is satisfactory, thank you.”
She looked at him crosswise. “Long way from Ibra.”
Mestrava smiled. “Much too far, I agree. Your Mediter, it is much
too cold for my Ebron blood. Many are the times I long for my home in
Montgomery,” ‘Mongrummy’ he pronounced it. “but in such times as these,
it regrettably is necessary for me to be abroad.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Mestrava. We don’t have the kind of
money needed to hire your detectives.”
“My detectives?” he asked, white eyebrow arched. “Ah yes, my former
business, the Campertine Detectives.”
“Former business?”
“But yes. I have sold my share of the Campertine Detective Agency to
my partner.”
“Really.” Cassia chewed her lower lip.
“You do not believe that I would sell a profitable business?”
“It is hard to believe.”
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“Not if you consider that I am now a very rich man, free to go come and
to go as he pleases, and free to help whomever he pleases.”
“You want to help us?”
“I do.”
Again she chewed her lip. Finally, she knocked on the door, waited,
and stuck her head inside. “Mr. Olivier, maybe you should talk to this
guy.” Mestrava waited in silence until the door finally opened. He blinked
in astonished recognition.
“This,” he finally said, “is entirely unexpected.” Olivier smiled mirthlessly and invited the Ebron in. Cassia Shaw remained outside.
The room was small, but well lit. A wide desk with a propped-up leg
dominated the far side of the room, covered with papers of all sort. Olivier
himself dismissed the two men he had been meeting with before. They left
through a different door.
“Please sit, Mr. Mestrava.” The Ebron did so, in the least broken chair.
“That’s not the name you went by, the last time I spoke to you.”
“Nor was Olivier the name you used when I last spoke to you.”
Olivier nodded sagely. “Fair enough.”
“You knew perfectly well that I am no longer associated with the Campertine Detectives.”
“What do you offer, then?”
“I have certain agents in my employ who would work on your behalf,
and my own counsel.”
“We cannot pay you, I’m afraid.”
“I need no compensation. I desire only access to Mediter’s ports for my
own operations and perhaps some influence over your diplomatic relations
with Fengar.”
Olivier contemplated this. “Why?”
“I have been working for some time to counter Fenne aggression against
my beloved Ibra. It is my intention to establish a balance of power. Mediter,
Fengar, Ibra. A strong Mediter, I think, will prompt Emperor Wilhelm to
curb his aggressions to the east and south as well.”
“I see. Since Mediter currently is unable to interfere, Fengar has more
freedom of movement.”
“Precisely. As soon as either you or the Cabal emerges victorious, then
he must divert a portion of his army to his western border. Ibra, beautiful
though she may be, is poor enough that I believe he will then leave us alone.”
“Why, then, are you talking to me? The newspapers insist that we will
be defeated within the month.”
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Mestrava smiled. “I have spent time examining your strategies. You have
made the ports in Bien inaccessible, a remarkable achievement. You have
reconstructed the barricades and imposed order and discipline on people
who before simply burned and destroyed. Most of all, however, you have
fed them. I applaud you, sir, and I believe that helping you to victory will
in itself be worth my time.”
Olivier shook his head. “Flattery. We’re not well equipped, and the
Cabal’s brought what’s left of the Mediter Army in against us. Knights in
the upper Tiers, Army on the ground. We’re getting volunteers all the time
but it’s not enough.”
“I myself have some experience with these matters. Some of my agents
were involved in the Fenne Revolution. They are smart and experienced.”
“We need rifles.”
“I have rifles, fresh from Rostov, and ammunition for them. There is
a ship in your harbor right now, the Mourning Dove. Her captain is Neil
McCormick, he works for me. It has a cargo of both wheat and munitions.”
He opened his attaché case and pulled out a copy of the ship’s registry, from
Rivos. “As you can see, it is an Imperial ship, able to go unmolested to
any port in the world. At this moment, too, one of my agents is travelling to Mediter Station and will capture it for you so that I can bring in
reinforcements.”
“One agent?”
“One agent. He is, shall we say, extraordinary.”
Olivier nodded, impressed but skeptical. “We shall see. I must attend
to a planning meeting momentarily. Please wait with Miss Shaw outside.”
“I may perhaps be of some service to you in your meeting?”
“Possibly, but right now all I have from you is a name, a sheet of paper
and a few promises. Good day, Mr. Mestrava.”
Mestrava bowed deeply and left by the door through which he had come.
***
The coach rolled to a stop some time before morning on the third day.
The horses snorted and stamped their protest, but the driver calmed them.
From the darkness of the cab, Robin could faintly hear horses approaching.
They stopped well away from where he was, and he heard the driver walk
away.
When it had come right down to it, curiosity only had kept him from
escaping. The Gypsies had been smart, he mused, to give him the knife.
Confident that he could escape easily, he stayed for the ride. Besides, he
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had no idea where he was, or which direction he was travelling in. Travel
was only at night. At the end of the previous two nights, Robin had felt the
road disappear, replaced with uneven rocks and ditches as they probably
went off the road. Then after the sun had gone down, back on the road for
more travel.
Footsteps outside interrupted his train of thought. Voices, two men.
Hushed, but getting closer. The door unbolted and swung open.
“Robin,” came the familiar voice.
“Professor Clannon,” he replied, hoarse. Water had been scarce.
Clannon climbed into the coach and gave him a parcel and bottle. “Dinner. I thought you’d need it.” He sighed deeply. “I’m so sorry about all
this, Robin. You have no idea how close we came to disaster.” Robin ate
and drank hungrily. Bread, cheese, wine, something dried, maybe meat. He
wanted light, but didn’t want to start a fire.
“We’re going back to the house?”
“No. We’re a little east of Mediter now. Once the driver changes the
team, we’re going there. You’ve been ordered back by Captain Arvind, you
know.”
Robin stopped midswallow. The Gypsies. Adele’s behavior. Clannon
suddenly agreeing to his staying at the estate. Of course. He finished swallowing.
“Of course. I’d forgotten.”
“Ah, you poor boy! Those beastly Gypsies were supposed to tell you
what was happening and convince you to come along.” A lie. The driver
had been surprised and angry to find him untied. “I suppose when one
deals with savages, one expects these things. I’m only relieved that you’re
alive and well.” Clannon sat back in the seat opposite Robin and closed
the door. “We should be in Mediter by the afternoon. I stopped in town
and telegraphed, so there should be a Temple escort waiting. For now, it’s
better to get some rest.”
***
Gunfire erupted without warning as the team leader looked around the
corner of the building. Mediter Army, no more than six. He dashed back to
his team, mostly new recruits, and related what he saw.
“We don’t have the ammunition to take the position,” grumbled one of
them.
“Olivier says we need to push them back out of here. They’re too close
to where we need to go tomorrow.” The roar of an old musket sounded
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nearby, and the team moved closer to the alley. The street they were on was
fine, but the Army had taken one of the shops around the corner and was
using its high roof as a sniper’s nest.
One of the new recruits, the one the team leader didn’t like, spoke up,
“Someone knock out the glass on that light. I got me an idea.” He ran back
to the mechanic’s shop they checked out earlier, and came back clutching a
bottle in his right hand, so that his silver ring glinted in the light. “Kendauer
firewater. They use it to take grease off. It’s great stuff.” He started stuffing
a piece of cloth into the mouth of the bottle and lit it off the broken gas
lamp.
He took a deep breath, then ran around the corner and threw it into the
open window, diving to the ground as it exploded. His team came around
the corner and picked off the soldiers as they emerged screaming from the
building, wet with the burning fluid and thrashing around.
The recruit shouted and whooped, laughing like a madman as the rest
of the team swarmed the shop next door and bayoneted the fleeing sniper.
The team leader dragged away the corpses that weren’t burning and went
through their pockets. Content with finding a working pistol and a couple
rounds, he gathered the team.
“Good thinking, George,” he shouted over the cheers of his team, but
his heart wasn’t in it. “Good job!” Something about this recruit scared the
hell out of him. After the fire died, they poked through the ashes as much
as they could, but left quickly, since they found nothing useful and the brick
walls that had kept the fire from spreading held the heat like a giant kiln.
***
The third squad, fifty men, crept east along the dark streets as their four
backup teams went from building to building flushing out the snipers that
the Army had left in their path. The staccato of traded gunfire filled the air.
A few of them noticed the explosion a few blocks ahead, but said nothing,
maintaining a grim, determined silence. A note from a bugle signaled that
Levi’s Square was theirs. The squad leader, a burly dock worker with a
new rifle seized from the Knights, waved his arm to marshal his men more
quickly toward the looming barricade.
Even in the dim light on Mediter’s ground, he could tell the spots that
had been repaired hastily. The solid parts were built around the massive
pillars that supported the First Tier. Back and forth on the other side, he
could make out the moving heads of patrolling soldiers.
A second bugle sounded, squad one over at the southeastern barricade,
the big one. On the other side of the wall, heads turned, but not quickly.
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He nodded to himself. As Olivier predicted, they thought the battles were
all elsewhere. He sent the four sappers to place their charges. One far away,
three close together. Rumor had it the Army had a machine gun on the
ground somewhere, able to fire twenty rounds a minute. This barricade
looked up the widest street in eastern Mediter. If it were anywhere, it’d be
here. Two sappers came back, trailing wire behind them, blackened faces
grinning. Here comes another, he thought. The last is the far away one.
Silence, as his men got into position, a ring in the deepest shadows near
the close charges. Ten men in a flank position, ready to intercept anyone
coming from the far breach. Four men got ready on the opposite side, up
against the wall and a pillar.
The last sapper came back, slowly unreeling the long wire. The other
three were hooked up to a single sparker, to go at once. The wires for the
far charge were connected to a separate sparker. Satisfied that everyone was
prepared, he said a quick prayer and himself pushed the plunger for the far
charge.
The explosion rocked the ground, blowing out a chunk of wall. At that
signal, the four men near the pillar went quietly over the wall.
Nothing for a while, then shots at the flank position. The squad leader
blew the tin whistle around his neck, then pushed the plunger for the main
breach.
He could feel the heat from the explosion even in his rear position, the
smoke stung his eyes. He prayed that his men had remembered to keep their
heads down, but he couldn’t see through the smoke. He pulled the pistol
that had been his father’s, and waited for the smoke to clear away. Gunfire
from the main breach, lots of it. More shots from the flank, faster now. He
sent one of the sappers to get a report.
The sapper ran, upright, toward the position, but suddenly lurched and
fell to the ground in a heap. The squad leader cursed him for his stupidity,
then himself for ordering him out. The next sapper stayed low to the ground.
He came back with good news: Two killed, three wounded, but enemy fire
was tapering off. He himself peered around the back corner, but saw nobody
up the street. The intersection they were firing on was hopefully wide enough
to prevent anyone from making it to their rear. He kept the pistol cocked,
though, just in case.
Firing from the flank stopped suddenly, and in the breach he could hear
the clatter of bayonets under the slowing gunfire. The squad leader crawled
out to where he could see. through the smoke he saw the flank team, tense
and waiting. He considered ordering them forward, but decided he’d rather
have them there.
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The smoke around the main breach was thinning now; he could see nine
bodies from where he crouched. Most of them killed in the initial blast, he
saw them lying on their backs. He also saw, with grim approval, that their
weapons had been taken by the survivors. Twenty-odd men with thirty-odd
guns.
No more gunfire, but still the shouts and screams of bayoneting. The
sulfur smell was overpowering. He ordered the flank in. Five men got up
and moved, rifles ready. Two climbed the wall and started firing into the
melee on the other side, the other three went in through the far breach. He
could hear them firing from there.
Finally, he and the three sappers loaded their own rifles and charged into
the main breach. The squad leader’s rifle wouldn’t fire; he abandoned it for
his pistol, and took down one of the remaining soldiers immediately. While
reloading, a stray bullet hit him in the shoulder, and he went down from
the pain.
A cheer went up around him suddenly, he sensed it through the haze
of pain. Hands slapped him on the cheeks, then went under his arms and
dragged him up against the wall, started bandaging his shoulder. They’d
captured the machine gun, they said, but couldn’t work it. He nodded, asked
for casualties. Thirty, including the idiot sapper and the four on the flank.
Looked like forty enemy, not including whoever they got in the blast. He
ordered the bugle sounded to signal success, and managed to keep himself
from passing out until the reinforcement squad arrived.
***
Olivier met with the Lion army leader, Geoffrey Ducheval, whose squads
had taken the east barricade and Levi’s Square, and listened carefully to his
reports. The Army was poorly equipped for fighting in the city. Each battle
was a rout. The Knights, however, were quite another story. They were
laying low for the time being, but if they saw an advantage, they’d take it.
Casualties were getting too high for an army of only a thousand or so
people. Volunteers still trickled in, but it wasn’t enough. With expanded
territory came the need for extra guards, better communications, more supplies. People still lived in some of these houses, and they needed to be fed.
Mestrava, it turned out, had been a Godsend here. Captain McCormick
had indeed been carrying food and munitions, and upon unloading it into
Olivier’s care, he’d set out for one of the ports to the south for a shipment
of food.
He and Lion’s commander went over one of the maps that had come by
post. Lion’s men were occupying the eastern position very strongly. His
117
tactical divisions were working excellently, and his army had the highest
survival rate. His army of four hundred men was divided into squads of one
hundred. Each squad was divided into teams, which could be split off or
combined into a larger unit. The result had been a remarkably effective and
flexible force. Lion’s tactician, a military historian from the University, said
that the same formations had been used by the Imperium when it had still
controlled Mediter and Fengar.
Dolphin army held Bien, and had seen the worst casualties, from both
the Campertines and the Knights. They were also the best armed, thanks to
Captain McCormick. Olivier examined the markings he’d made during their
last report. Their north border was pretty well held, and the bay was on
their west, but east could be a problem. He considered trying to link Lion’s
territory to theirs, but it was too much of a stretch. Lion held, appropriately,
the lion’s share of the territory, but it was too far to the east, controlling
Levi’s Square, and Rue Morgan, the main east-west thoroughfare.
Phoenix Army might be able to pull north, he mused, but Lion’s commander disagreed, pointing out that they were already seriously engaged
with the Knights at the southern ramp. He was right, of course, but it still
bothered him to have Dolphin connected to the main territory only by a
pair of parallel streets which, he noticed, some wag had placed under the
control of “Turtle Army,” the soldiers’ affectionate name for Olivier’s own
staff of eighty men and women.
“Can you spare a team, Geoffrey, to guard that passage?”
Lion’s commander scratched his scraggly beard as he peered at the
streets under Oliver’s finger. “Aye, and I’ve got just the one, too.”
“Oh?”
“Just the one; I want you to keep an eye on one of the recruits in it,
fellow named George Prince.”
“The one who set the fire in yesterday’s move east?”
“That’s the one. His team leader don’t like him much, and I can’t say
as I do, either. They say he’s a crack shot, though, and being creepy ain’t
a crime.”
“The area’s abandoned, I think, and the crosswise streets are mostly
blocked off. Assign them to finish blocking those streets and repairing the
street lights on this stretch of four blocks. It’s useful work, and close enough
to the fighting in Bien that they’ll be able to act there if necessary. I’ll have
Robert in Dolphin to keep an eye on them.” He sighed and rubbed his
temples. “That’s all I wanted to discuss, unless you’ve got something? All
right, thank you Geoffrey. Send in Mr. Mestrava if he’s still out there.”
“Aye, sir.”
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The small, well-groomed Ebron entered on Lion commander’s tail. Olivier
had to smile when he saw him, dressed like an ambassador in court.
“Dolphin army sends word that the Mourning Dove set sail this morning
for Southrop. McCormick left a message for you.” He passed it along the
table. Mestrava read it, and chuckled.
“I think that dear Captain McCormick is going to get himself shot one
day.” Olivier cocked an eyebrow.
“Read it yourself.”
‘Hey Old Man, if Doll can’t manage the trains, send Kepler down to
Zuffy Station near Southrop, and I’ll bring him up on the Dove. – Neil’
“Sea Captains get that way, especially Imperials. Is Doll your agent you
mentioned before?”
“He is, although I might suggest that he dislikes being called ‘Doll’. It
is somewhat pejorative, you understand.”
“How’s that coming?”
“I understand that he was to arrive in Mediter this morning.”
Olivier nodded. “Can he do it?”
“I expect so. He has his own plan, and the means to enact it. I find it
best to not interfere with him.”
There was a knock at the door, and Cassia Shaw poked her head in.
“You’ve got a guest, Mr. Olivier. You won’t believe it, either” Olivier
and Mestrava exchanged glances and hurried into the main room.
***
Mestrava’s agent pulled into Mediter station several hours later than he
intended, tired after the trip. The train itself was nearly deserted, so he’d
gotten a seat to himself. He disembarked after the first whistle, and carried
his belongings onto the platform. Four soldiers stationed on this side. A
quick glance told him that four were on the other side as well. He grumbled
loudly as he tried to hoist his trunk, but none of the soldiers even glanced
at him. Disciplined.
He pulled the heavy trunk down the stairs, letting it slide on the other
end, thump thump thump. The agent checked his pocketwatch as he entered
the main concourse, a wide, tall room of marble with elegant iron decoration.
Pretending to set his watch according to the giant clock on the far wall, he
surveyed the room. Fewer soldiers here, only six. They looked distracted,
too. He dragged his trunk even further into the room, then dropped it again.
The flat thump echoed even over the constant hum of voices. This time a
soldier came over to him.
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“You’re late, Andrew,” he murmured as he hoisted one end of the trunk.
“Guns?”
“Yeah,” the agent replied. “Any alterations to the plan?”
“Nope,” the soldier muttered. “I point out my men, and you don’t shoot
them.”
“You weren’t able to get all your men?”
“I’m sorry, no.” They put down the trunk near the entrance to the
station. The soldier pointed out the ones in his employ. One on the other
side of the entrance, one near the ticket booths, one at the stairs to the
northbound platform. The agent draped his long brown coat over one arm,
and unfolded a map in the other. “And the platforms?”
“They have the instructions you wired to us.”
“Good.” He sat silently for a moment, then walked over to the soldier
at the door to the offices.
“Um, excuse me, sir? Sir? I’m a little lost, I’m afraid I’ve never been to
Mediter before and I’m looking for the Rue Morgan.”
“Rue Morgan’s closed,” replied the soldier, a young man whose green
uniform fit badly.
“Oh no, that can’t be! I came all this way and it has to be open or I’ll
never find where I’m going. Could you accompany me to the office?”
The soldier gave him an odd look, then noticed the point of the black
revolver under the coat. “What’s this, now?”
“Just come along now,” the agent said amiably. “I don’t want to kill
you, but I don’t mind it, either.” The soldier trembled, and for a moment
the agent thought he’d have to shoot, but he just turned and opened the
door to the office. “Go on in.”
The agent followed him in. Three desks filled most of the space in the
room, each adorned with a typewriter. The agent closed the door, then
pulled the curtain on the single window. Two heavyset men and a young
woman stopped what they were doing and stared at him.
“Good afternoon. My name is Andrew, and I run this station now. If
you’ll please hand over your pistol?” The soldier gave him his gun. “Thank
you. I’d like to avoid bloodshed for the most part, but I’m afraid I’ll have
to go outside now and shoot somebody. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
He went through the door carrying the pistol. He dropped it in his coat
to avoid making noise, then raised his black revolver and calmly shot the
single officer, who was already walking toward the office. All the people
in the station immediately dropped to the floor, several women and men
screaming. On cue, he could hear gunfire from the platform, then nothing.
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The soldier who had spoken to him before ran to the officer’s body, disarmed
it, and rushed to the door.
A hush fell over the huge marble room, then there were a few running
footsteps. The soldier at the door waved to the agent to signal no response
from outside. He waved back, then returned to the office.
“Which of you is the telegraph operator?” The young woman raised
her hand. “I need you to send a message to Kendauer Station. Tell them
that we have found Janus Kepler’s luggage, and that we are deeply sorry for
having lost it in the first place.” She stared at him blankly for a moment,
then went to a table on the far wall. She activated the device there, and
tapped out the message the agent had requested.
“I’ve done it,” she said waveringly. “This isn’t a robbery, is it?”
The agent laughed bitterly. “If only it were.”
Chapter 9
Violence
Slipping through the guard post had been easy. Through familiar streets,
dark and light, over a barricade with a hand plant. Not invisible, but well
hidden. Easy. Back to the beginning, the jeweler’s home. Burned out now.
All the homes were burned or demolished. Concrete wasteland, pillars like
trees rising to support the tier that blotted out the sky.
Back to the streets, then, following an intuition. Avoiding the army
scouts was easy. Not too observant, they’re not from about here. The
rebel teams weren’t so easy. They travelled in groups, and they knew the
area. Keep down, haunt the alleys. No people. No beggars, no crooks, just
muskets everywhere. Did he really burn those people, kill those people? The
driver, certainly. The tutor? Who knows.
Streets swept of garbage, just cobblestone or brick. Lots of people coming
through certain areas, but stayed hidden. Just luck, really. Thought about
making it to the docks, boarding a ship and getting the hell away. But it
was the barricades that did it, that clinched it. All the barricades had been
rebuilt. The maps weren’t out of date at all. But the army had maps. The
Knights had maps. The rebels didn’t, but the Clannon estate was near the
main road into Mediter from the South, the one that went along the ocean,
eventually. The shops in town would have street maps. He was involved in
setting up the barricades, of course he’d be able to draw them in again.
Who was receiving them? Following the teams wasn’t too difficult, but
he was getting hungrier now. A little more desperate, but he took his time.
A large building, reinforced haphazardly. Near the focal point, closer to
Bien than to the roads out. Guards out front, with better, newer guns.
Definitely the place.
“Stop! Who’s there?”
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Robin stepped out of the darkness, stopped dimming himself. “Me.”
A snort from the guard. “Who’s ‘me’ ?”
“Robin Jalensen. Who’re you?”
He ignored the question. “Enlistment’s in the other building.”
“I’m not enlisting.”
“Then get the hell out of here.” He menaced Robin with the gun, but
found it soon pointing straight up, and he couldn’t move it back. “What’s
going on here?” Two more guards came through the door and found the
first one with his gun in the air.
“What are you doing? Quit playing with that.” One of the new guards
yanked the gun away. Robin let him have it. He ignored the first guard’s
protestations. “Who’re you?”
“Robin Jalensen.” A gasp from inside distracted him.
“Robin!” Out of the door bounded Emma Thoren. Robin stared in
surprise. She looked him up and down. “What are you doing here? Are you
hurt? How did you get here? They wired you’d been kidnapped!” He didn’t
answer, just blinked. “Come inside, quickly!” She half led, half dragged him
into the building past the dumbfounded guards.
“What are you doing here, Miss Thoren?”
She gave him an odd look, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Robin. It’s
Cassia, Cassia Shaw. I’ll explain later.” She brought him into a hallway
with a few chairs, lit by a row of candles along the wall over the doors.
Rough-looking people passed in and out of the hallway, not sparing him a
glance. “What are you doing here?”
“I –” What was he doing here? He’d spent most of his time figuring out
where here was. “Professor Clannon brought me here.”
“Here!” She was plainly shocked.
“Not here exactly. To Mediter.” She gave him a keen look, but said
nothing.
“Does Dr. Trent know you’re here?”
“No, but I’d like to tell him. And Lieutenant Bruce.” He stopped. “But
most of all, I’d like to find Captain de Mediter.” Now she was outright
staring at him. He took a gamble. “Is he in there?”
She thought a moment, then led him through the door into a larger room
with a desk and a few chairs. She knocked on the door on the left wall, then
poked her head in.
“You’ve got a guest, Mr. Olivier. You won’t believe it, either” The first
man through the door looked elderly, with a neatly combed head of bright
white hair, and a tan, lined face. The second man through the door was, as
Robin had hoped, Ari de Mediter, who by all appearances was floored.
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“Robin! What are you doing here?” The older man furrowed his brow,
but said nothing.
Robin related what had happened his last few days at the Clannon estate, prompting de Mediter to cast Cassia Shaw a long, hard look. His
description of the kidnapping and subsequent escape was hazy and vague,
and he eventually had to give up with a shrug. He was dirty again, and his
nice clothes were caked with dust and grime. De Mediter was struck by how
much he looked the way he had when they’d first met. He noted that they
weren’t far from where they met, though that was no coincidence.
He sat on his desk and stared at Robin and Cassia. “It shouldn’t surprise
me that you two know each other. You can’t call me Captain de Mediter,
anymore, Robin. I’m no longer a Captain, and I’d prefer that my name not
be known. You can call me Ari, or Mr. Olivier. It’s my middle name, I
never had much of an imagination for that sort of thing.” He looked straight
at Miss Shaw as he said that last part.
“Should I explain, then?” she asked mildly. “Sean Clannon used to be
the organizer of a pod of the Mediter Revolutionaries. Mostly his students,
like me. The pod broke up when the TRP formed. A few months ago he
told me he needed help relaying information to his contacts in the TRP, one
in Kendauer, one in Mediter. I had to stay there, and make observations
of my own.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “He was afraid that
nobody would believe him.”
“Who is his Mediter contact?”
“Dr. Pierre St. John.”
De Mediter nodded. “I’d suspected as much. He’s on the Cabal.” He
sighed, looking tired. Robin was a little surprised by his appearance. He’d
seen the Knight, or rather ex-Knight, in informal clothes at home, but never
actually dirty or unkempt. The clothes he wore now were drab brown, worn
at the knees and elbows, and stained in several places. Oddly enough, he
looked as if he were enjoying himself. “Oh! Robin, I’d like you to meet Ian
Mestrava. He has been advising me, and providing much-needed material
support.”
“A pleasure to meet such a distinguished young man.”
“The three of you should eat. I have to meet with Brother Lars, Ian,
and I’d like to talk to you about that afterward.”
Mestrava agreed. He bowed to Robin and Cassia, then led them, in his
funny stiff walk, to the kitchens.
***
Brother Lars, a large man in a leather mask, wore a simple blue tunic
in the traditional manner, but carried an old single shot pistol prominently
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in his belt. He waited patiently for Olivier in the “nice room,” which was
furnished comfortably with several fine chairs and a slightly soiled Ebron
rug. Olivier finished his business with the messenger from Dolphin army,
then closed the door and sat back down.
“I apologize, Brother, for the interruption.”
Lars nodded, examining the rug keenly. “I understand,” he replied, only
slightly muffled by the mask that covered his mouth and nose. “Running an
army is difficult under any circumstances. These in particular offer hardships
I cannot imagine.”
“What have the Paladins decided about our situation?”
“The Paladins no longer speak as a single group, I’m afraid. Since the
Dissolution and the Great Purge, most of the ranking Paladins have died or
been killed. Those in Palatine who follow Brother Warren I cannot speak
for. Those I do, however, comprise the majority of the surviving Paladins.”
“I understand, Brother Lars. Sometimes an organization has differences
that cannot be easily brooked,” Olivier replied without a hint of irony.
“Yes. I simply wish you to understand that although we as a group are
willing to aid you, we are not nearly as powerful as we were five years ago.”
“If we lose, you will be put at great risk. Your brethren in Palatine may
not be able to assist you in time.”
Brother Lars chuckled. “Our brethren in Palatine wish we would die
peacefully and not contest their claims of legitimacy. Regardless, our wellbeing is our own concern. We sympathize greatly with the plight of the
people of Mediter.” He paused, the lines around his eyes betraying a smile.
“And there are many of us who owe you our lives, Ari, for helping us during
the Purge. That was a dark time for our Order, and we do not forget.”
“What about Marta Slake, and her True Revolutionary Party?”
Lars became serious again. “We are their allies, not their servants.”
Olivier accepted this, but made up his mind to discuss it with Mestrava.
“I do not wish to insult you, Brother, but how do you plan to assist?”
“Most of our best warriors were killed in the Purge, but those who survive can train your men. We have strategists, and people skilled with field
medicine.”
“How many?”
“Forty.”
“There are only forty left?”
Lars shook his head. “There are over one hundred left, but most are
still young and we wish to further train them before introducing them to a
battlefield. Many have not even taken their vows yet.”
“They were persecuted nonetheless.”
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“True. Ethelbert’s past cruelty, however, will not prompt us to further
spoil their growth in Pala’s love.” Olivier conceded, and, thanking Lars
profusely for the promised help, went to meet with Phoenix army’s tactician
and then Mestrava.
***
Janus Kepler stepped off the train in Mediter Station after the lengthy
ride. Being inordinately tall, both his neck and legs were cramped, putting
him in a bad mood that had lasted the better part of the day. The soldier
in Mediter army’s green uniform saluted the tall black man, and welcomed
him to Mediter Station.
“Is Andrew here?” he asked, rubbing his sore neck.
“Yes, sir. He’s in the office relaying telegrams, or he would have met you
himself.”
“Relaying telegrams, eh? How’s he doing?”
“He’s an asshole, sir.” Janus laughed, then winced from a twinge in his
neck. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir.”
“That’s quite all right. Take me to the office, then take care of my men.
There’s thirty of us, and we haven’t eaten since Kendauer.”
“Yes sir.” The soldier led him off the platform into the main room. The
station had remained busy, at Andrew’s insistence, to keep up the appearance that it still belonged to the Mediter Army, even though he himself
controlled the telegraph machine, and happily rerouted two thirds of the
Mediter Army shipments to the revolutionary soldiers. The office was not
only not armored, but the wide window was kept clear of curtains and obstacles. When Janus stepped in, his friend was sleeping under one of the
desks. He kicked him.
“Wake up, asshole. I hear you’re making life miserable for our people
here.”
No answer. Andrew stood up, wearing a crumpled Mediter army officer’s
uniform with a large green handkerchief covering, Janus correctly guessed,
a bullet hole and a blood stain. “You just get in?”
“I did. Does that costume really fool them?”
“Don’t know, they haven’t come by. Had to have it washed five times,
shirt and trousers, though.”
“At least there’s some excitement for you, Doll.”
He ignored both digs. “What did you bring from Kendauer?”
“Ammo, mainly. Replacement parts for the guns. Fake papers to get us
back to Ibra later.”
“Better counterfeits than the last ones, I hope.”
“Much better. Not even counterfeit, except the signatures.”
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“Good.” Andrew fell silent, watching the crowds outside the office.
“Mestrava’s on Olivier’s top staff. Calling it a Revolution now, too, even
the papers.”
“I wondered. Any news from Neil?”
“No, but Mestrava doesn’t usually tell me where he goes. Afraid I’ll
shoot him, maybe.” Janus chuckled, though anyone else would have taken
that tone of voice as a serious threat.
“You won’t do that.”
Andrew snorted. “I followed my best friend halfway around the world
just to kill him. You think I won’t shoot Neil?”
“I think you won’t shoot Neil. You’d hate to waste a bullet on someone
that fun to strangle, maybe.”
Andrew laughed at that one.
Janus smiled at his friend. “How has the station been? Difficult to run?”
“Not at all. The mercenaries infiltrated pretty much totally. I had to
shoot the officer, and there’s another one locked up in back, but all the
people accepted the explanation that the officer was a spy, and the staff
were mostly enthusiastic about supporting Olivier.” He shrugged. “All in
all, they run the place without too much hassle from me.”
“That why they say you’re an asshole?”
He smirked. “I miss the Navy. You can’t keelhaul someone on land.”
***
Robin ate quickly, without realizing how hungry he’d been wandering the
streets. While he ate, Cassia and the older man, Ian, told him about the
camp and headquarters. This was where Captain de Mediter – Mr. Olivier,
Robin should call him – lived and coordinated tactics among the three Army
leaders. Supplies came through here and another building further west. Various buildings nearby had been made into barracks, but Mestrava ventured
that Robin should probably stay in the main building with Olivier and his
staff.
Robin was full of questions about the armies and battles, and the two
answered as best they could until finally Mestrava was obliged to ask a
large man with a scruffy beard to join him. The man introduced himself
as Geoffrey Ducheval, commander of Lion army. Robin questioned him at
length about how well armed they were, if there were any other Knights
there, and lastly, how Olivier had come to lead them.
Ducheval chuckled and scratched his beard. “Well, I’m not quite sure
myself. Back in March he came down to talk to some of us about the rioting,
told us that he’d try to get food and supplies in to us, that we’d just have to
wait. Waited until April, nothing. He came down again, bringing as much
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food as he personally could afford. Wasn’t much, but it convinced us he was
for real.
“After that, things got worse. Some of the bigger groups of rioters had
attacked Bien earlier, but the ship captains were hiring detectives. Olivier
didn’t like that much, and he organized us to help us against them. After
he quit the Knights, he moved his wife out of the city and came down to the
ground for good. We had a big meeting of all the different leaders, and most
of them agreed to his idea to unite under two armies, Lion and Dolphin. One
to fight off the Mediter Army, the other to fight off the Campertines. We
managed to capture one of the smaller wharves that way, and a few Army
supply wagons that strayed too close to us. After that, the other rioters
joined up, as Phoenix Army, and they’ve been doing a pretty good job of
intercepting shipments off the railroad, especially the last few days. Lot of
University people joining now, too, mostly as spies and that sort of thing.”
“Which army is Captain, Mr. Olivier in charge of?”
“Well, he’s not, really, unless you count Turtle, which is kind of a joke.
If you look at it, he’s not in charge of anything. I’m fully in charge of Lion
army. I listen to Olivier, because he’s smart and he knows what’s going on,
but I don’t take orders from him. Same for Dolphin army. In fact, they
listen to him a lot less than they should, and it’s starting to hurt them.
Phoenix is a little different, since they don’t have as strong a hierarchy as
we do, so they’re pretty dependent on what Olivier says.”
“So what does he do?”
“Oh, he does a lot, don’t you worry. He handles food, which is no small
task. He brought in bakers and a lot of the mens’ wives are under his
protection, so they cook here. There’s a handful of surgeons and nurses,
and they get their equipment and medicine from him. He works with the
commanders and tacticians to coordinate plans and keep us from running
into each other. That sort of thing. Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I need to
go meet with Robert. See if I can get him to quit running into me,” he said
with a wink as he cleared his own dishes and left.
Mestrava also begged Robin’s leave, and went immediately to meet with
Olivier in the map room.
“I brought you something to eat, as I suspected you had not stopped to
dine.” Bread and a glass of wine.
“Thank you, Ian, I appreciate that. Phoenix tells me that they received
two rather large shipments out of Mediter station. No messages, but I would
guess that means that your agent is there.”
“That is good news,” he said meditatively. “I don’t believe that he
will send a message, not until the Mediter Army is safely away from their
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position. He does not, I think, wish to run the risk of the tracks getting
blocked.”
“Clever. I met with Brother Lars a little while ago. The Paladins are
willing to help, but the best they can do is forty people.”
“They are very skilled in medicine, however, and their tactical school
was once second to none.”
“Oh, I accepted his help. I’m worried, though, that we’re antagonizing
the TRP. We’re relying pretty heavily on Kendauer’s neutrality.”
“Do not worry. Eliot Winsor is a shrewd man. I think that if the True
Revolutionary Party were to try to exercise undue pressure on him, that he
would deal with the matter efficiently. Remember that there is a pressure
there from Fengar, too.”
“I hope so.” Olivier stopped and ate a little, but didn’t touch the wine.
“It looks like we’ve got the Army pretty much beaten back. The Knights
are concentrated at the western ramp, near Bien, which means that they’re
our next obvious target.”
“How are our defenses?”
“Good. Not perfect, but I think that if the Army or Captain Arvind
decides to pull an attack on us from the north, then we’ll be able to fight
them back. We can’t afford to push any further north, though, not with our
current numbers. I suggested that Lion start building permanent barricades
and sniper positions along the north border. He’s using Levi’s Square as
their main supply dump.”
Mestrava pondered that. “The offices of the Mediter Evening Post, they
are on the ground, are they not?”
“Yes, but much further east. They’re not even under the tiers, and
they’re well within the areas under the Mediter Army.”
“I have the beginnings of an idea. If the boy Robin can lead us out
there.”
“Absolutely not.”
Mestrava bore a look of surprise. “Whyever not? He knows the streets
well enough to get through the barricades. I’m a little too old to go alone,
in any case, and we can’t afford to be caught with soldiers.”
“You want to go? What are you thinking about doing?”
“I think that it may be time to unmask you, Mr. de Mediter.”
***
George King kicked at a loose cobblestone, sending it tumbling. Nothing
but talk, all day. Dull, dry words from every which way. The team leader
went on and on about their important duty, the guard captain went on
and on about the necessity to ‘firm up the defenses’ and ‘keep the passage
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clean and well lit.’ What a complete waste of time! He’d learned nothing
significant about the operation, other than whatever little tidbits came up
in conversation. If he didn’t shoot somebody soon, he’d have to give up the
mission altogether out of sheer boredom.
Flipping through that stupid book wasn’t very interesting, either. Alchemy
books never were. Just a lot of stupid ramblings about the ether and pulling
energy from the ley lines, whatever they were. Why ban Iris wanted it was
beyond him. Shooting that old librarian was just boring. Routine, even.
Gregor was supposed to pick it up, but George guessed that he couldn’t
find him. Fuck him anyway. “Work your way up from recruit,” he said,
“You’ll never touch Olivier otherwise,” he said. Stupid advice, but he was
stuck following it now. This guard duty left him so far away from everything
that he didn’t get to kill any enemy soldiers, and he’d never get a shot at
Olivier.
He paced up and down the block, twisting his ring and fuming. The
sniping lofts wouldn’t be finished until tomorrow, and until then he’d be
on guard duty, or helping repair lamps. He sat on the curb after ten or
twenty minutes of that, and began polishing the musket he’d been issued.
Awful shape, probably some family heirloom or something. He cleaned the
flashpan, replaced the nub of flint, swabbed all the dust and grease from the
barrel, and then buffed it with a piece of cloth torn from his shirt. A shitty
weapon, but he didn’t want to tip his hand by using his Fenne-issued pistol.
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and stood up. He scanned the
streets for something, anything, and spied a rat up the street two blocks.
King strode out into the street, swept up the musket and fired, seeing
through the smoke with satisfaction the animal tumble back a few feet,
splashing blood and fur.
The effect was instantaneous. Every soldier on his guard, fingers on
triggers. His team leader rebuked him sharply and angrily for the waste of
gunpowder, but every other soldier there mutely looked between him and
the corpse of the rat. Every soldier there knew that he himself couldn’t
have made that shot with that weapon, and the effect of that on them was
visible.
When the sniper lofts were finished, George King was assigned the one
closest to where the Knights might be coming through, and that suited him
just fine.
***
Robin and Cassia sat for a while after they’d eaten. He had a difficult
time remembering to call her by her real name, but she corrected him gently
whenever he lapsed. Cassia herself was glad for the conversation. She had
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started to talk to him at the Clannon estate in order to gain information.
But now, without that motive, she found that she enjoyed his conversation,
and was honestly interested in what he had to say about the city, and politics
and even the opera!
“Which opera did you ever see,” she asked when the topic came up.
“I saw ‘Lia’ with Captain de Mediter when it first opened in January.”
“Really! I once saw the play it was based on, but I hear the opera was
good. You know what’s it’s based on, don’t you?”
Robin shook his head, so she gladly continued. “It’s historical, about
the War of Twin Succession, that led to the creation of the Free States,
Akrostira, Etheora, Depolisti, and Meliora. The old king refused to name
either of his twin sons as heir to the throne, and when he died, there was a
massive civil war, the one in the last part of the play. The character Lia was
made up, I think, but the advisor who killed Elithor was supposed to be a
real person. Anyway, when the war ended, King Anathor was crowned, but
his son had been killed in the fighting, and when he died, the four Duchies
revolted. They love that story down there. In Akrostira there are signs all
over the place marking this battle, or the place where some nobleman was
assassinated.”
The sound of a distant gunshot silenced her, and all the people around
them, too. A moment of anxious silence ensued, then nervous laughter when
the night remained quiet.
“I guess it’s bad luck to talk about wars in a war zone,” Cassia said
quietly.
Robin agreed, then scolded himself for agreeing too forcefully. “It wasn’t
this bad with the Fengari. At least they were only coming from one direction.” He decided not to talk about that, she didn’t seem to want to hear
it. “I wonder how things are with Dr. Trent and Lieutenant Bruce. I can’t
get word to them that I’m safe.”
Cassia shook her head. “We don’t want to let the Cabal know you’re
here with us. Dr. Trent doesn’t seem the type to tell them, but the other
one’s a Knight.”
“That Knight drew up the maps we’re using.”
“Really? I guess I figured him wrong, then.”
“No, I think,” Robin paused to do just that. “I think that he just was
more loyal to Captain de, I’m sorry, to Mr. Olivier than to the Temple. I
wonder if that means he was a good Knight or a bad one.”
“I don’t know.” Cassia looked around her, then leaned in. “You know,
the entire time I was there at the estate, I never once saw with my own eyes
what you can do.”
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Robin scowled, and looked around. There were still people eating,
though it had to be getting late. One of the cooks was still bustling around
the kitchen, and a soldier in an apron was clearing plates and knives. “Too
many people around. I don’t want them to stare.”
She considered that. “Can you do something they wouldn’t be able to
see?”
Something they wouldn’t be able to see? People were looking right at
them. What could he do right under their noses that they wouldn’t see? He
thought a moment, then turned fully towards her. A little concentration,
and she seemed to get a little taller, and infinitely more surprised. He let
her get used to it for a moment, then lowered her back onto her chair.
Cassia blinked her wide eyes a few times, then laid her hand on his, so
that he could feel her racing pulse. “That was incredible,” she hissed. “No
wonder Sean was so excited about you!”
Robin pursed his lips and looked away, pretending to watch the soldiers
eat. He was interrupted by someone clearing his throat behind him.
“Hello, Mr. Mestrava,” Cassia smiled. “Have you met with Mr. Olivier
yet?”
“Ah yes, Miss Shaw. Thank you for the reminder, but I have already
met with him. I must now speak with young Robin here, if you might excuse
us?” His politeness had a tinge of sarcasm to it that she didn’t like, but she
had other things to do, so she left them alone. Mestrava sat in her chair
facing Robin.
“I must apologize to you for driving her away, but this is a matter of
some discretion. Mr Olivier has a task for the two of us that must be carried
out in the utmost secrecy!” He smiled to himself when Robin’s eyes grew
wide. “I need to you guide me to a place well outside this area of Mediter,
past the barricades.”
Robin’s face fell. “He wants me out of harm’s way. Like when I went to
stay with Professor Clannon.”
“Not at all,” Mestrava countered emphatically. “This is a matter of
great urgency, that may well save lives. I assure you as well, that we shall
return here once the task is completed.” Robin had to admit that he was
excited by the idea of a special mission. He agreed, trying not to look too
excited. “Excellent. We shall leave early tomorrow, so I suggest that you
go to sleep early; you shall sleep in the barracks, if that is not a problem. I
myself will wake you tomorrow when the time has come to leave.”
***
Robin slept soundly in the bottom bunk of the beds closest to the door.
The top bunk was unoccupied, as were most of the beds in the building.
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The armies had to be active all night and all day, and sleeping soldiers often
slept on the streets. Mestrava woke him gently. Robin could see that he
was already impeccably dressed and groomed, carrying his attaché case and
a fine cane. His sash and sword were gone, and he wore a bowler hat.
Robin rose and cleaned himself quietly to avoid waking the soldiers.
Mestrava had clean clothes for him to change into, though they were a little
scuffed and worn. He explained as they breakfasted that he was to pose as
Mestrava’s grandson. They would get through the barricades and roadblocks
in whatever manner, he said, that Robin saw fit. Robin didn’t need that to
be spelled out for him.
The soldiers had apparently been told already of their mission, as they
allowed the two to pass unmolested. The barricade they climbed, dirtying
their clothes, which Mestrava said was fine, that they “should perhaps be
not so perfectly clean,” though it clearly bothered him.
Robin made them dim as they walked through the dark streets. He
chose narrow streets and alleys when he could, but the sheer quiet made him
nervous. Rue Morgan was a few streets away, parallel, and it had always
been raucous and noisy when he had been near it. Now, dead silence. The
sight of a Mediter Army soldier made him tense, and he dimmed them as
much as he could.
After over an hour of walking, he could finally make out the roadblocks
ahead. He stopped and looked to his companion. Mestrava simply shrugged
politely. Robin stood for a moment, then took Mestrava by the arm and
led him slowly up a side street to Rue Morgan, and turned to where the
roadblock was at its most guarded. A soldier immediately stopped them.
“There’s nobody permitted to pass here,” he said bluntly, holding his
musket so tightly that Robin could see his knuckles whiten.
Robin took a breath and stuttered, “I know that, sir. But me, me and
my grandpa got lost, and we have to get through to my father. We’ve been
gone so long, he probably thinks we’re dead! But we’re not dead, we’re just
lost, but he might think we’re dead!”
The shorter Mestrava patted Robin on the upper arm. “You’ll have
to excuse the boy, sir. I am Ian Gervault, and this is my grandson Robin,”
Robin felt suddenly nervous at having his real name spoken. “My son Albert
escaped through here a few days ago, but we were separated by those damned
rioters. They stole most of our belongings, you see, so we had to walk.” The
soldier nodded absentmindedly, looking to his officer helplessly as Mestrava
continued to prattle on, and finally quieted them, and brought them to the
guard shack where he searched them and their belongings.
Opening Mestrava’s attach` case, the officer picked out a small bundle
133
of currency. He carefully split the bundle into two stacks, one of which he
pocketed, warning the two that he was taking a great personal risk allowing
these two to pass without putting them under arrest. He did not find Robin’s
knife, of course, which Robin placed on the table and made to look like a
hat. Concentrating on it while being searched allowed him to pull of the
ruse easily, though he had to be careful not to let it make a noise.
The officer finally allowed them to pass, and the two continued to walk
along Rue Morgan, and began to see people hurrying about their business,
watching the soldiers with agitated eyes.
“Why did you let him take the money?” Robin finally asked.
Mestrava just laughed politely. “The money means nothing to me,
Robin. It was simply a clever forgery that will, I think, cause the gentleman officer to be arrested if he attempts to spend it.” They stopped
several people and through gentle questioning found their way to the offices
of the Mediter Evening Post, a long squat building a block or two away
from the nicer houses and shops. While Mestrava spoke to the man who
came to the door, Robin turned and looked back at the main part of the
city, towering over them. The massive tiers, with their multitude of blackened columns, seemed to float even over the taller buildings. This section
of Mediter, though, was much more pleasant. Rue Morgan was split down
the middle by huge green spaces, and further along, Robin could see potted
trees.
Mestrava suddenly grasped Robin’s arm. “We should go inside now, I
think, to pursue this discussion further.”
Once inside, Robin could hear faintly the rhythmic pounding of the
presses beneath his feet. Inkstained men in shirtsleeves rushed around the
office clutching papers, tapping at typewriters and shouting from one end of
the room to the other. Mestrava followed the man who opened the door to
the desk in the back of the room where a short, balding man sat. The man
who opened the door mumbled something to him and pointed in Mestrava’s
direction.
“Let me see it,” he demanded of the Ebron gentleman. Mestrava produced a single sheet of clean paper from his attach` case. The newspaper
man snatched it and read it with widening eyes. “Holy shit, you know what
you got here?” He slapped it down on his desk. “No way I can print this.
No way.”
Mestrava smiled and bowed. “Thank you, anyway, sir.” He turned to
Robin. “I apologize. You were right to want to go first to the Mediter
Times.”
“Hey, hold on, hold on.” The newspaper man stumbled over his words,
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taking the paper off the desk. He licked his lips as he read, and swallowed
hard. “Look, what would it take for you to forget to bring this to the
Times?”
Mestrava looked very serious. “I cannot forget to do such a thing, sir.
However,” he started, drawing it out in his thick Ebron accent, “If you, my
dear friend, were to agree to put this small, trifling thing on the front page
of your very distinguished news paper, then I could of course entrust you
to deliver to the Mediter Times their copy?” The newspaper man grinned
widely.
“But of course, my dear friend. I’ll gladly take it now and have it sent
right over.”
“I thank you sir, but you understand that I must see the galleys for
tomorrow’s edition before I can do such a thing.”
The newspaper man pursed his lips and read over the sheet of paper
again. “Deal. Be here tomorrow noon.”
Chapter 10
The Article
Captain Philip Arvind knocked on his front door, and when the maid answered, he thanked her with a smile, came in, and removed his boots. His
wife Helene greeted him with a kiss and brought him to the sitting room.
She brought him his pipe, a little brandy, and gave him the evening paper.
He thanked her warmly.
Three minutes later, his pipe was out, his boots were on, and he was on
the curb clutching the paper and hailing a hansom cab. Helene would later
tell her friends that in thirtyfive years of marriage, she had never, ever seen
him as furious as he was at that instant.
MEDITER EVENING POST
“To the Citizens of Mediter.
“ For some time now, you have been told in this newspaper of riots
and rioters, looters who steal food and burn factories. No more do these
people steal, however, than has already been stolen from the Citizens of
Mediter by the Cabal of the ‘Worthy’, a council of ten men who have repeatedly betrayed the Holy City for the sake of unholy political alliances.
These alliances brought the Fengari menace into our beautiful city once,
bring destruction, misery and death. Now again, the Temple clings to these
alliances which, unless abandoned, will bring further grief and more death
to our City. Already it has twice refused offers of food from the Mayor of
Kendauer, choosing instead to import costly weaponry and hire detectives
to murder the People of Mediter.
“ We cannot abide the decisions of this Cabal any longer, and so we must
declare ourselves to be in Revolution. Only through armed rebellion can we
feed our people and prevent another Fenne invasion. We urge all Citizens
of Mediter to renounce the authority of the Temple, and at the same time
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CHAPTER 10. THE ARTICLE
pray to the Gods that the Temple once pretended to worship, that we may
succeed in restoring a responsible and trustworthy government to the Holy
City.
“ Thank you, fellow Citizens,
“ (signed) Ari Olivier de Mediter”
“This is the letter that arrived only today, containing just one
more thing, the following list of names, claiming them to be the
names of the ten men sitting on the Cabal of the Worthy, the
current government of Mediter:”
Olivier threw away the paper without reading the column of names.
The letter had been embellished greatly by Ian Mestrava, of course, making
the reading of it a little uncomfortable to him. Adding quotes around the
word Worthy was in particular something that he would not have done.
Nevertheless, within hours of its publication, two Knights, both his friends
and trusted Lieutenants, appeared at his door and embraced him once more
as their commander. He felt ill.
***
Andrew and Janus paced the platform and inspected the twenty men.
All were dressed in the Mediter Army uniforms and looked sharp in them.
They had picked men from Mediter and the surrounding areas, since Ebrons
would stick out. Janus himself had, after much persuading, agreed to stay
and run the station, since he could simply not pass for a Mediterran, even
if they could find a uniform in his size. There were enough islanders and
colonists in the lower ranks to talk his way out of any situation in the station.
Since the letter in the paper the night before, the Mediter Army had increased its attacks on the eastern and southern areas under Olivier’s control.
Phoenix army had sent a message in the night pleading for reinforcements,
so Andrew and Janus came up with this plan, to bring men, ammunition,
and weapons in.
The uniforms had been there all along, stolen by the mercenaries when
they infiltrated. Andrew decided that they could hold the place with twenty
soldiers if Janus were commanding, sparing another twenty to reinforce
Phoenix. It wasn’t much, but they were well-armed, and most of them
were professional soldiers.
The two friends wished each other luck, and Andrew led his team along
the tracks toward the meeting point.
***
By the time Robin and Ian returned, the evening after publication, a
total of twelve Knights had defected. They brought with them food, money,
137
attack plans, copies of secret communications, and most of all an impressive
optimism. Robin found himself talking to one of the Knights he’d saved
from Fenne soldiers, who told him that as soon as they knew for sure that it
was Captain de Mediter – Olivier, Robin corrected him – it wasn’t a matter
of whether to join, but of how quickly they could get away.
Mestrava brought Robin in to tell Olivier about their foray into Mediter
Army territory. The ex-Knight looked tired when they entered the room,
but he smiled at them.
“I’m glad you both came back safely. As you can see, our ranks have
grown considerably over the last two days. The Knights that you saw are
only the most visible. Dolphin and Lion both are reporting quite a few
new recruits. Phoenix isn’t so lucky, but your agent, Ian, and some of your
mercenaries are joining them tonight, and I hope that Phoenix army will
accept the aid of some of the Knights.”
“Dolphin could certainly use the expertise of your Knights.”
Olivier shook his head vigorously. “Absolutely not. They look eager
now, but I know that’s just nerves. I fully expect some of them to return
to the Cabal, and I would rather they be able to sneak away in the night
than to have to face that decision in battle. The bulk of them will be put
in Lion, with Geoffrey’s permission, and in my own staff.” He concentrated
for a moment. “Before I forget, Robin, I managed to get a message to Jean
Bruce and Dr. Trent, and informed them that you are well and safe with
me.”
“I am glad,” Mestrava said, “that you consider your company safe. That
is an encouraging thing, Ari.”
Olivier shrugged it off. “I don’t have much time, but I want to hear
about what you saw of the Mediter Army. Phoenix tells me they’re getting
weak in the southern parts of the city, but more desperate, too. Lion reports
nothing new. How accurate is that?”
Robin thought. “There were a lot of empty streets between the Army
roadblocks and the barricades. We didn’t see anybody.”
Olivier nodded. “There could still be snipers, though. Go on.”
“The roadblocks were pretty well manned, I think. The soldier in charge
of the roadblock we went through on the way out was pretty corrupt. The
one on the way back, a little further north, just searched us and let us
through.”
“Interesting. Ian?”
“There is little to add. Many of the soldiers were not of Mediter, I
believe. Their uniforms were very new, some of them were still creased
nicely.”
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“Mercenaries, then?”
“Quite possibly. Or perhaps from Mediter’s colonies.”
Olivier pondered that. “There have been no ships from Briuni, but a
passenger ship need not pass through Bien. It could go either north or south.
Regardless, if mercenaries, then they should be easier to beat. If prisoners
from the colonies, then they may even defect. I’ll pass along the information
to Lion’s tactician, but I believe it may be good news. In the meantime,
however, I need to attend to other matters. Thank you Ian, Robin.”
***
Janus was sleeping when one of his soldiers banged on the office door.
He came out immediately, still groggy.
“Sir, an armored train is pulling into the station.”
“Which platform?”
“Northbound, sir. It’s got Mediter Army insignia.”
Janus raced down the steps just in time to watch the train pull to a halt.
Out of each door stepped a soldier in a green uniform, holding a gun. They
stood at attention, so Janus motioned his men to do nothing yet, while he
inspected the new soldiers. They were certainly not Mediterran, too dark.
The uniforms were all brand new. He thought fast, then approached the
officer who emerged from the front car, thanking all of the gods that he’d
found a uniform that fit him.
“Are these the new men,” Janus asked in as certain a voice as he could
muster.
“Yes, sir. Fresh from the colonies.” The officer, a full foot shorter than
him and apparently wary of a black officer, looked extremely suspicious.
“Excellent. Thirty?”
The officer gave him a strange look. “One hundred, sir.”
“Good. Wonderful.” Janus could feel sweat trickling down his neck.
Then he had an idea. “Ten of them will be stationed here. If you’ll follow
me, the General is waiting for us to discuss the rest.” He immediately turned
and walked up the steps. After a pause, the officer followed him. As soon
as he reached the top of the stairs, Janus turned around, grabbed the officer
and slapped a hand over his mouth. He dragged the wideeyed officer, kicking
and thrashing, to the back room where they kept the other prisoner.
He stopped to catch his breath, and rubbed his leg where he’d been
kicked, and walked confidently back to the platform where he had a difficult
time announcing that all one hundred soldiers were under his command until
further notice. He then immediately turned and found a side room, closed
the door and laughed so hard he nearly broke a rib.
***
139
Robin spent the next few weeks extremely busy, mainly as a runner.
He was familiar with the streets in Lion’s territory, so whenever Olivier or
Ducheval had a message for the most distant posts, he ran it to them. It
was tiring, but he felt good to be going something useful. They had wanted
to give him a gun, but he begged off. He didn’t know how to fire one, and
since he carried his pack at all times, he had the knife given him by the
Gypsies.
In the evenings, he ate with Cassia, and the two talked about the Revolution, and sometimes about things she’d seen in the Free States. No, she’d
never met Loben Vin, but she said she wasn’t very interested in antiquities.
Often he would give her a demonstration of what he could do, making forks
appear, making them turn into spoons in the blink of an eye, or doing impressions of Ian Mestrava when he was absolutely certain that nobody else
would hear. Robin began to feel less uncomfortable around her, now that
she knew about his abilities. She was still much more cosmopolitan than he
was, but he felt more equal to her now.
All the while, everyone was in high spirits. There was little fighting in all
the armies. The Mediter Army had withdrawn from the most contentious
areas, and encounters with the Campertines in Bien became more rare with
battle lines more firmly drawn. A few ship captains had even agreed to work
with Olivier to bring in needed supplies, but what weighed on most peoples’
minds were the Knights. Nearly fifty Knights now had defected, and all still
wore their uniforms.
People were of two minds about the Knights. Outwardly, they were for
the most part welcomed, but Robin more than once heard worries of spying
and infiltration. Even those that did not suspect them were angry that they
were not joining the real fighting in Bien. Instead, men were being moved
out of Phoenix and Lion to make room for the Knights at the eastern and
southern ports. They realized that it would be a bad idea to make Knights
fight other Knights, as might happen in Bien, but they were unhappy about
the situation nonetheless.
In late May, three weeks after Olivier’s letter was published, the Mediter
Army surrendered. Geoffrey Ducheval accepted General Grievarre’s surrender, and listened with a straight face as the old general complained that
even in his time of need, he could not get the reinforcements he needed from
the colonies. Train after train, he said, came up empty with no sign of the
soldiers being transported.
With the surrender, the nature of the war changed dramatically. Grievarre
could not agree to place his soldiers under Revolutionary command, but
could and did send his forces to guard the Fenne border and the railroad
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tracks. Janus Kepler, celebrated as something of a hero, was placed in
command of the new Eagle army, made up primarily of deserters from the
Mediter army and the growing number of volunteers from the countryside.
Robin stayed away from him, however, remembering their first meeting. He
was glad when Eagle army was commanded to take positions north and in
the outer city, the furthest from Olivier’s headquarters.
Shortly after Eagle army was sent north, Olivier sent for Robin to come
to his planning room. By the time he got there, there were ten other people
in the room, mostly people he remembered as Knights.
“Robin, thank you. If you’ll close the door, we can begin.” Olivier rolled
a map out onto the table. “This is the most up to date map of the First Tier
I could find. According to the last reports, the Temple has been gathering
Knights and soldiers at the tops of each ramp except the east, which, I’m
told, is blocked.”
“They’re trapped,” observed someone near the corner. “We can just
starve them out.”
Olivier shook his head vehemently. “We’re fighting this because they
starved us. I’m not about to do the same to them, or it’ll never end. I want
a clean, decisive victory, and so do you. They brought in supplies enough to
last until November. If they abandon the First Tier, then they can last until
next March. If they abandon the second, who knows? Two years, maybe.
All the while, we’d have the burden of a half million extra people to feed,
without the authority to collect taxes.”
He pointed to a place somewhat west on the map. “I want to establish
a headquarters on the First Tier here. If we can do that, then we should be
able to strike from both the bottom and the top, and capture enough of the
Temple’s forces to make it impossible for them to continue the war.”
“How can we do that without putting them on their guard,” someone
objected. Robin recognized him as the commander of Phoenix Army, Armand. “They’ve still got a patrol on the eastern ramp to prevent deserters
from using it, and the minute they see us on the First Tier, they’ll abandon
it.”
Robin suddenly realized why he was there. “The Thieves’ Road.”
“Exactly!” Olivier smiled him, then went on excitedly. “There is a
passage that Robin knows between the ground and the First Tier, through
the largest column. It was apparently intended as an escape route for the old
nobility, but the criminal element – excuse me, Robin – has been maintaining
it in working condition for hundreds of years. According to reports, the
Temple has absolutely no patrols going further than a few blocks from the
rim into the First Tier. If we do this with discretion and patience, we can
141
have a sizable force up there by the end of June.
“I think that this would be an excellent job for Phoenix army, with the
approval of its commander. One might say it’s even appropriate.” A few
people around the room chuckled.
Armand thought about that. “You have to admit, it sounds a little
farfetched. But ignoring that for a moment, that will leave the southern
flank exposed. They’re not concentrated there right now, but that doesn’t
mean anything. Besides,” He paused meaningfully. “If any hint of this gets
to the Temple prematurely, every man up there will be in serious danger.”
“Spies, you mean.”
“Not spies, necessarily. There are still people living there. Anyone could
see something and report it out of loyalty or fear or whatever. However,
we could use a smaller force and only attack one ramp. From all reports,
the largest group of Knights is at Bien. If we can capture that, then they
won’t be able to hold the Second Tier. They just won’t have the men for it,
especially if we act quickly.”
Geoffrey spoke up from behind Robin, who jumped a little in surprise. “I
think that may work better, Ari. Lion can afford to move west now that the
Mediter Army’s off our back. Let them know ahead of time that we’re going
to push west through Bien and up. We all know they’re getting information
on us; let’s put it to good use. I can take two squads west, through the
passage my team’s been fortifying. Robert, can Dolphin’s tactician meet
with mine and coordinate an attack on the western ramp?”
“I guess so. I’m not sure what to do about the Campertines, but Dolphin
can certainly act as a shield if that’s what you want.”
Armand jumped back in, excited now. “While Lion comes in from the
ground, I can easily spare a hundred men to take Olivier’s Road, or whatever
it is, and come in behind them. Robin, how quickly can we get a hundred
men up to the First Tier?”
He thought carefully. “I’d say ten hours, if they’re all good climbers.
With equipment, it might take a little longer. They’ll be tired, though.”
Amand nodded. “Ten hours transport, then lay low overnight to rest,
and attack in the morning. We can coordinate that with Lion and Dolphin
without a problem. The rest of Phoenix will stay and watch the southern
route, and Eagle’s still got the northern route. Does that sound all right,
Ari?”
All eyes turned to Olivier, who was staring at the map. “Make it a
hundred fifty men, Armand. I think I can get the majority of their forces
into the western position.”
“How?”
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“By moving my headquarters into Bien.”
***
The next few days were a flurry of activity. A team of soldiers worked in
the secure part of Bien to finish and secure a warehouse, while people passed
back and forth transporting weapons, maps, tables, everything. Olivier
himself stayed where he was and continued organizing everything at the
old headquarters, and put Cassia Shaw in charge of setting up the new
headquarters.
Ian Mestrava helped Armand surreptitiously select one hundred fifty
men, and out of that group three, each to lead a group of fifty. While
visiting Phoenix, he met briefly with his agent, and decided not to send
him, asking rather that Armand send Andrew and his men northeast to
help with the attack.
Mestrava, Armand, and the three group leaders met with Robin at the
old headquarters. The day before, Robin had gone underground and made a
clear map of the path to the Thieves’ Road – Olivier’s Road, Armand called
it, and Robin noticed that the group leaders were calling it that now.
“The bottom is a small door,” he said as he pointed it out on the map.
“It was meant to be opened from the inside, but I can get it open in a few
minutes, so that’s not a problem. At the top, I’m going to need time to get
that door open, and I’m going to need to make sure there are no people or
patrols at the top. That’ll take half an hour or so. If it’s clear, I’ll drop
this bell down the shaft, so I want it empty until I signal. The first group
will carry the bell back up, then drop it again once they’ve made it to the
top, and so on until everyone is up. That way, if I have to come back down,
I don’t have to worry about running into someone on the way up, and we
won’t have a steady stream of a hundred fifty people.”
The group leaders had no questions, so Armand reminded them not to
talk about it to anyone, and then let them go. Robin was about to leave
when Ian pulled him aside.
“One last thing, Robin. Ari has asked me to tell you that he wishes you
to return immediately after the three groups have made it to the top.”
“What? But I’m supposed to be on the squad.”
He shook his head. “He feels that you should not be further endangered
than you will already. You cannot fire a gun, and he does not wish you to use
your abilities in battle. Also, your return will be the signal that the squad
has arrived safely, and will be crucial to timing the change of headquarters
and the assault on the ramp.”
***
Robin woke the next morning nervous, but excited. He met with the
143
three group leaders, who had just told their groups what was going on, and
Robin could see the excitement in their eyes, too. Each had as small a
backpack as possible, with a rifle strapped firmly to his back. Robin hoped
that they’d fit up the shaft without a problem.
He led them to the house where the basement wall had been knocked
out, giving them quick access to where they needed to be. Robin led the way
with a lantern, and quickly found the entrance. He waited until all three
group leaders were there, and reminded them to wait for the bell before he
entered the shaft and started climbing.
The climb was, as he expected, long and gruelling, but he’d made sure
to get a good night’s sleep. His arms and legs burned with fatigue by the
time he got to the top and swung himself up onto the wide ledge. He rested
there for a while, breathing heavily of the stale air. After a little while, he
searched the wall with his hands, and opened the catch.
Robin stepped outside into the main chamber, listening intently. Hearing
nothing, he lit the lantern and searched the room. It was just the way it had
been when he had last been there, nothing moved. He climbed the short
steps to the remains of the hallway. Still nothing. He found the doorway,
then left the lantern, and went outside onto the street.
The street lamps were all out, the street was pitch black. Robin searched
around as thoroughly as he could. Far off, he could hear wagons and horses,
but he decided it was safe, and went back downstairs with the lantern.
Robin panicked for a moment as he searched through his pack, but found
the bell at the bottom. He dropped it down the shaft, and it clanged and
clattered all the way down, but he didn’t hear it hit the ground.
He tried to stay awake by pacing, but finally he had to sit down and he
quickly fell asleep, leaving the lantern in the middle of the room.
He woke with a start when the first group leader rang the battered bell
next to his ear. Robin looked around, and sure enough, fifty people were
crowded in the small room, groaning with exhaustion and the ones still
awake were trying to find a place to rest.
“We’re at our most vulnerable now,” the group leader whispered. “We’re
too tired to defend ourselves quickly, so you’re gonna have to stay awake.”
Robin nodded, then went and tossed the bell down the shaft again. He
listened carefully as it clattered all the way down, but again it faded out
before the clattering stopped.
He went back out to the room. Almost everyone was asleep already,
so he went out past the door, leaving the lantern in the room. The whole
place smelled like sweat. Eventually Robin went out to the street again, and
played games with himself trying to guess what was making a certain noise.
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After a while of that, he went back to the main room, and braved the stench
so that he had enough light to read. He went in his pack, and started for the
adventure novel, but decided instead to flip through the copy of the Book of
Life that Ari had given him. It was hard to read, since it was handwritten,
but after a while, he got used to it.
He read about Jalen’s travels outside of Cove, about how he worked
and taught for money to live, and the long sections of what he said to his
followers, talking about war sometimes, and how people would be happier
if they’d just stop killing each other. Robin looked around the room at the
guns shining yellow in the lantern light.
He was still reading when the first few people from group two made it
to the top. He helped them out, and shooed them into the main room. The
soldiers from the first group started waking up and making room for the
new people. It still took an hour for the rest of the second group to make it
to the top, and by then the first group was fully awake and had started to
set up defensive positions. Someone handed him the bell, its handle cracked
and the clapper gone. Robin made sure the second group was all up and
accounted for, then dropped the bell down the shaft again.
“You’d better get some sleep,” the second group leader told him, “Commander Armand told us to make sure you went back down to the ground
afterward.” He yawned widely and grinned. “As for me, I think I’m going
to take my own advice. Good luck, in case I don’t see you again.”
Robin got angry all over again, but was still tired enough to sleep, so he
did.
***
Andrew got up early the next morning, already tense. He ate little,
preferring the keenness of mind on an empty stomach. His men got up
when he did and got ready. Andrew himself found a lantern and a table,
and set to work breaking down and cleaning his guns. The sleek black
revolvers looked simple, but were complex machines, requiring all parts to
be in good working order. He cleaned the barrels, checked the firing pin
on each gun. He examined the mechanisms, searching for even the tiniest
specks of dirt or grime. He got out six cylinders, each of which could hold
six bullets. Three cylinders per gun, if he needed it, machined by a very
good Ebron to match the originals. He completely filled four cylinders and
set them in his belt in case he needed them. Into the last two cylinders,
he placed five bullets each and placed them in the revolvers so the empties
were the next to fire. He put them carefully in their holsters and strapped
them on, then counted the remaining bullets in the pouch. Twenty-three.
With luck, he wouldn’t use them all up before he could buy or make more.
145
When the rest of the squad was ready, Andrew gave the orders to move
into Bien.
***
Robin watched silently as the last things from headquarters were loaded
onto carts. Olivier walked back and forth from one cart to another, inspecting and probably looking for something. Mestrava was with him, and waved
to Robin, but Robin ignored him. A squad from Lion army arrived and led
the way through the passage.
Robin walked a ways away from Olivier, still unhappy about not being
able to stay on the First Tier. A group that small would really need his
skills. He could make the group look bigger, or set fires or something, but
he would be useful.
He was shaken out of this train of thought when Cassia caught up to
him.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were at the new headquarters.”
She shook her head, catching her breath. “Nope, that’s all done. I had
to help coordinate moving the people who can’t fight, earlier this morning.
Besides, I thought I’d make sure we didn’t forget anyone.” Robin stayed
quiet. They were getting near the fortified passageway now, and he had to
admit it looked good. The side streets were blocked off, and along the tops
of buildings he could see snipers looking outward, watching for any sign of
movement away in the darkness. The lamps were all fixed, too, lighting the
street well enough to see all the way down.
“You excited, Robin? This might be the last big fight.” He nodded,
not in much mood to talk. She humored him, watching around her as she
walked. Robin noticed something up ahead.
“Is it just me, or is that sniper facing us?” Cassia gave Robin a strange
look, then peered ahead at the sniper’s loft he was pointing at, the last one
before the passage ended. Sure enough, the sniper there was facing them.
She thought for a moment that he was going to shoot her, then she looked
back. Two carts back, Olivier and Mestrava were riding, talking excitedly.
She looked back at the sniper, who she could see more clearly now,
enough to make out a familiar face. “Robin, you have to stop him.”
“What? How?”
“Push him or blind him or something, I think he’s going to shoot!” Robin
didn’t hesitate, and instantly, the sniper was pushed back, squeezing off a
shot as he did. The sharp report echoed along the passage, narrowly missing
Olivier and striking a building. The sniper jumped to his feet in alarm,
stared directly at Cassia and Robin, then grabbed his pack and disappeared
over the edge of the building into the alley beyond.
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All around them, horses were panicking, soldiers milling around. Suddenly, they could hear gunfire up ahead. Robin heard someone shout about
the Campertines, and broke into a run himself, stopping short when he could
see the bay in between the buildings.
He could see the squad from Phoenix army up ahead, already on the
wharves, crouched down on the wooden piers and shooting around stacks of
crates. The sunlight stunned him for a moment, but he was safe behind a
building. He was out of the way, but his pulse was racing, and his breathing
felt tight. Behind him, the soldiers from Lion army were running toward the
ramp, and he could hear gunfire on both sides of him. There was a shout,
and he saw Knights on the ramp, and heard the explosive roar of shot guns.
He looked out toward the docks, and he could see soldiers advancing, and
one of them was standing.
Dolohov. Robin saw his figure the way he saw it in his nightmares, with
his arm outstretched and the sinister black gun, and he was firing, once,
twice. Who was he shooting? Robin shook his head, but couldn’t clear it.
What about the pipes? Cesare! What about?
Robin panicked, and fled.
Part Two: Dane
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“Destination?”
“Kendauer Station.”
“Name?”
“Gregor Adamson.”
“Passport?”
“Right here.”
The ticket agent glanced at it, then stamped his ticket accordingly. “The
next train to Kendauer leaves in one hour, ten minutes. If you cannot make
that train, you may take the next, at noon. Do you have any baggage to
stow?”
“None, thank you.”
He paid for the ticket and took a seat on a bench near the stairs. Mediter
Station was completely full of irate travelers. All were dressed well and
clutching huge bags. Gregor had to chuckle, watching them, knowing full
well that their prim, proper clothes would cause them no end of discomfort
on the lengthy trip to Kendauer. Even with no stops, the trip would take
twenty-four hours. And they were almost all going to Kendauer, he was
sure.
Amazing, he reflected, that even though most of these people were fleeing
after yesterday’s battle in Bien, they still had managed to squirrel away all
their valuable possessions into bags and trunks and pockets. They hardly
looked like refugees, either, in their best frock coats and dresses, complete
with bowler hats and frilly parasols.
The soldiers stationed there looked distinctly ill at ease. These were the
ones, of course, who had not been chosen to fight, and in the aftermath of
an important battle, would not be able to decide between relief and envy.
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Gregor did not think about the soldiers too much, preferring to watch the
finicky and fussing Mediterran refugees for his entertainment. If they saw
him watching, they certainly did not deign to acknowledge him.
After half an hour of this, he went down to the southbound platform,
where the passenger cars to Kendauer were already getting ready to board.
He flashed his ticket to the conductor and found a seat alone, near a window.
He put has small clothing bag under his seat, and set his paper case on his
lap to sort through the papers and books he’d brought. He fished out the
thickest book, an old leatherbound volume, and flipped it open.
“And thus it can clearly be demonstrated, that both physical and aetherial reagents may be used for the facilitation of the chemical reaction.” Gregor got lost halfway through the sentence, and put the book back in his
case. He pondered buying a bottle of Ebron whiskey to while away the trip,
but not wanting to risk pulling into Kendauer Station with a hangover, he
decided to do some writing instead.
He’d been working on his own memoirs for quite some time now. His
partner George considered it vain, but he didn’t care. In a way, it was not
his own history, but that of the Fenne Revolution. Of course, he didn’t
write about what he didn’t know, so nothing about the earliest days with
Krieger, but he suspected that there was a great deal that he could teach
future historians.
This, as he would often tell his compatriots, is history being written.
Everything we plan and do, that’s history. If I sneeze at the wrong time,
that makes it in some history book, with a little paragraph about Gregor
Adamson sneezing at the wrong time and giving himself away. The other
three always laughed, and his partner always laughed the loudest. What an
absolute boor, that George King. Intelligent, there’s no denying that, but
bloodthirsty and boorish.
Shortly after the conductor’s first whistle, a young man entered the
car and took the seat directly facing him. Gregor nodded in greeting, but
studiously ignored him. Not particularly clean, probably a student, or a
revolutionary. Given the inhabitants of the station before he left, Gregor
imagined that this fellow was probably the best he could hope for. At
least it wasn’t some rich old woman, who would spend the trip complaining
about her arthritis and rheumatism, and wondering aloud why these trains
couldn’t be more accommodating to someone of her social status.
He amused himself examining the young man in front of him. Average
height, young face, pale – who in that blasted city wasn’t? – dark eyes, light
hair. Not carrying a ticket, Gregor realized. He’ll probably be thrown off,
then, when the conductor comes round. With any luck, he decided, the seat
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would remain empty for the duration of the trip.
Conductor’s second whistle, there. Outside his window, someone shouted
hoarsely that at ten o’clock, the train would depart for Kendauer Station
and points south. Third whistle, and all the doors closed.
“Ticket, please.” The squat conductor leaned close enough that Gregor
could smell the whiskey on his red uniform. He held out the ticket, which
the man inspected without taking.
“Ticket, please.” Gregor expected to see the young man try to weasel his
way out, and was quite surprised to see him hold out a ticket. The conductor
moved on. The young man – almost certainly a student – glanced at Gregor,
then placed the ticket in his satchel. Gregor was certain that the ticket had
not come from there, but he went back to his own papers to avoid being
impolite. Damned odd.
Groaning mightily, the train lurched forward and started to roll. With
another lurch and a metallic squeal of protest, it picked up speed. Gregor
could see Mediter Station start to roll away, then the houses and streets
of Outer Mediter, the genteel part of the city well away from the Tiers. A
market rolled slowly by, dressed in bright green cabbages and some sort of
fruit. A wide brick building moved in and blocked his view of that.
Picking up a bit more steam now, the buildings and people went by
faster, though not so fast he couldn’t make them out. A person could keep
up walking at a brisk pace, he decided, idly wishing that the young woman
outside in the tight white dress with the ample breasts would do just that.
The train picked up even more speed as they left the city, abruptly
entering green space. Gregor was seated on the lefthand side of the train,
but the seat on the opposite aisle was empty, and he could see the bay in
the distance through the window on the other side of the aisle. Both the
bay and the ocean were west of Mediter, which meant that his own view
would be mostly grass, hills, and farmland. He pondered changing seats,
but decided that he would not like to appear to be fleeing the student in the
opposite seat.
Feeling absurdly cross with himself, he went back to his writing.
Still in the early days of his involvement, of course. Writing from the
beginning was something of an obligation, and he took it seriously. No jumps
in time, or at least nothing outrageous. A few weeks here and there, where
he had done nothing interesting, nothing straying too far from an established
routine. One’s memoirs, he decided, should be entertaining, like a novel, and
so it behooved him to use certain writing techniques. Everyone knew that
he ate breakfast in the morning, so why mention it, let alone bring up his
daily toilet and shave. Everyone knew that he slept every night, unless he
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told them otherwise. And if he told them otherwise one night, he was of
course obliged to mention that he slept at the normal time the next night.
Gregor was quite pleased with himself as an author, having observed,
and indeed in some manner discovered these excellent tools of storytelling.
Of course, these tools did not always help him when he simply could not
find a way to write what happened, as was the case here.
This particularly vexed him, because the matter at hand was that of his
first meeting with the man who would later become Emperor Wilhelm I of
Fengar. Such a precipitous event would be read not only for research into
his own life, but also by those who desired to learn about the illustrious
emperor. The problem was, he remembered little about the meeting.
He was at the time still a law student at Rackard College, in Pell, though
he was originally from a town further from the Ebron border. Wilhelm had
come there with the Paladin, Warren ban Iris, and the men who had freed
the Paladin from Ethelbert’s prison in Palatine. But what to say about
that? Gregor shook his head in frustration, dimly aware that the train had
continued to speed up.
Farmlands were all he could see out his window, the vast tracts of fertile
land necessary to maintain such a massive, populous city as Mediter. He
couldn’t tell what was growing, but he figured they were too far north for
rice. Maybe wheat or barley. Some kind of grain. He shrugged to himself.
Looked like grass.
His friend had introduced him to Gunther Kasia, the old fellow from
Madras. He was already coughing, and eight months after Gregor first met
him, he died of consumption.
***
Kasia hefted himself into the old chair, coughing and spluttering.
“My apologies,” he said at last, “My health is not what it was. Old
revolutionaries like me should either be dead, or already victorious.” (A
good turn of phrase. Gregor made a note to include it once or twice.) He
grinned at the young law students, then fixated a knobby finger at one of
them. “You, I know. You are Michael. Who is your friend?”
“My name’s Gregor Adamson, sir. Michael’s told me a great deal about
you already, and I’m delighted to meet you.”
“Then you lie when you say you know about me, if you are so delighted.”
He chuckled to himself. “No matter, I should not be so rude, even if it is,
perhaps, the prerogative of a fat old man. Michael, did you tell your good
friend what I needed from you?”
“A little bit, sir, though I don’t really understand the particulars.” (Gregor had been irritated then at Michael’s incompetence, but was glad now
153
that he could have the words come from Kasia’s own mouth.)
“I see. Tomorrow night, I am expecting several people to arrive here
in Pell. The soldiers from Palatine seem to have intercepted their wired
message and arrived here ahead of them. For diplomatic reasons, the Earl
of Pell cannot afford to be seen helping us, so he has ordered all but the
front gates in the inner city walls to be locked this evening. The soldiers
from Palatine will search all people coming in for the next few days.” His
friendly, colloquial manner of speech dissolved away, Gregor noticed, when
discussing important matters.
“Can’t they come in wearing disguises?”
Kasia shook his head. “Unfortunately, the most important person arriving is a Paladin, who is injured, and requires the attention of a sympathetic
doctor.”
Those masks. Upon taking his vows, a Paladin put on a mask and was
obliged to never show his face to another human being again. The masks
were simple; plain tan leather that covered the mouth and nose, often with
holes or slits for breathing. The eyes and forehead were uncovered to allow
unfettered sight, although some Paladins bore elaborate religious tattoos on
their forehead and temples. Gregor had never met a Paladin, but had seen
the masks and tattoos in paintings and on actors. It would be tough to
sneak a Paladin in through the front gates.
The plan itself was simple and without real danger. Gregor and Michael
would go to the back gate of the walled city, duck into the guard shack,
and open the hatchway there, letting the people in. Michael would open the
hatchway, dressed as a guard to allay suspicion. Gregor would walk back
and forth between the guard shack and a nearby house, escorting one person
at a time. (Gregor sketched the plan out in as great detail as he could, down
to the few street names he could remember, the dimensions of the door, and
the location of the guard shack. This, of course, was for posterity. Besides,
if people from Pell were to read it, they would be glad for the extra detail.
Maybe some would even go and retrace his historic steps!)
It was early in May, and the warm, pleasant Pell evening came quickly.
Just as the old man had predicted, all the gates to the inner city were barred
the previous day except the main entrance. All day, soldiers had searched
carefully through a long line of angry people. The boarding houses and
hostels were doing a fantastic business, since people were anxious to stay in
the city, rather than risk the lines. Gregor was glad that classes were out of
session, and most of the students gone home. Otherwise, the city would be
overrun with them.
They found the guard shack unlocked. The walls pressed in a bit too
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closely for two people, but neither one cared or even noticed, instead they
waited breathlessly. After two hours of silent vigil, a knock came on the
hatch. Michael undid it, and a man crawled through it. He was armed,
with two black revolvers that caught Gregor’s eye immediately. Guns! He
introduced himself, and after the armed man searched the street for soldiers,
Gregor quickly led him to the safehouse.
When he returned, an older Ebron man was waiting, anxiously arguing
through the hatch with the people on the other side. He was dressed well,
with exactingly groomed white hair and moustaches, though his mudstained
knees and elbows seemed to not bother him. When Gregor returned, the
Paladin was waiting in the guard room, and a woman the same height as
the Paladin was there tending his cuts and bruises.
He’d been beaten pretty badly from what Gregor could see, but he walked
fine. He introduced himself as Brother Warren, and the woman as Fidela.
(Gregor stopped writing for a moment. Just how much should he tell about
the woman? She was important, certainly, but the nature of her involvement
was delicate. He decided to err on the side of caution and not mention her.
He carefully scratched out her name.)
He escorted the two to the safehouse, and when he came back, Wilhelm
Strand was waiting for him.
He looked like a regular, fifty year old man. His black hair was mostly
turned grey when Gregor first met him; there would be no black remaining
by the time of his coronation in Palatine. He was the last one to come
through the hatch that night, the rest were staying in town and could wait
a week or so until the soldiers gave up.
Wilhelm talked to Gregor as they walked. The story of the rescue of
the Paladin was amazing. He and the gunfighter had broken into the prison
by posing as the Paladin’s lawyers, rescued him, and escaped via an underground river on a boat belonging to the Ebron man. (Gregor made a note
to himself to tell the story in as much detail as he could. The account would
be secondhand, of course, but the Emperor didn’t indulge in storytelling
anymore, and the Ebron man and gunfighter had both gone over to Marta
Slake’s side after Gunther Kasia died.)
Before going into the safehouse, Wilhelm stopped, and thought a moment. “This should be as absolute proof as you could need that a few people
with sufficient brains and means can do nearly any job.” After a pause, he
added, “Though the situations often demand secrecy.”
***
He set down as much of that first meeting as he could, and relished over
those last words outside the safehouse. The Emperor had clearly already
155
conceived of the Kept Men, fully a year and a half before asking Gregor to
become one.
He put down his pencil and inwardly thrilled to himself in importance.
The other passengers were chatting amongst themselves and nodding off, so
he watched the farmlands out the window. Writing had only taken an hour
or so of his time, much of that spent sharpening the pencil tip with his pen
knife. It ruined the edge, of course, but he could always get a new one.
The student across from him was watching out the window, too. Gregor
was inclined to introduce himself, but decided that there was no telling
who might recognize his name. Instead, he sat quietly, leafing through his
notes and neatlywritten pages. He hated these long trips between cities,
and was especially annoyed that he couldn’t go straight to Palatine from
Mediter anymore. Idiot Mediterrans wouldn’t permit it. Maybe afraid of
spies getting in, he thought with a smile.
His notebook, then, was filled with handwritten pages covered with the
characteristic jumps from when the train’s movement jarred his hand. Most
of it was of his time studying law at Pell, and detailing his various insights
into the matters of law and government. The trip from Palatine to Kendauer
had been particularly good for that, since he needed to write to keep his
mind off the task at hand. Retrieving books from his partner was not the
sort of thing he’d had in mind when he agreed to join the Emperor.
Behind him he could hear the lunch cart squeaking up the aisle, a
woman’s voice selling food and glasses of wine and beer. When she’d made
her way to Gregor’s seat, he waved her on, not at all hungry. He regretted
it immediately, since once she passed he began to feel thirsty.
He tried to sleep instead, adjusting his neck and posture and position
until he felt comfortable in the stiff, barely padded seat. The window had
no shade, but the sun was above the train now anyway.
***
Dr. Trent paced angrily about the room, frustrated. Outside he could
hear the occasional gunshot, and if he needed encouragement not to walk out
onto the docks, that would be it. He stayed instead in the tiny warehouse
office room in Bien, waiting for Ari to return. The task of fortifying the
revolutionaries’ position on the First Tier would probably take the entire
day, he’d been told, but that did nothing to prevent his growing annoyance
and apprehension.
Miss Shaw, previously Miss Thoren, was extremely polite to him, in a
rather annoyingly saccharine manner. He couldn’t bring himself to express
disappointment with her, though. He gathered that she was not unimportant
in this army, and that her attention to him was most likely an act of honest
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contrition.
“Damn!” he swore to himself, ceasing for a moment his pacing, and finally letting himself fall dejectedly into the chair provided. Ari, he reminded
himself, would be doing all he could to locate Robin. He would of course
keep his word, if only as a deeply religious man. If a man’s faith could be
proved, Trent mused, it would be by the look of torment on Ari’s face when
returning from the previous day’s phenomenally successful battle. “Walk
into battle as you would a funeral,” the scriptures said. The hundred or so
captives he led away were not the enemy, they were his dear friends. Trent
had arrived soon after the small pocket of Knights surrendered, and had
missed the battle itself, but from all indications, it had been costly for both
sides.
What of those costs? Was his student laying there among the dead and
dying? Were his limbs being sawed off at this very moment by the Paladin
medics feverishly combating the gangrene? He shuddered and returned to
his feet. By sheer force of will, he kept himself from pacing again.
His thoughts turned with all possible venom to Sean Clannon. No word
from him since that infuriating note he’d left. Were they really to believe
that the boy had been kidnapped by Gypsies? Bruce had been apoplectic,
frightening the housekeeper and her husband half to death before finally
agreeing after a week or so of searching to accompany Trent to Mediter.
The wait in the outermost parts of Mediter had been frustrating. First
stopped, interrogated and detained by the Mediter Army, then the Army
surrendered. Then they were stopped, interrogated and detained by the
people calling themselves Phoenix Army. After a few days, they let Bruce
go join Ari, but the very next day was the battle in Bien.
Now he found himself being detained by Ari, and Robin just as missing
as the day they’d found his room in disarray and Robin himself gone.
“Excuse me, sir, but your door was unlocked.” Trent spun around,
startled. There in the doorframe was a familiar man, tanned with bright
white moustaches. “Dr. Trent, I believe?”
“Yes, that’s right. I apologize, I’ve forgotten your name.”
The man smiled. “Ian Mestrava. I have spoken to you and written to
you certain letters about the history of my beloved Ibra.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. You wanted to know about claims that
Ebberach was the original Cove.” He smiled and shook the man’s hand.
“I’m sorry. Given present circumstances, you must forgive my poor addled
memory.”
“Not at all, Doctor. Recently, however, I have been acting in the capacity
of Mr. Olivier’s assistant.”
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“Olivier?”
“Ari de Mediter, who for reasons of privacy has led these armies under
the name Olivier.”
Trent nodded. “I’m sorry, I knew that.” Not having found a bath in
several weeks, he looked enviously at the wellgroomed Ebron. “Are there
proper facilities nearby?”
“Of course, I shall arrange that shortly. First, however, I should like to
inquire about your student.”
“Robin.”
“Yes, Robin. He is a very pleasant boy. He speaks little and listens well,
as befits an intelligent young man. How old is he, may I ask?”
“I’d say no more than eighteen or twenty. I took him at first for a tall
sixteen, but he’s too mature for that.”
“It is hard, is it not, to ascertain the age of a quiet person? One of
the telltale signs of youth, perhaps, is the mouth that sometimes refuses to
close.”
Trent nodded. “Have you seen him since the battle?”
“No I have not. However, if you will accept my aid, perhaps we can
locate him.”
“Ari de Mediter has already agreed to search for him.”
“Yes, but he has much to do, and I would relieve him of this burden.
I would have ordered it done already, but I thought perhaps that I should
come to you for your blessing, and perhaps insight.”
“Aren’t you just as busy, Mr. Mestrava?”
Mestrava only bowed his head. “I apologize for not making myself clear.
I myself cannot spare much time; I am utterly useless to you in any case.
My agent, however, is now free of his previous duties and I would have you
work with him.”
“Thank you. I fear that I may not find him, however.”
“Whyever not?”
Trent smiled despite himself. “Take a look at the barricades the merchants put up around Bien. Do you notice how they only span the streets,
and ignore the alleys? That’s because the alleys are their own barricades.
They’re pitch black, and most of them are totally impassable. Robin can
get anywhere in this city he desires, and I could never in a hundred years
follow him where he goes.”
Mestrava silently considered this. “Thank you for an honest assessment.
I can only hope, my friend, that you are wrong. Will you accept my help
anyway?”
“Of course.”
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Mestrava indicated that he wished Trent to wait, then he went outside
the room, and returned shortly with a man in a long brown coat.
“This is my agent, Andrew Dolohov.” Trent shook his hand. Average
height, dark hair, ruddy complexion. Under his coat, Trent could make out
a pair of oddly familiar guns. “He is skilled at locating people, and he has
also my full financial support in whatever course you choose to take.”
Dolohov nodded silently, looking mildly uncomfortable to be the center
of attention.
“Do you have any suggestions, Mr. Dolohov?”
“None. I already checked the infirm houses, he’s not there.” Trent
wondered how he knew what Robin looked like, but said nothing. “He may
be dead.”
Trent closed his eyes and absorbed that. He turned toward the window
and concentrated. Been a long time since he’d tried to use his skills at
detection, but he felt he couldn’t go wrong trying. When Master Ashe had
died, his corpse smelled not only of decay, but also of magic, as if his pentup
abilities were soaking into the air. All through the wake he’d felt it, and the
other students had too. At the same time saddening and electrifying, it was
not a sensation he’d soon forget. He did not feel it now, but he had no way
of knowing if that lack of sensation was significant.
“Let us assume,” he started slowly, eyes still closed. “Let us assume that
he is alive. So long as Mr. Mestrava is willing to entertain that notion, I
should like to pursue it.”
Mestrava bowed. “I consider myself honored to aid you.” He paused.
“Hold nothing back from Mr. Dolohov, who is already aware of your students’ abilities. Anything you can tell him may be of use.”
Trent nodded, more to himself than in response. It would not be inconceivable that Mestrava himself had kidnapped the boy; in such a case, it
would be natural to use the teacher’s knowledge to question him.
Mestrava begged leave of them, and disappeared through the door. Dolohov shoved his hands deep in his pockets and seemed to stare at the wall.
He said nothing for a long time, and his eyes looked almost dead in their
sockets.
Unwilling to offer information unbidden, Trent began to pace. He fumbled in his pockets for a moment, then remembered that his pipe was broken.
He continued to pace, but his thoughts increasingly strayed to the silent
man by the door. Where had he heard the name Dolohov? His patience was
maddening. Totally still, except for blinking. Dolohov. Dolohov and magic.
Nothing there, but the association appealed to him in an odd way. Dolohov
and – Krieger!
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“John Dolohov,” he blurted out.
Eyebrows raised. “My father.”
“John Dolohov, the Imperial Marshal who captured Andrew von Krieger.”
A smile. “A few days before I was born. I was named after him.”
“He named you after a man he shot?”
Dolohov shrugged. “My brother Alexander was named after a dead
smuggler.”
“I knew Andrew von Krieger, you know.”
Dolohov nodded, then looked pensive. He drew one of his guns, popped
out the cylinder and handed the disarmed gun to Trent, who gingerly took
it. “It was his. Where did he get it?”
The black metal had looked familiar at first, now he knew for certain:
It was the same black steel that was used to make the polearms of the elect
Imperial Guards. The gun felt lighter than it looked, and the unfamiliar
mechanisms were entirely unworn, as if they were new. The alloy required
the assistance of a specially trained magician to produce.
He handed the gun back. “He traveled extensively in the Imperium. He
must have bought it there.”
The answer produced no effect on Dolohov, who replaced the cylinder,
and holstered the gun. “How do you want to go about finding your student?”
***
Gregor scowled when the sun in the window woke him the next morning.
He tried to roll over in the seat, but he was already awake and wishing he’d
paid for a berth in the sleeping car. Sleeping on the lefthand side of a train,
he remembered, is only smart going north. The student in front of him was
still sound asleep; the sun was hitting the back of his nodded head.
Outside, the scenery had become wide flat plain. He couldn’t see any
cattle, but this close to the Ken, there would be plenty. The Ken by now
was nearly an extension of the desert to the south, grazed down to the dust.
Already, the ranchers in Kendauer wanted to purchase land from one of the
minor princes for grazing their cattle.
Gregor closed his eyes and contemplated his finances. A night or two in
Kendauer would be just the thing after a day and a half of nonstop travel.
Get a decent hotel, maybe a prostitute. Just the thing.
Out the window, he saw a tall pole rush by, then the nowfamiliar lurch as
the train picked up the postal sack. He wondered idly if there was anything
addressed to him, but he didn’t know anybody in any of the little towns
along the Ken. Certainly nobody who would send him any letters.
The student across from him stirred and woke after a while, looking
around confusedly.
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Out of sheer boredom, Gregor smiled at him. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah, thank you. It’s hard on a train.”
“It is. You ever been to Kendauer before?” The student shook his head.
“Great place, great place. I love staying there.”
“Are we almost there?”
Gregor checked his pocketwatch. “No, we’ve got another six hours. They
said before we’re ahead of schedule, and might be getting in around two
thirty.”
The student seemed to be doing a little mental arithmetic. “Do you
know how far it is from there to Akrostira?”
“Another day or so. Depends whether you can get a boat or have to
take the train. Is that where you’re going?”
“I think so, yeah. What about you?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he eventually said. “I’ll be staying in Kendauer
for a few days at any rate.” Good question, actually. Gregor had automatically assumed that he’d be going straight to Palatine, but now that he
thought about it, he hadn’t actually been instructed to go there. With any
luck, George would be waiting for him at the platform. Hopefully he would
know.
The conversation lapsed, and the boy brought out his book again and
read. Gregor got up to stretch his legs and discover if he could get food.
The ride through the Ken jostled the passengers, and the train slowed
down to accommodate the older, rougher tracks. The heat had grown
steadily, and soon most of the windows were open, letting in dry air. Outside, the passing train stirred up tumbleweeds that whipped along and sometimes up near one of the windows.
Closer to Kendauer, they could see other tracks, and eventually another
train, coming in from the north – probably the cities and towns in western
Fengar, since the Palatine train entered Kendauer from the northeast, along
the Ateke River.
Houses started coming into view, squat brick buildings with wooden
roofs. Streets went from dirt to cobblestone to neatly laid red brick, and the
houses and shops became correspondingly neater and more expensivelooking. Blackness came on them suddenly and periodically as the train went
under the bridges on the more central roads. The train slowed drastically
as it approached the Switching Yard in the very heart of the city.
The student kept his face mere inches from the glass, taking in all the
sights of Kendauer as the train pulled into the Yard, until the train they’d
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seen before came in alongside, blocking his view. A little boy in the other
train stared bugeyed at Gregor, smearing his dirty, sticky little hands against
the window glass and making ugly faces until his mother dragged him down
into the seat and snapped the window shade closed.
The opposite train seemed to move backwards slowly at the same time
Gregor felt and heard the slight acceleration. An invisible force pushed down
on him, and his belongings on the floor slid toward his feet, and after a while
the train came to a rest on the upper platform of Kendauer Station. Gregor
gathered his things together, as did the student, and they both pushed their
way through the mass of their fellow passengers toward the exit.
Gregor felt the hand on his shoulder, and when he turned, his vision was
blocked by white.
“You dropped this,” the student said when Gregor took the sheet of
paper.
“Oh, thank you.” The door nearer the student opened, but he couldn’t
quite make it through. “My name’s Gregor, by the way.”
“I’m Robin.”
Gregor’s pulse surged, and he tried to push his way through the crowd,
reaching for his gun, but by the time he could get the to platform and yelled,
“Stop! Wait!” the boy was already nowhere in sight.
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CHAPTER 11. FLIGHT OF THE MAGICIAN
Chapter 12
Kendauer
“Eighteen doublesized barrels of water, twentytwo sheaves of wheat, and
another barrel of salt! What’s going on, Ari?” Armand’s face blossomed
red with anger as he clutched the message he’d just received.
“They can’t starve,” Ari suggested mildly.
“They won’t starve, if they’re smart enough to surrender. They’re
trapped on the Second, Third and Fourth Tiers. You yourself said we have
to make them understand that they’re better off with us than with the Temple. If the Cabal and their priests can produce food, where does that leave
us?”
Ari nodded. “For the moment, they will be able to keep up the appearance that all of this food is coming from the Temple. As supplies are used,
however, the Knights will be unable to maintain that illusion. They will
have to distribute food as soon as we give it to them, and the people will
know where it’s coming from.”
“You and Mestrava both warned against prolonging this any more than
we have to. If Fengar decides to invade, we don’t have a chance.” Armand
waited and stared at Ari for a long while before sitting down. “Besides,
it bothers me to have them up there, pretending to rule the entire nation.
Three governors have already sworn allegiance to us. The other seventeen
aren’t too far from it. We need to start setting up a government, and it
looks very bad for us if the richest part of our own capital city is in Temple
hands.”
“I agree, it does look bad.”
“The other commanders are already wondering, Ari, if your loyalties
to the Temple aren’t causing problems. How long can I keep these food
shipments from them?”
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Ari considered this. “Don’t keep it from them. Tell them immediately,
and ask for suggestions for making the process work more smoothly.” He
rose from his seat and leaned forward over his makeshift desk. “There are
seventeen very anxious governors out there who are wondering what’s going
to happen to them when they surrender. I want them to know that they’re
better off with us than allying themselves with Fengar.”
Armand started, surprised, but Ari cut him off. “That was your next
bit of news?” Armand nodded. “A defection, or just considering it?”
“Just considering it. The telegraph lines are down, and the border guards
captured the messenger. Are you saying you expected this?”
“I suspected it. Some of them think that Fengar is going to take over
anyway, so they decide to make the first move, to get in Wilhelm’s good
graces. I want them to know that we’re the ones who will make them secure
and prosperous. Stories of starving people on the Second Tier will just make
them jumpy.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t, either. But until the Campertines are entirely gone, we can’t
fight a two front war.”
Armand nodded, and after expressing his continued misgivings, left. Ari
breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut.
Just as expected, the Knights Templar had been pulled back to the
Second Tier, abandoning the factories and people of the First Tier and
holing themselves up. Fortifications had already been set up on the ramps,
and by the time Lion Army’s soldiers reached them, they were already well
defended. The Cathedral on the Fourth Tier was stocked with food, water
and ammunition, and apparently the Temple had begun drafting the workers
on the Second Tier to man the fortifications. Defections from their ranks
steadily climbed to an already staggering number. Each defection brought
news of the results of the strict austerity measures.
This was not at all a bad position, Ari mused. Fighting the Temple
had been difficult for him. Against the Army and Campertines he had few
qualms, but when it came to fighting the very men he had trained and in
some cases befriended, the war was all too painful. Now, however, he could
sit back and with judicious vigilance, allow the Temple to be overthrown by
the Knights themselves.
***
Robin found himself pushed and pulled every which way on the platform.
Cross and hurried people shoved by him in every direction. He’d gotten off
square in the middle of the train, and by the time he could stop unmolested
and catch his breath, he was standing dazed and disheveled next to the
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engine, which together with the coal car was being unhooked from the rest
of the train.
He was still tired after the trip, and confused. The entire day and a half,
he’d been going over and over his decision to flee Mediter. He still didn’t
know what happened to Dr. Trent, but he knew that if Clannon was dead,
he’d be blamed for sure, and he didn’t even know whether he’d killed him.
Seeing the fighting up close had been bad, but he should have stayed.
There was also the problem that he didn’t have any money. Faking the
ticket to Kendauer had been easy, since he’d taken the time to memorize
what they looked like. They were printed in Ejianic letters, though, as
opposed to Imperial characters. If the ticket to Akrostira were the same, as
he hoped it would be, then there wouldn’t be any problem. He still had the
stolen jewels in his satchel, but he had no idea what to do with them.
Further down the platform, he could see the man who sat across from
him get off the train, and look excitedly around him. Robin considered going
and asking him for advice, until the man was approached by another, a man
with a face that reminded him of a lion. Robin stared in vague recognition,
but could not place the feeling. Suddenly anxious that they not see him,
Robin slipped through one of the side doors off the platform and took the
back stairway down.
Kendauer Station on any given day bustles with activity, and the day of
Robin’s arrival was no different. Throngs of travelers and shoppers filled the
station like water in a basin. No floor space could be seen through the great
crowd of mostly irritated people as they shuffled from one place to the next,
dragging bags and suit cases behind them. Brightly colored shops lined the
walls, and wheeled carts navigated the sea of people selling pastries, ribbons
and other things too small for Robin to see from where he stood. The smell
of baking bread mixed with scents of jasmine and freshly cut flowers to
nearly overpower the sharp odor of human sweat that permeated the huge
station hall.
Midway through the hall, the ticket takers, dressed damply in black,
herded people through to the correct platforms in a much more brisk and
even rude way than in Mediter Station, sometimes even pushing people along
if they walked too slowly. An influx of passengers from the train Robin had
seen out his window added loud complaints about aching backs and the long
trip to the constant litany of talk and noise all around him.
Eventually he got up the courage to start through the crowd, clutching
his satchel as tightly as he could. His sharp eye picked out two pickpockets
working the crowd near the gaudier shops; he decided to stay near the dull
shops along the left wall, the ones selling used books and cheap confections.
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Robin traded in the few coins he had from Mediter for a handful of
Marks, which was enough for a sausage with mustard at one of the stands.
He paid a single paper Mark for it, got a few copper coins in return and sat
on the steps of the shop to eat. He took a small bite, and liked its strong,
garlicky flavor. The mustard was sharp like vinegar, but good.
***
Once they found a place to eat, George told his story. It was quick, but
piqued Gregor’s interest. The assassination should have gone off without a
hitch, leaving the two sides in a protracted stalemate. Instead, at the last
moment, he had been pushed – twenty feet in the air, he’d been pushed!
– and when he looked down, there was the boy standing with a woman he
used to know.
Gregor listened carefully, and in turn told him about the student from
the train. The ticket, the name, and the disappearance all added up. Gregor
reasoned that the boy had no cause to lie when he said he was headed to
Akrostira.
They ate in quiet for a moment when their meal arrived.
“Can we capture him,” George asked mildly. “It’d be nice to go back
with something.”
Gregor agreed. “There’s the train and the ferry that he could leave by.
Do we have enough people in town to watch for him?”
“Can we catch him, though? I mean, he’s supposed to be a wizard. Bill
and ban Iris both take that pretty seriously.”
“You think that’s what ban Iris is working on?” Gregor sawed determinedly on his steak.
George tapped on the table. “Maybe. It makes sense. Ever since he got
shot, he’s been a little weird.”
“He’s always been like that, at least as long as I’ve known him.” He
went back to his steak for a moment, washed down a bite with a glass of
wine. “If one of us watches the ferry, and the other one watches the train
station, then we’ve got a good chance of getting him before he can get to
Akrostira.”
Gregor’s partner stared into his beer. “I gotta wonder if it’s worth the
risk. We’ll be in Akrostira in a month anyway.”
“Oh? We’re invading Etheora after all, then?”
“Yeah. Depolisti gave us permission to cross through. Ban Iris was the
one who didn’t want push so far south, and with him working on his own
little thing. . . ” George shrugged. “Whatever. So long as I get to shoot
Slake, I’ll be happy. We can grab the wizard while we’re there doing that.”
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“I’d rather have him before we go back to Palatine. We are going back
to Palatine?”
“Oh yeah. This Kendauer beer tastes like piss, and I’d hate to have to
drink too much more.”
***
Robin wandered outside Kendauer Station onto Rivers Avenue, a broad
cobblestoned thoroughfare that stretched as far as he could see in either
direction. Horses and horsedrawn carriages passed by thickly, with hundreds
of people weaving their way in between going to and from the railway station,
the markets, and their homes.
Feeling full and excited, Robin wandered along the street without crossing it. After ten minutes or so of maneuvering through the people on the
sidewalks, he came upon a wide green area with an iron sign naming it
Kendauer Park. On the other side of the black iron arch, Robin could see
stretches of green grass and sidewalks populated with older people and pigeons. He wandered further into the park, watching squirrels chase each
other through the carefully groomed hedges and small trees.
After five minutes of walking, he came across a tall bronze statue of
a standing man on a pedestal. The man portrayed had striking features,
although somewhat marred by pigeon droppings. In his hands he held tools,
a wrench and a hammer. Robin walked closer to see the plaque more clearly:
“Daniel Rivers (1389 – 1438) Chief Engineer, Kendauer Engine Yards”
“Excuse me, son.” Robin moved aside as a grizzled, older man approached the statue, bowed his head and paused a moment. “‘E was a
friend of mine, you know?”
Robin shook his head. “I don’t even know who he is.”
The man sighed deeply, shaking his own head sadly. “This here is the
resting place of Mr. Daniel Rivers, one of the greatest men of all time. Only
six years dead, an’ you don’t even know who ‘e is.”
“I’m from Mediter.”
“That’s not so bad then,” the man visibly brightened. “I was afraid ye
was from round here.” He held out his big stained hand until Robin shook
it. “Jeremiah Reed, I’m an engineer on the CC 102.”
“‘CC?”’ Robin asked.
“CrossContinent. The 102 goes all the way up to Madras. Came in from
Mediter, you say? If it didn’t make any stops, that was the 105. Otherwise
it was the express.” He paused. “Mr. Rivers here died on the CC 109, saved
my life, ‘e did.”
“How?” Robin found himself asking.
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Reed sighed again and took a minute to collect his thoughts. “Dunno
if ye heard of the 109, but that was the train into Ebberach, the capitol
of Ibra. Lot of mountains between here and there, so they had to build a
lot of bridges, blast their way through a few passes to make a clean grade.
Even so, the 109 needed a bigger engine than anything we had. Mr. Rivers,
here, he spent night and day designing this thing. Real beauty it was, too.
Ran like ye’d not believe. Anyway, folks started complaining that the whole
thing was taking too long, and costing too much, and the Ebrons are poor
as dirt so we’ll never see a penny back, that sorta thing. The Duke of Ibra
got wind of all that, and wanted to cancel it, I guess he thought it made ‘em
look bad. When we finally finished it, he wanted to shut it down! So Mr.
Rivers decided he’d take the first 109 in as a kind of show of how important
it was. I was supposed to be the engineer, but since he was there, ‘e took
the job and gave me the week off. That’s why I wasn’t on it when the
bridge collapsed.” He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes tight for
a moment. He took a deep breath through his nostrils and nodded as he
let it out. “So, I figure, least I can do for ‘im is stop here whenever the 102
pulls in on my way home to my wife. Thank ‘im, tell all about the goingson
of the world, pay my respects.”
Robin didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Reed turned to him
after a while. “How do ye like Kendauer?”
“I just got here, but it’s very busy.”
“That it is, that it is. My favorite place in the world, and I’ve been all
over. We like it busy, you know, that’s why all the trains have to stop here,”
he winked at Robin. “You staying here long?”
Robin shook his head. “I have to get to Akrostira.”
“Ah, the 107. That’s Reggie’s line. You’re in good hands with him. Likes
to run a bit fast sometimes, but he’s safe.” He checked his pocketwatch and
gave a start. “Ran a bit late here myself, I’d better get home. Good luck
to ye!” Reed trotted off, waving to Robin as he went.
Robin stood for a while, staring at the statue. His mind began to wander
to the subject of money, and he wondered if he could find somewhere to sell
off some of the jewelry in his satchel. He made a mental picture of what
he’d have to look like, part of the old routine he and Cesare had done up
on the Third Tier.
He shivered a little, beginning to feel lonely again. No Cesare, no Captain
de Mediter, no Dr. Trent, not even Mr. Mestrava. And no Cassia Shaw.
The doubts began to come up all over again, no matter how hard he fought
them. He intended to return to Mediter, he reminded himself, but he needed
to learn magic on his own terms, and as long as he stayed in Mediter, he’d
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be controlled by one person or another. Cassia had said that, one night.
Robin believed it, but it was very hard to be alone.
***
George picked dirt out from under his nails with the blunt edge of his
knife, and flicked it onto the ground near the platform. He felt unusually
pleased with himself, and since he was normally quite pleased with himself,
this evening he felt proud enough to burst. It was the purest strike of luck
to see the boy enter the jeweler’s shop, and even though he’d spent the next
day following at a careful distance, he’d not lost the boy once. He’d followed
Robin to a cheap hostel, then watched him the next morning buy a bowl of
soup, a few small books, and some small object he couldn’t make out.
Then he followed him to the railroad station, where from a discreet
distance, he watched Robin buy a ticket to Akrostira. A quick glance at the
schedule gave George a brilliant idea. He ordered one of their plainclothes
operatives to follow Robin, while he went and purchased three tickets of his
own from the cashier. After that, he’d run up the stairs to the northbound
platform, put another operative on alert, then dashed down two flights to
the southbound platform, where he gave one of the tickets and strict, exact
orders to the operative who’d successfully kept an eye on Robin.
Now he stood near the edge of the platform, coolly watching his prey,
who was sitting on a bench intently reading one of his books. He watched
him move over to allow an elderly woman to sit, then as his operative sat
down on the other side of him for a moment before getting up again and
going, George hoped, to change his clothes. Excellent.
***
Robin flipped through the book on Kendauer history with interest. He
skipped the early parts, talking about cows and subsistence farming near
the desertlike Ken. He was interested in the railroad, and the first mention
of it wasn’t until a quarter of the way into the book, with a paragraph about
the inventor Bertrasse Rivers staying in Kendauer.
The man from Attica, it said, carried with him the plans for a revolutionary system of getting cattle north to the slaughterhouses without walking
off the best part of their meat. Robin read about his unsuccessful attempts
to convince the people to help him build it, until finally a man named Edgar
Winsor agreed to be copartner in the new Kendauer Railroad Company.
He flipped through the pages on the fantastic new growth to where it
talked about the founding of the Engine Yards under his son Harold Rivers.
Twenty pages later, it talked about the construction of a revolutionary new
Kendauer Station by Harold’s son, John Rivers.
Robin was shaken out of his reading when the first whistle blew. He
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gathered his belongings and joined the crush to get onto the train. People
pushed by on both sides, jostling him back and forth across the aisle until he
managed to get to an unoccupied seat where he could open his book again
and read.
Near the back of the book it started to talk about Daniel Rivers, John’s
son. Took over as Chief Engineer and coowner for the Kendauer Railroad
Company at the age of 38 in 1427, designed new engines and helped design
some of the bridges, including the very one that killed him.
“Ticket, please.” Robin handed the real piece of paper to the conductor
without looking up. “Excuse me.” the conductor shook Robin’s shoulder.
“This is the wrong train. The one you want is upstairs on platform one.”
“What?” Robin grabbed his things off the floor, and jumped to his feet,
busily stuffing the book back into his satchel. “Where?” he stammered.
“Come on, I’ll bring you up. Quickly, they’ve already sounded their first
whistle!” Robin rushed after the blueuniformed conductor, pushing through
the crowds of people still coming down the steps. Ground floor, he saw,
following the conductor still. Platform One.
“Here, this train.” Robin was hustled onto the train just as it started to
pull away. Another conductor collected his ticket from the first conductor,
who waved through the window at the boy before running back up the stairs.
Robin collapsed, out of breath, into the seat he was shown. He started
to ask for his ticket back, but the conductor had already moved on to the
front of the train. Relieved, but confused, Robin turned his head to watch
out the window, still panting from running so suddenly. After a moment
of watching Kendauer start to roll away, the train went into a tunnel, and
Robin dozed off.
***
Trent paced his room, feeling alternately angry at himself, and angry at
being angry at himself. On the table by his bed lay the charred book that
had put him in the bad mood. He’d recognized it the moment Dolohov had
brought it – it was the book he’d been writing his notes in when Robin turned
up missing. The book had gone missing around the time Sean Clannon
disappeared.
Dolohov filled him in on the report he’d received: The carriage had been
found by the cleanup crews with no horses, burned badly but not destroyed.
One charred corpse had been found near it, and the books had been inside.
By chance, one of the crew members had recognized Trent’s handwritten
name on what remained of the inside leaf, and had given it to Dolohov, who
had questioned him the day before.
The remaining pages of the book were mostly blank or illegible, with at
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least fifty pages torn out from the beginning. Neither could tell whether the
pages had been torn out before or after the book had been set ablaze.
Mestrava could have torn out the notes himself, Trent mused, but why
bring me the book? He could be trying to frame Professor Clannon, of
course. If Clannon took Robin, then they would both be in the upper Tiers
by now, completely out of reach for the time being.
Trent focused, but could not detect Robin. It meant nothing, of course,
since for years he had not detected Robin even though they both had lived
in the same city. Mediter’s sheer population made such exercises nigh impossible. He let his eyes relax, and appeared for a moment to be staring
into thin air. After a while, he shook his head and remained in thought for
a moment.
“Andrew? Is it possible to send a telegraph?
Dolohov shook his head. “Lines are still down, except the ones on the
railroad.”
“Could I use those to send a message to a friend in Akrostira?”
“Maybe. Why?”
To bring in someone with a little more magical ability than my own
shriveled grey head. I’m utterly out of ideas. “To ask his advice. I’m
utterly out of ideas.”
Dolohov considered that. “Write it out and give me an address. I’ll see
what I can do.”
***
Robin slept soundly, and woke in the evening with an angry crick in his
neck. The train made a clamor like nothing he’d ever heard before The train
was pretty dark, since most of the passengers had their shades down. He
looked out his own window, and saw that they were on a huge metal bridge
over an inky black river. Momentarily the bridge disappeared; Robin caught
his breath before realizing that they were on dry land again, even though he
could still see the river. After staring out the window for a little while, he
returned to his book, but found that the train’s movement made him feel ill
when he tried to read.
He turned around in his seat, craning his head to see the door to the
caboose behind him, and a familiar conductor standing there with a lantern.
Robin got up and, despite unsteady legs, walked back and knocked on the
door. The conductor turned in surprise, but came through the caboose and
opened the door so he could cross between cars.
“Is there a problem?”
Robin shook his head, peering at the timetables on the wall. “I just
wanted to thank you for helping me onto the train. I was positive I’d miss
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it and have to stay in Kendauer another day.”
The conductor laughed. “No thanks needed, kid. Glad to help.” Robin
gasped and leaned his face in close to the paper on the wall. “Something
wrong?”
“This says CC 106. I thought the 107 went to Akrostira.”
The conductor blinked. “It does,” he blurted out, then turned white.
“Am I on the wrong train again? Where does this go?” He scanned the
paper and found the answer himself: “Palatine! I’ve got to get off!” Robin
turned as white as the conductor. “Where does this train stop?”
“We’ve already stopped for fuel, the next one’s not until we reach Palatine.”
“Can we get the train to stop at the next town and let me off? Please,
it’s important!”
The conductor wavered, then nodded briskly. “I need to talk to the
engineer. Wait here.” He disappeared through the door.
Robin felt like he was going to cry. He’d never felt so panicked and
frustrated in his entire life. A few minutes passed without the conductor
returning. Realizing he’d left his satchel on the seat, Robin tried the door
– locked.
The panic vanished as Robin felt suddenly very suspicious. He was sure
he’d had the right train before. Why had the conductor brought him to the
train to Palatine, of all places? While thinking along these lines, another
town rolled past, this one with a train platform.
Robin peered through the glass, making out the blue conductor’s uniform
coming towards him with another person following. He backed out of the
caboose onto the short deck, and leaned against the railing.
***
Furious, George worked his way through the aisle. Only the speed of the
conductor prevented George from bowling him right over. At least the idiot
had had the sense to come to him, and not the engineer. George opened the
door and stepped over into the caboose. The boy was on the opposite side.
“Get away from there, kid, you’ll get yourself killed.” George hated confrontations where he wasn’t in control. He reached slowly for his gun. “You
know we’re not going to Akrostira, but we’re not really going to Palatine,
either.” He thought fast. “This train’s on its way back to Mediter, see?
We’re bringing you back to Olivier.” He didn’t like that reaction, the boy
was looking at the ground to the side of the train. Better focus his attention.
George drew his gun. Robin’s eyes went right to it. “Look, I don’t want
you to get hurt. We’re getting there tomorrow, we can talk about this.”
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His eyes suddenly stinging in pain, George dropped to the ground, shooting his gun off as he fell. He rolled on the ground a moment, until the pain
stopped, then he jumped to his feet – and narrowly missed falling off the
train through the open gate. He clutched it as it swung and pulled himself
upright. The conductor’s arm came over his shoulder, pointing to a huddled
mass at the side of the road.
“Did I get him?” The conductor just pointed up, at the hole in the roof.
Cursing savagely, George pushed his way back to the front of the train.
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Chapter 13
Akrostira, On Foot
Night had long since fallen when Robin woke up, the entire left side of his
body aching badly from where he hit the ground. He sat up, and at once a
searing pain in his ribs told him to take it slowly. His left ankle felt numb
in a bad way, too.
He lay for a long while as he tried to gather the will to pick himself up.
Thankfully, it was a clear, dry night, and the stars were out. After he’d
been still awhile longer, the crickets felt safe enough to continue their songs
close by. It wasn’t pitch black; a sliver of moon gave him light enough to
see the tracks a few yards away, and the occasional bat overhead.
After an hour, he heard the faint voices of a few men. Robin made
himself as dark as he could, huddled in a small depression. Barely breathing,
he waited until he could hear their voices.
“Shit, we’ll never find nobody this time of night.”
“Shut up and keep looking, we’ve only got a mile or so to go, and we
can spend the night in Fenrick.”
“This is stupid. Some guy jumps off a train and we got to go out in the
middle of the night to scrape his corpse off the tracks? Ain’t another train
til tomorrow.”
“And what if he ain’t dead? The note just said he jumped. Not everyone
as jumps dies.”
They were close now. Robin saw the lantern beam play on the ground
only a yard away from him. Two men, one on each side of the tracks, each
with a target lantern that focused the light into a tight beam twice as bright
as a normal candle.
“Why don’t we pretend we didn’t get the mail sack ‘til tomorrow. That’s
reasonable. Nobody expects us to read an order tied to a postal bag until
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we’ve had our breakfast, anyway.”
“Order said he’s a prisoner, and they got to have him back soon as
possible. So just shut up and keep walking. Hey, lookit that!” Robin froze.
“It’s just a dead deer. Look how far it went, must’ve been hit by the
cowcatcher. Nice rack, though. Nine points, you think?”
“Maybe. Aw, phew! Been dead a while.”
“You didn’t touch it, did you?”
“No, I didn’t touch it, you idiot. You can smell it from way off, we were
just upwind of it is all.” Robin was thankful for that. He waited until their
voices trailed off, then waited some more before he hauled himself to his feet
and made his way to the tree line. Once he was safely behind a few trees,
he collapsed again onto a bed of moss.
***
In the morning, Robin’s side felt better, but his ankle still hurt him. His
throat hurt too; he needed water, and food wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.
He dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his ankle. The men
had said there was a town nearby, Fenrick. Robin walked a few steps, and
decided that he could probably walk a few miles without too much trouble.
His feet had trouble finding purchase on a forest floor, it was too foreign to
him, so he walked out of the woods closer to the tracks.
Other than the pain of a twisted ankle, the walk was a pleasant one. The
grass was high, but Robin found that a little concentration could part the
grass in front of him, keeping it from making too much noise as he passed
through. After an hour’s walk, he saw the tops of roofs, and a few columns
of smoke. As he got closer, the grass had been cut down to his shins, and
Robin could see the platform that he’d seen the night before. An old man
on one of the benches waved. Robin waved back as he approached, taking
care to change his appearance a little, just in case.
“Hey young fella! You lookin’ after the guy who jumped the train?”
Robin shook his head and clambered up onto the platform, still concentrating on his altered appearance. “Nope. I heard they caught him already.”
“You don’t say!”
“Yeah,” Robin lied, “I guess he only pretended to jump. They found
him hanging onto the side a little while after they sent the order to look for
him.”
The old man cackled and stomped his foot. “Well, if that don’t beat all!
Those two boys come in last night, they’ll be glad to hear that when they
get back.”
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“They leave already?”
“Doc Handrecht drove em back this morning in his carriage so they’d be
back for whatever they do up ‘ere.”
“Is there a southbound train anytime soon?”
The old man stared at him. “Hell, you got the wrong tracks if’n you
want southbound. That’s a couple miles over yonder.” He pointed a crooked
finger over the treeline. “Anyhow, they don’t really pick up anymore on
these side stations. Once every couple week, that’s it.”
Robin thought about that, and didn’t really feel like taking the train
anyway. He could ride a horse, after a fashion, but he didn’t have any
money anymore. “Is anyone around here looking to take on help,” he asked
noncommittally.
The old man gave it serious thought. “Ayep. Blacksmith next town
over.”
Robin shook his head. “I don’t know anything about working with
metal.”
“Don’t have to. Got a peg leg, he has, can’t go up and down his hill.
Head over yonder,” he pointed again, this time south along the tracks.
“Betcha he’d hire you.”
Robin thanked him, climbed down off the platform and continued walking.
“You watch out now!” the old man yelled off the platform, “He’s an
ornery old bastard!”
Robin chuckled and kept walking as he let his illusionary appearance go
back to normal. He stopped at a water pump briefly to slake his thirst and
wash his hands. His stomach was beginning to bother him, but without
money there was little he could do about that. Anyone begging for money
would be sure to attract attention, and until he knew where he was and
whether they were still looking for him, he wanted to stay as low profile as
he could.
The walk to the next town took the better part of the morning; a couple
hours at least. A train passed once, with the number 106 emblazoned on the
front. Robin hid from it when he saw it, though he was fairly unconcerned
about being spotted. He was getting better with his magic, it came more
freely now. As he walked along the road, he practiced levitating bits of rock,
and managed to keep himself a few inches off the ground for over a minute,
still moving forward.
When the town came into view, Robin was already very hungry. As
he approached, he could smell before he saw the outdoors kiln with bread
cooling outside. A woman in an apron busily tended them, moving them
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around with a long wooden spatula. He waved to her as he walked by
her, interested more in the loaf she was bringing out of the oven, which to
her great and vocal dismay was completely blackened. When she started
whistling for the dog, Robin caught her attention.
“I don’t have any money, but I don’t mind eating burnt bread.” She
shrugged and let him take it. He thanked her and walked away, tearing off
a piece for the large mongrel dog when it came by, wagging its tail. He sat
in a shaded area and ate the perfect loaf, feeling only a little guilty for the
trick. After such a large meal, he sat against a lone tree and surveyed the
little town. It didn’t have a railway stop, so it was pretty small, but the
postal bag ensured that at least a few people would live there instead of the
surrounding hills. The woods receded close to the town’s edge, and Robin
could see farmland on the flatter areas. A steep hill stood a little away from
the town, with an old shack at the top. Robin could see at least two smoking
chimneys on it – he guessed that was the blacksmith.
He hiked up the hill along the wellworn dirt path and came upon the
shack. It was rundown and ugly, but plainly still in use. Smoke poured from
three different chimneys spaced evenly along the pounded tin roof. The walls
were wood, with patches of peeling white paint. The windows were dirty and
covered in soot. The grass around the house, too, was patchy and littered
with old pieces of rusted metal and chunks of wood.
“Now what the hell do you want?” Robin looked up with a shock at
the figure in the doorway, an older, unshaved man leaning on a crutch. His
right leg, Robin could see, had been replaced from the knee down with a
rustspotted chunk of iron. “You gonna stand there and gawk? I got shit to
do.”
“Sorry. I’m Robin, I was told you might be looking for someone to hire.”
The man swore loudly and turned on his crutch. “Yeah, yeah. Come on
in.” Robin cautiously followed him into the shack. The inside, though dark,
was in better condition than the outside. The walls were painted, though
they were stained yellow. Papers were strewn about an otherwise clean floor
and over a nice table. “What the hell you want to work for me for? You
stupid?”
“No, I just need money to get to Akrostira.”
“So rob a goddamned bank. I don’t pay that kind of money.”
“I just need enough to buy a horse and feed for the trip.”
He swore again, but laughed. “You have any idea how far it is to Akrostira? Take you a month on a horse.” He shook his head. “Hand me than
tin behind you.”
Robin turned and found a round tin with foulsmelling contents. He
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walked it over to the old man, who took a few pinches out, and rolled it on
a crumpled paper into a cigarette, which he lit off the stove, clumping back
and forth on his crutch. Up close, Robin thought, he looked a little familiar.
“What do you want in Akrostira, anyway? You’re better off following
the tracks to Palatine. Make enough money there to take the train.”
“I can’t go to Palatine,” Robin said abruptly.
“Eh? Why not? You TRP or something?” Robin blinked in surprise.
“No, I just can’t go to Palatine. I’ve got my own reasons.”
The old man chuckled. “Whatever. You want the job, you’ve got it, I
suppose. What’s your name, again?”
“Robin Jalensen.”
“Well, you can call me Dane.” Robin shook his callused hand. “I’m the
blacksmith round here. Mostly I just fix things, though. They pay me in
kind, for the most part, but I keep cash money around, if that’s what you
want.” He sucked on the last of his cigarette, then carefully bent down and
extinguished it on his iron leg. He peered at the butt, and tapped the small
amount of good tobacco from it back into the tin.
“Hard to get this far from the cities,” he said by way of explanation.
“Ebron tobacco. It’s shit compared to the Imperial stuff, but what the hell,
you can smoke it. You smoke? Well, good for you, it’s bad on your lungs.
Never touch the stuff myself,” he said with a wink. “Anyway, why don’t you
make yourself useful and go check at the post office, see if I’ve got anything.
I’ll clear some space for your bed while you do that.”
Robin thanked him and headed back down the hill. He liked Dane, he
decided, though it was easy to see why the old man in Fenrick had warned
him. The “post office” turned out to be a booth next to the pole they
hung the postal bag from. The middleaged man standing outside it greeted
Robin warmly. His warmth disappeared, though, when Robin asked for
Dane’s mail.
“So he got another one, eh? Well, I wish you luck for the next few days.”
“Why only the next few days?”
“That’s about as long as he keeps people on. Anyway, he got another
letter in the mail. I don’t suppose he gave you money for postage?” Robin
shook his head. “Well, it’s ten kopeks, you can bring it tomorrow if you’re
still working for him.” The man handed him the letter, then abruptly turned
and walked away. Robin examined it in interest. Plain railroad post envelope
written out to Dane Smith, Albright Township, Ateke, Fengar. The return
address was the Kendauer Daily Paper. Robin guessed that this small town
must be Albright Township.
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Envelope in hand, he started back to the hill. From this point of view,
he could see behind the shack, where it looked like sheets on the line were
billowed out. Getting closer, he saw that the sheets weren’t moving in the
wind, they were held rigidly by poles at strange angles.
Still staring at the sheets, Robin circled the shack when he reached the
top of the hill. The bottom of each sheet was formed into a funnel by the
long poles, hanging over a sort of trough.
“It’s hard to get water up here,” Dane came up behind him with surprising stealth. “Gets real foggy in the morning, though, so I figured I’d
just take some of that. Takes some of the strain off the well, and it tastes
better anyway. They got anything for me?”
Robin handed over the envelope. “The post master said you owe him
ten kopeks for it.”
“I ain’t going to pay him no ten kopeks, so forget about that. He figures
he can extort me if you don’t know better. Asshole.” Dane tore it open and
removed the letter and a newspaper clipping. Robin followed him inside.
A squat contraption sat next to the door, all tubing and metal, with a low
flame under it.
“What’s that?”
“Eh? That’s my still. Just because I don’t eat my corn, doesn’t mean I
can’t drink it. Anyway, this is the forge over here.” He waved at the large
furnace dominating one wall. A large tank of water sat next to it, and a
battered anvil in front. “It ain’t big, as they go, but I don’t need anything
bigger, usually.” He pointed to a large metal container on the other side of
the room. “You know how to weld?” Robin did not. “Then don’t touch
that. Liable to blow yerself up, and me with you. I suppose I’ll have to
teach you, if you’re going to be much use around here. Tomorrow, maybe.”
He clumped over into the next room, dark and small.
“Here’s where you sleep. Straw mattress in the corner, sorry I ain’t got
better than that, but it’s comfortable. There’s a wool blanket on the shelf
with the candles and such. Anything on that shelf is yours to use as you see
fit, just don’t burn the damn place down. My bed’s over here on this side.
I like to sleep in the afternoon, and I like to sleep late in the morning. You
wake me up, I kill you. Yeah, you laugh, but you just see if I’m joking.”
Robin followed him into the main room, where he’d first talked to Dane.
The walls near the front door, he saw now, had framed newspaper articles
in them, but the glass was too dirty to see through. “Don’t know if you
cook, but this here’s the stove. See here,” he motioned toward two tubs of
water. “This one on the left you use for cooking and drinking. Don’t use
too much, it’s from the sails and I need it for the forge. The other one’s well
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water, that’s for cleaning and washing. You need to boil water, the kettle’s
over – the hell? Where’d I put it? Eh, I’ll find it later. Don’t touch my
papers, don’t spill shit on ‘em, don’t step on ‘em. You can clear a path if
you need to, but otherwise leave ‘em alone.”
He leaned on his crutch and surveyed the room. “That’s the tour. I’m
going to take a nap in a little while. Tidy up the yard if you want. You can
go down into town, I suppose, but they’re all slackjawed idiots down there.
Course, if you’re a slackjawed idiot yourself, go right ahead.” He pivoted
on the crutch and hobbled into the sleeping room. “Oh,” he called back, “if
Mrs. Kuprick brings her damn chickens by, tell her to go to hell.”
Robin stood for a moment, a little dazed. He still had no clear idea
of what he’d be doing, other than walking up and down the hill. He
looked around the papers, but they mostly bore meaningless drawings of
strangelooking objects. The handwriting on them was remarkably neat,
blocky script, though the words labeling the drawings were totally foreign
to him: “cam shaft,” “worm gear,” and “piston” all looked like they might
be Ejianic – the language spoken by most of the continent, including Mediter
– but their meanings were utterly lost on him.
He turned to the newspaper articles framed by the door. Some of them
appeared to be from technical papers, talking about various mechanical
topics which Robin couldn’t understand. The oldest one was an article
about the CC 109 crash, which was for the most part too yellowed to read.
After a while, he went back outside into the warm afternoon sun, wondering what he was going to do. Without money, he wouldn’t be able to
go anywhere. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure the man from the train
would give up on searching for him. He didn’t mind working for Dane, but
they hadn’t talked about how much he’d be paid, which made him a little
nervous. Robin wondered vaguely how much a kopek was.
The yard, on closer inspection, was scattered with various pieces of metal
and trash besides the big pieces he’d seen before. Robin picked up a horseshoe and examined it intently before hanging it up on a nail protruding
from the wall. He floated a screw and amused himself making it dance in
the air before putting it in the pocket of his somewhat torn and dirty pants.
With nothing else to do, he busied himself picking up the larger scraps of
wood and metal, and leaning them against the wall of the shack. He mostly
carried them, content with the work and a little nervous about being caught.
He’d finished with the largest scraps when a large woman came up the
walk carrying a clucking wicker basket. “Oh!” she exclaimed upon seeing
Robin, “He does have a new assistant!” She hurried her pace, which was
still pretty slow and ungainly. “I’m Erma Kuprick, is Mr. Smith here?”
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Robin wasn’t sure what to say, so she pushed past him and peered into
the house. “Mr. Smith! Are you there?”
Mortified, Robin stepped in front of her. “He’s trying to sleep. Do you
need him for something?”
“Of course I do, why else would I hike up this awful mountain? It’s
Bicky, my Melioran Blue.” She dove into the wicker basket and pulled out
a squawking grey bird. “He’s getting old, and I don’t think he’s eating as
much as he should, and I think it’s because he can’t see the grain.” Robin
blinked. “I asked Mr. Smith about maybe making eyeglasses for poor Bicky
like I saw in the catalog so he could see better.”
“I don’t think he really has time for that, ma’am.”
“Of course he has time for it,” she insisted indignantly. “All he does is
putter around up here all day.”
“Did he say he’d do it?”
“Well, no, usually he just tells me to go to hell, or threatens to roast
poor Bicky here. Roast him! How would I get eggs then?” She shook the
bird at him, eliciting another burst of frantic squawking.
“I thought roosters didn’t lay eggs,” Robin asked, confused.
She fixed an icy stare at him, and Robin could have sworn the chicken
did too. “Are you going to get him or not?”
“He’s asleep, he told me not to wake him.”
She pursed her lips angrily, then thrust the protesting bird back into the
basket and shut the lid. “Well! I’ll just have to come by some time when
that lazy old coot is awake!” She huffed and marched back down the path,
leaving Robin almost in tears trying to keep himself from laughing.
Dane, of course, had no such compulsions – Robin heard him cackling
with laughter inside the shack. If Erma Kuprick heard, she gave no sign of
it, and she was a third of the way down the hill anyway.
***
Free from his duties for the night, Ari sat at his makeshift desk and
reread the latest letter from his wife Marie. Unusually warm spring for her
hometown, she wrote. The whalers are having the beginnings of a prosperous season, and the right whale festival, from her descriptions, sounded
wonderful. He folded the letter back into its envelope and placed it back in
the drawer.
The day had not been a bad one, Ari reflected. The Campertines had
agreed to a ceasefire, and though they hadn’t surrendered, that was a good
first step. The merchant captains were eager to negotiate, judging from the
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five who came to Ari and the other commanders privately. Now, of course,
would be the time for vigilance against corruption, but he had few worries
about that. The commanders of all four armies were honest people, despite
Ari’s initial misgivings about Janus Kepler, who was only vouched for by
Mestrava. The upper ranks might cause a problem, but their opportunity
was limited.
He sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He wondered
briefly about the search for Robin, but put the thought out of his head.
Nothing he could do about that except trust the people looking for him. His
informant would have told him if Robin were in the hands of the Temple.
Informant! Not a word he would have ever thought to associate with Jean
Bruce.
Nothing he could do. The concept bothered Ari more than he cared to
admit. He went to bed early.
***
George arrived at Palatine Station in a foul mood. The train came in
early; nobody was there to meet him, and he was glad. He’d come without
the boy, and Gregor had the book still. He paced up and down the platform.
The stiffly uniformed guards were watching him, but he didn’t care. If they
got in his way, he’d shoot a few. With that in mind, he almost wished they’d
give him a hassle, but they left him alone, deepening his bad temper. Ten
minutes, still nobody approached him.
“You!” he snapped at the nearest guard. “Bring me your commanding
officer.” He flashed his ring, and the guard left immediately. Came in handy,
that bit of silver. A moment later a short stocky man in a Sergeant’s uniform
marched up and saluted him.
“You asked for me, sir?”
“Yeah I asked for you. Have any telegrams come in today regarding a
prisoner?”
“No sir.”
“Shit. All right, you’re being reassigned. Take ten men on the next
train south to Kendauer. Have the conductor stop before the Ateke Narrows
Bridge to let you off. Search up and down the tracks for a boy about my
height. Short brown hair, dark eyes. Pale, he’s Mediterran. I think he’s
17 years old or so. He jumped off a train, so he’s probably injured, maybe
dead. His name’s Robin. Don’t come back until you’ve found him.”
“Sir?”
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“Just do it!” George snarled. The Sergeant saluted and hurried off.
George suddenly got a nervous feeling and considered calling him back. No,
he decided, it can’t be important, and he’d rather die than appear indecisive.
After a moment, Fidela walked out onto the platform. How dull she
dresses, George thought suddenly. One wouldn’t think she had any influence
at all.
“Good evening, Mr. King. You have something for me.”
“Gregor has it. I guess he missed the train.”
She nodded silently in that way that made George very nervous. Too
bad, he thought, she wasn’t born a man. If she had this effect on him as a
woman. . . ? “I heard the order you gave to the guard.”
Shit. “So?”
“No reason, but you won’t be here when they return. General ban Iris
has asked to see you personally about the matter of his research.”
“What about?” He was beginning to sweat now; what the hell was wrong
with him?
“He’s expecting someone to arrive in Palatine. You’re to make sure that
someone gets here.”
“Who?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t tell me.” She started to walk away, but he
caught her before she left the platform.
“Am I still going to Akrostira,” He hissed the question at her.
Fidela looked at him with large innocent eyes. “There are no agents of
Fengar stationed in Akrostira. Diplomatically, we have no relations with
them beyond a pact of mutual territorial respect. Now, we have business
with their northern neighbor, Etheora, over our negotiation for the right to
cross through Depolisti, but that is another matter entirely.” Ah, George
thought, the game.
“For my vacation, then. Would a trip to the Akrostiran countryside be
out of the question?”
A tired look crossed her face briefly. “Perhaps.”
“Wonderful,” George said as he went to claim his baggage, “Maybe I
can practice targetshooting.”
***
Robin quickly got to know Dane’s routine, inasmuch as he had a routine.
Wake up around ten, eat something for breakfast, read any mail he’d gotten
overnight, work in his workshop. The banging and heat usually drove Robin
out of the house into town to do shopping with money Dane left him. In
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town there was the butcher, Anders, whom Robin liked and who listened
sympathetically when Robin needed to complain about Dane’s latest ranting
or shouting match with a townsperson. Usually, it was over something they’d
seen in the Grundel & Sons Catalog, which was very popular in town and
which Dane denounced as “the most worthless, idiotic piece of trash I’ve
ever had the displeasure to wipe my ass with.” Robin himself was entranced
by the endless drawings of devices he’d never heard of before, like a machine
with a crank for whipping eggs, or the animal eyeglasses Mrs. Kuprick was
so fixated on.
Anders always listened intently and chuckled politely, usually at something Robin at once realized had been a joke. He pointed out, too, that Dane
was good at what he did, showing Robin the meat grinder Dane had made
to help him make sausage. He observed, too, that if the town blacksmith
got into the habit of making or fixing any damn fool thing people wanted,
then he’d never have time for the mundane things that needed to be made,
like horseshoes, plows, and pulleys.
Dane was usually asleep when Robin got back, exhausted from a morning’s work. He wasn’t a particularly strong man, but he was determined
and got his work done with efficiency. After his afternoon nap, he’d often
work on his own projects, from the papers scattered around. The lesson in
welding had never really happened, though after watching him a few times,
Robin was keenly interested in the subject, wondering if he could learn to do
it without the special equipment. Dinner, like all other meals was informal.
Sometimes Robin would cook something simple, like sausages and peppers
in a skillet. Dane would occasionally roast a chicken, calling it “Bicky” all
through the meal.
At the end of the first week, Robin had been paid twenty kopeks, which
Dane assured him would be worth half the price of nothing useful, but would
buy him a horse eventually. While Dane slept, Robin continued practicing
his magic, more to keep from getting rusty than working toward any particular goal. He also read the newspaper articles that Dane collected, all
of them about technological advances over the continent. Some were about
electricity, but most were about the railroad. Sometimes Dane would get an
article that he would read and quietly lock away in a particular locked box.
Robin was always tempted to pick the simple lock, but never did.
The next Wednesday, Robin went into town with a short list in hand.
Two loaves of bread, a couple onions, potatoes, carrots and a head of cabbage. He also had strict instructions to not leave the butcher until he had
talked him out of enough beef to make a stew, which according to Dane,
he’d been wanting for a month.
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It was actually a pleasant morning, not hot at all, not in the least humid.
He walked along the dirt roads hunting down the ingredients. The woman
baker, Zelda, greeted him warmly. Her dog Warren jumped up on Robin,
as usual, until Zelda dragged him away from Robin and out the door. She
politely asked how Dane was, and carefully counted the six kopeks he gave
her – the last time he had been there, he’d “accidentally” overpaid her by
three kopeks. She distracted Warren at the front door while Robin stole out
the back and went quickly to the greengrocer.
At the greengrocer’s stand, he bought the vegetables he needed, chatted
with the grocer’s son about the nice weather, and then headed over to the
butcher’s shop.
“Robin! Come in, quickly!” Surprised at Ander’s vehemence, Robin
quickly closed the door behind him The bell clang merrily until he stopped
it with his hand. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Robin said, completely confused. “I’m just getting stuff for dinner. Why?”
“Three soldiers were just here asking about someone of your description.”
“My description?”
“Young man, brown hair, dark eyes, about five foot eight, pale.”
“That could be lots of people,” Robin said, suddenly nervous.
“Not lots of people named Robin. They might have the wrong person,
though, they said they were looking for a Mediterran.” Robin winced. He’d
told everyone here that he was from one of the towns on the Ken, but not
everyone believed him. “They’re up at Dane’s right now. The postmaster
sent them there.”
Robin sighed. “Well, I don’t know why they’d be looking for me. Anyway, Dane said he needed beef for a stew.”
“Beef!” Anders’s attitude changed immediately. “What makes him
think I’ve got beef here. He’s been here six years and he hasn’t noticed
he’s surrounded by pig farmers?” He and Robin both chuckled, but something about the six years stuck in the back of his head.
“Do you have any?”
“Well, just let me think.” The big butcher scratched his unshaven chin
thoughtfully. “It might just happen that Dane saw a beef steer be delivered
off the train last night. And if that’s the case, I might just have something
that he could use. Hold on.” Robin grinned and waited as Anders disappeared into the back, returning with a bright red chunk of meat. Expertly,
he wrapped it in thick brown paper, taped it up and handed it to Robin.
Robin paid him ten kopeks, thanked him gladly and turned to leave.
“Wait, Robin.” Anders sounded serious. “Maybe you’re better off staying
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in town until they leave?”
Robin shook his head. “If I do that, they’ll just be back. Besides, Dane’s
liable to get himself shot up there by himself.” Anders snorted. “I’ll be all
right. Like you said, it’s probably not me they want. Thanks, though.”
The door shut behind him, the bell ringing freely and suddenly more
loudly than he remembered it. A thousand things ran through Robin’s
head. He could run again. He’s got food this time. The meat’s beginning
to drip, he thought, starting on the path up the hill without even thinking
about where his feet were taking him.
He could kill the soldiers. It wouldn’t be hard, but he might burn down
Dane’s house in the process. Maybe choke them from a distance, or push
the air out of their chests until they passed out. Three soldiers, though. He
wasn’t sure if he could do it anyway.
Top of the hill. He could hear talking. No raised voices, Dane wasn’t
annoyed yet, so he probably hadn’t made them mad at him yet. Probably.
Robin took a deep breath and with packages under both arms pushed the
front door open.
Three soldiers, all armed with muskets. Robin set everything down on
the table, and hung the meat from the hook just outside the door. Dane
stood defiant in the middle of the room, speechless.
“Guests for dinner, Dane? It’ll take a while, I’m afraid.” Robin turned
to face them all headon, wiping his hands on his trousers, slightly bloodied
from the meat.
“Eh,” Dane said, staring at him like he’d just said something unspeakably shocking. Robin almost smiled realizing that’s a reaction he’d normally
never get out of the old man in a thousand years.
One of the soldiers, the short one with the sweatstained but decorated
uniform, stamped his foot. “Are you Robin?” He eyed Dane evilly.
“Yes, sir. Is there a problem?”
The soldiers looked a little uneasy. “No, ma’am, I apologize for the
intrusion. We received incorrect information, I expect. Come along, you
two.” The three soldiers left the house. Robin and Dane both watched
them go dejectedly down the hill, shoulders slumped. Dane turned and
stared bugeyed at Robin, who looked again the way he always did.
“I ain’t gonna ask how you did that,” he said quietly, making Robin very
nervous, “But I gotta admit, whatever you did, it was clever as hell. I was
half expecting to have to shoot ‘em.”
Robin took a careful look at the bemused old man. “Dane. That’s short
for Daniel, isn’t it?”
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Dane blinked, taken totally off guard. “Yeah, it is.” He thought a
moment. “Hell, you’re full of surprises today, ain’t you? I got shit to do,
but after dinner we’d better talk.” He shifted himself on the crutch, and
hobbled out the back door toward the forge.
Until he could hear the familiar whoosh of the bellows and fire, Robin
waited quietly. He just could not make himself regret having done that.
Instead, he took down the chunk of meat, and cut it into cubes then tossed
the cubes into Dane’s big iron pot on the stove. He stirred it a little with a
wooden spoon until he could smell it start to sizzle. Quickly, he chopped up
the vegetables he’d bought, throwing in the onion, the potato, and a couple
cloves of garlic. What the hell was he going to say? He had to admit to his
abilities, but how much?
He poured in some water; it hissed as it went into the pot, sending a
cloud of steam into Robin’s face. He got the papers the meat had been in and
let them drip into the pot before going outside to Dane’s little garden. He
knew from experience that Dane liked the one with the tiny buttonshaped
leaves, and the one with the fragrant woodsy smell. He went back inside,
crushed those and added them to the bubbling water.
“Smells good! Don’t burn it!” Robin ignored him and added the cabbage
and the carrots. A little salt from the red bowl behind the stove, then he
put the lid back on and sat down.
Now that the initial rush of excitement was gone, he really felt dumb.
That was rash. Didn’t he learn anything from Dr. Trent, about concealing
his powers? There was no way someone as bright as Dane wouldn’t figure it
out. Robin consoled himself with the thought that Dane might have figured
it out anyway, but that wasn’t likely. And what if the soldiers talked on
their way out of town? He didn’t really feel like answering questions about
it, especially since he had no idea how to answer them.
Robin checked the stew, and moved it to the back of the stove, where it
wasn’t quite so hot. Smelled good. He’d followed the directions Dane had
given that morning, expecting to be asleep when Robin started. It reminded
him that a year ago he had been cooking meager meals in Mediter, usually
stolen food over burnt scrap wood in a barrel. This, he decided, was much
better.
***
Pain.
Not unbearable, not after what he’d been through. He’d walked so far,
only to end the odyssey traveling in luxury into the heart of Palatine. His
189
hand ached more with the creams than it did before, caked with dirt. His
legs were strong now, and the burns on his knees were nearly healed.
Recovery would take still longer. Clean linens riveted his attention like
nothing else he could possibly imagine. Clean linens, a bath, clean new
clothes that smelled of starch.
Once healed, he knew, he had much to do. He had seen the magic first
hand. Indeed, it had nearly killed him. But in that brief instant of flame
and pain, he had finally understood. The pages he’d wrecked his hand to
save had neatly filled in the last few pieces, explained the last questions.
The power was now his as well.
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Chapter 14
Changes
Dane wiped his bowl clean with yet another thick slice of bread and stuffed
it in his mouth. Chewed loudly. Washed it down with something so alcoholic
Robin could smell it from across the table. An entire meal and Dane had not
said a single word, for good or ill, about anyone. He had not said anything
at all in half an hour. Robin may well have been witnessing an authentic
miracle, considering he sometimes even mumbled in his sleep. Belched. More
whisky in his chipped glass.
Robin had long since finished. The beef had turned out surprisingly
well. Easy to chew, though now he felt like he had strings between his
teeth. Potatoes were a little underdone, a little starchy. Carrots were good,
though. He hadn’t had them since he’d been at the Clannon estate. Robin’s
bowl still held the cabbage he wouldn’t eat.
No more stew. They eyed each other across the table. No escaping the
conversation, of course, but neither one wanted to start it. Dane pushed his
bowl away and settled in his chair, letting his leg knock loudly against the
table leg, probably denting it.
“Shit,” Dane pronounced philosophically, sucking at his teeth.
Robin pondered his first question. “Are you Daniel Rivers?”
“Dane. Nobody ever called me Daniel ‘cept the newspapers and my
mother.” He chuckled. “That’s where it came from. ‘Dane– yel! You git
back ‘ere ‘is minute!’ After a while everyone just called me Dane.” He
chewed the inside of his lip. “How’d you figure it out,” he finally asked,
guiltily.
“I recognized you from the statue in Kendauer Park, once it occurred to
me. Anders said you’d only been around for six years. The oldest clipping
on the wall was from the CC 109 crash.” He paused. “They think you’re
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CHAPTER 14. CHANGES
dead, you know.”
“Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know.” He picked himself out of his chair
and clumped around the room. He returned after a moment and dumped
his locked box onto the table. “Open it.”
“It’s locked,” Robin protested.
“No it ain’t. Go ahead.”
Observing the box’s age, Robin pulled gently on the edge. The padlock
held it tightly closed. “It’s locked.”
Dane snorted, and with a deft movement of both hands, flipped the box
open from the opposite side. Robin blinked in astonishment, realizing that
he’d taken the pins out of the hinges. “Take a look inside.”
It was completely full of newspaper clippings, and typed copies of articles. “You collected your own obituaries.”
“Read one.”
Robin did. He picked one up, a typed copy of a Mediter Evening Post
article, then another and another. All told, they contained the most savage
and unnatural postmortem attacks on a man Robin had ever seen in his entire life. “He’ll be missed, at least until we find a replacement noisemaker”
“Kendauer society is richer for the loss of him, even if their pocketbooks
are the emptier for it” “Prominent citizens marked the passage of this historical figure with an attitude normally reserved for a bank holiday.” He
didn’t quite know what that last one meant, but it sounded awful. Drunk
pallbearers. Laughter during the eulogy. Robin felt horrible, but he almost
understood how the people mentioned in the articles felt.
“So there I am,” Dane suddenly started, angrily. “Lying on a bed in the
middle of Stumpfuck, Ibra with my leg sawed off and a fever they thought’d
kill me. I ain’t dead, but I’m wishin’ I am, believe me, with these idiot
village doctors. Takes me two months before I’m on my feet – excuse me,
foot – and they bring me a fucking newspaper. Well, I open it right up, and
there’s my obituary, staring me in the face. I figure it’s good to cheer me
up, only it’s tearing me apart for all this crap about taking advantage of
Ibra, even though we downright poured money into that backward fucking
country to build those tracks.
“All right, I ain’t happy, but I figure they’ll eat shit to get on my good
side when they find out I’m alive. Only, I get a newspaper from Kendauer,
talking about my funeral,” he laughed bitterly, tossing the article at Robin.
In content, it was similar to the Mediter Evening Post article he saw before,
but a lot more vicious in tone. The yellowed paper bore small circular
watermarks that smeared the ink in places.
“All my life, people been smiling to my face and stabbing me in the back.
193
Oh, it’s John Rivers’s kid! What a nice boy. I hear he’s retarded and screws
his cousin. Or, oh, he’s getting good marks in school. Wonder how much
they cost his dad? I make the fucking stockholders rich, they snub me for
not caring about their damn formalities. I build an engine that can go over
fifty miles in an hour, they complain it’s not luxurious enough for Railway
stockholders and that I’m trying to sabotage the company.
“I decided, they like me dead, well hey, if it means I don’t have to look
at their smug faces anymore, I’ll damn well stay dead. Told the people who
helped me I’d been delirious, that I wasn’t really Daniel Rivers after all.
Remembered I had some land up here in the Upper Ateke Valley, so I drew
up a paper transferring some of it to ‘Dane Smith’ and backdated it two
years. That’s six years ago, I bought the forge a little after that and I’ve
been the blacksmith here ever since.”
Robin thought about that. “You want to see the statue?”
“What?” Dane looked taken aback. “I ain’t going back to Kendauer,
not in a million goddamn years.”
“No, no. I can show you. Look.” Robin pointed outside, and Dane,
though skeptical, clumped over to the door. Just outside on the doorstep
Robin showed him the statue as best he could remember it, even down to
the plaque.
“Well, hell. Good old Eliot.” Dane gazed at the illusion with faraway
eyes. Robin glanced nervously toward the town, but it was too dark for
them to see it. He told Dane about the engineer he’d met at the statue, and
what he’d said, then stayed quiet. He let the illusion stay for a few more
minutes until Dane told him to take it away.
“Now how in the hell did you do that?”
Robin went back inside, sat down, and told him everything. He started
with meeting Cesare on the docks when he was younger using his illusions to
steal food, how they’d pull off amazing scams and robberies using Cesare’s
street smarts and Robin’s ability to do illusions. He didn’t know how he
learned – he’d just always known how. Then he told Dane about how he
and Cesare had been stuck in Mediter when the Fenne Army invaded, how
they rescued the Knights, how Cesare died, shot by Andrew Dolohov in the
tunnels under the streets of Mediter.
After that, staying with Captain de Mediter, and being tutored by Clannon and Trent, first in Ari’s home, then in Sean Clannon’s house in the country. Lieutenant Bruce teaching him how to fence, meeting Cassia Shaw, who
called herself Emma Thoren then. He told Dane that Trent had a friend
named Loben Vin in Akrostira who knew magic, though he didn’t mention
Trent’s own ability.
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CHAPTER 14. CHANGES
Then, being kidnapped and brought to Mediter. Escaping and joining
the Revolution. He told how he’d stopped the assassination attempt, and
how, after he’d fled, that same assassin was the one who tried to kill him
after he’d been tricked into taking the train to Palatine.
Dane listened carefully through the entire story. It was late when Robin
finished, all the lights in town were out. He felt really good all of a sudden.
Ever since he’d run from Mediter, he’d been keeping his magic a secret from
everyone.
“Tell you what, kid.” Dane spoke slowly. “I know your secret, you know
mine. Let’s just keep this between ourselves, and go on the way we were.”
Robin agreed, and since it was so late, Dane went to bed. Robin cleaned
the pot and the bowls, then blew out the candles and went to bed himself.
He lay awake for a moment, thinking.
“Dane?” he asked quietly.
“Eh?”
“Is there really a Stumpfuck, Ibra?”
“Go to sleep.”
***
Robin spent the next morning scrubbing the dinner pot, thinking intently. He’d been there a while already, but the last night was the first time
he’d thought of Mediter in a long while. Were they looking for him as well?
Maybe those soldiers were helping Dr. Trent or Captain de Mediter. Maybe
not.
Dane had gotten up early and disappeared with only a vague mumble
about “target shooting.” Robin soon after heard the faint sounds of slowly
periodic gunshots from the treeline at the foot of the hill opposite the town.
The pot cleaned, Robin swept metal shavings and sawdust from the shop
floor until Dane arrived, hefting a large shotgun.
“Morning, kid.”
“Morning. That you shooting?”
“Naw, I just cart this thing around so people think I’m gonna kill ‘em if
they ask me to do shit for ‘em. Of course it was me. Blew away every single
target I put out.”
“Is that such a good idea? You know, with the gunpowder shortage and
all?”
“What? How in the hell do you have a gunpowder shortage?” Dane
broke open the shotgun, blew into the barrel and started scrubbing at its
insides with a wire brush. “You even know how they make it?”
195
“Well, Captain de Mediter always talked about the gunpowder shortage.”
“Right, right. I forgot you travelled in such high and mighty circles.”
He blew into the barrel one last time. “The only ‘shortage’ is if you’re using
a whole lot of it at a time. Even then, most of the stuff goes bad before
it’s ever used. The trick is getting enough of it to where you want it, fast
enough you can still use it.”
“Then where do you get it?”
“I make it myself. Charcoal’s easy enough to come by. I can get sulfur
from the chemist two towns over. As for nitrates, there’s a cave nearby full
of bat shit. Pain to get it, and stinks like you wouldn’t believe, but it makes
for good saltpetre.”
Robin thought about that for a minute while Dane rolled and lit a
cigarette. “If it’s so easy to make, then why does everyone import it?”
“Mostly what they’re importing is nitrates, I think. Maybe even pure
ammonia, I don’t know. They’ve got nitre beds in a couple places around
Palatine, but those take at least a year to produce much of anything, and
their little Revolution didn’t plan far enough ahead to produce more. We
had one at the testing fields in Kendauer. I used to have a simpler one out
back, but the tiles got cracked and I was too lazy to fix it. But back in
Mediter they probably import sulfur, too. I think I remember having to
bring it with us when we were blasting for the northern rail.” He took a
long drag on his cigarette and flicked it outside, where it had just started to
rain. “You up for that welding lesson?”
***
Andrew Dolohov was already awake and waiting when Mestrava knocked
quietly on his door, careful not to wake anyone before dawn.
“How are you doing this morning, Andrew?”
“I’m well.”
“You’re not frustrated, perhaps, spending your time tracking down this
boy?”
“He’s not in Mediter. I’ve made that plain.”
Mestrava frowned, and found himself twisting his moustaches. He stopped
immediately and smoothed them down. “Perhaps. Where, do you think,
might he be?”
“I don’t know. Trent says Akrostira.”
“Akrostira. Do you have a thought?”
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“He has no rationale. He says that the kid expressed interest in Akrostira
in the past, but he doesn’t profess to know why.” Dolohov shrugged.
“Do you not believe him?”
Another shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not prepared to travel to Akrostira, and I have work to do here.”
Mestrava nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But not, perhaps,
Palatine?”
“Do you think that he’s joined them?”
“Not exactly. I received a most enlightening visit from Miss Shaw. She
tells me that she believes that Robin is in pursuit of a Mr. George King.
How does that strike you?”
“Unlikely.”
“Explain to me.”
“Kid usually sticks close. Doesn’t move unless someone else moves him.”
“He was captured, then?”
“Can’t tell.”
Mestrava frowned, started to pace, stopped. “I have a matter in the Free
States that must be handled soon. I had considered this as a pretext for a
short trip to Akrostira, but perhaps this is unwise.”
“Going yourself?”
“No, no. Of course not. It is far too long a trip, and I am far too old. I
had considered sending you, but I am unsure.”
Dolohov sat still, keeping eye contact as Mestrava thought carefully.
“There is a strong possibility of turning one of Wilhelm’s lieutenants.
You and this person have had some contact in the past, but the nature of
that contact has been questionable.”
Dolohov nodded. “And trying twice to assassinate General ban Iris
might not endear me to this person either.”
“There is that small matter, yes. I am becoming glad, however, that
you did not do so in a way that might be traced back to either of us. I am
told that no suspicion of me is harbored in Palatine.” He paused. “No more
than usual, at least.”
“You expect this person to be in Depolisti? Isn’t that a neutral country?”
“How long can a nation remain neutral in times like these?”
Dolohov rolled his eyes and fell silent.
***
George King flexed his fingers to hear them pop. Inactivity galled him
like little else.
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“George, come here!” That coarse, whining voice galled him even more
than inactivity. “I have need of you!” He went anyway, grinding his back
teeth, entering the room through the side door, behind the seated figure.
The hair on his “guest’s” head had started to grow back in patches
where it had been burned away, making him look like a hyena or some other
ridiculous spotted animal.
George stopped, whipped his pistol out of its holder. Twirled it once on
his finger, and with a cruel smile he smartly shot once, sending the man’s
brains out through his nose in a gush of blackened gobs of blood, bone and
skin onto the pile of papers and books on the desk.
That, at least, was what he would dearly have loved to do. George had
splattered enough blood in these fantasies to redwash the walls, the floors
and the ceilings twice over, with a bucket or two left over for the touch-up
work. But still, here he was, refilling the bastard’s pipe for him twice a day
now. Never touched opium himself, but Gregor swore by it.
“What are you working on,” he asked mildly, scraping a bit of amber
goo into the pipe’s bowl. The fire-browned paper in front of him bore pages
and pages of handwritten scribble.
“Give me your hand a moment.” George held out his hand gingerly. It
was immediately seized in two bangaged hands.
“Touching. There a point to this, or you just lonely?” No response.
His hand started to grow warm, to itch. He tugged, but the grip was firm.
Starting to burn now, what the hell? “Ow! Let go!”
Sean let go with a hoarse cackle. He turned the chair to face George
head-on and watch him rub his unscathed hand. “Pretty good, eh? What
did it feel like?”
“It hurt, you fucking cock!”
“I can teach you that,” he replied slowly, fumbling to light the pipe.
Noxious sweet smoke wafted into the air, the same sick smell that already
permeated the room. “Would you like to learn how to do that, George?”
A grin spread across his face. “I sure would.”
***
Dane flipped up the heavy mask and inspected the weld. “Good. Clean.”
He reached over and turned off the torch in Robin’s hand. “When it cools,
I’ll see if it’ll sweat or not. I think it won’t.”
Robin took off the gloves and mask and sat back, wiping the sweat from
his forehead. “What do you mean?”
“See if it sweats fuel when I fill it with alcohol.”
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CHAPTER 14. CHANGES
“Another still?”
“Fuel tank. Gonna burn it.” Robin looked plainly confused. “When
you burn alcohol, it produces heat, which causes the vapors and everything
to expand. If you make it expand in one direction, you can push with it.
That’s kind of how a locomotive works. Same principle, anyway. Help me
up.” Robin pulled him out of his seated position so that he could get his
iron peg onto the ground and stand on it.
“Is that how your lever works?”
Dane nodded as he lit another cigarette. “Yeah. Once I got it nailed
down, I light a fire under that little tank, and it pushes the lever down as
it gets hot. If I get enough length there, I can move the whole house. Done
it once just to try. Shits and grins, y’know.” He exhaled, watching the
rain pour down outside. The sails were unfurled with enough slack so they
wouldn’t get caught too badly in the wind. Instead, the water poured down
them in sheets, rhythmic as they hit the tin pipes that led inside.
He puffed on the cigarette and played with the smoke, blowing it in a
long spear of white. He offered it to Robin, who refused. Dane shrugged,
chuckled, and finished it off in one long drag, tossing the butt outside. He
watched carefully.
“Storm’s gonna get worse, I bet. Best roll the sails.” He hefted his
crutch and half-limped, half-ran out. Robin dashed out after him, ducked
against the pouring rain.
Chapter 15
The Storm Approaches
“Mama. Mama, wake up.” The old woman stirred in the heap of blankets.
“The rain stopped. You told me to wake you if it did.”
She took a deep breath and coughed a little. Finally, after two weeks
of rain, enough of a break. Without a word, she rose and collected a worn
deck of cards from its soft leather pouch. With her youngest son’s help, she
hobbled out of the wagon and sat on the blanket they’d spread on the wet
ground for her. Tiny blades of grass poked through, painting her legs with
threads of water.
The air smelled of earth, wet and heavy. She handled the cards carefully,
reciting in her mind old songs that her mother had learned from her grandmother. On the last word, she dealt the first card, face-down. Around it she
dealt eight other cards, quickly, without looking at them until she finished.
The others were being careful not to watch; she keenly felt their anxiety, and
it was distracting. They had crossed into Fengar a week before, and had
found the spot she wanted almost immediately. Within a day, her youngest
had spotted him, living with an old man and using some fiery magic to join
metals.
“He gets anxious to move soon, and we follow.” They said nothing in
reply, but she could feel the relief. “He goes south. There is danger for
him.”
Bartok’s hand rested on her shoulder. He must have returned while she
was concentrating. “The danger to the south is the Fenne Army. They
invade Etheora, and occupy Depolisti. Word from our brothers is that the
lands around Shiroje are in disarray, but are mostly barren so early in the
summer.”
She considered her husband’s words. “He will move soon. We need not
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follow directly, but I must watch him.”
He squeezed her shoulder, then removed his hand. His long white hair
dripped slowly, soaked from the rain. “The old man is restless. Every night
the lights go out, and an hour later they go back on again.”
“He will move soon.”
***
Geoffrey Ducheval frowned as he inspected his officers. Clean, shaved,
groomed. He’d never seen them like this before. Shit, Andrei has blond
hair. Incredible. Geoffrey himself was dressed in a Mediter Army uniform
and he wasn’t sure that he liked it. Olivier had insisted, however, that it
would instill confidence in him. Who would need that confidence was left in
the air.
He dismissed the officers and went out onto the pier. Beautiful day, absolutely beautiful. Ships had started coming in with food, cloth, and things
like nails that they needed for repairs on the ground and Greater Mediter.
Mestrava’s man Neil McCormick stood dockside of his ship, arguing violently with a cringing sailor. That the sailor stood a foot taller than the
pudgy, red-faced ship’s captain apparently made no difference.
“Captain McCormick!” McCormick’s head shot back to look. He gave
his sailor a stinging parting remark and trotted along the pier. “Is there a
problem?”
“No, not really.” He scowled back at his ship and the retreating sailor.
“Kid’s just an idiot, that’s all. Something you wanted?”
“Not exactly. I guess I’m just anxious.”
McCormick raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a big deal. Just Captain Arvind.
He should be the anxious one.”
“Olivier wants me to do this alone.”
“Really. Because he used to be a Knight?”
I thought so, but now I’m not sure. “That’s probably it. I shouldn’t like
to see my mates at the ironworks if I’d abandoned them.”
“Ironworks?”
Ducheval nodded sagely. “Used to be a supervisor at the Blake Foundry.
Got destroyed in the riots. Me and my mates were trying to put out the
fires when Olivier first came down to try to settle things. Since I could read,
being supervisor, I’m the one he used to send his notes to for everyone.”
“You going back to it after all this is over?”
“I expect not. They’re all talking about putting together some kind of
Assembly like they have in Akrostira. I guess they’ll want me to help with
that.”
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“Probably. Hey, have you seen Janus and Andrew?”
Ducheval thought for a minute, scratching his beard. “Commander Kepler is probably at Turtle – excuse me, at Olivier’s Headquarters. By Andrew
do you mean Mr. Dolohov?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Mestrava’s pet gunslinger.”
“Last I heard, he preparing to escort one of Olivier’s advisors down to
Akrostira.”
“Really.”
“I should tell you, that’s not something that should get out, I’m told.”
“Really.” McCormick thanked him and returned to headquarters. He
found Andrew and Janus with little difficulty, sitting and talking in the mess
hall.
“Hey Doll, I hear you get a vacation.” McCormick sat down at the table,
grinning at Janus. “Mestrava trying to get rid of you?”
“Guess so.” Andrew sat back in the wooden chair, giving the ship captain
a level look. “You?”
“Ah, he’s just got me running supplies out of the Imperium. But I
wondered if you guys could tell me what’s up with these books?” He slipped
a small, thin, canvas-bound book out of his pocket and opened it to the most
recent entry, where he’d written the titles of five or six books that had been
waiting for him in Luxor. “I haven’t seen Mestrava since we pulled in, and
I gotta say it looks interesting.”
Janus picked it up and studied the Imperial characters for a minute. “No
authors, Neil?”
“None that I could find. I flipped through a few of them on the way over
– hell, you two know how dull that trip is – and I just couldn’t made heads
or tails of any of ‘em.”
Janus handed the book to Andrew and thought a minute. “You know, I
bet those are from the Library.”
Neil smirked. “Sure, old Mestrava whipped out his library card and –”
“Idiot. The Library. The Imperial Library. A thousand monks in the
middle of nowhere, who sit down and press copies of books from all over the
world, even a thousand years old. Very expensive, that is.”
Andrew ignored the two bickering and continued to study the titles. He
silently handed the book back to Neil and excused himself. Neil watched
him go and turned to Janus.
“I hear Mestrava’s sending him to Akrostira. What for?”
Janus shrugged. “He’s looking for someone. Looks like Wilhelm’s looking for him too.”
“Interesting. Any idea why?”
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“Nope. Been too busy running an army, you know.” He flashed Neil
a bright grin. “Anyway, you better go find Mestrava and give him those
books. He’s probably upstairs with Dr. Trent.”
***
Dane carefully rolled another cigarette. Paper, creased and yellowed.
Tobacco in a thin line, rolled up with surgical precision. Lick the edge, fold
it down into a wan, bent tube. Light it off the lamp.
Smoking in long draws, he surveyed the papers arranged on the table.
Pencil drawings, mostly. Lines drawn exactly, angles scrupulously recorded.
Measurement arrows, three views for each part.
He got up and poured himself a whiskey and sat back down with it.
Swirled the amber liquid in its smudged, chipped glass. He only took one
drink, then carefully set down the glass away from the papers and continued
his inspection. Nothing methodical, just a kind of casual watching. He
snatched a paper and examined it more closely. His stained finger traced a
pencil line as it curved gently. In his mind’s eye he could see the part worked
out in hammered steel, pinioned and rocking back and forth, hammered one
way then another.
He tore the paper in half and tossed it on the floor. New sheet of paper.
Knife the pencil to a point, and right to work with a straight edge. The
head-on view was all right. He sketched that back out in a couple minutes.
A few hours and cigarettes later, he shuffled the papers into a pile, hid
them in a drawer and collapsed into bed. Only a few hours after that, Robin
woke. Careful not to wake the old man, he got dressed and collected a few
coins from a jar behind the stove. He looked through the closet to see if
they needed onions or potatoes, then took the wicker basket and set off for
town.
***
Clannon sat on the floor against his bed, head in his hands, contemplating spirits. Spirits that are commanded, spirits in your mind, in the air, in
the wood. Spirits that can lift or burn.
None of this religious claptrap, of course. There had to be some sort of
scientific explanation, such as perhaps an affinity of the mind to the aether.
He had felt it that first time, in the carriage, the way Robin had called to
the spirits. No, not called. Led. But what?
He laid his head back on the unmade bed and felt the sheet, slick with
a month’s tossing and turning. Not even a command, more like the way a
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mob suddenly decides to act, and that decision radiates out from the core
of the rabble outward. Just like a mob, the opportunity exists for a single
person to take control.
Indeed, now that he’d seen it – really seen it – discoveries came left and
right. His pupils were beginning to understand, too. Gregor had gathered
it right away. Sean resolved to present him to ban Iris as proof of this
endeavor. George was another matter entirely, but what he lacked in skill,
aptitude or even intelligence, he made up for in zeal.
Sean amused himself by making sparks in the fireplace from across the
room. So simple, really. He imagined a little person or a little spirit standing
on the wood and setting himself aflame, and if he concentrated, it happened.
Still he could not set a good conflagration, like Robin had done. But of
course, what need of there was that, if the spark happened to alight on an
explosive charge, or a bullet.
A knock came on the door, and it opened slightly. “I beg your pardon,
Doctor Clannon.” Sean rose and answered it.
“Commander ban Iris, come in.” The Paladin entered with a bow. He
wore ordinary clothes in muted shades and a simple leather mask. “What
brings you here?”
“Gregor Adamson tells me you’ve made considerable progress.”
“I have! Would you like to see?”
“Parlor tricks? No.” The Paladin paced the length of the small room,
his brow furrowed. “I would like to see how Gregor Adamson and George
King do in the field. The Emperor is concerned that these studies are dulling
his Kept Men. He – and I – would like a demonstration.”
***
Dane was awake and sitting in the kitchen when Robin returned, poring
over the top page on a sheaf of papers. Robin put away the food he’d bought
and started to clean up when Dane interrupted him.
“Sit down a second. I got to talk to you.”
Robin put down the basket he’d put the bread in and sat down. “Sure.
What about?”
The old man nodded to himself and looked Robin squarely in the eye.
“You’re fired.”
“What!”
“Sit down! See that box on the table? Open it up.” Still in a daze, Robin
opened the small tobacco box and saw that it was full of coins. “That’s five
Marks in there. Enough to feed you when you get to Kendauer.”
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“I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no. Fact is, you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had. I mean that,
too. The kid that’ll replace you is probably a perfect retard, but what can
I do, right?”
“Wait, why are you replacing me at all?”
“Because I need you to do me a favor. See this? I was working on it
when I ‘died’. It’s really worth something to Kendauer, and, well.” He bit
his lower lip, watching the papers intently. “I want to thank Eliot for that
statue. And you for showing it to me. You shouldn’t be spending your time
with some old fart, not with your talents.”
“But –”
“Kid, this is important to me. I walked away from a lot when I settled
down here. Maybe that was the right decision, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
He passed Robin a ticket and set to work wrapping the sheaf of papers for
travel. The top sheet he set aside. Robin watched him sign his name to the
bottom, then carefully fold it and put it in an envelope.
“The train leaves tomorrow morning. Anders agreed to take you to the
southbound station in his cart. ‘Til then, you’re my guest.”
The rest of the evening, Dane refused to let Robin do any work around
the house, though he grudgingly allowed him to finish the welding job he’d
been doing. Dane made a simple dinner, after which the two sat and talked,
about the weather and the town, and Dane’s new assistant. Robin went to
bed feeling anxious, but immensely happy.
***
William Trent surveyed his room, hands on his hips, knowing damn well
he’d forgotten something, but for the life of him he could not remember
what. He finally just shook his head and went downstairs and out to the
boardwalk. The fighting had stopped some time ago but he was still nervous.
The planks were bloodstained in places, and he walked so as to avoid them.
So sad.
Why had he left the Imperium? Why did Andrew von Krieger, or Loben
Vin? He looked out on the bay, and saw the sun melting into the calm
water. When Master Ashe died, he could have gone on and been himself
a master of students. He had always wanted to paint, like his teacher. He
imagined himself sitting on the pier and painting this sunset, the way the
scarlet shadows touched the great ships. He shut his eyes and could see
in his mind’s eye Hanamachi in the early morning, when the sun came up
squarely through the gates every August fifth.
205
It’s nearly September, Trent mused. Hard to believe how my life has
changed in a mere nine months. Fewer earthly possessions, that’s for certain
– the document he’d sent with Jean had signed over his flat and everything
in it to Stanley. Give the poor old servant a fighting chance these next few
months.
And what of Robin? It’s been three months since that near miss. Surely
he’s alive and well, but there’s something wrong. Over the last month or
so, Trent had become very sure of an odd feeling whenever he turned east.
Malice, sometimes. Other times hope and comfort. Trent turned his back to
the setting sun and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring up the street
that led under the massive stone tier overhead. Gazing into the blackness, he
took his pipe from his vest pocket and put it into his mouth, where it began
to smoke. Eyes closed, he felt as though he were reaching out. Nothing
tonight. Calm.
He smoked down the last of the tobacco and walked to the edge of the
pier to tap it into the bay where the water lapped against the supports.
“You shouldn’t be out here. Not all the snipers have been cleared out.”
“Evening, Andrew.” Trent replaced the pipe in his pocket. “You’ll
excuse me if I don’t trouble myself with that. I suspect that it’s not worth
the powder to put a paunchy academecian in an early grave. Either way,
the night air and sea breeze are well worth the risk.”
The gunfighter nodded, gazing out over the water. “Nice.”
“You were born in the Northern Territories, weren’t you? That makes
you a citizen of the Imperium.” No reply. “I was born in Rivos, fifty years
ago and change. I was just asking myself why I ever left.”
The two stood and watched the last red sliver melt away into the rippling
ink of Mediter Bay. Trent looked up and searched for a handful of familiar
stars.
“And?”
Trent started, confused. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Forget it.” Andrew shifted his balance from one foot to the other, palms
resting on the handles of his revolvers. “Olivier says we’ve got permission
from the new Council to take a train to Akrostira. Mestrava will pay, but I
have to stop at the Fenne blockade in Etheora first.”
“May I ask why?”
“To talk to someone.”
“Business?”
“Always.”
“Did my friend in Akrostira wire a reply?”
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He shook his head. “Doesn’t mean much.” He watched the waves for a
while, then looked at Trent, and thought for a moment about his meeting
with Mestrava after lunch. “It’s a long trip to the Free States. I suggest
you bring a book.”
***
Anders stood with Robin on the platform, waiting patiently for the train.
The platform was just that – a wooden stage next to the tracks with a small
booth next to it. Anders’s cart stood by the side of the road; his two horses
grazed nearby it.
“I’m sorry to see you go,” Anders said when they finally heard the whistle. “Dane’s been right friendly these last couple weeks.”
“It’s not that I wanted to leave. He fired me.”
Anders laughed. “I know you didn’t want to leave. Dane probably knows
that, too. I think it just makes him feel better to not have to put it to the
test.” With a great rush of steam and the squeal of metal on metal, the
huge black train appeared in the clearing. It came to a stop with a shriek
squarely in front of the platform. The conductor in his red coat stepped off
long enough to check Robin’s ticket and usher him onto the train. He turned
to Anders who just shook his head and backed away, waving to Robin.
“You’ll have an interesting life, boy. I’m not sure if I envy you or not.”
Chapter 16
A Night On The Town
Robin stepped off the train feeling light-headed and nervous. He pushed
through the teeming crowds, clutching the case Dane had given him, with
the brown-wrapped papers sitting on top of the clothes he’d bought during
his stay in Albright. This platform was nestled in some under-basement of
Kendauer Station; he climbed a couple fights of stairs before he made it to
the main concourse. This time, he knew where he was going, and according
to Dane’s instructions he slowly pushed his way to the office, where he
rapped on the door.
A sleepy-looking bald head poked out the door. “We’re closed. Come
back tomorrow.”
Robin held the door as it started to close. “Maybe you can help me now.
My name’s Kilroy.”
The head blinked and squinted. “Sorry kid, didn’t hear that right over
the noise. You say Kilroy?” Robbin nodded, and the worried-looking man
stepped out of the door. “Yeah, maybe I can make an exception for you.
Come on in.”
He quickly ushered Robin into the office and shut the door behind him.
“Grab a seat, I’ll be with you in a second.” He scurried around the office,
eventually producing a pencil and paper. “So what happened, a derailment?”
Robin shook his head. “I have something to deliver to Mr. Winsor.”
The man considered that. “All right. He ain’t going to be happy, but
what the hell.” He went into the next room for a minute and came back
with a boy younger than Robin, dressed in a drab grey uniform of some
sort. “Bill here will take you to the Kendauer Grand. I’ll wire ahead and
let Winsor’s staff know you’re coming.”
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CHAPTER 16. A NIGHT ON THE TOWN
Bill, who was shorter than Robin and freckled, took him out a back
entrace where porters busied themselves with steamer trunks and carpetbags. A few turns down brick alleys brought them to Rivers Avenue and
the Kendauer Grand Hotel, a wide six-story building that dwarfed the surrounding banks and shops. A doorman in a red uniform held the door for
them as they entered the tall marble concourse. Bill sat him down on an
overstuffed couch and disappeared for a long time.
When he returned, they went up a back stairs to the second floor. Bill
ushered Robin into a room, lingered for a moment to peer in, then went off
again.
The room itself was small and comfortable with bookshelves and plaques
and a big wooden desk, behind which sat a middle-aged, slightly balding man
in shirtsleeves. He smiled at Robin and bade him sit, in a wooden chair with
a familiar family crest. “Well,” he said, “Let’s have it.”
Robin handed Mr. Winsor the bulky letter that Dane had given him.
The Mayor of Kendauer inspected it gravely, then turned and with some
effort propped open the sooty window behind him to have some natural
light to read by. Reading glasses and a letter opener were rummaged for
and put to use. Robin tried to read his expression as her read, but was
completely lost.
“You are –” He cleared his throat and took a sip from a glass of water.
“You are Robin?” Robin nodded, and he nodded along with a thoughtful
expression. They watched each other for a moment. Robin could see him
holding the papers tightly. “Do you know what this says?”
“No, not at all.”
Winsor leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin, and his nose, and
the back of his head in turn. “You know what’s in it?”
“Plans, I think. I don’t know what they’re of.”
This got a nod. “It’s something I never thought I’d see. Thank you for
bringing it. Is he –” He stopped himself and stared hard at the paper. “I
mean, what is – where is – how?” Winsor shook his head and rubbed the
bridge of his nose. He turned around and stared out the open window for
a long time over Kendauer Park. Robin shifted a little in his chair, wishing
for a moment that he’s peeked at the letter.
Without turning around, Winsor placed his reading glasses on the desk
behind him. “Says you’re going to Akrostira. You’ll need a special ticket
to get through the blockade in Shiroje, Etheora. I’ll write you an executive
pass for whenever you want to go.”
“Do I need that? I don’t want to be a problem for you.”
Winsor laughed a little. “Kid, you were a problem for me from the mo-
209
ment you called yourself ‘Kilroy’. We stopped using that as the emergency
password after the 109 crash. The only person who wouldn’t have known
that is the man who wrote that letter.”
Robin shifted uncomfortably and looked toward the door.
“It’s all right. I’m not going to interrogate you or anything. He’s got his
reasons, I’m sure. Just. Just one thing. How is he?”
***
Dolohov let his head loll back onto the back of the seat and watched the
ceiling of the train car. It jostled and jumped as the train rocked his head
and neck back and forth, like they would on a ship at sea. When he closed
his eyes, he could almost hear the waves on the hull of an Imperial Navy
schooner. He could remember the first time he slept at sea, on the way to
school, college. A long time ago.
The train squealed slowly to a halt again, the fourth stop since they’d
left Kendauer thirty hours ago. He opened an eye, but couldn’t see out
the window – too dark outside, it just mirrored him looking asleep in his
longcoat in the seat next to Dr. Trent. He remained resting, watching the
window-mirror. Momentarily, the train started forward, and inched along
for several minutes. He could see Trent arching his neck to look ahead. In
his mirror he could see ghostly blobs from the gas-lights on the platform.
They got smaller as the train pulled onto a side track and came to a stop.
Doors opened, boot steps. Indignant coughs from the first-class passengers
in the dining car ahead.
It took the better part of half an hour for a grim-looking Fenne officer
to arrive at his seat to demand his passport. Trent turned over his, a
new leather-bound passport from the new government in Mediter. The
officer scowled at it – obviously a well-practised expression – and demanded
Dolohov’s. He gave the officer the worn red book from his pocket.
“ ‘Andrei Ivanovich Dolohov, Imperial Navy, Chief Gunner’s Mate.’ ”
he read in a soft monotone. He flipped through the many stamped pages
and stared at the three or four pages of blocky Imperial characters. “I’ll
have to keep this tonight, sir, for processing, but it – and yours, Mr. Trent –
will be at the desk at the station as soon as everything is in order.” Dolohov
nodded and turned back to the window, where he watched until the officer
was out of sight.
“Was that wise, Andrew?” Trent looked uncomfortable. “Mine is easily
replaceable, but yours –”
“Is just a copy Mestrava made of my real passport. I don’t think I’ll lose
it, anyway. They still have some respect for the Imperium in Fengar.”
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“Still, I understand that your name is not unknown in certain circles?”
Dolohov shrugged and stared into the window-mirror a while longer. It
took more than an hour for the Fenne soldiers to examine all the passengers,
search through the luggage, and finally to turn the majority of them out into
Shiroje Station to fend for themselves. Their only instructions were to claim
their passports at some unspecified point in the next week, and then they
could continue their trip. In the meantime, they were not to leave the city,
they were not to break curfew, and they were to remain orderly at all times.
Dolohov and Trent found their bags without much discussion and went in
search of a hotel.
Hotels, it became soon apparent, were abundant. Some had always been
hotels, many were recently converted from large homes or other businesses.
Rooms to let, however, were expensive and scarce. The two trudged from
lobby to lobby, and were in the process of being turned away from the desk
at the Fir Street Manor when whistles began to blow outside. The thin-faced
clerk grimaced and reopened the signature book.
“Curfew,” he said by way of explanation. “Allow me to check the rooms.
If one of our patrons has not returned, you may have his room. Otherwise,
I shall put you up in the dining room, provided you touch nothing and are
out of here at dawn.” His lengthy check revealed that in fact several rooms
were now mysteriously vacant. Trent and Dolohov were put up in one of
them for an uncomfortable sum, paid in Kendauer dollars.
There was only one bed in the room, but the exchange of a few more
dollars and several heated words aqcuired a cot. The clerk brought it up
himself and dragged first the wooden cross-style frame then a cotton-stuffed
mattress through the narrow doorway. He didn’t even flinch when a gun
fired in the street outside.
“Curfew lifts at dawn; do not leave the hotel until then. Do not open
your window, for anyone. I will be up to check tomorrow night to see if you
are still here and to collect tomorrow night’s fee.”
Trent frowned. “That will hardly be necessary, we will be checking out
tomorrow.”
The clerk laughed. “No you won’t.” He closed the door behind him.
Trent sat on the cot, still staring at the closed door. “My word, Andrew.
Is all of Etheora like this?”
“Maybe. It could be just to contain foreigners.” He kicked off his boots
and lay back on the bed. “Get some sleep.”
Trent slept poorly. The cot poked and jabbed him however he turned
himself, and all through the night he imagined hearing gunshots. He decided,
before drifting off for the last time, that he was far too old to live like this.
211
On the other side of the room, Dolohov lay awake for a long time, thinking and remembering. He hadn’t been called ‘Andrei’ in a long time. It felt
strange and made him remember things he’d long forgotten.
***
Ian Mestrava answered the door in his nightcap and gown, cross and a
little nervous. The ruffian at his door stood in the shadow so that Mestrava
could only barely make out his tall, lean form.
“What do you want?”
“Mother says to tell you that we lost him.”
“Mother says? She never told me that she’d found him! Damn you!”
The man at the door laughed, but didn’t reply.
“Where was he? Where’s he going?”
“He was in Southern Fengar near the Kendauer border. We don’t know
where he is now. I told you, we lost him.”
“I paid you scoundrels good money,” Mestrava hissed. He felt something
hit his slippered foot with a muffled clink.
“Now you didn’t. Go to bed, Mr. Mestrava. Dream of pious Gypsies.”
The man fled into the night, leaving Mestrava trembling with anger.
***
George leaned back with his silver flask and cracked his knuckles around
it, watching Gregor fiddle with his Little Vial, tapping out a small quantity
of white powder into a tiny spoon and sniffing it, carefully resealing the
Little Vial before sinking back in his chair, daubing at his nose with a
cloth. George of course never touched it, professing to despise chemicals,
but secretly fearing what would happen if he were to sniff too hard or too
much. Instead, he occupied himself with little exercises, making trinkets
across the room flip over and skittle across the floor. He made a dustball
start to smoulder, but it didn’t catch fire. Gregor could have made it catch
fire, probably. Gregor was getting good at this sort of thing.
“Quit playing with the dirt, will you? You’ll set something on fire.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” George watched in dismay as the dustball summarily snuffed itself. “Fuck you anyway.”
Gregor ignored him, putting his head back and breathing deeply through
his nose.
“So do you think it was enough for ban Iris?” No response from Gregor.
“Seriously. I mean, we practically turned that guy inside-out. That’s gotta
prove something. Gregor?”
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In the corner, the arm of the Akrostiran ambassador to Depolisti, deceased, lifted and gave George the finger.
“That is truly demented.”
Gregor laughed.
***
Dolohov woke early the next morning and sat next to the front window
until curfew lifted. He went out immediately to Shiroje Station, half a mile
from where they’d slept. The Fenne Sergeant talked with him for a short
time and returned his passport, which bore new sooty fingerprints on every
page. They’d scrutinized the stamps marked Mediter, Ibra, Fengar (both the
old and the new governments), and the various Imperial stamps. Dolohov
returned to the hotel, where Trent had sat to read.
“Tomorrow, I think,” Dolohov said on his return, apropos of nothing.
“Maybe the day after.”
“My passport, you mean?” Dolohov nodded. “Will we even be able to
leave when I get it?”
A shrug. “I have to talk to people. The market’s open if you want
to eat, but be back here before five. Mind the pickpockets.” He turned
and left without waiting for a response. Trent frowned, and inspected his
pocketwatch, then his woefully thin wallet.
The market bustled with activity, booths along the main east-west road
did a brisk business as Trent watched a great deal of money change hands
at stalls and tents and the doorways of storefronts and houses. Most of
the people present did not appear to be local to the area – Trent made
out a large number of olive-skinned Akrostirans, and almost as many of
the more hirsute Depolistans. Ebrons and Fengari seemed to round out
the lot, though Trent observed more of them behind the stalls than buying
from them. They looked lean and tired, and some looked almost haunted.
His nose soon led him to a roasting pit dug into the dirt where the street
bricks had been pried up. He bought a scandalously expensive chicken leg
for three Kendauran dollars and ate it as he continued his walk. More than
once he felt hands groping for his wallet at his jacket and trouser pockets as
he worked through knots of people. He kept a tight grip on it in his jacket
as he walked, observing the crowd and listening to furtive conversation over
forged papers.
His walk soon brought him to the river, a tributary of the Ateke. He
followed it around, tossing the bones from his lunch into the water for the
animals prowling the shore. The river made almost a circuit of the town,
213
and the wide beautifully built bridges were all guarded by Fenne soldiers.
It made a nearly perfect prison out of the west side of Shiroje. Trent cursed
himself for being stuck in it, Ian Mestrava’s plans notwithstanding.
Not far from the river he found a small tea shop. The owner, a middleaged woman with her dark hair pulled back into a bun, bade him sit at one
of the many small, empty tables. While he waited, she fed fuel into the
samovar’s tube, and stoked it with the ornately folded foot bellows. She
tapped it into a small pot, then unwrapped a solid dark block and pulled off
a chunk, which she dropped into the pot and whisked a bit. After charging
him rather more than he thought a pot of tea was worth, she instructed him
to let it sit a few minutes then pour carefully.
Trent did so, watching the afternoon street through the smudged front
window. A Fenne patrol walked by, four men in rumpled blue uniforms
carrying worn-looking guns slung over their shoulders. He poured the tea
very carefully, but even so got a few tea leaves in his cup. It tasted harsh
and astringent, but passable. He found honey and lemon, which helped it
dramatically. As he drank, an older gentleman in a somewhat worn jacket
approached him.
“Pardon me sir,” he started quietly, “Have you just arrived?”
Trent nodded. “Yes, just last night.”
The gentleman smiled hopefully. “Would you mind telling me what’s
going on out there? There’s not much news coming in.”
“Certainly. Have a seat.” Trent thought carefully. “I’ve come from
Mediter, I only really know the goings-on there.”
The gentleman smiled and nodded. “And the riots? Are they under
control?”
Trent stared at him. “Not exactly. How long have you been without
news?”
“It’s been spotty, but I’ve heard nothing of Mediter in nearly two months
now. Not many folks from Mediter, and they mostly don’t stay long.
They’ve had money, been able to get through.” He looked suddenly guilty.
“Not to suggest that money has anything to do with it.”
“In any case, the rebellion’s in full-blown revolution. The fellow running
it used to be Captain of the Knights Templar. They’ve – well, are you
familiar with the layout of Mediter?”
The gentleman shook his head. “I’ve never been there.”
“Well, it’s build something like a stack of discs. The largest is on the
bottom, propped up off the ground, then another four, progressively smaller.
They’re connected by a large numbers of very tall, very thick pillars, and
ramps for the roads to go down. The rebellion has captured that lowest
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CHAPTER 16. A NIGHT ON THE TOWN
tier, and all of the surrounding ground, including the ports. The Temple
government is trapped above them.”
“Trapped. Much like us, then.” He paused. “I’m glad I didn’t know
what was going on in Mediter, then. These are not good times for my city.
I would never have believed that it would decline so quickly. In just a few
months it’s degraded to begging and thievery. Grown men, respectable men,
left to steal and to hide from the police. We can’t leave, we can’t fight. I live
here, I have a house with rooms I rent out. One young man has died already.
His money ran out after two weeks. I let him stay free, but I couldn’t feed
him. He was shot trying to run away.” His eyes suddenly flashed anger. “Or
are you one of them? I know they have spies among us, watching to see if
we slip up, if we crack. Have I slipped up by telling you this? Would you
throw an old man in prison, would you?”
Trent recoiled, nearly elbowing his tea. The old man shuddered, and left
with a mumbled apology. Trent sipped his tea, and found his hand shaking
until he had to put it down.
He found his way back to the hotel eventually. The clerk grinned leeringly
at him as he went up to his room. Trent closed the door, noting with
displeasure that it did not lock, and examined the contents of his bags to
make sure nothing had been stolen. He came away, half an hour later,
reasonably sure that everything was still there, though he could not on his
life remember which clothes he’d brought. The volume of clothing reassured
him, however, and he went at last to sit by the window with a book, to try
and relax. The view was surprisingly pretty, looking as it did over a narrow
part of the river. Ducks wandered around the bank, plucking at invisible
prey. Trent returned to his study of the Book of Life, which he’d begun
re-reading with a new interest, particularly the first chapter dealing with
the war.
Jalen referred several times to a “crystal palace” or “ice palace” in a
way that seemed metaphorical, the way Trent’s colleagues might refer to the
“ivory tower.” It was usually considered unremarkable, and indeed in some
translations was translates as “ivory tower” but something about it bothered
Trent. Jalen spoke of those who held the ice palace in reverence, and those
who held it in scorn. The thirty other times he’s read the passage, it seemed
perfectly metaphorical. Now, he read it as if it were a personification, the
way people in Mediter would say that the temple raised taxes. But who
would “ice palace” personify? Magicians? Magicians caught up in a war?
The very thought struck him as profoundly distasteful. He’d learned
magic as a way to understand himself and the world, as a part of his education, not the end goal. He did not like the thought of using his small control
215
of the world to cause wreck or harm. And yet, Mestrava had heard rumors.
And Sean Clannon, if he were alive, would certainly have his notebooks. If
that were true, he would of course know how much Trent had kept from
everyone. He felt suddenly very endangered and very, very vulnerable.
“You’re back.” Trent nearly jumped from his chair, and in fact his hands
flew to its arms when Dolohov spoke from the doorway. He breathed a sigh
of relief.
“Yes, well, I found it best to return here once I’d been around a bit.”
“Are you hungry? We’re going to dinner.”
“I can eat, certainly.” He paused. “How safe are we here, Andrew?”
“We’re not, Dr. Trent.”
“Where are we going to eat?”
Dolohov had already left before Trent could finish his question, having
apparently taken something from his small personal bag. He felt the urge
to look through it, but quickly suppressed that impulse. To think that,
after realizing the danger from someone going through his own belongings!
Scandalous, Trent decided, and put the thought from his mind, deciding
instead to wash and groom for dinner.
Dolohov returned some time later, looking remarkable in a new jacket,
even though its unstylish cut left the hem hanging past the top of his leg.
They left the hotel, assuring the clerk that they would be back and that
a certain amount of money would be his if he did not disturb their room.
They walked for a while in silence along the river, until they came to a small
building that looked like a house except for the faded wooden sign hanging
over the door.
There were only a few tables inside, and the waiter demanded cash for the
meal before they could even approach one. Dolohov pointed out a specific
table and they were seated at it. A short time later, a tall woman with long
black hair approached the table. Trent stood and held the chair for her,
then sat again.
“Dr. William Trent, this is Fidela ben Iris.” Both Trent and the woman
darted nervous glances at each other and Dolohov, though the room was
nearly empty.
“I - I’m pleased to meet you, Madam. Call me William, if you like.”
She returned the pleasantry and stopped suddenly. The waiter leaned over
Trent’s shoulder to begin pouring red wine for the three from a ceramic jug.
They waited until he’d gone before continuing their conversation. “I was
not aware that the Baron ban Iris had a daughter.”
“Not many are, outside Iris and Madras. Many of those believe me
dead.” Trent remembered the fire that killed the old Baron and regretted
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the line of conversation.
“Tell me, Fidela, do you remember Andrew von Kreiger?”
She looked quite surprised. “Yes, barely. He was a friend of my father’s.
I was very young when he sailed away.”
“He was a friend of mine. We grew up together.” He gave Dolohov an
expectant look, but got nothing but a perfectly blank expression in reply.
Ben Iris, too, looked bemused. None of them had touched their wine.
Trent stopped attempting conversation and took to nursing his glass
of terrible red wine. He examined his silent companions with some interest. Andrew Dolohov, now clean and shaved, looked actually quite striking.
Those looks, of course, belied the lethal person he’d seen several times in
gun battles at the ports of Mediter. Fidela ben Iris, now that he really
looked at her, bore an amazing resemblance to her famous brother. The
same height, same eyes, same hair. He had only met General ban Iris once,
and only in passing, but despite that – or perhaps because of it – he found
it easy to identify family features.
The meal arrived before the silence could get too uncomfortable. It was
typical Free States fare, a plate of mutton and potatoes with a greyishwhite gravy, and a single dish of cubed pickled beets for the three of them.
Dolohov ate a little, sipping his wine. Trent and ben Iris followed suit, and
the meal progressed in silence, until she broke it suddenly.
“You were the other tutor, weren’t you? To the boy they’re looking for?”
Trent glanced at Dolohov, who nodded. “Yes, yes I was. You mean, the
Fenne Army is looking for him as well?”
“As well? Do you not know where he is either?”
“I’m afraid not, no.” She laughed suddenly, attracting sullen looks from
other tables.
“My brother went to such an effort to have you followed here. That’s
very funny.” She took a drink from her glass and stared at the red liquid.
“And yes, they are looking very hard for him. The Kept Men lost him in
southern Fengar and they suppose he went straight south from there.”
“Is that why Fengar invaded the Free States?”
“We didn’t technically invade.” She smirked. “No, that’s not entirely
the reason. The Emperor is looking to establish ports on the western coast,
since he couldn’t capture Mediter.” She surely caught his glance at Dolohov
but didn’t remark on it. “Madras alone is insufficient to carry all the trade
for the Fenne Empire. Besides, I suspect that he wants to cut off their
influence.”
“I was under the impression that Wilhelm did as he pleased in Palatine.”
217
“The Emperor is firmly in control of the army. So long as it is happy –
and active – he has no problems.”
“But when the wars are over, he needs the western ports to ensure that
he is not under Madras’s thumb when it comes to trade with the Imperium.”
He saw Dolohov smile behind his fork. “But surely he wouldn’t do anything
untoward to Madras?”
“It’s not my place to speculate about plans the Emperor hasn’t made
yet.” She returned to her meal resolutely. Trent began to see the wedge
that Mestrava planned to use between her and the Fenne Empire.
At the end of the meal, Dolohov cleared his throat. “Thank you, Fidela,
for joining us this evening. Here is what I promised you.” He took a thick
brown envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. As he buttoned
his jacket again, Trent got a glimpse of his pistol butts underneath. “I hope
to leave tomorrow morning by train, if I can get papers for Mr. Trent.”
“I suspect that you already have those papers, but good luck to you.”
She stood and put her napkin on the table. Trent stood up out of courtesy,
and she smiled at him. “My dinners are not normally quite this long, so I
should be going. I know where your hotel is, if an emergency arises. Good
night.” Trent waited until she’d nearly left to take his seat again.
“We’ll stay here a little longer so we’re not seen with her outside.” Dolohov leaned forward, with his elbows on the table.
“Does Mestrava intend to help her prevent the Emperor gaining western
ports?”
“No, he wants them to be built.”
Trent arched his eyebrows at him. “He wants Wilhelm to take over the
Free States?”
“He wants Wilhelm to not bother attacking Ibra over its eastern ports.
Of course, the ideal case would be to burn himself out on Mediter, but that’s
unlikely.”
“What makes him think that Wilhelm will content himself with a handful
of ports in the southwest? That only gives him access to a handful of the
Trader Cities. Surely this is a separate matter from attacking over Ibra’s
eastern ports? It seems that it would only embolden him to do so.”
Dolohov shrugged and got up, signalling the end of the conversation.
Trent wondered whether he agreed or disagreed.
Trent followed, deep in thought. He began to wonder what was going
on back home in Mediter, whether Robin had returned there, or gone on
to Akrostira. There was, of course, a third possibility. If he had gotten
to a port, he may have gone north. Trent had often considered following
von Kreiger’s explorations. He, of course, had gone looking for Cove, and
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instead found an Imperial Marshal with a gun. John Dolohov, in fact. It was
ridiculous for him to have gone, but Trent had to admit that sometimes he
too felt a pull to the north. Loben Vin had admitted to feeling it too. Trent
had little doubt that Robin, so much like von Krieger, would eventually feel
that pull.
A train rumbled by over the railroad bridge. Trent heard gunshots and
saw flashes of light from the guard shacks alongside.
“Trying to jump on,” Dolohov said. “When their money runs out, it’s
their last chance. Come on.” Trent followed quickly, deeply saddened.
When the train passed out of sight, though, he felt a twinge of something
else. Recognition? He peered off after it, but couldn’t regain the feeling. He
followed Dolohov back to their room.
Curfew was still some time away, but it was starting to get dark, so they
both prepared for bed. Dolohov was already asleep when Trent returned
from his rather expensive, rather cold bath, so he removed his spectacles,
dimed the gas light and lay in bed. A crumpling sound under his head
startled him. Fishing around under his pillow, he discovered a slip of paper.
“South Plaza, before curfew – F bI” He thought a moment, examined his
pocketwatch on the floor next to his bed, then began quietly to put his
trousers back on.
***
Robin’s heartbeat did not slow down until well after the Fenne checkpoint
was out of sight behind him. The soldier had questioned him about his
destination and origin and looked very cross, but at last had honored the
executive pass and allowed him to stay on the train when all the other
passengers got off. They looked upset and angry, and a number of them
pointed at Robin as they were pushed off the train. The conductor found
him crouched down low in his seat clutching the executive pass, and had
taken him up to the front of the train where he and the engineer sat. The
train was taking on passengers, so the conductor went back to the other cars
for a long time.
When he returned, a soldier had come up to the engineer and told him
to go as fast over the bridge as he could. The engineer appeared to bite
his tongue as he nodded curtly and threw open the clutch. Robin found a
seat in the conductor’s small cabin and hoped the noises outside were not
gunshots.
The train travelled all night, stopping several times to take on fuel and
passengers. When the conductor woke Robin up, it was already light outside, and he could see the marble buildings of Akrostira roll by outside
219
the window. They pulled into Northwest Station and Robin got ready to
disembark.
The conductor caught his shoulder as he was stepping off. “Hey, kid.
Take care of youself around here. And remember that that pass will get
you back to Kendauer if anything happens.” He smiled at Robin, then went
back to the business of unloading passengers.
As he wandered away from the squat, sooty railway station, the cobbled
path turned to gravel and to dirt, winding uphill as it went. Chunks of white
rock by the road, overgrown with thick weeds, suggested that this had been
part of Akrostira once, long ago. He strolled on, stopping only to lunch on
a roll he’d taken from the breakfast cart on the train. He was much higher
up now, and he could see Akrostira spread out below him, in a kind of Cshape around an inlet. The city’s small, winding streets looked like a cobweb
with short brick buildings caught in it. He could see squares and fountains
and statuary set in them, and sometimes a tall, straight marble building
interrupting the natural flow. All of the marble buildings were set to face
the water, it seemed. The city went right up to the water and dropped off
into ports and boardwalks in some places, and plain water in others. Robin
could see tall ships loading and unloading at the ports. Far out in the water
he saw small islands that the ships avoided. Further out, he could see the
ocean, whitish-blue under the clear blue sky.
When he finished, he walked further into the hills, where he found the
remains of pillarstones and pillars. On one of them sat a boy not much
younger than himself. Robin strolled up behind him and said hello.
“Oh! You startled me.” The boy put down a pad of paper and rose, a
piece of charcoal still in his smudged hand. “Not many come up here.”
“That’s strange. I should think that I’d come her every day if I could.
Are you drawing?”
The boy blushed a little and stood in front of his paper. “You’re not an
Akrostiran, then. Most of them think that this old stuff should be torn up
to fit factories. They never come up here, except little kids and lovers. I
stay away from the little kids, and the lovers get angry if you watch them.”
He grinned a little.
“May I see what you’ve drawn?” Robin tried to peer around the boy,
who got a stern look.
“It’s not very good. I’m not an artist.” He picked up the pad and handed
it to Robin. The drawing on top was the beginning of the very landscape
Robin was facing, with the tree-line and the curve of the hillside sketched
in.
“It is good. Better than I could do, anyway.” He flipped through the
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pages and saw column pieces in tall grass, a statue’s head resting on the
ground, ships in the harbor, a young lady with no clothes on – the boy
snatched the pad from Robin’s hands.
“Thank you, I’m glad you like them.” He looked Robin up and down
appraisingly. “I can’t figure out where you’re from. You’ve got Mediter
features, but you’re not that pale.”
“I spent the summer in Kendauer.” Robin smiled a little to conceal the
lie. Not much of one, since he wasn’t far, but still.
“Really?” The boy’s eyes widened as he made some mental calculations.
“You must’ve gotten through the blockade then.”
“Yeah, I had a special ticket.”
“My brother tried for a month to get through. He had to sneak back
home. Cost him a hundred Marks, too. I bet you’re rich if you can afford a
‘special ticket.’ ”
“No, I have a friend who knows the Mayor of Kendauer.”
The boy nodded sagely. “It’d take that, I bet.” He looked at his sketch
and turned a few different ways to get the view back the way it was. “So
why’d you come here anyway?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“His name’s Loben Vin.”
The boy furrowed his brow. “Don’t know him. I don’t think he comes
to my dad’s bakery.”
Robin considered that, and climbed up onto a pile of stone to see the
city. Not nearly as big as Mediter, he decided, but plenty large for any kind
of search. “Any idea who I should talk to?”
“Dunno. What’s he do?”
“I’m not sure.” He thought about Dr. Trent. “He might be a professor.”
“Well, there’s the South College, and Akrostiran Academy, and the military school, and a couple small ones.”
“Hmmm.” Robin sat down, wishing he’d asked Dr. Trent a few more
practical questions. “Well, I guess I’ll start at a college. Where’s that
Academy you mentioned?”
“It’s alongside the river, toward the east side of town. It’s hard to miss.”
Robin thanked him and headed down the hillside toward the town. Embedded in the hill he could see the remains of a great stairway, now grown
over with moss and grass. He walked on it a little while, but found that the
stones wobbled treacherously in some places. He walked alongside it for a
while, until he caught sight of the wide Ateke River mouth down below, and
headed toward it away from the stairs.
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***
William Trent stuffed his fists into his jacket pockets, puffing furiously
on his pipe and eyeing all the people who slunk by, just outside the range of
the streetlights. Hearing footsteps behind him, he cleared his throat noisily
and started to turn.
“I expected you long ago, Dr. Trent.” She had crossed over the bridge,
the one direction he hadn’t watched. Of course – her brother was in charge
of the Army.
“Please, call me William. I dislike formalities, and besides, I have no
idea who might be listening.”
“Then William, please call me Fidela. I apologise if this is difficult for
you. I wanted to talk to you without Mr. Dolohov listening. I’ve never liked
him, even when he rescued my brother.”
“Was that him?”
She nodded. “Wilhelm knew the layout of the prison island, but he
needed firepower. Along comes Ian Mestrava and offers us his team. That
was Dolohov, Kepler, and some Campertine soldiers, Ebrons. Kepler and
the soldiers kept the garrison busy while Wilhelm and Andrew went in and
got my brother and the other Paladins who were still alive. Wilhelm thought
he was amazing, but his loyalties were with Mestrava.”
“If it’s his loyalties that bother you, I should warn you that I am deeply
indebted to Mr. Mestrava myself.”
“Not his loyalties. It’s who he is that scares me. Wilhelm formed the
Kept Men to try to find someone like him. That alone would make me
dislike him.”
William frowned. “Who are the Kept Men?”
“The Emperor’s secret bodyguard. Not very secret, though. They’re
too vain for that. There are ten of them, paired up. One pair guards him
at night, one pair in the morning, another in the afternoon. One pair does
his interrogation and investigation.”
“That’s only eight.”
“The last two are his errand-boys. King and Adamson. I need to talk
to you about them.” She ushered him away from the bridge toward a park
that was brightly lit.
“To me? I don’t understand.” His pipe, he discovered, had long since
gone out. He tapped out its contents and put it in his pocket.
“Do you remember a Professor Sean Clannon?”
“Ah.” William sighed. “Yes, I do. What has he done now?”
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“Your boy left him in a bad way. George King found him in the outskirts
of Mediter and somehow recognised him and sent him to Palatine. To my
brother, in fact.”
William stopped. “Oh dear.”
“He’s been teaching the Kept Men magic.”
William leaned against a streetlight, aghast. “My book.”
“Yes. That’s how we know about you and about the boy. Not much,
though – the pages were badly scorched. He burned his hands terribly trying
to put it out.”
“How much have they learned? Surely not much. Sean never understood
how it worked, I thought.”
“Some. Enough that my brother is encouraging them to continue. Paladin law prevents him from attempting it himself, but not all of his officers
are Paladins.”
He looked at her face, grim but earnest. “It’s awful, but I think your
brother overestimates what can be done with it. Robin was truly a prodigy,
but even he could only manage simple levitations and movement at a distance.”
“And fire.”
“Yes. Hmm. I didn’t know he’d managed that yet.”
“The Emperor talks about assassins. My brother, he’s a bit more ambitious. He talks about teams that can use magic to knock over enemy
cannons or barricades. Set fires in Free State trenches. He wants to take on
the Imperium.”
William laughed, despite his dread. “They’re years ahead of him in that
regard. The Traders, my dear, are not the true Imperium, no matter how
they boast.”
She shrugged. “I’m not saying that I agree with him. I had thought that
the whole thing was ridiculous, leftover dementia from my brother’s wound
last winter. But then, I thought Clannon had invented the William Trent in
his book.” She looked him square in the eye, her own brown eyes piercing.
“I don’t like any of this.”
“Nor do I, believe me.”
“But it’s true? This magic?”
“Quite true. Much of it, at least. I have no idea how Sean’s embellished
the truth, the ingratiating twit.”
“He’s untrustworthy, but my brother believes him. He demands, and
gets, books from all over the continent. My brother has spent a great deal
of time reading old books on religion.”
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William winced. “That, at least, is from my book. I sought to find an
historical source of magic, some way to give Robin a grounding to the world.
My own experiences were a dead end, as my own teacher did not speak of
sources. He presented it as a natural part of the world. I didn’t know until
I left that nobody here believed that it even existed.”
“Where did you learn, if I may ask.”
“In the Imperium. My father was a Trader with a great many connections.”
“Which city?”
“In no city. In the Interior.” She suppressed a gasp.
“When you told me that you’d grown up with von Krieger, then?”
“Yes, he and I learned from the same master. It was his crazy idea, in
fact, to come to this continent. He was born in Madras, and remembered
it.”
“So Paladin Norman was right – he was a ‘witch.’ Everyone thought
that was a lie, even Gunther Kasia.”
“It may have been. I understand that Norman got paranoid toward the
end.”
“And the rest of it? Cove?”
William shrugged. “A fantasy, I think.”
She seemed to accept that. “That’s what this all seems to me. A fantasy.” She backed off a little bit, and William realized that her odd, dull
clothes were in fact a sort of uniform. It looked similar to that of the Fenne
soldiers, but different. She saw him examining her clothes. “I am officially
my brother’s attache.” She smiled. “You probably shouldn’t be talking to
me.”
“Andrew seems to think that you can be trusted.”
She frowned. “I don’t want him to trust me. He shouldn’t.”
“He thinks, then, that I should trust you.”
“Maybe.” Fidela turned around and watched the clouds in the dark sky.
“You are certainly trusting. You haven’t even asked what I want yet.”
“No, just old-fashioned. That wouldn’t be polite.”
“My father’s dream was of a united Fengar, free from the old Fenne nobility. That’s what I want, too. Not a continent-wide Empire, just Fengar.”
“So why did you side with the Emperor against Marta Slake?”
She shook her head, enough to make her hair fly. “She was no leader.
She’s a revolutionary. Fengar would have fallen apart under her without
Kasia.” She looked him square in the eyes again. “You’re not Fenne, you
don’t know what it’s like to see all the potential in your country wasted,
going south to Kendauer or west to Mediter, all that money wasted on petty
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nobility with their banquets and manors. Every prince’s vanity catered to.
Disgusting.” Her face softened. “Discouraging. If this magic thing goes any
further, I’m afraid that it will be worse than before. Instead of squandering
Fengar’s riches on luxuries, it’ll be squandered on the military. Political
problems I can deal with, but this thing, if it’s true, is out of my reach.”
She started to say something else when suddenly whistles starting blowing somewhere. She gritted her teeth and fumbled in her pockets for something.
“Is that curfew?”
“Yes, I’m really sorry. I don’t think that it will be a problem, but it will
be hard to explain. But we’d better find them before they find us.” She
led him out of the park the path back to the bridge, but they’d missed the
patrol that started there.
They turned and worked their way along the water, vaguely toward
William’s hotel. Sure enough, they were stopped by four Fenne soldiers
carrying rifles. They stopped short and aimed them at the two walking.
“Halt! Show us your hands!” They put their hands out obediently.
“Miss ben Iris, is that you?”
“Yes it is. I’m escorting this man back to his hotel from questioning.”
The soldiers whispered among themselves.
“We were told to bring you in. They didn’t say anything about escorting
anybody.” She cursed under her breath.
“Very well. One of you escort him back for me, and I’ll go back with the
rest.” More discussion.
“We’re not supposed to split up, Ma’am. We’ll bring the both of you in,
and send an escort from there.” William saw a familiar figure behind them,
and forcefully shook his head. The figure faded back into an alley. “I’m
sorry, sir, that’s how we’ll have to do this. Come along, please.”
Two of the soldiers walked ahead of them and two behind. Fidela looked
very worried as she walked, but whispered to William anyway, “Thank you
for that. I saw him too and didn’t know how to avoid bloodshed.”
“Where are they taking us?”
“To the Shiroje viceroy’s palace. We’ve set up our command there.”
They were led to the marble bridge into the eastern part of Shiroje. All sorts
of nasty ideas crept through William’s mind, most of which would seriously
impinge his ability to remain fat and happy. Fidela looked increasingly
bothered as they walked, which further unsettled William’s mind.
The palace turned out to be very close to the bridge. ‘Palace’ was something of an overstatement for a two-story stone and timber building. The
guards out front saluted as they approached.
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“Miss ben Iris, you’re required upstairs immediately. Come with me.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this guy. Go on.” They marched William
into the building up to a desk where a soldier sat with a large ledger book.
“We need someone to escort this guy back to his hotel so we can finish our
curfew patrol.”
The desk soldier cast William a suspicious look. “We can’t spare anybody. We’re nobody’s escorts anyway. Whose orders?”
“Fidela ben Iris’s, sir. She was escorting him from questioning.”
“Wait, wait. From questioning or to questioning?” The soldiers mumbled to each other. William started to answer, but was swiftly interrupted.
“Shut up, I didn’t ask you. Let me check the records. What’s his name?”
“We don’t know, she didn’t say.”
“What’s your name? You can talk now.” William resolved to give a
false name.
“William Trent.” He was, of course, not good at that sort of thing.
“Right. Trent... Trent... He’s not in the book. He either hasn’t been
questioned yet or wasn’t processed properly. Either way, the interrogator’s
probably drunk by now. Toss him in a cell downstairs and we’ll deal with
him in the morning.”
The soldiers exchanged glances. “Now!” They dragged William, panicking, down the cellar steps. As they closed the makeshift cell door on him, he
hoped against hope that Fidela was not in any danger that would prevent
her rescuing him.
***
Robin’s search of colleges led him eventually to sit, tired and dispirited,
in a hallway in South College. He’d been there before, but hadn’t tried this
building. Now, as it started to get on in the day, he would have to come back
tomorrow to talk to some of the professors. His feet hurt, his thirsty throat
bothered him, and he was too disgusted with himself for words – how could
he plan to come here without actually knowing where he was supposed to
go?
As he sat, he heard the doors at the end of the hall thump open and a
deep voice shout, “Heave!” Robin stood up as, with scraping and cursing, a
huge wooden crate appeared in the doorway. Unable to contain his curiosity,
Robin jogged over to where two men in work clothes strained on the stairs
with the back of the crate. Without asking, Robin grabbed one of the slats
and pulled, concentrating as he did.
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The crate came suddenly free of the lip on the steps and seemed to
almost pop into the hallway. One of the workers, looking surprised, peered
around the box. “Hey, thanks kid. Can you help us get it to that office over
there?” He pointed with a dirty, calloused finger.
Robin got on the side opposite them and steered the massive crate down
the hall, letting the workmen’s strength give most of the propulsion. It
ground to a halt in front of the door of a Professor Antionak. Right in front
of it, in fact, so that the door could not be opened without first dealing with
the crate.
The workmen both swabbed their faces and necks with kerchiefs and
thanked Robin profusely. Robin tried to peer through the slats in the crate,
to no avail. He stepped back to look from a different angle, and froze in
disbelief.
“Hey, kid, let the professor open it –” one of them started as Robin suddenly grabbed ahold of the crossbeam slat and yanked it free. He mumbled
a hurried thank you and dashed down the corridor.
The two workmen exchanged looks. “What the hell was that all about?
Strong kid, though.”
***
Robin didn’t get to the shipping district until nearly dark, still madly
clutching the slat. He came at last to a stone building with a lot of shops
crammed together without windows. Enough of the sunset shone through
the narrow streets to allow him to count the black wrought-iron numbers on
the doors as he walked. “10.. 11... 12... 13.” 13 Wharf Street.
He tossed the slat to the side of the road and walked up to the door,
which bore a small plaque identical to the label on the crate:
Vin’s Antiquities
13 Wharf St
Akrostira
Robin grasped the knocker and slammed it proudly down. He waited.
No reply came. Again, he hit the knocker against the sturdy oak door. Still,
no answer.
He sat down on the steps to the shop and wondered aloud, “Now what?”
Chapter 17
A Change of Policy
Cassia Shaw went about her day in a state of distraction. Foreign diplomats,
religious dignitaries, university officials all wished to speak to her, and she
quite frankly had no desire to speak to any of them. Her official title was
Coordinator for this giant Convention, and it was getting to be enough to
make her want to pull her hair out. When she found herself in Olivier’s
office in Bien, he was not there. She closed the door partway, as he often
did while meeting with someone, and lay down on his sofa.
“You may have it, if you like.” Cassia started upon hearing his voice.
“You seem to get far more use from it than I do,” Olivier continued as he
sat down at his desk with a fresh steaming cup of tea.
“It’s not the furniture,” she replied with a wistful smile, “It’s the location. I don’t believe any Free States princess today has quite so many
suitors as I do lately.”
The ex-Knight gave her an odd look, then laughed. “You brought it
upon yourself, Miss Shaw. Without this Convention of yours, they would
not be here.” He sipped his tea and placed it with its saucer on his desk.
“In any case, that they consider this the appropriate place to express their
political ambition shows that they take it – and you – quite more seriously
than they expected.”
“Do you think it’ll happen? Do you think we’ll be able to put a government together with this?”
“I certainly hope so. Come in, please.”
Cassia, who had not seen the person hesitating at the door, nearly leapt
from her seat. The man standing there was a Knight, tall with dark hair and
coarse features and Lieutenant’s lapels on his green uniform. She knew him
at once, as did Olivier, who jumped from his seat as well with a child-like
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expression on his face.
“Jean! Come in!”
Jean Bruce pulled the door partway closed behind him and shook Olivier’s
hand, to be pulled into an embrace. He bowed to Cassia and took a seat on
the couch.
“It’s been a long time, Ari.”
“Too long. Are you here with the Temple’s delegation?”
“As an ‘advisor’, yes.” He twisted up his face as though thinking on
something unpleasant. “I was not deemed ‘religious enough’ to officially
represent the Temple’s views.”
Cassia picked her papers up from the floor and started to excuse herself,
“Well, I expect that the two of you have a lot to talk about.”
Jean stood and laid his hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Wait a
minute. We do, but there’s something I want to ask the both of you.” She
furrowed her brow at him, but sat without question. He too sat.
“I’ve only been here in Bien for a few hours, but I’ve learned that Robin
disappeared some time ago.”
“I’m sorry, Jean,” Olivier said, “I should have told you when it happened,
but I didn’t want to worry you with something you couldn’t have helped.”
“I understand, but I’d like to hear now. Especially after hearing that
Dr. Trent went after him with Andrew Dolohov of all people.”
Olivier and Cassia filled him in on Robin’s appearance at their headquarters before the Battle of Bien, and his disappearance afterward. They
also told him of the various theories and of Ian Mestrava’s willingness to
bankroll Dr. Trent’s search, first in Mediter, then more recently abroad. He
sat and listened patiently through the whole thing.
“Have you gotten word back from Akrostira? If they left a week ago,
they should arrive soon.”
Cassia shook her head. “Nothing, but they may have chosen not to wire,
since the Fenne Army captured the interchange in Etheora.”
“All right. Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer, Cassia, but let me
know if you get word from him. I’d like to know that he’s well.” She agreed
and left the room. Jean turned to his old friend and mentor. “That’s a big
load off my mind, but I think I’ll pay Ian Mestrava a visit. Anyway, how
are you?”
***
Robin sat for nearly an hour on the doorstep, until darkness had fallen
completely, before he stood up and dusted himself off. There was, he decided, no sense in waiting there, when the shop would likely be open for
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business the next morning. He leaned back so that he could see the windows above the shop, which were still dark.
Presently, he heard coarse laughter and shouting down the street nearer
the wharf. He put his hands in his pockets, found a few coins left over from
the kopeks he’d had changed in Kendauer, and headed in that direction in
hopes of a drink and a bed for the night. In his last weeks with Dane, he’d
gained an appreciation for Ebron whiskey – that is, he appreciated its ability
to knock him flat after a long day.
He found both that drink, as well as the few others that found him, and
that bed for the night. He woke early the next morning at, coincidentally,
almost exactly the same time that William Trent woke in his cell, and made
his way back to Vin’s Antiquities. The door stood open now, letting in the
fresh sea breeze. Robin stepped inside and stood for a moment to let his
eyes adjust to the low light.
The small room was neatly organized into rows of low tables and shelves
on the wall. Handsome dark wood panelling contributed to the feeling of
evening in the room as Robin walked among the various statuettes and
pottery and ancient-looking items of bronze, silver, and iron. While he
examined a sheathed sabre, someone behind him cleared his throat.
“Young man, that is not an inexpensive item.” A short man had crept up
behind him to remonstrate. He was quite bald and wore a fierce and bushy
salt-and-pepper moustache, as well as a pair of small spectacles propped up
on his forehead.
Robin put down the sabre immediately, though he somehow doubted
that it was quite so valuable. “I’m sorry. Are you Loben Vin?”
A scowl crossed the proprietor’s face. “I’m Ben Vin, yes. Who are –”
His squint turned into wide-eyed astonishment. “Oh my. Oh dear.” He
backed away a few steps and stopped, muttering to himself. “That’s what
William must have been wiring me about. Such a fool I was to ignore him!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Vin. Has Dr.
Trent tried to contact you?”
“I’ve a Doctorate too, you know, if you’re titling people.” He took down
his spectacles and wiped them on the hem of his shirt, then sighed. “You’ve
certainly grown, Robert. Sit down a moment while I close for lunch.”
Robin took a seat while the short man closed the door and drew the
blinds, then came back with a very concerned look.
“I hid from you last night, and I’m very sorry. I’ve become very attuned
to magic in the last ten years, because I use it to find some of these artifacts.
Last evening I felt a very strong power and it made me very afraid. That
was you?”
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“I helped some men move a crate.”
Vin nodded. “To feel that sudden power and to so soon afterward have
a knock on my door. I apologise. But look at you! You look to have become
a fine young man, and it seems that you have gained considerably in ability.
I shall make tea.”
Robin watched him turn up the heat on a samovar of sorts to boil water.
His hand seemed to tremble slightly.
“My name is Robin, not Robert.”
That drew a nervous laugh from Vin. “I shall call you what you like,
but you were certainly named Robert.”
“How do you know that? How do you know any of this about me?”
Robin began to feel angry.
Vin looked at him sternly. “You don’t remember. I know your name
because I watched over you and your sister when you were children. I know
of your ability because I saw it in you and taught you to use it.”
“I don’t know any of that. For all I know, you’re making it up.”
“Am I?” This drew a bitter smile. “I assure you, it’s true. It nearly
brought about my ruin, and for fifteen years I thought it had killed you. As
far as your parents were concerned, it did.”
He brewed the tea with no further questions. He put sugar and dried
lemon in the pot and served it in two stained, brittle-looking cups.
“These are over a thousand years old, Robert. I unearthed them a few
years ago, but couldn’t bear to sell them. Now.” He sat with a little sigh.
“What do you want to know?”
“Who am I?”
Vin pursed his lips and sipped his tea. His heavy-lidded eyes scrutinized
the thin foam on his cup. “You are Robert Andovere. Your father was
James, your mother Lydia, your older sister Maria. Your father was a
banker and a very wealthy man, who lived in a town in the northern part
of Mediter, with a large port. When you were very young, your parents
hired me to tutor your sister, who was fifteen years old. When you got
old enough, they paid me to watch you as well. I was a student then,
and finishing my thesis. I needed money and a place to stay, they needed
someone to teach their daughter the Imperial language, mathematics, and
classical literature.” He frowned. “It appealed to them to be able to say
that their daughter learned from an Imperial citizen.”
His frown stayed while he sipped his tea again. Robin listened carefully,
only half-believing what he heard. “You learned to read at a very early age,
and I noticed that you were a very imaginative child as well. I had come
to believe that your sister had that spark, that quality that makes a person
231
good at magic. My Master had seen it in me, and perhaps out of pride I
saw it in her. She was too old, however, and very religious. I did not dare
try to teach her.
“You, however, were not quite four years old and a very precocious child.
I very carefully taught you a few simple tricks when your mother and sister
were away. You seemed to like them, and I saw no harm in it.” He thought
a moment. “That was until you got sick, and began to have nightmares.
You began to make them come to life in your sleep, frightful beasts and
monsters. I didn’t know what to do, and I was very afraid. My good friend,
Andrew von Krieger, had died some years before, and I was ashamed to
admit to William Trent what I had done. I kept your dreams hidden for
over a week, but your sister had begun to worry about you.
“I had taken to staying by your bed at night to watch over you. Your
parents thought that I was an excellent guardian, I’m sure. I shooed your
sister away every night when she came to watch over you too. One night I
fell asleep.”
He finished his tea and started to pour himself another, but his trembling
hand made the amber liquid slosh out onto the table. Robin took it from
him silently and refilled both their cups.
“I’ll never forget the way she screamed. Your parents, naturally, came
at once, and you woke and cried. She told them what she’d seen, which was
some sort of monster crawling over you that hissed at her. Your mother
brought her to her room, and her father was afraid that she’d lost her mind.
I didn’t know what to do, but when they had physicians talk to her, they
recommended that she be sent to a home.” He shook his head sadly.
“I couldn’t allow that, Robert. I told your parents everything. Your
father was livid. But Maria was saved. I expected to be dismissed, and of
course I was. But your nightmares continued, even though you’d gotten over
your fever. Two nights later, your father came to me. He had you wrapped
up in a blanket. He told me that he was putting you in a home in the city,
in Mediter. You’d be happy there, he said, but he couldn’t have you in his
house. If I took you, he said, he would not turn me over to the Knights.
“I of course agreed. It was an honorable way out, I decided. You had
been registered under just your first name, Robert, and I was to bring you
and see to your lodgings. Your father had rented a carriage for us, and we
took it into Mediter from Mason-on-the-Sea, where they lived. But there
was an accident when we got there. There was some kind of snarl-up in
traffic, and I had gotten out of the carriage to see what was going on. You’d
fallen asleep inside, so I didn’t think that there was any harm.” He frowned
and gave Robin a long look. “Something spooked the horse. I thought that
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it had been you, but it needn’t have been. He took off without his driver
down a side street. We found the carriage an hour later, but couldn’t find
you. The driver and I looked all over, but it had gone into a very bad part
of the city, and it made me very nervous. The driver wanted to ask the
Knights for help, but I told him not to – I paid him not to. I didn’t know
what to do, and I had arranged to submit my thesis that evening. I gave up
searching and did that. Then I took the next train to Akrostira, and I’ve
been here ever since.”
Vin shook as if cold, and finished his tea in silence. Robin said nothing
for a long time. He finished his tea, and then poured himself another and
drank it too.
At last he stood. “I’ll be back later. I need to think.”
Vin watched him leave, and gave a single sob when the door shut.
***
George and Gregor arrived in Shiroje to extremely unwelcome news.
George, in fact, nearly shot the man who told them.
“There is no way that I am going back to Palatine now, orders or no.”
“It’s not just you,” the messenger protested, “It’s everyone! The war’s
over.”
“What??” They were both floored. “Since when?”
“Word came this morning from Palatine. All our troops are pulling out
of Etheora today, and out of Depolisti in two weeks. The Emperor himself
ordered it.”
“Why the hell would he do that?”
“I don’t know, but General ban Iris got here ahead of you and he might
know more than I do.” The messenger fled.
“Damn it, Gregor, this is my war. It’s not over until I say it is.”
George jumped down from the platform and set off toward Shiroje.
“Hold it, George. I hope you’re not planning to tell ban Iris that.”
“What, because it’s treason? Who cares!”
“You commit six acts of treason before breakfast and I don’t care. I
don’t want this to be over either, but I want to find out what’s going on
first.” He took the stairs down to the ground and brushed the dust off his
impeccable suit. “Something is up.”
The two took a hansom cab to the government building and soon found
both ban Iris and his sister. Warren’s features were not easy to read over
his mask, but from all appearances he was quite aggrieved.
233
“The Imperium,” he told them. “The Imperial Navy blockaded Madras
and their Ambassador demanded that we withdraw all troops from south of
our Kendauer border.” He was practically snarling through his mask, and
his sister did not look particularly happy, either.
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday. So help me, if they so much as damage a single ship –”
“Peace, Warren!” Fidela glared at him. “What will you do, destroy the
Imperial Navy? That would be a fine thing to try. But I don’t think that
they’ll bother anything in Madras.”
George fumed along with the Paladin, but Gregor was more thoughtful.
“Why the sudden change? Imperial policy is normally not to interfere. They
didn’t even follow through on their threat to blockade Mediter.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Adamson. From all accounts, this was very sudden.
The Imperial Navy ships had been in port when they all pulled away at once
and began blockade.” Warren gave her a very odd look, and waited until
she’d left.
“I got a separate message this morning. The Ambassador got a telegraph
yesterday evening some time after I arrived. From here.”
“Your sister?”
“I don’t know. But I am very curious.” He motioned toward the door
as she walked through again.
“It doesn’t matter,” George said finally. “We were ordered by wire to
pick up Dr. Trent. Where is he?”
Warren looked surprised. “I didn’t know – ”
“He was released this morning,” Fidela answered, “along with all the
other non-violent prisoners.”
“What?! ” Warren, George, and Gregor all said at once.
“My orders – ”
“Your orders did not include William Trent, sister.”
She looked him in the eye. “They did not specifically exclude him either.”
“Where did he go” George demanded.
“He went to catch a train some hours ago. The first one to Kendauer
left over an hour ago.”
“Akrostira. What about the train to Akrostira?”
She thought, and checked her watch. The infuriated George would have
sworn that she smiled. “Scheduled to leave in two minutes. You’re unlikely
to catch – ”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes, quite alone.”
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“Good.” He and Gregor ran from the room. Fidela stared at them for a
long time. In their haste, as absurd as it seemed, their feet appeared to not
even touch the ground.
“Fidela.”
She turned to her brother. “Martin.”
“You’re up to something.”
“I’m obeying the Emperor’s orders. If I obey in preference those that
will get me back to Madras the soonest, I don’t think you can blame me.”
“No, I can’t. But you know what I mean.” The Paladin left to continue
coordinating the retreat.
***
William Trent, sore and bruised, but thankfully alive, dragged his bag
into the last car on the train. The clock on the platform said midday, but
it felt like midnight. His morning had started very early after a night on a
wooden bench, and he’d been on his feet until this very minute. Dolohov
stood over him, watching out the door to the car until at long last, the last
whistle blew and the heavily-laden train began to pull out on its trip to
Akrostira.
“Safe at last!” William sighed, sinking into his seat with his feet against
his bags. Dolohov grunted in his grim way, and turned to him.
“I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m not going to feel safe until I do.”
“Surely being on the train means something. I felt as though I would
never get out of that cell!” He shivered despite himself, and remembered
Fidela ben Iris’s instructions, and turned to Andrew. “Before I forget – my
word, it looks like those two gentlemen missed the train.”
Andrew turned and saw two finely dressed young men running at top
speed along the platform toward the accelerating train. He drew his revolver
and shot, just as the train pulled completely away. Passengers all around
screamed and ducked until he put the gun away and they saw that he wasn’t
going to shoot again. Nevertheless, the conductor saw fit to ask Andrew to
sit in the caboose with him. William followed suit, losing his comfortable
seat for another wooden plank.
“What on earth was that for?”
“That was George King, an agent of Fengar. He’s the one trying to
capture you and the boy.”
“Oh.” William felt suddenly less safe. “It’s a shame that you missed
him.”
Andrew looked at the professor. “I didn’t miss.”
235
“I thought you’d shot to kill him.”
“I did.”
“But – ”
“I don’t miss.”
William frowned deeply, positive that the man hadn’t fallen. He strained
his head around to see out the back, but could no longer see the platform.
The trip took all the rest of the day, stopping three times to let off
passengers before arriving in Akrostira around sunset. William felt tired
and sore and he had dire need of a bath. He and Andrew took their things
down into the city, rented a cab, and arrived at Vin’s Antiquities before the
sky had gotten fully dark. The door was open, and he poked his head inside.
“Ben? Excuse me, are you here?”
He withdrew his head and frowned at Andrew. “I wonder where he’s
gone off to –”
“William! Is that you?” William turned around and hurried back to the
door to greet his old friend. Ben invited them into his shop and apologised
for having fallen asleep in his chair.
Ben smiled wistfully at his friend. “You’re here after him, I expect.”
“Is he here?”
“He’s been and gone, I’m afraid.” William groaned and sat down heavily
in a nearby chair. “I was hoping he’d come back, that’s why I left the front
door open while I had supper and waited.”
“How long did I miss him by?”
“He left around midday, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Oh, blast it all to hell!” William hit his fist on the arm of the chair.
“Those damned Fengari. How is he, Ben. Is he well?”
“He seems to be. I did most of the talking, I’m afraid, so I don’t know
if he’s in any trouble or not.”
“You did? Hmmm. Well, I hope you don’t mind company while you
wait. This is my travelling companion, Mr. Andrew Dolohov.”
Andrew nodded, but Ben only got a very suspicious look, and then a
very cold look.
“I thought that those guns looked familiar,” he said in a very low voice.
“You’re too young to be the Dolohov I’m thinking of, though.”
“His son,” William said gently, “and it’s best to leave that alone.”
“Get out of my house, Mr. Dolohov.”
“My word, Ben, please!”
“I mean you no offense, but you are the last person I wish to see right
now, and there are things I must say to William that I would not have you
hear. Get out of my house.”
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“Ben, he knows about us and about Robin.”
“I don’t care what he knows – ” The two were talking past each other,
overrunning each others’ sentences, until Andrew held up his hands.
“I’ll go. Dr. Trent, I’ll come by later once I’ve made hotel accomodations. Good evening, Mr. Vin.” He picked up his bag and left, leaving the
two old men speechless.
“Ben – ”
“I’m sorry, William, but far too much has happened too quickly, and I do
not wish to deal with Andrew’s murderer right now.” William sat blinking
for a moment until he realized that Ben meant Andrew von Krieger.
“No, that’s understandable,” he said, not understanding at all, “but I
should point out that Mr. Dolohov, or rather, Mr. Dolohov’s employer has
been so kind as to pay my passage from Mediter to here in search of Robin.”
“Yes, well, I hope he returns, then, for your sake and mine. Robert and
I talked for a long time, but there is much that I wish to hear from him as
well.”
“ ‘Robert’ ? Perhaps, Ben, I should hear what you had to say to him.”
While Ben Vin was recounting his earlier conversation, Andrew wandered
the streets of Lower Akrostira in a vague search for lodging. He hadn’t been
there in three or four years, and all he could remember were the sailors’
bars. All the streets in this area were cobbled haphazardly with round
stones in some places, brick in others, even flagstones in some places. The
round stones were the oldest, and some may have been embedded hundreds
of years ago, when this was one of the busiest ports in the world.
Andrew examined signs as he went by, seeing the Imperial word for
”alcohol” more and more often as he got closer to the water. A group of
porters went by him, fresh from work and smelling of salt. Andrew nodded
and smiled, and a couple of them did likewise. The salty summer air felt
good as he walked with no particular direction. He felt a little silly, walking
aimlessly, but at this point he had no instructions. Mestrava had told him
to get Trent to Akrostira, and here they were. He rarely had moments like
this, under no instruction whatsoever, and he enjoyed them. There were
a few things that were implied that he should do, of course, but no actual
instruction.
After a while his sense of obligation got the better of him, and he turned
away from the water to find a hotel for the night.
***
Robin barely noticed it had gotten dark until he could see the lamplighters down in the city below. He stood up from the pillar segment on
237
which he’d sat to think, and stretched his legs so that his joints cracked.
He looked out over the city, to see if he could find Dr. Vin’s shop, or the
market where he’d eaten lunch, or the natural history museum with all the
stuffed finches. He looked out over Akrostira, and came to the decision he’d
been fighting all afternoon: That it just didn’t matter.
His past was something abstract to him, a made-up story so that his
own life would have some symmetry with those of others. Parents. A house.
It didn’t matter. He remembered the days of stealing food to live, and
being rail-thin and covered with grime and soot. He knew in his mind that
without Vin, that would not have happened, that he would have grown up
with plenty to eat, and a place softer than a rolled coat to rest his head.
But he couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t make it real, and so it wasn’t really
true for him.
He started down the path near what had been the floor of a huge building,
now cracked and growing spurts of green that looked black in the low light.
How could he not have met Cesare on the docks, dreaming up heists to make
himself rich, but too lazy to really pursue them? Who would have taken his
place, if he’d lived the life of a banker’s son? Would they have met the way
several bankers’s sons had met Cesare and Robin? He smiled to think of
that.
Reminiscing, he descended into the city along the route that he’d already
planned. It took him down wide main streets and only turned at places easy
to remember. Not the shortest route, but probably the surest for someone
new to the city.
When he came upon Vin’s Antiquities, he saw from across the square
that the door stood open, and a man sat on the steps watching the stars. He
looked so very peaceful, patient and at ease. Robin’s pulse quickened as he
recognised that man. In his minds eye, Robin saw him again, in the passages
under Mediter, killing Cesare. Again in the streets of Bien, killing people
left and right. He felt the urge to run, to flee this bringer of death, and
found himself walking, but out into the square, toward that quiet-looking
man watching stars.
“Hello, Mr. Dolohov.”
He raised an eyebrow, and nodded in greeting. He moved over on the
step to clear room for a second person. “The hills over there block the view
to the north. Not one of these stars is my home town’s night sky.”
Robin glanced at the sky, and quickly picked out a few constellations that
he remembered from his stay at Dane’s. “Why did you follow me here,” he
asked at last.
“I came with Dr. Trent. My employer didn’t want him to fall into Fenne
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hands, so he sent me with him.”
“Dr. Trent’s here?” Robin peered in the door, but saw only that a light
was on in the back room. “Who’s your employer?”
“Ian Mestrava.” Robin frowned and wondered why Mestrava had hired
this person. “If you go inside, let him know that I found rooms in a hotel
pretty near here.”
“I will,” he replied, and stepped inside. They were still in the back room.
He went to them, but not before noticing silently that his palms were slick
with sweat.
***
George King stood motionless as Gregor plucked the object out of the
air from in front of his face. He still did not move, even when slapped –
once to be funny, the second time out of real worry.
“Let me see that,” he croaked from a dry throat. Gregor handed it to
him, the small, contorted lead object, heavy enough that when shot from
the Northerner’s gun it should have gone straight through his face.
“You’re lucky,” Gregor commented weakly.
“No, I’m not lucky, Gregor. I’m fucking invincible.”
Chapter 18
History I
Sean Clannon paced his room furiously. His head felt thick, his thoughts
confused. So hard to think! He threw open the small window to let in the
night air, but it didn’t help.
He reread the telegram from Gregor two, three times, then crumpled it
and let it fall in the trash. How could they let him go! How stupid!
But at the same time, he felt almost grateful. He remained the expert,
the teacher for a burgeoning class of eager, intelligent officers. And after all,
why not? Why should Trent know anything that he, Sean Clannon, could
not work out on his own?
Clannon unscrewed his jar, and scraped the brown goo it contained into
his blackened pipe. He concentrated hard until he could smell the sweet,
cloying smoke, and put the pipe to his mouth. Something in the back of his
mind nagged him that he should perhaps not use so much of the stuff, or
perhaps switch to something less strong, like the doctor suggested. But the
burns had still not fully healed, he countered, and until the ache was gone,
he needed something to dull the pain.
Besides, he had not touched the stuff all day, being too busy with his
new class. What a feeling that was, to be back in front of an admiring class
of students, eager to hear all that he had to tell them. Twenty now, and
these would perhaps be able to teach others. A whole school, with himself
as dean. A military school, true, but he would take what he could get for
now. So long as he was a secret of the Emperor, he could not teach common
people, even nobility.
He began to fret again about working for the Fenne Emperor. It had not
taken much to convince him to go back on his principles, he mused, though
the TRP had not exactly recognised his true worth the way the Emperor
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had. He sat back on his bed to smoke and dream.
At that moment, the Emperor himself paced his considerably more opulent chambers. The Imperium’s Ambassador had just excused himself, and
was hopefully satisfied that his demands had been met, but who could tell
with that inscrutable little man?
Wilhelm sat at his writing desk, only vaguely aware of the presence of his
bodyguards. What could he write? He hadn’t felt so frustrated in years, and
he was not used to it. Boxed in, he decided, he was boxed in. The Imperial
Navy would not lift its blockade of Madras until Eliot Winsor attested that
none of Fengar’s army remained south of his country, but Eliot Winsor had
not yet agreed to do that. Ban Iris and his sister were supervising the pullout, but King and Adamsen had not yet acknowledged his order to return.
Damn and double-damn! The Emperor sat in his plush chair, that had
belonged to a long succession of powerless Fenne Kings, and felt a sudden
great kinship to them. He got up and put on his silken robe. He always did
his best thinking in the Gallery.
The Gallery stood just off his chambers, a long tall corridor full of paintings and things like swords and guns and suits of armor. Wilhelm wandered
past paintings of the Ateke Valley, the canyons of Ibra, the city of Mediter,
the ports of Madras. The continent held such beautiful, wonderful places,
he mused. Would he ever see Mediter again? Probably not, except as conqueror. The same held true for Ibra, even though Ebberach Nedar was such
a short trip from Palatine.
Further along started the portraits of the Fenne Kings, stretching back
hundreds of years. The old ones, the warrior kings all posed in their armor
and helmets, staring defiantly out of the canvas. These were the men who
hewed out a kingdom from the Ebron Empire, hurrying its collapse. The
fellow without his left eye was Argion the Conqueror, said to have slain
dragons and Ebrons with equal ease.
As Wilhelm walked, his predecessors became decidedly less war-like.
They became soft old men with increasingly ornate jewels and crowns, and
correspondingly smaller kingdoms as the princes and dukes took power for
themselves, paying their homage to Palatine in dwindling sums and inflated
words. He came at last to a blank spot on the wall, where Ethelbert’s portrait once hung. The Paladins had claimed it, and burned it. Wilhelm saw
it only once before it met the flames, and keenly remembered the haunted
eyes of the tired old man, staring out at him in a proud but pathetic way.
Behind him, he knew, hung the portrait of Brother Norman, the Paladin
who had put the haunt in those eyes. Wilhelm knew that history very well.
Ethelbert’s father had died while he was very young, and made Norman the
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Chancellor, giving him the power that he would wield and grasp for forty
more years over and even against Ethelbert. They hated each other, it was
never a secret. Paladin Norman from wintery Madras, tall and brave and
strong, had detested the weak-willed, physically frail King Ethelbert, living
in the mild, pleasant Palatinate.
Wilhelm turned at last to stare Norman in the face. Black eyes, square
nose, and a simple leather mask. For hatred of him, even long after his
death, Ethelbert distanced himself from the Knights of Pala, and finally
in his paranoia had many of them arrested and executed, burning half of
Madras in the process. And in that carnage, Wilhelm had seized his chance.
With the rescue of the Paladin ban Iris, he gained the full support of the
remains of that powerful society.
Ah, but things had gone so much further since then. The TRP, the
throne of a united Fengar. War against Mediter and the Free States. Perhaps, he considered, things had gone too far. Without the right to trade
with the Trader Cities, western ports would be worthless. Yes, he decided,
this is a good thing for now. Time to breathe, and only then would ban
Iris’s plan go into action.
Wilhelm smiled and touched the canvas face of the notorious old Paladin.
“Your fears of Andrew von Kreiger were unfounded, old man.” He went back
to his desk and wrote out a handful of orders that would surely please the
Ambassador, and then slept.
***
William Trent did not immediately recognise Robin when he came into
the shop, so greatly had he changed in both appearance and demeanor. He’d
gotten tan and toned, wherever he’d been, and he stood upright, without a
slouch. William greeted him warmly, and was gratified that the young man
seemed honestly glad to see him.
“Where on earth have you been?”
“I was tricked into taking a train into Fengar. I escaped and found work
for a blacksmith until I could earn enough money to come here.”
“He must have paid you handsomely to afford to take the train.”
Robin pursed his lips, unsure how much to say about Dane. “I saved
whatever I could. The blacksmith was good to me.”
“Could you not have wired to Mediter? I or Mr. Mestrava could have
paid your way once you’d gotten to Kendauer. I’m suprised you got through
Shiroje unscathed.”
“Not really,” Ben interjected, “if he was travelling from Fengar, they
probably let him straight through.”
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“Oh, I didn’t think of that.”
Robin let them speculate, glancing nervously out the door where Dolohov
still sat, watching the sky. He felt a growing discomfort sitting with William
again, as though at his old lessons.
It had gotten quite late, and although William tried very hard to stay
awake, he was clearly failing to do so. He and Dolohov took their bags
and went to their hotel. Robin had a thought to following them, but Ben
insisted that he stay as a guest, and Robin agreed. Ben’s living space was
very small, but he had a well-furnished study in which he set up a cot for
Robin to sleep on.
The room had no windows and got a little stuffy, but Robin discovered
that opening the flue in the fireplace let in some cool air, though it smelled
of smoke. He lay awake on the cot for a long time, wondering how Dane was
getting along with his new assistant. Probably not well. Robin toyed with
the idea of returning, but he knew that Dane would look at that as a failure
of some kind. Besides, it was clearly now time to move on.
He did not have much desire to renew his studies, though he was a little
anxious to show Dr. Trent the progress he’d made. He could bring a heat
hot enough to weld, he could direct forces large enough to lift crates or even
levitate himself several feet in the air. He had become somewhat sensitive
to magic around him, feeling the occasional twitch or spark such as when
Dr. Trent lit his pipe or when Ben had cleaned the teacups. Sometimes, in
the dead of night when he couldn’t sleep, he felt an odd pulling sensation,
like a draft in reverse. His dreams had become more vivid, too. He dreamed
of wars among wizards and common people, of a city carved from a glacier
with a huge tower in the center that looked as though it were made of ice.
These dreams sometimes scared him, and sometimes filled him with a sense
of wonder and astonishment.
The dream he eventually settled into was nothing of the sort. He dreamed
of forging horseshoes out of hot iron, and watching Dane operate the forge
in his leather apron and the scorched wooden leg that he only wore near the
flames because the iron one got too hot.
In the morning, he rose somewhat early, before Ben. Neither hungry nor
thirsty, he inevitably began browsing through the collection of books around
him. Like those in Dr. Trent’s flat in Mediter, many of the books were about
history, with some books on philosophical subjects. Two shelves seemed to
sag under the weight of a collection of books marked, “Akrostiran Geographical Society” all bound similarly and marked by dates. Robin took one down
and flipped through it. Several articles caught his eye, about expiditions into
the jungles of Mediter’s tropical colonies, and in the archipelagoes east of
243
Akrostira. They seemed to carry a common theme: brave, stout military
men parading into the jungle after this or the other artifact or lost city, and
coming back essentially empty-handed, though not before losing a guide or
two to malaria or some other tropical illness.
“I see you’re up, Robert.” Vin stood in the doorway, already dressed in
a dark, conservative suit. “I’ll see to breakfast. If you care for those books,
allow me to make a recommendation.”
Robin was glad to hear it, so Vin spent a few minutes searching through
the AGS shelf until he came to a particular article.
“Here. It’s a reprint of a much older article from before the Society was
formed. I’ll return shortly.”
Robin was already engrossed in the article before Vin had even left the
room. It detailed the adventures of one Sir Daniel Hopkins of Pell, and
dated back over one hundred years.
Sir Hopkins had got it in his head that the “vast, frozen north” held
some sort of treasure. He set sail from Madras and after a week’s journey
arrived in the north. The people he found there, he described as simple,
honest, and friendly. They did some business with the Trader Cities from
time to time and so, speaking Imperial, he was able to procure mountain
guides for the “arduous trek into the forbidding White Mountains, to pierce
the veil of frozen mist and determine once and for all what lies beyond.”
He had apparently chosen the wrong time of year for his trip, for as he
travelled north, the days got appreciably shorter. By the time he was well
into the mountains, the daylight lasted only two hours long. He described
the bitter cold and harsh wind on the slopes, and the heavy clothing that
they wore.
On the third day in the mountains, he described passing through the
barrier of frozen mist and emerging on the other side into a slightly warmer
and certainly wetter part of the mountains. Convinced that he was on the
right trail, he and his very eager guides pushed on further into the White
Mountains. With the odd warmth, his team was able to travel more at
night, though the wind from the south still posed a significant difficulty.
He soon came upon the remains of a wide road, which they followed up
around a peak. Near the top, however, some sort of landslide or earthquake
knocked Sir Hopkins off the road and badly broke his leg. Robin found the
description at that point to be rather vague, but the explorer seemed to
describe seeing for a brief instant a city laid out in the valley below, lit up
all over the place so that he could make out avenues and buildings – even a
tower – in the night.
With his leg broken, he had no choice but to attempt to return the way
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they’d come, or risk being stuck when the snows began. They began, in
fact, as they were partway through the mountains, and did not abate until
he had gotten to a town in the southern part of the territory. The leg healed
badly, from Sir Hopkins’s description, and wary of spending the winter in
“this abominably brutish locale” he took a ship back to Madras, along with
drawings he’d made along the way. These, Robin scrutinized. A brick road,
in disrepair but not overgrown. The broken shell of a building among the
stones. Finally a sketch of a lot of white dots on a cross-hatched background,
supposed to represent lights in a city. Robin could readily make out a grid
of streets with a large dark spot in the middle. Peering closely he could see
the lines that Sir Hopkins had drawn under the cross-hatching, perhaps as
a guide, or perhaps to subtly suggest streets and buildings to the viewer.
Over the small tidy breakfast of rice omelet and tea, Robin asked Ben
about the outcome of Sir Hokpins’s explorations, and whether further explorations had found anything.
“Nothing at all, but perhaps for lack of trying. That winter was the very
one of the Imperial invasion of the Northlands. People certainly applied for
entry, including Sir Daniel, but to no avail – the Imperial Governor would
not allow exploration of the White Mountains. The common explanation,
for that and for the invasion, was that the White Mountains were being
mined for iron and cobalt.”
Robin considered that. “Didn’t the people who lived there ever explore?”
“That’s precisely what Andrew von Krieger reasoned. He believed that
the city was Cove, and when he fled Paladin Norman, that’s where he went.
That’s where he was killed by your father, Mr. Dolohov.”
Robin looked up, startled. Andrew Dolohov indeed had just opened the
door to the shop, and if he heard Ben’s words, he gave no indication. Dr.
Trent came in behind him, smiling broadly and carrying a news-sheet, which
he spread out on the table.
“Ben, Robin, come look at this!”
“Good news, I hope,” said Ben as he put his napkin on the table, “I
should hardly like bad.”
“The best! Fengar has officially signed peace treaties with Etheora and
Depolisti. They – Well, let me read it to you.” He pulled the paper out
from under Ben’s face and searched for it. “Ah. Here it is:
“ ‘The Emperor went even further in his remarks today, claiming that
the borders of the Fenne Empire were now set, that today is a cause for
celebration because now and truly, his Empire takes its place among the
peace-loving sovereign nations of the Continent. The war, he said, is over.’
”
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Trent put down the paper, still with his great smile. Ben picked it back
up and continued reading.
“Ah, William, you did not read far enough:
“‘The Emperor had harsh words for the True Revolutionary Party in his
speech, referring to Marta Slake as a war-like old harpie who clings to the
coattails of otherwise noble nations.’ It sounds as though he’s leaving the
door open, don’t you?”
“Hmm. Yes, I suppose I see that. But never mind it for the moment,
this is at least an excellent step.”
Ben eventually acknowledged that the end of the war was a good thing,
and set to putting up his shop. He avoided Dolohov while he went about,
but did not evict him again. Robin was almost glad of that. While he did
not allow himself to let down his guard, he felt no threat from the tiredlooking gunfighter and in fact some measure of curiosity. Dolohov, however,
soon excused himself to send a telegraph, leaving Robin and Dr. Trent to
finish the rest of the tea and omelet.
They ate in silence for a while, though Robin was thinking furiously.
“You knew Andrew von Krieger, didn’t you?”
Dr. Trent’s eyebrows went up. “He was my good friend. Let me have
a pipe, then I’ll tell you about him.” Robin felt as though he were eating
slowly, but waited patiently while his teacher finished his breakfast then
packed and lit his worn pipe.
“Ben, come here in a moment. This concerns you, and I wouldn’t want
to leave anything out.”
***
Master Ashe was a short, hairy man who went about his morning chores
with surprising agility, seeming to jump from one task to the next with
child-like enthusiasm. In his months at the studio, William had gotten used
to seeing the wild bush of stark white hair over the low paper wall, ducking
and bobbing as he went about fetching and chopping firewood. During the
summer, firewood for cooking was William’s chore, but autumn was setting
in, and the charcoal kiln was going at full blast already so they’d have plenty
through the winter. The twelve-year-old had therefore been relegated to
cooking rice for breakfast.
There were plans for that afternoon, he knew. Gennady’s apprenticeship had ended a month ago, and the Master had not yet taken on another
student. William had only been with him for seven months since leaving
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Hanamachi, where his father owned a small trading company that did business with a place called Mediter, across the ocean.
William prepared breakfast and laid it out on the table, secretly levitating the steep ceramic bowls and cups into their places. Master Ashe joined
him soon, sliding aside the wood-and-paper door, removing his shoes, and
sitting at the table. He ate quickly and in silence, as was his custom. When
he finished, he lay down his bowl and utensils and said a ritual thanks. He
then turned to William.
“I want you to prepare another mat, and throw another bowl and cup.”
William brightened considerably. Another student! A few weeks ago, perhaps, he would have regretted no longer having his teacher to himself, but
the novelty of that had quickly worn off.
He found another mat on a shelf in the shed. He lay it out on the pole,
and beat the dust from it. He left it there to air out and went back to the
studio, removing his shoes before entering. He fed the kiln and got to work
on a lump of warm, tan clay. His skill with the wheel was not yet that of
his master, so it took him longer than he would have hoped to form a good
bowl. He gingerly slid it into the hot kiln, then set to work on a cup. This
would bring the number of cups and bowls in the house to three sets. When
Gennady had left, he had taken the clothes on his back and his cup and
bowl, as William would do when his apprenticeship eventually ended.
William waited with a little impatience while both the bowl and cup
were in the kiln. He dabbled his feet in the spring that meandered through
the yard and peered at his reflection. He was still a skinny kid, with light
hair, freckles, and wide, expressive eyes. He’d turned twelve less than two
months ago, but as far as he could tell, he hadn’t changed much.
He went quickly and retrieved both the bowl and the cup, which wouldn’t
take as long to fire. He left them to cool for a moment while he cleaned up
the extra clay from the wheel and off the floor. Now was the fun part, as
he got the black oily paint from the low shelf, and a thick brush. He held
the cup in his hand. It was still warm, like a living thing. He held it and
firmly put a swath of paint on its side, concentrating so that the deep blue
color would come out, changing to brown as the brushstroke continued on.
Blues and browns and dark greens that looked like black. The thick black
paint held without smearing or dripping until he was done. He cocked his
head to peer at it from a different angles. The colors hadn’t come out yet,
not like they would in the kiln. He hoped Master Ashe would approve.
He gave considerable attention to the bowl, anxious to start before it
completely cooled. He laid down a thin coat to start with, patterns of green
and yellow emerging at his will from the inky black. He blew on the section
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he wanted to detail, careful not to get spittle on the paint. He got a thin
brush and carefully painted swirls and dots that he thought would be very
nice.
Finally, he put them back in the kiln, and got down the pot with the
glaze so that last part would go fast. There was no hurry. The nearest town
lay several miles away, and Master Ashe was on foot.
It took him little more time to finish the bowl and cup. He took them
from the kiln when the glaze had set and admired the colors that had come
out with the heat – deep, brilliant blues, earthy browns, gem-like colors that
would never fade, he knew, having seen work that his master told him was
done hundreds of years ago. Those were very pretty, William thought. Their
colors seemed to almost glow. Some of them looked metallic, some had that
odd rainbow iridescence like a soap bubble. He thought of the designs on
those pieces and then looked at the crude uneven swirls of color he’d put on
the new bowl, and felt a little ashamed.
The new boy was a bit older than William, and his name was Andrew.
He was bigger, with dark hair and big ears. William showed him his mat,
and the cup and bowl that he’d made, but didn’t say that he’d made them.
Master Ashe spent most of that evening in the studio talking to Andrew,
leaving William to rake leaves from the mossy yard and spread them on the
remains of that summer’s vegetable garden.
He did not get to talk to Andrew again until nightfall, when the two
boys were supposed to be going to sleep. He was anxious to question the
new boy, who spoke Imperial haltingly.
“What city are you from?”
“I’m from Madras.”
William thought about that a long time. “I don’t know that one. Is it
near Luxor?”
“No, north of Palatine, over the ocean.”
“Over the ocean! Imagine that!” William did just that, envisioning the
barbarian lands that his father had told him about. Small wonder he didn’t
talk right!
“Where are you from?”
“Rivos originally. My dad runs a company in Hanamachi. He sends
ships to Mediter.”
“My ship stopped in Mediter before I came here. It’s very tall.”
“You mean ‘big’, don’t you?” William smiled to make the correction go
over better, since big kids didn’t like to be corrected.
Andrew scrunched up his nose and frowned. “No, tall. It’s stacked up
on itself.”
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William thought that he wasn’t saying it right, but didn’t correct him
again.
“So how come you’re here with us now?”
“My father wanted me to be raised properly. He gets whatever he wants,
because he’s a Baron,” Andrew said, using a foreign word.
“What’s a Baron?”
“Somebody very important.”
The two boys went to sleep on their mats. In the morning, William
showed him where the well was, and the shelf where they kept rice and
beans, and everything else they needed in order to make breakfast. Master
Ashe watched them and did not interfere, instead he inspected with pride
the bowl and cup William had made.
It took a few days for Andrew to learn the routine, and already he started
to grumble, because it was hard work, and he wasn’t learning magic. Master
Ashe paid close attention, but said nothing at the little hints that the boy
kept dropping. His Imperial was certainly getting better, however, and
Master Ashe had hope that subtleties would not be lost on him.
During the first few months, Andrew learned how to use the kiln, and
how to shape clay on the wheel. He learned how to stretch a canvas, and
mix oils and water-colors. More importantly, he learned all the practical
skills needed to live so far from town: How to cook, clean, make repairs, and
otherwise keep up the studio in the winter. Being older than William, he
was given the more demanding chores, like chopping firewood and keeping
the kiln going.
In the spring once the snows thawed, Master Ashe taught Andrew how
to use the special black paint. Over the course of a week, he taught him
how to concentrate and visualize the color that he would draw from it.
“Think of it in this way,” he said when Andrew protested disbelief,
“Black consumes all the colors of the rainbow. It is what you get when
all of your oils are mixed, and from it you may extract exactly the shade
you desire. You are not creating the color, you are selecting it.”
He learned slowly, in sudden jumps. Master Ashe explained to William
that older boys were more difficult to teach, because they were too conscious
of their mistakes, and tried too hard to succeed on the first try. With time,
Andrew learned how to use the black paint, and how to use something like
it on canvas.
Spring wore on, and William knew that the rains would soon start. All
three of them inspected the studio for cracks from the cold winter where
water could get in. Master Ashe taught them to make the tar melt so that
it would flow more easily into the cracks in the wood and stone. The first
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peal of thunder came on an April evening. By the time it began to sprinkle,
the three of them had made all the repairs in the studio, and had set aside
a summer’s worth of wood for the kiln and for cooking.
Master Ashe had a surprise for the two boys. He told William to make
a bowl, and Andrew to make a cup. He then went into town and returned
with a small boy, thin with big eyes and brown, sopping wet hair. His name
was Ben. He was a boy from town, and would be the third apprentice.
William and Andrew took care to treat the younger boy well. He was
somewhat sickly, so his chores did not require him to go out into the rain
much. He cooked and cleaned indoors while his fellow pupils hauled water,
washed laundry, shored up the spring’s banks, and gardened.
***
Ben startled William into silence by jumping up from his chair. He
returned with a small ceramic cup in his hands, which he placed on the
table in front of Robin.
“That’s the one, the very one that Andrew von Krieger made for me.
It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Robin had to admit that it was very pretty. It was mostly an inky black,
but had a swathe of deep, brilliant red in the side, with flecks of silver all
over. He very carefully handed it back to the older man, who carried it with
both hands back to the cabinet where it was kept.
“Ben, do you have the bowl that I made?”
“Yes, though it was cracked when I moved here to Akrostira. I still eat
from it sometimes, when I feel nostalgic.”
William looked pleased for a moment, then continued what he was saying.
***
The three boys stayed on with Master Ashe for five more years, until
finally he sat down with William and told him that his apprenticeship was
complete. Ben and Andrew congratulated him heartily. They had all grown
considerably in that time, and William himself had become a fine, strong
young man. His master smiled on him while wrapping his dishes in soft dry
cloth.
William said goodbye to Ashe, Ben, and Andrew and, expressing his
wish to see his father in Hanamachi again, set off toward town on foot. It
was late summer, and while the rains had largely subsided, the weather was
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still damp and warm. He knew the path by heart after so long, and so he
let his mind wander. There was an airy feeling on him, like he’d been cut
loose to drift.
In town he stopped to dip his cup in the well’s bucket, and discovered
when he unwrapped the cup that several silver coins had been hidden in it.
He smiled, and used them to buy himself a small lunch. Several people in
town stopped him and offered their congratulations and best wishes. When
he expressed his hope of walking to Hanamachi, some of them scolded him
for silliness, but most smiled and approved. A few of those undertook to
equip him for the walk – by the time he’d regained the road, he was richer
by an extra pair of sandals, a cooking pot, a pouch of rice and lentils, a rain
hat, and a pipe and tobacco, the last two given him by an old man who
insisted that a good smoke would make the trip easier to bear. He was only
a few coins poorer, most of that from lunch.
He walked all day and slept under a tree near a swollen stream. Its water
was still muddy, so William collected a potful and let the dirt settle out of
it. Working carefully, he made all of it collect and rise slowly to the surface,
where he scooped it out with his cup and poured it back into the stream.
He made a fire and cooked the rice and lentils.
When he’d eaten his fill, he took one of the smaller cloths and packed
the rice into it in a ball and squeezed out all the remaining water with it.
He ate from this the next two days as he walked, keeping his cup in a sling
around his neck so he could drink when he got thirsty.
Arriving in Hanamachi on the fifth day, he was dirty and sweat-stained
and wanted a bath. In this state, he knocked on the door to his father’s
business and was nearly turned away as a vagrant.
His father had remarried during William’s time away, and his stepmother
was very taken with the young apprentice. His father was pround but a little
irritated at William’s apparent lack of practicality. He put his son to work
after a week’s rest and after renewing his Imperial passport, overseeing the
unloading of ships in the dock.
William took to the work gladly, as he retained his childhood fascination
with ships and sailors. He was a patient overseer and made sure that there
were very few accidents. The porters found him to their liking, though they
never included him in their after-hours carousing. This suited William, as
he read voraciously in the evening and often well into the night.
He did this and similar work for a year, until one spring morning an
Imperial guard knocked on the door to his small flat. He was a young man
and looked a little like a child in the bright red and gold uniform, carrying
a wicked-looking polearm with a shining black blade. He informed William
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that Master Ashe had died, and that the Emperor was honoring him with
a court funeral.
William was naturally excused from his duties and was escorted quickly
to where his old Master’s body lay in state. A powerful feeling swept over
him as he approached and saw the sheer number of people in attendance. As
a former student, William was given a place of honor among the courtiers
and Imperial guards.
Ben was there, he saw, and Andrew and Gennady, and several older men
that he did not recognise. Andrew was still dressed as an apprentice, though
Ben was not. They all nodded to each other and stood mutually in awe of
their former master, dressed in death in splendid silks and placed upon a
golden bier. More than that, they felt almost electrified in the presence of
his body.
The funeral started on the second morning after William’s arrival, after
the body had lain in state for four days. No birds or animals bothered
the body, and the Emperor’s servants ensured that the weather remained
dry and chill. The funeral and burial took the entire day, and each of his
attending students assisted in various ways. At last, the Imperial guards
saluted the gravesite and left, signalling the end.
William stayed on for the evening to talk to the Emperor’s servants, and
to Ben and Andrew. Ben had indeed finished his apprenticeship, and all
agreed that Andrew was just on the cusp of it. Their master had taken
suddenly ill while cutting firewood for charcoal, and had lain in bed just a
few hours before dying. William asked him what he planned to do.
“I’d like to see more of the Imperium,” he said after some thought. “But
I think that I will soon return to Madras. I miss it greatly.”
“Do you think,” Ben asked, “that I might go with you? I’d like to see
some of the barbarian cities.”
Andrew bristled at that. “Just because they don’t know about magic,
they aren’t barbarians. If the Emperor wouldn’t forbid it, they would be
our equals.”
“It’s mostly forbidden here, too. Besides, your father knew, so it can’t
be all that secret.”
“My father knew because my mother was from Luxor. Nobody else
knows.”
“Nobody at all?” William felt a little incredulous.
“Nobody. Now, there is what they call witchcraft, like the Gypsies and
fortune-tellers do, but that’s all fake, I think. And people hate them for it.”
“Because it’s magic, or because it’s fake?”
“Both.”
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William and Ben both considered that. They argued a little longer, but
William retired early in the evening in order to return to Hanamachi by
carriage the next evening. He left before Ben and Andrew were even awake.
His father listened carefully to news about the funeral, from which
William omitted mention of the Imperial servants and their magical assistance. As Ben had said, talk of magic was mostly forbidden, particularly
in the Trader Cities, which because of their special status were an odd mixture of Imperial and barbarian. Besides, it just never seemed right to talk
of magic outside; it was hard to think about, and there always seemed to be
better, non-magical ways to do things.
He went back to work and saved money. His father wrote to the University at Luxor and secured him entry as a student, where he went late that
summer. Immediately, he delved into the study of history. His professors
taught him about the history of the Imperium, and about the ageless Emperor, the Eternal King who according to tradition was the only ruler of the
Imperium since its founding.
For two years he studied, until one day he returned to his tiny, unheated
room and discovered a note slipped under his door. Following its request,
he made his way to a tea room where he found his old friends Ben Vin and
Andrew von Krieger. They bade him sit and got the cute girl serving tea to
pour him a cup.
“How are you? What brings you both here?”
“We’re going to Mediter,” Andrew said. “We want you to come with
us.”
“What? I can’t possibly do that.”
“Why not? Come along with Ben and me. I haven’t been home in seven
years, William, and I want to show it to you two.”
“I can’t just drop my studies and go. I’m halfway to my certificate!”
“Transfer.”
“What?”
“Transfer to Mediter University. Get your professors to write to them
and ask them to admit you. From this place there wouldn’t be any trouble
at all!”
“My father would never agree – ”
“He already has, William.” Andrew’s eyes seemed to glow with excitement, making him look quite crazy with his unkempt hair and three-day
beard. “He likes the idea of letting you see Mediter and help oversee his
business there. Come on.”
“You spoke to my father? He said that? Let me think about it.” They
let it go, and the three got to catching up. Ben and Andrew had toured
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much of the Southern Imperium, mostly on foot, and had seen old temples
and the Inland Cities. They hadn’t been allowed to visit the Emperor’s City,
but had seen it from afar and they both swore that it was the biggest, most
sprawling thing they’d ever seen, crowned with a huge palace so clean and
white it looked like glass.
William did think about their offer, and was assured by Andrew that they
couldn’t leave for another two weeks at least because of pressing business he
had in Luxor. His professors agreed that, given William’s inclinations, he
might enjoy a study in Mediter, but warned him that universities on that
continent were not considered particularly prestigious. Having warned him,
however, they assented to write letters to the admissions board asking for
William’s entry.
So, William decided after a week to go with his two friends. He packed
up his clothes and books, said good-bye to his class-mates, and bought a
ticket to Mediter with money that his father sent him for that purpose.
He didn’t feel well on the day they were to set sail, and was nervous
because he hadn’t seen Andrew in three days. His friend finally appeared,
with only a few hours to spare. He showed William what he’d been waiting
for – An Imperial Guard weaponsmith had agreed to make him a pair of
guns. They were beautiful, shiny black like the Imperial guards’ polearms,
and made from the same durable expensive material. Andrew kept them
well-hidden, except to show to William and Ben.
During the long trip, they studied Andrew’s native language with exceptional dedication, so that when they finally saw Mediter’s spire over the
water – A sight, William proclaimed, that he would never in his life forget
– both could converse reasonably well, though only on a purely functional
level.
They lived in Mediter for a short time, while William arranged to begin
classes at Mediter University, and Ben toured Mediter with his jaw hanging
open almost the entire time. William’s classes started sooner than expected,
and so he could not go with Ben and Andrew to Madras, Andrew’s home
town.
***
“I think it behooves me to let Ben tell the rest,” William said, after
describing his first overwhelmed impressions of the Tiered City. “I’ll watch
your shop if you like, but speak loudly so I can overhear. I’m not sure how
much I already know.”
Ben preferred to watch his own shop, though, so the story had to wait
while he cleared the breakfast dishes, and apologised for not contributing
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much to the story so far. “William prefers, I think, to tell you about his
own story and not Andrew’s.”
He seemed to take exception to that, but said nothing. With the remains
of breakfast squared away, Ben sat on a comfortably stuffed chair and told
Robin about Madras.
***
The Baron von Krieger welcomed the two boys with open arms, delighted
to see his son after seven years of nothing but letters. Andrew took care to
spend time with his mother, who was ailing and kept to her apartments in
their large home. They did not live in Madras proper, which is to say the
dock area or any of the houses on the steep hills on either side of the inlet.
They lived in the tiny hamlet of Krieger which for all intents and purposes
was subsumed into the city of Madras. It nevertheless supported a Barony,
as did the similarly situated towns of Onsor, Iris, and Larset.
Ben and Andrew both enrolled in the University there. Andrew’s father
agreed to pay part of Ben’s tuition, and arranged for the University to
pay him to teach Imperial. Ben studied archaeology, Andrew studied law.
Because of the sort of person he was, Andrew tended to attract many friends
among his fellow students, and made every effort to include Ben in his goingson outside of class. In their second year at the University, Andrew fell in
with an energetic young man named Gunther Kasia. Ben disliked him, and
so it was to his great chagrin that Gunther and Andrew became fast friends.
They shared an interest in politics, and like many students in that time,
they talked about revolution. While most students, however, eventually
went back to their books, the two friends became disinterested in their
studies. They began to have meetings in the basements of pubs and coffeehouses. To one of these meetings came the daughter of a local official,
Martressa Slake, who everyone called Marta. Ben observed to Robin and
William that without her fiery determination, Gunther and Andrew might
still have eventually given up and gone their separate ways. In fact, her
presence escalated things as Gunther and Andrew seemed almost to try and
outdo each other.
At that time, there was a great deal of gossip about King Ethelbert in
Palatine. It was considered vaguely scandalous that Paladin Norman remained Chancellor, even though Ethelbert was well into his majority. However, Norman was a Madrasian, and the Barons and Earls in Madras had
seen that his patronage was probably a very good thing for them. They
wrote many a flowery letter encouraging the Paladin to retain the reins of
255
power for at least another year while Ethelbert could still find a Queen and
have a son.
This situation chafed at Andrew, according to Ben. Over the next few
years, in which Andrew no longer pretended to be interested in his studies,
he started writing pamphlets excoriating the Paladin Chancellor. Palatine
soon took notice, but was powerless to stop the son of a Madras Baron. At
some point along the line, however, Andrew printed a pamphlet containing
the phrase ‘united Fengar’ and all that changed.
Ben became very frightened for his own precarious position when these
things began to happen, and so he kept his head down to avoid attracting
attention to himself. Andrew came to him one last time before fleeing to
Pell, but Ben refused to have anything to do with their “Revolutionary
Army.” Some time passed, and in the late spring of the next year, when
Ben was ready to graduate from the University, Andrew returned to Madras
with a very large sum of money being offered for his capture.
“I must go, Ben,” he said then, “but I will be back, I promise you. I’ve
done a great deal of research and I know which people I need to talk to.”
“What are you talking about? What people?”
“The people of Cove. They have a book here, a religious book called
The Book of Life. It talks about a city called Cove, and people who I’m
convinced were magicians like us – ”
“Shhh! Are you mad?”
“No, no! Ben, look. An explorer found a city in the Northern Territories
a hundred years ago. Immediately after, the Imperium invaded and declared
that part of the Territories off-limits. I’m certain that this is why. But if
that’s really Cove, Ben, then I can learn from the people there, enough to
come back and get rid of that damn Paladin once and for all. But I’ll tell
you about it later. Tell William, but not my father – he won’t understand.
I’ll be back, I promise you.”
***
“Of course,” Ben said, “he didn’t come back. Norman asked the Imperium to help hunt Andrew down when it was discovered he’d escaped on
a ship. A few months later came the word that he’d been shot by an Imperial Marshal by the name of Dolohov. It was in all the papers. What a
waste.”
Robin saw that Andrew Dolohov had not yet returned, and noticed that
the story had run well into lunch-time. Ben sent them off to a place that
sold good fried fish, and went back to the business of selling antiquities.
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CHAPTER 18. HISTORY I
Chapter 19
Routine
Geoffrey Ducheval’s neck chafed against the high starched collar. His feet
hurt from standing too long in too-small shoes. His head hurt from an
endless evening of speeches. His stomach clenched in a tight knot because
his own speech was next.
The people around him all looked perfectly well at ease. There were
Knights and generals and Paladins and Temple officials and bankers and
governors and all sorts of people.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, electrified with the sound
of applause. The Temple official who had been speaking bowed deeply to
the hall full of standing people. Geoffrey belatedly started clapping, forcing
his legs to carry him to the raised podium.
Breathe, Geoff, he told himself. He fumbled in his coat pocket for the
cards Miss Shaw had given him to write his speech on. They stuck to his
slick fingers, so he made some show of tapping them on the podium while
he continued smiling woodenly at all the applauding people. He cleared his
throat once, twice.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Ladies.” His mouth was remarkably dry.
“My name is Geoffrey Ducheval. That is, for those who, um, don’t know
me. I was the commander of Lion Army, and am currently a General in the
Mediter Army.”
He paused and swallowed. So many people watching him. No sign of
Olivier.
“It’s good to see all of you in the same room, together. There was a time
when I didn’t think that possible, but, well, here we are.” He gave his best
smile. “We’ve come a great long way, I think, and we have further to go still.
The ports here in the city are in dire need of repair, but the smaller ports
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up and down the coast will perform admirably, I think. You governors have
got a lot of work ahead of you.” A few people chuckled. Geoffrey smiled
despite himself. “The new Congress, too, has work to do. Treaties to write,
laws to write, and just so you don’t get too popular, taxes to collect.”
That got a smattering of laughter. In the back of the room, Geoffrey
spied a door opening, and Olivier stepped into the room. Geoffrey smiled
broadly and went on.
“The Temple will guide us in this, I hope. Its Knights are as we speak
training the new Police of the city. Its pantries are running bare feeding
the Tiers, and will need to be filled again, in preparation for any number of
emergencies and disasters. Our Army and our Navy both have much to do
to be ready for whatever challenges may meet them.
“I think I’ll stop there, before I discourage everyone. We, all of us, have
work to do to rebuild our nation, and build a government for it. I’m not one
for talking, I’d rather be working, and so I’m glad that you’ve given me the
chance to do that. I accept your invitation to preside this Congress, and I
thank you for that honor.”
It was by far the shortest and least flowery speech of the evening, but
it was the last. He stepped off the podium to applause and clapping, glad
most of all to be done talking.
Olivier – it was all right to call him Ari, Geoffrey reminded himself –
came up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That was good. You
needn’t have mentioned the Temple, though. Some will wish you hadn’t.”
“They’re helping too. I wouldn’t feel right snubbing them.”
“It’s not a snub not to be mentioned. I think that everyone is just glad
that you were brief.” Olivier smiled warmly. “I’ll be glad when some sort
of routine sets in.”
“I hear your old advisor, Mestrava’s gone.”
“Kepler too. I don’t know for sure yet, but I think that Captain McCormick has also gone.”
“So without the threat of Fengar?”
Olivier shook his head. “Mestrava thinks it’s some kind of ruse. He
wants to be in Ibra now, and after the hard work he’s done for me, I hope
he’s wrong.”
“Well, time will tell. I should tell you, by the way, I’m going to give
Cassia Shaw her wish.”
“Ambassador?”
“To Akrostira, yes. And, indirectly, to the TRP.”
“For the love of life, Geoff, don’t make the same mistakes – ”
259
“I won’t. But they’re not the type to take to being tossed aside. Better
to assign them someone they know and keep an eye on them. I think that
without the war with Fengar, they won’t last long.”
“All right. I should know better than to reproach you with that.”
“Do you wish I hadn’t mentioned the Temple?”
“No. I’m glad you did.” Olivier thought a moment. “I think you may
prove to be more clever as President than they expected.”
***
The small boat’s hull scraped against the stones as Ben and Robin
steered it onto the island. Robin tucked the oars under the seat and gingerly
stepped out, grateful to be on solid land again. He looked back at the water
with considerable mistrust. It was still muddy with the last week’s rains.
Ben, meanwhile, consulted his hand-drawn map and then looked around the
small island.
It had been a hilltop once. The grass grew high among the broken stones,
which were scattered all over the gentle rise. The bank was pretty well worn
away by the waves and salt water. Their landing spot looked like it must
have recently collapsed.
Ben was already up the hill near the dig. Robin followed at a leisurely
pace. The dig itself was nearly exhausted, he’d been told, but would give
him good practice. This island, and the hundreds of others like it, had once
been the taller hills of Ancient Akrostira, when it had been a much larger
city, home to probably a million people. Before the earthquakes and flood,
the main part of the city had rested in what Ben called reclaimed land,
below sea level. A thousand years ago, there had been great earthquakes
in Etheora and Depolisti that had shifted the Ateke River to run through
Akrostira and flood the reclaimed areas. Ben had sometimes found skeletons
of people who’d been killed in the flooding. The universities sometimes paid
a lot of money for them, and sometimes rebuked him for disturbing the
remains.
Ben gave Robin a trowel and a large horse-hair brush and showed him
how to unearth artifacts. He removed a tacked-down patch of sailcloth and
pointed out the dishware that he’d found on his last trip. Fragments of cups
and saucers stuck up out of the dark earth like teeth. Robin brushed away
the earth, and found that he could gently make the pieces to wiggle and
free themselves. Ben cautioned him not to break the pieces further, since
although he could not sell them in his shop, the universities might take them
to study.
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“This used to be a home, I think. I found rotted wood where you’re
sitting that I think might have been a cabinet. That ridge over there is
what’s left of the outer wall, which was wood and stone. If it was a house,
it was a big one.”
“How can you tell? Hasn’t all the wood rotted completely away?”
“Much of it. The pieces that are buried, however, often survive. The
soil is thoroughly soaked with salt water. If you pay close attention, you
can see the high-water mark just downhill of us. This grass is the only thing
that grows in this soil, so there is little damage. Even the pieces that are
too far gone to identify are often painted with heavy lead paint, and I can
find large flakes of that in my initial survey.”
He and Robin marked each find on Ben’s map, which showed a remarkably clear floor plan of a large home with four rooms and some sort of
atrium.
“Why is all of this stuff still here? I’m surprised it’s never been dug up
before.”
Ben shrugged. “Nobody much wanted it before. A few eccentrics have
builts houses here over the years – I have to be careful about which artifacts
are theirs and which are genuinely old – but for the most part, people
have avoided these islands. For a long time they were considered cursed.
Those who did come here just took coins and other precious metals, leaving
everything else mostly intact, except what they destroyed out of boredom
or spite.
“As it is, I get very little money for even the most interesting finds. This
place is far older than people imagine. Every now and then I come across
truly ancient things, metalwork with proto-Imperial characters enscribed,
tiles and bricks sunk into the dirt under the foundations of very-old homes.
I believe that some of it dates back to the time of Cove.”
“Do you believe Cove existed?”
“Oh, I’m quite certain of it. More than existed, I believe it still exists,
hidden from the outside world. William is only now coming around to that
belief, even though he’s studied the Book of Life intensely.”
“But if it really existed, and there was really magic there, wouldn’t the
Imperium know?”
Ben considered that. “The book is not common in the Imperium. Their
notion of religion is very different from that here. But I think that the
Emperor knows about Cove. Andrew was convinced that he knew about it
and conquered the Northern Territories for that very reason.”
“They must be very clever,” Robin said, “to stay hidden so long.”
261
“They must be very powerful. I’m certain that I could learn much from
them.”
“Why haven’t you gone north, then, to look for it? You’re an Imperial
citizen, they couldn’t stop you.”
“I’ve considered doing just such a thing. At one point I was on the verge
of packing my bags and going. But it’s not for me. I would be very afraid to
find what I’m looking for, and find myself so far behind them. I have great
respect for Andrew, for his willingness to face a people who would put him
to shame. I don’t think I would be able to look on myself that way.”
He went immediately back to the work of unearthing the large piece of
glassware he’d marked, and avoided conversation the rest of the day. Robin
worked hard, and the sun made him tired and thirsty. He ate and drank a
little as he needed it, and was almost glad to get back into the boat near
evening. He still distrusted the water, but it felt wonderful when he splashed
himself while rowing.
They took a somewhat lengthy passage among the islands, where the big
ships could not go. Ben had showed Robin the long passage the ships took,
which long ago had been a wide road. Some people had built an underwater
chamber shaped like a bell, which could be hung from a ship and used to
examine the sea floor. He envied them their device, but the excitement they
stirred up had certainly helped his own business, so he could not complain.
William Trent was waiting for them when they landed on the beach,
reading and smoking his pipe. He helped them drag their boat ashore, and
inspected the things they brought back. Divided into three smaller crates, it
was all light enough for the three of them to carry eveything back to Ben’s
shop on foot.
They had barely time to unpack and inspect the artifacts for chips and
cracks when came a knock on the door. Robin answered it, though it was
late in the evening and the shop had not been open all day. A lean, tanned
man in bright clothes and wet white hair stood waiting, and grinned when
he saw Robin.
“Could I borrow you a moment, Jalensen?” Robin looked back into the
shop, but both men were absorbed in the examination of a particular piece.
“Of – of course.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
“My wife does not like Stira Nedar or she would have come herself. I am
Bartok.” He bowed extravagantly.
“Where?”
“Stira Nedar. Here.” He paused and thought hard. “Akro-Stira. It
is really very morbid to call it ‘Upper Stira’ like that, since Lower Stira
is under the water. She was arrested here when she was a girl for telling
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fortunes, so she does not like to come back.”
“Oh, I understand.” He did not understand at all, but smiled politely.
“It doesn’t matter. I came to warn you that the Ebron is coming. He
will ask you to come with him to Ibra. My wife says that you should not
do that, even if he tries to force you. It would be very bad for you to be in
Ibra.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To me they’re just cards. I think that to her they’re
just cards, too, but you didn’t hear me say that.” He winked, and grinned
again. “In any case, Jalensen, I must say good-bye. We are going north to
the forests for a while to wait everything out, and I don’t think we will see
you again. Good luck.”
With that, he bowed again and walked away. Robin watched him disappear into an alley. He puzzled over the visit for two days, without telling
William or Ben.
On the evening of the second day, after Ben’s shop closed for the day,
came another knock on the door. With an odd electric feeling, Robin opened
the door. A familiar man stood before him, impeccably dressed with finely
groomed white moustaches.
“Good evening, Robin. May we come in?”
“Mr. Mestrava! Please do, you should have a look at the things we dug
up today.”
“ ‘Dug up’ ? Hmm.” Mestrava removed his cloak and tall hat and placed
them on a table. Ben and William both stood up to greet him.
“Hello, sir, I’ve heard very much about you. Please have a seat.”
“Thank you. I cannot stay overly long, I fear. Do you mind if my
associates join me? Thank you again. Mr. Kepler, Mr. Dolohov, come in
for a moment!”
Both men came through the door, which was low enough to give Janus
Kepler a little difficulty, even coming up the steps. Ben excused himself and
filled the samovar for tea.
“Mr. Dolohov tells me that you were in the Ateke Valley in Fengar,
Robin. How did you like it?”
“It’s very nice there, the forests are beautiful.”
“You know, my own home is not far from where you were. Montgomery
in Ibra lies just over the mountains from that part of the Ateke. It’s a wonderful little city on the coast. It resembles a ribbon strung along, between
the coast and the mountains. The bells ring every morning, canorous. Very
nice, very beautiful.”
“It sounds nice. How are things in Mediter?”
263
“Mediter? Things are going well, the Congress is being set up smoothly.”
“The Temple is going along with it?”
“They, ah, became more agreeable after Emperor Wilhelm’s purported
withdrawal. Perhaps they no longer expected rescue, so to speak.”
“And Captain de Mediter?”
Mestrava smiled a little. “He has retired. I believe he plans to move
north to be with his wife. And what about you, Robin? What will you do
now?”
“Ben – excuse me, Dr. Vin is letting me stay with him and study in
exchange for help with his excavations.”
“That must be very interesting. Still, a young man like you should,
perhaps, be making some money for himself?”
Robin saw that behind Mestrava, Dolohov shook his head very slowly,
making deliberate eye contact. He found himself mimicking that shaking.
“I’m doing all right for myself, Mr. Mestrava. I’m not as useful to you as
you may think I am.”
Mestrava frowned. He stroked his finely trimmed moustache in an almost
unconscious gesture. “Perhaps I would like to be the judge of that. Or you,
Dr. Trent?”
Robin did not even turn to look at him when he responded, “Robin
knows himself and his abilities very well. If he thinks that he’s not likely
to be useful, he’s probably right. Unless you’re interested in something to
show in the salons, but I don’t think that you are.”
The Ebron’s frown deepened, and he turned a little in his chair, but
Dolohov and Kepler had already left. Alone, he stood up again. “I appear
to be overstaying myself. Captain McCormick did not intend to stay in
Akrostira this long. I have not yet made you an offer, Robin, but I want
you to consider what such an offer might be. I assure you that Mr. Kepler
and Mr. McCormick do not starve.”
He swept up his cloak and donned his hat, then made for the door.
“What about Andrew,” Robin interrupted without intending to.
Mestrava chuckled and replied without turning around, “Of course, Mr.
Dolohov does not starve either. Good night, all of you. My apologies to
Dr. Vin to waste his good tea.” He left without further words, and William
closed the door after him.
“I should not like to be ungrateful, Robin, because Ian Mestrava’s generosity has benefited me greatly in my search for you, but I am quite glad
that you did not go with him. Quite glad.”
***
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Sean Clannon peered at his students over his tall glass of wine. Wrapped
in a not inexpensive robe, he walked back in forth behind the row of officers
who were intently writing their observations. At the front of the room,
where their attentions lay, was propped up a pair of cadavers. The first had
been carefully split open to demonstrate what King had done to the body
– using his powers to twist the intestines and organs in a most unpleasant
way.
The second cadaver was split open presently for comparison. All its
organs and intestines were precisely where they should be. From his seat,
each officer took a turn causing the second cadaver’s innards to shift and
turn. They congratulated each other for obvious successes and snickered
whenever someone on his turn simply sat and stared at motionless entrails.
After an hour or so of this exercise, Clannon dismissed them to their own
studies and sat wearily in his chair. He gathered the robe about him and
complained bitterly of a chill. Gregor came in shortly with a small phial,
which he gave to his teacher. Clannon unstoppered it, sniffed it, and added
a few drops to the remains of his wine.
“How is everything progressing?” He asked after sampling it.
“I’m doing well, Dr. Clannon,” Gregor said, “I’m prepared for the plan
to continue.”
“Does the Emperor suspect?”
Shrugs from both Gregor and George. “He believes that he knows everything. Ban Iris’s officers will be at their posts when it happens. We will
be precisely where we need to be,” Gregor said.
Clannon stared morbidly into his wine. “Good. It will be another three
weeks at least. No more than a month I hope.” The corner of his mouth
twitched. “A chemist in Pell, you say?”
“Would you like his address,” Gregor asked in a genial tone. Clannon
did not answer, and instead wandered out of the room.
“What was that about?”
“The phial I gave him was laudanum. I thought that would be to his
liking.”
“What is it?”
“A solution of opium in alcohol. Wonderful stuff.”
“Does that mean I won’t have to refill his pipe anymore?”
“That’s the idea. If we’re lucky he’ll drink it all down and kill himself.”
***
Cassia Shaw arrived in Akrostira the week after Ian Mestrava’s visit.
Robin knew that she was there because her name was mentioned in the
265
paper – many of the older councilmen objected to a woman ambassador as
highly irregular, and wondered in print whether this was an indication of
the extent of Mediter’s moral decay.
If these criticisms weighed on her, it was not apparent to Robin when
she finally visited him at Ben’s shop. She no longer wore her heavy black
coat with the yellow buttons. It was replaced with an elegant black dress,
and her red hair was pulled back into a prim knot. Robin was left in charge
of the shop that afternoon while Ben and William were off at South College
visiting a professor with whom William had corresponded from Mediter.
They had barely said their hellos when an eldery lady in a grey fur
entered. Robin attended to her – she was looking for something “cute”
to put in her parlor – leaving Cassia to look around the shop. The lady
examined each and every item that Robin showed her and settled on a
cracked glass vase that had been found in a shallow pool buried in silt. Ben
had priced it fairly high despite the crack. She paid enough money for it to
feed Robin for a month. He thanked her and when she’d left he crossed the
room to where Cassia was examining an old sabre, the very one that had
attracted his attention when he first arrived in Akrostira.
“It’s amazing here, Robin. You just dug this all up?”
“Some of it. A lot of it Ben bought or traded for. The pieces we dig up
mostly go to the universities. What they don’t want and can’t be sold, Ben
repairs and keeps or gives away.”
Cassia went among the shelves to look at the smaller pieces and fragments. “Dr. Trent’s here too, I’m told. Are you continuing your studies?”
Robin frowned and looked out the door. “Have you been down to the
pier this afternoon? When the winds are up the sailors fly fighter kites. I
saw how they make them last weekend. They tar the last yard of string and
roll it in crushed glass. The really good fliers can cut the strings away from
three or four kites in a single pass. The wind gets them going so strong that
the ship captains are afraid to have the kites near their riggings.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”
“That’s all right. No, I’m not continuing my studies. There’s no point,
and I don’t want to. I’m learning history, and a lot about archaeology.
That’s enough for me.”
“I’m glad.” Robin gave her a long look. “I think you’ll be happier
without it. Save it as something to amaze your grandchildren with some
day.”
“Maybe. I hear you’re the new ambassador from Mediter. Congratulations.”
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“Thank you, but it’s temporary. It was a personal favor, I think, from
President Ducheval.”
“He really was named President of the Congress?”
“Yes, the Congress met for the first time a few weeks ago and voted
him its presiding officer. They’re still hammering out what exactly that
means, but right now he’s responsible for naming ambassadors and judges
and promoting military and police officers. They decided that whenever he
thinks he needs a power, the Congress will vote it to him for a certain period
of time. Some people are complaining that it’s a slow, patchwork way to do
things, but it’ll work for now.”
“It sounds confusing.”
“It’s really not. Now, the tax code that I saw them working on, that’s
confusing.” She glanced at Ben’s clock and frowned. “I should go. I only
meant to stop and say hello on my way back.”
Robin saw her to the door, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Thank you
for coming by, Cassia. I’d like to see you again, if you have time.”
“Of course I will. Any time you want to see me, I’ll be at the Embassy in
my apartments there. The kitchen staff there is very good. You should come
by for dinner.” She seemed to blush a little as she went across the square to
a waiting carriage. Robin watched the driver help her in, then watched the
carriage until it disappeared up the main street. When William returned,
he told him of Cassia’s visit and mentioned, offhand, that he wasn’t sure
whether any of the clothes he owned were appropriate to visit the Mediter
Embassy.
William thought about that, and examined Robin as though with new
eyes.
“Yes, perhaps we can do something about that on your day off. Now that
the Embassy is open, you should certainly go there, to get your Mediterran
passport.”
Robin agreed that that was a very good idea.
***
Dolohov lay down his wrench and wiped grease from his face. He’d hit
his head twice because of the ship’s rocking, but the job was done at least.
His employer stood over him, watching intently.
“Be careful, Mr. Dolohov. That is a very expensive piece.”
Dolohov stood without taking hold of anything, then lay his hand on the
top of the freshly-repaired machine gun. He held up to the light a twisted
and mangled piece of brass, then threw it overboard.
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“Shell casing jammed in the action. Whoever you bought it from didn’t
know how it worked.”
“That may be, but their ignorance saved me ten thousand Marks. Let
us test it.”
Dolohov wiped off his hands and fed the ammunition belt into the machine. He pulled the release and set it in the lower position so that the base
would not swivel. With a deep breath he heaved the crank and shot off
nearly twenty rounds into the black water, making so much noise that his
ears rang for a minute afterward.
Behind him a handful of sailors clapped and cheered. Mestrava set them
back to their duties with a scowl and a wave. Kepler came up on deck to
see what they were doing.
“It works,” he exclaimed, grinning widely. “Too bad we’re not near
Madras.”
Mestrava chuckled. “I’m glad you are so eager. Two more of these
machine guns should have arrived in Ebberach Nedar yesterday. Combined
with the artillery already in place, we should be able to mount a most
spirited defense.”
Kepler wandered back below decks, and Mestrava was about to do likewise when Dolohov stopped him.
“Before we get there, I wanted to say that if there is fighting like you
say, I need to know that our agreement still holds.”
The Ebron looked at him keenly. Dolohov looked grim and tired in the
flickering light, and entirely in earnest. “Yes, Andrew. Our agreement holds.
Do you not intend to survive if we face Fengar in battle?”
He did not answer. Instead, taking up his tools, he put his hands in his
coat pockets and walked away. Mestrava watched him, and himself walked
toward the prow, feeling in his pocket the letter he’d picked up in Akrostira.
He had been mortified that his movements were so easily predicted, but he’d
gotten over that quickly after reading it.
Its postal mark said Madras. Sent by rail to Ian Mestrava, in the care of
Captain Neil McCormick of the Trader ship Mourning Dove in Akrostira’s
port. Sent two weeks prior to his arrival and waiting in the office of the Port
Authority.
She was assigned to the ports in Madras, it said, partly by her own
request. Her brother suspected her and so did not tip his hand about his
plans or those of the Emperor. She feared that the peace was a sham,
to mask preparations for all-out war in the Free States and maybe even
against Kendauer. Mestrava knew all too well what a war in Kendauer
would mean – strongly worded neutrality pacts with every nation on the
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continent all contained similar provisions in the event of an attack on the
railroad city. Ibra had signed such an agreement, and would send troops by
rail. The fledgeling government in Mediter had signed one within a week of
its inception.
There was no doubt in the mind of Sir Ian Garmin Mestrava. Ibra, his
home, must be ready for war.
Chapter 20
From North to South
Robin stretched a little to feel the seams in his new jacket give just a bit like
the tailor said they would. Dr. Trent had helped him buy it after saving up
the small amount of money Ben paid him. He’d seen Cassia several times
over the last two weeks. They’d had dinners and lunches and even played a
game of cards with Dr. Trent and Ben Vin.
Tonight, however, Cassia had invited him as her escort to a dinner being
given by an Akrostiran Councilman. He’d spent the entire day getting new
clothes to fit the latest Akrostiran styles: A long jacket with a matching
vest and cravat, a cardboard collar, and a waist chain. No hat, the tailor
assured him, he was too young to wear a hat, but he did put grease in his
hair and combed it with exceeding care.
That all brought him to where he stood outside the Mediterran Embassy,
dressed better than he’d ever been dressed before, waiting for Ambassador
Cassia Shaw. The carriage pulled up right in front of the entrance. Robin
nodded nervously to the driver, who paid him absolutely no mind. She came
out of the Embassy in a hurry, wearing a black dress of a somewhat stylish
cut. The complaints in the papers and in the Council had prompted her to
dress very conservatively, to her displeasure.
The Councilman’s home was only three blocks away, but he and his
guests would have been scandalized if she’d walked. Robin helped her into
the carriage.
“If they’re so worried about appearances, is it such a good idea for me
to be going with you?”
“No. But if it’s like the last dinner, nobody will talk to me, and two or
three men will be there with their mistresses anyway.” Robin gave her an
odd look, but didn’t say anything. “And here we are.”
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A dignified-looking older man opened the door to the carriage for them
and escorted them into the large well-lit home. Robin was introduced to the
host, who was a very old, sun-bronzed gentleman with large tufts of white
hair emerging from his ears. His wife was just as old and just as deaf. In
the course of five minutes Robin was introduced to each of them twice.
The guest of honor that evening was an actor, who had just finished a
summer run of Twin Princes, as Prince Elithor. According to the whispered
conversations Robin walked by, he was the worst Elithor ever and a shame to
his part and his profession. Everyone who talked to him adored him. Robin
stayed away from him and sipped coffee with Cassia from small, delicate
cups.
They’d only been there an hour when Cassia was pulled away to talk to
someone who had just arrived. Robin sat by himself feeling as though the
other guests were looking cross-ways at him until she came back, white as
a ghost.
“We have to go, Robin. Right now.”
She made a few feeble attempts at explanation as the two of them made
for the door. Robin tried to get his jacket back, but she told him to forget
it.
“What’s going on?” He finally asked when they’d gotten outside. Cassia looked around for a carriage, and started walking quickly toward the
Embassy.
“In Madras,” she said in between breaths, “an explosion. Docks destroyed.” She whirled on her heel and looked him right in the eye. “They’re
already blaming the TRP.”
She took off her shoes and grabbed the hem of her skirt to move more
quickly. Robin saw her stockings tear to shreds on the street bricks, but she
didn’t seem to mind. The man at the Embassy gate was expecting her.
“Did you get Marta Slake?”
“No, ma’am, she wasn’t at her apartments. Her maid said that she was
at dinner.”
Cassia swore, then blushed, then muttered something in Imperial that
sounded impolite. “How many people know?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. The news came by encoded telegraph, by way of
Kendauer.”
“All right. I’m going to have to send messages to President Ducheval,
and maybe to Eliot Winsor. Get the code books for Kendauer ready. As
soon as I talk to Slake or Jonas or anyone else in the TRP, I’ll want to send
those messages as soon as I can.”
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The three of them had entered the Embassy while she questioned the
man. He nodded and went off to do as she said. Cassia turned to Robin
suddenly, and startled him with a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you, Robin. I’m sorry that you didn’t get dinner. If our staff is
awake I can have them make you something –”
“No, there’s no need.” He was, in fact, not hungry at all, and feeling
rather sick to his stomach. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Do you know the hotel where the TRP operates?”
“No, I’ve been avoiding them since I’ve been here.”
“All right, never mind. I think that I should go in person anyway.”
“Do you think they did it?”
Her shoulders slumped in a sigh. “I’m going to find out.”
***
Warren ban Iris stormed into the war room, angry at being interrupted
in his evening devotions. The Emperor and three other generals were there
already in various stages of evening wear and formal attire. The Emperor
himself was in full dress uniform, the one he wore at events of state.
“Is there word from my sister,” ban Iris demanded.
“No, Brother Warren. Sit down.” The Emperor’s tone was mild, but
he was obeyed immediately. “I don’t believe that she is in danger, it was
only warehouses and offices that are burning, and only ships and piers were
destroyed in the initial blast according to the governor.”
“What does he mean by ‘initial blast’ ? Explosives?”
“He thinks dynamite. Somehow they knew that two of the ships were
carrying munitions.”
“Why were there armed ships in Madras? Imperial Navy?”
“Our Navy, Brother.”
“We don’t have a –” The Paladin’s eyes frowned over his mask and he
cut himself off.
“If you were interested in nautical matters I would have told you.” A
page ran up to the open door and stopped and stood at attention. “What
news from Winsor?”
“He says no, your Highness, not without proof.”
The Emperor’s face twisted. “Send again to Kendauer with the same
demands. Don’t change a word. If he protests again, send it one last time
tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Do not come to me until he either agrees
or refuses that last request.” The page ran off.
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Brother Warren noticed in the corners the Emperor’s evening guard,
dressed in plain black and carrying pistols. Each wore a silver ring as his
only insignia.
One of the generals spoke up, “Why not demand passage through Depolisti again?”
“They’re expecting that. Even if we have permission from all of Depolisti, Etheora, and Akrostira – which I am not hopeful to get – that
would give them too much time to prepare. This is better. Brother Warren,
I would have a word with you in private while preparations are made here.”
He turned to the generals. “Have a table brought in here, and a map. We
will need to lay our plans tonight.”
He made for the door to his chambers, then paused. “Send for Mr.
Adamson while you’re at it.”
***
Gregor observed the assembled officers coolly, as though watching a play.
They painstakingly arrayed little wooden toys on a tacked-down map of
the continent. Indeed, he noticed, they had hammered tacks into a very
expensive table.
He poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on the sideboard,
swirled it, sniffed it, took a sip. A passable Madras wine, a little on the
sweet side even for them. There was unfortunately not much in the way
of Mediterran wine in Palatine these days. Too expensive in the markets,
and Wilhelm considered it unpatriotic to serve in the Palace. He hadn’t
destroyed his stocks of course, merely locked that corner of the cellar.
The officers argued over the placement of a few blue pieces representing
small regiments from the Free States. They eventually joined the cluster
of toys around Kendauer. Gray pieces for Kendauer’s army, greens from
Mediter, a lot of red from Ibra. Gregor examined the rest of the map with
only a casual interest. Greens all up and down the Mediter-Fengar border,
a couple reds inside Ebberach, Ibra’s capitol, and near Pell.
Someone dropped a solid box on the table heavily enough to disturb
the pieces, and he was dutifully sworn at. Solid silver and gold block were
taken out first, representing the regiments under the command of Fengar’s
generals and those of the Paladins, respectively. Gregor spied a new one, a
golden star for ban Iris’s special unit, and a few silver stars. All the other
Fengari units were wood painted white, and he saw a few white stars among
them. Ten stars, all told.
Most of the gold and silver was clustered around Palatine, with another
few pieces north in Madras, and a few more south in Attica, near the border
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with Kendauer. The plain blocks were all over the Fengar map. Some faced
the green blocks across the Mediter border, several were clustered in the
East around Pell, near Ibra. There were two stars in that cluster. The
majority surrounded the golds and silvers just north of Kendauer.
The officers all stood back and admired their work, if a few cast Gregor
dirty glances. Satisfied, they sent a page to fetch the Emperor and ban
Iris. They arrived shortly, and surveyed the board, nodding and making
quiet comments to themselves and each other. The generals came back
momentarily, and shuffled around the table a bit before going for the wine.
Wilhelm finished consulting with ban Iris and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, unless Mr. Winsor sees the light, there is little opportunity but to
declare war on Kendauer. This will be, to put it mildly, unpopular. Ibra,
Mediter, Etheora, Depolisti, Akrostira, and the remaining principalities of
the Free States already have troops outside the city, on what they’re calling
‘exercises’. Ibra in particular has a large contingent. Too large, in fact, for
their own good.” He walked to the other side of the table and leaned over
it with his palms to either side of the Ebron capitol. “Ebberach is underdefended, and we have three regiments just across the border in Pell. A direct
attack on Ebberach before the attack on Kendauer is the key. If we capture
it, we will demand that they stand down in Kendauer. If the battle is drawn
out, they will be forced to withdraw troops from Kendauer for the defense.
Either way, we gain.
“We have several barges in Attica fitted with cannons. There has never
been a naval attack on Kendauer because of the shallowness of the Ateke
River to the south, but our intention isn’t to pass through, it’s to split
the city in half.” Kendauer straddled the Ateke River, with two famous
bridges and any number for the railroad. He indicated these. “We can draw
their forces to the east side of the city before this attack, then withdraw
to concentrate on the west once they’re isolated. It won’t be a permanent
isolation, but sustained attack from the river can buy us time and divert
their attack.”
He prattled on about the particulars of what was obviously ban Iris’s
plan. While he spoke on those matters he looked Gregor in the eye and
took two black stones from his pocket and placed them without comment in
Akrostira. Gregor smiled and nodded his understanding.
***
Robin could not sleep that night. He lay awake on his cot for a long
time, distracted by vague premonitions. The possibility of another war,
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after only a little over a month of peace, reminded him of all the people who
had wanted him to be a part of the first one, and then of the people who
tried their best to keep him out of it.
Resigning himself to insomnia, he lit the lamp and examined Ben’s bookshelves. Without intending to, he took down a copy of the Book of Life.
He sat back down on his cot, flipping through it. He had started reading
it several times, before he lost the book that Captain de Mediter had given
him. He’d read the first chapter, with its descriptions of war and death, introducing Jalen as an officer in the defending army, which barely won. The
second chapter talked about what Jalen did in the aftermath of the war, the
beginnings of his teaching and his decision to leave Cove. That was as far
as he usually got.
Looking through the rest of the book, he read bits and pieces. A conversation over dinner, the angry departure of one of his followers, and near
the end, Jalen’s death of an illness, with only one follower left. There were
several chapters even after that, which Robin had no desire to read.
He in fact didn’t read much of the book, sitting up that night. It served
more as a distraction whenever his mind began to wander. He felt silly for
using the name Jalensen without really knowing about the person he named
himself after. Of course, he reminded himself, he had not taken the name
on his own, it had been given to him.
Robin thought about that, and wondered why the Gypsies had called him
that. Ben had told him about the theory that Jalen had been a magician,
like him. He reasoned that Jalen had used his magic in defense of Cove, just
as he had been expected to use it in defense of Mediter. Were there any
parallels, he wondered. There was the belief that Mediter was actually Cove,
but Robin discounted it, having long ago been convinced as von Krieger had
been that Cove was in the White Mountains.
He came to no conclusion about what the Gypsies must have thought,
and turned instead to the small desk that Ben had lent him. On it was
the first half of his latest letter to Dane. The previous two had gone unanswered, as he expected the third would be. He didn’t dwell much on possible
explanations. It was enough to write the letters, and tell him about life in
Akrostira. He’d sent a couple of newspaper clippings, whenever he saw anything related to science in the paper. There was a clipping waiting for this
letter, too, about the invention by Sir Erdrick Baedecker of something called
an ‘electric motor’, which was a collection of wound wires and magnets with
a moving shaft that spun when the wires were put in an electric circuit. The
current through the wires on the outside caused a sympathetic magnetic reaction in the wires on the shaft, or so it said. According to the article, Sir
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Baedecker had attached it to a music box where the crank should go, and
made it operate by itself. Robin was sure that Dane would be interested in
such an invention, and would scorn the use to which it can been put.
He finished the letter and, still quite awake, went back to his reading.
The clock read three thirty when Robin looked at it, feeling suddenly very
anxious. He tried to continue reading, but could not shake that feeling.
What finally distracted him was remembering Cassia Shaw’s comment about
mistresses in the carriage. It had struck him as very odd that she had found
that relevant to Robin’s presence.
He shook his head and went back to his reading to avoid that line of
thought. The anxiety from earlier still sat in the back of his mind, and
he periodically thought of the railroad for no reason at all. Ben found him
awake the next morning, and confessed that he, too, had had a restless night.
They brewed coffee instead of tea for their breakfast. Robin did not
quite understand the workings of the percolator, and his misplacement of
the basket caused it to spill grounds into the coffee, making it gritty and
overly bitter. They drank it anyway, and had toast and jam to go with it.
Ben bought a newspaper from the boy on his rounds. On the front page was
the news of the bombing in Madras.
Dr. Trent came over at nine o’clock, after they’d opened the shop. He
too looked unhappy and dishevelled. Robin moved the breakfast table onto
the shop floor so they could sit and talk while keeping an eye on the business.
All three were of the opinion that something terrible was in the process
of happening. Robin told them what Cassia had told him the night before,
and both Ben and William considered that news. Ben suddenly got up from
the table and went in the back. He emerged with an old black-powder pistol.
William looked at it with alarm.
“Ben, what on earth do you plan to do with that?”
“Defend my shop, if it comes to that,” he said while examining the
antique gun.
“Will it fire?” Robin peered at it closely. “Professor Clannon had one
of those in Mediter, but I don’t think it worked.”
Ben looked unhappy, but continued his examination as he gently cleaned
the moving parts. The firing pan snapped off the gun and fell to the floor,
leaving Ben with a look of sheer horror on his face.
“It’s just as well, Ben, I don’t think that it would have done any good.
In any case, in the unlikely event that Fengar tries to invade, it will take
them probably two months to push through to here. I don’t think that you
have anything to worry about.”
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Ben did worry, however, and so Robin took the gun from him and fused
the pieces back together. The two older men stared at him in amazement.
“You know,” William said, “I once knew an Imperial metallurgist who
could do that. Did you learn that from the blacksmith?”
He said that he did, and went to take care of a customer. When he
finished selling him an old ceramic pipe, Ben gave him a few Marks and
told him to go to the armory and buy a pouch of black powder and lead for
fifty shots. When he’d left, William lit his pipe and sat down. He sat and
smoked for a while, and when he’d finished he tapped the remains of the
tobacco out into the little porcelain dish he used as an ashtray.
“This is still ridiculous, Ben. Besides, and I hate to suggest it, but maybe
a physical defense might not be the best we can do.”
Ben looked at him a long time, then turned away. “I can’t, William.”
“I know it’s distasteful, but it may be the only way.”
“I mean I cannot do it. I am incapable of it.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“When you told Robin the story about Andrew von Krieger, you didn’t
mention that I hadn’t gotten my certificate either.” He turned back and
looked William squarely in the eye. “I know a great deal about magic,
William, but I am largely incapable of it. When Robin was little, I taught
him illusions, but I’ve mostly lost that ability. It’s difficult for me to take
him into the field and see him using his skills to shake loose delicate pieces
that I with my brush and my fingers would probably destroy.”
At that moment, the little bell on the door rang, and Cassia Shaw
stepped into the shop. Ben strode forward to meet her. “Ambassador Shaw,
come in! How are you doing?”
“I’m looking for Robin,” she said, “Is he upstairs?”
“No, I sent him on an errand. He should return fairly soon, I think.”
She frowned, and looked at the clock on the wall. “That’s no good. I
wanted him with me, but I shouldn’t be late. Where did he go?”
“To the armory, to fetch a few things for me.”
“That’s the entirely wrong direction.” She tapped her foot, still staring
at the clock. “No matter. I’m being silly to want him with me. Just
superstition. Thank you, Dr. Vin, Dr. Trent.” She left hurriedly, leaving
the two old friends dumbfounded and very worried.
***
Cassia got back into her carriage and let her driver take her the rest of
the way to the hotel. She got out and bade him wait nearby. The front of
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the hotel was one of the grand new ones, several stories high with the stylish
columns and a uniformed doorman.
“I’m Cassia Shaw, here to see Marta Slake, for a scheduled visit,” she
told him. He nodded and opened the door for him with a white-gloved hand.
She made her way through the marble lobby, past the wicker chairs set up
for the residents, and to the elevator. She entered the cage, hearing below
her the massive gas engine, and told the boy her floor. He pushed the lever
into the upper position, and the mechanism shuddered a couple times, then
caught the belt and started to rise.
It took a few minutes for the elevator to make it up to the floor used by
the TRP, even though it was very new. She tipped the boy and told him
that her visit would be over in an hour. The machine clanked and squealed
as he reversed the lever and started it down.
The TRP had the entire floor to themselves, but did not use all the
rooms. Slake’s office was on the right hand branch of the U-shaped hallway,
at the end. Converted from the suite, it had a magnificent view of the ports
and the islands in the bay. As Cassia turned the corner, she got an odd
chill. It was not uncommon for the floor to be quiet, since its rooms weren’t
being used as often to house TRP operatives, but usually she could at least
hear papers and the low drone of conversation.
She walked up the hallway, smelling the lye they’d used on the carpets.
Slake’s door stood closed, which was a little odd for this time of day. Cassia
knocked politely on the door, and waited for a response. None came. Feeling
distinctly ill at ease, she knocked again, louder, until the door came open a
little. She pushed at it a little.
“Oh, you don’t want to go in there, Ambassador.”
Cassia gasped and spun around. A man stood in front of her, dressed
sharply in a starched white shirt and a fashionable black jacket, with fashionably long sideburns and glittering eyes. He twisted a silver ring on his
finger.
“Why, why not?”
He smiled cruelly. “We just had a meeting with her a little while ago,
and she became most upset.” He reached past her and closed the door.
“You might say that she went to pieces.”
Cassia stared at him in disbelief, suddenly aware of a coppery smell. She
pushed past him, and stopped in horror when she saw that a side door had
been opened, and a body lay in its frame.
“If you don’t mind staying awhile, Ambassador, I think that you could
answer a few questions that Miss Slake could not.”
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***
Robin walked out of the armory and felt a chill run down his back. He
had the same sensation that he got when Dr. Trent lit his pipe, but much
more so. The sensation had a sinister feel to it.
He secured the black powder in its pouch, and slung it around his neck
on its long canvas strap. He walked quickly back to the square where Ben’s
shop was, but on an impulse kept walking.
The sensation got stronger as he walked, and it made him more and
more uneasy. When he came upon a tall hotel, and saw the Ambassador’s
carriage he broke into a run, and begged the doorman to tell him whether
she’d been there and which room she’d gone to.
The doorman allowed that she was there, but refused to elaborate, and
would not let him in. Robin stared at the uniform man a moment, and with
a deep breath grabbed the doorhandle and yanked it open, sending the man
to his knees. With an apology, Robin rushed in.
He found a calligraphed sign in the inside hallway with the names of
the people and groups in residence. The moment he saw the name “Slake,
Marta” he ran to the stairs, ignoring the shouts behind him of the doorman
and the staff.
He half ran, half flew up the stairs, barely aware that his feet only
touched the occasional step. The sensation of foreboding had become an
acrid burning in his chest, and he pushed himself as fast as he could go until
he burst out onto the fifth floor.
He stopped and caught his breath, shaking from nerves and excitement.
He heard nothing, and saw nothing but closed white doors with discreet
bronze numbers. Taking a step onto the carpet, he thought he heard a faint
noise at the end of the hall.
Robin pushed open the door, and immediately was knocked to his knees
by an invisible blow to the back of his head. There was a huge desk in front
of him, with a familiar person sitting on it.
“Adamson.”
“And you are Robin. You gave us a very hard time in Kendauer, you
know. George is anxious to get his hand on you for your trick on the train.
Someone in Palatine has a debt to you to repay as well.”
Robin spied Cassia sitting in the corner, crumpled up and not moving.
He tried to stand, but invisible hands kept him down. He looked at Gregor
Adamson with new understanding.
“I see you know our little secret. We are students of the same teacher,
you know.” He looked very pleased with himself, and he twisted a ring on
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his finger as he spoke. “But I think that you’ll see that we’ve far surpassed
you. Would you like a demonstration?”
Without warning, the huge desk slid across the floor and smashed into
the wall beside Cassia. Robin heard a choked sob on the other side, and
saw a path of smeared blood from where it had stood. Gregor still sat in
the air, as though the desk had not moved, and smiled as suddenly Robin
felt tremendous pressure on his shoulders, pushing him into the floor.
“This has been quite a day for me, you understand. First Marta Slake,
then Ambassador Shaw, and now you. I’m beginning to feel rather accomplished, you know. It’s a shame, though, to only meet you now. Two months
ago, I would have had to bring you in alive.” He extended his legs back down
to the floor, and focused his attention.
Robin grunted as the pressure on his shoulders began to bear down on
him. He pushed his hands into the floor to stay upright, and his elbows
hurt with the strain. Another ragged gasp from the other side of the desk
brought him suddenly to his senses. He looked up at Gregor, and silenced
the gloating Fenne agent with the fury in his expression.
Intent and angry, he pushed up against the phantom force and, straining
tremendously, stood up. Gregor’s face, he saw, shone with perspiration, and
he winced as Robin shrugged off the force. He felt heat near his face and
felt the beginnings of a flame. It went out. The desk began to slide, but
stopped just as suddenly as it had started to move.
“My god,” Gregor muttered, backing up to the bank of windows overlooking the sea. “What sort of monster are you? He told us your powers
were feeble.”
Robin pushed him across the long room, past bookshelves and a small
table. Gregor twisted as he backed away, feeling himself intense pressure on
his chest and shoulders.
“I’m going to push the air out of your chest,” Robin said, straining, “and
you’re going to pass out. When you wake up, you will be alive, and safe,
and not in a position to hurt anyone.”
“How admirable.” Robin heard the voice behind him and started to
turn when he suddenly felt an awful twisting in the pit of his stomach, and
staggered backward. He felt suddenly very stupid for forgetting Gregor’s
partner, the sniper from Mediter. Dressed finely and looking like a hungry
lion, George King exalted as he strode through the open door and toward
Robin.
“How are you, Gregor? I’m afraid that I’m not as girlish as you, Robin,
I don’t mind a little blood.” He kicked at the smear on the floor, spattering
it. He bore a look of total surprise when he was suddenly bowled over onto
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his back, then dragged across the floor to Gregor’s feet.
Robin stared at the two Fenne agents who stood clenching their jaws
and staring at him. After a long moment of standoff, the windows shattered
outward, carrying shards of glass away on the wind. None of the three of
them moved, except for a single shared glance between the two agents.
There was a loud metallic clank out in the hall, and running footsteps
immediately afterward. Robin was only dimly aware that there were new
people in the room. He watched Gregor and George intently, waiting for an
opening.
They were distracted. Only for a moment, but long enough for Robin to
fling the pouch of black powder onto the floor in front of them and cause it
to ignite. He leapt for cover and saw out of the corner of his eye, the two of
them go out the window.
Robin crawled to where Cassia was huddled by the wall. She was alive
and bleeding, with her arms around her knees. He didn’t know what to do,
except to grab the attention of the hotel people who had come in, and shout
at them to take her to the surgeon. They tried to apprehend him, so he
ran down the stairs to a landing two floors below. He breathed deeply, and
made himself look like an employee of the hotel, with their brocaded red
uniforms. By the time he got back to the room, they had already brought
her down the elevator.
He wasted no time getting down the stairs, and after finding a place to
change his illusory disguise without being seen, followed the carriage to the
surgeon’s office at a discreet distance. Seeing no opportunity to get inside,
he sat nearby and waited, keeping up the illusion so that the hotel people
would not recognise him if they came out. His arms and chest trembled so
much that he had to stand up and pretend to be shaking something out
of his illusory pant leg. He sat back down and nervously flexed his fingers,
watching the door to the surgeon’s office. It had an impressive oaken door
set into one of a series of very expensive-looking row houses. Its plaque was
large and recently polished, and the steps and handrail looked worn but
tidy. There was only a single window, and the curtains were drawn. Robin
could make out nothing in the office, but his concentration was so intense
that he imagined that he could sense people in the rooms.
The first hotel employee came out shortly, and Robin saw him intercept
a constable on his rounds and go off with him. It was a long while before the
rest of them emerged. Only then did Robin approach the office. He changed
his illusion so that his clothes looked very finely tailored, and his appearance
to look older. He rapped sharply on the door, and it was answered by a
matronly woman.
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“I was told by the hotel that Ambassor Shaw was brought here. May I
see her?” Robin cursed the quaver in his voice, but the woman seemed not
to notice. She peered at him, then ushered him in, apparently satisfied.
Cassia had been laid out on a bed, and she breathed shallowly.
“She’s asleep,” the woman told him. “The doctor gave her an opiate to
calm her down. There’s blood all over her, but he found only scratches and
small cuts on her, so he thinks that she’s simply in hysterics.”
Robin nodded along with her until she stopped talking, and accepted the
chair that she offered him. The surgeon came in to examine her again, and
introduced himself as Doctor Erich Munder. Robin introduced himself as
Robert Andovere of Mediter, feeling suddenly and strangely like a banker’s
son. Over the next couple hours he would introduce himself that way to no
fewer than twenty people. He feigned ignorance to their questions about the
hotel, and claimed simple aquaintance when asked about his relationship to
her. Several people approved to him of his diligence in waiting over her, but
he told them that he merely had little else to do.
She came out of her opium dreaming only briefly, to focus on Robin, and
to tell him to go away.
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CHAPTER 20. FROM NORTH TO SOUTH
Part Three: Andrew
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Ivan Denisovitch Dolohov was born on a cold August morning in the Northerner town of Vespin. His father Denis Alexeyevitch had been a boy when
the Imperial Army invaded and turned the rat-infested port at Rostov Point
into a full-fledged capital, with gas lamps and everything. When he was a
man and had a son, he lived in Vespin and mined silver. He learned Imperial
so that he could get a job as a foreman, but he never did.
His son Ivan would never mine silver. He would never mine cobalt. He
would never mine coal. He would go to school in Rostov where the Imperial
boys learned to read and write.
Achieving that would be more difficult than telling it to his wife and
his neighbors. It wasn’t that he was a bad child, or a stupid child, but
that every time Denis came home, it would be so that he could be told,
“Denis Alexeyevitch, you are my dear friend, but your little Vanya has been
climbing my fence again and broken the slats.” Or, “Denis Alexeyevitch, I
love you like a brother, but your Vanya has borrowed my new handsaw and
broken its teeth, and I cannot make do without another.”
And so it took a year longer than he had planned to save the money for
his son to go to the Academy in Rostov. Ivan had heard a lot about the
capital from his friends, and knew that it was very different from Vespin.
While Vespin was wide open and green, Rostov was black and smoky and
made of stone. Vespin was friendly and forgiving, while Rostov was angry
and dangerous, a place where wild people shot each other, and little boys
were taken from the streets and put to work in ships where they shoveled
bilge and ate rat. Naturally, Ivan could hardly sleep and begged his parents
to take him there early.
He went in September in the year he turned thirteen. To his great
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chagrin, Rostov was clean and welcoming, with wide cobbled streets and
great peaked roofs covered with snow. The Academy was a great, modern
building with large glass windows like the shop in Vespin had, and a huge
heated dormitory with beds that stacked one on top of the other.
His instructors all spoke Imperial much more quickly and fluently than
his father, and so Ivan had difficulties in his first months of class. Unwilling
to admit that he only barely spoke the language, his classmates considered
him an idiot and had nothing to do with him. Lonely and frustrated, he
took to his studies with a ferocity that made his instructors marvel, but his
low scores led them to also conclude that the boy was an idiot.
Fortunately, he learned the language quickly, and by January was caught
up on his studies and even ahead in them. His instructors were amazed at
the turnaround, and one of them went so far as to recommend him for
a commendation. The Academy was the pet project of the Governor, an
Imperial named Wu. Governor Wu wrote out the commendation in his own
hand and sent it to the Dolohov family in Vespin.
Ivan came home for the summer, much changed. He was much taller and
leaner, and his voice sometimes cracked. He learned of the letter from the
Governor, and how his father had made everyone in the village read it to
him. Ivan was mortified, because he hadn’t known that his father couldn’t
read.
All that summer he insisted on speaking and hearing only Imperial,
pleading that he could not afford to forget so much as a single word. Denis
was up to the task, although his patience expired at the point of calling
him by his “Imperial name,” John. A few minutes with the birch switch
convinced young Ivan that he should continue to answer to his given name.
Ivan’s mother Aglaia, however, struggled all that summer to talk to her son
no matter what name she used and so her communications with him were
left mostly to simple commands which were to be obeyed no matter in which
language they were given.
His habits had changed, too, while he was at school. He had always
been a reasonably neat child, but now he was exacting. His bed was always
made, his belongings were always neat and orderly, his hair and clothes were
always presentable, if rarely entirely clean.
If he was neater and more careful, however, he was just as mischievous as
ever. On one occasion, as Aglaia would tell again and again, she set several
loaves of bread out to cool. She tried to be vigilant, lest her son steal one
or two as he often did when he was younger. She was busy, however, and
forgot about them until she came in later and found, to her relief, all the
loaves where she had left them. Not until she got hungry for lunch did she
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take one, and discover that it and another had been hollowed out from the
bottom. Ivan had taken that head start and hidden himself very cleverly.
In September he went back to the Academy. He studied that year just as
hard as he had the year before, and again did very well. He was well known
and well liked, though not particularly popular. His next few years at the
Academy were ones of distinction, and the memory of his accomplishments
set a high standard against which his son Andrei would later chafe.
While he did not have a head for ciphers, he was fond of history. He read
about the reign of the One Emperor, who had reigned for over a thousand
years and still lived in the center of the Imperium. Ivan, who learned that
because he was born in an Imperial territory, he was an Imperial citizen,
learned that even he could not travel freely in the Interior. That permission
must be given specially by the Emperor, who would do so in a letter detailing
the nature of the allowed travel. The Emperor’s Guard in the Interior, and
the Imperial Marshals abroad enforced those letters.
He learned also about the famous pirate Arlin Rivos, who in the ninth
century founded the Imperial Navy, beat back the Ebrons and whose grave
was the first stone laid in the first Trader City, which was named after him.
The book he read that in was his favorite of all his textbooks. His instructor
was once a Navy captain, and he captivated the whole class with stories of
faraway cities and desperate smugglers and hidden isles.
Ivan was seventeen when his father died in the middle of the term. He
walked back to Vespin for the funeral, and stayed with his mother for a
week afterward, helping her get the house in order. He carefully counted
the money that his father had saved, and put it in a Trader bank for her.
Then he said goodbye to his mother and walked back to Rostov, where he
said goodbye to his classmates, went to the pier and the first Imperial Navy
ship he saw there, the Wind Racer. He asked for the captain, and said to
him the words he had practiced all the way from Vespin: “My name is John
Dolohov. I work hard, I learn fast, and I want to elist.” He was taken on in
the galley.
He worked hard, and learned what he could about the business of sailing
a ship. The captain took no further notice of the young man, and when who
months later the Wind Racer pulled into Luxor, Ivan went ashore and spent
his entire pay on an old black powder pistol. Shore leave was abbreviated
since many of the crew did not have Trader or Imperial passports yet – it
took two years in the Navy to earn them. Because it was so brief, when
Ivan reboarded the Wind Racer, he had only fired his gun once. But simply
owning his own pistol qualified him to be a ship’s guard.
Shortly after leaving the Trader Coast, Ivan’s ship went to Arma Lien,
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in the tropics. The heat wore tremendously on him, leaving him sweating
and slightly delirious. He took a night watch, when the air was cooler. For
the rest of his life he remembered sitting on the rail of the ship with inky
moonlit surf in one direction, and a sea of sand on the other, spotted with
lamp-lit adobe houses and huge canvas tents. His shipmates brought him
strange, sweet fruits when they rowed or sometimes swam ashore. One of
them was a small orange fruit with a thick red flesh that was so sour it made
his mouth tingle. He would have it again only one more time in his entire
life, at his son’s wedding at which he was killed.
The Wind Racer was a patrol ship, lightly armed with a pair of cannons.
In the course of three years it visited most of the Imperial colonies, as well
as Mediter twice, and all the Trader Cities. Twice it was approached by
pirates. The Emperor’s Cross warned one away. The second ship, a small
shallow-water type, pulled alongside during the night, and a few half-starved
sailors attempted to board. Ivan was not on watch that night, was awake,
and heard the commotion. He crashed onto the deck, drowsy and confused,
and shot one of the pirates with the only shot in his gun. Now unarmed, he
ran for the cannons. With the invaders close at hand, he suddenly snatched
the firing ember and thrust it at the pot next to the weapon, threatening to
kill them all in the name of the Emperor. They hesitated just long enough
for Ivan’s shipmates to capture them. By breakfast the next morning, at
least eight people had reminded him that the pot contained soap and water.
Ivan had now caught the captain’s eye, however. He worked hard and
eventually won a commission. He spent a week in Rivos, and was offered
several assignments. The one that caught his eye was on the warship Red
Tide, whose captain was offering on his own a pair of Imperial Issue revolvers.
Dressed in his new red uniform, Ivan, who now went by the name on his
commission, John Dolohov, reported for duty one day into his two-week
shore leave.
The captain was a steely Ebron gentleman by the name of Gavriel Puck.
His thick accent made him difficult to understand, but he was aware of
this limitation and spoke slowly and deliberately. John was made the Law
Officer. He was charged with discipline, and given the keys to the brig. The
crew, however, were highly disciplined and had seen enough combat on the
seas that they did not fear the brig. John’s position on the ship quickly
became that of student, favored because of his reputation for bravery.
John spent three years on the Red Tide, and was decorated several times.
He’d become strong and solid, but also nostalgic and a little lonely. When
the Tide pulled into Rostov, it was more than he could bear. He resigned
his commission and decided to go home.
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Puck was sorry to see him go, but wrote the the Governor with a warm
recommendation. When John got home to Vespin to visit his mother, he was
greeted by a messenger, with an invitation to take up his commission again
as an Imperial Marshal. His mother frowned at the thought, because she
wanted her son to marry a local girl and settle down, but the idea burned a
hole in John’s brain. All of a sudden, he remembered the dashing, rugged
figures from his childhood who rounded up bandits and killed outlaws. He
accepted the offer, and left Vespin a day later, leaving with his mother most
of his savings.
Life as a Marshal was rugged, if not dashing. His pay depended entirely
on his ability to collar fugitives, outlaws and smuggles, and those bounties
came few and far between. Still, he’d gotten good with those big steel
revolvers, and he earned enough to get by on. He met Marya Petrovna in
Rostov after killing a famous smuggler. By a stroke of luck, he was bathed
and shaved and smelled more or less like a human being. He courted her
like a snap blizzard; after two weeks of his attentions, she married him. He
stayed with her for two days, until word came of a daring robbery east of
there on the coast, and he left to earn his bride a home.
He came back grinning and rich, and smelling like his horse. Marya
would not let him in her apartments until he’d bathed and looked a little
more like the man she married. He stayed for a month, and bothered her
constantly, until she told him that she was carrying, and that he would have
to stop.
John stayed in Rostov for that time, earning money by teaching the
Governor’s guards to shoot. He was known as a crack shot, and as his fame
spread, it brought such requests from soldiers and sailors and sometimes
other Marshals. His son was born in January, and John called him Alexander, since an Alexander earned him the bounty than won him a wife. If
Marya was upset that her son did not have a more traditional name, she
did not tell her husband. In secret, however, she whispered the history of
her family and people to her son Alexei Ivanovitch, who was accidentally
named after his great-grandfather.
John stayed for a while and played with his son, who was small and
fragile in the Marshal’s big hands. Eventually the itch for the mountains
came upon him again, and he went chasing another large bounty. He came
back to Rostov, bathed, and went home with his reward, and again set to
bothering Marya. A year later, holding a plump Alexander, she told him to
expect his second son.
He became nervous when she told him that. He never wanted for money,
because he’d saved almost everything that he made. He never drank, and
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never gambled, lest he ever be as poor as his father. But the thought of a
growing family made him nervous. He set out on his horse, deep in thought,
and went north into the silver mining towns of the White Mountains. The
bounties were small, but steady. He had earned the respect of the Imperial
Magistrates, who agreed to send the money to Rostov.
He’d been in the White Mountains for a few months when he came,
exhausted, to a lit-up tavern on the edge of Viev, a tin-shack town buried
in snow. Not even bothering to unsaddle his horse or unpack his travelling
gear, he went inside and asked for a room. His name alone got him a bed
for free, and he was on the verge of sleep when the front room came alive
with shouting and carousing.
John Dolohov was never a kill-joy, but he needed his sleep. He went to
the front room and got them to quiet down a bit, at the price of having the
leader buy him a whisky with his new-found wealth. John congratulated
him on striking it rich, but he was quickly corrected. The man, who was
indeed a miner, had come into his money because a foreigner had come into
town and bought up his shack out of the blue. The shack was a ways out of
town where it was nice and quiet, he said.
His body told him to sleep, but his instincts were aroused. Just to satisfy
his natural suspicion, he got directions to the shack and took his horse out
the back road toward the foothills. He came up the path, and the door to
the shack opened and shut suddenly. The lights went out. He kept coming,
and suddenly a shot rang out.
He dismounted and drew a revolver, crouched behind his poor horse for
lack of any other cover. He returned fire twice, and heard a door slam. Very
dimly he made out the shape of a man running madly into the hills, and he
got on his horse and followed.
The chase should have been easy, but the man was uncommonly quick,
even for the terrain, and the Marshal was tired. He gave chase for hours,
over rough and rocky ground, but still his quarry’s pace was unflagging. He
at last could not help but stop, and sleep in his bedroll on pebbly ground
that was at least free of snow.
When he woke, he regained the trail, hoping to catch the man as he
slept. Sure enough, he found a hollow where the ground was still warm, but
he was a little too late. He followed the trail for hours until it got too steep
for his horse. He unloaded it as best he could, and sent it along back the
trail with a note of thanks to whoever found him and took care of him, and
a couple coins payment in advance. He retook the trail on foot.
He was glad to be back on his feet, and he followed the trail with all the
energy he could muster. It had not yet been his longest chase, but it was
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getting close when the trail brought him into a thick mist, and out again
onto an obvious trail. He stopped for a moment when he realized that he
had the urge to take off his coat. The air was warmer, and had been for
some time. He ate some biscuit from his pack, and continued on the trail.
The fear of hallucination caught him when he found himself believing
that the days were getting longer and longer. His whole body ached, and
his stomach knotted from the dry biscuits and the few roots and leaves he
found by the trail. The day stretched on and never seemed to end. The sun
was far behind him, and took a long time to sweep out a wide arc in the
sky.
He began to fear death, when the sun finally sank to the faraway horizon,
and he suddenly came upon the body of a rabbit, already field-dressed. With
not even a thought to poison or other trickery, John started a fire, cooked
and ate the rabbit. The light died slowly, but he could still see miles and
miles to the south.
As he finished the meal, the crag of a twig brought his attention and
the point of his guns to up the trail. A man dressed well in red and black,
dirty and dishevelled but still somehow dignified, took a step toward the
fire. Before John could react, the man unhooked his gun belt and let a pair
of shining black revolvers fall to the dust.
His head swimming, John leapt to his feet. “You’re under arrest for
flight from an officer of Imperial Law.”
The man blinked in disbelief, and burst out laughing. The sharp, barking
sound echoed in the mountains. Before the astonished Marshal could say
another word, the man sat down on a rock by the fire, shaking his head.
“I mean no offense,” he said in perfect, if accented, Imperial, “but I
expected you to name a different charge.” Without invitation, he sampled
the cooked rabbit and nodded with approval. “Not bad. You may sit, I’ve
given myself up.”
John felt a little foolish, and kept his weapon out as he sat. “There may
well be other charges against you, but I don’t know them yet. If you hadn’t
shot at me, I wouldn’t have come after you.”
“I couldn’t risk it,” the other man said with a shrug. He warmed his
hands at the fire, and removed his overcoat. It was a light thing, more suited
to a less hostile winter. Though scuffed and filthy, it looked expensive. He
folded the coat carefully and sat on it. “Getting caught so close to my goal
was unthinkable.”
“Then why’d you give up?”
The man made a face, and asked John to follow him up the trail, promising that there would be no trickery. They went for another half hour or so,
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but it was still light enough to see when he stopped, at the end of a path
overlooking a valley. “We’re far north, it won’t be completely dark until
midnight. An account that I read told me of this effect, but I didn’t believe
it until yesterday, when I saw it happening. Here we are.”
In the valley below, John could make out geometric shapes and lines. As
his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was looking at city streets, long abandoned.
He looked at his bounty with naked surprise.
“Cove. I wept when I saw it. This city was once the pinnacle of civilization, and it took a long time to come to this. You Imperials only dealt
the death blow. Once this city ruled the world. Now?” His voice trailed off,
and he stood silently with his trembling hand in the air, mid-gesture.
“Is there nobody left?”
“They were thorough, it seems. That which I seek does not persist once
life has ended.”
The path down the slope was easier, and the fire was still burning. The
prisoner introduced himself as Andrew von Krieger.
“I expect that my capture will earn you a pretty penny,” he said, smiling
ironically. “I do not envy you the task of dragging my corpse back to what
passes for civilization out here.”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“I’ve taken poison; you have no say in the matter. Don’t worry,” he
added, seeing the look of alarm on John’s face, “The rabbit is untainted.
But I’m afraid that I have no desire to return to an empty and inevitably
short life. Even if they don’t pay you, my guns will go for quite a bit, and
I have some money on me.”
They talked well into the night, about all manner of things. John at
some point dozed off. When he woke, the fire’s embers still glowed and the
sun was up. Andrew von Kriger was dead.
John stripped him of all identification and belongings, then buried his
body under a cairn overlooked the remains of the city. He took the guns
and the papers, and spent a week returning to Rostov. Without the body,
he was denied all but a fraction of the bounty.
Chapter 22
The Battle of the Gates
Dr. Trent did not particularly like train stations. To be more accurate, he
hated them. Crowds, smoke, whistles, and clanging all made his head hurt,
and the price of the fares cost him a month’s meals. He stood in the middle
of the station at Akrostira, feeling a little dazed. Robin came back to him
with their tickets.
“Come on, the train’s leaving in a half hour.” Without waiting for a
reply, Robin took up both his own bag and one of William’s and made for
the platform. William paused a moment, then followed. Robin’s behavior
since coming back late yesterday had been markedly changed. He looked
suddenly much older, and far more determined than anyone he’d ever seen.
Robin had only come back to Ben Vin’s shop to eat and sleep that evening.
The cuffs of his trouser legs were damp and muddy, and his very presence
made people noticeably anxious.
William had not taken the request lightly, to travel immediately to
Kendauer. He was settled in Akrostira, and he felt relatively safe there.
Robin had threatened to use purely illusionary money and tickets, however,
and William eventually agreed to go, and to pay. After withdrawing his
money from the Kendauran bank, he had had to do little else but wait while
his student took care of everything else.
More disturbing was Robin’s abrupt refusal of Ben Vin. He did not want
Ben to go, and his stated reasons were good ones: That there was no reason
to close the shop, that travelling in a larger group would attract more undue
attention, that neither Ben nor William could afford the third ticket. But
William felt as though Robin stated his reasons too quickly, too forcefully.
It made him wonder why he himself was needed, while Ben was not.
He did not wonder long. They boarded the train and even then, Robin
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did not relax. He sat upright in his seat, and William could almost smell
the magical energy exuding from him. He was practicing, but William could
not tell what. After a tense hour, he finally asked.
“What are you doing, Robin?”
“Tracking.”
“Tracking whom?”
“Gregor Adamson and George King.”
William caught his breath. “The Kept Men?”
Robin shot him an odd glance but did not respond. The forests of
Akrostira went by outside the window.
***
The canyons of Ibra not only surrounded and protected Ebberach Nedar,
they were Ebberach Nedar. The three largest gorges comprised the capital
city, linked by tunnels and bridges to each other and to the east. Over the
course of a thousand years, homes and temples and sculptures had been
carved into the red rock of the canyon walls. Standing on the canyon floor,
one could look up and around to see roads and lush gardens and at the
far end of the main canyon, the Duke’s palace, lit up by 117,582 candles in
windows and cracks and alcoves.
Aeons before humans lived in Ibra, geologists say that an Ebron River
carved the canyons out of red sandstone. The rock from which the Duke’s
palace was carved once stood behind a waterfall. The massive Gates which
were the only entrance to the city from the west, stood where the hypothesized river flowed out onto the fertile plains of Pell. The Gates themselves
were bronze, cast in the very place they stood by piling up earth around
carved ceramic slabs, and then smelting the metal right there. Into the
bronze, mythically tall and heroically posed warriors fought, died, contemplated their fates, and loved tall and beautiful women, all cast in the original mold. The technique meant burying the cooled metal while the next
piece above was being poured, and so when it was built, they did not know
whether they had got it right until the entire thing was poured and all the
earth cleared away. According to tradition, it took three tries. Over the
hundreds of years it gained scars and dents from spears and siege weapons.
The Gates stood closed for the first time in seventy years, by order of
the Duke of Ibra. The red stone walls to either side were honeycombed with
passages and windows through which first archers and now sharpshooters
stood watch. On top of the canyon walls, piles of sandbags partially hid a
pair of machine guns and a team of men. Ian Mestrava spent his day like the
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week before it: inspecting the defenses, handpicking guards, and testing the
guns. The Duke had bestowed upon Mestrava the rank of General, which
was an unknown rank in the Ebron Guard. He decided that to fight the
Fengari, they should have a General, like the Fenne Army did. Mestrava
wore a tan uniform with a black sash that made him sweat and feel ill. The
Ebron sun beat down on them all, despite the odd parasols left around for
shade.
Word came on a Wednesday morning from the Duke. The Fenne Emperor had attacked Kendauer, and to honor its pact with Kendauer, Ibra
had declared war on Fengar. Mestrava took his command position within
the honeycomb, and received final assurances from his agents. McCormick
had assembled the handful of hired Trader gunships along the coast. Kepler
had finished organizing the interior defense in the unthinkable event that
Fengar would topple the Gates. Dolohov had both machine guns in working
order, and was supervising the sharpshooters in the opposite canyon wall.
Emperor Wilhelm did nothing, except acknowledge that Fengar and Ibra
were at war. No troops came. The Fenne diplomats were imprisoned. Still,
no troops. Mestrava professed gladness at the de facto peace. Inwardly, he
seethed. Regardless, he would wait.
***
The first days of the war were slow and almost ritualistic. The Fenne
Army invaded to a distance of eighty yards, and occupied only a sliver of
land on the west side of Kendauer, north of the desert-like Ken region, and
very near the Mediter border. Kendauer itself was a particularly sprawling
city, extending for quite a ways on both sides of the Ateke River. Large
bridges connected the two parts on Rivers Avenue and Winsor Avenue. The
many other bridges across the river were for the railroad.
Fortifications had been thrown up around the city and near the Fenne
encampment. Kendauran soldiers in grey uniforms patrolled them, and
manned the artillery pieces. Robin and William saw these along the border
to Depolisti when they crossed into Kendauer from that directions. By the
time they arrived in Kendauer Station, there had been as yet no fighting.
Robin wasted no time on their arrival. He took Rivers Avenue past the
Park, and onto the bridge. There he sat and waited, watching downstream
toward the southeast. William Trent took that time to secure lodging in a
nearly-empty hotel. The first two floors were full of billeted soldiers, and
the rest was almost completely vacant. He put away their luggage, and
washed his face, then went back down to the river. Robin looked tired and
demoralized, but he still kept watch on the water.
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“They used to cross horses here,” he said as William approached. “That’s
why it’s called Kendauer, it means ‘The ford at Ken’. A soldier told me that
when he walked by. He said that because of that, the water here is so shallow that if I jumped into it, I’d probably wash ashore before I drowned, and
that I’d be better off with one of the railroad bridges downstream.”
“Very friendly of him, I’m sure.” William stared at the brown water for
a little while, then stopped. “How can you be sure that they’ll come up this
way?”
“I think it’s how they got to Akrostira in the first place. I think they had
a little boat.” He shrugged and went back to watching. William resigned
himself to fetching dinner for him.
***
Sean Clannon wrapped his robe tightly around his body, shivering even
in the heat of his room. His students had all left after the first step of the
invasion of Kendauer. Many of them, however, had gone east. They said
something about the Emperor deciding to make an example of Ibra.
So he was left alone in his room. He’d discovered that morning that his
movements had been subtly restricted to the wing that he partially occupied,
when he tried to go out into the town. He tried a few times and then gave
up.
His books and papers took up every inch of horizontal space, but he
didn’t have the energy to read them, or pick them up and sort them. The
papers were mostly in his own hand, but he stared at them and found them
incomprehensible. He sipped from a bottle of doctored port, but the amount
was too little. It had no effect on the aches in his bones and his back, or
the itch in his scars. He understood that while it was losing its effect, it was
not losing its danger – too much could still kill him, by sending him into a
fevered sleep from which he’d never wake.
The thought attracted him. He poured himself a full glass of untainted
wine, felt it burn a little on his tongue and throat as he swallowed a trickle.
The coolness of the crystal soothed his scarred hand a little. Looking out the
tiny window, he could see wagons of munitions in Miahl Yard, and military
officers milling about them, doing incomprehensible things with little sheets
of paper. Sean Clannon hated them all, for what they stood for, and for
their freedom.
When he’d had enough wine, he returned to his chair and cleared his
mind. Trapped as he was physically, he was becoming adept at sending his
mind elsewhere, to look for those bright spots that meant magic. These
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were people, always people, because dead things never had magic. He had
tried very hard, but after his own effort to make a thing float or burn or
reshape subsided, the object always cooled off and became a normal object
again, if perhaps bent, dented, or scorched.
Those spots he saw from his chair that persisted were always people.
Those particular spots were George and Gregor. And the spots away to the
east were some of his other students. A trio of spots to the south puzzled
and disturbed him. One was so faint that he sometimes doubted it. The
second burned steadily but low, like an ember. The last was sometimes faint
and sometimes blindingly bright. Was it Robin? He couldn’t tell.
Sean turned his attentions to the east.
***
The invasion of Ibra began before dawn. Runners came back to Mestrava
with news that a force of maybe a thousand men had left Pell at a march.
A single man could walk from Pell to the Gates in about a day, cutting
through forest glades and across small springs. Mestrava and his captains
agreed that the Fengari would not be in a position to attack until at very
least the next morning.
Runners came back all day to apprise them of the army’s progress, and
of better enumerations. Several cannons drawn by draft teams. According
to the runners, they looked a little worn. Mestrava decided that they must
be the ones used in Mediter, and not the newer ones that took a larger shell.
The runners tapered off. One came back wounded by rifle fire, and said
that she’d been seen by a group that splintered off. Mestrava let her back
into the city, though he regretted one more source of information lost.
Night fell with the Fenne Army well within Ibra’s borders. They’d
crossed into the drier, rockier country with no obstacle. All the guard posts
were deserted, and the small villages emptied of both inhabitants and provisions. Mestrava slept in the early evening, exhausted.
He was woken early the next morning, and a cup of hot tea thrust into
his hands. “They’re near,” he was told, and he went immediately to a top
window to see.
All the Ebrons kept back from the windows, and kept them covered with
red paper to conceal themselves. Mestrava had observed for himself that
the paper camouflaged perfectly, seen from the ground. It was common
knowledge that the rockface contained passages, so certain empty rooms
had their windows unmasked. Straw men sat in those windows as decoys,
but the Fengari were yet too far to fire at them.
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As Mestrava watched, several officers met in front of their army. He knew
quite well what they would be discussing – that the Gates were shielded from
artillery by the walls, except if the cannons faced it dead-even. But they
couldn’t do that, because a huge pile of stone in the road forced them to
bring the cannons too close to the walls to be able to shoot head-on. He
smiled to himself, only noticing as a curiosity that these officers bore an
unfamiliar insignia on their uniforms that marked them as neither artillery
nor infantry nor mounted officers, nor even naval.
The officers withdrew into the mass of soldiers. Mestrava glanced over
to a side window, and saw that Dolohov’s command in the other wall was
getting ready to fire. He rushed to the telegraph and tapped out the brief
pattern that ordered a pause. After a few tense minutes, the acknowledgement signal came through, and Mestrava saw the sharpshooters back away
a little.
“Damn it all,” he said to himself, realizing that he’d missed movement
on the ground dealing with that paranoid Northerner. All the Fenne troops
had backed away, and the cannons were pulled up front. The sharpshooter
nearest Mestrava told him that they were too far away to be sure of hitting
anything. Mestrava grumbled, and watched.
Dolohov, in the other fortification, paced angrily. Those officers made
him nervous. He finally stopped walking, and picked a lieutenant.
“Go into the embankments,” he said in slow but understandable Ebron,
“tap every other sharpshooter and send them into the city. Tell them to
take positions and hide well.”
The lieutenant scowled but did as he said. Dolohov returned to his window and watched the artillery pieces face both sides of the Gates. Mestrava
had assured him that other had tried before to blast through the stone, but
that the sandstone was several feet thick in places. Dolohov could see for
himself that the small windows were too small for probably even a cat, and
that the wall was indeed extremely thick, and strengthened inside the room
with iron rods embedded in some type of concrete.
To hell with Mestrava, he decided. “Shoot the cannoniers.” Ten shots
rang out in succession, and three of the five Fengari behind the nearest
artillery pieces fell. The other pieces roared fire, and the whole complex
trembled. Dolohov saw that they’d torn open rooms up on the other wall
that had been well disguised. A twisted rifle fell from a wrecked opening.
Down on the ground, two of the officers stood staring up at the fortifications.
Shots rang out on both sides and from the ground.
A sharpshooter near Dolohov stood to shoot, and fell suddenly, writhing
on the floor. A medic dragged him away, but there was no blood. The man’s
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face was neatly and bloodlessly mashed in.
“Get away from the windows!” he shouted, but the gunfire was already
starting to taper off. He lost his balance for a second when, with a roar, the
floor under him shook. His hand touched the floor and felt heat.
“Back into the city, we’ll fight them off from there!”
Above him he heard the muffled rattle of the machine gun start and
abruptly stop. He tapped out the message to retreat and flew to the side
window. Mestrava’s men were still firing on the Fengari, and a hole had
been blasted open in the side of their wall. Its edges crumbled and glowed
like embers as Fenne soldiers poured through. Dolohov took up a rifle and
picked off a few until he ran out of bullets, and then he followed his troops
down the passage into the city, both revolvers in his hands.
He emerged, blinking furiously, onto a cobbled plateau looking over the
inside gates. His troops had already taken positions overlooking the other
fortification exits. Dolohov slid the left pistol back into its holster and held
his palm over the other.
The first Fenne soldier to come though, he shot. Holding down the
trigger, he fanned the firing arm to kill the next few. Out of bullets, he
switched guns and would have been killed while so doing, except for the
sharpshooter behind him who saw the one crouching in the passage.
Across the gorge, Dolohov saw the Mestrava in his bright uniform leading
a retreat as Fenne soldiers poured out of the fortification from its three
doors on different level streets. He saw one of the Fenne officers scanning
the canyonside, and ducked out of sight.
Running as fast as he could along the road and down the red sandstone
stairs, he led what remained of his sharpshooters to the stone bridge across
the gorge in an attempt to hold it. Confident they could manage it, he
followed the sound of rapid gunfire to where Janus’s troops were holding the
main interior fortification.
He tried to ask for Janus, but wasn’t able to understand the rapid replies.
Sudden shouting and renewed shooting drew Dolohov’s attention to the fact
that the Gates were opening.
The house Janus had commandeered was mostly empty. Only a single
Ebron lay in the corner, bleeding from a bandage on his hand.
“Janus Kepler?” Dolohov asked him, but the soldier told him he didn’t
know. “Ian Mestrava?” Again, he didn’t know. “Neil McCormick?” he
asked out of sheer desperation. The man’s eyes brightened and he started
rambling, but his words were too slurred together for Dolohov to understand.
Instead he dragged the man to his feet and slung the man’s arm around his
shoulder to support him.
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“Just point!” The two stumbled out the building and through the
burned-out wreckage of another and into the main thoroughfare. At the very
end, near the palace, a mass of people crowded through the east gate to the
road that led to Montgomery and eventually the coast. Dolohov grabbed
a captain and ordered him to take the wounded man and his company to
protect the fleeing Ebrons.
Toward the Gates, he saw that the Fengari had completely taken over
the fortifications and, worse, the machine gun positions. Dolohov looked
around him, and saw a handful of good defensive positions along the wall of
the canyon. As he ran toward them, he grabbed confused-looking soldiers
and dragged them along with him, but they were deserting in terror and
confusion as fast as he could give orders. All along the main road into
Ebberach Nedar soldiers ran and fell. Barely two hours after Fengar started
its assault, the Ebrons were in rout.
Dolohov still only barely understood what was happening, but when he
ran out of bullets in his left gun, he swapped the cylinders for pre-loaded
ones, and went along with the retreat.
***
Robin’s mood turned foul when Kendauran soldiers cleared him off the
bridge and made him go back to his hotel. William only barely restrained
him from attacking them outright. They sat in the lobby of their hotel,
watching the sudden activity. The news there was doubly grim: The Duke
of Ibra had surrendered Ebberach Nedar after an absurdly short battle.
Immediately after that news had arrived, the first warships appeared on the
Ateke River, demanding passage to the Free States. Robin had seen the
Kendaurans lowering steel grates into the water long before that, but only
now did it make any sense.
The Fengari had given Kendauer the night to make their decision. Free
passage via the Ateke River, and the right to search trains going into the
Free States. Nobody in the lobby believed that either Eliot Winsor or the
City Council would agree to either of the terms. Robin finally went back to
the room William had gotten, and fell asleep almost the moment his head
hit the pillow.
He dreamed that night, a similar dream to the one both of the two nights
before. He stood in a circle of light in an otherwise dark room. It was a
long time before he felt the presence of another, and when he did, he was
compelled to kneel. He and the presence conversed for a long time, and
Robin practiced his abilities, honed them. The presence left him with the
instruction only to come north and finish his education.
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Robin did not wake then as he had before. He found himself standing
before a man dressed in red and black, holding out a rose in one hand, and
a gun in the other. Robin looked around and felt wrong, out of place. He
took the gun without realizing it, and the man shed a tear. Robin looked
again, and the man was again holding out a rose and a gun. He again took
the gun, so that he now had a pair. This time the man smiled, and Robin
awoke. He was wet with perspiration, and it was still dark.
He dressed quickly and woke Dr. Trent.
“What is it, Robin? Is something wrong?”
“We have to go north. I can’t do anything here.”
“What on earth are you talking about? We can’t go to Fengar, surely.”
Robin shook his head violently. “Not Fengar. The Northern Territory.
We have to go to Cove.”
William Trent sat up in bed with a blank look on his face, and began to
get dressed. Robin got his own things and found Dr. Trent sitting on the
bed, smoking his pipe.
“We’re not going north, Robin. There’s nothing there anymore but
dreams and dust.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Cove was destroyed, Robin, there is nobody left. The Imperium investigated it when they invaded the Northern Territories, and found nothing.
Nobody was alive there, and without life, there is no magic.”
“What are you saying?”
“That we go west instead, to the Imperium. This continent,” he shook
his head sadly and fell silent for a moment. “The people here want nothing
else but war and power. It’s time that we left it. We can sail from one of the
western ports, and be in Rivos in a few weeks. Less if you feel like providing
favorable weather. Don’t look at me like that. I know you were staving off
the rain yesterday to keep yourself dry on the bridge. I don’t know where
you learned, but you were certainly doing it.”
“You lied about your father’s company, didn’t you? You didn’t go to
work for him, you went to work for the Emperor.”
“I did work for my father at first, but yes, I did.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because Ben wasn’t permitted to know. He thinks that he was the only
one of us asked by the Emperor to watch von Krieger, and he thinks that
it was his information that von Kriger went north that got him killed. It’s
not true, but he thinks that.”
“Would you have me killed, too, if I went north?”
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Trent sighed. “Of course not. I told you, there’s nothing there. They
would not have killed von Krieger either except for the bounty that Paladin
Norman placed on his head. Cove is dead, Robin. If you want to learn
magic, then go to the Imperium, to the Eternal King.”
Robin hadn’t heard the ruler of the Imperium called that outside storybooks. “Why didn’t you tell me to do that before?”
Trent did not answer.
“Goodbye, Dr. Trent.”
Then he was gone.
***
Janus Kepler directed the retreat from Ebberach Nedar, because Ian
Mestrava was in no shape to. Physically, he was healthy. He had all his
limbs intact, both eyes working, and he could eat and breathe like any
healthy man. But he did not bathe. His hair was unkempt, his moustaches
untrimmed. Since the defeat two days before, he had barely said a word or
eaten anything.
The Fengari occupied the capital and tried to prevent people from leaving
to the coast, but failed utterly. Their commanders simply had no understanding of the extent of the tunneling between Ebberach, Montgomery, and
the other small towns up and down the canyons and the coast. Some willingly stayed and did business with the Fenne Army. Most had either slipped
away, or planned to soon. The commander given charge of the city was a
short pug-faced man who sweat too much. He either didn’t know about the
absenses, or didn’t care. He lived in the palace and was distraught to find
its treasuries nearly empty.
The Duke stayed only long enough to tender his surrender, then was
allowed to leave for his residence in Montgomery. The mood was predictably
sour, but with the satisfaction at least that the war in Kendauer was going
badly for Fengar, and that Eliot Winsor had vowed to die rather than allow
one single Fengari soldier in his city.
Chapter 23
North
When Robin got off the train, he had only the clothes on his back, the money
in his pocket and his ticket, the executive pass given him by Eliot Winsor,
slightly altered. He bought a news-sheet from a stand and read about the
stalemate in Kendauer. It made him glad that the Fenne Army had not
pierced their defenses. He himself slipped through with no difficulty.
His kept his stay in Mediter brief. No ship in Bien was going north,
for any price. One warehouse manager suggested that he try the whaling
vessels, or one of the clipper ships that sometimes come through. Geoffrey
Ducheval recognized him when he called, and issued him a Mediter passport.
There was no word from Cassia Shaw.
He chose the port at Mason-on-the-Sea because Ben Vin had told him
that he’d lived there once, because Captain de Mediter had retired there,
and because the train stopped nearby. The train, in fact, let him off some
distance outside the town, but a man with an empty wagon let him ride in.
The de Mediter house was easy enough to find, it was one of very few
on its street. Remembering Marie, Robin sat opposite the house on a bench
and read his newsheet, partly disguised. She left the house shortly after
lunch with a wicker shopping basket, and when she’d gotten out of sight, he
knocked on the door.
Ari de Mediter answered the door himself, with a dawning smile at the
sight of Robin, who he invited in.
“Your timing is very good. Please, sit down anywhere. I was at the
temple all morning, and I just finished lunch. My wife just left to arrange
dinner. How are you? You look so different.”
Robin sat and nodded as Ari spoke. He looked different too, wearing an
old house vest, and with his hair grown out a little. Tiny crows feet were
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beginning to form whenever he smiled.
“I worked for a blacksmith a little while, then an antiques dealer. I’ve
been outside a lot, in the sun.”
Ari smiled widely. “I’m very glad to hear that. Before I forget, I have
something for you.” He went to the desk in the room, and rummaged in
the drawer until he came up with a familiar brown pouch. He handed it to
Robin.
“My satchel! Where did you get it? How?”
“A gentleman from the railroad brought it to me a few months ago. He
found my name in the book I gave you.” Robin blushed brightly. “There’s
no harm done. There are things in that satchel that you would have not
parted with except in dire need. I thought about taking back the book, but
if you want it still, you may have it.”
“Yes, please.” His mouth was suddenly dry. “I’d like it very much.”
“It’s still inside. I’m glad to give it away. I used to think that I would
give it one day to my son, but he and I have little to do with each other. In
any case, I’ve started another.”
“You have a son?”
“Yes, his name’s Peter. He’s about ten years older than you, I think.
Very smart boy, but hard to satisfy. After his mother died, I married Marie,
who is much younger than I am. He disapproved, and we argued.” Ari
shrugged and smiled a little. “I did not finish my transcription until well
after that. I offered it to him, and he told me that he had bought a very
expensive copy.”
They fell silent for a while.
“You have an impatient air to you, Robin. You didn’t come here just to
see me, did you?”
“I came here in particular to see you. I came to the north coast to take
a ship.”
“Bien is better for that. You’ll get far better fares.”
“I need to go to the Northern Territories.”
Ari considered that. “I’m not going to ask you why. I don’t even know
what’s there that might interest you. But I know that the gods will protect
you.”
“I hope so. If I’m right, I may be able to help stop Fengar’s expansion.”
Ari frowned. “There’s a passage in that book that you should read,
Robin. It says, ‘Beware the instinct to seek power. It belies wrong assumptions about the nature of power.’ I’ve thought a lot about that passage since
I retired; maybe you should too.”
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The conversation turned to lighter things, such as the upcoming festival,
and goings-on in the city. Robin left before Marie returned, feeling very
glad.
It did not take long for Robin to find a ship going north. Every commercial vessel was applying for permission to dock at Rostov and purchase
guns, wheat, or even cobalt. Saltpetre importing had gone sour, one captain
explained to Robin, after they found a giant limestone cave in the hills near
Mediter. So, everyone who had relied on that was looking either at more
expensive armaments for import, or at other things. Robin secured passage
with a smaller ship whose captain was looking to take passengers to finance
his trip.
The ship, named the Small Gifts, was a compact, all-wood vessel with
very little living space. It was not rigged for a long voyage; the captain
said that he was used to making runs to Madras and back. The trip to
Rostov was not much longer, but considerably rougher. This trip would be
only his third. The profits were much higher, though, and he wanted to do
these trips once every couple months. By his calculations, in a three month
period, he could make two trips to Rostov, three to Madras, and spend a
week in Mason-on-the-Sea while his ship had any repairs made. He said he’d
rather spend it in Madras with all the pretty girls, but he couldn’t afford
the harbor fees for a week. Nor, he grinned, could he afford the girls.
They set sail the next morning, the captain allowing Robin to sleep in
his small warehouse for just that night and for a few extra coins. Robin
wrapped himself in a shawl he bought in Mediter and watched as the port
drifted away and into the mist. The town, he decided, was just another
town. Chilly, smaller than most, and smelling of fish. But just another
town.
***
“It’s not over until I say it’s over,” Gregor heard behind him, muttered
through clenched teeth. He understood this to mean that he would not be
getting an early dinner today.
The Emperor smiled magnanimously as he dismissed the Ebron Ambassador and his retinue. Ebberach Nedar would not right now be returned
to the Duke of Ibra, but full and free access to Ebron ports up and down
the coast from Montgomery would certainly not prevent such a thing from
ever occurring. This was not what George King detested. He in fact was
delighted to hear it. The decision to offer an olive branch to Eliot Winsor,
however, was intolerable. He had been yanked out of Mediter, swept out of
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Shiroje, and he had still not stopped brooding over the events in Akrostira.
Gregor understood what was going to happen, and decided to just stay and
watch.
George’s timing was not perfect, but still remarkably good. The Emperor
had just turned toward them to, evidently, ask them to leave with everyone
else, when the great doors slammed by themselves. Wilhelm stared at them
and swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to most likely order them opened
again.
“We must be going after the Imperium. That’s the only thing that I can
think of to make you pull out of Kendauer. I mean, it would be ridiculous
for them to win, right? For us to leave them alone before the magic guys
even get there. Right?”
Gregor looked at the Emperor, who stared at George for a moment, and
he honestly believed for just that moment that it would happen differently.
But that, he decided years later, was impossible: The Emperor had been a
lawyer, once, after all.
“But we’ve won, Mr. King. We have what we want. There’s no need to
invade the Free States now that we have full access to Ibra’s ports. The Imperium can’t possibly cut us off without starving the Ebrons as well. We’re
perfectly safe from their machinations, and it behooves us to be economical
about our actions now.”
Gregor stepped away, and from where he stood made sure that the back
curtains would not open, behind which the Emperor’s guard waited. No
sense letting the show be interrupted.
“That’s not the point,” George finally hissed after searching for a reply for much too long. “Who cares about economical? Once you’ve got
Kendauer, you’ve got all the economical you need.”
Gregor felt the guards push against the curtains. He pushed back, and
George continued.
“Besides, why the hell should we be so worried about the Imperium?
We’ve seen what we can do in Ibra, why not the Trader Coast?”
“We have access to the Trader Coast –”
“Fuck access, I want to own the Trader Coast. Then we can cut off
Mediter and Akrostira and whoever else we want to. Right now, the Imperium runs the world. That should be what we’re doing.”
The Emperor sat down. George got calm and deliberate as he spoke,
and George was never calm or deliberate.
“But when I say we, Emperor, I don’t mean you. You’ve ruined this from
the beginning. Pulling out of Mediter, pulling out of Etheora. You don’t
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want a fight, you want a boxing match. There’s no gong now, Emperor, no
Marquis of Queensbury. Just me.”
On a whim, Gregor let the two guards out from behind their curtains
just as the Emperor hit the floor, to see George sitting in his gilded chair.
He would be wondering just now what the hell he had done. It was just like
him to leave his partner to do the clean-up work.
“My, my, you’re not very good at your jobs, are you?” He deflected the
two bullets shot with a theatrical wave of his hand. That was a trick he had
not neglected to study. “Well, that should bring a few people running. It’s
up to you, then. A few bodyguards might come in handy for us in a minute,
but we can certainly make do without you.”
They were terrified, and panicking. George, in Wilhelm’s chair, was also
terrified and panicking, though thank the Gods he was doing it quietly. The
guards took positions to either side of his partner, and Gregor was by then
beginning to see all manner of possibilities. His autobiography, at the very
least, had just gotten vastly more interesting.
***
Robin was sick through much of the trip. The water from the casks
was brackish, and the food got steadily worse as the sea got more and more
choppy. Eventually a sailor advised him to stay below decks and try to sleep
away the trip. Only after eliciting promises to wake him for meals and on
their approach to Rostov did he finally agree to take to his bunk.
They did as they promised, and Robin saw that Rostov was very pretty
from the sea. The foothills of a faraway mountain range loomed above its
peaked, snowy roofs. A great plume of smoke hung over the city, supported
on pillars coming from the homes and a few brick buildings over to the right
of where Robin stood.
As he’d been warned, the ship was searched thoroughly by Imperial
harbourmasters. They found two unopened bottles of Mediterran wine, and
charged the captain some small amount for each. Robin’s personal effects
were examined, but on holding his satchel out to them, he made sure that
they saw only the book, and not the remains of the jewelry from Mediter.
That would not do, he had decided.
They let him go ashore, but seemed to think that his papers were questionable. They were in fact not merely questionable, they were forgeries,
made in Mediter by someone Robin had long known who had done the work
for only three quarters its usual price. His rough Imperial allowed him to
get by with only a minimum of kindly and not-so-kindly correction. He soon
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learned to speak only to the old and the young, who were glad to point him
in the right direction, while the fat, pasty, middle-aged buisinessmen and
mothers seemed irritated by his very existence.
He found a small bank that was willing to exchange his money, taking
ten percent. Robin didn’t care, and even smiled at the banker before he
left. With his new money, he bought a heavy, warm coat, good boots, and
all manner of dried food, from dense biscuits to fruit to salted fish. The fish
smelled unfamiliar, but nibbling on a corner, he didn’t find it unpleasant.
Finding a map took a bit more time. It wasn’t a matter that they didn’t
have maps, but that the maps didn’t include the mountains. He wandered
the streets, on bricks that seemed to be mortared with ice and snow, through
tiny avenues under wide eaves that dripped ice-cold water onto the back of
his neck. In one of the streets was a small shop that smelled of coal smoke.
The floor was covered in muddy footprints and broken rocks. On one wall
was a huge map of the Northern Plains framed behind glass. Robin got up
close to see all the faint lines and paths through the hills.
“My grand-dad did that,” a gruff voice said behind him, speaking heavily
accented Imperial. A barrel-chested man leaned on the counter, supporting
himself with a massive hairy arm.
“It is very nice,” Robin replied. He could understand a bit more Imperial
than he could speak, but he’d done well so far. “Do you sell maps like it?”
“No, no, we’re not supposed to do that except to the miners, who have
to get a license.”
Robin turned over the man’s words in his head until he was sure he
understood. “Would it be all right if I made a copy of it?” He made a
writing motion on his palm to make himself clearer.
The man considered that, and scratched his week-old beard. “I don’t
see why not. Especially to a paying customer, you know.”
Robin bought an old canvas pack, with straps to hold it secure to his
coat, and both paper and a pencil to write with. The man dragged out an
old table with a cracked leg, and Robin sat at it to draw.
He did not so much draw as he did drag his pencil along while carefully
blackening the paper according to what he saw. He could have gone faster
if he didn’t have to pretend to be drawing everything by hand, but he was
in no hurry. They made some small conversation as he drew, limited by
Robin’s ability to concentrate. No, he wasn’t from the Trader Cities, he was
from Mediter. Yes, he used to live in Mediter City. No, he’d never been to
Rostov before. It was good practice, but it slowed him down.
After a while, the owner wandered away, and Robin sped up as much as
he could. The copy wasn’t perfect, but combined with a map of the coast,
309
he was pretty sure he could get to that blank space at the top, marked
“Dangerous” and “Only Fools Tread Here”.
When he finished, he looked at what he’d drawn and picked a town
nearby to the northwest. The road leading north went straight for the
mountains, and he decided that from there he could climb. He pointed out
the town to the owner when he reappeared, and asked how to get there.
“Vespin? There’s a train goes there every morning. It’s not that far
a walk, though, especially after they put the new road in a couple years
back. Take you three, maybe four hours, they way you’re loaded down.” He
helped Robin roll up his map, then looked in surprise at the table. “Soft
wood,” he remarked, running his fingers over the near-perfect impression of
the map in the tabletop.
Robin apologised profusely, but the owner wouldn’t hear it. He’d been
planning to chop it up for kindling anyway, and now it was kind of nicelooking.
Robin left the shop and followed the handful of directions to Vespin
Road. The snow by the side was crusted-over and crunched as he walked
through it. It was fun, but tiring. When he was sure that nobody else was
on the road, he levitated himself over the snow, and travelled that way for
a little while. It wasn’t a bad way to go, really. It gave his legs and knees
a time to rest, and made the time go by faster since he had something to
concentrate on.
As it got dark, it got cold very fast. There were no passengers on the
road, so he made it to Vespin before the sun set. Just off the road he saw
the railroad platform, stacked high with snow-dusted crates and canvas bags.
Further along the road, the town crowded around a wide circle, with cobbled
streets radiating outward in various directions. In the center of the square
stood a tall black stone on a pedestal. Robin squatted down in front of it
and brushed the snow off its plaque, which was turning green with patina.
“In Memory of Marshal John Dolohov, shot and killed on this spot” and
then a date seven years ago.
There was a tavern and inn near the circle. He couldn’t read the name,
but the lights were on and people were talking and carrying on. Inside, he
shook the bits of snow and gravel from his boots, and put down his sack.
The main room wasn’t particularly large, but it was fairly full for the size.
A pair of large revolvers hung on the opposite wall, gleaming and almost
blue in the light. There was a short wooden bar underneath them, and the
barmaid stood where she could grab a gun at any need. She had long black
hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail. She was young still, but Robin could
see as he approached that she wore a wedding ring.
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“What’ll you have, kid?” she asked when he got to the bar. She laid
down her cards so that the two men across the bar from her couldn’t see.
“A room for the night, please.”
She turned around and looked at the row of pegs on the wall, then
handed him a key from one of them. “That’s fifteen marks. I’ll give you ten
back if you don’t wreck the room.”
Robin paid her most of what was left of his money. Still not very tired,
he sat at the bar and watched their card game.
“You want a drink?”
“Oh, no thank you,” he said. It had taken him a moment to decipher
what she’d asked. “ I’m trying to save money.”
She shrugged. “Comes with the room. Try this.” She put a small glass
on the counter, then poured a clear liquid from an unmarked bottle. “Go
ahead. It might burn a little, but it won’t kill you.”
Robin realized that the other men in the bar were watching him. He
picked up the glass and sniffed it. It smelled like the stuff that came out of
Dane’s still. He decided to have a little fun.
He smiled at her, took off his coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
Picking up the glass with one hand, he flicked it with the other and the
liquid burst into flame. He gave it a second to let some of the alcohol burn
off, then extinguished and drank it down at the same time. He coughed and
spluttered anyway, and suddenly everyone laughed and applauded.
“Cute, kid. Good trick.” She went back to her card game, and Robin
went back to watching her. After a while, he went up and found his room.
It wasn’t big, but the bed was comfortable.
He drifted off to sleep after a long while. He felt nervous and excited,
so far from any place he’d ever called home. Only the thought of somehow
learning to stop Fengar kept him going, and the fear of meeting George and
Gregor and losing.
That night, he dreamed again of standing in a dark room in a circle of
light, as he had the nights on the ship. The voice never came, though. He
just talked to himself, and practiced on his own. When he woke, he felt
better rested than he’d been in a long time.
In the morning, he got dressed and went downstairs. The woman who
ran the place was already up and sweeping the floor.
“Hold on,” she said when he came down. “Let me look at your room,
and I’ll give you what’s coming to you.” She went up the stairs, leaving
Robin to wait. He looked out at the monument in the center of town, and
when she came back down, he asked her about it.
311
“Old John? He used to be a Marshal. His son got married seven years
back, and a friend of his came to our wedding looking for a fight. Dreiya had
already left by then, so he picked a fight with John. John had been drinking,
and he lost. So we buried him there. We – ” She stopped a moment, and
stared at the monument. “We told him that it was a heart attack. I don’t
know who told him the truth, but Dreiya left after the funeral to get his
revenge, and never came back.”
“Dreiya. Andrew?”
She looked at him. “Andrei. They called him Andrew in Rostov, but
his name was Andrei.” Robin wanted to ask her more, but the look on her
face made him think twice about that. The thought that Andrew Dolohov
had a father was very odd to him.
“I knew an Andrew Dolohov, not too long ago. In Mediter.”
“Really. How is he?”
“Good, I think. It’s hard to tell with him.”
“He was always like that.” Her expression softened. “I wouldn’t mind
seeing him again, if you happen to talk to him.”
“Sure.”
Talya watched him go, and felt a tightness in her chest. She twisted her
ring a little and wondered why she still kept it on. Her morning routine kept
her busy enough. Cleaning the bar, making the beds, washing the mugs and
glasses. She broke two in her distraction, and in the afternoon she went to
her own room, behind the kitchen. It had been Andrei’s when he was a boy.
She took the locked box out from under her bed and opened it.
Two slips fell out, and she put them back quickly. She stared at the
contents, mostly Imperial Marks, bundled in the envelopes in which the
Naval Post had given them to her. She’d opened each one and upon finding
no letter, closed them again and put them in the box. The last letter was
dated three years ago, but every three months came a new envelope with
more money. More damned money.
***
Gregor sent off the last of the emergency proclamations for the night.
In the name of public safety, all firearms must be registered with the local
military. No weapon with a rifled barrel was allowed, nor pistols that shot
more than once between reloads. By the time people realized that the Emperor was dead, most of the population would be effectively disarmed. The
weapons that they were permitted to keep – indeed, Gregor stressed that
they had the right to keep them – were so antiquated as to be more or less
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useless against the military. And the military, thanks to Warren ban Iris,
was firmly on his side so long as he favored Madras and continued the war
against Kendauer.
He looked around the throne room. General ban Iris had left some time
ago, but the smell of his incense lingered on the air. Gregor had decided that
the Paladin would ultimately accept the aneurism theory. The guards had
attested to it, as had the surgeon, after some convincing. Now, the sister
would be another story. She was in Madras, however, and George would be
going there soon to oversee the construction of the new fleet.
Since the Ateke River ships were doing well in Kendauer – that is to
say, they had not yet been sunk, despite a distinct lack of progress – Gregor
believed that George saw no problems in being sent to Madras. After all,
he was the one who wanted to invade the Imperium.
Such an invasion would never happen, of course. Gregor had already
drafted his letter to the Imperium’s Ambassador, offering among other
things to eliminate George King and his navy in exchange for certain concessions and an agreement to recognise Fenne ascendancy over this continent.
In the meantime, he sent certain letters to the Governor’s mansion in
Pell, granting him land in Ibra, and reminding him to be ready for a review.
Gregor considered writing ‘personal review’ but decided to leave it vague.
After all, a new emperor had to be careful when people did not know yet
that he was their ruler.
***
Robin’s progress got slower and slower as he travelled north. Cold winds
tore at his coat and made his legs hurt as he walked. Even relying heavily
on his levitation, he still got tired fast, and didn’t travel far in a day.
Getting into the mountains helped him a bit. The trees and rocks
shielded him from most of the winds, and allowed him to keep a better
pace. As he had in the foothills and the plain, he slept wrapped up in a roll
of wool felt that he’d bought in Vespin. After a few days, it was filthy with
bits of leaf and twig and tiny pebbles. Still, it was warm, and stayed warm
all through the night, when Robin couldn’t concentrate and keep himself
warm.
He melted snow for his water, and ate sparingly from his store. He had
no idea which of the plants that he saw could be eaten, and had no particular
urge to experiment. He’d gone entirely without food more times than he
wanted to think about. By levitating, he could travel further during the
day. By brewing and drinking weak tea he could stave off hunger pains. He
was fine.
313
The pulling feeling that he’d had in Akrostira had developed into a
palpable sensation. Anticipation gripped him so that he had trouble falling
asleep, and so that he sometimes stumbled from the quick pace he kept.
The wall of mist was exactly as described. Cold and dry on one side,
warm and moist on the other. He walked back down through it again, and
shivered violently because of the faint damp on his skin. Only by chance
did he look at the ground, and on a rock saw flakes of red. He rubbed some
onto his fingers and smelled. Paint. Just like he’d seen in the islands of
Akrostira Harbor. Robin knew that the cold dry weather would preserve it
better than the wet weather in the south, but he had no idea how old that
might make it.
He pressed on, eager to at least see Cove before nightfall. He saw animal
tracks once or twice, and the vegetation became greener and more common
as he walked. At least three hours further, he took off his coat. The anticipation gnawed at him until he finally left the ground entirely and flew
up the path. He didn’t exhaust himself as he expected; rather, the closer
he got the clearer his mind became, and the fresher he felt. He flew faster,
faster even than he could run, and still did not tire.
The thrilling sensation of sudden fear brought him to a halt at the top
of the ridge. The ground fell away sharply in front of him, into a steep
ravine. On the other side was yet another ridge, and facing him on its
slope was a mess of masonry. Robin looked around on his side, and found
a corresponding pile of stone – the remains of a kind of bridge. He took a
deep breath and flew across. He clung to the rock on the other side for a
moment, trying not to look down as stones slipped out from under his feet
and rattled all the way down the steep slope.
All the fatigue came back to him at once, as though he’d been running for
miles. He found that the ridge actually had a wide flat area that ran along
its length, and he decided that it must have been a road. He cleared the
rocks from a part of the road, spread out his felt, and went to sleep there.
He thought, as he drifted off, that the stars overhead were very different
from the ones back home.
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Chapter 24
History III
It was tough for a Marshal to keep up a family, and John Dolohov was out
in the territories more often than he was home in Rostov. He missed the
cholera entirely, didn’t even hear about it until it was mostly gone. By
then his wife and older son Alexander had both died of it. His younger son,
Andrew, had been lucky. He never got sick, and was too young to really
understand what happened to Mama and Alexei.
Aglaia, his mother, had come to Rostov as soon as she heard that Marya
had taken ill, and had been there for the boys when she died. She and
Andrew both wore black when John came home. She told him straight out
what had happened, and told him that Andrew would have to come back
with her to Vespin, because she wouldn’t live in Rostov any longer than
she had to. She never blamed him for being away, though he often blamed
himself.
He hired them a carriage, and sold off whatever they couldn’t pack, and
he was back in the territories in a week. It was another month before he
wept for his wife and child, alone in the upstairs room of a tavern, when he
came upon her picture in a tiny gold locket. His pistols each had a small
hollow in the grip for a cleaning cloth or spare bullet; she must have put
it there one day when he was home. He wore it around his neck for a few
days, but finally put it back in the pistol because he didn’t know what else
to do with it.
He visited occasionally, but didn’t stay long, and stayed away longer and
longer between successive visits. His mother ran a quiet tavern now, and
he felt like he was in the way. He stopped visiting, and for two years he
never returned to Vespin. He sent money and wrote short letters to his son,
who he didn’t really know. Alexander had been more like John at that age
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outgoing, clever, mischievous. He didn’t know how to handle this quiet,
skinny kid who never got into trouble, didn’t know how to talk to him.
At the end of the two years, he and four other Marshals were caught in
an ambush while tracking a couple of horse thieves. One of the Marshals
was killed, John was shot in the leg, and nearly lost it. He lay in a bed in
Rostov for a week, and when he could walk again, with a bad limp, they
paid him a lot of money to turn in his badge. He wasn’t the kind to drink
it, but he bought a few rounds for the other Marshals, and when he was
into his cups, a fellow from Vespin came up to him and told him that they’d
been a year without a Sheriff, and he could have the job if he wanted it. He
didn’t, but he said he did.
The next morning, he got on his horse and rode home to Vespin, where
a crowd of people gathered to see the hero come home. John was hung over
and wanted none of it, but he smiled and thanked them and pulled little
Andrew up in the saddle with him to ride to the jail, where a couple of men
from town were waiting to give him a new badge and the keys to the cell.
It took him a couple days to fix up the jail the way he liked it. The whole
place had to be swept out, and a couple drafts had to be plugged, and a
family of mice had to be evicted from one of the two cells, but he enjoyed
the work, and his son helped when he wasn’t needed in the tavern to sweep
those floors or clean up after the miners who came to drink.
Pretty soon, he found a good routine. He got up before dawn to do
chores for his mother, like chop wood for the fire or haul barrels of beer. He
had a nice big breakfast, fed anyone in the cells, took a slow walk around
town, sat at the jail for an hour or so to rest his leg and read anything wired
in from Rostov, then took another walk around town before heading back to
the tavern for an early dinner. Sometimes Marshals would come through on
their way north, to stop and talk to the famous Iron John, and occasionally
put someone in his jail for safe keeping for a couple days. As the years went
by, he recognised fewer Marshals, and they had less and less to say to each
other. His jail stayed empty except for the occasional drunk, and he never
had to hang anyone.
Andrew didn’t talk to his father much, his grandmother worked him
pretty hard, and he liked to play with his friends when he wasn’t working.
His father caught him one day playing marshals and bandits with sticks,
yelling “bang! bang!” at each other. He watched them for a long time, deep
in thought, and brought Andrew back to the jail with him.
“I see you play the lawman at least,” he said, smiling a little. Andrew
was still afraid he was in trouble, and just nodded. “I’ve been thinking it’s
about time I taught you to shoot.”
317
The boy’s eyes widened as big as eggs, but he still just sat there. John
continued, “But before I do, I want to talk to you a bit. Sit down.” There
were only three chairs in the jail, rickety things that didn’t seem like they’d
take much weight. He dragged one over to the window, where his father was
leaning against the wall and watching him.
“I’ve got an old rifle I’ll let you use. It still shoots pretty well, and you
can use it to hunt squirrels once you’re good with it.” He paused, not sure
how to approach the subject he needed to bring up. “We need to talk first,
though. I know you listen to the stories the boys get me telling some nights,
I’ve seen you hiding up the stairs. I won’t tell your grandmother, but it’s
important that you not get the wrong ideas about me.
“It wasn’t the guns that made me important, son, it was the badge.
Same as now, and it’s the badge that good people respect. It means I’m
there to protect them. I’ve killed men doing it, and I was never proud of
it. I know it’s a lot of fun to go yelling ‘bang, bang’ and falling down, but
that’s not how it is in a fight. You’re not trying to kill, you’re trying to
take people out of the fight. The best way to take a man out of a fight is
to hit him in the leg, like they did to me. If he’s got any sense, he’ll know
he can live if he plays his cards right, and he’ll be good. You can go for the
head, but it’s a tiny target and there’s enough bone there to stop a bullet
if it comes to that. Hit a man in the chest, and you don’t even knock him
down. Some of the time he keeps coming at you. He knows he’s gonna die
so he doesn’t care what comes next. It takes a couple more bullets to take
him down sometimes, a couple in the chest, maybe one in the head if he gets
close.” John watched out the window, some kids were kicking a can down
the street. “Half the time he goes down wheezing and puking and coughing
up blood and he’ll beg you to finish him. It’s not a game, it’s sad, and a
little pathetic.
“I’ll still teach you to shoot, if you want, but not to be like me. When
you’re older, I’m going to send you to the school in Rostov, the one I went
to. I don’t know if I can get you into college, but I’m going to try. You’re
not going to be a Marshal, or a Sheriff, and you’re sure as hell excuse me,
please don’t tell your grandmother – you’re sure not going into the Navy.
You understand?”
Andrew nodded as fast as he could. The two went out back, and John
showed him how the rifle worked.
Shooting became just another part of John’s routine. Every couple days,
they’d go out back of the jail and he’d watch Andrew shoot the rifle at a
couple old paper targets, or at bottles or cans. John piled up a couple hay
bales that had gone to mold, and every week or so he’d move them a few
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paces back. Andrew was a naturally good aim, and he made a good hunter
too. He was quiet and patient and could keep very still. Pretty soon he
started taking a couple squirrels a month, sometimes a rabbit or two, and a
few times even deer.
Andrew stopped playing games with most of the other kids as he got
older. He never played marshals and bandits again after their talk, but he
lost patience with the other games too. After a while, only two of his old
friends still came around the tavern or the jail to find him, the telegrapher’s
son Paul, and the brewer’s daughter, Natalya, who sometimes worked in
the tavern for a few extra coins. They’d come while he was practicing his
aim, and watch for a while, then they’d go off into the woods or somewhere
else. They weren’t any trouble, though they often missed dinner and forgot
chores, especially when there was enough snow on the ground to build their
forts and snowmen.
One spring when Andrew was a bit older and almost ready for school,
he came to John with a request. “Papa, would it be all right if you taught
me to shoot your pistol?”
John regarded the request carefully. “That’s a little harder for me to
do. Letting you use the rifle to hunt is one thing, but revolvers are a very
different weapon. You can’t hunt with them and they’re not much good for
target shooting. Why do you want to shoot them?”
He thought he knew the answer, of course. The guns were fascinating
to all the kids in town, and it’d make him quite popular to be able to shoot
them, both here and when he got to school in Rostov that fall. Instead,
Andrew shrugged. “The rifle’s too slow to reload, I’m never going to get
good with it if it takes me ten minutes just to shoot a couple bottles. Besides,
I talked to Gennady Nikoleivitch who runs the store, and he said that the
revolver bullets would be cheaper than the rifle bullets, and that way I could
shoot more without doing more chores.” He trailed off at the end, having
said a little more than he intended to.
John laughed. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll let you use one of my pistols,
but only when I’m here, and only on the condition that you clean both
guns for me afterward.” With that, he left his Out Back Shooting note on
the jailhouse door and took the boy outside. He set up a couple cans and
handed Andrew the big steel revolver. He was still small for his age, and the
gun was a little too big, but he wrapped both hands around the handle and
pulled the trigger. The recoil surprised him, and he missed wildly. John let
him shoot the other five rounds in the cylinder, and he did so in too quick a
succession, not steadying enough in between shots. Andrew did manage to
knock off one of the cans, which surprised his father, who had expected him
319
to not hit anything and to tire of it quickly. John aimed the other pistol
and knocked off the other cans slowly and methodically, one shot apiece.
They shot the pistols a few times together. Andrew did reasonably well,
but just couldn’t manage the big thick guns with his small hands, and finally
had to give up. Something nagged at John’s memory for a few days after
that, and at dinner one night he finally remembered. He went up to his
room and went to a trunk that he never opened anymore. It held a lot of
things that he didn’t like to think about, with Marya’s wedding dress right
on top. He lifted it gingerly, moving his thumbs to feel the soft fabric and
the lace, remembering, and laid it out on the bed. It took him hours to dig
through the trunk, he stopped and reminisced about the different things he
found that had belonged to his wife or his father, and about his old Navy
uniform, which he couldn’t possibly put on anymore. He’d been so thin!
At the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in coarse grey felt, were Andrew von
Krieger’s black revolvers. The black leather holsters were underneath, the
belts were creased from having been long folded there under that weight.
They were fine weapons, but too small to comfortably fit John’s big hands,
and so he never used them and had forgotten them entirely.
He brought them downstairs where there was better light. It was late,
but there were a few people still talking and drinking. He laid them out
on a table on the cloth and took an oil lamp too. The handful of men still
there watched him with curiosity as he took apart the action on the first
gun, and carefully cleaned out the dust and oiled the parts. They were very
well made, he realized. The pieces fit together perfectly, and the black metal
didn’t seem to be steel. It stayed cool to the touch even after he’d held it
in his hands for a while. He reassembled the gun and spun the barrel. The
ratchet was whisper quiet, and the barrel spun freely until he pulled back
the hammer. Then he broke down, cleaned, and reassembled the other.
When he was done, there was a tap on his shoulder. Nikolas, the town’s
blacksmith and tinsmith and sometime carpenter, was peering over him at
the guns on the table. “Where’d those come from, Vanya? I haven’t seen
you carrying them before.”
John invited him to sit and examine them. “I got them as a gift a long
time ago, from Andrew’s namesake. I haven’t thought about them in years,
but I thought maybe I could get ammunition for them and teach the boy to
shoot them. They’d be about right for his hands, don’t you think?”
“Y-es,” Nikolas replied slowly, turning the gun over in his hands. “He’d
grow into them certainly.”
John scowled. “I don’t want him growing into them. A boy should know
how to shoot, that’s all. I’m keeping them, they’re not his yet. I’ll give
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them to him when he’s grown and has something better to do.”
“They’re very well made. Where’d they come from? Certainly not Rostov.”
“I don’t know where they were made exactly. Von Krieger said he got
them in the Imperium, but he didn’t say where, or who made them. The
design’s strange too. The trigger’s got a long pull. Halfway fires it, all the
way back cocks it again. If you’ve got a strong finger you can go through
all seven chambers with one hand.”
Nikolas looked up at him thoughtfully, and lay the gun down. A couple
other men drifted over. “Von Krieger. Why’s that name familiar?”
John folded the guns back up in their cloth, and sat back to tell the
story. The gunfight in Viev, the chase up into the mountains, finally him
turning himself in after poisoning himself. Burying his body, then the trek
back to Viev and then to Rostov, and not getting the reward money after
all. They all grumbled about that on his behalf, and insisted on putting a
bit of vodka in him before letting him go upstairs to bed.
Andrew must have heard his story, because he grinned from ear to ear
all through his morning chores and all through breakfast, and was already
waiting at the jail by the time his father got there. John was late that
morning, partly because his leg was acting up, but chiefly because he’d
stopped at Gennady’s shop and found that the chambers took a standard
size Imperial Army round, and bought two boxes.
The boy got good with those pistols. He had a steady hand, and didn’t
flinch when the shot went off. His aim was remarkable, but so, John learned,
were the guns. The bore was perfect, the barrel didn’t warp, the action
perfectly symmetric. It was accurate to yards and yards, as was his son.
In the fall Andrew went to Rostov, to school. He was not the best
student, but not the worst. He worked quietly, and very hard. His father
had been sure to teach him to read, so that he would have none of those
problems, but nor did he quite have his father’s feeling of accomplishment.
He just worked and did well and accepted whatever praise came. At the
end of the term, he returned for a week, and it was like he had never left.
He disappeared with Paul and Natalya almost as soon as he arrived. They
grilled him about Rostov. What was the school like? Did they beat the
students and make them wear uniforms? It was big and dark and cold, he
said, like a giant church. And yes, they beat the students who misbehaved
with birch rods, and they had to wear horrible dark blue wool uniforms that
itched, and if you scratched they whacked your knuckles with the rod. Paul
was terrified – his father was sending him to a different school in the spring,
for the businessmen’s sons.
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The years went by like that. Andrew came back from school talking
about history and reciting centuries-old poetry. Paul would come back, and
he and Andrew would infuriate Natalya speaking together in the barbarian languages both schools taught, from the continent to the south where
Madras and Mediter were. Paul had a longer term than Andrew, so sometimes Andrew would come back and it’d just be him and Natalya, catching
up on happenings in Vespin, or the news in Rostov and the Imperium at
large. She learned to read and write so that she could get letters from Andrew and Paul, and she sent them too, though her letters to Andrew were
longer. She loved getting those thick sheets of paper from him with his
terrible jagged handwriting and the ink blobs and scratched-out words.
Paul graduated first, but stayed in Rostov to earn money. An eighteen
year old boy with an education could make good money in Rostov. He
worked as a translator for one of the shipping companies, and he saved
everything he didn’t need to live. He got thin, eating little and working
long hours. It took a whole year, but he finally saved enough. He bought a
new suit of clothes, nice ones in the latest fashion, and he bought a ring, a
good one, solid gold with an opal in it. He went to Andrew’s school, bursting
to tell him his secret, but they’d been let out, Andrew had graduated and
gone home. Undaunted, he hitched a ride on a mine wagon that was going
that way. When he arrived in Vespin, he went straight to the brewery.
Natalya squealed with delight when she saw him, and swept him into a
tight embrace. He eyes positively shone and she held out her hand to him.
“Look!” she said. He looked, and saw that she wore a ring. A shitty,
pathetic thing, cheap gold with no stone. His heart sank into his belly, and
his blood went cold. “Dreiya and I are getting married! He proposed last
month, but we couldn’t get ahold of you in Rostov. I shouldn’t spoil the
secret, but he won’t be back for a year, and he wants you to be his best
man. Please, please, please say yes!”
Paul said nothing. He smiled a hollow smile, and left. It wasn’t fair.
Andrew had nothing but his father’s name. He couldn’t offer her anything
worth having except a tavern. She’d be poor and miserable and she’d never
leave this stinking town. He returned to Rostov. He sold the nice clothes
and some of his other belongings, but he kept the ring, and bought a gun.
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Chapter 25
Sean Clannon
Ian Mestrava woke up before dawn, disoriented in the dark so that for a
brief, happy moment, he believed that he was in his cot in the defenses of
the capital. But no, he decided. The bed was different, he was not in his
uniform. He felt dirty, oily.
He got up, slowly so that his back would not hurt him. He looked out the
window and saw that it was a long way down, and remembered that Kepler
had put him up in a hotel, on the fourth floor. His moustache itched; it was
too long and the tips brushed against his upper lip. The sun had not yet
come up, but there was light enough to find mirror and scissors. Carefully he
snipped the ends and the edges, and spent half of an hour gingerly shaping
his white moustache the way he liked it. Upon finishing, he decided that
such a well-shaped facial feature was done no justice by a week’s stubble.
He whetted his razor, mixed a cup of shaving lotion, and set to clearing it
away.
His hair was oily already, but he added the grease that made it look more
silver than yellow, and combed it carefully. A regular gentleman would
perhaps be unwilling to do this for himself, but Mestrava had long ago
mastered the art of preparing his own appearance. He hired many men, but
no servants.
A bath. A bath seemed like a wonderful idea. He would have to forego
it, as attractive as it was. In the time since he had arisen from his bed, he
became increasingly convinced that he had no time to waste. He instead
found a certain perfume from the Free States, a sort of musk, from some
kind of animal. It would do. When his father had died, they had anointed
his body with substances that smelled like this, so that the odor would not
offend those attending to his spiritual needs. Mestrava shook his mind from
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morbid thoughts, and concentrated on selecting and pressing his clothes.
A small coal furnace sufficed to heat a pressing iron, though the old coal
sputtered and sparked.
His uniform smelled like burnt skin when he touched the iron to it. He
had slept in it for eight days, until some kind soul had forced him to change
out of it, but had not washed it. There was no time to have it washed, so he
suffered the smell until it was gone. It took him only a few minutes to shine
his shoes, don his uniform, and affix his medallion. He saw that his special
cane had been left by his bed, and so he took that too, and went downstairs
where he slipped out the back door without talking to anyone.
***
When Robin found Cove, his heart broke. The state of the road should
have been his first clue, as he descended into the ravine travelling on broken
and scattered stones. It broadened as it went, and when it turned became
the main thoroughfare of a dead, crumbling city. The burned-out shells
of buildings loomed on either side of the avenue, threatening to topple on
Robin’s head as he wandered among them, lost in thought.
It was not cold in the city, and the thin walls suggested that it had never
been. Inside the more complete buildings, Robin found fire pits and the
rotted remains of wood or cloth – he couldn’t always tell, it was so old. He
decided that it must not have rained there for hundreds of years. There were
certainly no clouds overhead, and he didn’t recall seeing any since passing
through the mist.
The graves surprised him. A few hundred yards into the city, Robin
came across a large cleared area with stones set every few feet. On each
was inscribed characters that he didn’t recognise, but on some were small
pots and other offerings to the dead. He poked around a little while, then
wandered on.
Nobody had lived in Cove for a very long time. Little that could decay
remained, but much that could withstand time had. The buildings had
probably been built very well, long ago, and Robin didn’t think that there
was much water or wind. The streets did not have gutters, and not once did
he see anything that resembled a flagpole or weather vane.
He found himself making his way, without meaning to, to the tower near
the center of the city. It was near there that he saw the first body. It had
been skeletonized long ago, but cloth still clung to the bones. There was a
sword in its hands, chipped and broken. There were more, strewn all along
the street, left to lie where they fell.
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One such body made him pause. It had fallen, by the look, flat on its
back. Its skull looked neatly punched through from where Robin stood a few
feet away. Something about the wound made him kneel down and examine
the skull. As he gently moved it, something inside rattled, and then fell out.
“A musket ball?” He felt ashamed for talking to himself, but it was
comforting to hear something. Rolling the small lead ball in his hand, he
felt almost numb. How long had muskets been around? The oldest ones
were very old, the ball and powder ones that you loaded through the barrel
and tamped down. But that old?
He tossed the ball away, without looking where it fell. The trail of bodies
got thicker as Robin followed them toward the center of the city. Several of
the bodies appeared to have once worn red uniforms with gold braid, though
the brocade and insignia had long ago faded and decayed away. Many had
fallen behind mounds of rock and brick in the road.
The tower was not as tall as he had imagined it would be. It stood
straight and untapering for three or four stories, and its pale ice-like walls
seemed to glow where it blocked the sun. The bodies, crumbled and collapsed, lay thick around it, in the depression where the tower stood. No
hinges adorned the entry to the tower, which had probably always been
open.
Robin slowed his pace and came to a stop, rather than enter. Something
didn’t feel right.
Why do you hesitate?
Robin caught his breath and looked around. Everything lay silent, as
it had through his entire trip into the city. He turned back to the tower
entrance, and saw inside it bodies piled up and the broken remains of chairs
and tables made of the same ice-like stuff as the rest of the tower.
It would make little sense to turn back now. Enter.
“Where are you?”
I am in the tower, where I have waited for you.
Robin looked up, squinting against the reflected sunlight, and saw nothing but the tower’s smooth sides.
“Who are you?”
I am the one who removed the barriers so that you could grow. I am the
one who fought the Eternal King, and won. Come to me and learn what you
are ripe to become.
“Is this Cove?” There was no reply for a long time.
This is Cove.
Neither Robin nor the voice spoke, but as he stood there the wind seemed
to blow a little colder, and clouds drew across the sun. He set his jaw and
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stepped inside the tower.
***
Dolohov observed that the sort of person who responded to his news
with the words, “He can’t be gone” would be of absolutely no use to him.
He broke off the conversation and went to find Janus.
He found his friend at the docks, where the Mourning Dove had moored
the night before. Janus stood on the edge of the deck, directing men who
were loading provisions and ammunition.
“Gone? Where to?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Janus considered that, and stopped to point a large crate down into the
hold. “What’d he take?”
“His hat, his suit, his stick.”
“Which stick,” Janus asked abruptly.
“His new one, from Mediter. I think it’s mahogany with a brass ball on
the end; I’ve only seen it once or twice.”
Janus nodded to himself and got distracted for a few minutes directing
crates to where they needed to be lashed down. “We’ll have to leave without
him, then. I don’t think he’ll be back.”
“We can’t leave without him. We’re under contract.”
His friend just shrugged. “We’ll have to. They can bury him here.”
“What? What do you think he’ll do?”
“He’ll get himself killed, I’m sure.”
Dolohov froze, and Janus caught a panicky look in his eye. “He can’t
die, he hasn’t made arrangements. Reckless son of a bitch!” He leapt off
the gangplank and started to run.
“Wait, Andrew! Where are you going?”
Janus watched his friend run past the warehouses and disappear into
the milling crowd. He began to think, for the first time in six years of
friendship, that they wouldn’t see each other again. He told McCormick
about Mestrava’s disappearance, and then went back to loading the ship,
keeping an eye out.
***
Sean Clannon pitched out of his bed onto the hard floor, and vomited where he lay. His whole body ached from shivering, and his heartbeat
pounded in his ears. He had not been tended to in days, not since the coup.
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Food and drink was still sometimes left for him, but nothing for the pain,
no laudanum. His whole body felt abnormally sensitive; even the sheets on
the bed felt coarse and rough.
He lifted his head from the spreading puddle, just high enough to really
smell the acidic tang on the air, and flopped onto his back. Something
irritated a sense he hadn’t felt before. Something felt electric.
In the streets below his window, he heard some sort of military parade;
someone important coming into the city, or maybe leaving. What did they
call him now? Gregory I. The first.
He panted, fully awake and totally aware. His whole body spasmed and
then lay quietly, alive and tensed with anticipation.
***
Robin had not heard the voice for some minutes, as he wandered the
tower. There was nothing remarkable about the layout, just the white
translucent material that formed the whole thing. The main room, circular and surrounded by a narrow hallway, had been filled with bodies which
had fallen around barricades of brick and now-brittle wood. The rest of the
tower had nothing of the sort, and none of the walls and floors showed any
signs of a battle, including the middle room. No scratches or pits or marks
of any kind, just the cool, smooth material.
Something nagged at the back of his mind. He’d been fighting the urge
to climb the gracefully spiralling stairs ever since he saw them. The urge
disturbed him; he found himself walking heavily, stamping his feet to try
to distract himself. Something else too, the feeling that he was being questioned, or tested somehow. He felt strongly the old thief’s instinct to clam
up and not give an inch.
Putting his hand against the wall, those feelings surged, and his breathing seemed to skip. He was surrounded by magic, the whole tower radiated
that strange thrill of power and insight. But objects could not have it themselves, they could only soak it up and release it back over time, like the
things Ben Vin dug up. Here, it felt different, somehow. Radiant.
The main floor held neither surprises nor information. The air inside was
warm and a little moist, but didn’t smell of anything. Robin could faintly
see the sun outside the tower start to go down; he wondered briefly what
time it was. He sat on the bottom stair and ate some of the food he packed,
feeling as he did the strong urge to put off climbing the stairs.
He finished the little bit of biscuit and dried meat, brushed himself off
carefully, and stared for a long time at the crumbs on the floor. Something
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in the back of his mind kept telling him that they were significant, but he
couldn’t place it.
With at last no real excuse, Robin started up the stairs. They curled
lazily around the tower’s outer wall, and had a broad landing partway up,
with a pair of lounge-type chairs, made of the same white translucent material as the walls. Robin brushed his hand over them; they felt warm, and
gave a little under his touch, but couldn’t be moved from their spots. He
felt the urge to lie down and sleep, but put it off, to continue up the stairs.
He passed two more landings and three floors on his way up, but they all
looked the same. All were empty, white rooms with no adornment except
chairs and low tables, all of the same white material. The doors between
rooms all had the same peculiar rounded look to them, as if they had been
made by drawing aside curtains. Outside the tower, the sun was beginning
to set behind the hills, and all the western walls began to glow diffuse reds
and yellows, even those bits of furniture near that side.
Robin started up the stairs again. Looking up, he could see flat ceiling,
darker than the rest. He climbed the steps at the same pace, despite a
growing feeling, a combination of urgency and trepidation. At the top of
the stairs, the whole tower was one large round room, with a raised dais in
the middle. This, Robin climbed as well, so that he stood on the highestmost point in the tower.
All around him on the floor were high-backed chairs that faced inward,
toward the dais. On the dais itself were six chairs arranged in an inwardfacing circle around an empty pedestal. Robin felt a presence, as though
someone had walked into the room, but he saw nothing. He jumped down
from the dais and walked around the edge of the room, outside the chairs.
The wall was open to the air here, just a series of arches and part of a ceiling,
open to the sky in the middle over the center chairs and pedestal.
He stopped suddenly, very sure of what he felt. “Show yourself.”
I cannot, more than I have already done. Come and sit, Robin.
Robin instead went right to the edge of the floor, and looked down onto
the streets of the dead city, and saw that they radiated outward like spokes.
Down right at the base he saw the corpses, small like beetles from that
height.
“Who are you?”
I am not a who. I simply am.
Robin looked around, and felt the back of the chair. It was soft and
warm.
“You’re not in the tower. You are the tower, aren’t you?”
That is correct, but I am much more than simply a tower.
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“Dr. Trent said that only living things could have magic. Dead things
that you use magic on go back to being dead.”
Dr. Trent is correct. I am a living being like you. I was grown here
many years ago, and have continued to grow over the centuries.
Robin looked down at the ground again. “Crumbs,” he said to himself.
“What do you want with me?”
I am very lonely, Robin. It has been many years since I have been able to
speak to anyone, let alone a powerful magician, not since my first battle with
the Eternal King. The battle you saw below robbed me of my last companions,
slaughtered by the soldiers of the King. You are the first since then, and I
have worked hard to bring you here.
Robin walked slowly around the outside edge, toward one of the two
staircases. “How did you do that?”
I fought off the King’s dominion over your continent, that smothered
your powers. I freed you and your countrymen to practice your birthright.
“Magic?”
The voice paused. Yes, Robin. Magic. I restored your natural dominance
over nature and the elements, which had been taken from you.
“Do you mean, that the Imperium had been keeping us from using
magic? Why?”
To prevent you learning how to grow another like me. He wishes to be
the only one of our kind. Robin felt a wave of hostility pass over him. He
wishes to rule all the world like he rules the pathetic people who serve him
and carry out his whims. He sent men to kill my people, and destroy me.
He isolates me from all who would come to my aid, who could help me strike
back.
Robin got to the top of the stairs and dashed down them. He tried to
stop short, and fell hard into the thin new wall that had formed across the
stairwell. He rolled onto the stairs and saw the wall where he had hit it,
cracked and weeping a clear liquid.
That was unnecessary, Robin. As you can see, I can prevent you leaving
if I so choose. Come morning you will be free to leave as you see fit, but if
you were to go out now you would not survive the cold of the night here.
He dutifully climbed the stairs again, unsteady and sore.
I was bred, Robin, not just as shelter, but as a tool. Those who grew me
so long ago used me and those of my kind to amplify their own considerable
powers. They tamed the globe, Robin, bent the weather and the tides to their
wills.
“They fought.”
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Yes. They fought. And destroyed almost all of my kind. Sit, Robin, and
I will show you how powerful the union between my kind and your kind can
be.
Dizzily, Robin trudged forward, his mind slow suddenly, and his feet
moving as though of their own accord. He tried to shake off the slowness,
and shook himself right off his feet, against the side of the dais. Unseen
hands lifted him against his will, and though he strained physically and
mentally could not prevent being deposited into one of the central chairs.
The instant he touched the chair, he knew what the tower meant. In a
flash, he saw the whole world, felt it revolve at his feet. Moving his hands,
he felt the oceans of the world, and the clouds in the sky. He looked up and
saw all the stars in the heavens, and knew that he himself flew among them,
faster than he could imagine.
Thus occupied, he didn’t detect the shadow that he cast, a subtle and
creeping thing that suddenly attacked him, bound his arms and legs so that
he couldn’t move, but rather saw them move themselves. The seas rose
and fell as he fought and thrashed. Thunderclouds drew and vanished, and
he felt a sudden powerful presence from one side of the world, that easily
swept him aside, fighting as he did with the shadow. Robin fought to retain
control of himself, and cast his attention across the continent to try to find
Dr. Trent, someone to help him.
***
Sean Clannon’s body spasmed on the floor, splashing vomit onto the
wall. He shivered and gasped for breath, feeling anew all the old wounds,
the burns that suddenly came aflame all over again. He tensed his whole
body, and lifted off the floor, letting his head loll back to the point that he
could barely breathe.
Power flowed across him and through him, and he felt a cry for help. He
followed it with his mind. It was faint, but the wretched condition of his
body had left his mind sharper than ever before, and he followed the cry for
help outside his body and far away.
As he lay suspended and searching, the door rattled, and the windows
broke. People began thumping at the door, but Clannon paid them no mind,
even when armed soldiers burst into the room and the bed flew at them.
Clannon found the voice in the wind, and clutched at it with all his
strength of will. “Help me,” he heard it cry weakly, and then felt the bullets
enter his body.
“No,” he told the voice. “Revenge me! Help me burn.” Clannon’s body
fell to the floor, and he pulled at that voice, that source of power, until he
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felt it snap, and felt power surge through him, and envelope him with pure
white light.
***
Commander-Governor Reiner Ava recognised the name of his visitor immediately, and grinned wolf-like, instructing that this person be made to
wait a half an hour, then brought into the Ebron Grand Hall, where his
tables and office had been set up. Commander Ava strolled back and forth
down the hall, examining the amazing dusk view of the western plain out
the tall archways that lined the hall. He was alone in the room. He needed
no guards, something he made sure everyone knew.
To use the time, he made himself comfortable and read the latest dispatches from Palatine. Emperor Gregory had himself given Ava the Governor’s office in Ebberach Nedar. It was a bald attempt to buy the popular
and powerful Commander’s loyalty, and the cynical Ava had just that morning replied in kind: “I humbly accept your assignment and of course pledge
the requisite loyalties to his Excellence, the Emperor Gregory I, long may he
live.” It was just the sort of thing that Ava loved. The dispatch confirmed,
as a reminder, that the other commanders had done the same, with similar
remuneration. Warren ban Iris had arrived in Palatine to serve as Governor
there, while a few others had been named, perhaps prematurely, Governors
of Mediter, Kendauer, and Etheora.
He was sitting back in his chair with his feet propped up on a low statue
when the main doors opened. A junior officer stepped in and saluted stiffly.
“Sir! Ian Mestrava as you requested.”
“Thank you. Show him in.”
An old Ebron man hobbled in, limping slightly and leaning heavily on
his walking stick. The officer went to leave, but Ava called him back.
“Before you return to your post, please search my visitor here.”
The officer saluted and roughly went through the Ebron’s pockets, coming up with first a dagger and then a small pistol. These were placed on the
table near Ava, who sent the officer back outside.
He fingered the dagger, appreciating the sharp edge as the Ebron watched
him and seethed. “Well old man, I had heard that you had a few tricks up
your sleeve. I’m curious how you intended to use it. To pick your teeth
perhaps? Shave that ridiculous moustache?” The old man flinched, to
Ava’s delight. “Or did you expect to put this into my belly, eh?”
Ava chuckled and got up, languidly stretching his legs. “I’m glad to
finally meet you, Mr. Mestrava. To what do I owe your visit?”
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“I come to request that you leave immediately.”
“Oh, really. Indeed.” Ava strode toward Mestrava, feeling rather jovial.
“And what do you offer the Governor of Ebberach Nedar?”
“I offer you your life, and the lives of your men.”
Ava nodded, inspecting the old man. With a serious look, he flourished
the dagger and handed it back to Mestrava. “I’m afraid that I must refuse.
Do what you must, old man.”
Mestrava stared at the dagger for a long time, then half-lunged, halfstumbled at the commander, until the dagger stopped in mid-air a few inches
from the soldier’s throat. Mestrava strained at it for a moment, putting all
his weight behind it until he fell heavily to the ground. Ava kicked the
dagger away.
“Do you understand, Mr. Mestrava? The Fenne Empire is beyond the
old way of war now. But I think that the two of us can reach an understanding.” He watched patiently as Mestrava worked his way to his feet,
clutching the shaft of his walking stick.
“What,” Mestrava wheezed out, “What understanding could we reach?”
“It should be obvious. I am undeniably the Governor here. You can
see for yourself that it is impossible to dislodge me from my position. That
does not mean that you stubborn Ebrons will recognise that. But if you
were to convince them otherwise, that would make things so much easier for
everybody.”
Mestrava drew himself up. “How is that easier for Ibra? We are a proud
people.”
“That is true. But pragmatic. You should understand that I have quite
a lot of influence with the new Emperor – your new Emperor. If the Ebrons
give me no trouble and pay their taxes, I think I could make my influence
work very well for all of us.”
Mestrava smiled a little, gesturing at Ava with the bottom of his stick.
“I see. If we willingly trade our sovereignty, then we get in return your
good graces. These good graces bring us Imperial favors, eh? Lighter taxes?
Fewer conscripted men?”
Ava smiled broadly along with Mestrava, who now chuckled conspiratorily. “Well you know, Mr. Mestrava, I heard that you gave good service
during the Mediter Revolution. I could make good use of an advisor like
you. You could live in the Duke’s Palace, you know.”
The Ebron’s eye twinkled, and Ava felt faintly uneasy. “Ah, you are the
wily one, Commander Ava.” He playfully poked Ava in the belly with his
stick. Ava, not wanting to encourage that degree of familiarity, grasped the
surprisingly light stick in one hand and leaned over its length.
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“Well, Ian? Can you see yourself in that position, helping preside over
a prosperous Ibra?”
Mestrava smiled broadly, changing his grip on the stick. “I would rather
die.” He twisted the brass head of the walking stick, firing the shotgun shell
in the stick’s hollow shaft.
Ava stumbled back, doubled over and staring wide-eyed, and crashed to
the floor, knocking over the table. Mestrava dove for the confiscated pistol
as the doors came open, and soldiers came through. He heard gunshots
outside the door, and brought up his own firearm.
Just as he held it up to shoot, the soldiers brought up their rifles and
shot him down. They turned as one back into the outside hallway, and were
themselves gunned down before they could even reload. Andrew Dolohov
pushed past them as the fell and dashed into the Great Hall.
Holding up his revolver toward the door in one hand, he leaned down to
Mestrava. “You stupid selfish bastard! Come on!”
Mestrava pointed to the door, and Dolohov shot the soldier who had just
come through it. “Loyal to the last, I see. I am killed, Andrew, and that
may not be such a bad thing.”
Without warning, they both saw on the horizon a bright white light glow
and fade. Mestrava frowned from the pain. “I have kept you from her long
enough. Go back to her now; our deal is off.” He coughed violently and
as he tried feebly to lift a handkerchief to his bloodied mouth, fell onto his
back.
Dolohov swore violently and took advantage of the chaos outside to flee.
***
William Trent shuddered uneasily in the evening air. He walked back to
his hotel room from near the front lines, where he had spent the day trying
desperately to neutralize the Fenne Army’s use of magic. After Robin had
run off, he had been left with little else to do, and only the firm conviction
that the city not be taken.
Even so late in the day, Trent heard the Fenne cannonfire and the stacatto of the Kendaurans’ machine guns. The battle lines had moved slowly
inward toward the heart of the city. There were fewer machine guns this
morning than the morning before, and even fewer when Trent could no
longer stand the fighting. The last ship in the river still fired at the bridges.
Two had been destroyed already, partly cutting off rail access east of the
Ateke.
Trent froze in his tracks in the middle of the road, suddenly dizzy. His
heart beat heavily his his chest, and he felt light-headed. He felt as though
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he’d been suddenly dumped underwater, and as he fell to his knees wondered
whether he were having a heart attack. It all ebbed just as quickly as it had
started, but before he could even finish a single breath, something new
overtook him, a powerful burning sensation over his entire body.
He let out a single cry and fell on his side in the middle of the road.
***
Trent came to with another cry, anguished and confused. His hands
gripped cloth, sheets, and his head throbbed. He could not move, and his
chest refused to allow him more than shallow breaths. A large moon face,
pale and worried, filled his vision.
“What happened?” He barely whispered the question, but the face
looked suddenly relieved.
“You took a fall in the street,” she said, and leaned away. Trent suddenly
felt a weight lifted from his chest, then his hips, and sat up to see the matron
undoing belts that had held him down. “You thrashed so when they brought
you in that we thought you were having fits,” she apologised.
“My God,” Trent muttered. “I’ve never felt anything like that.” His
vision seemed to swim a little, and when he sat up, pain shot through the
back of his skull. He could hear outside sporadic gunshots, and shouting.
“Are people cheering out there?”
The matron frowned. “Some. I don’t know what to make of it myself,
but I’m not sure that cheering’s what we should be doing.”
“What happened? Did we beat them back?”
She shook her head. “It’s Palatine.”
Trent struggled to understand what she was getting at. “Yes, the Fenne
Army, I understand. But – ”
“No, that’s not what I meant. You must’ve been out already when word
came about Palatine.”
“What about it?”
She looked him right in the eyes. “It’s been completely destroyed.”
Chapter 26
Refugees
The Mourning Dove surged when the wind picked up, and slammed back
onto the water with enough force to knock sailors off their feet. Janus Kepler
lashed himself to the capstan and watched the storm develop. Rain beat
down on him harder by the minute, and the wind threatened to sweep him
right off the deck. He slipped and fell hard on his side when he tried to turn
around. Neil McCormick was suddenly kneeling over him.
“You all right?” McCormick shouted over the wind.
“Yeah,” Kepler shouted back, “This is weird weather for Ibra!”
“We can’t see any of the other ships right now, they must be further
along; we’re going to make south for Akrostira and hope they do the same.”
McCormick disappeared again before Kepler could regain his feet. He
was already drenched and barely felt the water anymore. Way off in the
distance as they started to turn, he could see waterspouts beginning to form
away to port.
Useless on deck, he untethered himself and stumbled down into the hold.
The sheer number of people crammed into the ship staggered him, and
he’d been the one to help them on when Fengar invaded Montgomery that
morning. Kepler grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around himself as he
started to shiver. He smiled a little as he realized that he was half-expecting
Knights from Mediter to walk in from somewhere. The Ebrons were all
damp and tired, but they talked excitedly among themselves, and some of
them played at cards and dice. Tough people, Kepler marvelled.
The ship rocked and pitched mercilessly for hours. Kepler, no stranger
to ships, felt queasy and uncomfortable. When the waters seemed calmer,
he went back on deck, to find McCormick.
The late afternoon sky looked swollen and red after the rain. Storm
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clouds in the distance flickered with faraway lightning. The Ebron mountains were out of sight; he had no way to know which way land was, except
for McCormick’s plan to travel south. The water still looked rough, but the
Dove was large enough that it didn’t pitch too much.
“We’ve had a good wind,” McCormick said behind him. “I finally got a
look at the sun a couple minutes ago and I figure we’re six or seven hours
out of Akrostira. I don’t know how far east we are, though. The clock’s
busted, but I don’t think we’re off too far.” He stopped for a moment,
looking around at the handful of sailors busy on deck. “Come into my cabin
for a minute, will you?”
Kepler followed him into the tiny cabin, ducking as usual to keep from
smacking his head on the low beams. Cramped and sparse though it was,
McCormick kept a comfortable cabin, with a teak dining table, a few heavy
overstuffed chairs, and even a pair of small stained-glass windows, shuttered
at the moment, to color the sunlight. Kepler sat carefully and stretched out
his legs.
“What’s on your mind, Neil?”
“Mestrava. Doll. Us. What the hell are we going to do?”
“Well, Mestrava’s probably dead. The people we evacuated are saying
that the Fengari attacked after someone assassinated their commander.”
“Yeah, but was that Mestrava or Dolohov?”
Kepler shook his head. “I dunno,” he said. “That doesn’t sound like
Andrew, but if he caught up with Mestrava and was ordered to?”
“Well, if Mestrava’s alive, he’s not going to know what happened to us.
The plan was to go up the coast to the Steppes to regroup. We’re going
to Akrostira and there’s no way in hell I’m turning around and going back
through that storm.”
“And if he’s dead?”
“Then we’re fucked. He spent all the cash onboard, and sold whatever
he could. We’ve got a couple extra rifles, those’ll go for something. And
we’ve got that load of books I picked up in Hanamachi.”
Kepler looked thoughtful all of a sudden. “Where are they?”
McCormick unlatched a low shelf and from it handed a few small books
to his friend. Kepler opened the top one and flipped through it.
“Same as the last couple,” Kepler said, “ History sort of thing. Alchemy,
this other one. That Dr. Trent was in Akrostira with Andrew. Maybe he’ll
buy them, or tell us who will.”
“Yeah, that could work. But that’s not going to be a lot of money, and
besides, what’ll we do after that? If Mestrava’s dead, we’ll have to find
something else to earn a living. What about your men?”
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“They’re on the other ships. They’ll be fine. Smart fellas, most of them.
The real trick is going to be all these Ebrons showing up in Akrostira without
papers.”
“We’ve got food and water enough to keep everybody on ship for a
week at least. More if we ration tight. I figure the best thing is to stop
in Akrostira to take on water and see about those books, then head on
to one of the smaller coastal states and stay there for a while. It’s pretty
backwater down there, but our money’ll go farther, and we can try to track
down Mestrava by telegraph if he’s alive. If he’s not, well, I do still have
Imperial port of call papers.”
Kepler nodded. “Sounds good.” He stretched out again, yawning loudly.
“Is there any more of that Mediter brandy left?”
***
Tara hushed up her little brothers and the other kids as soon as she saw
the soldier. He was skinny-looking, and pale like all the others, and looked
like he was drunk. They’d been hiding in the wrecked buildings in the city
all day after the soldiers started breaking everything and chasing everybody
out. She clutched the gun they’d found, a big long one with a knife on the
end, and sneaked up on the soldier. She hadn’t killed anybody before, but
she was mad enough to.
“What do you want?” the soldier suddenly said in Ebron, without looking at her.
“Gimme your money.”
“I don’t have any money.” He turned around with his hand near his hip
and looked at her. “You’re a little girl.”
“I’m twelve. And I’ve got a gun.”
“I see that,” the soldier said seriously. Tara saw that he had a bloody
handkerchief tied around his leg. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“Yes.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. I’ve been shot already.”
“Too bad. Gimme your food, then.”
“What are you going to do after you shoot me? It doesn’t look like you
have any more bullets. Where are you going to go?”
She pursed her lips and motioned with the end of the gun. The soldier
backed off a little bit, and glanced over her shoulder. “You alone?”
She hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Good girl,” the soldier remarked with a little smile. “Look, if you’re
going to shoot me, do it now. Otherwise you’ll have to take me prisoner,
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because we can’t stay here much longer.” He pointed down the road, where
a couple other soldiers were carousing.
Tara backed into the alley a little, and the soldier followed her after a
moment of decision.
“Can you take us to Montgomery?” she asked quietly.
“No, it’s all Fenne soldiers over there. Same all up the coast by now. I
was going to Madras.”
“We’re not going to Fengar!” She waved the gun at him again.
“I hate to tell you, but we’re in Fengar right now. But no, I wasn’t
suggesting that you go to Madras.” The soldier thought a minute. “I can
take you to the Free States, but that means that we’ll have to go through a
small part of Fengar.”
Tara eyed him suspiciously. “How do I know you’ll take us there? Maybe
you’ll kill us all and rob us.”
“You don’t have anything I want.”
She considered that, and led him back to where the other kids were
hiding.
“Idiot!” hissed her little brother, Fez. “Now we’re all gonna die.”
“You’re not going to die,” said the soldier, “Not as long as you listen to
me and keep your eyes open. How many are you?”
“Me, Fez,” Tara indicated the chubby kid behind a trash pile, “Tomi,
Burr, and Deya.” She pointed out two boys and a young girl, all dirty and
apprehensive. “Who’re you?”
“You know what a deserter is?”
They shook their heads. “Somebody who doesn’t want to fight anymore.
That’s all you really need to know about me.” He hunkered down and swung
his canvas bag around in front of him and let the strap slip off his shoulder.
“How many of you have eaten,” he asked. Two hands went up nervously.
“All right. I don’t have a lot, but I don’t want to stop again for a while.”
He took a half loaf of bread out of his bag, tore it up and passed out the
pieces.
“It’s stale,” Burr complained.
“I’m sorry, it’s all I have.” When they’d all eaten, he passed around a
tin canteen. He took a swig from it when it came back to him and tossed
it back in his bag. “All right, here’s what I want to do. We can’t go out
the Gates, but during the siege I saw a few passages open to the outside. I
think we can get through there without much trouble. In order to get there,
we’re going to have to go in through the upper entrances. Is that all right
with you?”
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Tara stared at the soldier in surprise. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s all right with
me. Do that.”
“Would you like me to lead the way?”
“Yeah.” Five little heads nodded in unison.
The soldier got to his feet slowly, wincing, then retightened the bandage
on his leg. “I think that most of the looters are north of us, so we shouldn’t
be running into anybody, but just in case we do, it might be a good idea to
stay back and let me do the talking.” He frowned at Tara’s gun. “Or the
shooting, if it comes to that.”
They followed the back streets and kept a slow pace. The soldier’s
wounded leg made sure that he never got too far ahead of the children.
The smell of burning wood followed them the whole way, sweet and smoky.
Many of the adobe buildings had creosote-soaked timbers, which were now
being torn down by looting soldiers.
The soldier’s mind buzzed with his own thoughts and the occasional
twinge of pain from his leg. The Fenne soldiers seemed to have completely
abandoned any semblance of order, something that he hadn’t expected from
the commander’s death. He had gotten out of there before things had really
started to break down, though. Could be that nobody was even looking for
him, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
He stopped for a moment in a park, behind some sad-looking bushes. The
broken fountain still gurgled, even though most of the water had seeped out
already through a crack in the side. They’d been walking an hour already,
and the children were starting to tire. He filled his canteen from the dregs
of the fountainwater, and washed out his wound, which stung, but probably
wouldn’t get infected. He’d already dug the bullet out of it; it was just a
matter of letting it rest.
“If any of you need to drink or piss, do it now.” The soldier sat on
the base of a dead potted palm to watch the street that ran alongside.
He couldn’t read Ebron, so he didn’t know what its name was, but he
remembered from the battle that a side road off of it led up onto a broad
ledge on the western side of the canyon. As far as he knew, it was the closest
one to the Gates, except for the broad marble staircases – but those were
suicide.
They set out after a short rest and slowly made their way up the side
road, staying hunched over behind the low wall all along the side. The
soldier’s wound opened again after a few minutes of that kind of walking,
but he ignored it, even when he felt blood run down his leg and into his
boot. When they got to the upper road, he made them stop for a minute so
he could rest and look at the city.
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Smoke clouded much of the view, but he could still see roving groups
of soldiers wandering through the city. Some of them fired their guns into
the air from time to time; they were probably drunk. The soldier did some
calculations in his head, trying to remember when their commander had
been killed. In that time, surely, telegrams would have been sent to Palatine
and back, and orders for promotion given. It should have been a smooth
transfer of power. What did that old man know? Did he know it would have
this effect on the Fenne garrison? Or was this a calculated response, to burn
the capitol and punish the Ebrons? Maybe provoke them into attacking by
feigning disorder. It wasn’t a tactic he’d seen before, but Ban Iris was a
clever one.
Tara tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s go,” she said, “We don’t want to stay
here.”
“Of course,” said the soldier, and led them toward the entrance to the
fortifications. They stood wide open, though at one point and for a long
time, they’d been closed by huge bronze doors, which now lay to the side,
scorched but whole. The entrance was, as he’d guessed, unguarded, at least
to the outside.
The soldier stopped the group again and turned to talk to the children.
“I think it’s empty, but there’s no way for me to know that it’s not a trap
unless I go in. I’m going to go in by myself. don’t worry, you’ll be able to
see me the whole time. I might have to shoot somebody if they’re hiding
in there, so don’t be afraid if you hear gunshots.” They all nodded. “Tara,
may I go do that?”
She again looked surprised. “If you want to, yeah,” she said softly, afraid
that if he died it’d be her fault. She watched him go, with a little gun in one
hand, running in a kind of weird, squatting kind of way, and then ducking
into the entrace. She hoped that he wouldn’t die; he was scary, but he’d
been very nice, and he hadn’t really taken over like any other grown-up
would have. Maybe that as because he was a foreigner. Daddy always said
foreigners were stupid.
The soldier stepped into the doorway and waved them all to come in,
and they all ran to get there. The whole place was burned-up and full of
broken stones and timbers. When they got there, the soldier was looking
out of a little window.
“Do you see anybody,” Deya came up and asked, wide-eyed. The soldier
looked down at her and smiled.
“No, nobody. We’re in the clear, I think.”
“You don’t look so good, mister.” The soldier’s face was pale, more than
before, but he still smiled.
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“I don’t feel so good either, but I’ll be a lot better when we get out of
here and I can lay down.”
“Let’s go,” Tara announced, “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
The soldier nodded and led them down the inner staircase. They went
through near-total darkness in some spots, and daylight in others. The stairway had been designed for defensive advantage, not lighting. The children
surprised him by not complaining or even lagging behind. They stayed with
him all the way to the bottom, where the breach to the outside was. The
soldier again went out to double-check, but it was clear of people. They ran
out and kept running until they could hide behind fallen rocks.
The soldier breathed heavily and slid against the wall to the ground.
“Here,” he said, “We can rest. In the morning, we’ll make for the forest’s
edge.”
***
Janus Kepler knocked on the door to Vin’s Antiquities, studying the
paper in his hand, notes Mestrava had written. A short balding Imperial
man came to the door, and looked way up at the tall black man, so that he
squinted in the bright sun.
“Er, I’m closed for the day. Indefinitely, really. Can I, um, can I help
you?”
Janus grinned widely. “I’m looking for a friend of mine, Professor
William Trent. Have you seen him?”
“William?” The man at the door frowned. “He disappeared over a week
ago. I’ve seen you before; are you really a friend of his?”
“Janus Kepler.” He shook the short man’s hand. “I knew him in
Mediter, and I hoped to find him here. Maybe you can help me. I have
these books.”
“Ah, maybe I can. I’m Dr. Ben Vin, this is my shop. Come in and let
me have a look at them.”
Janus ducked into the shop, which was filled with all sorts of junk. “I
was here before with Ian Mestrava, who talked to Robin. Is he here?”
“No, Robin is gone too. It’s just me here now.” Vin said that last part
with some bitterness, and started up the samovar. “How is Mr. Mestrava,
may I ask?”
“Dead. I don’t take sugar in my tea, Dr. Vin.”
“Oh, my. All these people dying all at a time!”
Janus watched Vin fiddle with the tea, and then the hot water. “I’ve
been at sea for a little while. Who’s dead?”
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“Well, everyone in Palatine, for one thing!”
“What!” Vin jumped at the outburst and spilled the tea all over the floor.
“I’m so sorry; let me get that for you.” Janus knelt down and soaked up
the hot mess with a tea towel. When he finished, Vin gave him a newspaper
from a day or so ago.
“PALATINE DESTROYED” read the headline, taking up the whole top
of the page.
“It’s true,” Vin said as Janus scanned the article, which detailed the
massive heat that turned most of the center of Palatine to vapor, including
the Palace. “You say you’re a friend of William Trent’s. How good of a
friend? Do you know about some of his, ah, interests?”
“Magic? You say he did this?”
“No! No, he’s surely not capable of that, nor the boy. But, yes, it was
definitely magic. I’m more frightened than ever before in my entire life, Mr.
Kepler; I closed my shop immediately after I felt it, and I’ve been here ever
since.”
A sudden wind picked up with a whistle, and the front door slammed
shut, knocking an iron dinner plate onto the floor. Vin jumped up and
opened it, then shut it again when a blast of water hit him square-on.
“Is it a storm?” Janus asked, a little incredulous.
“We get them suddenly here sometimes. But yes, Mr. Kepler, it was
a most terrible thing when Palatine was destroyed. It was as though I felt
every single death.” He shuddered, but Janus was staring at the door, and
just then got up.
“Could it have followed us south?” He talked to himself, sweeping aside
Vin’s drawn curtain. The street outside was blotted out by torrential rain.
Gradually, they both became aware of a low rumble that was getting slowly,
steadily louder.
Janus turned to Vin. “How bad do these storms get, Dr. Vin? The ship
I came in on is still in harbor taking on supplies.”
“Oh, I don’t really know. I’ve heard about ships getting damaged in
heavier storms.”
“Is this a heavier storm?”
Vin looked out the window, then tried to open the door, but was unable
to. “Quite likely, yes.” He gulped. “If – if you need to stay until it subsides,
I, ah, I’d be happy to furnish you with a chaise lounge.
Janus barely heard him. His whole body tensed with apprehension.
Something just wasn’t right. “You said you can feel magic, Dr. Vin. Can
you feel it now?”
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“Well, no, Mr. Kep – ” He stopped short, looking a little dazed. “Now
that you mention it, I do feel something. I suppose there’s been a constant
level since Palatine, but yes, I do feel something. My word, I wonder why I
didn’t notice before.”
“Maybe somebody didn’t want you to notice,” Kepler said, his eyes still
glued to the window, and the rain outside pouring in sheets. “Take a look
at these book, if you would.” He took the three books out from his pouch
and handed them to his host.
Vin studied them carefully. “Where did you get these?”
“Hanamachi. From the Library.”
“The Library? Who are you, Mr. Kepler?”
“Not me, my employer. He was a very rich man.”
“The Emperor is far richer, and he’s the one who doesn’t want these
books getting out. I was born in the Interior, and I’ve never seen books like
these. This one here, it’s a detailed description of alchemical processes.”
Janus shrugged. “People have been doing alchemy for hundreds of years.
There’s no secret about that.”
“Yes, Mr. Kepler, but these work.”
Janus turned his back to the window. “What do you mean, they work?
That’s ridiculous.”
Vin had been searching through the book and stopped suddenly, vehemently tapping the page. “This. I’ve done this myself. It’s a paint made
from tar, silver, volcanic glass, and a few other things. It’s pitch black until
you, well, you use magic on it. Then it can turn any color in the rainbow,
just by thinking about it.” He snapped the book shut with one hand. “This
should never have been allowed outside the Imperium.”
“Ian didn’t even try all that hard,” Janus mumbled. “Are you saying
somebody wanted Ian Mestrava to have these books?”
“Not just somebody. The Emperor himself would have had to approve
this, or someone acting with his authority. But why would the Eternal King
want someone like that Ebron to know so much about magic? Why did Mr.
Mestrava want them?”
“He wanted Robin to work for him. Those were for him.”
“He didn’t try that hard. I was here when he came.”
“Yeah, that was weird. I just felt the urge to get out of here before I even
sat down. Mestrava didn’t have the nerve to try to press anything without
me and Andrew right there. He was sure mad about that, let me tell you.”
He shrugged. “But he decided that it could wait until after he’d repelled
Fengar’s first assault.”
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“On Ibra?” Kepler nodded. “I read about that in the paper. Were you
there?”
“It was no good thing, I’ll tell you that. Total rout.”
“Is that when Mr. Mestrava was killed?”
“No. No, that was after.”
They both jumped when they heard the loud crash outside, and they
rushed to the window. The street outside was nearly invisible, it was so
dark, but they could see large objects tumbling along the pavement through
the heavy rain. Janus pulled the thick curtains closed in case the windows
broke. Through the curtains and the roar of the wind they could hear the
clanging of alarm bells, and faint voices shouting.
“What are they saying?” Vin listened carefully at the curtain, straining
to make out the words. Janus tapped his foot on the ground for a minute,
then took hold of the door and wrenched it open. Rain poured in as if from
buckets, and the wind threatened to tear the heavy door from his grasp, but
he was strong enough to not only hold it, but straining with all his might,
he pulled it closed again.
“They’re saying, ‘Stay indoors.’ ” He snorted, and after looking at
himself, soaked to the skin after only a second, laughed out loud. Vin
smiled nervously, then went and got him a bath towel to sit on.
“You know,” He said when Vin returned, “when I was a little boy, a
hurricane hit our island. That was something like you wouldn’t believe.
Trees torn up by the roots, houses knocked flat, even the bricks for the main
road got thrown around. Killed some people, that. The whole bay turned
bright red a week after; half the fish died.”
“So it could be worse, you’re saying.”
“No, I was thinking that this reminds me of that. But we had all kind
of warning. We could see it on the horizon, and there was this dead calm
just before it really hit. This, I didn’t see this coming at all. Like it came
out of nowhere, just like the storm off the coast of Ibra yesterday.”
“You ran into a storm yesterday?”
“Big one. Waterspouts and everything. I spent seven years in the Imperial Navy, and nothing I saw then was anything like that. Now this a day
later?” He shook his head with conviction. “Not a coincidence. Can’t be.”
Vin set himself to moving the more fragile pieces away from the front of
the store and into a crate that he’d been using as a step-stool. Janus just
watched him, afraid to touch anything too delicate. “Is there a basement to
your shop?”
“No, just a little bit of space under the floorboards, but that’s probably
full of water right now. Can you get those bronze pieces away from the door,
345
please?”
They worked quickly, moving everything they could out of harm’s way
and into the back room, until without warning, the windows shattered. The
curtains flew outside through the break and flapped in the wind, throwing
glass and splinters everywhere. Janus grabbed the table, knocking the tea
mugs onto the floor, and jammed it up against the hole, pushing against the
legs to hold it there.
Before he could react, the wind died, and the table fell hard against him.
Staggering, Janus saw through the window that the rain had slowed to a
mere shower, but the sky was still black as night. He and Vin exchanged a
long, haunted stare.
“The eye,” Janus said quietly. “A hurricane’s like a tent. The pole in
the middle is real quiet, but it doesn’t last long.” Working quickly, he tied
the curtain sashes to the table legs, and then pulled hard at the sashes to see
whether they’d come away from the wall, but they were fastened securely.
“Let’s wait in the back room. There are no windows there.”
They felt a rumble under their feet, from under the floor, and a few
things fell off high shelves. “Do you get earthquakes too,” Janus asked,
incredulous.
“No, not in a thousand years,” Vin said as he stared at the floor. The
rumble stopped. “I wonder what that was.”
The rumbling noise started again, fainter and growing. Janus heard
water running, and kneeled to feel the floor with the palms of his hand.
“I think the river overflowed. There’s water under the floor. A lot of it, I
think.”
They sat in Vin’s chairs and waited as the rush under them got louder.
The floorboards creaked and thumped from the high water. The rain outside
picked up and dropped again, but the rush continued for over an hour. Water
wicked up between the boards and soaked Vin’s woven rug straight through.
Janus opened the front door of the shop, and saw that the whole street
was flooded. Water filled with sticks and other flotsam flowed by, muddy
and dark. Janus stared at it for a long time, and leaned out the door. He
watched the water again and turned back.
“Dr. Vin, where is the river from here?”
Vin, busy trying to put his belongings out of the water’s way, thought a
minute and pointed.
Janus looked outside in the direction Vin had pointed. “You sure about
that?”
“Positive.”
“It’s going the wrong way, then.”
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Vin put down a couple heavy books on his table. “What do you mean?”
“The water. It’s going toward the river, not away.” He sniffed. “Something’s burning, too. I can hear people shouting about it off by the bay.”
“Maybe they’re sandbagging.”
Janus reached down and dipped his hand in the water, then licked a few
drops off his fingers. “It’s salt water.”
“The storm surge must have been high.”
“It’s been a long time since the storm stopped. Shouldn’t it be receding?”
Vin sighed loudly. “I don’t know, Mr. Kepler. I’m not an expert on
weather or water. We’ll just have to wait and ask someone when the flood
waters stop.”
“Do you have any upstairs windows?”
“That’s a thought,” Vin said. “Yes, I have a west-facing window in my
bedroom.”
“May I?” He gestured upstairs.
“If you must, but take off your shoes.”
He watched Janus run up the stairs, shaking it tremendously. Vin got
back to work, now walking in a thin film of water over the floorboards.
“Dr. Vin!”
“What?”
“Come up here!”
Vin climbed the stairs slowly, a little irritated. He peered in the bedroom,
but Kepler was not there. He looked in the study, but nobody was there,
either.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on the roof! Come out the window!”
Vin rushed to the bedroom window and leaned out. “Are you insane?
You’ll slip and kill yourself!”
“It’s mostly dried off already. Look at the bay, Dr. Vin.” He leaned
out the window a few inches, all he really felt comfortable doing, and looked
down the street toward the bay. The streets were pretty well flooded, but
the water levels looked like they were starting to recede. Wait, he thought,
it was just a trick of the way it was moving. He rubbed his eyes and looked
again, then took off his spectacles and cleaned them, and put them back on.
“Am I seeing things? It looks as though the water’s running uphill.”
“It is, Dr. Vin. The bay is nearly drained. I can see hills and some
stranded ships, and even houses.” Vin saw Janus stand up unsteadily, and
climb further onto the roof. “You said the river’s north of here, right?”
Vin got a leaden feeling in his gut. “It – it was, yes. North of here, then
to the east and into the inlet.”
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“Not anymore. The whole place is waterlogged, but that doesn’t look
like a river anymore.” He stumbled a little, sending a slate tile skidding
down the roof. “Sorry. Hey,” he yelled, “I can’t find the Mourning Dove
out there.”
“The what?”
“My ship!”
Vin mumbled in reply, and went to sit down. More slate cracked and
slid down the roof as Kepler swung into the window frame. His stocking
feet, black and slick with mud and tar, found purchase on the sill and then
onto Vin’s clean bedroom floor. He sat on the sill and ducked his head in,
grinning madly.
“I figured out what’s happening.”
“Do tell,” Vin said miserably.
Janus pointed out the window. “The bay’s not emptying, the land underneath is rising. It’s going so fast I could watch it. That’s what’s pushing
the water uphill. When it’s finished I bet the water’ll go right back down
again and out to see. No problems!”
“And the river?”
“Well, maybe I was wrong about the river. It’s a little hard to pick
out something like that when the whole city’s a lake.” He tapped his feet
excitedly, making little splashing noises. “This is amazing, Dr. Vin! I’ve
never seen anything like it!”
Vin moaned and let his head sink into his hand, with his elbows proppoed
on his knees. “It’s worse than I ever imagined,” he said in a muffled voice,
“and it’s all my fault.”
***
The soldier and the children walked all day over the rough terrain. Near
midday, when he couldn’t walk any further, they stopped and sat in a circle
in the high, flowering grass. The soldier showed them to dig up the corms
from the thick-stemmed plants. He peeled off the scaley outside with his
fingernails and chewed on the starchy inside.
Deya spit out the pieces she’d bitten off and started to cry. The other
children didn’t look much happier, but didn’t complain. The soldier stood
up slowly, and told them to stay there and try to get a little sleep.
They all woke up when they heard the gunshot, and they were still
staring around, huddled against the ground, when the soldier came back
with a fat, skinned animal. “Tara, Tomi, I saw a little dead tree off that
way. Go break some pieces off and bring them back.” His voice was hoarse,
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and he looked as pale as a ghost. He and the remaining children pulled up
all the grass in a four-foot circle, and then dug a pit with their hands in the
sandy soil. He poked through the mound of dirt and put all the rocks he
found back into the hole.
Satisfied, he lay on his back and rested, breathing heavily, until the two
older children came back with arms full of twigs. He broke them and put
them in the hole, then took a pouch from his bag. Out of it he took an old,
battered paper envelope, which he put underneath the little stack of twigs,
and from another pocket he took a match. He lit it against the side of his
boot and held it to the envelope, which caught fire and let off little curls of
smoke and probed through the twigs.
“What’s in the envelope?” Burr asked, staring at it.
“Letters,” said the soldier.
“Why’d you burn them?”
“I won’t be able to send them, and I don’t want anybody else to read
them.”
“Who’re they to?”
“My wife.”
“Oh.”
He rested on his back while the fire started up and got to burning.
Watching the sky, he started seeing black smoke. “Don’t put grass on the
fire,” he growled, and shut his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“I didn’t – ”
“Shut up, Tomi, he’s sleeping.”
In a little while he sat up and saw all the children intently watching the
fire. The twigs had mostly collapsed and the flames were mostly gone. He
put his hand over the hole and held it there a minute, then started cutting
chunks off the dead animal and tossing them right onto the embers. It hissed
and popped, and threw up a little smoke and ash. It smelled of grease and
soot as it cooked. The soldier propped himself up on one hand, and with
the other jerkily prodded the cooking meat with his knife to turn it over.
After another minute or two he stabbed at the pieces and dropped them
on the ground where the steamed. By the time he’d gotten them all, his
knuckles were red and the hair on the back of his hand had burned off. They
gnawed on the tough, dirty meat in silence.
The soldier wasn’t fast enough when he heard the click of metal on metal,
and had a shotgun barrel six inches from his face just a moment before his
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pistol was in his hand. He stared up to the gnarled brown hand that held
it, and the brightly-colored shirt on the arm.
“Just lower your iron there, and I won’t shoot you.” The white-haired
Gypsy chewed on a long blade of grass while the soldier did just that, then
looked around at the terrified children. “A Fenne soldier with a couple little
Ebrons. But you’re not Fenne, then, are you?”
“No,” the soldier started, feeling defeated and suddenly very tired. His
leg had stopped hurting him, but there was almost no feeling at all. A couple
other Gypsies, all armed with rifles and shotguns, surrounded the group.
“Look,” the soldier said suddenly. “Can you take them?”
“That’s what we came for. And what do you think we should do about
you?”
The soldier swung his bag up off the ground and held it up for the Gypsy
to take. The other Gypsies got the children on their feet and half-dragged
them away, crying as they went. The old Gypsy remained, and as soon as
the children were out of sight, the soldier collapsed.
The Gypsy paid him no mind, and rooted through the bag until he found
a passport. He fumbled it open while motioning a few of the younger men
to come back.
“Put out the fire. And take this – ” He squinted at the small print,
cursing his old bad eyes. “Take this Mr. Dolohov with us. Doesn’t seem
right to just leave him for the birds.”
***
Very good, Robin. Your guess was correct. They felt the Akrostiran
lower shelf finish its rise and lock into place. Long dormant mechanisms
ground to a halt. They passed their sense through the shelf and found no
fault.
“Thank you. Is there anything else that should be attended to?”
No, Robin. We should rest before we start cleaning.
Robin stirred in his sleep. His mind felt slow on the outside, when he
tried to look around his body, but it felt nimble on the inside, sensing the
world through roots and magic. He let his head loll back and returned to
dreaming.
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CHAPTER 26. REFUGEES
Chapter 27
History IV
Andrew Dolohov’s life was a dream. In less than a year, he graduated from
the Rostov Academy with high marks, got into the college in Luxor, and put
a ring on his girl’s finger. The only sadness was not being able to find Paul
to share all the good news before leaving on a ship for Luxor. He was off
somewhere, working hard, and hadn’t given anyone his new address. The
last he heard, Paul was saving up for something secret.
The ship was an incredible experience. His father had gotten him passage
on a Navy ship to save money, and it was amazing. The waves made him
sick, but he exhilarated at the salt spray and the fresh warm wind. The
sailors all smiled to see him, and the coxswain, who’d known his father, told
him stories while he watched the helm. He watched everything on the ship,
remembering his father’s stories and learning the bizarre terminology, and
by the time they arrived in Luxor, he’d fallen in love with the sea.
He studied the course set out for him at Luxor’s Finnemar College, with
the stated goal of becoming a lawyer. He had his whole life laid out for him,
a good degree, maybe a small law practice in Rostov, and a large family
with his beautiful wife. With this all in mind, he completed his first year
with wonderful marks, and his professors’ commendations. Even so, he felt
isolated from the other students. In Rostov Academy, he’d been a bit of a
hick. He’d taken heat for it, and even gotten in a fistfight or two. Here, he
was worse – a provincial. He had an accent. When he spoke with it, people
thought he was ignorant. When he spoke without it, they thought he was
putting on airs.
He didn’t have a servant, but the Governor of Rostov had arranged
enough of his tuition that he didn’t have to be anyone’s servant, either. He
washed his own gown and his own clothes, shaved himself in the morning,
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CHAPTER 27. HISTORY IV
and served himself at the table. He spoke to his classmates about their
readings, and they soon came to respect him as having a clear, rational
mind, and as being very observant and very patient. But they didn’t talk
about anything else, and rarely invited him to go drinking or whoring in the
city. Instead he stayed up late reading, and when he didn’t study he wrote
long letters to Natalya back home, and sometimes also to his grandmother,
even though she was losing her sight.
Andrew didn’t go home at the end of his first year. He couldn’t afford
it. In between terms, he made some extra money cleaning rooms, and later
found a good job patrolling the grounds at night while the students were
away. He did this between terms for his entire time in Luxor, three years.
From there, he needed to attend an actual law school for his diploma, and
there was a law school, if a small one, in Rostov. That spring, he packed
up his books and his clothes and his certificate of study, and boarded a
passenger ship home.
His father and Natalya met him at the port in Rostov with open arms and
congratulations. John chided his son for getting skinny, but not too much.
They rode home in his grandmother’s wagon, and found Vespin covered in
flowers and colored paper, just for his return home. From that moment on,
he barely saw Natalya as she and her mother prepared for a June wedding.
In the meantime, he helped with the preparations, and asked about Paul.
Nobody had seen him for three years, not even his parents, and even then
only briefly.
The morning of the wedding took forever to arrive. They cleared out the
tavern and moved the vodka and the whisky outside, and Natalya’s father
brought out three barrels of the beer he’d brewed special for the occasion,
with perfectly roasted grain and the best hops in the Northern Territories.
Andrew wore his best clothes, and John wore his red Navy uniform, which
Andrew’s grandmother had discreetly let out. Aglaia herself wore a lovely
old-fashioned dress with bright blue and green scarves.
When Natalya emerged, the whole town held its breath, and Andrew
nearly passed out. She was beautiful. Her long black hair had been washed
and perfumed, she wore a lace veil over her face and her long, pale neck,
and a light green dress, almost a gown, that nearly touched the ground, and
swept around her bare ankles as she walked along the swept path to join
her groom in the center of town. She took his hand and walked with him
to kneel before the priest from Rostov. He gave them his blessing, and they
stood and said their vows. Andrew lifted her veil with shaking hands and
kissed her.
The beer was flowing before they had even walked back to where every-
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one was waiting. Those who could play instruments did, and Andrew and
Natalya danced for hours as everyone got steadily drunker. When the sun
set, they retreated to his grandmother’s tavern, and everyone cheered when
they heard Andrew bar the door shut.
John raised his cup in one more toast, less than intelligible. He was
happier than he could ever remember, even more than at his own wedding,
and more drunk by far. He limped from person to person, shaking hands
and grinning widely and slapping people on the back. And suddenly people
got quiet.
Into the light of the bonfire stumbled a rangy man in worn-out clothes,
clutching a pistol. Behind him the horse he rode in on stepped nervously,
untethered.
“Where is he?” the man demanded, waving the gun. “Where is that son
of a bitch?”
John stepped forward, feeling a lot more sober, but not quite enough.
“Hello Paul, long time no see. Come on over and have a drink, I’m glad you
came.”
Paul held the gun on him, but faltered. Tears came to his eyes, and he
shook his head to clear them.
“It’s all right,” John said. He took a chance and took a step to the boy,
who didn’t respond. He took another, onto his bum leg. It spasmed and he
lurched drunkenly. Paul shot. He stared as John went down to his knees,
then he turned and grabbed his horse and ran. Some ran after Paul, some
went to John. He assured them he was all right, just drunk and winded, and
kept saying that until he collapsed. All eyes went to the tavern, off away
from the center of town. The light was on in the upper window, and nobody
came out. They hadn’t heard the shot.
***
Natalya and Andrew lay in bed for a long time when they finally woke up,
whispering to each other and playing. Natalya finally sat up and stretched
languidly.
“I’m going to make my husband breakfast,” she announced, planting
a kiss on his lips. She dressed slowly while he watched and occasionally
interfered. “Stay here, I’ll be back.”
She went downstairs and found the tavern empty, and went to the
kitchen. She put wood in the stove and lit the fire, then checked the larder,
which was mostly empty. She put on her shoes and went outside, and was
not too surprised to see Aglaia waiting for her, looking haggard.
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“Good morning, grandmother.”
“Child, I need to talk to you. Something’s happened.” They went to
the house next door, where a half dozen very serious and very tired looking
men waited with coffee. They handed her a cup of bitter black, and looked
away, shamefaced. Natalya began to feel very anxious.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Ivan’s dead, child. He died last night.”
“Oh God. What happened?”
“His heart,” Aglaia said firmly, looking the men in the room square in
the eye if they dared look up at her. “It failed and he died. I will tell my
grandson, but you must bring him down to me here.”
Natalya looked around at the faces in the room, and she knew that it
wasn’t true, but she fetched her husband.
The funeral was scheduled for three days later. They sent for another
priest from Rostov, and searched high and low for Paul. Paul’s father stayed
in his office in shame, but relayed every telegraph, including the ones searching for his son.
Andrew was devastated, but believed the heart story. He believed it, at
least, until the funeral. The priest came to speak to him beforehand, and by
chance he happened to be the same priest who had married him, who had
given his father last rites – but who had left before Aglaia had decided to lie
until Paul was caught. It only took a minute of talking before Andrew burst
into the tavern, where the coffin lay in state. He yanked off the top and
there was his father in his uniform, with the bullet hole stitched closed, and
the stain not quite washed out. He turned on the people there, venomous.
“You knew,” he spat. “You all knew. Who shot him? Tell me now!”
His grandmother stood up. “Paul shot him. He is being chased down as
we speak, and will be brought to justice. I’m sorry you found out this way,
Andrei, but sit down. Please, sit down.”
Andrew felt weak in the knees. All eyes were on him and his mind was
chaotic. He fled upstairs to his father’s room and bolted the door, then
collapsed with his back to it. He heard the funeral downstairs, the priest’s
muffled voice, and faint singing. He got to his feet and found the crate of
his father’s belongings from the jail. The big steel guns were there, and he
hefted it in his hands, but it felt wrong. He had no right to it. The rifle was
on the bed, but there were no bullets for it. In the bottom of the crate he
saw a leather belt. He pulled at it, and came up with the black revolvers.
There were rounds in the belt, and he loaded the black cylinders, and spun
them. These he had a right to, they belonged to his namesake.
He grabbed the belts and the bullets and the cleaning kit, then he pushed
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open the window and climbed out. He half-climbed, half-slid down the
roofing and landed on his feet. Rostov, he decided while pulling on the belts
and fumbling with the buckles. Paul’d have gone to Rostov.
“Dreiya, where are you going?” He spun around, and Natalya was there.
She wore black and carried a bouquet from the funeral, to put on the grave.
Roses, his father’s favorite flowers. He’d stop and smell them on his rounds
whenever they were in bloom.
“Paul killed my father. It wasn’t a heart attack.” He looked up from
the guns and saw her face. His throat felt suddenly parched. “You knew.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know, not for sure.”
“You knew! Damn it, you knew!”
“No!” She started to cry. “They told me to tell you it was his heart.
I knew it wasn’t right, but I didn’t know why they wouldn’t tell me the
truth.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No, Dreiya, please. They’ll find him, they’ll try him. They’ll do it, not
you. Please not you.” Her voice wavered. “They’ve all gone to the cemetery.
Come with me Dreiya, I can’t go alone.” She held out the bouquet to him.
He stared at it.
“You’re protecting him,” he said quietly, pulling the belt tight and adjusting the unfamiliar holster on his hip. It felt heavy. “I can’t believe this.
My friends, my neighbors, my grandmother, even my wife.” He backed away,
headed around back of the tavern to the road.
“Dreiya! Andrew! Come back!”
He turned and looked back at her. “I will come back when Paul is dead.”
And then he fled.
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CHAPTER 27. HISTORY IV
Chapter 28
Resolve
Janus helped the sailors salvage what they could from the Mourning Dove. It
had been one of the few ships to survive the hurricane without capsizing, but
the winds had been unkind to those captains trying to rescue their ships from
beaching. The Dove, in fact, had wound up on the side of a good-sized hill, a
stroke of good fortune that had kept the hull largely intact. Most ships, and
many people, had not been so lucky. The raised city’s wet slippery ground
was littered with wreckage and the bodies of recently-drowned sailors who
had not gotten to shore in time.
The old piers now jutted up at a crazy angle, splintered and jagged and
useless. Large sections of the boardwalk housed salvage from the ships, and
more than a few fights had broken out among the sailors guarding it from
each other.
It took them all day to strip the Mourning Dove, and Neil worked so
hard that Janus thought he would keel over. He didn’t. He marched back
and forth and gave orders and kept a very grim look on his face the whole
time. Janus knew that he’d lost a ship before, on an unmapped sandbar in
a brutal storm, but this was worse somehow. The land shouldn’t just come
up and grab a ship like that, it wasn’t fair.
The day ended soon enough for Janus. He’d convinced Vin to let him
and Neil stay a few nights in his shop in exchange for some money and one
of the smaller books. Neil didn’t show up until an hour after Janus. He
frowned and shot angry glances around, and sat quietly in a chair in the
corner most of the evening, poring over manifests and drafting a letter to
Bronson Insurers.
In the morning, all three rose early and had a short breakfast. Neil
held court like a little king as people came in and out all morning to confer
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with him. Sailors, bankers, Ebrons who had come on the Dove, and a few
longshoremen who Neil now owed money.
The problem of the Ebron refugees had been partly solved. Those who
could handle the work had been hired on salvage crews, and Neil pulled
strings to make sure they were paid reasonably. Some of the others were
cooking food to sell to the workers. So long as the work lasted, they’d do
well.
Janus Kepler was out surveying the salvage of the Dove when the telegraph from Kendauer came. Vin showed it to him on his return; it said
simply, “VIN SAFE? -- TRENT Stop” with just the handwritten sender’s
information on the other side.
“It’s from a hotel, not from Kendauer Station,” Janus said after looking
it over. “so it’s not likely to be a relay from somewhere else. But there’s
no guarantee he’s still there.” A gleam in his eye made Vin doubt whether
that mattered.
Sure enough, Janus left the next morning, taking his uniform, his pistol,
and a few other items. He’d told Neil only that he intended to find out what
the hell was going on.
The train station was full of soldiers in all different uniforms, some going
to Kendauer, some coming home. With his uniform and stature he got close
to a couple conversations and learned that the Fenne Army had mostly
dispersed, but that a few generals and other officers had gone rogue and
staked out territories for themselves – which territories tended to include
unwilling cities or bits of other territories. The freakish weather wasn’t
helping, either. Mudslides buried fields and even a small town, lightning
storms set fires, there was even a blizzard in Etheora that wiped out their
fruit crop.
The other big group arriving, of course, concerned the rechristening of
Stira. A lot of people died when it rose, not to mention the ship captains
who faced insolvency, but the emergence of the lower city was hailed as
a miracle of the first proportion. Priests and pilgrims from all over the
continent made the trip, and there were tales of those who didn’t make it,
caught up in the wars or the weather. Kepler listened politely to those
wild-eyed few who felt like discussing the religious significance of late events
with a perfect stranger, and sent the nicely dressed ones to Ben Vin’s shop
to purchase relics. After sending a few that way, he hired a messenger to
deliver the message, in Imperial script, “Raise your prices” then boarded his
train.
He’d been seated in an older car, with wooden seats. Mostly the car
was full of soldiers, but there were a few civilians, some obviously well-
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off. They didn’t say much to anyone, but didn’t look Akrostiran, so Janus
figured they had fled Kendauer during the war. The conductor apologized
to each well-dressed person as he took their tickets that the newer cars had
been damaged and taken out of service for repair, but that cushions were
available at the rear of the car. He didn’t say it to Janus, but he took a
cushion anyway, seeing as nobody would stop him.
***
William Trent paced his room in the Kendauer Grand Hotel all night.
By morning he knew every creak in the floor, and had been stepping gingerly
to avoid them. They seemed to change as he did, moving like bubbles under
tarpaper. The room smelled strongly of his favorite pipe tobacco, even with
the tiny window open and blowing cool air. His senses were keen and sharp
even though his mind felt foggy and his head ached. He could feel the storm
all around, just out of reach of his senses, like seeing a fire just on the
edge of his peripheral vision. Whenever he moved toward it, it wasn’t there
anymore, it winked out like a firefly.
Indeed, half the night had been spent coming up with idiotic similes to
describe what he was experienced. He’d started to draft a letter after dinner
the night before. The draft page bore lines and lines of scrawled Imperial
ideograms. He’d crossed some out, scratched out whole blocks of them. He’d
tried over and over to explain what he was seeing, but to no avail.
The knock on his door scared him badly, he still shook a little as he
opened it. “Mr. Kepler!” he exclaimed.
“Excuse my intrusion,” Janus bowed as he entered the room, reciting the
words he’d practiced on the train and up the hotel stairs to the fifth floor.
“But I’ve been through freak storms and waterspouts, rivers going uphill
and whole cities rising out of the ocean. My employer and my friend are
gone and probably dead. My manners, I suspect, are lacking.” He closed
the door and leaned against it.
“And you want to know what’s going on.” Trent sat at the desk, and
carefully turned the chair around, trying to avoid scraping the floor. Janus
waited quietly. “Are you familiar with the concept of a sleeper agent?”
Janus nodded. “The Old Man had a them all over. The one who took a
shot at ban Iris last year was one.”
“Then if I told you that I am one?”
“I’d ask whose you are. Except, I think I already know.”
Trent nodded. “The Eternal King has been uncomfortable with the
amount of magic being used on this continent, and wanted to know why. I
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was trained from a young age in its use, and had a good post at Mediter
University, contacts with its ruling council, and even was a friend of Captain
de Mediter. I was approached and instructed to keep my eye open for any
activity in Mediter. One of my contacts in the Mediter government suggested
my name when Robin surfaced. I arranged to be one of Robin’s tutors –
which was a ridiculous idea, but they went for it, for lack of anything else to
do with him. He turned out to be a wash, though. His abilities came from
Ben Vin, someone I already knew.”
“But if the Imperium was concerned with too much magic being used,
weren’t there other places to investigate?”
“What? No, no, you misunderstand. The Imperium wasn’t concerned
that too much magic was being used, but rather too little.”
Janus peered at him. “I don’t understand. They don’t want these people
using magic, do they?”
“That’s right. In fact, they want very few people using it at all, regardless
of who and where. But there’s too much back and forth over the sea to
really prevent it, and it’s too ingrained in the culture of the areas around
the Forbidden City. Those who know about magic are usually told not to
discuss it with anyone. And the bizarre thing is, they don’t. Andrew von
Krieger’s mother is the only Imperial citizen I ever heard of who did, and
she didn’t say much. Andrew’s father thought it was some sort of alchemy,
thought he was buying his son’s way into a social group that would make
him prestigious. Andrew himself all but stopped using his abilities when he
came here. Ben uses his abilities almost not at all. My own are not what
they used to be, and indeed I rarely feel the need to use them, except out
of habit.” He raised his pipe as an example, and now that it came to mind,
he refilled it and relit it. “There just always seems to be a better way to do
things, if indeed it occurs to me to use magic at all. Robin, however, used it
like any other tool. He used it often, and as a first resort, and became very
good with it in an exceptionally short period of time.”
“What about the other sleeper agents? There’s never just one.”
Trent stood up, nodding. “Yes, but of course I don’t know who they are.
But I think Robin does.” He got a bit of a wild look in his eyes, already
bloodshot and hooded from lack of sleep. “These bizarre weather patterns
puzzled me. Flash floods, waterspouts, blizzards, everything starts without
warning and goes away. They only fail to make sense if you think of them
as weather. But if you think of them as attacks?”
Janus just stared. He couldn’t think of any possible reply.
“These thing are not just happening on this continent. The ports in
Luxor are wrecked, and it’s no coincidence that those are the ones from
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which any expedition to the Northern Territories would be launched. The
Imperium is planning to counter-attack, but is taking it slowly, working with
subtlety and patience, but I believe Robin has them in a panic. He is more
powerful than they expected, and the power with which he is allied is very
strong and very angry. I can feel it constantly now.” He puffed at his pipe.
“It has a hold on Robin, a strong hold, and it is drawing others to it. I’m
a human compass these days myself, I know exactly where north is, and
something deep inside me wants desperately to go.”
“Maybe you should?”
“Oh no. Robin is young and has a strong will and the best intentions,
and it has completely subsumed him. I would stand no chance, none at all.
I am afraid that if the Imperium sends men like me, things will get much
worse than they are now.” He trailed off, chewing his pipestem and gazing
out the window at nothing in particular.
Janus stretched his legs and paced. “Why not just take twenty ships and
a regiment or two of Imperial Marines? That’d do the trick.”
“If they could get to him. He seems to work on a large scale – what
happened in Palatine, for example, or in Luxor, or the mud slides. The
news sheet said that almost fifteen large ships have been lost at sea in the
last week, but that small ships have been left alone.”
“Mestrava always said that it was better to go in with a small number of
men who knew what they were doing. Slip in, slip out. He said he learned
it from Andrew, who said it’s all romantic bullshit. Andrew, he’d rather go
in with half a regiment armed to the teeth, do it fast and clean and don’t
take chances. Too bad he’s the one who always got sent in by himself.”
Trent looked very thoughtful for a moment. “Do you think that Mr.
Mestrava would be interested in a proposition?”
“Mestrava’s dead. But I sure am.”
***
He heard them talking quietly somewhere nearby. His leg hurt like hell,
but he could move his toes against the sheets, so it was probably still attached. He’d heard stories about phantom limbs, but he didn’t think that
this was the case. His whole body felt hot and slick with sweat.
He smelled smoke and got a gust of cool air on his face. Someone was
breathing near him.
“Am I dead?” he tried in Ebron.
“No, you’re not dead,” someone snapped, “You’re just – ” She chuckled,
whoever she was, with a gravelly voice and a strong Gypsy accent. “Sorry,
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but all the children been askin’, ‘Is he dead?’ and I always tell them, ‘No
he ain’t dead, he’s just resting’ How’s the leg?”
He lay with his eyes closed, feeling the blood pound through his head.
“Was I dead?”
There was a pause. “That’s a foolish question. Open your eyes, boy.”
He obeyed reluctantly, and stared at the grey cloth roof of a covered
wagon. “Why am I alive?”
She snorted and leaned over him. She stared at him with shining black
eyes, set in a wrinkled brown face and framed by long white hair. She
was, he realized, quite beautiful. “You ask stupid, dangerous questions,
gunfighter.” She poked him between the ribs. “You’re alive because you
saved those children and for no other reason.” She punctuated those last
words by poking him even harder.
She sank back into her seat, and with some difficulty, Andrew raised
himself onto his elbows to look at her.
“The world doesn’t work that way,” he said. “I’ve killed people myself
who’ve done better things.”
“That’s nothing to be proud of.”
“It’s not pride.”
She twisted up her face as though she were going to spit on him, but he
remained still. “You are perverse. Why did we save you?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
The old woman stared at him in wonder. “No wonder he’s afraid of you.
Everywhere he looks, except where you are. That makes you valuable.”
“Who are you talking about?”
She got up from her wooden chair and went to the back of the wagon,
where a bright blue cloth still hung over the opening. “The destroyer of
Palatine, the one who wrecked Stira Nedar.”
“What?” He tried to sit up suddenly, and his leg shot a bolt of pain
through him. He turned to his side rather than fall back. “Ducheval? De
Mediter?” A thought occurred to him. “The Imperium? Did they invade?”
“Just like a man to think of grand armies. No, no army or navy. One
boy.”
Andrew’s face went ashen. He began to shake his head slowly. “I won’t
believe it. It’s not possible.”
“Destroyed, Mr. Dolohov. Burnt like paper down even below the ground.
Palatine is a lake now.”
“Akrostira too?”
“Stira Nedar is whole again. The part underwater has risen, but the city
was flooded and many people died.”
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“How?”
“He is strong. Very strong.”
“I saw him not even a month ago. He didn’t seem – ”
“Like a monster? A murderer? He wasn’t. He’s not.” She plumped
back into her chair, making the floorboards creak. “The one with him is the
monster.”
There were voices outside suddenly, and a familiar little head poked
inside, now clad in a bright yellow scarf.
“He’s alive!” Deya squealed. The old woman rose quickly to head them
off as they all pushed by the cloth, wide-eyed and brightly dressed. Andrew
smiled weakly and waved as they were swept out.
“I won’t be able to keep them out long. Get dressed. We should talk of
this later.” She ducked out of the wagon and pinned the flap shut. Andrew
could hear her herd away the children.
He rose slowly. His leg ached, and he could see that the wound had been
cleaned and roughly sewn closed. It hurt, but no longer bled. The skin
around it looked bruised but healthy. He probed it with his finger. It hurt,
but was not overly sensitive.
A bundle of clothes sat on a barrel at the foot of the bed. Undergarments.
Tan trousers and a dismayingly bright red shirt. Stockings and his boots,
still stained with dust, blood and sea salt. His guns lay in their holsters
behind the barrel, on top of his bag. He let these alone as he dressed and
limped out of the wagon.
The children mobbed him before his foot even touched the ground. They
looked clean and healthy, and all wore bright clothes and scarves, and their
breath steamed in the chilly air. He smiled at them, and was friendly, but all
he could think about was Palatine, and Robin. More than once, he looked
up at the wagon where his guns were, and could picture them lying on the
floor.
He’d woken up late in the day, as the Gypsies were starting preparations
for dinner. Two sheep roasted over faintly glowing coals, and all the children
in the camp – ten, Andrew reckoned – took turns fanning the coals to keep
them very hot. The old woman didn’t talk to him, and neither did any
of the other Gypsies. They weren’t rude, but Andrew’s Ebron wasn’t very
good, and theirs was hard to understand. He sat near the fire where it was
warm, and watched the preparations in silence.
After dinner, while the children played games in the woods, Andrew
joined the old woman and her husband Bartok in their wagon. He still hadn’t
learned her name; everyone, including her husband, called her “Mother” and
it was plain that he should, too.
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Bartok smoked a long, bent cigarette, the offer of which Andrew politely
declined. Mother sat off in the corner over a table made from a barrel,
dealing, shuffling, and redealing her cards.
“Bartok, love, close the door.” He reached back and let open the knot so
that the heavy cloth fell over the wagon entrance. A single lamp lit the little
room, casting long shadows. Andrew felt edgy, the shadows kept catching
his eye.
She looked up at him, still absent-mindedly shuffling her cards. “Mr.
Dolohov, do you still plan to go north?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good,” she said, slipping the cards into a pouch. “That is where Robin
Jalensen is.”
Andrew did not show his astonishment. “Is that so? Where, in Rostov?”
She made a dismissive noise. “You know perfectly well where he is. Your
father told you about it.”
He had no idea how she knew that, but didn’t try to guess. “Why would
he go there? It’s a ruin.”
“Come here, both of you, and lift off this tabletop,” she demanded.
Andrew and Bartok got up and did as she said. It came neatly off the
barrel, and had a groove to fit its lip. They lay it to the side of the wagon,
where it made a bulge in the fabric.
Andrew looked into the barrel, at Mother’s insistence. Inside, packed in
sand and soil was a kind of crystalline statue, like the ice sculptures they
made in Rostov when he was a kid. If that’s what it was, it was pretty, but
amateurish, just a twisted mass with no discernable form. She directed him
to touch it, and he found it glassy and warm.
“What is it,” he asked, still staring at it.
“It’s old, and alive, like a tree. It’s been growing in this barrel since my
great-grandmother was a little girl.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know for sure. She found it growing on an island in Stira Nedar.
It was much smaller then, I think. I asked it, but it doesn’t know how fast
it grows.”
“You asked this? What is it?”
“I don’t know what it is, stop asking that.” Bartok chuckled at her
irritation. “It’s very intelligent, and can talk to us, in a way. It wanted us
to bring you to it.”
“And?”
And welcome, Andrei Ivanovitch.
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Andrew turned around to see who was talking to him. He turned back
and Mother indicated the barrel.
I understand that this is difficult to adjust to. I cannot speak otherwise,
but I can hear you when you speak normally.
“Why did you bring me? What are you?”
You are necessary, Andrei Ivanovitch. Jalensen is afraid of you. He
fears that you will kill him.
“Why?”
Because you will. I have seen it, and in a way, so has he.
Andrew made a face. “What are you, then, that you can see my future?”
There was a long silence. None of the three present looked the others in
the eye. I do not know what I am. I am old, a scion of a thing older still,
which passed on memories to me, but fragments only. We were created by
men, but became both their servants and their masters. I remember Stira
when it was whole, and I served it there. The destruction of my former self
and the sundering of Stira Nedar were a single, violent act, but ultimately
just one such act among many. Medit Nedar, Ebberach Nedar, Stira Nedar,
each was watched over by one of my kind, and they all died.
“Who killed them?”
We killed each other. Or, we started wars and made men do it.
“Why?”
I do not know. Even now, with only dim memories of the past, I hate
them, and I believe that they would destroy me if they could. Perhaps we
are flawed, perhaps that was our purpose. I do not remember.
“Which is why you want me. To kill it for you, and the boy.”
Yes.
“I’m not in that business anymore.”
I accept that. You must go home, Andrei Ivanovich. The choice is not
yet before you, and it will not be easy to choose between peace and war,
between the rose and the gun.
Andrew said nothing. Neither did the thing in the barrel. He accepted
Bartok’s cigarette this time, and took it outside. He forgot the thing’s words,
or tried to. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, maybe the tobacco.
He laughed a little, it seemed crazy, impossible even. He could barely say it
aloud, even to himself.
“I’m going home.”
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CHAPTER 28. RESOLVE
Chapter 29
History V
Andrew Dolohov knew that Paul had to be working for a shipping company,
so he went down to the docks on his arrival in Rostov. He took off the
guns and hid them in his pack, and asked around about him, trying to
sound friendly. He found eventually the shipping office where he’d worked
translating manifests and other documents for a company out of Madras.
They hadn’t seen him in a week, and he hadn’t been back.
The Marshals hadn’t found him, and they knew their business. Which
meant that Paul couldn’t still be in the territories. He went to the ships and
asked around, describing Paul as best he could at every stop. He made his
way from ship to ship, and cursed himself whenever he saw one sail away.
The sun set before he’d finished, and he slept under the pier.
Early the next morning, someone shook him awake. Andrew looked up
and saw an older man in a red uniform. “I’m sorry,” Andrew apologized,
“I’ll go if I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.”
The older man shook his head. “Someone said you were looking for
a man who’d have come through here a couple days ago. Describe him.”
Andrew did, quickly. “Yeah, a man like that came by three days ago, looking
to sign on. We weren’t ready to ship out, and I didn’t like the look of him.”
Andrew jumped to his feet. “Where did he go after that?”
“I don’t know, but mine wasn’t the only Navy ship in port, and a couple
have left since then. That one over yonder’s the only other ship that hasn’t
left yet, but it’ll leave today with the tide.”
Andrew nodded and thanked him, but the man took him by the arm
before he left. “I have an idea why you’re looking for this fellow, but once
he signs up he belongs to the Navy. The Marshals can’t touch him, you
can’t touch him. Not unless he does anything aboard ship, which he won’t
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if he’s smart, or until he takes his leave.”
He went to the other ship, the Swordfish. They’d seen Paul, but when
they’d told him they weren’t leaving for a few days, he’d looked for another
ship. The big black man he talked to, the quartermaster, saw the look of
discouragement on his face. “Why you looking for this fellow, then? He owe
you money?” Andrew had a hard time with his tropical archipelago accent,
it was the first time he’d ever heard one.
“He killed a man. I’m going to kill him.”
The quartermaster rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Most of the ships
come to Rostov are patrollers like this one. That means we’ll hit the same
ports, mostly.”
“Then I’ll join, and follow him.”
“Not so fast, there. You join, the Navy owns you for a year, even if it’ll
own him a year too. It’ll work you hard. You know anything about sailing?”
“Not much,” Andrew admitted, then remembered his father’s stories.
“But I’ve got my own guns and I can shoot. I can read and write, and I’ve
been to college.”
“A college man! I’ll talk to the bosun, then. We’ve got a lawman, but
we could probably use guards, and we can definitely use gunners. You ever
shot a cannon before?”
“No, but I’m willing to learn.”
The quartermaster nodded. “We’ll see.” He returned half an hour later
with pen and paper. Andrew signed away his freedom, and was made Andrei
Ivanovich Dolohov, Gunner’s Mate Third Class.
“Welcome aboard. Name’s Kepler.” They shook hands. “Now get below
deck and the Chief’ll put you to work. The Captain’ll swear you in when
he gets back.”
***
Andrew learned the basics pretty quickly, and made Second Class in
just a few months. The Swordfish patrolled the northern waters and saw
quite a few merchant ships, but no trouble with pirates. When they pulled
into Madras, Andrew went to all the sailor bars and inquired about Paul,
but nobody knew him. Nobody knew him in Mediter a few months later,
nor in Luxor or Rivos. After a while Kepler, the quartermaster, started
coming with him, showing him around the ports and finding the low-down
bars with the cheaper drinks and cheaper women. Andrew declined both
but was glad of the company, and the two got to be good friends. On the
ship they drilled on the cannons as often as was practical, and even got in
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some practice on a pair of merchant ships that needed to be scuttled. When
they weren’t drilling, Andrew learned some carpentry and helped with the
everyday repairs, as well as with the daily cleaning and cooking. Life aboard
ship left him exhausted every night with lousy food in his belly, but it was
honest work and he found himself enjoying it. Late at night he lay in his
hammock, sometimes thinking, sometimes working on a letter to Natalya.
He sent half his pay home every month, but never got the nerve to send the
letter.
Less than a year out, in the middle of a wet autumn night Andrew saw
his first engagement on the Swordfish, and it was nearly the end of him.
A pair of smugglers came in fast and quiet out of the mist off the coast of
Ibra where the mountains made thousands of little coves perfect for those
types. The Swordfish was bigger, but less maneuverable, and they shot out
her rudder before she could respond. Like a thunderstorm they unleashed a
barrage of fire on both sides of the patroller, sending splinters and parts of
beams flying. Barely a shot had the Swordfish’s gunners got off before the
smugglers disappeared again into the mist.
If they’d been smart they’d have left for good, but they came back for
a second run, and this time the Swordfish was ready. Below deck she had
fourteen guns and thirty gunners, plus a pair of five-pound guns up on deck.
Andrew loaded his gun fast, and waited patiently. Behind him the other
smuggler had gotten close enough and all seven guns fired into its rigging,
and the enemy ship fired back straight on. He heard men scream out, and
felt splinters and warm liquid hit his back and his neck, and water splashed
his boots. Andrew ignored it, intent on the enemy ship through his own
porthole, kept his cannon angled into its rigging; he’d put in a pair of balls
on a chain especially to bring down a mast. He barely heard the order to
fire, and never saw where his shot went; the chief gunner put a rifle in his
hands and sent him on deck as the next gunner reloaded behind him.
Andrew joined the crew on deck with his rifle loaded and ready. Both
smugglers were smaller ships but well-armed. Their rigging hung in tatters.
Andrew took a position on the side and aimed carefully. The air sang with
bullets and cannonballs, but for that moment he was back home drawing
a bead on a squirrel in the woods behind the jail, with his dad sitting in
his chair on the front stoop having a smoke. He calmly pulled the trigger,
and saw a gunner fall. Ignoring the world around him, he ducked behind a
capstan and reloaded, unhurried. He knelt again, calmly aimed at another
gunner and knocked him down as well. He ducked again to reload when
someone punched him in the right arm. He looked to his right, and saw no
one, and went back to reloading. He raised his rifle again, but a hand came
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down on the rifle barrel.
“They surrendered, Andrew. Go get that looked at.” Andrew suddenly
felt cold air and hot blood on his arm and realized he’d been hit. He dutifully
went below decks and found the ship’s surgeon. Someone strapped him onto
a cot, and he waited, bleeding patiently until a chloroform cloth went over
his mouth and nose.
***
His year’s term came and went, and he stayed on ship. The chief gunner
took to keeping him on deck during fights. More than once a smuggler or
two thought they could outgun the small old Imperial ship, and every time
either fled, sank, or was captured. The Swordfish wasn’t one of the new
ironclads, but its hull was thick and there was something about the wood
so that it held where another beam would splinter. It came in handy in a
fight, but it was a bitch to repair. Driving nails into it made his arm sore
fast, and he wasn’t a student anymore, he’d gotten strong.
When the Swordfish was assigned a new patrol, Andrew despaired of ever
finding Paul again, but he stayed. He still sent money home, and still never
wrote. No letters ever came, either. He stopped searching bars when he had
leave. He mostly went for the best food he could get, as many vegetables
and the best cuts of meat as he could find, then join Kepler to talk or play
cribbage or drink. Usually they drank.
The old chief gunner was made master petty officer a few months after
the start of Andrew’s second year, and he got the post. He got a pay raise
and a red uniform like his father’s. It put him in a foul mood for days, but
when he came out of it, he was a sailor and a petty officer, nothing more
or less. He didn’t say much anymore, which worried Kepler and the other
gunners a bit, but he seemed otherwise fine. He kept his mouth shut and his
ears and eyes open, kept his gunners well-trained and well-disciplined, and
the Swordfish under his watch did very well in battle. When the captain
got a machine gun in Rivos, Andrew studied it day and night for a week,
and drilled his best gunners on it until they could keep it going for three
minutes without jamming it. He never used it in battle.
Their next port of call was Madras. Andrew knew it well by then, a
long thin inlet surrounded by steep hills covered in homes and battlements.
He wasn’t inclined to drink, he was still fascinated by the new gun, but he
needed to stretch his legs, and he had money in his pocket. He wandered
the port for a while, enjoying the sun and the breeze, and finally found
himself at a little pub where the staff mostly spoke Imperial and all the
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officers liked to go. A few of his buddies were already there, and he went
to join them when something made him pause. He felt a little disoriented
for a moment, when he realized that the well-dressed, portly man speaking
terrible Imperial to an impatient serving girl, was speaking with a Northern
accent.
Andrew slid into the other seat at the man’s booth without asking permission, and repeated his order for an Ebron whiskey clearly to the girl.
The man gave him a puzzled, indignant look.
“I’d have got it eventually,” he huffed in his own language.
Andrew leaned in. “I just wanted to ask you, where did you learn Imperial?”
The man frowned. “I’ve only had a few lessons. You types are all alike,
if we don’t speak perfectly you act like we’re barbarians.”
“No, you speak very well,” Andrew interrupted, lying. “But you speak
with the accent I grew up with. Who taught it to you? I’ll pay for your
drink if you tell me.”
“Some fellow with the diplomats in Palatine.”
“Palatine? I’ve never heard of it.”
The man grew indignant again. “Never heard of it? It’s the capital of
all Fengar! The very heart of civilization, I’ll have you know.”
“You’ll have to pardon me, I’m new to Fengar. But what was his name?”
“I’m sure I don’t remember. He’s not very important, they’ve just got
him translating dispatches in the palace. I hired him to teach me after
hours.”
“Was his name Paul?”
He thought carefully. “You know, I rather think it was.”
Andrew dug a few bills out of his pocket and slammed them on the table
and left without a word, his buddies yelling in dismay as he pushed his way
out of the door. He went straight back to the ship, found the captain and
resigned on the spot, giving no reason. His term entitled him to parting pay,
but he refused it, and said to send it north with his whole last month’s pay.
He changed out of his uniform and loaded his guns, made sure he had his
passport in his bag, and left the ship and the port without further word to
anyone.
He approached the train station with the first hint of trepidation since
he left the pub. He’d heard of these things and even seen a few, but never
had been on one. He bought a ticket, and had to show his passport before
they handed it over. It cost as much as he’d have expected to spend on an
entire week’s shore leave. They had regular departures to Palatine every
few hours, and he didn’t have to wait long until the steel monster roared
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into the station, hissing and clanging. Andrew stepped onto it, clutching
his ticket, and passed by some strange, gaunt men in leather masks on their
way off.
He took a seat quickly, and surrendered his ticket for inspection by the
uniformed man who came by. There was an ear-splitting whistle and suddenly the whole car lurched, and with a bump was moving.
The train travelled more slowly than a horse would have, and Andrew’s
blood began to cool. Doubts formed very quickly. He didn’t know this town,
he didn’t know whether this was the right Paul, he didn’t really know what
he’d do when he saw him. He wasn’t in the Navy anymore. He brooded
during the whole trip. The sun set outside his window and he tried to sleep,
but the bumping and jostling kept him wide awake and thinking. The train
was mostly empty, but he heard whispered conversations about Paladins and
some sort of purge, and a King Ethelbert that nobody held in particularly
high regard.
Periodically the train slowed down as it passed platforms. The whole
car rattled as it went by, and there was a heavy thump as a sack hit the side
and was brought in. Mail, apparently. He also noticed that alongside the
tracks were wires strung up on poles. These he did not recognize, though he
noticed that the trees were pruned back from them. The first bridge scared
him, when the ground seemed to just drop away and the clattering drowned
out the conversation, but the moon was bright enough to make the view
over the river quite pretty. The black water shone and rippled, like a very
calm sea.
The train slowed to a stop well before dawn with a screeching of metal
against metal. Andrew stood gingerly. His back and his rump felt sore, and
his legs felt like jelly. This railroad thing was worse than his first days at
sea, but he recovered quickly. He stretched his legs on the platform and
got a good look at the train, a long black beast with a misshapen car at
front, probably the driver for the whole thing. It had a thick, solid body
and spindly bits mounted on wheels. Andrew was reminded of nothing so
much as a giant black grasshopper, like the ones he caught as a kid.
The Palatine train station was a huge bowl-shaped building. The trains
themselves surrounded a good two-thirds of the rim of the bowl with large
doors that probably never closed, and metal pole fences to herd people
around. In the bottom of the bowl were a few permanent enclosures, most
of them boarded up at that time of morning. One of them looked to be
selling tickets, and a few people waited in line. Large clock faces dominated
the front wall, and a large square pillar in the center of the building. They
all read five thirty, to some approximation.
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His fellow passengers shuffled past him out into the station. Some met
bleary-looking family, and several went to a small booth near the entrance,
which Andrew quickly realized was for exchanging money. He waited in
the short line, and exchanged a handful of Imperial bills and coins for a
surprising stack of Fengari coins. Imperial money would go quite a ways
here.
On leaving the station it became apparent that it was a good distance
outside Palatine proper. No wonder, with all the noise. It was not in a
particularly good neighborhood, either, and Andrew didn’t feel comfortable
putting his guns back on. Off to the west he could see the tops of an
old palace, short but graceful. He walked a short distance toward it, but
became afraid of getting lost, and walked back to the station, where he
saw that people were hiring carriages and funny-looking two-wheeled horsedrawn carriages where the driver sat on top. He hired one of these, and
asked for a place to stay close to the palace, and dozed off in the seat.
***
Andrew spent a single day buying clothes and other necessities to fit in,
then spent four days examining the palace from the outside, making mental
notes which he jotted down when he got back to his rented room. The guard
rotations were idiotic, planned poorly. The guards themselves were lazy or
demoralized; he saw that the old guard would retire at the beginning of
the bell, and the new guard resume at the end. He watched, incredulous,
the eleven o’clock guard change, and began to feel that he was putting too
much work into his preparations. They rarely bothered anyone coming in,
especially anyone who looked busy. On the fifth day, Andrew rolled up
his sleeves, took a sheaf of papers written in Imperial, and walked straight
through the front gate.
He should have been counting his steps or something of the sort to get
a numerical feel for the grounds, but he didn’t have the patience for it. He
wandered for a few hours, looking as busy as he could, heard the bell for the
guard change, and wandered back. When he got back to his room, he sat
and thought for a long time. The plan was simple. He’d go at ten. That’d
give him an hour to find Paul. He’d use the first bell as cover to kill him,
and get to the other side of the grounds as quickly as he could. The guards
coming off duty would be too tired to search thoroughly, and it would take
time for the news to get to the new guards.
Andrew didn’t sleep all that night. Every time he closed his eyes he
could picture his guns, picture Paul, picture Natalya. The sun came up and
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after laying there for a long time he got up, made his preparations, and sat
at his desk to pen a letter. Then he strapped on his guns, and put on his
long coat. It was a little chilly out, he hoped nobody would think it amiss.
Nobody gave him a second glance on his way to the palace. The guards
glanced him up and down at the gate but didn’t bother him.
The diplomat’s quarters were across the main yard and to the left. He
went straight there, walking fast, not running. The apartments were a little
more complex than he’d expected, but he was still early. He’d have to locate
Paul, then stay out of sight for another twenty minutes.
He went quietly from door to door, glancing in as he went quickly by.
Near the end of the hallway he looked into an open door and froze. Paul
looked up at him, curiosity becoming alarm. Andrew pulled his gun and
shot him. Again, then again. He stood and stared, then fled.
His plan ruined, he ran to avoid the approaching footsteps. He knew
the layout of the building, mostly, and mostly knew where guards would be
coming from. When he judged himself safe, he hid in a closet to catch his
breath. He waited a long time, heard the bells and cursed himself. While
he waited he looked through his pockets, but found little. His notes, some
money – not enough for a bribe – crackers, matches. He moved his belts
so that his guns were in the small of his back, and when nobody was in
the hallway he emerged and walked briskly out into the open. The sunlight
dazzled him for a moment, but he didn’t stay in it for long. He kept to the
paths, but the shortest ones.
When he at last spied a reasonably large group of people making for the
gates, he went up ahead, to a blind alley near the gate. He tore a strip of
paper and lay it on the ground, then pulled two bullets apart and poured
the grains of powder from them onto one end of the paper in two piles.
Estimating quickly, he lit a match and set the other end on fire, then he
walked quickly to follow the group to the gate. Three guards there stopped
the group and had started to ask for papers when there were two loud
reports from nearby. The guards exchanged looks, and the more senior of
them went with another to investigate. The remaining guard barely glanced
at the totally unrelated papers Andrew flashed at him as the flood of people
went by. He walked quickly away from the palace, his heart beating hard in
his chest.
He got to his rented room as quickly as he could, running up the stairs,
and pushed the door open with a sigh. No sooner than he did than the
gentleman sitting on his bed levelled a pistol at him.
“Close the door, please.” He spoke with a thick accent, but enunciated
clearly.
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Andrew obliged, numb from shock. The man, an older, impeccably
groomed Ebron, wore a polite look on his mustached face, and held an ornate
pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle and gold plating on the side. Andrew
himself knew that his own guns were out of reach, still tucked behind his
back.
“Now remove your weapons and place them on the chair.” He did so,
unbuckling the belts and sliding them off. He briefly considered drawing as
he did, but he was tired, and ultimately he didn’t care. The Ebron reached
over to the small desk and pulled off it the rope that Andrew had knotted
that morning. “Were you planning to use this on yourself? This is not a
hangman’s knot, it would fit badly on your neck. Also, I observe that there
is nowhere in this room from which you could fall particularly far. You
would die in a most unpleasant manner.”
“Do you care?”
“No, Mr. Dolohov, I do not. I am here because you have been most
reckless, and have made things very difficult for me. It is a debt that I insist
you repay.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you? How did you find me
here?”
“I observed you several times examining the Palace, outside and inside.”
He saw the panicked look on Andrew’s face. “I noticed only because I
was doing exactly the same thing. I learned a few things from watching
you. You were methodical and patient, but you were not good at keeping
yourself hidden. I had you followed here several times, but I have been
unable to ascertain whether you work alone. Had I known that you would
act so rashly, I would have approached you sooner, and been considerably
less angry with you. Instead, you acted decisively, or perhaps impulsively.
The difference is not lost on me, but you appear to favor the former. In any
case, you have ruined my plans.”
“You wanted someone killed.”
“No! I wanted someone rescued. I have, indeed, been commissioned
to rescue a Paladin from the prison on the grounds. They had not been
expecting it, and the guard had been lax. Now that advantage is gone,
and I must have a new one. From what I’ve seen, you should be a great
advantage.”
Andrew shook his head. “You know perfectly well I intend to die. You
can’t threaten me or promise me anything.”
“That is not strictly true,” the Ebron said. “This morning you left
certain letters for the post. I took the liberty of retrieving them. Restrain
yourself, sir! I will not harm them, I will not read them. But I cannot help
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but see that they are addressed to two women in the Imperial Northern
Territories, both named Dolohov. From the ring on your finger, I gather
that one of them is your wife. The other is your mother, perhaps? A sister?
Another wife? But no, they are both at the same address.
The Ebron rose and examined the mute sailor. “I will not blackmail you.
I will make you a deal. If you do this thing for me, which will not dishonor
you in any way, I will, if you succeed, send a certain not inconsiderable sum
of money to the two women whose names are on those envelopes. I will do
so whether you live or die, but only if you succeed.”
Andrew stared at him blankly, until the other man slid the two envelopes
from his inside jacket pocket and lay them on the desk. They were unopened.
“All right. I’ll do it.”
“Magnificent! Gather your belongings, then, and meet me at this address
no later than five o’clock. I expect punctuality.”
The Ebron left, walking with a fine stick that knocked loudly on the
wooden stairs. Andrew examined the piece of ivory cardstock on which was
printed an address, and the name Ian Garmin Mestrava, Esq.