Exile's Challenge (49 page)

Talle appeared unconcerned, bringing his mount plunging through the melting snow to confront the wide gates that remained closed.

“Do you open, damn you?”

From the wall above, Kerik shouted, “Are you truly the Inquisitor, you open them with your magic.”

Talle mouthed a second, fouler curse and raised his hands. Var watched as they moved in the complexities of arcane knowledge, seeing Talle's lips move but quite unable to grasp the words the Inquisitor spoke.

Bolts slid back untouched by hands and the gates flew open. Talle rode through and halted as Captain Kerik came pounding down from the catwalk above.

“Forgive me, Inquisitor; Major.” He cringed as he spoke. “You'll understand why I had to be sure when I tell you what's happened here. God knows, but it's all chaos.”

God knew, but it was.

Var was horrified as he listened to Kerik's account of the winter: Governor Wyme slain by Alyx Spelt, the major shot in turn; then officers slaughtered, men of the God's Militia turning on one another, landholders fighting, traders fighting—until all Grostheim was reduced to anarchy and the only remaining authority was Var's own marines, whose hold was tenuous and resented by freemen and exiles alike.

“It was the ghosts,” Kerik finished. “Them and their dreams, I believe. Most of the refugees have fled back to their holdings—these days they think they'll be safer there than here.” He looked anxiously at Var. “I've got our men stationed in the Militia barracks, Major. Got the place fortified. God, but we were attacked by redcoats even then. I never thought that I'd fight our own kind.”

“You didn't,” Talle interjected. “You fought men possessed of demons. You slew them, I trust?”

Kerik nodded sorrowfully. “They left us no choice, Inquisitor.”

“Good.” Talle rubbed his hands before the fire. “Hold no regrets, Captain—you did the right thing.”

“Shooting redcoats?” Kerik asked mournfully. “It didn't feel like the right thing.”

“They had forsaken God,” Talle declared. “They were possessed.”

Abram Jaymes nudged Var in the ribs and murmured, “Like them soldiers in the fort, eh?”

Var nodded and asked of Kerik, “Any word from the border forts?”

“None.” Kerik shook his head. “No pigeons have come in, nor riders. I've sent messages, but got no answers—the birds return with their pouches intact.”

“The border forts are lost,” Talle said. “At least, for now. Forget them.”

“What's happening here?” Kerik asked.

“We're under siege,” Talle answered. “Salvation faces a terrible threat, and Grostheim stands alone.”

“What,” Jaymes asked, “about the holdings? Are they under siege, too?”

Talle shrugged carelessly. “Perhaps; perhaps not. I don't care—only that we defeat the demons.”

“How you goin' to do that?” Jaymes inspected his fingernails, using a knife to extract the dirt there.

Talle said, “I don't know yet—but I shall! The Autarchy will not give up this land easily.”

Jaymes nodded and turned to Kerik. “The branded folk affected by all this?”

“No.” Kerik shook his head. “It seems like only the free folk are.”

Jaymes grinned as if holding secret knowledge to himself. Talle spun to face the scout, demanding, “What are you getting at?”

Jaymes shrugged. “It seems pretty obvious, don't it? You got folk goin' crazy from dreams—sent by the demons, you claim. But who goes crazy? Only folk with a vested interest, no? Folk who own land, or soldier for Evander to protect the landowners. No one else!

“You say the demons want to conquer Salvation; we all know the savages want to claim the land. So, what you got here seems to me like a fight for the territory—you want it an' the savages want it an' the demons want it. The demons an' the savages are workin' together an' they got the upper hand right now, it seems. God knows, but you lost your forts an' you got a real problem here. Listen!” He gestured at the window. Shouts came through the glass, voices raised in protest and outrage, punctuated by the rattle of musketry. “What's goin' on out there?”

It was Kerik who answered: “Likely another riot.” He glanced helplessly at Talle, at Var. “There's little we can do to quell them: we've not enough men. Folk are mightily hungry, and the stores are already used up. Folk are starving, and with the governor dead …” He shrugged, unconsciously aping Jaymes. “I've had men killed on the streets.…”

“But now,” Talle said, “I am back. Now order shall be restored.” He looked to Var. “Tomas, your first duty is to organize your men and get this city settled.”

Var nodded. Then felt his belly chill as Talle added casually,
“But before that, a small matter of discipline.” He gestured at Abram Jaymes. “Put this man in a cell, and once the square's cleared—hang him.”

Var said, “I'm sorry, but what choice do I have?” as the door closed on Jaymes.

The older man said, “You always got choices; it's just that sometimes it takes awhile to see them.”

“What does that mean?” Var asked.

And Jaymes grinned through the bars and said, “You'll work it out, I reckon.”

“I warned you,” Var said. “Why didn't you get away before we came back here?”

“Maybe I wanted to see what was goin' on.” Jaymes shrugged and cut a plug of tobacco. “Maybe I wanted to see what you'd do.”

“My duty, I trust,” Var said.

“Sure.” Jaymes stuck the black wad in his mouth and began to chew. “But what's your duty, Major?”

It was a question that troubled Var as he went about his appointed tasks.

Was it his duty to restore order to Grostheim with squads of marines that shot down looters and dissidents on Talle's orders?

His duty to defend Salvation against the incursions of the savages and—now, it would seem—their demonic allies?

His duty to obey Jared Talle, unquestioning?

He could no longer do that. He was full of questions, and could not help wondering if the Autarchy were not better abandoning Salvation, even setting free the branded exiles.

Dear God, but it was not easy to play the part of loyal officer in the God's Militia. Not when such doubts skirled like the freshening spring wind around his mind.

Nor could he stomach the notion of Abram Jaymes swinging from the gallows tree, no matter Talle's command.

He did his best to restore some semblance of order and found, as he did, that he resented Talle's methods the more:
the inhabitants of Grostheim were frightened, terrified by the ghost-ridden winter, afraid of hunger, wondering what was to come; and Talle quelled them with magic or the bayonets of Var's marines. It was, Var thought, a reign of terror, one greater fear imposing itself over another—Talle more frightening than any of the phantasmagoric demons that still stalked the streets—and he wondered again which was the worse.

But as winter ended and the first fresh breaths of spring wafted the air, order was restored. And Jared Talle commanded that Var delay no longer in hanging Abram Jaymes.

“I can't,” he said through the bars. “God help me, but I can't.”

Jaymes shrugged and spat a stream of tobacco over the straw of his cell, scattering cockroaches. “What else you goin' to do?” His voice was even, tinged with amusement. “You got your orders, no? The Inquisitor says you've got to hang me, so I guess you hang me.”

“I could …” Var said.

“Do what?” Jaymes asked.

The Inquisitor's dog? Was that all he was? He told himself
No!
and said to the prisoner: “I could help you escape.”

“How?” Jaymes asked bluntly. “You goin' to turn against Talle?”

Var shrugged and shook his head in confusion.

“You break me out,” Jaymes said with such calm as embarrassed Var, “Talle's got to know about it. He's the
Inquisitor
—he'll know.”

Var said, “Yes.”

Jaymes said, “How'd you think to do it?”

Var said, “I don't know. Perhaps if I ordered my marines …”

“They'd go against the Inquisitor?” Jaymes asked.

Var shrugged again and shook his head again. “Some might; not all. Talle's …”

“Scary as all hell,” Jaymes supplied. “An' got hex magic on his side, too.”

Var said, “Yes.” And then: “But if I acted alone …”

“We'd both be fugitives,” Jaymes said. “We'd have to run a long way from Grostheim to escape Talle. Maybe as far as the wilderness, even.”

Abruptly, as if the scout's words conjured up old memories, Var thought of Arcole Blayke. Had he not escaped indenture in Grostheim?

“Did you ever hear of a man called Arcole Blayke? An indentured man?”

“Sure.” Jaymes nodded. “Old Wyme took him on, but he ran out when the savages attacked. Him an' his woman, an' a boy indentured to Rupyrt Gahame. Likely all dead now—if they got past the heathens attackin' the walls.”

“But they got out,” Var said, wondering even as he spoke if he went mad. What am I doing? This is insanity: planning to free a man condemned by the Inquisitor? “They
did
escape.”

Jaymes said, “We'd need sound horses.”

Var said, “What about your mule?”

Jaymes said, “I ain't in love with the beast, an' his absence'd be noticed. No—horses are better: two at least, an' good runners.”

Var said, “And supplies?”

“Food for a few days,” Jaymes said. “Rifles an' shot.”

“Campaign gear,” Var said.

Jaymes said, “Yes. We'd need to run fast—Talle's not likely to let you go easily.”

Var said, “No,” and realized that he was committed. That he was about to throw away a lifetime's dedication to the Autarchy, to his career, for the sake of a draggle-haired old man who chewed tobacco and stank of sour sweat. But he could think of no other honorable path to take.

“We can find shelter along the way,” Jaymes said. “I've got friends.”

“Who'd hide us?” Var asked.

Jaymes nodded. “Plenty.”

Var swallowed, turning his tricorne hat between his hands. “If I do …” he said.

“I'll be grateful,” Jaymes said, and grinned. “An' if you don't, I'll understand.”

Var said, “I can't let you hang. You don't deserve that.”

Jaymes said, “No; but nor do you.”

Var shrugged and said, “I'll let you know when,” and rose, quitting the cell block.

A slow and satisfied smile spread across Jaymes's weathered features as he watched Var depart.

By God but he'd had high hopes of the major since first they met. The man seemed different to most officers of the God's Militia—more amenable to reason, clearer-sighted—and now it looked like those hopes reached fruition. Jaymes had studied him carefully; cautiously at first, but with such increasing confidence as persuaded him to reveal more of Salvation's hidden depths. That Var had taken his side against the Inquisitor back there on the river had been the final confirmation, and now the scout knew that Var took his part; even at cost of the major's career. He nodded to himself, and settled on the narrow bunk chained against the inner wall.

Var had given his word, and Jaymes knew that was good: the major would do his best to effect an escape, and then he must surely be totally committed to the cause. Still smiling, Jaymes stretched his lanky frame on the bunk and consigned himself to waiting.

A false spring fell on Salvation's coast. The sun shone and the winds grew warm. Flowers, all yellow and blue, sprouted along the shoreline behind the rolling dunes and the pines began to bud. Grass grew around the citadel and the gulls that had been the only occupants of the sky were joined by swallows. Frozen ground grew muddy and then hardened—firm as Var's determination.

Order—at least, of a kind—was restored. The gallows that had carried those first to argue Jared Talle's rule had been occupied long enough that winter's crows were sated and dissidence quelled, so no others took the place of the dangling corpses. The ghosts had gone, as if blown away on the new wind, and Jared Talle was confident that he had reestablished order. And that it was now time to hang Abram Jaymes.

“Let it be ceremonial,” he told Var. “I'd have him brought out by your marines and hung before all the populace. A warning, eh? A rite of spring!” He lifted the decanter that had once belonged to Andru Wyme and filled both their glasses. “I know you felt a certain fondness for him, Tomas, but the man was offensive, no? And we need, I think, one last example.”

“One last?” Var asked.

“Absolutely.” Talle sniffed the goblet, savoring the bouquet. The windows of Wyme's study were opened to the warm spring air and Var caught a waft of brandy and sweat, the sour odor that accompanied Talle. He wondered why he found that offensive and not Abram Jaymes's musky smell. “We must quell any doubts of our authority—of the Autarchy's power. The demons shall come against us soon, and I'd not have dissidents at our backs, eh? Better that all Grostheim—all Salvation—understand who's the power here.”