Lords of the Sky (97 page)

An expeditionary force of two hundred and fifty marines accompanied by infantry, artillerymen, and engineers was to set sail for Salvation under the command of the Inquisitor Jared Talle. The newly appointed major was to be Talk’s second-in-command. Their immediate task was to secure the city of Grostheim, after which they would exterminate all hostiles and see a chain of forts established along the perimeter of the explored territory. Salvation then pacified, the full force would scour the wilderness and, should Inquisitor Talle deem it beneficial, extend by main force the boundaries of the known country.

It was elevation undreamed of for Var, but for all he was delighted with his promotion, still he could not deny he felt some reservations. For one thing, he doubted Krystine d’Lavall would wait for him—after all, he had no idea when he might return. But he was an officer in the God’s Militia and did not question the orders of the Autarchy, so he penned a swift letter to Krystine and prepared to leave. It occurred to him as he wrote that he might never return, and thought abruptly of Arcole—perhaps now they shared the bond of exile. For another, he realized that he was second in a line of command that effectively replaced both Governor Wyme and Major Alyx Spelt, thereby rendering him one of the most powerful men in all the New World. He felt somewhat uncomfortable with such abrupt elevation over older men: he wondered how Spelt and Wyme should take it. That they would accept, he did not doubt—neither provincial governors or military officers argued with Inquisitors—but he anticipated resentment, such as might well brook problems affecting his designated tasks.

He had said as much—cautiously—to Talle as the
Wrath of God
sailed westward. And Talle had coughed out his whispery laugh and dismissed Var’s reservations. Was the major not his second-in-command, he asked, and was he not an Inquisitor? Therefore who would dare argue? And did any colonials resent this imposition of Evander’s authority, then they would answer to him; so Var need not worry—only obey his orders.

So far as Talle was concerned that resolved and ended the problem; Var was less sure. There would not be open disagreement, but it should be mightily difficult to execute his orders without the full cooperation of Wyme and Spelt, or the wholehearted support of Grostheim’s garrison. And he was loath to impose his authority by recourse to the Inquisitor. Were Governor Wyme’s worst fears realized, he must fight a campaign in unfamiliar territory and knew that victory would depend on
concerted effort, shared purpose rather than enforced obedience.

Worse, he could not like Jared Talle, nor respect the man. The Inquisitor enjoyed the exercise of his power too much, relished his position too much. He seemed to gloat on the prospect of usurping Andru Wyme, and seemed to expect Var to enjoy the same pleasure at thought of Spelt’s demotion; nor less at thought of exterminating whatever hostile forces existed in Salvation. Var wondered—traitorous thought—if power corrupted Talle. Also, he smelled. Which was a small thing—God knew, Var himself had often enough gone stinking into battle—but still there hung about him a sour odor of musth and sweat, as if he lived in a state of perpetual excitement, galvanized by that talent that made him an Inquisitor. He bathed seldom, and for all the long crossing had not, as best Var could tell, changed his clothes. It was not easy to sit with him in the small cabin, the air heated fetid, the windows never opened, as if Talle enjoyed the inhalation of his own body odors. Var preferred to spend his time on deck, or on the other ships, which bore the infantry and the light cannon of the artillerymen, or even with the engineers. That was to him an escape—from Talle’s acrid excretions and the Inquisitor’s oppressive presence, both.

Sometimes, as the Flotilla proceeded westward, Var wondered if he was a fit officer for such an enterprise.

But still it was advancement beyond his dreams, and he was ordered to the conquest of a world by an authority he had never doubted. Were they successful, he and Talle, then he knew he might well find himself promoted colonel, or even marshal—military commander of all the New World. So he hid his dubiety and played the diplomat as he smiled at Talle and endeavored not to choke on the man’s sourness, which seemed as much spiritual as physical.

He smelled it now, as squadrons of gulls mewed raucous welcome and he leaned against the forrard rail, staring into the hazy blending of summer sky and lapping sea that rendered Salvation’s coast a misty line across the horizon.

He turned as Talle approached, thankful for the breeze that did a little to subdue the man’s foetor.

“Ere noon, eh?”

Talle took station at the rail alongside Var. His long black hair seemed too weighted by oil for the breeze to shift from his sallow face, and Var could not help the impression of a carrion crow dressed in frock coat and breeches that sprang to mind. He nodded and said, “Soon after noon, I think. We’ve Deliverance Bay to cross yet.”

The Inquisitor grunted and fixed bright black eyes on Var. “You seem none too happy at the prospect, Major.”

“I’ve my orders.” Var met his stare expressionless. “My happiness is surely of no account.”

“No.” Talle smiled, exposing yellow teeth. “But better that you enjoy your work, eh?”

Var said stiffly, “I serve the Autarchy, Inquisitor. Now—with your permission—I’d see my men ready to disembark.”

“Yes, of course.” Talle waved a languid dismissal and Var turned away. As he went across the deck he felt the Inquisitor’s eyes on him, as if an overheated sun burned against his back. None of this, he thought, should be easy, and likely none too pleasant. He resisted the urge to glance back and went to his officers.

The
Wrath of God
reefed sail, slowing that the three accompanying vessels might take station astern. It had been Talk’s suggestion that they approach Grostheim in formal array, so as to impress those waiting ashore, and Var must admit they did make a gallant sight. He wondered what reception they should receive, and how Grostheim fared. Wyme’s reports had spoken only of hostile attacks on inland farms, and the governor’s fear that the demons grew stronger. Might they have grown strong enough to attack the city itself?

Var saw his men readied for landfall then went forrard again, arming himself with a spyglass.

At least the city stood, but not without damage. The glass showed him the signs of burning, blackened wood about the walls, and watchtowers contrasting darkly with the pale scars of fresh timber where repairs had been effected. Folk came from the seaward gate: he picked out Wyme’s sedan chair surrounded by the scarlet coats of Spelt’s soldiers. He passed the glass to Talle, who surveyed their destination, grunted, and returned the device without further comment.

The
Wrath of God
came alongside the wharf and Var accompanied Talle down the gangplank. The
Lord’s Pilgrim,
the
God’s Vengeance,
and the
Fist of God
stood to offshore, awaiting the disembarkation of Var’s marines before disgorging their own military cargoes. The sun stood high overhead and the air was warm: summer came earlier to this western land than to Var’s home. He adjusted his tricorne and saluted as he halted before Wyme’s chair. Alyx Spelt stood beside the governor, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized Var and saw the insignia of his new rank. Wyme commenced an unctuous speech of welcome,
and Talle raised a hand, less in greeting than to halt the governor’s rhetoric.

“I am the Inquisitor Jared Talle.” He spoke as Wyme’s effusive litany spluttered into silence. “I am come to rectify your … problems. You already know Major Var, I believe. He is my aide, answerable to me alone.”

His tone brooked no argument, nor left room for discussion. Var saw Wyme’s florid features darken to a purplish hue, Spelt’s lips purse tight as his eyes narrowed. The practice of diplomacy seemed not to occur to Talle, nor did he appear to notice the resentment his abrupt declaration produced.

“Later, you will apprise me of the situation,” Talle continued curtly, “and I shall decide what measures I must take. Meanwhile, I’d find my quarters.”

Wyme seemed a moment lost for words; Var doubted he had anticipated this when he requested Evander send him an Inquisitor. Then he cleared his throat, struggling to retain some semblance of dignity. “Yes, of course, Inquisitor Talle. A room’s prepared for you in my mansion—if you and the major will accompany me?”

Var said quickly, “By your leave, Inquisitor, I’d see my men billeted, and the other vessels off-loaded.”

“Very well.” Talle nodded in agreement. “That done, join me in the governor’s mansion.”

Like Major Spelt, Grostheim itself exuded an air of tension, as if the city existed solely to anticipate further attack. Folk met the long column of blue and red-coated soldiery with cheers, as if rescue were come, but Var saw hollowed eyes and thinned cheeks, as if sleep and food were both in short supply. No less could he help noticing the signs of damage, where roofs or whole buildings had burned down, the charred remains often as not inhabited by people who appeared to live under the canvas pitched there. Also, the place seemed more crowded than he remembered, the sunny afternoon more redolent of Bantar’s poorer quarters than this airy western clime. He inquired of Spelt just what had happened, but the older man was again become taciturn, waving a stained hand and suggesting Var wait until they gained the privacy of Wyme’s mansion, where a full account might be delivered.

After a few moments of silence, Var complied.

Wyme sat behind his ornate desk, a decanter at his elbow, a brandy glass clutched in his right hand. Sunlight fell slanting across his round face, and Var saw he sweated. The brandy rippled as Wyme’s hand shook; Var wondered if that was the product of fear or Talk’s presence. Perhaps for Wyme there was no difference—surely the Inquisitor was an ominous figure, settled like a black crow in an armchair, his eyes sharp, darting from Wyme’s face to the two officers as if he accused them all of some unadmitted sin.

“The troops are settled?”

Var nodded. “And Major Spelt has arranged for provender.”

He glanced at Spelt, seeking again to establish some communication between them, but Spelt’s gaze was shifting nervously from Wyme to Talle.

“Then do we begin.” The Inquisitor gestured at chairs as if it were his study, not the governor’s, they occupied. “Sit.”

“You’ll take brandy?” Wyme indicated the decanter.

Before Var had chance to reply, Spelt nodded and found himself a glass. He filled it close to the brim, brows raised in inquiry as he looked to Talle and Var.

Talle only shook his head, fingers drumming impatiently on the chair’s arm. Var said, “A measure, if you please.” Did Talle disapprove, then damn him—surely they could retain some degree of civility. He smiled his thanks as Spelt passed him the glass.

“Now that we all gathered, Governor,” Talk’s voice was soft, “do you advise us of the situation. Commence with events after Major Var’s departure.”

“Attacks. More attacks.” Wyme’s eyes shifted from the Inquisitor’s penetrating stare as if he sought some avenue of escape. “Refugees began to come to Grostheim, quitting their farms.”

“And you did not order them to return?” Talk’s voice was cold with disapproval. “How shall this land be settled if every farmer comes running into Grostheim at the first hint of trouble?”

“No. I … How could I?” Wyme shook his head helplessly, his cheeks glowing. Sweat ran into his eyes like tears and he produced a kerchief, dabbing at his face. “They were free folk.”

“And you were the governor.” Talle made the past tense sound permanent.

Wyme’s flush deepened. “Save I ordered Major Spelt to force them back at bayonet’s point, they’d not have gone.”

“As well I’m here.” Talle spoke softly, no louder than a murmur. “Things appear in a sorry state.”

Wyme swallowed; Spelt emptied his glass and rose to fill it.

“Patrols were sent out,” the governor declared hurriedly. “They found the signs of attack, but not the attackers. Only one man was left alive. The demons sent him back, that he bring a message.”

He broke off, filling his glass. Talle said, sharply, “They spoke to him?”

Wyme looked to Spelt for support, but the Militiaman only sat slumped, staring ahead. “They did, Inquisitor. They told him they planned to come against Grostheim; that this land is theirs.”

“They spoke our tongue?”

“Yes.”

“The man’s name?”

Wyme looked again to Spelt, who said, “Captain Danyael Corm, Inquisitor.”

“I’ll speak with him later.” Talle scratched his narrow nose, his expression thoughtful. Var was reminded of a carrion bird studying a carcass. “Go on.”

“They made good their promise.” Wyme’s eyes met Talk’s at last, almost defiant. “More holdings were destroyed and folk flooded into the city. Food grew scarce. I must find quarters for them all …”

“Or send them back.” Talk’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “At bayonet’s point, if necessary.”

Wyme flushed. “They’d have fought,” he protested. “God knows, but there’d have been rioting. And had they gone back, surely the demons would have slain them.”