The Price of Valor (21 page)

“. . . all right? Sir? Are you all right?”

“I'm . . .” Winter wanted to say that she was fine, but the effort of speaking was apparently the last straw. The darkness that had been marshaling its forces in the corners of her eyes surged up again, with a pain like her skull being split open. Falling into unconsciousness was a welcome relief.

MARCUS

M
arcus spent the rest of the day after his trip to Exchange Central looking over his shoulder, and went to sleep in the full expectation of being awoken by the news that Twin Turrets was under siege. All through the next day Lieutenant Uhlan and his Mierantai maintained a high alert, and Marcus insisted Raesinia remain inside, no matter how eager she was to deliver their stolen book to Cora.

He passed the time by putting his new recruits through their paces. Ranker Feiss, whose first name turned out to be Hayver, went through the manual of arms with a stiff-armed precision that spoke of time spent on the drill field but little else. Andy—Marcus still had a hard time thinking of her as “Ranker Dracht”—was much smoother, working the musket and ramrod with a fluidity that spoke of real experience, and the missing fingers on her right hand seemed to make little difference. There was nowhere on the grounds safe to fire live balls, but she claimed to be a decent shot, and watching her work, he was prepared to believe it. Even Uhlan, as taciturn as all Mierantai seemed to be, gave a grunt of approval.

The following day, when no official retribution for their theft materialized, Marcus relaxed sufficiently to be convinced that a trip to Mrs. Felda's to deliver the books to Cora wasn't too great a risk. Raesinia, straining at the leash to depart, stomped up and down the front hall while Marcus spoke to Uhlan and arranged an escort. Before he was finished, the front door opened, and the young Mierantai ranker who had the watch appeared.

“Sir?” he said. “Got a note for you. Army boy delivered it.”

“Give it here,” Marcus said. Janus was unlikely to use a regular army courier—messages from Willowbrook came via Mierantai messenger or more circuitous routes—but stranger things had happened.

When Marcus broke the army-blue seal on the single page and unfolded it, however, he found not Janus' neat handwriting but the blockier script produced by the Preacher.

Colonel d'Ivoire—

Need to speak with you, most urgent matter. Come at once.

By the Grace of God,

Captain S. Vahkerson

“Damn,” Marcus said. Raesinia stepped up beside him and read the note, frowning.

“That's awfully mysterious of him,” she said. “This is your friend from the artillery, isn't it?”

Marcus supposed that one did not upbraid the Queen of Vordan for being nosy. “Yes. We call him the Preacher, though not to his face. But it's not like him to be so circumspect.” The Preacher had more sense than, say, Give-Em-Hell, but a man who spent his life around cannon was unlikely to make subtlety his watchword.

“Are you sure it's from him?”

“It's definitely his handwriting,” Marcus said, feeling another burst of paranoia. He examined the seal, which bore the imprint of the Royal Artillery, and didn't show visible tampering. “I can't imagine anyone forcing him to write it.”

“Maybe he was worried who else might read it.”

“Maybe. As far as I know, all he's doing is training new artillery officers.”

Raesinia hummed thoughtfully. “Are you going to go?”

“I should.” He looked down at her and sighed. “Lieutenant Uhlan, would you please escort Raesinia to Oldtown? I'll take Hayver and Andy to the University.”

“Of course, sir,” the Mierantai officer said.

“And be careful.” It was just barely possible this was some plot to separate the two of them, though that was stretching suspicion a bit far. “Make sure you aren't followed.”

Uhlan gave him an “I'm not an idiot” look, but forbore to comment. Marcus
watched him and three more Mierantai riflemen follow Raesinia outside, then went in search of the two rankers.

“I didn't know you were friends with Captain Vahkerson, sir,” Hayver said as the carriage rattled along Second Avenue toward the Dregs.

Andy gave him a withering look. “They were captains together in the Khandarai campaign under Janus.”

“And for years beforehand, under Colonel Warus,” Marcus said, only half paying attention to the conversation. He peered out the carriage window, searching the street behind them for some sign of a tail. It was futile, not just because Marcus' knowledge of espionage was minimal, but given that their carriage was one of the only horse-drawn vehicles still on the road, a blind man could follow their trail.

Most of the traffic was pedestrian, but not all. The citizens of Vordan's South Bank, ever resourceful, had begun hitching themselves to light carts and offering rides to the affluent Northsiders. Marcus watched several of these strange vehicles go past, and shook his head. Human adaptability never failed to surprise him; enough time could make even the strangest situation routine.
Just look at us in Khandar, before the Redeemers turned everything upside down and the Steel Ghost started raising hell.

He shook his head and looked back at Hayver. “How do you know the Preacher, anyway? Were you in artillery training?”

The boy shook his head. “After the battle, some of the wounded were transferred to the University hospital. Captain Vahkerson would come around to read to us from the
Wisdoms
.”

Andy rolled her eyes. Marcus, who had sat through a few of the Preacher's readings, was inclined to agree, but he did his best not to show it.

“What do you think he wants, sir?” Hayver said.

“I have no idea,” Marcus said.

“I bet,” Andy said, “it has something to do with that.”

She pointed out the other window, and Marcus leaned over and looked ahead as the carriage slowed. They had crossed the Dregs and come onto the grounds of the University itself, where the curving cobbled road led across the fields, past the various outbuildings, and up to the walled compound that was the ancient core of the institution. There it passed through the pompously titled Gateway of Wisdom, a tall arch of stone that was another of Farus V's affectations. The great iron gates were ornamental, bracketed to the wall and never closed to demonstrate that the
pathway to wisdom would never be barred—though the faculty
had
been forced to barricade the gateway at times.

If the gate was ornamental, the wall was decidedly not. It was old stone, twelve feet high and topped with rusty iron spikes. It dated from a time when the citizens of Vordan would periodically take it into their heads to burn the scholars of the University for sorcery, though nowadays it was more useful for keeping unruly students away from the taverns of the Dregs.

Today, though, the wall was again serving its original function. A mob had gathered outside the Gate of Wisdom, mostly Southside laborers by their clothes but a few better-dressed young Northside men mixed in. They all seemed to be shouting at once, producing an incomprehensible babble, from which the occasional disjointed phrase emerged.

“—spies! They're all spies—”

“Turn them over!”

“Spike! To the Spike!”

A line of Patriot Guards with halberds kept the crowd out of the University. There were only a dozen of them, spread thin across the broad gateway, and Marcus could see only fear and force of authority was keeping the mob back. A concerted rush would batter the guards to the ground, halberds or no.

“Hell,” Marcus said, rapping on the front panel to alert the driver. “Stop here.”

“Sir?” The driver, one of the Mierantai servants from Twin Turrets, had the same harsh accent as Uhlan and the others.

“We'd better not try to push through that.” Marcus opened the door. “We'll go on foot from here and make our own way back. Take the carriage back to the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus couldn't tell if the driver was relieved to hear this or no. Hayver definitely blanched, though.

“Right,” Marcus said as the carriage wheeled around. “Stay close, you two.” He looked at Andy as he said it, and she gave him a grim smile.

“I grew up in the Docks, sir. I know my way around a mob.”

Hayver stepped in close to Marcus' right side as he led the way to the gate. “What do you think they're so angry about, sir?”

“Damned if I know. I expect we'll find out.”

That was their last coherent bit of conversation before they plunged into the shouting, gesticulating mass of humanity. No one attempted to bar their way, but
people were packed so tight Marcus had to elbow and shove to make any progress. While Marcus hadn't grown up in the Docks, he
had
spent years in Ashe-Katarion, a city that considered orderly queues a dangerous foreign invention, so he was no stranger to the art of strong-arming his way through a press. Hayver trailed in his wake while Andy made solid progress of her own on the other side.

As they got closer to the front, the shouting got a little more coherent. The crowd, kept a few paces back from the line of guards by the lowered halberds, shouted insults and curses.

“You should be fucking ashamed! Protecting Sworn scum!”

“Out of the way!”

“They can't hide in there forever!”

Marcus shoved a particularly obnoxious ranter out of the way and secured a place in the front rank. He paused to make sure his escort was still with him—Hayver had one hand on the back of his coat, while Andy was rubbing her elbow with a satisfied expression—then stepped forward, sliding between two protruding halberds. The guards, seeing his uniform and the eagles on his shoulders, looked at one another uncertainly.

“I need to get through,” Marcus shouted, over the roar of the crowd.

“I've got orders to keep the public out!” one the guards shouted back.

“I'm not the public,” Marcus snapped. “I'm Colonel Marcus d'Ivoire, personal liaison to General Janus bet Vhalnich.”

The guard exchanged a glance with his nearest companion, and then stepped aside, lowering his halberd. Marcus moved through the gap, towing Hayver and Andy, and sidestepped to allow the guard to get back into line. The crowd roared its disapproval.

“Down with army traitors!”

“To the Spike with all the officers!”

“Shame! Shame!”

Marcus would have liked to question the Patriot Guards about what was happening, but they were fully occupied. Beyond the Gateway of Wisdom, the University was a maze of ancient stone buildings and courtyards, built out and added to haphazardly over the centuries. Marcus had only the vaguest idea of the layout, and he stood looking at the mess with a sinking heart. On his previous visits, he'd always asked a passing student for directions, but the near riot at the gate was apparently keeping everyone inside. The lanes and courtyards he could see were deserted.

“I know the way, sir,” Hayver said, guessing the problem.

“You do?”

“Yes, sir. I spent a fair bit of time wandering around on crutches while I waited for my leg to mend. Captain Vahkerson's offices are over in the Old Bully.”

“Lead the way, then.”

Hayver headed off down a lane at a confident walk. Evidently, being asked to lead made him feel buoyant, because as they went he pointed out various ancient landmarks and structures along the way and explained their origins and nicknames. Marcus soon learned more than he ever wanted to know about the Vermillion Hall, Bungo's Ass, the Three Virgins, and other minutiae of University life.

“Where did you learn all this stuff?” Andy said as they passed a cracked, faceless statue that, for some reason lost in the mists of time, was called the Pole-Vaulter.

“While I was in the hospital,” Hayver said, looking suddenly apologetic. “I had a lot of time on my hands.”

“I spent most of my time in bed with a fever,” Andy said. “But still!”

“I just talked to people.” He shrugged shyly. “I like finding things out.”

“Remind me to introduce you to Fitz someday,” Marcus said. “I think you'd get along.”

“Here we are, sir.” Hayver gestured to another long, low building, covered in wilted, browning ivy. “The Old Bully. I think the captain is on the second floor.”

The doors—heavy oak studded with iron, looking as old as the University itself—were solidly closed. Marcus rapped as loud as he could, then rubbed his knuckle.

“Yes?” said a nervous voice from inside. “Who is it?”

“Colonel Marcus d'Ivoire,” Marcus said. “I'm here to see Captain Vahkerson. He asked for me.”

A whispered conversation took place behind the door, and then there was the squeal of a rusty bolt being drawn. The door swung inward, revealing dusty, gloomy darkness. Two young men in the traditional black robes of University students stood behind it, squinting in the daylight.

“He's upstairs,” one of the students said. “Come in, quick. I have to bolt the door.”

That took quite a bit of effort, the young man grunting as he forced the rusty bolt closed. He looked at his palms afterward and frowned.

“Cut myself,” he said, wiping away a little trickle of blood.

“Bad essence in rusty metal,” the other said. “Better clean it out. Argvine pollen and honey—”

“Don't be stupid. De Calabris says argvine pollen makes things worse—”

“De Calabris wouldn't know a bone saw from a toothpick. All his really good work was done after Effartes joined his salon, and he was clearly cribbing.”

“Oh, if you're so fond of Effartes, why don't you suck his fucking cock?”

“Better him than de Calabris. He died of quicksilver sores—”

“Excuse me,” Marcus said. “Medical students, right?”

“That's right,” the first student said, rubbing at his lacerated palm. He appeared to notice Hayver and Andy for the first time, and his cheeks flushed. “Oh. Sorry for the language, miss.”

“Please,” Andy said. “I could swear in five languages by the time I was ten.”

“Which five?” Hayver said.

“Would you
please
,” Marcus interrupted, “tell me where Captain Vahkerson is?” He'd raised his voice a little, but he was still surprised to find all four of them staring at him. He cleared his throat.