The Price of Valor (39 page)

As the sun was setting, she was woken from her half-conscious reverie by calls from the scouts.

“Riders! Cavalry ahead!”

Awake at once, Winter blinked away the fog in her head and reined Edgar to a halt, the other officers clustering around her. Her hand went to her sword, for all the good it would do. If the cavalry were Hamveltai, they would face little opposition from the exhausted Third Regiment.

But no. When the approaching horsemen became visible, they wore blue jackets and trousers, along with the gleaming steel cuirasses that were the pride of Vordan's elite heavy cavalry. Each man carried a carbine, a shortened musket that could be used from horseback, along with his cavalry saber. In the lead was a diminutive figure standing tall in his stirrups, wearing a tall, plumed hat. He waved excitedly.

“Oh Lord,” Winter said.

“You know him?” Jane said.

“He was our cavalry commander in Khandar. Captain Henry Stokes,” she said. “We called him Give-Em-Hell.”

“Why?” Cyte said.

“You'll see.”

MARCUS

I
n spite of the fact that his only physical pain was the aching of his arms from rowing, Marcus felt bruised.

A
gain.
Once again, he'd led men into a nightmare, a confrontation with forces they couldn't hope to match. He remembered the sick lurch of his stomach as the dead had risen in the Desoltai temple, the feeling that everything he knew about the world was coming apart. The screams of the soldiers the walking corpses had torn to pieces.
What good are ordinary people against creatures like
that
?

For a moment, he damned Janus, the Thousand Names, and everything that had happened since the day Colonel Vhalnich stepped off the boat onto the rocky shore of Khandar.
Maybe it would be better if the Redeemers had slaughtered us all.

Except, of course, it wasn't Janus' fault. The Priests of the Black were real, working under the surface, still manipulating events a hundred years after they'd supposedly been abolished. Raesinia was proof enough of that.
Janus only opened my eyes. But he never asked if I'd rather have kept them closed.

“Marcus?” Raesinia said.

“Hmm?” Marcus blinked. They were sitting in the dining room of Twin Turrets, with the map still laid out on the table. It had gone four in the morning, and exhaustion was settling over him like a cloak. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

“How long will it take your message to reach Janus?”

“If we're lucky, by tomorrow night.” Marcus silently cursed the elaborate security measures that kept him ignorant of the location of Willowbrook. He understood the necessity, but he wanted to sit by the flik-flik line until new
instructions came through, not wait for a signal and a courier handoff that might be flubbed. “And if he's prompt, we could have a response by the day after tomorrow.”

“That's too long.” Raesinia bit her lip. “I think we should go to the Deputies in the morning.”

“With just the arrest list?” That was all they'd gotten out of the night's disaster, and that only because Raesinia had had the presence of mind to stuff it in her pocket. “It's hardly proof.”

“The warehouse is still there. The Deputies could send investigators. Maurisk can't move all that equipment overnight.”

“Are you certain? Maybe he has someone who can make cannon get up and dance.”

Raesinia shook her head, smiling slightly. “That would be something to see, at least.”

“I'll think about it.” Marcus squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Sleep on it.”

This time Raesinia's smile was more genuine. “Get some rest.”

She, Marcus noted, didn't seem tired at all. He wondered if she slept, and if her condition prevented it how she occupied herself all night. The thought of his own bed, so sinfully large and soft compared to the camp beds he'd spent his campaigns on, was extremely attractive.
Just a little more to take care of first.

Marcus got up, stumbling a bit over his chair, and excused himself to go in search of Uhlan. He found the Mierantai lieutenant by the back stairs, talking in a low voice to one of the serving women. Her eyes were full of tears, an uncharacteristic display of emotion for the stoic mountain people. One of the men had meant something to her.
Sweetheart? Brother?
Whatever it was, he hadn't come back.

“Sir.” Uhlan patted the woman on the shoulder and she hurried away, ducking her head perfunctorily in Marcus' direction. Marcus cleared his throat, uncomfortably.

“Is she . . . going to be all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Uhlan said.

Marcus couldn't bring himself to ask for details. He shook his head. “I'm sorry about your men.”

“Thank you, sir,” Uhlan said. “We volunteered for this. It was a risky assignment.”

I didn't know their names.
The Mierantai had been happy keeping themselves
to themselves, and Marcus had always left it that way.
I ought to have at least known their names.

“If there's anything I can do, for the families, or anything . . . ,” he managed.

“It will be taken care of,” Uhlan said. “But thank you.”

What is Mieran County like, if it breeds people like this?
Marcus shook his head. “All right.”

“Our security here is poor, sir, now that it's only Ranker Dracht and myself,” Uhlan said. “In my opinion, we ought to relocate to somewhere more defensible and request reinforcements.”

“I've sent to Willowbrook.” There was at least a company of Mierantai there, Marcus knew. “In the meantime, all we can do is be ready. Make sure everyone knows we may have to leave in a hurry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you seen Andy?”

“I believe she's in the kitchen, sir.”

Andy was indeed in the kitchen, sitting at the plain wooden table the servants used for their meals. She had a bottle of something sticky and red, which was already half-empty. When she looked up at Marcus, her eyes were fever-bright.

“Hello, Colonel,” she said, slurring only a little. “You want a drop?”

“No, thank you.” Marcus pulled out a chair beside her and sat. “Are you all right?”

“No injuries to report, sir,” she said, saluting with the bottle. A few drops splashed onto the tabletop.

“Andy . . .”

“Sorry.” She took a pull, then put the bottle down. “I'm just a little drunk.”

“I can see that,” Marcus said gently.

“I just . . .” She swallowed. “Hayver was screaming. He looked like a roast someone had left in the fire too long, and he was still screaming.”

“I know.”

“I've never seen anyone burn to death before.” She took a deep breath. “Stabbed, bashed over the head, shot. I helped with the wounded after Midvale. I thought nothing could be worse than that. There was this girl, she kept calling for help, but when we lifted her up her guts just fell out. Like she was giving birth to a pile of snakes. And she's still crying . . .” Andy closed her eyes. “I thought nothing could be worse than that.”

Marcus fought a powerful urge to fold her in his arms.
She's still half a child.
But she was a ranker, a soldier, and colonels didn't embrace their rankers.
But . . . hell.
His lip twisted, thoughts a tired muddle.

“When you told me to run,” Andy said, “and stood up to shoot . . . you thought you were going to burn, didn't you? That woman was . . . throwing bombs, or something . . .”

Marcus recognized the look in her eyes. He'd felt it himself, the sense of trying to reconcile what you knew was impossible.

“I thought I had a good shot.” Marcus sighed. “Not that it did much good.”

“Still. Thank you.”

Andy blew out a breath, straightened her shoulders, and took another pull. “When you've been in a fight and you're hurting, what you need is a bottle and a warm body to hold close. That's what Mad Jane used to say, when we were fighting the tax farmers.” She looked at the bottle. “You want a drop, Colonel? You look like you could use it.”

For a moment, Marcus strongly considered it.
Lord knows I've crawled into a bottle from time to time.
But he was the responsible officer here, for better or for worse. He shook his head, wearily, and pushed his chair back from the table. “What I need is sleep. Good night, Ranker Dracht.”

“Good night, sir.”

Halfway to the door, Marcus paused. “I'm . . . sorry about Hayver.”

“Thank you, sir.” Andy waved the bottle at him.

Marcus stumbled twice on the stairs, and it took him far too long to figure out how to work the doorknob on his bedroom door. By the time he made it to the bed, it was just a matter of falling over in the right direction.

When he opened his eyes again, it was still just before dawn, with the dull glow of Vordan City coming in through the window and a few bright stars twinkling in the sky. He'd managed to get his boots off, but he still wore his jacket, and the buttons had pressed painfully against his sternum. He groaned again, rolled over, and shrugged out of the sweat-stained blue coat.

“We meet again, Captain d'Ivoire.”

Marcus spun, heart suddenly thudding in his chest. His room at Twin Turrets was small, just a bed to sleep in and few personal effects. Sitting on the trunk that contained these was a figure dressed all in black, fingers steepled in front of a neat goatee. He wore a smile—closer to a smirk—that Marcus last remembered seeing on the other side of a set of iron bars.

“Ionkovo,” Marcus said.

His sword was four steps away, hanging from a peg on the back of the door.
A nearby candlestick might do as a club, in a pinch.
How the hell did he get in here?
Presumably the same way he'd gotten
out
of a locked cell, murdering an Armsman in the process.

“My apologies,” Ionkovo said. “I see that it's
Colonel
d'Ivoire now. And you won't need your sword, I assure you. I haven't come to do you any harm.”

“Then what the hell are you here for?” Marcus felt his anger rising. “
You
told me you had answers. You knew Orlanko had my family killed, didn't you?”

“I set you on the path to find the answer,” Ionkovo said. “Isn't that worth something?”

“You—” Marcus' hands tightened to fists.

Ionkovo shrugged and raised his palms. “All right, I admit it. I had hoped the search would . . . distract you, at a critical time. Obviously, that did not go as we had planned it.”

It had nearly worked. Marcus had left Danton's arrest to Vice Captain Giforte, and when Orlanko had interfered, a mob laid siege to the Vendre. Marcus had only barely made it there in time to take command, not that it had done much good. Only the timely intervention of Winter Ihernglass had kept
that
debacle from ending in a bloodbath.

“If you're not going to try to kill me,” Marcus said, “then give me one good reason I shouldn't call the guards and have you thrown in the cellar. I know Janus would very much like to talk to you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Ionkovo said, “although we perhaps imagine difference circumstances for the conversation. But your guards will have their hands full in a moment. I have come, Colonel, to once again offer you my help.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Directory President Maurisk has finally decided to deal with his opponents once and for all. Tonight the long knives come out, and there's a blade intended for you. Answer my question, and I will delay them sufficiently for you to retreat and fight another day.”

“Don't be absurd.” Marcus' heart beat faster.
He had the arrest list ready. Could he have moved so quickly?
“The Deputies wouldn't stand for it. Neither would Janus.”

“Maurisk believes he has General Vhalnich in hand. Whether he does or not . . .” Ionkovo gave an exaggerated shrug. “It will be all the same to you, however.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Then you will die. Tonight.” Seeing Marcus' eyes flick to the sword again, Ionkovo laughed. “Oh, I won't need to dirty my hands.”

“I—”

There was a knock at the door, loud and frantic. Ionkovo frowned. “Time's running out, Colonel. You have to decide.”

“You haven't asked me your question,” Marcus said, buying time.

“I think you know what it is.” Ionkovo leaned forward and spoke in a hiss.
“Where are the Thousand Names?”

That's what I was afraid of.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course not.” Ionkovo rolled his eyes. “I must say—”

The door broke open with a shattering crash, bits of the lock spraying across the room. Uhlan stood in the doorway, Raesinia at his side. Ionkovo looked them over, lazily. When he reached Raesinia, his face froze.

“Here.” A slow smile spread across his expression. “You had her
here
. Oh, well done, d'Ivoire. Very well done.”

“Colonel, down!” Uhlan raised a pistol.

Marcus sprang sideways, landing on the bed and clearing the line of fire. Uhlan pulled the trigger, but Ionkovo was faster still. He leaned backward from his seat on the trunk, letting himself fall into a reverse roll that ought to have ended with him sprawled awkwardly against the wall. Instead he hit the stark shadow cast by light from the corridor and fell
into
it, the dark surface rippling like water. A moment later the pistol roared, and the ball punched a splintery hole in the woodwork.

Uhlan lowered his smoking pistol, staring at where Ionkovo had disappeared. Raesinia pushed past him and ran to Marcus' side.

“Are you hurt?” she said.

Marcus groaned and sat up. “Fine, thank all the saints. But I think we're in trouble.”

“I'm sorry to have broken down your door, sir,” Uhlan said, emerging from his paralysis. “She insisted.”

Marcus looked questioningly at Raesinia, who looked away.

“I had a . . . feeling,” she muttered. “A sort of pain. I felt it when we saw that woman yesterday, and when it came back, I thought she might be here.”

“Every
naathem
can feel others of our kind,”
Feor had said. Marcus hadn't considered that it might apply to Raesinia as well, but she'd obviously sensed Ionkovo's presence. He glanced at Uhlan—at some point they were going to have to bring him up to speed, now that he'd seen this much.
No time.

“Tell me if you ever feel it again,” Marcus said quietly.

Raesinia nodded. “It's still there, but getting weaker. Who
was
that?”

“One of them. The Penitent Damned. His name is Ionkovo.”

“You
know
him?”

“I took him prisoner during the revolution,” Marcus said. “Or he let me take him. I had no idea what he was. I think he wanted to find out how much I knew. When he was finished he just walked out of a locked cell.”