The Price of Valor (5 page)

“You think we need more training, sir?”

“I'm afraid it goes beyond that. Yours was not the only set-to between Royals and volunteers, you know. The Second Infantry actually fired a volley into the Third Volunteers when some fool thought they'd changed sides.”

Winter winced. “But you have a solution in mind?”

“I'm reorganizing the army. The royal regiments are too large, and the volunteers need to learn to work as part of a larger force. We'll break up all the old units and create new ones. Each new regiment will have one volunteer and one royal battalion. Getting to send all these thickheaded colonels packing is a side benefit.”

“Some of those units are hundreds of years old,” Winter said. “They're not—”

“Going to be happy. You mentioned that already.” Janus smiled, just for a moment. “The colonels won't be, and some of the other noble officers. They're welcome to resign and take their case to the deputies. But I think the men in the ranks will be glad to be rid of them.”

Winter nodded. There were two distinct classes of officer in the old Royal Army—those who'd bought or inherited their commissions like de Ferre, and those who'd come out of the War College like Captain Marcus d'Ivoire. The former sort held the positions of command, but it was the latter who made the army work.

“Who'll command the new regiments?” she said, wondering what sort of new commanding officer she'd be saddled with.

“Whoever's most competent, regular or volunteer.” He tapped the pile of
papers again. “I'm giving you the Second Battalion of the Eighteenth Regiment, under Captain Sevran.”

“I—you're—
what
, sir?”

“Your new unit will be designated the Third Regiment of the Line. You'll be bumped up to colonel, obviously.”

“This is ridiculous,” Winter said. “I'm a captain only because we needed someone to take charge of all girls who wanted to join up, and now—”

“You don't think you're up to the job?”

“Of course not!” Colonels were
lords
, often counts or their sons, men of power and consequence. You couldn't just
become
one, at the touch of a magic wand.

“Then our opinions differ on the subject. But, as this is an order, your options are either to obey it or to resign.” Janus cocked his head. “Do you wish to resign?”

Winter pushed down the turmoil in her gut. “I . . . no, sir.”

“Very good. Do you have any thoughts on who should command the Girls' Own?”

There was only one possible choice. “Lieutenant Verity, sir.”

“Excellent. Please inform the lieutenant that she is hereby promoted to captain, and that she may have a free hand with her own junior officers. Under your supervision, of course.”

“Sir . . .” Winter took a deep breath. “The Royals. This Captain Sevran. What if they won't obey my orders?” The idea of her, Winter Ihernglass, a girl run away from a home for unwanted children, giving
orders
to the proud regulars of Her Majesty's Royal Army seemed ridiculous on its face. “I'm not sure . . .”

Janus' expression darkened. “If they refuse to obey your orders, then you are within your rights to hang them for insubordination and treason. Senior officers on an active campaign are permitted to make summary judgments on such affairs. I guarantee it will not take many examples to make your point.”

“You're serious.”

“Of course. Anyone who will not accept the chain of command is, at the root, failing to acknowledge my authority. I will not tolerate it.”

“Yes, sir.” Winter felt numb. “Understood.”

“Official orders will be read to the entire camp tomorrow. Please keep this between you and your officers until then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing.” Janus fixed her with his bottomless gray gaze. “My reports say that you were in the thick of the fighting today.”

“I . . . yes, sir. I suppose I was.”

“That is all well and good for a lieutenant, but you must take greater care in the future. God knows I have few enough officers of your promise, and I cannot afford to have your career ended early by a stray musket ball. And there are . . . other duties, to which you are uniquely suited. Do you understand?”

Winter thought she did, even the parts that Janus was reluctant to say out loud. “Other duties” had to refer to Infernivore, the demon she'd taken on herself in Khandar during the battle to secure the Thousand Names. For the most part, it lay quiescent in the darkest pits of her mind, but if she laid a hand on another demon-carrier, she could will it to come forth and devour the other creature. For Janus, that made her a weapon against what he called the true enemy: the Priests of the Black and their Penitent Damned.
And we can't have a weapon breaking too soon.
If Winter died on the field, Janus would have to find someone else to bear Infernivore, and from what he'd said the success rate for invoking the demon was not high. Failure, in that context, meant an agonizing death; when she thought about the risk she'd run, all unknowing, it still gave her the shivers.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good.” He straightened up and gave her his brief smile again. “Excellent work today, Colonel Ihernglass. Well done.”

Winter paused, taken aback, then got to her feet and saluted. “Thank you, sir!”

*   *   *

As a captain, Winter rated a slightly larger tent than the usual, though it still wasn't tall enough that she could stand up inside. She peeked between the flaps and was not at all surprised to see Jane within, sitting cross-legged on a cushion beside the camp bed. Winter let out a long breath and resigned herself to talking Jane down from the raging fury she'd worked herself up to in Janus' command tent.

When she entered, though, Jane didn't explode. She didn't even look up. Her hands rested on her knees, and her eyes were fixed on the floor. Her soft red hair, reaching almost to her shoulders now, hung around her face in dirty tassels.

“Jane?” Winter said, slightly alarmed. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Jane said. Her voice was thick.

“What happened?”

“I went to look in on . . .” She paused and took a deep breath. “On the injured.”

“Oh.”

Winter pulled off her boots and set them beside the door, then padded softly
across the cloth-covered earth to Jane's side. She sat down, silently, and snaked one arm around the other woman's shoulders. Jane leaned against her, hunched and miserable. There were clear tracks on her face where tears had cut through the grime and powder residue.

“Chris died,” Jane said in a whisper.

“I know,” Winter said. “I was standing right next to her.”

“Nobody told me. I didn't even notice she wasn't there.” Jane swallowed. “She'd been with me from the beginning. From Mrs. Wilmore's. A lot of the girls have.”

“I know.” Winter squeezed Jane's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“I went over to the cutter's station. I thought I could . . . help, maybe. There was this girl, Forti. Short for Fortuna. You probably didn't know her.”

Winter shook her head.

“We found her right after we came to Vordan City. When we were still living in the swamps. She just wandered into camp one day, a skinny little thing in rags, asking for food and cringing every time someone looked at her. Like she expected to be beaten.”

Jane's hands tightened on her knees, until her knuckles were white. Winter said nothing.

“I let her come with us,” Jane said. “Nobody knew how old she was, but she'd filled out once we gave her some proper food. She wanted to come so badly, and I told her she could.”

“Is she . . .” Winter trailed off.

Jane pressed her head into Winter's shoulder. “When I got there, to the cutter's tent, they had her on the table. They had a . . . a saw, the kind of thing you'd use to chop the end off a log, and they were cutting through her arm.” One of Jane's hands came up and closed around her own biceps, in unconscious sympathy. “She'd lost the gag they'd given her, and she was screaming, ‘No, no, no, no,' over and over, even after they were through. One of the cutters picked up the arm and tossed it on a
pile
. All those hands . . . and . . .”

“God,” Winter said softly. “Oh, Jane.”

“I lost my lunch,” Jane said. “Or yesterday's dinner, maybe, since I never got anything to eat today. Right in front of everyone. Then I ran for it, puke still dripping from my shirt.”

“It's all right,” Winter said. “They understand. Watching something like that . . .”

“I brought them here! I was supposed to be protecting them, and I brought
them
here
. What the
fuck
am I doing?” Jane looked up at Winter, her eyes wide and frantic. “We should leave. Take them all and go home, back to the city, or out into the country, anywhere but
here
.”

Winter stared at her. This was a Jane she hadn't seen before, the flip side of the fiery-tempered woman who'd wanted to kill the vicious tax farmer Bloody Cecil on the spot and had been ready to storm the Vendre in the face of cannon-fire. There was something childlike in her expression, a desperate need for reassurance that Winter felt ill-equipped to provide.

“Let's start with this,” she said. “You didn't
bring
them here. They brought themselves, of their own free will. You know that. Everybody who came with us knew what could happen.”

“I could have stopped them.”

“Captain d'Ivoire wanted to stop
you
, but you didn't let him.”

“I . . .” Jane took a deep breath. “I thought it would be over quickly. But this . . .” She shook her head. “Everyone who made it through today just gets to do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. I can't just watch them all die. I can't.”

Tears were welling in her eyes. Awkwardly, Winter pulled her close, and soon Jane's head rested in her lap. Jane pressed her face against the fabric of Winter's uniform, her back heaving with muffled sobs. They stayed like that a long time, Winter's hand resting on Jane's shoulder as she cried in near silence. Eventually, the sobs subsided, and Jane's breathing became slow and regular.

“Jane?” Winter said experimentally.

“Mm?” Jane looked up, then frowned at Winter's expression. “What are you looking at?”

“Sorry.” Winter let the smallest smile appear. “One of my buttons has embossed a royal eagle on your forehead.”

Jane touched the red spot and smiled weakly. Winter leaned down and kissed the mark, gently.

“I'm sorry,” Jane said when she pulled back. “I didn't mean to fall apart on you like that. I just . . . I couldn't . . .”

“It's all right.” Winter ran her fingers through Jane's hair, red and silky, even tangled and dirty as it was. “Listen. Anyone who wants to leave can go, you know that. It'd be my job to stop them, and I'm not going to. But they won't. They're here because they think Vordan needs defending.”

“I know. I know! I didn't mean it. And I'd never leave you alone here, you know that, too.”

“Thank God for that.”

Jane's smile was stronger this time. Winter kissed her again, on the mouth this time, but drew back after a few moments.

“You,” she said, “taste like puke and gunpowder.”

Jane sighed, and pulled at a tangle in her hair. “Right. I should get cleaned up.” She shook her head. “What did Janus want with you, anyway?”

“Nothing important,” Winter said. “I'll fill you in in the morning.”

RAESINIA

C
laudia twirled her elegant umbrella and looked up at the gray autumn sky.

“Well,” she said cheerfully, “at least the rain's held off!”

Oh yes,
Queen Raesinia Orboan thought. It would be a shame if bad weather spoiled the executions.

She held her tongue, mindful of the watchful presence of Sothe at her shoulder. Claudia Nettalt sur Tasset was twenty-five, extremely wealthy, and beautiful. Raesinia found her fascinating to listen to, because everything that entered her head via her eyes or ears immediately left it again via her mouth, with no apparent processing in between. Since they'd been herded into the royal box, Claudia had offered her opinions on the number of people who'd gathered (quite a lot), Raesinia's dress (lovely), the color of the sky (gray), and of course the lack of rain. Now she looked around again with wide, guileless eyes.

“They're still working on the machine, Emil, look,” she said, indicating the center of everyone's attention, where a black-robed scholar and a pair of assistants were indeed still working on a bulky machine.

Her son, a boy of seven or eight, was dressed in a dark, sober suit, as appropriate for a noble still in mourning. He slumped with one shoulder against the railing of the box, immersed in a thick, leather-bound book that Raesinia recognized as the bloody adventure story
Heart of Khandar
. Claudia had introduced him when they first entered, but the Queen of Vordan was apparently a poor alternative to the exploits of Captain Merric and his men battling crocodiles and waterfalls.

On Raesinia's other side was a portly gentleman in gray, whom she recalled
had something to do with the arms industry. He, thankfully, did not feel obligated to make conversation, and devoted his attention instead to scanning the crowd and occasionally muttering caustically. From the tone of his observations, it appeared that he was extremely satisfied to be placed beside the queen while his rivals were obliged to sit with the commons.

The center of Farus' Triumph, with its spectacular fountain and speaker's rostrum, was poorly suited to this kind of public spectacle. Instead a semicircle of bleachers had been constructed at the north end of the great square, in front of the Hotel Ancerre, where the new government had its headquarters. In the center of the arc was a fenced-off box for the queen and her guests, which made Raesinia feel a bit like a cow penned and awaiting slaughter.

The very ends of the arc of seats were occupied by the members of the Deputies-General, with the opposing factions pressed as far away from one another as it was physically possible to be. On the left were the Radicals, in the colorful, particolored coats and hats that had for some reason unfathomable to Raesinia become the fashion in their circle. On the right, Conservatives looked like a flock of crows in their black, high-collared coats. The no-man's-land between the feuding parties was taken up by other notables of Vordan, a mix of wealthy men of common stock and aristocrats who'd thrown in their lot with the new order.

On the open side of the semicircle, a long line of Patriot Guards in their blue and white sashes stood at attention, keeping back the mass of common folk who filled the rest of the square. The Guard carried halberds, but their vicious ax heads were shrouded in linen hoods as a symbol of goodwill.

In the empty space between the crowd and the bleachers, two wooden platforms had been erected. One was for the five members of the Directory of National Defense, flanked by more Patriot Guards. The other, larger platform, where Claudia had directed her attention, bore a solid-looking metal table big enough for a man to lie on. Beside the platform, eight wretched-looking men in gray rags huddled together, surrounded by a double ring of guards.

The royal box itself was filled with nobles and prominent citizens who'd been invited to share it with the queen, in thanks for their support. Claudia, for instance, was there because her father, Count Tasset, was one of the minority of noblemen who'd voiced his support for the new government. Most of the nobility had responded to the Directory's patriotic appeals by hunkering down in their country estates, determined to ride out the storm and survive, regardless of how matters ultimately fell out.

Sothe had arranged the invitations, of course. Until the Constitution was finalized by the wrangling deputies, Raesinia had no authority to speak of, but that didn't stop the cream of Vordanai society from preemptively trying to win her over. Sothe had been officially promoted from Raesinia's maid to her head of household, a position with vast if somewhat informal powers, and she'd proven surprisingly adept at managing the supplicants and favor-seekers who crowded the queen's door. When Raesinia had asked her about it, she commented that the only difference between working in the court and in the Concordat was that the courtiers didn't use knives.

She stood behind Raesinia now, along with a pair of blue-uniformed Grenadier Guards. Of the three organizations that had once protected the king, the Armsmen had been officially subsumed into the Patriot Guard while the Noreldrai Grays had been disbanded in disgrace, leaving only the elite army detachment on duty. The Patriot Guards, of course, were charged with the safety of all the citizens of Vordan, but they answered to the Deputies-General, and specifically to the Directory of National Defense.
Which means they answer to Maurisk.

At that moment, one of the assistants waved to the men on the Directory platform and gave a thumbs-up. The pair of them scuttled out of sight, leaving only the black-robed scholar at the center of events. He bowed in the direction of the Directory, and one of five men sitting on their platform stood up and stepped forward to a low rostrum. Claudia looked down at Emil, frowned, and flicked him lightly on the side of the head.

“Put that book away and pay attention,” she said. The boy sighed as he obeyed, scowling at the speaker.

Chairman of the Directory of National Defense Johann Maurisk did not cut an imposing figure. He was tall but painfully thin, the hanging folds of his dark coat making him look like a scarecrow, face pale under a gray bicorn hat. He did have a strong voice, though, strong enough to ring out across the square and quiet the murmuring of the crowd.

“Citizens of Vordan!” he said. “We are gathered here to bear witness to a great step forward. One more relic of the past, laden with superstition, is swept away by the miraculous products of the modern age!”

There was a cheer from the crowd, but not a loud one. Banners fluttered and whipped in the wind, held aloft on poles or in raised hands. Blue and white for the Radicals, black for the Conservatives. The factions in the deputies were mirrored among the common folk, and pockets of color were mixed with blobs
of black. Bedsheets and pillowcases dyed with ink flapped as the Conservative supporters cheered for their hero, while the Radicals remained ominously silent.

“The genius responsible is Doctor-Professor Sarton,” Maurisk went on. “I will let him explain the workings of the device.”

Emil, who'd sagged with boredom as the de facto ruler of Vordan spoke, raised his head as the scholar beside the metal table straightened up. This was Doctor-Professor George Sarton, whose work the Directory had so enthusiastically embraced. Back before her father's death, when Raesinia had been sneaking out of the palace to organize the student radicals against the Last Duke, Maurisk and Sarton had been members of the inner circle of her conspiracy. He was an awkward, gangly man, with an unfortunate stutter that turned his face red with the effort of forcing out the words. He addressed Maurisk directly, leaving the rest of the assembled dignitaries to stare at the back of his head.

“I have made a s . . . s . . . study of the methods of execution used by the kings of Vordan,” he said. It sounded like a rehearsed speech. “They have always been cruel and inhumane. A modern s . . . s . . . state may require men to die for their crimes, but it takes no pleasure in cruelty. I wanted to provide a means to end a life with an absolute minimum of pain.”

Sarton turned to the metal table, running his hands across the steel with evident pleasure. “Hanging,” he went on, “requires a great deal of s . . . s . . . skill on the part of the hangman to produce a quick death. Having one man who must fill the role of executioner is against the principles of equality embodied by the Deputies-General. A
mechanism
is much more s . . . s . . . suitable.

“As every man knows, it is the heart that is the seat of the emotions, including pain and suffering. Destruction of the heart, therefore, brings painless and instantaneous death. To achieve this, I have employed the power and precision of modern clockwork. No expertise is necessary. The condemned is positioned here”—he patted the center of the table—“and bound in place, and then it only remains to throw a s . . . s . . . switch.”

He pressed something on the side of the table. Just left of the center, where a man's heart would be, a foot-long pointed steel piston slid straight up with the speed of a striking cobra and a
clank
of shivering metal.

“The procedure is utterly painless,” Sarton said. “The heart is punctured before it has time to react. The limbs may twitch, but the s . . . s . . . soul has departed.” He smiled beatifically, and for a moment his stutter vanished. “I call it the Spike.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then the crowd began to cheer, Radicals and Conservatives alike. Sarton dipped his head politely at Maurisk, and the chairman got to his feet again.

“These men,” he boomed, gesturing at the huddled prisoners, “have confessed to their crimes! They are Borelgai spies. Paid to work against us, to spy and to sabotage, by a nation of shopkeepers and Sworn Church toadies. For years we have suffered the Borels to live among us, tolerated their poisonous words and let them work their malignant influence. All for a dangled purse of gold!”

Raesinia tensed. Maurisk was looking in her direction, and it seemed for a moment he was speaking to her directly. Her father, Farus VIII, had been responsible for much of the “tolerance” that the chairman so disliked. Some of it had indeed been for gold—loans from the great bankers of Borel had kept the Crown afloat—but there was also the little matter of the War of the Princes, which had ended with the death of her older brother Prince Dominic and Vordan's humiliating surrender.

“No longer,” Maurisk said, his voice ringing off the flagstones. “The veil is torn. The enemies who have intrigued against us for years have been stung into action by the great steps forward we have taken, the establishment of the Deputies-General to ensure justice for all Vordanai. We are at war, my friends, and that means we do not need to abide this
treachery
in order to salve the feelings of merchants in Viadre! We can finally deal with such vile acts in the manner they fully deserve.”

Cheers rose again, wild and uproarious, mixed with shouts of “Death to traitors!” and “Down with Elysian slaves!” A regular chant emerged, spreading and growing in volume, until it shook the square. “To the Spike! To the Spike!”

Emil joined in, enthusiastically, until his mother flicked him on the ear. “Emil! A gentleman does not
hoot
with a crowd. Applause will be sufficient.” He subsided into clapping, and Claudia leaned closer to Raesinia. “He's a fine speaker, don't you think? Very loud. I could hear every word!”

“Oh yes,” Raesinia muttered. “Very fine.”

Maurisk gestured to the guards, who grabbed one of the prisoners and hauled him up onto the platform. Sarton's assistants reappeared, and with the guards' assistance they manhandled the man onto the Spike, lying facedown. Leather straps secured his arms, legs, and head, threaded through buckles built into the table, and a wide belt was cinched around his waist to keep him from arching his back.

When the prisoner was secured, the guards stepped back. Doctor-Professor Sarton looked to the Directory, and Maurisk gestured sharply downward. The
black-robed scholar touched the switch, and the Spike gave a
clang
. A tiny steel point appeared, protruding from the prisoner's back like a strange metallic growth. The man jerked once, then lay still. Raesinia felt her gorge rise, and swallowed hard.

Underneath the Spike's platform, someone must have been working a mechanism to reset the clockwork. The steel piston withdrew, the machine
click-click-click
ing loudly as it was reset. When the guards untied the straps and lifted the corpse away, there was barely a stain on the steel surface.

“How lovely,” Claudia said. “So much more
civilized
than a hanging. I always hate the way they kick and squirm.”

“Mama, where does the blood go?” Emil said. “I thought it would spurt all over the place.”

“I imagine there's a special drain,” Raesinia said.

“A special drain,” Claudia said, “of course! What a clever idea.”

“Yes.” Raesinia's voice was flat as she looked at the seven remaining prisoners. “Dr. Sarton has always been very . . . clever.”

Confessed traitors, Maurisk had called the condemned. Huddled together, dressed in rags, they did not look terribly traitorous. Sothe had told her of the methods Duke Orlanko had employed to extract a confession, when one was required. She wondered if Maurisk had taken a page from the same book. She looked away, the pit of her stomach sour.

“Come on,” Raesinia said to Sothe. “We're leaving.”

“Leaving?” Sothe leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “We're here at the invitation of the Directory. Are you sure that's wise?”

The tone of Sothe's voice told Raesinia that she was sure that it was not, but Raesinia chose not to hear the rebuke. “We'll tell Maurisk my delicate digestion was upset by the spectacle. That ought to make him happy.”