The Price of Valor (62 page)

I can't just watch this.
Sothe was fast, but she'd slip eventually. Marcus searched among the bodies lying where Leatherbacks and seedies had met until he found one that wore a grenadiers' brown satchel. He gauged the distance, tensed, and hurled himself back through the broken window just as Sothe let another knife fly. This time, the ball of flame formed farther from the Penitent Damned, and molten, broken fragments of blade flew apart in all direction, like tiny shooting stars. Whips of flame lashed out at Sothe, a blazing squid trying to swat an elusive fly.

Marcus reached the dead grenadier and rolled her over, pulling two battered tin spheres out of the brown satchel. He left one on the ground and hefted the other, winding up and putting all his weight into the throw to reach the old woman where she floated in the heart of the bonfire. It flew a bit wide, but a bolt of flame lashed out at it in what seemed like an automatic reaction, and the blast of the powder blew chunks of liquid fire across the square. The other tendrils paused in the pursuit of Sothe long enough for the assassin to throw a pair of knives at once, which caused the bonfire itself to dim as the flame gathered into a single ball big enough to intercept both.

She can't attack and defend herself at the same time,
Marcus realized. He grabbed the second grenade and started running, an instant before a long whip of flame slammed down where he'd been standing. There was the
hiss
of charring meat, and weak screams from the wounded nearby. Marcus pounded up toward the corner of the Silver Eagle building, keeping one eye on the old woman. When she'd gathered herself for another strike, he hurled the grenade, a wild throw that her tentacles nonetheless snapped out of the air.

Up ahead, Marcus heard a shout and the clatter of something on wheels. Moments later, Andy and her team came into view, dragging what looked like a handcart with a pair of tubes and a handle mounted on top.

It had been Cora who located the firefighting engine, moldering in some forgotten warehouse. It was a simple thing, really—just two canvas hoses, and a long-handled pump between them with space for four men to work it. Marcus suspected it dated back to the construction of Newtown—the Rationalists had loved engines and machines of all kinds—which made it more than eighty years old. But it worked, or at least it worked once they'd cleaned and oiled it and chiseled off some of the rust.

Some of Andy's team were doubtless taken aback by the rearing, roaring fire demon, but they'd practiced too many times to let it shake them. One of the young women jumped off the little cart and grabbed the end of a hose, running north to the foot of the Grand Span. The riverbank was only a few feet below, and she threw the weighted nozzle as far as she could. It went into the water with a splash, the hose going taut as the current dragged it downstream.

Two teenage boys took the other hose out of its tight coil, dumped it on the dirt, and got the nozzle ready. The rest of the crew, with Andy looking on, got on the pump and started working it furiously back and forth.

It would take time, of course. Marcus looked for another dead grenadier, and spotted one lying against the Silver Eagle building, back the way he'd come. He reversed direction, narrowly avoiding a tendril whipping down to swat him like an insect, and scrambled back away from Andy's team with a spray of bloody dirt from his boots. Sothe threw another knife—
to think I wondered if she was bringing too many
—and the old woman blocked it with another teakettle screech. She slammed one tentacle down to the left of Sothe, missing her by yards, but the assassin had to skid to a stop as the flame blazed upward, elongating into a wall of white-hot fury. Sothe turned to run the other way, but a second tendril cut her off, trapping her against one wall of a building between two blazing infernos. Two more tendrils rose above the bonfires, ready to come down and smash this elusive opponent once and for all.

Marcus hurled his grenade in a low arc, as though he were bowling on a lawn. It bounced across the dirt and directly into one of the walls of flames, where it exploded with a roar and a blossom of smoke. As before, the blast of the bomb seemed to scatter the supernatural fire of the Penitent Damned like water. Sothe reacted fast, flipping sideways through the smoke of the grenade and across the remnants of the wall of flame. She came out the other side, smoke clinging to her, her black silks smoldering. But she was still on her feet, twisting to throw yet another blade at the old woman in the center of the bonfire.

A trickle had begun to leak from the end of the hose, expanding rapidly into
a steady stream of river water. One of the boys tightened the valve, squeezing the stream into a high-pressure spray, while the other struggled to direct it upward. It hit the base of the bonfire with a
hiss
like hot metal quenching, throwing up a vast cloud of steam.

The old woman screamed, or the fire screamed—at this point, it was hard to tell the difference. All her flames contracted again and lashed out at the firefighting engine. The lance of fire hit the boy manning the hose and punched
through
him, leaving him pinioned for a moment on a spear of white-hot energy. It twisted up from there to slash across the women operating the pump, who dove for cover. One wasn't fast enough, and the fire hit her with a physical impact, tossing her into the air like a blazing, shrieking meteor.

The single fire tendril, shedding the flame corpse of the boy, reared up to smash the engine itself to flinders. A knife whipped out of the darkness and struck home, burying itself to the hilt in the Penitent Damned's back, but she didn't appear to notice. Marcus, with a shout, hurled another grenade, aiming for where the great tendril joined the bonfire. When it detonated, the flames scattered, raining down across Andy and her crew like a sudden squall from the depths of hell.

“Andy, hit her again!” Marcus hefted his last grenade as the tendril re-formed.

Andy ran to grab the head of the hose, now drooling water into the dirt, and the young women returned to the pump. Marcus was amazed at the fortitude of the refugees, not even professional soldiers, confronting something they couldn't understand and willing to stand to their posts. The stream gained pressure again, raining down on the bonfire, the hiss of steam rising to a roar.

The tendril of flame licked out again, but not toward the firefighting engine. Instead it came directly at Marcus, determined to finish off this interference before dealing with the real threat. Reflexively, Marcus hurled his weapon, and the blazing whip intercepted it only a few feet away from him. He managed to squeeze his eyes shut before the world went white, and the roar of the bomb drowned out even the scream and crackle of the fire.

*   *   *

He never quite passed out, but several moments went by before he was entirely aware of himself again, lying in the glass and rubble in front of the Silver Eagle building. Even through closed eyelids, the bomb had left glowing afterimages, and he blinked them away and struggled to sit upright.

The bonfire was dying, shrinking and melting like an ice sculpture in the desert sun. Strands of fire curved inward, struggling to form the white-hot ball
of flame, but they hissed into steam as soon as they met the powerful torrent of river water. Andy played the hose over the Penitent Damned, the fire below her, and the scorched earth that surrounding them, creating a muddy lake in the center of the crossroads. In a few moments, the once-towering inferno was reduced to a nimbus of flame surrounding the old woman, who sank, blackened and smoking, among the wrecked logs that had started the flames. Andy kept the water on her until the last flickers died.

Marcus tried to stand, failed, and sat back down heavily. He was surprised to find himself in a quite extraordinary amount of pain. Looking down, he saw a six-inch-wide chunk of tin plating—part of the shell of one of the grenades—embedded in the meat of his left thigh, blood soaking a widening black circle in his uniform trousers. He tested the shard with a finger, and the slightest pressure on it brought stars to the edges of his vision and involuntary tears to his eyes.

Marcus had been wounded before, sometimes seriously. But he had never had a foreign object sticking out of him like this, and just the sight of it made his gorge rise. He looked up, swallowing hard, and found Andy and Sothe hurrying in his direction. All around the crossroads, Leatherbacks were picking themselves up and stumbling numbly toward the remains of the fire. Wounded men and women of both sides were praying, swearing, and shouting for help.

“Marcus!” Andy said. “Are you—oh, saints and fucking martyrs.”

“I was . . . a little too close to that last one.” Marcus tried for a sardonic smile, but the pain made it tight around the edges. His breath came fast. “The demon. Dead?”

Sothe knelt beside him, pushing his hands away and gently touching the flesh around the wound. Even this made Marcus want to scream, and he averted his eyes and stared up and Andy, who was making a similar effort to focus only on his face.

“It—she—is dead,” Andy said. “Yes. There was nothing left in the ashes but a skeleton.”

“Did you—”

“I pulled its skull off and crushed it,” Sothe said. “Just to be sure.”

“How many of ours—
aaaah
, damn it!”

“Sorry.” Sothe shook her head. “The good news is you're not going to bleed to death right away. The bad news is this needs a cutter, or else you
will
bleed to death if we try to pull it out.”

“I have to . . .” Marcus closed his eyes, then opened them hurriedly when
darkness threatened to close in on him. “Janus. Have to tell Janus they have Raesinia.”

“We shouldn't move him,” Sothe said, her voice ringing and distant.

“How about just into the building?” Andy said. “If we get the worst of the wounded in there, we can hunker down and wait. The Patriots are planning to fall back past here, so Janus' troops should be right behind them.”

“Anyone who can still walk should get out of the way,” Sothe said. “Just in case.”

“Right.” Andy stood. “I'll find a couple more volunteers to move people, and we'll start with him. Just stay calm, Marcus. We'll take care of you.”

Andy ran off, shouting at someone nearby. Sothe stayed where she was, looking down at Marcus.

“You saved my life,” she said eventually.

“I did?” Marcus was having trouble remembering. “Yeah. I guess I did. But you've saved mine, more than once. We're hardly even.”

“I . . .” Sothe shook her head. “No. I suppose we're not even.”

“I would . . . very much like to pass out now,” Marcus said.

Something that was nearly a smile crossed Sothe's face. “We'll take care of things here. Don't worry.”

Marcus nodded and closed his eyes. He was aware of someone catching him as he slumped backward, and then unconsciousness rolled over him like a numbing blanket.

RAESINIA

T
here were no proper cells in the Hotel Ancerre, so at first they'd locked Raesinia in a wine cupboard. Empty racks lined the walls, with just about enough room between them for her to sit cross-legged. She'd done that for a while, concentrating on her breathing and the feeling of the binding tidying up the last of her wounds. The front of her shirt was still heavy with drying blood, and she smelled like a butcher shop.

Eventually, a couple of Patriot Guards opened the door and grabbed her roughly by the arms. They dragged her into the corridor, where Ionkovo was waiting, a thin smile on his face. Under his watchful gaze, the Patriots frog-marched Raesinia through the halls to the door of what looked like a guest room, which had been hastily fitted with an iron bar and a padlock. Inside, it was spartan, with a single bed, a table, and a high window too small to fit through. Probably intended for a guest's servant, Raesinia guessed. There was a basin full of water, though, and she filled a cup from it and drank greedily.

“You'll remain here for a little while,” Ionkovo said. “Until we can arrange safe passage out of the city. Then you'll be coming with me to visit His Eminence the Pontifex of the Black.”

“Mmm.” Raesinia held up one hand as she finished gulping her water. “I'm sure that will be edifying for everyone.”

The Penitent stared at her for a moment. “You've lost, you know.”

“Probably.” Raesinia set the glass down and looked back at him steadily.

“Your general's army will burn in the streets. Even if Maurisk falls, the mob will tear down whoever puts himself in his place, eventually. We will recover
the Thousand Names, and you will be our guest at Elysium for the remainder of your days.”

“I hope you're prepared to put up with me for quite some time, then.”

“Was it worth it? You could have spared Vordan all of this.”

“By becoming Orlanko's puppet? Marrying some Borel?”

Ionkovo shrugged. “You'd hardly be the first monarch not to interest herself in affairs of state, nor even the first Orboan. Certainly not the first to despise her spouse. Would that have been such a bad life, in the end? You claim to love your countrymen, but all you've brought them is chaos and death.”

“And freedom from the rule of people like you.”

“Those who bear demons?”

“Self-righteous hypocrites.”

The Penitent actually laughed. “I doubt any nation anywhere will ever rid itself of those.”

He was probably right, of course. Raesinia sat on the bed with a sigh and plucked at the sodden neckline of her shirt. “So, what do you want from me? Don't you have a war to run?”

“I wanted to ask you something. I don't expect you'll answer, but please remember I gave you this opportunity.”

“What?”

“The man who saved you from Twist. The creature of sand and darkness. Who is he?”

Raesinia laughed. “There are many things I wouldn't tell you, just on principle, but that's one I honestly don't know. I'd like to ask him a few questions myself.”

“We'll see.” Ionkovo cocked his head. “My colleague the Liar has a technique for extracting information from an unwilling subject. Thus far, it's been invariably fatal for the person involved, so I'm curious to see what will happen in your case.”

“I look forward to it,” Raesinia said. “I'm sure it'll be exquisitely painful.”

“I hope you maintain that bravado when you're locked in Elysium,” Ionkovo said, opening the door. “It's sure to amuse the pontifex.”

“Don't worry on that score. My friends tell me I'm incorrigible.”

The door slammed shut. A moment later, she heard the bar dragged close, and the heavy
snick
of the lock.

Raesinia stood up and took a deep breath. Being snide to Ionkovo was one thing; something about his thin-lipped smile made her want to smash his face in with a brick every time she saw it.
But he may be right that things aren't looking good.

She hoped that Marcus had escaped—Ionkovo would have gloated if they'd captured or killed him. If he was still free, he and Sothe and the others would try to stop the firestorm in the Docks, and hopefully save Janus' army. If they succeeded, that meant she had some chance of getting out of here, assuming the attackers could reach the Hotel Ancerre before Ionkovo found a way to smuggle her out of the city.
That's a lot of ifs.

On the other hand, if Marcus had failed and Janus was defeated, it was very likely the Black Priests would carry her off into an eternal imprisonment.
It sounds like something out of a fairy tale.
What it sounded like, actually, was something she'd rather die than suffer, but she didn't even have that final option.

It had been a long time since Raesinia felt fear on her own account. She was used to fearing for those around her, fearing, especially, that they would feel compelled to sacrifice in order to “save” her, trying to rescue a life that had been lost years ago.
At least Marcus and Sothe know the truth.
Not that it will stop them from trying something stupid.

She closed her eyes for a moment and rubbed her fingers against her temples.
All right. Enough feeling sorry for myself. First things first.

First of all, she stripped, throwing the ruined, bloody shirt into the corner. Her trousers were only spotted with blood, and would probably serve. There was a washcloth beside the basin, and after filling her glass again she set about using the rest of the water to get herself clean.
Cleaner
, anyway
.
Once she'd gotten rid of the worst of the bloodstains and rinsed her hands in the now-pink water, she put her trousers back on and stripped the sheet off the bed to wear like a cloak.

That accomplished, she made a thorough search of the room, in case there was something useful she'd missed. All this turned up was a copy of the
Wisdoms
bound in soft leather, forgotten under the bed by some pious butler. Raesinia leafed through a few pages at random, then decided she wasn't in the mood for theological study and left the book on the bed.

She was making a second circuit, paying particular attention to the wallpaper in case there was a loose bit of plaster somewhere, when the door lock clicked open. She turned, clutching her makeshift garment at the neck, and tried to put on a queenly manner. The door open to reveal Maurisk, dressed in his usual severe blacks and grays, wearing an embroidered sash indicating his position as a deputy with extra embellishments to show his position in the Directory as well. Two Patriot Guards with muskets flanked him, but he stepped through the door and waved them away.

“Lock it,” he said. “We're not to be disturbed.”

The guards saluted, and the door slammed. Maurisk stared at Raesinia, rage boiling in his eyes. He was swaying slightly, she noted.
Is he drunk?

“It's generally considered proper to bow to your queen,” Raesinia said.

Maurisk's lip twisted into a snarl. He crossed the room in two quick steps, grabbed the edges of the sheet, and tore it away from her shoulder, exposing her breast. She felt his eyes on her, and her throat went thick.

“I never thought you were the sort,” she managed, letting the sheet fall away completely. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands. Being dressed and undressed by servants her whole life had left Raesinia with very little modesty on her own account, but being half-naked in front of Maurisk made her feel small and vulnerable. She stood up straighter and looked him in the eye. “Well?”

He reached out with his left hand, resting it on her shoulder. Her skin crawled, but she remained still.
A step closer, and I can go for his eyes.

Maurisk's other hand emerged from his pocket, holding a long, thin blade. Raesinia barely had time to flinch before he struck, punching the tip of the knife into the soft skin under her breast, angled upward to slice through the lung and find her heart.

Her insides went thick and stiff. Blood bubbled to her lips with her next breath, running down her chin. Maurisk jerked his weapon free, and Raesinia took a shuffling step backward, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed as her legs turned to jelly. The binding was already at work, drawing the rent closed and tingling all along the dagger's path, but with her heart stilled her muscles refused to respond for the moment. She slumped backward, arms spread, staring at the ceiling.

Maurisk waited, blood dripping from the tip of his dagger. It was less than a minute before Raesinia shuddered, coughing out a mouthful of blood and then sucking in a deep breath. She raised her head, blood and spit dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

“Is that it?” she rasped. “Are you satisfied?”

Maurisk nodded, not taking his eyes off her. Wearily, Raesinia rolled off the bed and staggered back to the basin, spitting into it several times before washing her mouth out with water from the cup. She took the soiled washcloth and wiped it across her lips, then cleaned herself where he'd stabbed her. She could feel him staring at where the wound had been, where the skin was now smooth and unbroken. Satisfied she wasn't going to drip blood all over herself, she picked up the
sheet again, winding it around her chest this time before tying it off.
Harder to grab, and it leaves my arms free.

“Ionkovo told me . . . what you were,” Maurisk said. There was a slight slur to his words, too, but his eyes were clear. “I had to see for myself.”

“A demon,” Raesinia said. “A monster. I know.”

“There was never any double, that night on the Vendre.” That was the story she'd used, to explain her “death” at the hands of the traitor Faro. “That was you. He shot you in the head and you pulled him off the wall.”

“I might quibble with the order of events, but yes. We landed on a bunch of very sharp rocks. If it's any consolation to you, it hurt quite a bit.”

“How long have you been like this?”

“Years,” Raesinia said. “You get used to it.”

“Years.” Anger and bitterness were strong in the Directory President's voice. “Since before you met us. Our little club in the back of the Blue Mask, playing at revolution.”

“I was never playing at it. Neither was Ben. Neither were you.”

“
I
was risking my life. So was Ben, so was Faro, so was
Cora
. What the hell were you risking? A spanking?” Maurisk shook his head. “What the fuck did you get out of it? Was it really just a game?”

“Of course not,” Raesinia said. “My
father
was dying, Maurisk. When he died, Orlanko would have declared a regency and taken the throne for himself. I didn't want to spend my life married to some Borel, with Vordan back under the Sworn Church's boot.”

“So you came to us. A bunch of ignorant little pawns, to be used up and discarded when they were no longer useful.” He grinned viciously. “I'm so sorry everything hasn't gone according to plan.”

“It was going fine, until you hijacked the Deputies-General for yourself.” Raesinia crossed her arms. “It was your bomb in the square. Don't deny it.”

“Not much use in denying it now,” Maurisk said, with strange cheer. “Not much use in anything anymore. I just told a fucking witch to burn down half my city. Goddamned Janus bet Vhalnich just won't give up, will he?
Fuck
.”

“You know it's over for you,” Raesinia said. “If Janus wins, you'll end up on your own Spike. If he loses, then it's the Black Priests who'll be running things, whether they keep you on as a puppet or not. You've sold them Vordan, and for what? A few favors? Getting rid of anyone who got in your way?”

“For
peace
.” Maurisk slammed his hand against the wall, leaving a dent in the
plaster. “The Church will make the Borelgai and the emperor stop the war. Vordan needs peace, on whatever terms. Your friend Vhalnich can't provide that, no matter how many battles he wins, but Ionkovo can.” He steadied himself and took a deep breath. “All he wanted was you, some Khandarai trinket, and Janus himself. It seemed like a good bargain. Still does, from where I stand.”

The hell of it was, she couldn't entirely say he was wrong.
Except . . . “
Assuming Ionkovo keeps his promises. Once he has what he wants, what's to stop the Church from taking over?”

“It's a better chance than you and Vhalnich offer us. Or do you really think he can beat Borel and Murnsk together, with Ionkovo and his kind thrown in?” Maurisk snorted. “I wonder if even
his
madness goes that far.”

“I know I'd rather fight than trust in the mercy of the Pontifex of the Black.”

“
You
would rather fight. But that's not much of a risk for you, is it? All those poor bastards in blue uniforms only get one life apiece.”

That hit a little too close to home. Raesinia looked away, and said nothing.

Maurisk shook his head, rapping on the door with exaggerated caution. As the lock clicked open, he said, “Dr. Sarton was especially interested to hear of your . . . condition.”

“You told Sarton?” Raesinia said.

Maurisk shrugged. “I believe he's interested in hearing about the
subjective
experience of the victims of the Spike. He's already hard at work designing an improved model. If there's time, perhaps you'll have a chance to assist him with his experiments.”

“I'm sure his improvements will be a consolation when they're strapping
you
down,” Raesinia spit.

Maurisk snorted. The guards outside opened the door, and he brushed past them without a word, leaving them to close and lock it again.

Raesinia sat down on the bed, arms crossed over her chest. She could still feel where Maurisk's dagger had gone in, a residual tingle of the binding at work.