The Price of Valor (64 page)

“What are you doing here? I thought you were wounded at Midvale.”

“Once I healed up, the Preacher sent me to help Marcus.” Andy leaned forward eagerly. “Are the others still with you? Is Jane here?”

“Most of them are here,” Winter said, fighting not to show a stab of pain in her face. “They're camped out up the road a bit.” Looking at the other woman, Winter realized that she recognized her as well, from their desperate venture under the Vendre. “And you're . . . Rose, was it?”

“Sothe is my real name,” the woman said. “I work for the queen.”

“She's . . .” Marcus gestured vaguely, trying to find an appropriate description.

“I've seen her work,” Winter said.

“They both know what's going on,” Marcus said. “The Penitent Damned are working with Maurisk, or else they're running the show entirely. They tried to steal the Thousand Names, and we stopped them for now, but Raesinia got herself captured in the process. We have to get her back before they can get her out of the city.”

“Why would they want to get her out of the city?” Winter said. “If they use her as a hostage—”

“She carries a demon that makes her unable to die,” Sothe said. “The Penitent Damned want to drag her back to Elysium.”

“Ah,” Winter said, digesting this rather large revelation.

“Are your troops going to reach the Hotel Ancerre before nightfall?” Marcus said.

Winter shook her head. “I doubt it. They're holding on like ticks over there. We're going to have to dig in and hold through the night, I think. In the morning Janus can bring up more artillery and tear the Island down around their ears if he has to.”

She'd made her decision, she realized, sometime in the last few minutes. An all-out rush for the hotel might work, but the odds were against it, and it would certainly cost more lives than she was prepared to spend on an outside chance.

“By morning, they'll have her well away,” Sothe said. She glanced at Marcus. “I'm going to get her. By myself, if I have to.”

“How?” Winter said. “The Patriots have turned Farus' Triumph into a killing ground, and the surrounding streets are barricaded.”

“I'll find a way through,” Sothe said, but there was something about her tone that sounded less than confident.

“Even if you do,” Andy said, “those Penitent Damned are probably in there, right? The monster who tried to kill Marcus, and the one you fought.”

“And Ionkovo,” Marcus said. “She's right. You won't have a chance against them alone.” He looked up at Winter. “Is there any chance you could sneak a force through? Just enough to get into the hotel and out again. Maybe by the river—”

Winter shook her head. “They've got spotters on the shore.” They'd sent small boats out earlier, hoping to find a spot to land a company and outflank the barricades, only to draw fire from the rooftops.

“After dark,” Sothe said, “a small group might be able to sneak across the Triumph.”

“They'd have to be fools not to put lanterns up—”

“I know a way in,” Cyte said.

Everyone paused and looked at her, and she shrank a little, then took a deep breath.

“There's a tunnel,” she said. “Under the Triumph. It runs from the south side to the north side, right under the fountain. It's just about big enough for one person at a time. They use it to do maintenance on the pipes. It comes up by the back wall of the Ancerre.”

Sothe frowned. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

“Not many have. The contract for maintaining the fountain has been with the same firm for the last fifty years, and they're pretty closemouthed about it.”

“So how do
you
know?” Andy said.

“The Wastrel Prince, the second son of Farus the Fifth, used to use it to sneak his mistresses into the Ancerre and past his father's guards.” Cyte's cheeks colored a little. “I wrote a paper about it, back at the University.”

“Is it still there?” Marcus said. “That was decades ago.”

“The entrance is, anyway,” Cyte said. “I went and found it. It's locked, but it wouldn't be hard to break open.”

Marcus caught Winter's eye, and she nodded slowly.

“It's worth a shot,” she said. “I'll put together a team from the Girls' Own.”

Sothe straightened up and squared her shoulders. “I'll get ready, then.”

“Me, too.” Andy hopped down from the desk and stretched.

“You don't have to go—” Marcus began.

“If you're going to fight the Penitent Damned, better to have as many people who know what a Penitent Damned
is
as you can get, right?” Andy grinned. “Besides, I missed most of the fight against that old witch. I still owe these fucking Penitent Damned for Hayver.”

“I wish I could join you,” Marcus said. “But I don't think I'd be very useful at this point.”

“You need rest.” Winter waved the others toward the door. “Start getting the team ready. I'll be with you in a few moments.”

When they were alone, Winter looked down at Marcus. She'd gotten some odd reports from her scouts, and a few pieces were finally falling into place. The picture they formed made her stomach churn.

“It was a Penitent Damned you fought here, wasn't it?”
All those charred skeletons.
They'd wondered if the Patriots had been drenching civilians in oil and burning them alive. “Some sort of fire demon.”

Marcus gave a weary nod. “They set caches of flash powder in the buildings.”

“We found them,” Winter said. Her mind leapt ahead, full of racing flames. “So when we advanced—”

“The demon would turn the whole district into a firestorm,” Marcus said.

“Saints and martyrs.” Winter sucked in a breath, goose bumps rising at the thought of how close they'd come to total disaster. And there had been a
lot
of bodies in the street . . .

“All volunteers,” Marcus said, reading her expression. “Docks people, refugees. Men and women. Raesinia and I asked them to do it.” He smiled weakly. “Couldn't just let them cook you, could we?”

“I . . .” Winter found herself flushing, and coughed. “‘Thank you' hardly seems adequate. A lot of men and women owe you and your volunteers their lives.”

“Just what I had to do,” Marcus said. His eyes were red, and heavy with fatigue. “Listen. Help Raesinia.
Please.
As soon as you can.” His hand clenched into a fist, twisting the bedsheet. “She can't die, but she can still hurt. If they get her away from the city . . .”

“We'll find her,” Winter said.

“Thank you.” Marcus let out a long breath, his fingers relaxing. He put on a small smile. “The eagles look good on you.”

Winter touched the gold insignia of rank on her shoulders. “They're heavier than I expected.”

His smile broadened a little. “Always.”

“Get some sleep,” Winter said, straightening. “When Janus gets here, tell him I've gone on ahead.”

Cyte and Bobby were waiting for her outside the door, and she gestured them into the empty office next door. Winter closed the door and kept her voice low.

“I'm going,” she said. “You know I have to.”

“It's going to be hard to explain to anyone who doesn't know about . . . all this,” Cyte said. “What are you going to tell Abby?”

“I'm going to try and avoid her. Bobby, are you in for this? We could certainly use your help.”

Bobby nodded, looking down at her hands. Winter frowned, then turned to Cyte.

“You're staying behind.” Cyte opened her mouth to object, but Winter cut her off. “Please don't argue. I'm leaving you in command here.”

“In
command
?” Cyte's eyes went wide. “That's ridiculous. What about Abby and Sevran?”

“They've got their own problems to deal with. All you need to do is keep sending troops across as they come up and start digging in. Janus will be here in an hour or so, and he'll take over. I want you here to fill him in.”

Cyte hesitated, but she could see the logic. “Be careful. We need you.”

“I'll do my best.” Winter smiled, but it took an effort. “Can you go and ask Abby to put together maybe half a dozen people she'd want in a street fight? Make sure they're well armed, too.”

“Yes, sir!” Cyte saluted and hurried out, shutting the door behind her. Winter turned to Bobby, and there was a long pause.

“Are you all right?” she said. “You were pretty quiet in there.”

“Sorry,” Bobby said. “I was just . . . thinking. I'd got it into my head that this would be over soon. Once we got rid of Maurisk, maybe. But when you
started talking about the Penitent Damned, I thought, this is never going to be over, is it? Not for us.”

She was staring down at her hand, the one she'd used to stop a sword that would have cut Winter in two. She wore a tight black glove now, but underneath it Winter knew the flesh was white and glittering, like polished marble.

On impulse, Winter stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the girl. It was the first time they'd been so close since that night at the fire in Khandar, and she half expected Bobby to pull away, but she only rested her head gently on Winter's shoulder.

“It won't,” Winter said. “You're right. But whatever happens, I promise I'll be there with you.”

“I . . .” Bobby's voice was thick. “John talks about what he wants to do, when the war is over.”

“Go see him,” Winter said. “We've got a little time.”

Bobby pulled away, wiping her eyes, and nodded. She caught something in Winter's expression and said, “We'll find Jane when this is over. I know we will. And she'll—”

Winter forced another smile. “I know. Go on.”

WINTER

I
n the end, there were nine of them. Winter, Bobby, Sothe, and Andy, plus a sergeant and four rankers from the Girls' Own. The sergeant, whose name was Maura, was a tall, impressively built woman whom Winter vaguely recognized as one of the Docks people from the days of the old Leatherbacks. In addition to the pair of pistols and saber that they all wore, she carried a long wooden staff, with which she was apparently formidable. Winter was surprised to find two of the Deslandai recruits, Joanna and Barley, among those Abby had picked to go with them.

“They were keen to help,” Maura said, her voice surprisingly high for such a large frame. “And I saw them get into some tight fighting in the woods at Jirdos. When Jo hits someone, down they go. And Barley knows what she's doing with those knives.”

Winter blinked, a little confused. “I thought your name was—”

“They call me Barley,” the slight woman said, with a faint sigh.

“Because she's barely there,” Maura said. “Get it?”

“Is it a problem?” Winter said, trying not to smile.

“You might as well join in. No stopping them at this point, sir.”

The other two rankers, Jenna and Vicky, Winter had never met. The idea that there were women under her command that she'd never
met
, whose names she'd never even heard, filled her with a momentary guilt, but she shoved it aside. They were both Vordanai, who'd volunteered after the declaration of war. Jenna was a Docks woman, about Winter's age, with prematurely gray hair tied up in a coiled braid. Vicky was a Northsider, daughter of a successful livery
stable owner, who'd run away to join the army as soon as she heard the Girls' Own was recruiting. They both offered Winter crisp salutes, but the expression on their faces made her uncomfortable. It was the look of women meeting a legend.
When did I become a legend?

They waited at the foot of the bridge, as the sun slid past the horizon, until a couple of howitzer shells went past, both splashing noisily into the river. Then, with Sothe in the lead, they ran, sprinting across the cracked flagstones of the Grand Span. Here and there, corpses dotted the bridge, unlucky soldiers who'd been caught in the blasts. Winter kept her head down and her mind on her footing. The bridge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, and she was pleased to note she wasn't the only one breathing hard by the time they reached the cover of the buildings on the other side.
Sothe and Bobby look like they could keep running all day, though.

The entrance was right where Cyte had said it would be, in an alley behind a row of cafés. Most of them had metal trapdoors leading down to their basements, where new stock could be moved in, and the tunnel entrance looked identical to all the others, secured by a battered padlock. Sothe opened this with a pair of slim wires and a few moments' work, and Winter was relieved to see that they had the right place. Instead of a café basement, a ladder led down into the dark.

Andy had brought a pair of lanterns, and she handed one to Sothe and hooked the other onto her back. She'd also brought a brown linen satchel stuffed with something that looked unwieldy, though she hadn't mentioned it aloud. Sothe went first, managing the ladder one-handed, and Andy brought up the rear with the lantern dangling from her straps.

The shaft went down farther than Winter had expected, a good thirty feet, before ending on a slimy stone floor. The light of the lanterns revealed a tiny passage, with a large iron pipe fitted to its ceiling. Cyte hadn't exaggerated the close quarters—there was room for one person to walk, bent nearly double at the waist, and that was all. By the time Winter reached the bottom of the ladder, Sothe was already well along, and there was nothing to do but follow.

This was the first potential hurdle. If somehow the Patriots
did
know about the tunnel, it would have been child's play to block it, or arrange an ambush at the other end. They were nearly helpless in such tight quarters, and Winter had her heart in her throat all the way through. She counted steps, to reassure herself that the tunnel had to end
somewhere
. At one point the light showed an open space above her, and she guessed they were under the statue at the center of the square.
Halfway through.
Above them, guns boomed and grumbled, barely audible through the intervening earth.

“I've found the ladder,” Sothe said sometime later. “I'm going up.” As Winter reached the bottom and started to climb, there was a sharp, metallic noise from above. “Had to break the lock,” Sothe reported. “The top's clear.”

One by one, they emerged from another trapdoor disguised as a basement access, this time behind the imposing brickwork bulk of the Hotel Ancerre. Joanna, Winter noted, climbed out of the tunnel on distinctly shaky legs, and Barely, right behind her, took her hand and squeezed it tight.

“Are you all right?” Winter said.

The big woman nodded, mutely, breathing deep.

“She's not good with tight spaces,” Barley said. “There was this time back when we were kids—”

Joanna slashed her hand in a clear gesture of negation. Barley shrugged.

“She'll be okay,” she said. “Just give her a minute.”

“That's the kitchen door over there,” Sothe said. “I'll go in first. The rest of you come through when I give the word.”

The others all looked to Winter, who nodded. Having seen Sothe in action under the Vendre, she was happy to let her take the lead. They pressed themselves against the wall, four to either side, while Sothe eased the door open and ghosted through. A few moments later, they heard her voice.

“Everyone stay quiet! The rest of you, come in.”

Winter opened the door. The hotel kitchens were vast, but apparently underused—only one of the three hearths was burning, and most of the long wooden tables were piled with dirty cookware and other debris no one had gotten around to cleaning up. Four women in dirty linen stood by a tub of foamy water, brushes in hand. They were all staring at a swinging double door, where Sothe was standing. She had her arm around the neck of a man in hotel livery, a bloody knife held tight against his throat. Her other hand held a pistol, aimed at the closest of the women. At her side, another man wearing a Patriot Guard sash was still twitching as blood from the slash across his throat puddled on the floor.

“Don't hurt him!” one of the women shouted, letting her brush fall into the tub. “Please, we—”

“Quiet!” Sothe hadn't discussed her plan beforehand, but Winter felt she got the gist. She kept her voice low. “Nobody's getting hurt if you don't make a fuss.”

“We're not with the Patriot Guard,” one of the other women said as the rest of Winter's group filed into the room and shut the door behind them. “We just work here, I swear.”

“I know. Cooperate, and we'll let you go.”

“We'll have to tie them up,” Sothe said. “Just in case.”

“They didn't give
us
any choice,” the man she was holding said. “The boss just told us they were moving in—”

“Prisoners,” Sothe interrupted. “Where do they keep the prisoners?”

There was a moment of silence, broken by a crackle from the hearth. Then one of the women, hesitant, volunteered, “There's no prisoners here. No cells or nothing.”

Winter's throat went tight, but Sothe shook her head.

“Maurisk wouldn't let her out of his sight. He's here, isn't he? The Directory President?”

“On the sixth floor,” the man said. “We're not allowed up there anymore. We just drop meals off with the soldiers.”

“That has to be it, then,” Winter said.

“Is there a way up that isn't guarded?” Sothe said.

“We use the back stairs,” one of the women said. “But there's a guard, day and night.”

“Only one?” Sothe said

The woman nodded.

“I'll handle him,” Sothe said curtly. “Winter, get the others tied up and gagged. I won't be long.” She removed her blade from the man's throat and said, “Show me the way. If you shout, this is going into your kidney.”

He nodded frantically, very pale, and they disappeared through the swinging doors. Winter looked at the four women, and smiled apologetically.

“Sorry,” she said. “But we really can't just leave you.”

The one who'd spoken first looked at the others, swallowed, and sighed. “I suppose you can't, can you?”

Bobby and Andy handled the binding, using kitchen twine. Even if no one found them, Winter thought, it wouldn't be
that
hard to work loose. They'd just finished gagging the women when Sothe reappeared, still leading her charge at knifepoint. Bobby bound him as well, and set him beside the hearth with the others.

“The stairway's clear,” Sothe said, “for the moment.” She bent to satisfy herself that the Patriot lying in the doorway was dead, then wiped her knife on his clothes and sheathed it. “I think we can get up to the sixth-floor landing.”

“Lead the way.”

Winter gestured the others over, and they crept after Sothe, single file. Winter didn't ordinarily think of herself as noisy, but she felt like a clumsy child
in too-large boots following behind Sothe, who seemed to prowl down the drab service corridors without even disturbing the air. They turned a corner, passed another closed door, and reached a switchback staircase, narrow and windowless. Another man in a Patriot Guard sash lay propped against the wall, a dark stain spread across his chest.

“I don't know how long we've got until shift change,” Sothe said, her tone implying that this ignorance was a personal failure. “So we'll have to hurry.”

Fortunately, there were closed doors separating the back stairs from the hotel proper at every level above the first, and they climbed without sighting any more Patriots. Winter was more worried about running into a servant, but the place seemed deserted.
Most of them have probably run off.
It was strange to be in the headquarters of the enemy, with her own army outside grinding inevitably closer.

Though the sound of the guns had grown more infrequent, she noticed. With night falling, Cyte would be giving orders to dig in and hold until morning.

Six stories up, they were faced with another door. Conveniently, it came equipped with a small peephole, and Sothe peered through it, then gestured for Winter to do likewise.

It looked as though the door was disguised as part of the wall, the better to conceal the presence of servants from the eminent guests. Directly ahead, the main stairs curved upward, gaudy in red carpet and gilt carved banisters. Two Patriots with bayonetted muskets waited at the top, perhaps twenty feet away. To the left, closed double doors presumably led to the grand suite that occupied most of this level, with four more sash-wearing guards standing in front of them.

“Six,” Winter said.

“And who knows how many more down below or through the doors,” Sothe said. “We're not going to be able to take them all out quietly.”

“All right,” Winter said, taking a deep breath. “This is where it turns into a fight, then.”

“I can take the two on the stairs,” Sothe said.

Winter nodded. “Sergeant?”

“Sir?” Maura said softly.

“Take Jenna and Vicky and follow Sothe. Grab the muskets if you can. Once we start making noise, they'll try and come up the main stairs, but you'll have a good shot and plenty of cover. Keep them back as long as you can.”

“Yessir.”

“Joanna and Barley, you're with Andy, Bobby, and me. We'll give the guards on the left a pistol volley, then take out anyone still standing.”

“Got it, sir,” Barley said.

“Okay.” Winter put her hand on the door latch and pressed until she felt it click. She drew a pistol with her other hand. “Ready? Three, two, one—”

She slammed her shoulder into the door, throwing it wide, and charged through, clearing the way for the rest. Sothe surged past her, one arm a blur as she threw a knife. It caught one of the Patriots by the stairs in the throat, and he staggered backward, gurgling. His companion gave a shout and lowered his musket, but Sothe had already crossed the distance between them, putting one hand on the barrel and jerking it up before he pulled the trigger. The weapon roared, the ball
pocking
into the plaster ceiling, and the recoil jerked it out of the guard's hands and sent it clattering down the staircase. Sothe drove the heel of her palm into his jaw with a
crunch
, slamming him back against the wall, and had another knife out to finish him before he could catch his breath.

Winter transferred her pistol from her left hand to her right, fetching up against the banister at the top of the stairs and steadying her aim. She sighted carefully—ten yards, not a hard shot—and pulled the trigger. The Patriots were just starting to react, lowering their muskets, and her shot caught one in the chest, driving him against the doors. To Winter's left, more pistols
cracked
, and one of the Patriots dropped his weapon and clutched at his shoulder. Splintery holes appeared in the door where the balls went wide.

She was already moving, dropping her pistol and drawing her sword as she charged through the thin smoke. A musket roared, a deeper sound than the pistol's report, and she flinched but kept moving. The other Patriot set his weapon, bayonet glinting and ready to skewer her, but she spun to one side, dodging the point, and aimed a cut at his head. He was fast enough to get his musket up to parry, her saber leaving a notch in the wooden stock, but Joanna was right behind her, slamming a big fist into the man's gut and then catching him in the back of the head with her elbow as he doubled over. Andy and Bobby, both with swords drawn, came at the other guard, who swung his bayonet wildly from one to the other as they went to opposite sides. He made a wild lunge in Andy's direction, which she deflected easily, while Bobby cut the guard down from behind.