The Price of Valor (66 page)

What followed was not silence, since the firefight at the other end of the hall continued, but it was relative stillness. Winter's ears still rang with the force of the blast, and tiny nicks and scrapes she hadn't been aware of were starting to make themselves known all over her body. Andy raised her head from where she'd crouched against the wall, and Bobby, her broken arm already working again, pressed herself up from the scorched floor. Joanna had been closest to the blast, and the back of her uniform was torn and bleeding from shrapnel, but she managed to get shakily to her feet.

“Everyone . . .” Winter paused. “Okay” seemed like a stretch, considering. “Still alive?”

Joanna pointed urgently to Barley, who was still lying against the wall. Winter hurried over, then noticed the old man, lying nearby where Joanna had laid him out, was still breathing.

“Bobby!” Winter pointed. “Skewer him if he moves.”

Bobby nodded, retrieving a musket and leveling it at the Penitent. While Winter knelt beside Barley, Andy went to Joanna, whose arm was still dripping a steady patter of crimson onto the floor.

“I'll get this door open,” Sothe said, bending to examine the lock.

Blood trickled from a cut on Barley's scalp, and Winter probed it delicately with her fingers. The wound was gory, but not deep, and the skull beneath seemed intact.

“I think she'll be okay,” she said to Joanna as Andy bound up the big
woman's wounded arm. “Nothing broken. We'll get her to the cutters once we get out of here—”

“Colonel!” The scream came from the hallway. “Colonel, they're coming!”

“Balls of the
fucking
Beast,” Winter swore, turning back to the doorway. One of the rankers, Vicky, had her hands beneath Sergeant Maura's armpits, dragging her toward the doorway and leaving a darker stain on the red carpet in her wake. A blue-uniformed body lay motionless amid a cloud of powder smoke at the top of the stairs, and the clatter of booted feet mixed with victorious shouts as the Patriot Guards ascended.

“Joanna, watch the old man!” Winter said. “Bobby, Andy, load these muskets!” She grabbed one of the dead Patriots' weapons herself, pulled a handful of cartridges from the corpse's belt pouch, and tore one open with her teeth. It had been a long time since Winter had gone through the manual of arms, but her muscles remembered the movements—powder in the lock, close it up, the rest down the barrel, spit the ball after it, ram the whole mess home with the rod. Raise the weapon to your shoulder—

A dozen Patriots had made it to the top of the stairs, and from the sound of it more were coming. Winter leveled the weapon and fired, and a man in the middle of the group went down. The rest dove for cover, stopping behind the banister or throwing themselves flat. One fired, and Winter heard the ball go wide. The rest, it seemed, hadn't reloaded before their triumphant charge, and struggled awkwardly with their too-long weapons.

Andy fired as well, raising splinters from the banister. Winter turned to Bobby and held out a hand, and the girl passed a loaded weapon.

“Get some of those chairs,” Winter said. “We have to barricade the doors.”

Bobby nodded and ran to the back of the room. Winter aimed and fired at one man who'd gotten up, missing but sending him diving back to the floor. Before the rest recovered their courage, she ran to the front of the foyer and closed the double doors just after Vicky dragged Maura across the threshold. By themselves, the doors didn't offer much of a barrier, splintered with holes as they were, but Bobby arrived soon after carrying a heavy leather armchair. Andy dragged another one into place, and they went back for more. Vicky manhandled the wounded sergeant out of the way.

“Winter!” Sothe said from where she was standing by the unconscious Penitent Damned. “I need to get Raesinia out.”

And then what?
Both stairways were on the other side of the now-barricaded
door.
The window, maybe?
They were on the sixth floor, but it wasn't far to the neighboring building.
We might be able to jump for it . . .

“Go!” Winter said. “Joanna, can you keep a sword to this bastard's throat?”

Joanna nodded, a vicious grin on her face. She patted Barley and drew her blade, shifting it awkwardly to her unwounded arm. Sothe bent back to the padlock as Andy and Bobby piled another pair of armchairs against the door.

“You,” Winter heard Andy remark to Bobby as they went back for the last two, “are a lot tougher than you look.”

“Got it,” Sothe said. The door swung open.

Winter had only seen the Queen of Vordan on state occasions, in formal mourning dress. She hadn't really expected to find her imprisoned in a voluminous gown, but she certainly hadn't pictured this: a short, slight young woman, in boyish trousers, bare-shouldered, with a bedsheet tied around her torso. Sothe dropped to one knee, head down.

“Hi,” Raesinia said. “What kept you?”

“We ran into some . . . difficulties.” Sothe kept her head down. “I'm sorry. I should never have—”

“Done what I told you to do?” Raesinia said, grinning.

“Yes.” Sothe looked up, and Winter wasn't sure what was more shocking, the tears gleaming in her eyes or the smile on her face. “I should never, ever have done that.”

Raesinia extended a hand to her servant and pulled her up, then wrapped her arms around her. When they finally stepped apart, she seemed to notice the carnage in the room beyond for the first time.

“Oh,” she said. “I heard the fighting, but I didn't realize . . .” She took a deep breath and looked at Winter. “You're in command?”

Winter wasn't sure if she was supposed to salute or not. She settled on a bow. “Yes, Your Majesty. Colonel Winter Ihernglass.”

Once before, outside the Vendre, she'd felt Infernivore stir in Raesinia's presence. Glutted with two meals, it nonetheless shifted uneasily now. Winter wondered if there was a limit to its hunger, and resolved not to touch the queen if she could possibly help it. She
thought
she could restrain the demon, but no sense taking chances.

“Are your people all right?” Raesinia looked over the scattered, dismembered corpses, showing none of the squeamishness Winter might have expected from the gently born. “It looks like a bomb went off in here.”

“That's more or less what happened. We lost one on the stairway, and—” Winter looked at Vicky, who was standing beside the slumped sergeant. The ranker shook her head, tears cutting through the powder-grime that coated her face. “Two. Everyone else should live, if we can get out of here.”

Raesinia was silent for a moment, her jaw set, then let out a breath. “Any plans for that?”

*   *   *

RAESINIA

Two more, dead for my sake. More sacrifices for a life that isn't even real.
Raesinia fought down her feelings and kept her face impassive.

Winter looked uncomfortable. “Not . . . yet. There's about twenty Patriots on the other side of that door.”

They were already shoving at it, though the heavy armchairs shifted only slightly. Raesinia could hear fists pounding on the wood and raised voices from the other side.

“What about Maurisk?” Raesinia said. “Have you found him?”

Winter shook her head. Sothe quickly opened both doors on the side of the room where Raesinia's cell had been, revealing quarters for another servant and a water closet, both empty. The open door the Penitent Damned had come in by led to a dining room, and a quick glance proved this also to be unoccupied.
That leaves one.

Sothe put her hand on the latch, but Raesinia waved her aside.

“Your Majesty—” Sothe began.

“We both know that if he's sitting in there with a pistol, it's better if I open the door,” Raesinia said. “Stay back a bit, just in case.”

She thumbed the latch and pushed the door open. Inside was an office, richly furnished in gleaming hardwood and gilt, bookshelves lined with matched sets of leather-bound volumes. Directly in front of the door, a prim-looking young man stood with a small sword in hand, waiting in a painfully erect stance right out of a fencing salon. Behind a vast desk, slumped over in his chair, sat the President of the Directory, a nearly empty wine bottle dangling from one hand.

“Who is it, Kellerman?” Maurisk said without raising his head.

“It's . . .” The young man blinked, and the tip of his sword quivered. “It's, um, the queen. I think.”

“Ah. You may as well stand down, then.”

“Sir,” Kellerman said, looking over Raesinia's head. “They've slaughtered the guards—”

“Stand down,” Maurisk said, a hint of steel entering his tone. He raised the bottle to his lips and tipped it back, then let it fall on the carpet with a thump. “Your Majesty. I hadn't expected to see you like this.”

“Whereas I must admit I was hoping for something of the sort,” Raesinia said. She stepped forward as Kellerman lowered his sword and moved out of the way. Maurisk's bleary eyes focused on her. “I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint Dr. Sarton.”

Maurisk barked a laugh. “He'll get his fill, one way or another. Executioners and grave diggers are the real winners of every war.”

“Charming.” She gestured at the door. “Come on. Get up.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Quite a few of your Patriot Guards are outside. You're going to tell them what you told Kellerman. It's over.”

“Why would I do that?” Maurisk straightened up, though his head still lolled slightly. “Perhaps I'd rather take my chances when they break in.”

“If it comes to that, you haven't
got
any chances,” Raesinia said. “I'm offering you a bargain, and it's only good for the next few minutes. Either tell your people to stand down, right now, or die, right now. Not imprisonment, not a trial, no second chances.” Raesinia leaned closer. “I will borrow a knife from Sothe and drive it into your fucking eye. Get it?”

He was silent for a moment, sizing her up. Kellerman's sword came up again, until Raesinia glanced in his direction, at which point he became so flustered he dropped the thing entirely.

“You know I'll do it,” Raesinia said. “After all, I'd only be returning the favor.”

“I believe I stabbed you in the heart,” Maurisk murmured. “Which, as Dr. Sarton tells us, is the seat of all sensation, and thus produces a painless death.”

“We can compare notes afterward,” Raesinia said. “But I'm certain you're going to disappoint me and take the other option.”

“I am, am I?” Maurisk said. “Why is that?”

“Because you're a coward,” Raesinia said bluntly. “You always were. You were happy to write speeches and print pamphlets, while Faro and Ben and I did anything the least bit dangerous. Then, when you finally had a chance to enact your beloved principles, you ignored them the moment they were a threat to your position.”

“I had a fucking war to fight,” Maurisk said, voice slurring a bit. “That doesn't get me any credit?”

“Not with me. I don't blame you for hating me. You have every right to that. I might hate me, in your position. But you made it about more than just me.” Raesinia lowered her voice. “There was a young woman, standing next to me, the day of the executions. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had to pull her son off her body.” He'd grow up without a mother.
Nobody deserves that.
Another victim, another life ruined by standing too close to Raesinia Orboan.

“—you made it about
everyone
—” Maurisk was saying, but Raesinia was suddenly tired of the game. It had felt good, coming in here and having her say, but in the end it didn't matter.
It certainly won't do Claudia and Emil any good.

“Enough,” she cut him off. “We're done here. Are you going to call them off, or do I need to find a knife?”

Maurisk met her eyes for a moment longer, then looked away.

*   *   *

“Zacaros? Zacaros, are you out there?”

The pounding on the door stopped, and after a pause a deep voice answered, “President Maurisk?”

“You and your men are to stand down. Lay down your arms and leave the hotel. Send messages to the rest of the Guard. The fighting is over.”

“You can't be serious!” Zacaros sounded almost frantic. “If they've got a blade to your throat, then I'll have no choice but to assume command.”

“The queen and I have reached an . . . accord. We will negotiate with General Vhalnich. It's
over
.”

“The queen?” Raesinia could hear muttering among the troops outside, and she raised her voice.

“I'm here. And President Maurisk is right. The time for fighting is done.”

That seemed to tip the balance. The majority of the Patriot Guard, Raesinia guessed, didn't know about Maurisk's attempts on her life, any more than they knew about the alliance with the Penitent Damned. As far as they were concerned, they were still fighting in defense of the queen and legitimate authority against a rebellious general.

She could almost hear the wheels turning in Zacaros' head, even from the other side of the door. If he chose to ignore Maurisk's orders and killed everyone present, he could take power for himself, but there was no way to be sure his soldiers wouldn't balk at orders to silence their own monarch. And if the queen was determined to stop the fighting—

There was no way out, no solution except obedience that led anywhere good. Still, Raesinia held her breath for a moment.

“Understood,” Zacaros said. “Lay down your weapons, men. I'll pass the command to the others.” He hesitated. “There's still some fighting between our men and the rebels. May I have permission to raise a flag of truce?”

“Go ahead. Tell them thank you, and that they can go home.”