The Prophecy Con (Rogues of the Republic) (31 page)

“Do you need assistance?” Icy asked.

“If you could not talk, move, or breathe for the next hour, that would be fantastic.”

“The treeship leaves in a little more than two hours,” Icy said.

“Thank you, Icy.” Tern made another mark, squinted, and added the tiniest little flourish, since some genius had opted to use a printing press whose font included serifs, as though that was going to fool anyone into thinking the tickets were hand-printed. All it really did was make it a hell of a lot harder for her to fake them, which, yes, was probably the point, but still.

She made another line, waited, and then blew cautiously on the paper. “Okay, yeah, we can do this.”

“In less than two hours?” Icy asked.

“
Thank
you, Icy.”

The door to the room slid open, and Tern looked up, ready to glare death at whomever was bothering her right now.

“I’m sorry,” said Dairy, blinking and trying hard to only look at the eye that didn’t have the magnifying glass attachment on the spectacles. “I didn’t realize—”

“No, no, fine, come in.” Tern jabbed her pen in Icy’s direction. “Ink me.”

“I wanted to apologize,” Dairy said, “for your arm, and . . . wait, if we have a real ticket, why do you need to make a . . . copy?”

“Forgery.” Tern made a few careful lines. She was still working on the normal writing that appeared on every ticket. Things would get harder when she had to start making up numbers on her own. “It’s called a forgery.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And we have to make one because the one you all stole isn’t encoded with the aural signature that marks it as official,” Tern said, still writing very, very carefully, “which means that when it’s fed into the little reader at the top of the gangplank, it won’t make the happy little chime that tells them to hit Loch with the guest aura that makes the ship like her. And to answer your next question,” she added, pausing momentarily to blow on the leaf, “we can’t just fake the aura on the real ticket, because they’re deliberately constructed to be fragile with respect to magical tampering. Try to mess with one, and the leaf withers. Ululenia made this one for us, though, so she can slap the aura on it safely, assuming that she’s neither still injured from the Knights of Gedesar slashing her with silver nor exhausted from you finally taking out your virginity on her.”

“Um . . .” He stammered and blushed while Tern kept working, and then finally said, “No. She’s fine. And we’re not . . . I’m not . . . um.”

“Got it. Ink me.” Tern waited while Icy hit the tip again. “Hessler already yell at you about joining the Knights of Gedesar?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, then, I don’t see what I need to—
son of a bitch
, is that beveled?” Tern ran her fingers along the real ticket. “Damn it. Okay. Fine. Assholes.” She looked up at Dairy. “Who the hell bevels a serifed font? I mean, seriously, it’s bad enough that they serifed the title, but now they’re just drawing attention to the whole—”

“I’m sorry you got shot,” Dairy cut in. When Tern looked up, the kid had tears in his eyes. “I didn’t want it to happen, but I didn’t know how to stop it, and they seemed so sure, and I told myself . . .”

“You told yourself I wasn’t really the woman you knew.” Tern held out her pen. Icy dabbed it. She went back to writing. “Told yourself I was somebody else, right? A bad person, someone who deserved it, because this was how the rules said it worked, so you had to be missing something.”

“How did you know?”

Tern finished the horrible, awful serifed title beveling. “I used to wear really pretty dresses. It was like a competition among the merchants’ daughters to see who had the best, the most fashionable. One year, this utter bitch named Enella had me beat. She had a maid who could work pearls into the lacing with this little trick nobody else could manage, so they stood out just perfectly. She said something cutting at a dance when she and her friends had the pretty pearled lacing and I didn’t, and, well, I didn’t even
like
the dances, because I was smarter than most of the merchants’ sons, but there was no way she was getting away with that, so I took steps.” She looked over at the real ticket. “Okay, drop the first and last number, those are filler, you can tell by the offset spacing. That there at the end is the date, month first . . . location, then . . . time? No.” She chewed her bottom lip, working at the numbers.

“What did you do?” Dairy asked.

“I spread a rumor that the pearls the maid used weren’t clean and carried a nasty disease, then slipped something into Enella’s drink to give her a rash. She and her friends were a laughingstock, and I got
all
the best dances for the rest of the season. Batch, purchase location, ticket number. All right.” She’d have done better with a larger sample, but it was the best guess time allowed for. “And Enella’s maid lost her job and went off to starve in the streets, and when my own maid told me, I went through everything you told yourself. She chose to play the game, she knew the consequences, she was probably a cruel person, since she served Enella, all of it.” Tern whipped through the numbers with a sure and steady hand. “And then I admitted the truth to myself, and I dropped out of society life. Ink me.”

“Oh,” Dairy said as Icy wordlessly dabbed the pen.

“The money from my first job went to the maid. She’s a seamstress in a shop now. Doing fine.” Tern looked up and smiled, her apple cheeks dimpling. “So, thank you for apologizing, thank you for not killing the girl at the top of the stairs after your captain shot her, and thank you for helping Loch when it mattered. Now figure out what happens
next
.”

“Choosing to walk away from your culture’s values is difficult,” Icy added as Tern went back to work. “Once you realize that you cannot in good conscience follow the orders with which you were raised, you must find your own path.”

“Sometimes that path has you siding with guys who turn out to be following bad orders.” Tern traced a carefully edged line. “Sometimes it involves you having sex with Loch’s sister, who turns out to be an assassin working for the bad guy.”

“I do not believe it was absolutely necessary to bring up that example,” Icy said.

“It made the kid feel better,” Tern said.

Dairy stood back up and swallowed. “I . . . thank you. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Well, if you want to help, go tell Loch I’ll be finished on time, so she can get everyone started on the rest of her brilliant plan to get onto the damn treeship, steal the damn book, and stop the damn war.”

He nodded. “I’ll help however I can,” he said, and strode out. He’d already gotten taller since the last time Tern had seen him.

“Ink me.”

Icy coughed. “You never told me about Enella and the maid.”

“Oh, yeah, just made it up. Can’t have a kid as strong as an ogre and immune to magic going around feeling self-destructive and desperate to redeem himself. That’s a recipe for crap going wrong. Hey, ink me?”

Icy reached over and dabbed the pen. “Remind me not to underestimate you, Tern.”

“Why the hell would I ever do that? Rest of you all have magic and talents and combat training to get by.” Tern carefully moved onto another unfortunate series of serifs. “I’ve gotta rely on
skill
.”

Sixteen

A
RCHVOYANT
B
ERTRAM DIPPED
a dry biscuit into his kahva, sighed, and put it down on the saucer while he read the report.

“Damn it, Cevirt,” he said plaintively, tossing the paper to the voyant across the table, “I wasn’t ready to retire quite yet.”

The Urujar voyant sighed. “Neither was I, as it happens.”

“Tell me the airships will be enough, then.” Bertram bolted his kahva, wincing at the heat as it worked its way down to his gut.

“Enough to do punitive raids, certainly.” Cevirt didn’t look at the report. He didn’t have to, as he’d written it late the evening before. “Enough to provoke a retaliation from the Empire.”

“But not enough to stop that undead army from destroying half the towns along the border.”

“Not nearly enough, no.”

A display case on the far wall held an old suit of armor, heavy and decked out with crystals that glowed even after a hundred years. Archvoyant Silestin, Bertram’s power-mad predecessor, had probably kept it around as a sign of power. In the few months since Bertram had come to lead the Republic, he’d looked at the damn thing as a warning.

“A ground war.” Nervous, he grabbed the biscuit he hadn’t wanted before and took a bite. It was cold and damp in his mouth, but he chewed mechanically and swallowed. “A gods-damned ground war.”

“An offensive.” Cevirt slid the report back across the table. “If you want to stop the undead, we cannot just station troops on the border and hope to contain them. We need to march them across the border and take the battle to them.”

Bertram tossed the rest of his biscuit back onto the saucer. Crumbs dotted the table. “We barely won the last war, Cevirt.”

“We
didn’t
win the last war.” Cevirt took a small sip of his own kahva. Bertram always had trouble reading Urujar faces—he was old, and there hadn’t been many of the dark-skinned fellows around where he’d grown up—but it was obvious Cevirt hadn’t slept any better than Bertram had himself. “We fought some ugly battles neither side really wanted, and then we signed a treaty and threw a parade.”

Cevirt was, if anything, sugar-coating it. The Empire had had most of its airships tied up further north, and the Republic had been able to use its own air superiority to push the Imperial forces into a fight the Republic could win. If Republic troops marched in openly, the Imperial airships would be waiting, and then the only question would be which side was more willing to catch its own people with the flamecannons.

“If you don’t have the nerve, say so,” Cevirt snapped, and Bertram realized he’d fallen silent for too long. “We sent my niece out on a wild hope, and that was the only other option we had.”

Bertram waved in apology. “Do you have the Skilled votes?”

“I’ve spent the last week putting knives to the throats of my four.” Cevirt sat back, fingers clasped. “I’ve got two of them. If you can get three, that will take us to seven.”

“I don’t want to go to war on a simple majority, Cevirt.”

“Then get more votes. Your party
wanted
to go to war, remember?” Cevirt’s voice was calm, but his dark fingers were pressed together so tightly that the color had been leeched from the tips. “And if they protest, remind them that you all backed Silestin, and he’s the reason we’re here . . . and if
that
doesn’t work, then tell them the Skilled will be running on defense next election, and if you want the puppeteers calling the Learned fat old men who’d rather hide on the Spire than fight for their country, we can make that happen.”

Bertram felt the muscles at the back of his neck tense, and he leaned forward. “Now hold on just a minute.”

Then he paused at a curious whining noise coming from behind him.

It was coming from the walls, Bertram thought, and then saw that the crystals in the old suit of armor were glowing an angry red. He raised a hand to point it out to Cevirt, but even as he did, the crystals crackled and popped cleanly from the armor and skittered across the ground to the doorway. With an angry little shudder, crystals spat from the walls as well, sending little puffs of plaster flying as they shot free.

The glowing red crystals formed a pile, and the pile moved, and Bertram’s first thought was assassins. His second thought was, to his shame,
They’re welcome to this damn job, then
.

But then the pile slid into a humanoid shape, and the crystals dimmed into earth tones and flesh tones and normal colors, until something stood before them that could, in dim light after a few too many drinks, be taken as a man.

“You wish to protect yourselves,” it said. “I will show you how.”

Irrethelathlialann made his way up the ramp toward the treeship that would take him home.

Skoreinis croaked on his shoulder, and his voice sounded in Irrethelathlialann’s head.
You hate it so much, this outside world?

“Clearly.” He could block the creature from his head with a sufficient effort of will, but Skoreinis had always been, if not friendly, at least loyal as a fellow servant of the Dragon.

There is plenty of other work to do. Ask him to send someone else.

Irrethelathlialann let out a breath through his nose. “Then I would be inflicting this world upon some other elf.” His fingers played at the ring he wore, reassuring him of the comforting magic it carried.

And you do not think they could perform at your level.
Skoreinis laughed in his mind, and a stag’s antlers flickered momentarily atop the raven’s head.
Such arrogance, elf.

Irrethelathlialann chuckled along with him, unwilling to argue. The creature was rarely kind, but he was also rarely wrong. What mattered was that his job was done.
The Love Song of Eillenfiniel
would be safe with his master soon, and the humans could shed each other’s blood to their hearts’ content while the
real
war played out more quietly.

Down below, porters handled luggage while servants lashed down crates carrying supplies for the journey. The treeship’s voyage was actually a cruise, complete with stops at beautiful sites all across the Elflands and a high-stakes
suf-gesuf
tournament available to all passengers. He would be leaving once they reached the Dragon’s palace, however.

The human woman, Loch, had played well, and Irrethelathlialann smiled to himself as he reached the back of the line near the top of the ramp. Her plan at Ajeveth had been sound, and she had very nearly gotten away with the manuscript on the train.

You admire her?

“I
acknowledge
her.” He lowered his voice to avoid disturbing an elven couple in front of him, clutching their bags nervously. This visit out of the Elflands had to have been trying for them.

Her last attempt to rifle your pockets was pathetic
.

Irrethelathlialann frowned. It
had
been unlike her. He had not had the manuscript on him, of course, so that had never been a possibility. He had checked immediately to ensure that he still had his ticket as well. “Desperation,
perhaps,” he murmured, twirling the ring on his finger as he thought.
The urge
to activate its magic was quick and temporary.
At this
range, the elves in front of him might be affected, and that would be needlessly cruel.

“If you would present your ticket, we would be grateful,” said a lovely elven woman with sapphires glittering on her cheeks. Irrethelathlialann favored her with a smile and passed the diamond-shaped leaf to her. “One plus a guest?”

“Indeed.” Irrethelathlialann nodded, and on his shoulder, Skoreinis ducked his head as well, and said something in the elven woman’s mind that made her laugh.

“Regretfully,” she added, still smiling, “I remind all passengers boarding that crystal-based magic is forbidden in the Elflands.”

“I hear your words and appreciate your courtesy,” he said, bowing with a little grin that matched her own. The rule had been put in place for fairy creatures, and those few humans who were granted leave to visit. The idea that any elf would bring artifacts of such a nature into the Elflands was absurd.

“Pleasant voyage, carried upon winds of joy,” she said, and Irrethelathlialann moved past her and up the gangplank.

The alarm sounded as he stepped onto the deck of the great treeship, and Irrethelathlialann looked around in confusion.

A pair of large elven guards in leaf-armor stepped toward him. “Your pardon, respected traveler, but it would be dangerous for us not to perform a brief inspection of your person, as our fragile ship is sensitive to even the most seemingly innocent magics.”

They were already prodding him with wooden wands, and one of them chimed as it passed near his waist.

“That is of course only reasonable,” Irrethelathlialann said through gritted teeth.

The guard reached into his pocket cautiously.

A moment later, he pulled out what had to be the ugliest contraption of fused-together crystals Irrethelathlialann had ever seen.

Perhaps she is less pathetic than I had believed,
Skoreinis said.

“Well played, Isafesira.” Irrethelathlialann smiled, let out a long breath, and prepared for a long and tedious visit to the enhanced security station.

The alarm went off on the treeship, and Loch kissed Pyvic long and hard.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked as he pulled away.

“Positive. You’re an awful thief.”

“I’m a good scout,” he shot back, clearly not sure whether to be offended.

“And I may need you for the rescue later. Keep Kail out of trouble, and do whatever you can to keep the war under control until I get the manuscript.”

“Wait.” Pyvic frowned. “Your job is to get a book, and mine is to stop a war?”

“This is what happens when you let me assign jobs.” She squeezed his hand. “Stay alive.”

“You, too.” Pyvic turned to Dairy, who had been watching them with embarrassment. “Keep her safe.”

“Yes, sir.” Dairy gave a salute. He was wearing a normal shirt and riding pants now, but a few months of military service had apparently trained some things into him.

Loch watched Pyvic leave, sighed, and shook her head.

“What was that for?” Dairy asked.

“I’m not supposed to tell him I’ll miss him. Considered bad luck among scouts.” At Dairy’s confused look, Loch smiled. “Superstition more than anything else, but you were with the Knights of Gedesar, and I’m sure they had their own odd bits. You ever try to sneak up behind someone, but they could sense you coming, even when you were certain you weren’t making any noise?”

Dairy thought for a moment. “No, ma’am. Everyone always sees me.”

“I suppose that makes sense for you, Champion of Dawn,” Loch said, and Dairy blushed. “But for us normal people, that happens sometimes. Like we’ve all got a bit of Ululenia’s ability to read minds, or Desidora’s way of seeing people’s auras. Something like that.” Ahead of them, a crowd was forming at the base of the gangplank, as elves and fairy creatures (she assumed, though they mostly looked human) grumbled about the now-stalled boarding line. “Anyway, among the scouts, there’s a superstition that if you miss someone, it’s like your heart is reaching out to them wherever they are . . . and that if their heart hears your heart, it will reach back, and someone the scout is trying to sneak past could feel that movement even when the scout wasn’t making any noise at all.” She shook her head. “It’s a little stupid when you try to explain it out loud. Most of the time, we just say that it’s bad luck.”