Lamentation (17 page)

War is coming. Bear Rudolfo an heir.

Neb

It took three days for violence to erupt on the plains of Windwir. Neb watched the tension grow for those days, working quickly as the first of the rains fell. The ruins became a treacherous soup of wet ash and Neb slipped and slid behind the wheelbarrow as he jogged it to the nearest open grave.

When the snows came, he wondered what they would do. Surely Petronus didn’t intend for them to work when the bones wer£n tsize frozen to the ground and buried beneath a foot or two of snow.

“Riders,” someone shouted.

Neb looked up in time to see a line of horses, the soldiers they carried riding low in the saddles. He drew a line out from the horse’s noses and saw that they were riding for the Entrolusian line. They were Marshers by the looks of them, but it was hard to tell from so far away—harder still with four armies encamped about the ruins.

He dumped his load into the trench and moved back out to the line of shovelers. He saw Petronus approaching through a haze of rain.

“Whose were they?” he called out when he was close enough for Neb to hear him.

“I’m not sure,” Neb shouted back. “Marshers, I think.”

Petronus looked worried. He’d not been the same since the night the Marsh King arrived. For the rest of that night and all of the next day, the Marsh King had preached from the northern edge of camp, his magicked voice blasting out across the ruined city. He railed against the injustices the Androfrancines had delivered upon his people, he quoted long passages from obscure, apocryphal gospels that Neb had never heard of, and at some points over the course of his oratory, he even babbled in ecstatic utterances.

It was unsettling. Several of the diggers dropped their shovels and left. Even the Entrolusian sentries seemed shaken in the end. But when the other two armies arrived the long oration wound down, and the Marsh King’s voice no longer boomed across the blasted lands.

From there, the tension had built until now. Petronus stood by Neb, and together they watched the riders gallop south. They watched a group of riders break from the forests to the south, riding north.

Neb couldn’t look away. The horses met and passed each other amid the distant sound of shouting. Some of the horses rode on without riders as spears and swords found their marks, bringing men from both sides out of the saddle and into the black soup. He felt Petronus’s hand on his shoulder and he looked up. The old man was pointing to the northeast where more riders, these followed by a scattered cloud of foot soldiers, advanced south as well.

“The Marsh King is to war now,” Petronus said.

Neb watched as the two cavalries made another pass before breaking off. Then he watched as a group of soldiers and horsemen moved north to meet the next wave of Marshers. But these weren’t Entrolusians—more likely the Honor Guard of the Queen of Pylos. At least that’s where Neb thought their camp was. “He’s outnumbered—three armies to one.” He looked at Petronus. “Why would the Marsh King enter into this war? And why on the side of the Gypsy King?”

“I’m not sure, but he does. He has a long hatred of Windwir. Perhaps he thinks Rudolfo brought down the city as the so-called Pope has said.”

Neb had studied the Marshers a great deal in school. They had a history of skirmishing with Windwir and the outlying villages under Androfrancine protection. The Marshers had come to the Named Lands early as well, a ragged tribe made up of those the Madness had particularly tainted. They’d arrived not long after the first Rudolfo and they’d settled into the valleys along the banks of the Three Rivers. But after a generation or two proved that the Madness had not purged itself, they were gradually pushed back—under the auspices of the early Androfrancines—into the swamplands and marshes near the headwaters of the Central River.

Neb turned back to his wheelbarrow. “I should get back to work,” he said.

Petronus squeezed his shoulder. “I should, too.”

Neb finished out his shift and cleaned up in the bathing tent. The temperature had dropped considerably in the last few days. He scrubbed his robes while he danced around the lukewarm shower, rubbing the same rough bar of strong soap over them as he did himself. After drying and slipping into clean clothing, he went back out into the mud long enough to hang his wet clothes in the tent he shared with Petronus, then went to find dinner in the galley.

He sat alone, holding a metal cup of venison stew close to himself, eating it slowly and savoring the wild taste of the young deer cooked with turnips and potatoes, carrots and onions.

That voice had stayed with him. The scriptures and the ecstatic utterances raised the hairs on his arms even now.

I sounded like that
. Not as loud, certainly. Yet the Marsh King’s words had marched out strong and clear, not jumbled and squeezed together like sausage into skin.

And when he said them, he said them as if those words were the most important words ever spoken.

Neb finished his dinner and crawled back into his tent. Yesterday, Sethbert’s wagons had arrived with long wooden pallets and they’d laid them in the mud within their tents and along the causeways where they walked the most. There weren’t nearly enough of them, but it was a start.

Neb wrapped himself in his blankets and listened to the water running beneath his pallet.

In the distance, he heard the Marsh King’s voice start up again, too far away to hear clearly despite the magicks that enhanced it.

But Neb heard the laughter at the end of this night.

It haunted his dreams.

Petronus

“You must pull your people back,” Gregoric said, his voice sounding both weary and angry at the same time.

Petronus shook his head. “I’ll not. Not until this work is done.”

One of the other Gypsy Scouts had found him in the galley, pressing a scrap of paper into his hands—a call to the river. He’d dumped his stew back into the communal pot, grabbed a chunk of dark, sweet bread that was only partly stale, and made his way to the place where he’d first encountered the Captain of the Gypsy Scouts.

“Sooner or later, you’ll start losing men,” Gregoric said.

Petronus’s laugh was more of a bark. “It’s already happening. And with the rains coming on, there are fewer showing up to help.”

“I don’t mean just attrition,” the scout said. “You’re caught between four armies, old man. One of them is bound to fall on you.”

Petronus knew this was true. Today’s battle had been within sight and sound and he’d watched it drift closer and closer to where his men worked with their shovels and wheelbarrows. Talking to the Entrolusian lieutenant, he’d learned that the Marsh King had surprised them all. No one had expected him to ride down from the north and declare some strange kin-clave with Rudolfo. They’d waited and watched, but when he sent horse-bound skirmishers across the fallen city to attack Sethbert’s forward cavalry, the waiting and watching evaporated into warfare.

“Let them fall,” Petronus said. “We will do this work and trust the Gods to watch out for us.”

In the rain, Gregoric was easier to make out. A sheen of water along a shoulder, drops of rain rolling off him to splash lightly into the mud. “We’ve work of our own to do, by the bird.”

Petronus felt his eyebrows raise. “You have news?”

“Aye. A message from General Rudolfo at the Summer Papal Palace. We were to follow the armies on their way east and slow them as best we can. Every day is one closer to winter and we have the advantage in our home-woods. But the Marsh King’s arrival may be all the delay we need.”

Petronus nodded. “What else?”

Gregoric chuckled. “Sethbert went into a rage this morning. There are rumors that his Androfrancine funding ran out. More rumors that there is a second Androfrancine Pope with a more direct line of succession than Resolute the First.”

Petronus hoped he was able to mask the surprise he felt. “Where is this second Pope?”

“We do not know for certain,” Gregoric said, “but if he’s making life hard for Sethbert, then he’s fine by me.”

Petronus nodded. “A second Pope would complicate matters.”

Gregoric’s voice took on a thoughtful quality that alarmed him. “Particularly if he announced himself. It could break the alliance against General Rudolfo and even up the odds.”

But at what cost?
Petronus looked to the river. “It would bring a war like nothing we’ve had in the Named Lands.”

“We will get there with or without this second Pope,” Gregoric said. “It’s only a matter of who fights for whom. Word of the Desolation has spread across the Named Lands. Rumors continue to fly—some claim Rudolfo brought down the city, honoring some ancient kin-clave with Xhum Y’Zir. Others say Sethbert, though they offer no compelling reason why. A handful believe it is the beginning of some darker shadow that falls across us all. Fewer and fewer believe the Androfrancines brought this doom upon themselves.” Gregoric paused.

And how long has it been now? Just a month, slightly more or less? Barely enough time to see beyond the fog of shock that hemmed them all in. “The rumors will settle down,” Petronus said.

“Aye,” Gregoric said. “But unless something changes, the truth may be buried before they do.”

Yes
. Petronus saw that clearly enough. Rudolfo was incapacitated, his Wandering Army fallen back into a defensive posture. Sethbert and Resolute controlled the flow of communication to the rest of the world by simply being the only authorities speaking to the crisis. But Vlad Li Tam controlled what remained of the Androfrancine accounts, and that old fox had no doubt used his knowledge of Petronus to slow down their rapid evaporation and complicate matters for Sethbert’s cause.

Shine the light of knowledge upon the sins of past, the Twelfth Gospel of P’Andro Whym said, that you may be watchful for the morrow. The scrutinized truth is the safest path to follow.

But how much light and how much truth?

What would Whym do with this? Of course, that ancient founder of the Order knew nothing of Popes and crowns and rings. He was a scientist-scholar who raised his fist against the Wizard Kings and, when that brought down the world around him, helped to dig what he could out of the ashes.

“What of the Marsh King?” Petronus asked, but his heart wasn’t in the question. It was sinking fast, like skulls in the river, and he wondered how deep it would sink before it dragged the bottom.

Gregoric stood from where he crouched. Petronus felt his movement more than he could see it. “I’ve attempted parley with him. He will only speak to Rudolfo.”

“He realizes that Rudolfo is Resolute’s guest for the time being?”

“He does. One of his captains told my scout that the Marsh King dreamed Rudolfo will return to us shortly.”

Marsher mysticism. As if somehow that ragamuffin king had heard his name, his voice boomed out again in the Whymer tongue. Time again for the nightly sermon, the admonitions and warnings, threats and promises.

“It’s time for me to make the rest of my rounds,” Gregoric said. “We expect Marsher raids on the Queen of Pylos sometime before dawn. We’ll keep the Entrolusians distracted if they attempt to come to their aid.” He was quiet for a moment, and Petronus felt his eyes upon him. “You’re looking tired, old man. You’re not resting enough. If you fall, this work of yours will end.”

Petronus forced himself to his feet, his legs numb from the rock he’d sat on. “I thought you wanted me to pull my workers back?”

“I do.” Gregoric laughed, but it sounded hollow and devoid of any real humor. “Forget I said anything.”

Petronus heard the slightest of splashes, barely discernable from the sound of the rain. Once he knew he was alone, he cursed Vlad Li Tam loudly.

Then he returned to his tent. He’d hoped to sleep, but now, while the stub of a candle guttered at the small crate he used as a table, he carefully crafted a proclamation he had hoped he wouldn’t have to write.

Rudolfo

Rudolfo picked at his dinner, thinking of the night to come. He’d dressed in his darkest clothing. He’d stretched, listening to his joints pop and his muscles crack as he loosened himself up.

He saved the game hen for last, then ripped into it with his hands. He found the small pouch hidden in the carcass and put it beneath his red cloth napkin on the off chance that his dinner was interrupted.

I did not want this, he told himself. He hated that violence was now necessary, but Oriv brought it on himself. Rudolfo preferred stealth—particularly in a sensitive matter of state. Tonight’s antics would not look good for him nor his Ninefold Forest Houses.

Still, he hoped Vlad Li Tam’s revelation of another successor to the Windwir throne would work to his advantage. Perhaps it meant that the world would not stand against him after all.

Rudolfo took the pouch into his bedchambers and finished packing what few belongings he’d brought. Then, he took the pouch and dumped its contents into his hand. He stared at the mixture of powders with open distaste.

It was unseemly for a lord to magick himself, even under the most dire of circumstances. His father had insisted that he learn the way of the scouts—including the proper application of the magicks—but had also insisted that if he did his work well, he would never need to use them. Rudolfo counted it as a personal failing that now, in this moment of need, he had come to this place.

He flung the powder at the five points—forehead, shoulders, feet. Then, bracing himself, he licked the bitter powder from the palm of his left hand, and felt the world shift and bend around him.

The colors around him leapt out in dazzling force, an explosion of light that narrowed until he could pick out a crumb on the carpet in the dining area beyond his open bedroom door. Sound exploded too, as his own heartbeat filled the room. He felt the first wave of nausea and swayed slightly on his feet. His Gypsy Scouts practiced with the magicks, forcing their bodies to adjust to them. They could wear them for months on end with only the slightest discomfort. But he’d been closer to ten the last time he’d used the River Woman’s powders.

He remembered throwing up on his father’s boots that cold morning so far back in his memory.

He steadied his breathing, waiting for the room’s movements to stop. When it did, he moved through the room, dimming the light as best he could.

When he heard the commotion in the hall, he went to the door.

It opened, and a breeze that smelled of lilacs moved over his face. “Are you ready?” Jin Li Tam asked.

He moved in the direction of her voice, leaning in to see the faintest outline of her against the dim light. “I am. Where are my Gypsy Scouts?”

The slightest of stirrings. “We are here, General,” a voice said.

Rudolfo looked into the hallway at the body of the Gray Guard, stretched out on the floor. Already, one of the scouts pulled at it. Under any other circumstances it would be comical, watching the corpse slide—seemingly of its own volition—across the threshold and into the Prisoner’s Quarters. Once it was in the room, he stepped over the body and into the hall.

Invisible hands closed the door and locked it.

A belt was pushed into his hands, and he felt the sheathed scout knives, magicked with the oils that kept them as silent and invisible as the scouts that danced with them. He pulled the belt around his narrow waist and buckled it.

“What of Isaak?”

Jin Li Tam’s voice was near his ear now, her breath warm on the side of his face and smelling like apples. “He is with the archbishop.”

“Excellent.”

Rudolfo let the Gypsy Scouts lead the way, staying to the sides of the long, wide halls, finding the shadows where they could, and quickly dowsing lamps where the light was most likely to betray them.

They slipped past acolytes and scholars, guards and servants. Once, he and Jin Li Tam waited in an alcove while the two scouts found a better route. Once more, when no better route could be found, they waited while another Gray Guard was killed.

The Palace went to Third Alarm just as they reached the middle point of the stairs that swept up to the Papal Offices. Below them, the main doors burst open and a squad of Gray Guard, led by that ancient captain, poured in. They locked the door behind them, posted sentries, and scattered.

Rudolfo grinned at the danger of it. When two guards pounded up the stairs, he crouched and pressed himself against the hand carved railing. Once they passed, he continued up, feeling Jin Li Tam’s hand on the back of his knife belt.

The four Gray Guard at Oriv’s door did not have time to shout. Blades whispered and two of them fell, their shouts muffled by the scarves shoved quickly into their mouths. Rudolfo felt Jin Li Tam move past him quickly, and watched as the third guard’s throat opened to her knife in a red line that moved with a quick, careful stroke. Blood spilled onto his gray uniform.

When the fourth guard hesitated, his mouth opening, Rudolfo danced forward with his own blades, pushing one into the soft tissue beneath his chin and the other through the left side, into the heart.

He heard scrambling behind the door, and pushed it open quickly. Oriv was on his feet behind the wide desk, fumbling with a drawer, his eyes wide with terror. The archbishop raised a strange cylindrical device;a metal tube bound to an ornately carved pearl handle—and worked a small lever on it with his free hand.

Rudolfo saw the spark and ducked, feeling the heat from it as it singed the left side of his head. Behind him a heavy form fell, and he heard the sound of bubbling blood and the drumming of soft boot heels on the floor.

Roaring, Rudolfo pounced across the desk, pulling the archbishop to the floor. The weapon fell to the carpet, and the archbishop resorted to his feet, his nails and his teeth. Rudolfo fought back, keeping his grip on the archbishop as well as his knife. Finally, he worked the tip of the knife into the would-be Pope’s ear. He shifted so that his mouth was close to the other ear. “We’ve done this your way,” Rudolfo whispered. “Now we do it mine.”

The others moved into the room, leaving the bodies where they fell and quickly working the locks of the door. “We’ve lost Rylk,” the remaining scout said. “Whatever it was, it put a hole through his torso the size of a child’s head.”

Rudolfo resisted the urge to push his knife farther into Oriv’s ear. “Is anyone else hurt? Lady Tam?”

“Singed but otherwise fine,” she said.

Rudolfo looked around the room. He saw Isaak in the corner. “Isaak, are you well?”

“I am functional, Lord Rudolfo.”

“Good. Ready yourself for travel. We’re leaving.”

“But Lord Rudolfo, I am the property of—”

Rudolfo ignored him. He twisted the knife just a bit. “Release the mechoservitor into my care until this unpleasantness is past.” He felt Oriv’s muscles, tense and he pushed the knife. “You’ll realize soon enough,” Rudolfo said, “that my restraint has limits.”

“Killing me only reinforces your own guilt.” Panic laced the archbishop’s voice, and it pleased Rudolfo greatly.

“And yet,” he said through his smile, “you’d still be dead. Now do as you’re told.”

They stayed long enough to scoop the papers from the cluttered desk into a carrying pouch along with the strange weapon. Two minutes later, with Isaak bringing up the rear and Oriv under knifepoint at the front, they made their way down the stairs.

Soldiers waited at the bottom, swords drawn.

Rudolfo smiled and twisted the blade again, savoring the melody it made. Sweeter than any choir, the archbishop screamed for the Gray Guard to stand down, and they obeyed their so-called Pope.

Neb

It was Neb’s turn to inventory the artifact wagon. Petronus did it himself most of the time, but over the past several days, the old man had become further withdrawn. He’d started trusting Neb with more of his responsibilities, and Neb didn’t mind that at all.

He approached the wagon now, keeping the rolled parchment and pen hidden beneath his robe and out of the rain. They’d rigged a canvas covering with a system of ropes and poles. The wagon waited beneath it, guarded by an uninterested merchant who muttered and moved about to avoid the water that flowed in channels off the makeshift roof.

The merchant looked up as he approached. “How long?”

Neb looked over the side of the wagon at the muddy items stacked inside. He poked at it with his walking stick. “Two hours, I’d say.”

He nodded. “I’ll be back then,” he said, and shambled off to find some hot soup.

Neb pulled himself up into the back of the wagon and picked his way to the front. He spread the parchment out on a dry patch on the seat. Then, sitting amid the day’s collection, he started inventorying each item.

The workers gave a cursory look at anything they found. Initially Sethbert’s man had insisted they bring everything, but they quickly saw that the sheer volume exceeded the capacity of several wagons. Now they left the more mundane scraps they found, and saved only the most important pieces for the daily wagon.

Neb—or Petronus on the days when he did it—was the second pass through the items, giving them one more opportunity to pull out a cup or a blade or some other implement that had found its way in amid the mechanical birds or the copper globes.

The first hour always went fast and the last hour always went the slowest. Some days merited a third or fourth hour, but today the wagon was only a third of the way full. Neb typically went through everything all at once, tossing the unwanted items over the side and into the mud. After that initial pass, he then inventoried what was left.

But then, an hour into his inventory, he saw it in the corner of the wagon.

He was not surprised that he missed this particular artifact on the first pass; it wasn’t very large at all. The fact that anyone had found it was probably a small miracle. Perhaps the light had caught it just right there on the skeletal finger of the man who had worn it.

It was a simple affair—a plain ring made of a strange metal, dark as iron but light as steel. The signet itself was clogged with ash and mud, but Neb knew it before he spit on the corner of his robe and used it to clean the dirt out of it.

He’d seen pictures of this ring all of his life. And he’d seen the stamp of its signet on thousands of documents throughout the Great Library. He’d seen it on the finger of every man whose portrait hung in the Hall of Kings.

It was the signet ring of the Androfrancine Pope.

He looked around, unsure what to do. He knew Petronus wouldn’t want the ring to fall into Sethbert’s hands. It was just a ring, certainly. It had no magicks about it. But it was one of the oldest symbols of the office, something that could not be reproduced. And news was all over the camp that some other Androfrancine—someone keeping quiet but at least known to a few—had a more direct line of succession to the Windwir throne. Of course, Neb was the only one around who knew the truth about Petronus. He certainly hadn’t shared that information, which meant someone else knew. Or perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t Petronus at all that they were referring to. Perhaps it was another archbishop vying for the crippled Order’s highest office.

Still, during the time they’d worked together, Neb had quickly come to think of the kind, strong old man as the true Pope. Though it wasn’t anything he could conceive of proclaiming—regardless of what Brother Hebda told him in his dreams.

In the end, he slipped the ring in his pocket. At the very least, he could keep it from some pretender’s finger. At the very best, if Petronus took back his rightful place the ring would be nearby.

Neb resumed his inventory, feeling the weight of millennia in his pocket and not knowing quite what to do with it.

Jin Li Tam

They rode for a night and a day, only stopping for minutes at a time. Jin Li Tam and Rudolfo galloped their stallions side by side, riding without words.

By morning, she’d felt her senses falling back into their normal place. By early afternoon the last of the magicks had burned out, and she felt the weariness of withdrawal aching in her limbs. Scouts spent years practicing the magicks, learning the rhythms of their bodies and picking up the tricks of the trade that made withdrawal less of an issue. The fact that magicks were only used during time of war—and by only the most elite of soldiers—also made a difference.

Though not officially a scout, she’d spent enough time with the scouts. Still, these she rode with now could stay magicked for days at a time—even weeks—without undue effect. She could barely handle a day of it.

They were a full squad now, between Rudolfo’s escort and her own, less the man who’d been killed by the archbishop. They kept her and Rudolfo in the middle with Isaak as they rode, and they kept their blades tucked back beneath their arms, ready to bring them forward with a moment’s notice.

When it was well past dark, they stopped to make camp. They rode their horses into a forest of old growth pine a league or better from the muddy track that served as the solitary road this far north.

Rudolfo pulled away with his lead scout while the others set up camp. Jin Li Tam tried to make herself useful, but in the end she was only in the way. The Gypsy Scouts moved with precision, quickly putting up tents and laying in a small fire.