Lamentation (9 page)

Petronus shouted and raced beneath the canopy.

Jin Li Tam

Jin Li Tam rode across the prairie ocean and watched the metal man beside her. He’d been silent most of the day, his eyes fluttering as the lids flashed up and down. He was drumming his long, slender metal fingers on the saddle.

Every time she looked at him, she remembered his tone when he’d told her he knew how Sethbert destroyed Windwir. Somehow, Sethbert had used this mechoservitor to bring down a city and end an era where knowledge of the past was carefully preserved . . . and protected.

She shuddered. “What are you doing, Isaak?”

His fingers and eyelids stopped, and he looked over at her. “I am ciphering, Lady. I’m calculating the supplies and surface are cnd eyea necessary to rebuild the Androfrancine Library.”

She was impressed. “How can you possibly do that?”

“I’ve spent a number of years logging expeditionary expense ledgers and cataloging the financial reports of various holdings,” he answered. “Once I’m finished, I will modify my numbers based on the economic growth patterns between now and the day the reports were written.” A gout of steam from his back. “These will merely be initial inquiries,” Isaak said. “I will have to present Lord Rudolfo with something far more accurate.”

She smiled at the metal man. “You really mean to do this, don’t you?”

He turned to her. “Of course I do. I must.”

Jin Li Tam chuckled. “It’s a giant task.”

“It is,” he said, “but a pebble shall fell a giant and a small river make a canyon over time.” She recognized the quote from the Whymer Bible. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact passage—and she certainly couldn’t find it if you pushed that heavy, square book into her hands.

“Hopefully you’ll have help.”

“I’m sure Lord Rudolfo will free my brothers.” He paused and blinked. “But of course, there will be other Androfrancines that were not in Windwir when I—when it fell.” He looked away.

Others, she thought.
Others.
The expeditions, the scattered schools, missions and abbeys. They would be out there, and soon—if not already—they would hear about the fall of Windwir.

“What do you calculate the library holdings outside Windwir to be?” she asked.

“Ten percent. The mechoservitors—all of us—account for another thirty between us.”

“Gods,” she whispered. She thought about all that was lost, but it was quickly burned out with what they could save. Forty percent of that massive library would still be a significant trove of knowledge. This was what Rudolfo had chosen when faced with the end of an age. And he’d made this decision, sending them north to the Ninefold Forest,
before
he made his final decision about going to war.

That was a rare thing. A man who thought of what to guard before he thought of what to kill. She smiled at this. Of course, this Rudolfo seemed to be a man who could do both at the same time.

And she smiled at that, as well.

“I am hoping you will help, as well, Lady Tam.”

Now it was her turn to blink. He was clever, this metal man. “I see.”

“Your father’s bank holds the Androfrancine accounts,” Isaak said. “I’m sure that Lord Rudolfo intends to combine some form of Entrolusian reparations supplemented by Androfrancine holdings in order to fund this venture. It far exceeds the Ninefold Forest Houses’ economic capacity.”

“I’m certain my father will be interested in this endeavor of Rudolfo’s.”

He certainly would be. She wouldn’t be surprised at all if there were a bird waiting for her already, encouraging an alliance with the Gypsy King to keep House Li Tam connected with what little knowledge of the First World remained.

She wasn’t sure she minded that at all.

Neb

When the summons arrived, Neb decided to use it as an opportunity to see exactly what he was up against. He listened to the Overseer’s chiding, all the while counting the guards, counting the steps he’d need to take and planning his route to and from the Overseer’s assassination.

Sethbert was well guarded, especially since yesterday’s defeat at the hands of the Wandering Army. They’d at least doubled the contingent of honor guard that took up positions within view of the Overseer and his creaking wooden throne. And there had to be Delta scouts nearby, though Neb couldn’t see them.

Magicked or not, he doubted he’d survive the attempt. And he wasn’t even sure he’d be successful. The Overseer was easily three times his size, and Neb had nothing but his rage to guide him. Beyond a few fistfights with the other boys, he’d never raised his hands in violence . . . much less raised a knife.

The woman’s words came back to him:
Sethbert has destroyed Windwir
. He felt the anger stir inside him, and he summoned a memory of his father, Brother Hebda, with his arm around him sitting in the park. He reminded himself of how that would never happen again because of this man, because of what he’d done.

Even if it cost his own life, Neb had to go through with it. He could think of nothing else to do.

He heard shouting, and looked up.

An old man was running toward him, shouting a name he did not recognize.

“Del,” the old man said, “thank the gods I’ve finally found you.” He looked vaguely familiar; Neb couldn’t place it.

He was a large man—not nearly the size of Sethbert, but broad shouldered and powerfully built. He had to be approaching seventy, but he moved like he was younger. His white beard stood out from his face, long and unruly, and beneath his straw hat, wisps of white hair poked crazily out. His eyes were set in laugh lines and crow’s-feet, and before Neb could react, he’d been swept into the man’s embrace, squeezed and lifted by those massive arms. Putting him down, the old man gave him a stern look. “I told you to wait for me.”

Neb looked at him, not sure what to do or say.

Sethbert cleared his voice. “You know this boy?”

The old man looked surprised, then turned. “Yes, certainly. Humble apologies for interrupting, Lord—I was overcome with relief.”

Sethbert squinted at him, too, and Neb wondered if the old man seemed familiar to him as well. “You’re the old man my scouts took by the river.”

He nodded. “Yes, Lord. We were returning to Windwir when the city . . .” He let the words trail off. “I’d been looking for survivors when—” he patted the boy’s shoulder and Neb felt the strength in the large hand that settled on him “—when Del here must’ve wandered off.”

Neb opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it. What was this crazy old man doing?

Sethbert looked at him then, his eyes cold and calculating, his lips pursed in thought. “I was under the impression that he had seen the city fall. My medicos believe some trauma or another has stolen his voice.”

The old man nodded. “Aye,” he said. “But we only arrived after.” His voice lowered. “His mother passed some days ago; he’s not spoken since.” Then he leaned in closer and whispered. “He’s never been altogether right if you know what I mean, Lord.”

Sethbert’s eyes narrowed. “What is his relationship to you?”

The old man blinked. “He’s my grandson. His father was an Androfrancine. They wanted to put him into their orphans’ school but I wouldn’t allow it.” He met Sethbert’s eyes. “I don’t hold to their secrets and their smugness. His mother and I raised him.”

Neb had never seen anyone lie so quickly, so competently before. He studied the old man’s face, looking for some tick that would betray him. Not cetrie hing.

He realized Sethbert was speaking to him, and looked up.

“Is this man your grandfather?”

Looking at the old man, he realized he’d seen him before. In the Great Library . . . but where? It hadn’t been so long ago, either. Or perhaps he looked like someone else—someone well known to him. But why would he lie to Sethbert, creating an elaborate story about a grandson and a dead mother?

Their eyes met and the old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, Del? Are you going to answer the Overseer?”

Slowly, Neb nodded once, then twice.

“And you did not actually see the city of Windwir fall?”

Looking at the old man again, Neb felt a stab of memory. The fire, the lightning, ash falling like snow on the ruined landscape. The screaming, hot wind that blasted out from Windwir, the ships burning and sinking in the river even as they cast off their lines to drift south.

Neb shook his head.

Sethbert scowled. He leaned in to the boy, his voice cold and hollow. “I should teach you to be more truthful.”

“I intend to do just that, Lord,” the old man said with a firm voice. “Though I’m sure he was just confused. These are dark days for all of us.”

Neb wasn’t sure what to expect next, but a scout signaled Sethbert, and the Overseer motioned him closer. Sethbert looked once more at Neb and then at the old man.

“You were bound for Kendrick when my men took you?”

The old man nodded. Neb knew Kendrick. It was a small town not too far south of Windwir. He’d been to it a few times on various errands. “I thought there might be survivors there.”

Sethbert nodded. “I find it odd that you did not tell my men about your missing lad.”

The old man went pale and stammered for a moment. “I beg your forgiveness, Lord. I heard fighting the night before and I was uncertain of how much to say.”

The Overseer smiled. “These are, as you say, dark days.”

The old man nodded.

“What is your name then?”

“I am called Petros.” It was a common name, the name of P’Andro Whym’s indentured man, the one who had served the scientist-scholar beyond the terms of his agreement and had been named in one of the gospels as the greatest of the least.

Again, Sethbert squinted. Neb did, too. Even the name seemed familiar.

There was a fluttering, and a gray bird dropped heavily onto the arm of Sethbert’s chair.

A winded bird-keeper raced beneath the tent. “Apologies, Lord Sethbert, but this one refused our net.”

Neb saw the markings on the bird, but they were unfamiliar. Sethbert waved the bird-keeper off. Instead, the Overseer hefted the bird, pulled its message pouch himself and unrolled the small script. As he read it, his face grew red and his eyes grew narrow.

He looked up at them again. “I’m afraid I’ve pressing matters to attend to.” He paused. “You’re free to go . . . but no farther than Kendrick. I may have other questions of you.”

But Neb was fairly certain he would not. Sethbert’s interest in him had been the story of Windwir’s fall. No doubt so that he could bask in his handiwork.

For a moment, he considered opening his mouth, somehow protesting this turn of events. Certainly, this old man Petros had some reason for the lies. Neb might have thought him mad, but he’d seen the hardness in the bright blue eyes and could see that the old man was playing Sethbert like a Marsh whistle. That and the familiar face and the familiar name were enough for Neb to know that he would have to figure out how to kill Sethbert another time.

As they walked out from under the canopy, he felt the pressure on his shoulder shift, and realized the old man had been speaking the entire time. His fingers, moving ever so slightly, had been tapping a message out into his shoulder. Of course, Neb didn’t know what it meant. He’d just started nonverbal language training this last year. If the school had not been destroyed, he’d have been at least competent by the end of his last year.

Once they were out of earshot, Petros leaned over. “I’ve just saved you from a foolish path.”

And suddenly Neb knew where he’d seen this man’s face before. Certainly, he was older and larger now . . . and dressed quite differently. But this old man bore a striking resemblance to a portrait Neb had walked under a thousand times in the Hall of the Holy Sees in the Western Wing of the Great Library, where the faces of the Popes gazed down from the walls with sober faces, careworn faces. The second newest painting—hung ne cthext to Introspect’s—was the only face that smiled, though it was slight.

Petronus.

Of course, it couldn’t be. That man had been dead for over thirty years.

Rudolfo

Rudolfo spent the day with his captains directing intelligence skirmishes on the Entrolusian advance camps. The first battle had cost the Overseer six young officers and one seasoned master sergeant along with a host of infantry. They’d also accounted for a half-squad of Sethbert’s elite Delta scouts, though there could’ve been more. It was hard to tell until the magicks wore down.

A good first battle. And he had a bird this morning from House Li Tam. Vlad Li Tam’s iron armada steamed for the Delta now and would blockade the mouths of the Three Rivers. It was a small armada, but even small it could easily handle the City States’ navy. The Androfrancines had seen to that, not wanting the bank that stored such a significant percentage of their wealth to be unprotected. And the Li Tam shipbuilders had been the only shipbuilders that could build the iron ships, even with the specifications the Androfrancines had reconstructed from the ruins of the First World.

House Li Tam’s engagement was a start, nothing more. Rudolfo knew that the Emerald Coasts had no foot soldiers or cavalry to spare. They would keep what they had near home, knowing that the City States had more to contend with than the three brigades that had ridden north to Windwir.

But the armada would help. And as word spread, others would join. Rudolfo couldn’t imagine any of the Named Lands entering the war on the side of the Entrolusians. He’d already sent a dozen birds to a dozen lords, careful to use words like The Desolation of Windwir and This War of Entrolusian Aggression. Even those who hated the Androfrancines—and there were few who did—would not be able to find common ground with someone who had burned away that city’s knowledge. Those few who sneered at the ancient Order did so out of jealousy. Rudolfo had no doubt that they’d have killed the Androfrancines, too, without a moment’s hesitation. But they would never have touched the library.

For two thousand years, the Androfrancines had built that library, storing knowledge dug from the ashes of the Old World. The wonders they’d dared share with the world—the scraps they’d doled out carefully over time—were amazing to behold. But who knew what wonders they’d kept hidden away, knowing that the world was not yet ready? Who knew what wonders they had yet to sell as humanity grew out of another adolescence, when its adulthood was cut short by the Third Cataclysm known as the Age of Laughing Madness.

It had been an easy decision.

Now Gregoric nudged him. “Here they come, General.”

Rudolfo looked, and down the ridge from them he saw the grass bending back as something—or several somethings—came in their direction. A brown bird lifted from their midst, and he smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “They’ve driven back another camp.”

“It’s a good start,” Gregoric said.

Rudolfo looked at him. They’d grown up together, Gregoric just a bit older. He’d been, surprisingly enough, the son of his father’s First Captain of the Gypsy Scouts. Later, when Rudolfo’s father lay dying and the mantle of the Ninefold Forest Houses was new upon Rudolfo’s twelve-year-old shoulders, he’d promoted Gregoric’s father to General. It had been his first decision, knowing that despite their seclusion in the northern, prairie-hemmed forests, the world would be watching for signs of strength in the young, new lord.

Gregoric had followed his father into the First Captaincy, and he’d been a flawless leader for the scouts. Even under crisis, it was obvious that he was getting his sleep, unlike Rudolfo. He ran a hand through his short dark hair.

“It’s a very good start,” Rudolfo agreed. “It will get harder as he applies his better assets. He’s ever been the overconfident sort—I expect he’s fared worse than he thought he would. I even think,” he continued, “that we may have done better than Lysias expected, judging by his response yesterday.”

A low whistle cut up the hill and Gregoric returned it. The underbrush rippled as the squad of Gypsy Scouts slipped into the perimeter.

“Captain,” said a nearby voice, “and General.”

“What have you learned?” Gregoric asked.

“We have another confirmation that they’re only three brigades strong. We also learned they had a survivor—a boy. Beyond that, nothing more.”

“Excellent work,” Gregoric said. “Scrub down, get your men fed and get some sleep.”

“Aye,” the first scout said. “You heard the captain.”

Rudolfo waited until they were out of earshot. “A survivor. That’s new.”

Gregoric nodded. “He has another seven brigades. That’s what concerns me.”

“And he’s still not brought forth his best effort,” Rudolfo said.

“He’ll have to pretty soon,” Gregoric said, looking down the slope. Rudolfo followed his gaze and saw another wave of movement sweeping in through the high grass.

This time a white bird flew up, and both of them drew their swords. The infantry on the perimeter saw the bird, too, and drew blades as well. Rudolfo shot a glance to the Captain of the Archers nearby, and the captain nodded.

Gregoric started down the hill and Rudolfo followed. At the foot of the hill they waited, and the squad raced past.

“They’re just behind us,” the lead scout hissed as he slipped past Gregoric.

And they were, only these weren’t the magicked scouts they’d so easily mowed through yesterday. This pack was made of harder stuff. Rudolfo felt a searing pain in his side and realized even as he swung his sword down that a knife had slipped in and cut him.

Gregoric went to one knee, his thigh suddenly bleeding.

No one called attention to it. They wouldn’t want their opponents to know who’d been injured. But the Gypsy Scouts pressed in, both those who had just returned and the half-squad set aside for these very reasons, and they slowly pushed the Delta Scouts out of the tree line. Rudolfo had managed to wound one of them, but held back once his own scouts were in the fray.

Medicos raced to the front as soon as the fighting had moved back, and they supported Gregoric while running him back up the hill. Rudolfo followed without assistance.

Back in camp, he drank chilled pear wine and ate orange slices and warm sweet bread. Leaning back on his cushions, he reread the note from Vlad Li Tam.

My kin-clave with Windwir is now yours.
It was a brief letter, but these closing words grabbed him. He chuckled.

“A formidable woman,” he said out loud. She had told her father about his three gestures. In other words, she had publicly acknowledged him before her father. Which meant in a good game of Queen’s War, she’d moved on the tower he’d threatened with and in turn now threatened his paladin.

And of course, her father had now responded with subtle grace. The symbol Vlad Li Tam had chosen for kin-clave was an old one that had fallen out of use.

It indicated the unity of houses through strategic marriage.

A formidable woman indeed, Rudolfo thought.

Jin Li Tam

Jin Li Tam’s quarters at the seventh forest manor were far simpler than what she’d had at the Overseer’s Palace, and the simplicity impressed her. It was a suite of rooms accessed through a wide set of double doors on the third floor. The closets were already stocked with a few items that seemed to be her size. She bathed, dressed in summer gowns and went down to the dining room.

Though he didn’t eat, Isaak was waiting there for her. Sitting away from the table, along the wall on a servant’s stool.

Jin pointed to an empty chair at the table. “Please, Isaak,” she said. “Join me.”

“Thank you, Lady.” He stood and limped over to the empty chair.

She noticed he was wearing a clean robe and it prompted her to smile. “Why are you still wearing your disguise?”

He looked at her, looked down at the robe, and smoothed it with his metal hands. “I do not know. It seemed appropriate.”

He had his hood down, so she knew it wasn’t that he meant to hide himself. Something else then? “Are your quarters satisfactory?”

He nodded. “They are, Lady Tam.”

The smell of fresh baked bread and venison stew filled the room as the kitchen door swung open. A servant hastened in, carrying a steaming platter. She placed it in front of Jin Li Tam and then retreated.

Jin paused, trying to decide between the stew or the bread. She broke off a piece of the hot bread. “When will you start your work?”

Isaak buzzed and a bit of steam jetted out. “I’ll start tonight by cross-referencing the mechoservitor work logs—I translated them last year—and see exactly what we might still have between us. Scrolls are replaced or cleared from time to time, but it’s rare.”

She nodded, dipping her spoon into the stew. She held it beneath her nose, smelling the fresh onions, carrots mingled with venison roast k veipped in herbs and spices that made her mouth water. “How long will that take?”

“Two weeks, five days, four hours and eight minutes,” he said.

“And after that you’ll recalculate your ciphers?” She chased the stew with iced apple cider.

“Yes.” A breeze blew in from the forest carrying the faintest scent of evergreen and wood smoke. The light from the candle reflected off his metal face. “After that, I will go to the last of the Androfrancines and appeal for aid.”

The door opened and the steward walked in. “Lady Tam,” he said, “I’ve just received a bird from your father. Would you prefer it now or after you’ve finished?”

She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Now, please.”

He handed the small scroll to her and she unrolled it, holding it to the light.

The surface message was simple and nondescript.
I’m glad you are well,
it said. But under the surface, triple coded and buried, was the longer message:
I approve of your choice; you will assist in the rebuilding of the library.
And the tense he used and the slightest blurring of the dot of an “i” told her that Vlad Li Tam considered his forty-second daughter betrothed for purposes of kin-clave.

She looked at Isaak and then back at the note in her hands. This was not entirely unexpected, but the timing was at a faster pace than she’d planned for. It confirmed her suspicions, certainly, that her father was involved in Rudolfo’s plan to rebuild the library before she’d known of it. She looked again at the metal man, wondering what lay ahead of them in the upcoming months. She thought about the man she was betrothed to, now, and wondered what lay ahead of her, and Rudolfo as well.

When she spoke, it could’ve meant either or both. “We should discuss the strategy of it,” she said.

Neb

Neb couldn’t help but stare at the old man as they drove their wagon south to Kendrick. Neb had dragged him to it, pointing, and the old man had made a big show of hitching the horses to it and tying his own to the back.

“I’m glad you didn’t let this get away, Del,” he said with a wink.

Neb watched him scan the back of it, saw his eyes light up at the tools, and then climbed into the seat beside him.

When the guards had escorted him to the edge of their camp and pointed them sout knteifyhward, he’d thanked them profusely. Once they were out of sight, he leaned in to Neb.

“We’re not out of it yet, lad. They’ll have scouts shadowing us most of the way.”

Neb nodded.

They rode in silence, stopping briefly to eat stale bread and hard cheese from the old man’s saddlebags. Neb lay back against the wagon wheel, stretching himself out. In the forests that edged the river road, birds flitted in the shadows and chirped at them. A kingfisher dove the river, coming up from the slow, wide waters with a fish in its bill.

He couldn’t speak to ask the old man if he was who he thought he was—but he also wasn’t sure that he should ask anything with Entrolusian scouts nearby. After all, if Sethbert had hated the Androfrancines so much that he crushed them like a garden snake beneath his boot, he couldn’t possibly love an Androfrancine Pope.

Neb still wasn’t sure if leaving the camp was the best of all possible choices, but the old man had made that happen without leaving him much room to protest. Perhaps, he’d seen Neb assessing the Overseer’s security. Neb wondered if he’d been that obvious.

And if the old man had seen it, others may have as well. So it was possible that Neb owed him his life. It was also possible that Neb had now missed his first, best chance to bring down the madman who had killed his father and robbed the world of Androfrancine light.

Now they rode for Kendrick with a wagon full of supplies meant for the Gamet Dig, far south and east, in the Churning Wastes. Questions rattled him, poking at him as if he were in a cage.

He glanced at the old man again. He was checking the back of the wagon, rummaging through one of Brother Hebda’s pouches as if it were his own. Neb leaped to his feet, feeling a surge of anger that he wasn’t sure what to do with.

The old man saw the look on his face. “I’m looking for the Letters of Credit and Introduction.”

Hot shame flashed through him, and Neb opened his mouth to speak. A flow of garbled words poured out, sentence fragments from the Nineteen Gospels, the Francine Codex and the other scattered bits that made up the Whymer Bible. He closed his mouth, then tried again with the same results. The old man grabbed up the pouch and pushed it into Neb’s hands. He leaned in close, speaking quietly. “There’s paper in here. And pencils. This will help our rather one-sided conversation. But do nothing until we know we’re clear of Sethbert’s men.”