The Guns of Empire (62 page)

Sergeant Red was the next one through the door. Half her freckled face was purpling into a huge bruise, but she grinned at Bobby and spread her hands.

“Going to kill me, too, Bobby?” Red said. “Go ahead.”

No, no, no,
no—Winter opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late. Bobby checked her swing just for an instant, showing the slightest hesitation to smash in that friendly, familiar face. That was enough. Red bulled in close, putting one arm around Bobby's waist, as though they were dancing. Her other hand took hold of a big clay jug hanging by a strap on her back, which she jerked free and brought down on Bobby's skull. It shattered, the contents gushing all over the two of them. Bobby, her hair plastered flat, looked more surprised than hurt.

Another of the Beast's bodies, a heavily scarred prisoner with only one arm,
pushed through the door with a flaming brand. Winter tried to reach him, but more attackers got in her way, threatening to grab her as she clubbed them wildly with the poker. The scarred man lurched forward, flailing with his torch, and scored a glancing blow on Bobby's shoulder. The stuff from the clay jug ignited at once, flames engulfing Bobby and Red as they spun together in the center of the room. Drops spattered to the floor and on the table, and small fires started there, too, but Winter only had eyes for Bobby. She was screaming, inaudible over the roar of the flames, beating wildly at Red with both hands. Winter's throat was a mass of pain, and it was only then she realized she was screaming, too.

She felt herself being lifted by several people at once, careless of her broken arm, and
that
pain was strong enough that it took all the breath out of her. The Beast carried her up the stairs, into a small, plain bedroom, and four of its bodies laid her on the bed. Her poker was gone, dropped somewhere, and they all carried heavy clubs. From downstairs, flames crackled and spit.

One of the priests, a tall, thin man whose black robe had been badly singed, said, “Time to choose, Winter. You must know by now that I can't take you if you don't want me to. But if you hold that demon back, you can still join me. You've seen it, haven't you? What's waiting for you?”

An endless, crimson sea, everything that makes me
me
ripped away from my soul and mixed with a million other half ghosts, not quite alive and not quite dead, eternity in the mind of the Beast—

Bobby. Oh God, Bobby.
Winter had no idea if she would die or not. Thus far Bobby had healed from every injury she'd suffered.
But burning alive?
She didn't know which would be worse.
What if she's alive, somehow, even as her body blackens and chars and oh God oh God—

“Or,” the Beast went on, “you just have to wait a few minutes, and this building will be consumed, and you along with it. Enough of me is Jane that I don't want that, but you haven't given me much of a choice.”

I don't want to die. Please. Someone help.
Images flashed through her mind.
Cyte, Janus, Abby.
The terror that welled up was from the deepest part of her mind, so old she barely remembered it.
Marcus, please. I don't want to burn.

“Okay, I lied,” said the Beast. Hands grabbed her. “You're going out the window. This may hurt—”

There was a wet
crunch
. Winter opened her eyes.

At the bedroom door was a figure made of living flames.
Bobby.
She had reached out a hand and grabbed the skull of the man holding Winter's feet, then
tightened that hand into a fist. The bone had presented no more resistance than a rotten fruit, blood and gore spattering everywhere. The woman beside him brought her club around, and it bounced away as though it had struck solid stone. Bobby slammed a casual backhand into her chest with a crunch of breaking ribs. Her other hand shot out and grabbed the third of the Beast's bodies by the throat, fingers digging in and tearing away a meaty chunk, leaving arterial sprays spurting from the ruin that remained.

“Well,” said the priest in the scorched robe. “That's . . . unexpected.”

Bobby, flames guttering out now, slammed a fist into his face, reducing it to a pulp.

Oh God Almighty.
Winter pulled her legs away from the fire, huddling at the back of the bed. The last few flames flickered and died. Bobby stepped forward, and ash flaked off her, revealing something gleaming and white underneath.

“Bobby?” Winter whispered. “Can you hear me?”

Very slowly the figure nodded. It brought one hand up to its face and brushed the ash from its cheek. Underneath was the face of a statue, polished white marble shot through with dark veins.

“Are you . . . ?” Winter faltered.
What the hell am I supposed to say?

Bobby looked over her shoulder at the doorway. Smoke was pouring up toward the roof, and flames were already licking at the top of the stairs. She bent, very carefully, and held out her arms.

“You want me to . . . ?” Winter said.

Bobby nodded again.

Winter crawled forward, and Bobby slipped an arm behind her back and another under her legs and lifted her as an adult might lift a child. More of the ash was flaking away, revealing a marble statue perfect in every detail, a perfect human figure framed in brilliant white stone. When Winter touched her skin, it was smooth and hard, unyielding, but warmer than blood.

But how are we going to get
out
of here?
Even if Bobby could survive another trip through the raging inferno downstairs, Winter certainly couldn't.
And there's still hundreds of those things waiting outside.
Bobby couldn't fight them
all
.
Could she?

Bobby straightened up. There was a crackling, tearing sound, followed by a delicate hum, like a finger dragged around a wineglass. Winter's eyes went wide. Something emerged from Bobby's back, a crystalline structure of tiny, delicate pieces, unfolding outward and upward—

Wings. She has wings.

They were made of hundreds of tiny crystals in place of feathers, breaking the light of the fire into a thousand rainbows sprayed against the wall. Bobby looked down at Winter, then up at the ceiling. Winter, understanding, tucked her head against Bobby's marble breast and covered her face with her good arm.

Bobby took off with a single wingbeat, crystals chiming in a glorious chorus. There was a moment of chaotic impact, splintering wood and fracturing slate, and then they were free, rising into the cold, clear air above Elysium, the sun just peeking over the eastern horizon. Winter got a momentary glimpse of the fortress-city, with its cathedral spires and huge, looming walls, and then Bobby's wings beat again and it became a blur. Clouds whipped around them in tattered streamers of white, and the mountains began to fall away.

It was
cold
, so high up, cold enough that Winter's fingers felt numb. She pressed herself against Bobby, drinking in the heat of her marble skin, and Bobby shifted her grip slightly to hold her passenger closer. In that warmth, listening to the steady beat of Bobby's wings, Winter fell asleep.

M
arcus only narrowly avoided being shot on his way out of the smoky wreck of Dorsay's headquarters. Orlanko's remaining men had fled, only to be cut down or captured by a converging ring of furious Life Guards and other Borelgai soldiers summoned by Whaler. Shouting from the doorway, Marcus had difficulty convincing them he wasn't another of the hired killers, until Whaler intervened personally. Even then he was disarmed and watched while Life Guards in their fox-fur shakos searched the building.

Eventually Whaler appeared, walking with the aid of a cane, a bulky bandage wrapped around his leg. Marcus was sitting on the ground by the gate, with several Life Guards standing over him. Whaler waved them away and, painfully, lowered himself to sit opposite.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Things have obviously been a little confused, and Captain Hezro is on edge. Your friend Sothe isn't hiding around here anywhere, is she?”

“I don't think so,” Marcus said.
And if she is, you won't find her.
“Is Dorsay all right?”

“I believe His Grace rolled his ankle, but the main injury seems to be to his pride. As he put it, ‘When I got married thirty years ago, I swore to Hennie that my days of climbing out bedroom windows on knotted-up bedsheets were over.'” Whaler smiled. “He's secure, and sends his thanks.”

“What about Orlanko?”

“He appears to have fled. My men will track him down, of course.”

“And our camp? There was supposed to be an attack there, as well.”

“Our sentries observed some firing across the river, but it didn't last long. If your people were warned, I imagine Orlanko's men ran into stiff resistance.”

“I need to get back.” Marcus pushed himself to his feet. The weariness that adrenaline had temporarily banished had returned in full force, making him sway on his feet. “I have to see Raesinia.”

“Understandable.” Whaler held out a hand, and Marcus pulled him up. “Thank you. Would you like me to get you a carriage?”

“Please,” Marcus said. He didn't think he could walk more than a few steps, much less all the way across the bridge.

Whaler gestured to one of the Life Guards, who hurried off. “Please convey to the queen, when you see her, that His Grace is eager to resume negotiations as soon as possible. Now that Duke Orlanko has revealed his true colors, the faction at court that supported him will be temporarily discredited, so we have a rare chance to strike a deal.”

“She'll be happy to hear it.”
If she's all right. She'll be all right. How can she not?

“For what it's worth, you have my personal thanks as well.” Whaler put out his hand. “You saved my life and the life of my master. I am in your debt, Column-General d'Ivoire.”

Marcus shook hesitantly. The clatter of horses announced the arrival of the carriage, and Whaler stepped away, supporting himself on his cane.

“I hope we'll meet again,” he said.

“So do I,” Marcus said automatically.

The truth was, he thought as he climbed aboard, was that he didn't know
what
he hoped for. He'd turned his back on Janus, the man who'd been his closest ally since the Redeemers had overturned his quiet life in Khandar. He'd had his parents' murderer in his grasp, offering him the revenge he'd long sought, and he'd let her go. All he wanted now was to assure himself that Raesinia was safe and then collapse into a bed, preferably for at least a week.

It was only a quarter of an hour's ride back to the inn, but he fell asleep anyway, head resting against the chilly window. The Borelgai driver touched his shoulder when they arrived, and Marcus thanked the man groggily and climbed down. Grenadier Guards and Girls' Own soldiers were everywhere, in the process of cleaning up after a firefight. There seemed to be quite a few bodies in the nondescript laborer's clothes of Orlanko's killers. The soldiers saluted when they saw him, and he waved them back to work, motioning a Girls' Own sergeant to his side.

“What happened?” he said.

“Assassination attempt, sir,” the young woman said. “Just as you predicted. We were ready for them, and they didn't even get close. A few of ours injured, none killed.”

“The queen's all right?”

She frowned slightly. “I think so, sir. She called for us to fetch Barely and Joanna, and they went inside with a few others. Nobody else has been allowed in.”

Damn.
Something
happened.
But Raesinia was still here and still alive. Marcus thanked the sergeant and went to the inn's door, which opened slightly at his knock. Joanna, Raesinia's tall, mute bodyguard, stood in the doorway and beckoned Marcus inside.

“Where is she?” he said.

Joanna pointed to the stairs. Marcus took them two at a time, in spite of his exhaustion. When he got to the doorway at the top he froze, mouth open. The suite was a disaster, with blood staining the carpets and slicked on the floorboards, as though someone had just finished slaughtering a steer. The door to the small bedroom looked
charred
, and there were dark smoke stains on the plaster ceiling. Several knives, still crusted with blood, lay on the floor.

“Raesinia!” Marcus said, heart beating fast. “Where are you?”

“Marcus?” Raesinia emerged from the large bedroom, wearing a silk dressing gown. It was clean, but her skin was still smeared with soot and blood, with more caked into her hair. She ran to him in bare feet, heedless of the mess on the floor, and wrapped her arms around him. “Marcus! Oh, thank God.”

For a moment Marcus tried to remember if there was a protocol for what to do when you were suddenly hugged by the Queen of Vordan. Then he gave up and put his arms gently around her shoulders.

“You're okay?” Marcus said. “When I saw all this—”

Raesinia turned her head to look at Joanna, who'd come up behind Marcus. “You just brought him right up here? You might have said something.”

Joanna rolled her eyes, shrugged, and went back downstairs.

Raesinia turned back to Marcus. “Of course I'm okay,” she said. “How many times do I have to tell you I can't die? But Ionkovo said he'd set a trap for you, and I was . . . concerned.”

“Ionkovo was here?”

Raesinia nodded. “He's dead.”

Thank God.
No more looking sidelong at shadows. “Good.”

“What about Dorsay?”

“We got there just in time. There was another Penitent waiting for us, but Sothe and I dealt with him. Sothe . . .” He hesitated.

“I got a message from her just a few minutes ago,” Raesinia said. “Don't worry.”

A message?
He shook his head.
Later.
“What about Janus?”

“Another skirmish. He's fine.”

“And . . .”

“He doesn't seem to have tried to do anything . . . rash,” Raesinia said. “He wants to see you.”

“Balls of the Beast,” Marcus groaned. “I'd better go.”

“In the morning, he said.” Raesinia smiled. “You must be exhausted.”

“Thank God.” Marcus could feel his eyelids closing already.

“I've got something I want to talk to you about, too,” Raesinia said. “But it can wait until you're more than half-conscious.”

—

Marcus slept downstairs, on a pile of bedding laid out on the floor, while soldiers and messengers came and talked and went out again. It was the best sleep he'd ever gotten, darkness closing in as soon as he put down his head, like slipping into deep, lightless water. When he awoke, only a few Grenadier Guards remained on watch, and the sun was well up. He ate breakfast—the best food he'd had in weeks, real bread, bacon, and eggs, courtesy of the Duke of Brookspring's generosity—and then went to the storage shed where the First Consul of the Kingdom of Vordan was confined.

The guards admitted him without question. Janus, always an early riser, had found someone to launder and fold his uniform, and now looked as clean as if he'd just stepped off the parade ground. Marcus, still sweat-stained and stinking, felt shabby by comparison, and ancient War College instincts made him expect a dressing-down and extra punishment duties. Janus merely nodded at his salute, however, sitting in the ratty chair in front of the tiny writing desk. Marcus was not surprised to see pen and paper in front of him. Once before, in the dungeons of the Vendre awaiting news of his fate, Janus had occupied his time writing letters.

“Good morning, Marcus,” he said, with no trace of last night's bitterness.

“Good morning, sir,” Marcus said. “You're feeling better?”

“Almost completely recovered, I think. Good food is a remarkable restorative, though I am lacking exercise.” He flashed a brief, brilliant smile. “I believe I heard a little disturbance last night?”

“Your information was correct,” Marcus said. “Orlanko's men tried to move on you and Raesinia, but we stopped them cold. Ionkovo is dead.”

“And the Duke of Brookspring?”

“Alive. I went to warn him myself.”

“Very noble of you.” If there was a sarcastic tone to these words, it was well hidden.

“I wanted to thank you,” Marcus said. “That message from your agent was in code. You didn't have to tell me what it said.”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “If I hadn't, I might be dead right now.”

“You didn't have to mention the attack on Dorsay, then.”

“I suppose not.” Janus leaned back in his chair. “Did General Ihernglass ever tell you about what happened when I was arrested by Directory agents, back when I was commanding the Army of the East?”

“No, sir,” Marcus said cautiously. He still half expected a sudden explosion—Janus was capable of going from affable to infuriated with shocking speed, on the rare occasions when he showed his temper.

“To make a long story short, I went along quietly, but I made sure Ihernglass knew what was happening. He led a group of loyal men to rescue me, and everything else—the march on Vordan, the First Consul's post—followed.”

“I see,” Marcus said noncommittally.

“Afterward, Ihernglass asked me why I hadn't simply given him instructions to rescue me, if I'd known what was going to happen. I told him . . .” Janus paused. “I said that sometimes I see the way forward so clearly that I don't realize it isn't obvious to everyone. He was my proxy, you see. I let him make the decision, to turn the army against the Directory, because he understood the men and women of the Army of the East in a way I never could.

“Fate has, at times, a shocking sense of irony. Last night I realized that it had placed you, against my wishes, into a similar position. I know . . . I
knew
the way forward, but I didn't know . . .” He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. You made your decision.”

“I betrayed you,” Marcus said. His throat was thick. “Sir—”

Janus raised a finger. “I prefer to think of it like this. If
you
, one of the most loyal men I have ever known, would not follow me, what chance would I have had of persuading the rest of the army? The country? You were my proxy for all those men and women outside, Marcus, however little I might have liked the answer. So, in the end, it's for the best.”

Marcus blinked. “I . . . wasn't expecting to hear that.”

“I spoke to you harshly,” Janus said. “You didn't deserve it, and I apologize. As you said, you have always done what you believe to be right.”

“Not always. Sometimes I'm not sure what
is
right.” Marcus walked over
to the bed and sat down. “I found the woman who killed my parents. One of Orlanko's people.”

“Oh?” Janus dragged the chair around to face him. “And?”

“She told me it was my right to shoot her, if I wanted.”

“And you let her go.” At Marcus' surprised expression, Janus laughed. “Honestly, Marcus, sometimes you can be extremely predictable.”

“Was that the right thing to do?” Marcus said. “If I'd shot her—”

“Then she'd be dead. Would you feel better?”

“I don't know. Probably not.” Marcus shook his head. “My sister's still out there, somewhere.”

“I'm sure the queen will help you find her. I'd offer you my assistance as well, of course, but I doubt I'm going to be in a position to accomplish much.”

Marcus looked up. “Sir. You should talk to the queen. Whatever happened between you, you can come to some kind of compromise. The army needs you.”

“No, Marcus. The Borelgai and the others would never accept that. Dorsay is right; there can never be peace while I sit in the First Consul's chair.” He spread his hands. “I'm sure Mieran County has missed my guiding hand. The servants have no doubt let the vegetable garden go to ruin in my absence. There will be plenty for me to do.”

“And you're all right with that?” Marcus said. “What about Elysium?”

There was a long silence. Janus stared, gray eyes focused on something far beyond the wall of the shed. He smiled, ever so slightly.

“Do you believe in God, Marcus?”

“Excuse me?” Marcus said.

“God. From the
Wisdoms
and so on. Heaven and the hells.”

“I suppose so.” Marcus hesitated. “He never seems as
direct
as He was in the
Wisdoms
, though. I've never believed in trusting in faith alone to get me out of a tight spot.”

“Very wise,” Janus said. “Would it surprise you if I said there was a time when I believed in God?”

“I think nothing about you would surprise me, sir.”

“It was the notion that there was a plan for the world. I could see it so clearly, see my part in it. You have no idea how wonderful that is, to know your exact position in the grand design, to have the course of your life spread out in front of you like a map.” Janus looked into Marcus' eyes for a moment, then turned away. “Then it all went wrong, and I was off the map. Everything I've done since then has been trying to find a way back.”