The Price of Valor (32 page)

She got down without a word and handed Edgar's reins to the ranker. No one noticed her as she passed through the courtyard, or at least no one spoke up. One didn't accost a colonel, Winter supposed. She was reminded of the night she'd spent outside the Vendre, drifting through the crowd, the mad carnival atmosphere contrasting with her own gloom. That had been just before she caught Jane and Abby together.

That was unlikely today, at least. She caught a glimpse of Abby in the thick of it, surrounded by recruits and old Leatherbacks alike, leading one of the endless, bawdy soldier's camp songs with a tankard as her conductor's wand. Winter smiled, briefly, and turned away before anyone noticed her.

The keep was deserted, except for a pair of Royals on guard inside the door. They saluted as Winter passed, as did the pair on watch outside her office. One of these two was a Royal, an unhappy-looking man who kept looking longingly toward the party outside, but the other was a woman. Winter waved aside her salute and stopped in front of the door.

“I thought the Girls' Own was off duty for the night,” she said.

“Punishment detail, sir.” The sentry, a short, muscular woman, vibrated with the stiffness of her rigid posture. “For smuggling drink into the camp.”

“Ah. I hope you've learned your lesson.”

“Yes, sir!” The ranker cracked a smile. “Don't get caught next time.”

Winter smiled in return and went inside. Her office, well lit during the day, was huge and shadowy in the darkness. Only a few candles burned on the big central table, and Winter was surprised to see Cyte and Bobby there, poring over maps and scribbling notes and figures.

“Welcome back, sir!” Bobby said, popping to her feet. “Did you talk to Jane?”

“I talked to her.”

“And will she be returning to camp?” Cyte said without looking up.

“Maybe. I hope so.”
Probably not.
Winter sat down at her own desk, slumping into her chair. “We'll see. If she's not back by the time the party's over, I'll send some men to bring her in.”

Bobby winced. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

“What are you two working on, anyway?” Winter said to change the subject.

Cyte seemed to understand, and gathered a stack of paper to bring to Winter's desk. “Arrangements for tomorrow. I've already sent couriers to intercept the upriver barges. I'm working on arranging our wagon train.”

“I thought we were leaving the wagons behind.”

“They can follow as best they can, sir. I'll detach a couple of dozen soldiers
to look after them. If they take the same route we do, it should be safe enough.” She paused. “They'll also be on the lookout for anyone we have to leave behind on the march. That could save lives.”

Winter nodded, flipping through the pages. “It's a good thought.”
I wonder if I should just have Jane and her people assigned to the wagons?
It would look like a punishment detail, and Winter wasn't sure that was a bad thing, given the way the Leatherbacks had been behaving.
But it's not going to make her like me any better.

Cyte came over to the desk to explain the details, and Winter let herself be immersed in the columns of figures and map notations. There was no need for her to attend to any of it, truthfully, but she was grateful for the work, and Cyte sensed her need for distraction. Bobby brought her a tankard of watered wine, which Winter drank without much enjoyment.

Sometime later, as Winter was idly flipping through reports while her two lieutenants copied out orders, there was a knock at the door.

“I'll get it,” Winter said, springing to her feet before either of the other two could move. “Get that finished up while there's still time to go outside and relax a little.”

“All I'm planning to do is go to bed,” Cyte muttered, but Winter saw that Bobby perked up and moved her pen with a little more vigor. Winter crossed to the door and opened it, feeling as she did another pulse of pressure in her head.
Maybe I ought to go to bed myself.

“Colonel Ihernglass?” The visitor was an older man in a Vordanai uniform, standing relaxed between the two sentries. She didn't recognize him.
Someone from the quartermasters' people?

“Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”

She couldn't have said what it was that saved her life. There was something
wrong
with the picture—the man's shoulder straps made him a corporal, but he hadn't offered a salute, and he was far too old. The way he stood was unmilitary, and his coat was tight, as though it had been tailored for someone smaller.

Infernivore roared and thrashed at the back of her mind, half warning, half frantic hunger.

Winter threw herself backward, and the old man's hand slashed through the air inches in front of her face. His fingernails were as long as talons, painted with a strange white lacquer.

“Winter!” Bobby shouted, coming to her feet as Winter stumbled backward against the table.

Cyte was only a fraction slower, waving to the two guards. “Stop that man!”

The old man spun, faster than he had any right to, and the first guard through the doorway got raked across the face by those white talons. They passed through flesh and bone without slowing, leaving horrendous open tears in their wake. The guard dropped his musket and screamed, falling to his knees and clutching his hands to his ruined face.

The Girls' Own guard, a step behind, had her musket up before the old man could get to her. Winter saw her pull the trigger, and the old man threw himself sideways before the shot went off, staggeringly loud in the tight quarters. The ball
zinged
off the stone wall and the ceiling, raising sparks, before it embedded itself in Winter's desk with a
thok
. The guard didn't give the old man a chance to recover himself, charging through the cloud of powder smoke with her bayonet fixed, forcing her assailant to scramble backward to avoid being spitted.

Winter was pulling herself to her feet, looking for her sword. It was where she'd left it, in its sheath on her sword belt hanging from her desk, on the other side of the big table. Cyte had her own sword belt closer to hand, however, and she tore her rapier from its scabbard. Before she could move to help the guard with the old man, the injured man just outside the door straightened up and gave a gasp, then slumped limply forward. Past him came another figure, dressed in drab gray and black. His face was obscured by a mask, a thousand tiny chips of obsidian shifting and glittering as he moved.

The sight of such a mask was burned into Winter's memory. She'd last seen it in the Sworn Cathedral, the night Orlanko had attempted to capture the Deputies-General. The night Danton had been assassinated by a man who'd disappeared as quickly and impossibly as he'd arrived.
The Penitent Damned.
Infernivore was flinging itself against her mind like a starving predator against the bars of its cage.

“Colonel Ihernglass?”
he'd asked. A realization crashed down around her like chill water.
They're here for
me
.

The black-clad figure had a knife in each hand. Cyte extended her sword, trying to keep him at bay, but the Penitent sidestepped and closed with her; when she flicked the blade toward his throat, he leaned back slightly, letting it pass him by less than an inch. His left-hand knife swung up, almost in passing, and slashed a deep cut across her arm. Cyte's eyes went wide, and she stumbled backward but hung on to her sword.

Winter edged left around the table, toward where Bobby was standing. Her lieutenant, as though reading her thoughts, tossed Winter her own sword and darted back toward the desk to get Winter's. Winter tore the short, unfamiliar
blade from its scabbard and swung it overhand at the Penitent. He dodged the cut as easily as he'd avoided Cyte's blade, but it forced him to give ground, giving Cyte the chance to regain her balance at Winter's side.

On the other side of the room, the old man backed away from the bayonet-wielding guard, leading her toward the room's other door, which opened onto a narrow stairway from behind Winter's desk. At first Winter thought the old man wanted to escape, but he backed past the door without pausing. A moment later, the thin wood exploded as though it had been hit with a cannonball, fragments scattering across the room.

Standing amid the wreckage was another man, a giant, easily seven feet tall and broad to match. Winter was forcibly reminded of the
fin-katar
, the sacred eunuch she'd had to kill when she rescued Feor in Khandar. He had been huge, but running to fat, while this man seemed to be a slab of solid muscle. The giant wore the same blacks as the knife man, and the same glittering black mask.

Winter had to admire the courage of the Girls' Own soldier, if not her good sense. She turned on her heel and lunged with the simple bayonet thrust that they'd practiced so often in the yard. The giant half turned, letting the blade sink into the meat of his side until the barrel of the musket pressed against him. Then he swatted the weapon aside and grabbed the guard by the shoulder. She had time for a scream as a huge hand closed around her face and twisted her head one hundred eighty degrees without apparent effort, bones snapping with an ugly crunch. The giant tossed the limp, twitching corpse aside and looked down at Winter, ignoring the blood matting his clothes.

“Balls of the fucking Beast,” Cyte swore. “What in all the hell—”

The knife-wielding Penitent came at Winter again, and she struggled to avoid him. He wasn't fast, at least not any faster than any trained fighter, but he seemed aware of what she was doing almost before she did it, gliding smoothly around her clumsy attempts at parries and ripostes. Winter was only able to keep him off by exploiting her longer reach and giving ground, and even so she quickly accumulated a half dozen shallow, painful cuts on her forearm where his knives had scored. Her sleeve was dark and sodden with blood, and Infernivore screamed at the back of her mind.

It wants his demon.
Infernivore could devour it, but she had to lay a hand on him to unleash the thing, and the Penitent in front of her seemed as insubstantial as mist. She hurled herself desperately to one side to avoid getting backed into a corner, taking a cut on the leg as she passed, and had a moment to spare for the rest of the room.

The old man had backed Cyte into a corner. He kept his distance, wary of the reach of her rapier, but shock and pain were catching up to her, and she was visibly flagging. On the other side of the room, the giant slammed Winter's desk out of the way with one hand, coming toward her with strides she swore made the floor shake. Bobby, who had been wrestling to free Winter's sword from its scabbard, found herself directly in the monster's path. The giant aimed a casual backhand cuff at her head, and Bobby's hand came up and grabbed his wrist. Both of them seemed surprised when she halted the blow in its tracks, leaving the huge man stumbling and off-balance. He brought his other hand around in a wild roundhouse punch, and Bobby caught his fist in her palm. Winter distinctly heard the
crunch
of breaking bone, but Bobby's arm didn't even waver. She leaned forward, matching the giant strength for strength, and the huge man gave a roar of anger and disbelief.

Then Winter had no attention to spare for anything but her own fight. She was backing into a wall, increasingly desperate sword strokes cutting nothing but air.
If I can only lay a hand on him . . .
She drove him back for a moment with a wild horizontal cut, then lunged. He slipped aside, as she'd expected, drawing the knife across the back of her hand. Her fingers spasmed and the sword fell from her grip, but she was already turning, grabbing for the Penitent's arm. Almost,
almost
, her fingers brushed against his sleeve, but he danced sideways and behind her, one arm raised for a strike that would bury his dagger in her kidneys.

The sound of a musket going off, only a few paces in front of her, was shatteringly loud, and the muzzle flash was almost blinding. Winter saw blood explode from the giant, high on his right shoulder, and he took a staggered step backward. She was already twisting away from her own opponent, skin tingling in the expectation of a blow that hadn't fallen. But he was backing away, hands pressed to his eyes, face contorted in agony. His knives lay discarded on the floor.

Jane stood in the doorway, breathing hard, the dead Royal's musket in her hands. Winter barely had time to register her presence. She threw herself forward, wrapping a hand around the Penitent's wrist, and sent her will down into the pit of her soul where the Infernivore dwelt.
Now. Now!

The demon surged forth in answer, rushing through her hand and into the young man. Winter could feel his demon, a wispy, insubstantial thing, and feel its panic as Infernivore began to devour its substance. Energy crackled and sparked between them. Back in the physical world, she heard the Penitent scream.

Pain lanced through her, and her attention returned to her physical body with a lurch. The old man had two of his nails embedded in her arm, and he was
bringing his other taloned hand toward her face. Winter released her grip on the Penitent, feeling the demons tear apart, the Infernivore's hunger and frustrations hitting her like a punch to the gut. She collapsed to the floor, but instead of following her down the old man lurched backward, dragging his still-stricken companion. A moment later Jane came into view, the bayonet on her musket gleaming, standing in front of Winter like a growling attack dog.

The old man barked a word in a language Winter didn't understand. He ran for the back door, dragging the young Penitent behind him. As they passed, the giant—as unhindered by the musket ball in his shoulder as he had been by the bayonet—tore free of Bobby's grip and followed them, backing out through the door and around the corner. Bobby fell to her knees, breathing hard.