Authors: S. L. Farrell

A Magic of Dawn (77 page)

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn

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“Good. Thank you. I appreciate your telling me that.”

“I want you to go with him,” ca’Damont continued. “This is no place for you.”

An old, frail woman . . .
She could nearly hear the unsaid comment. “No,” she told him. “You need me here. I’m A’Morce Numetodo; this is where I belong.”

“More war-téni have arrived,” he said. “A full double hand. And I have the other Numetodo you brought with you. You proved yourself earlier, Varina. No one could ask more of you. And you have a child to think of.”

She wanted to agree. She wanted to take his offer and go running back to the city—but even there she wouldn’t be safe. She could flee as far as she wanted, she could take Serafina and go east or north, but if they lost here—and she could see no way that they could win—she would always wonder whether she should have stayed, whether her presence might have made a difference.

Karl would not have fled. He would have stayed, even if he thought that the battle was lost. She knew that for a certainty. “Most of the gardai here have children to think of,” she told him firmly. “That’s
why
they’re here.”

“Still . . .”

“I’m not leaving,” she told him.

The Commandant nodded. He stood and saluted her. “You’re certain?”

She gave a shuddering laugh as another fireball howled past. Firelight bloomed and shadows moved as it exploded. “No,” she answered. “But I’m staying, and you’re interrupting my rest.”

They heard the low rumble of another explosion somewhere beyond the rampart. “Rest?” the Commandant said. “I doubt any of us will be getting that tonight. But all right. Stay if you want. Cénzi knows that we need all the help we can get.” He seemed to realize what he’d said, giving a wry half-smile. “Forgive me, A’Morce.”

“Don’t apologize,” she told him. “If your Cénzi exists, I hope He’s listening to you.”

It wasn’t supposed to have been this way. Sergei had prayed to Cénzi, but Cénzi hadn’t answered—not that he expected any help from that quarter. The Tehuantin pursued Kraljica Allesandra and the Garde Kralji all the way back into the city. The Kraljica had tried to re-form and stand at Sutegate, but the Tehuantin were moving across too wide a swath now, pouring into the city’s streets from everywhere along the southern reaches. Allesandra didn’t have troops enough to cover the city’s entire southern border. It had become quickly obvious that they couldn’t hold the South Bank: not with the Garde Kralji, not even with the sparkwheelers, who had proved oddly effective during the retreat. They’d pulled back even farther, abandoning the entire South Bank for the Isle A’Kralji.

They
could
keep the Tehuantin from pouring through the bottlenecks that were the two bridges.

Sergei had urged Allesandra to destroy the Pontica a’Brezi Veste and Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli entirely, to take down the spans so that the Tehuantin couldn’t cross the southern fork of the A’Sele without ships. She refused. “The ponticas stay up,” she said. “I will not just give up half the city. The bridges stay up, we defend them tonight, and tomorrow we’ll go back across them to take back our streets.”

Sergei had argued vehemently with her, and Commandant cu’Ingres had agreed with Sergei; neither of their arguments convinced her to change her mind.

And it was on the Pontica a’Brezi Veste and the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli that the sparkwheelers truly excelled. With Brie and Talbot’s guidance, the corps had controlled the small spaces. Though the Westlanders had thrown wave after wave at them through the late afternoon and into the dusk, they’d left both bridges full of corpses. After several vain attempts and with the sunlight dying, the Westlanders had finally pulled back.

From the roof of the Kraljica’s Palais, Sergei could see fires burning in the South Bank where once the téni had lit the lanterns along the Avi a’Parete. The yellow flames were a mockery. To the west and north, across the A’Sele but still outside the city, there were constant rumbles and the flashes of explosions, as if a rainless, cloudless thunderstorm had taken up residence there. Below, beyond the outer walls of the courtyards and entrance to the palais, in the Avi, Brie was still awake, on foot now. Sergei could hear her voice in the stunned silence of the palais: setting the watches on the bridge and exhorting the sparkwheelers to see to their weapons, get what rest they could, but be ready to respond at need.

Hïrzgin Brie had proved to be as valuable as her husband in this fight. Perhaps more so.

Sergei felt Allesandra come alongside him. She was still dressed in her armor, though it was no longer gleaming and polished: in the moonlight, he could see the scratches and scorch marks of the battle. Her graying hair was matted to her head. A sextet of Garde Kralji were with her, as well as the few remaining members of the Council of Ca’ who had not fled the city. “Tomorrow,” she told Sergei, told the councillors, “we will take back the South Bank.”

“We will try as best we can,” Sergei said. His tone betrayed his feeling as to the success they would find.

“We
will,
” Allesandra answered sternly. The councillors looked frightened, and Sergei knew that they all believed that as unlikely as he did. A flash, and—belatedly—another rumble came from the west. He could feel the building trembling under his feet with the sound. The councillors looked around as if searching for shelter; the gardai shuffled nervously, clenching their pikes. “A runner’s come from the North Bank,” Allesandra said. “The Tehuantin have the west side of the Infante, and the Garde Civile has pulled back to the earthworks. They’re safe for now. They’ll try to ford the river tomorrow and we will push them back. Let the Infante and then the A’Sele take their bodies back to the sea.”

“We will try, I’m sure,” Sergei answered again. “Have you heard further news of the Hïrzg?”

Her face tightened. “I’m told that Hïrzg Jan has refused to return to the city. How badly he’s been injured . . .” She shrugged. “No one is saying. He’s my son, and he’s a soldier. He will continue to fight as long as he can.”

Sergei glanced down again to where Brie was patrolling. “Does
she
know?”

“I told Brie myself. I offered to let her go to him while she can. She said her place was here for now, and that Cénzi could keep Jan safe better than she could.” Allesandra almost smiled. “I think she’s learned to have a fondness for these sparkwheelers.”

Sergei grunted. “I hope she’s right,” he said. “We can’t hold back the Tehuantin, Kraljica. Soon, they’re going to start bombarding us with black sand until we can’t station the sparkwheelers at the bridgeheads any longer, and once the sparkwheelers have pulled back they’ll come across. We need to take down the ponticas to the South Bank and cut them off. Let them throw what they want at us, but they won’t be able to cross—not until they build boats.”

Alesandra drew back. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. “You’ve said all this too many times already, Sergei. I won’t give up the South Bank. I
will not
abandon my city. Not while I can draw breath. No.” She took in a breath through her nose, loud in the night. “I’ve asked Commandant ca’Talin or Starkkapitän ca’Damont to send us a company or two of gardai to help.”

“Kraljica, they can’t spare them. Not with the Tehuantin force they’re facing. You can’t ask that of them.”

“The message has already been sent,” she told him. “I said that they needed to make their best judgment as to whether they could spare the troops or not. They’ll send them,” she said firmly.

It was obvious that he wasn’t going to change her mind. He was also certain that whether they had an additional company of gardai or not, the Garde Kralji weren’t going to be sufficient to take back the South Bank. If the bridges continued to stand, they would not even be sufficient to hold the Isle, even with the help of the sparkwheelers. He tapped the tip of his cane on the roof tiles uneasily. In the west, there were more flashes. “If you’ll excuse me, Kraljica, I need to find Talbot . . .”

He left Allesandra still on the roof with the gardai and the councillors. He found Talbot on the ground floor of the palais, looking frazzled and angry as he snapped orders to a quartet of the palais staff. They scurried off as Sergei approached. “I don’t have enough staff here,” Talbot said. “Thee quarters of them evidently fled the city as soon we left here yesterday.”

“You can’t blame them, my friend. Anyone with more sense than loyalty would leave.”

“I know, but how am I supposed to run the palais without people?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen to me. I’ve just been chased halfway across Nessantico by the Tehuantin; I’ve managed to survive spells and arrows and swords, and I’m worrying about whether the beds are made and meals are served.”

“It’s your job.”

“It doesn’t feel important, given the circumstances. By Cénzi, I’m exhausted.”

“You can sleep later. We can both sleep later. Come with me.”

“Where?”

Sergei rubbed at his nose. “You know where the black sand for the Garde Kralji is kept? You have the keys to that storeroom?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Then come along.”

A turn of the glass later, he and Talbot approached the Pontica a’Brezi Veste with several bundles of black sand carried by gardai. Brie greeted them; she glanced at their burdens, and she cocked her head. “I thought that the Kraljica said that the ponticas were to be left intact,” she said.

Sergei glanced up at the roof of the palais, at the balconies studding the southern wall. No one was there. “I’ve managed to convince the Kraljica that we may need to take the bridges down if our attack tomorrow doesn’t go well. We’re to set the black sand on the supports around this side, so that we can set them off at need. That’s all.”

Brie nodded. “Sounds like a good plan to me. I’ll get the sparkwheelers to help,” she said.

Another turn of the glass, and Sergei and Talbot, with the rest of the black sand, came to the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli. Sergei gave the offizier in charge of the Garde Kralji there the same tale that he’d given Brie. As he’d done at the previous bridge, he supervised the placement of the black sand packets, making certain that they were linked together with black sand-infused oiled cotton ropes so that touching off the length of fuse would cause all the packets to explode at once.

Sergei held the fuse, hefting it in his hand; a lantern burned at his feet in the grass of the riverbank. “We’re done here,” he told Talbot. “Now—go tell everyone to stand back.”

Sergei could not see Talbot’s face as he stood farther up the embankment, the moon almost directly behind him. “Stand back? Sergei, have you gone insane? The Kraljica gave specific orders—”

Sergei leaned down. He tucked his cane under his arm, picked up the lantern and opened the glass front, holding the fuse cord in his other hand. “When a tooth goes bad, you don’t have a choice but to pluck it out,” he said to Talbot. “If you leave it in, it just causes you more pain and misery, and eventually rots all the rest.”

“You can’t do this,” Talbot protested. “The Kraljica said—”

“The Kraljica and I disagree. Be honest, Talbot: do you think we can take back the South Bank from the Westlanders tomorrow? The best defense for the Isle and the entire city is to take down the ponticas and leave the Westlanders stranded.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Talbot told him.

Sergei grinned up at him, lifting the lantern. “At the moment, it appears that it is,” he answered. He touched the end of the fuse cord to the flame. It hissed and sparked, and fire began to crawl along its length. Sergei dropped the fuse and began to hurry up the riverbank as fast as he could, using his cane for leverage.

“Cénzi’s balls,” Talbot cursed; he stared for a breath as if considering hurrying down the bank after the fuse, then waved to the gardai at the bridge’s abutments. “Back!” he shouted to them. “Get away from the bridge! Take cover!” He half-slid down the embankment and grabbed Sergei’s arm, hauling him up. Together, they fled as the fuse cord hissed and sputtered and the blue glow of its fire slid toward the bridge.

The blast nearly lifted Sergei off his feet. The concussion slammed into him like a falling wall; he could feel the heat scorching his back, and the sound . . . He could hear timbers snapping as rocks and planking slammed into the ground around them, falling like a hard, dangerous rain. Sergei and Talbot cowered, covering their heads. When it had ended, his ears still ringing, Sergei turned. The bridge had collapsed, the span sloping into the waters of the A’Sele midway across. The stubs of piling and pillars rose from the water like broken teeth.

Sergei grinned. “They won’t be coming across there soon,” he said. “All these men stationed here can get some rest. Now, let’s finish the job . . .”

Talbot was shaking his head. “Sorry, Sergei, I can’t let you. You lied to me. You disobeyed the Kraljica’s direct orders.”

“I’m trying to save the damned city,” Sergei retorted.

“It’s not
your
damned city.”

Ah, but it is . . .
He knew Talbot realized the worth of what he’d done. He knew Talbot actually agreed with him. “Talbot, you know I’m right.”

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn

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