The Guns of Empire (57 page)

“Right. We need to find a spot where we can get a good look at the main hall without being seen. Alex, you make sure the gallery is clear. The rest of you, stay down.”

Alex nodded and padded forward. They were standing in a nook, a notch in the thick stone wall designed to admit light from the stained-glass window. Now that it was nearly full dark, they didn't have to worry about presenting a silhouette against the lit glass, and no lights were visible on the gallery level, with only a weak radiance shining up from below.

“Looks like we're alone up here,” Alex hissed. “I can see down below, but . . . you'd better come take a look.”

Winter hunched over and shuffled forward. The gallery was a horseshoe-shaped balcony, stretching out fifteen feet from the wall on three sides of the great hall. Unlike the gallery of the cathedral in Vordan, where she'd nearly been trapped by Orlanko's black-coats, this one was in fairly good repair, with its wooden boards solid underfoot and covered by dusty wool carpets. A waist-
high railing at the edge provided at least a token effort to prevent people from falling to their deaths among the pews thirty feet below. Alex, lying on her stomach, had shuffled to the very edge and peeked over, and Winter followed her example.

The great hall of the cathedral was packed with people. Pews, braziers, and other furniture had been dragged aside, leaving the enormous oval of floor entirely full of neat ranks of kneeling figures. Many wore robes, either the black of priests or the gray of servants, but others were dressed in ragged shirts and trousers, and some were entirely naked. The precision of their arrangement was unnerving, reminding Winter of a battalion arranged for attack. At a glance, she guessed there were at least a thousand of them, maybe more; they extended beyond her line of sight beneath the gallery in all directions.

“Balls of the Beast,” she swore. “I know the boy said ‘everyone,' but I didn't think they'd all be
here
.”

“They don't even look like they're praying,” Alex whispered. It was nearly silent in the vast space, so quiet they could hear the occasional cough from the congregation gathered below. “They're just . . . waiting.”

“Some of them aren't in good shape, either.” A few of the naked figures were so emaciated it was hard to tell if they were men or women. Others were missing arms, or just hands, and many had weeping sores at their wrists, as though they'd spent a great deal of time shackled.

“Can you see your Penitent?”

Winter shook her head. “Too many black robes. She could be down there and I'd never know it. Damn. We may have to rethink this.”

“I've got an idea, but let me run it by Maxwell,” Alex said. She backed away from the edge on hands and knees, then sat up.
“Shit!”

There was a sharp, wet sound. Winter bounced to her feet, hand falling to her sword. A young man in a black robe stood in front of Alex, with one of her black spears extending from her outstretched hand right through his breastbone. A moment later, it faded away, and he swayed slightly and coughed. Blood flecked his mouth.

“What's wrong—” Bobby said, coming out of the alcove. Her sword slid free with a rasp, leveled at the throat of the stranger. “Don't make a sound!”

“The pontifex sends me to greet you,” the young man said in Vordanai. His voice had an unhealthy gurgle to it, and he coughed again. “He wishes you to join him in the west tower. He sends his . . . his kind . . .” The young man's
knees gave way, and he toppled to the floor with a
thump
. Blood gushed from his mouth as he strained to mouth one more word. “. . . regards.”

Winter stared as the young man convulsed once, then died.
What the
hell
was that?

“We have to get out of here,” Alex said, hands tightening. “They're onto us.”

“That may be problematic,” Bobby said. She pointed to the left, in the direction of the main staircase. A group of robed figures at least a dozen strong had just come up, walking unhurriedly in their direction.

“Over here, too!” Millie said, voice high with fear. Another dozen black robes were closing in from the other end of the gallery.

“Back over the bridge,” Winter said, but Maxwell was already peering out the hole.

“There's at least four of them waiting on the other side,” he said.

“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Winter said. She turned back to the group coming from the stairs.

“Charge 'em,” Red suggested. “We can break through, make a run for the main doors.”

“There's another thousand downstairs,” Alex said.

“They're not even armed,” Winter said. “What the hell is going on?”

“The pontifex sends me to greet you,” the closest black-robed figure said, coming to a halt. “He wishes you to join him in the west tower. He sends his kind regards, and assures you that you will be perfectly safe.”

Winter looked down at the corpse, then back at the second messenger. If he'd noticed his dead comrade, his pleasant expression betrayed nothing.

“Well?” Red said, her sword half-drawn. “Winter?”

“I think we go to the west tower,” Winter said.

“Are you kidding?” Millie squeaked. “That has to be a trap!”

“I don't think it could be any
more
of a trap than what we're in now,” Maxwell said calmly.

“What the hell would the Pontifex of the Black want to
talk
to us for?” Millie said.

As far as Winter could see, there was only one reason. “He wants to negotiate,” she said.
I hope.
“With Janus' army so close, maybe he's ready to talk terms.”

“You don't sound very sure of that,” Alex said.

“I'm not. But it's the only scenario where we have half a chance of getting out of here alive.” She straightened up, taking her hand off her sword, and raised her voice. “All right. Take us to the pontifex.”

—

One of the strangely calm men led them around the gallery, to where a stone staircase twisted upward into the larger of the cathedral's two towers. The other robed figures, to Winter's surprise, stayed behind. They didn't even ask the intruders to relinquish their weapons.
Either they're very confident or very stupid.
Either way, she'd find out soon enough.

The staircase spiraled around the outside wall of the tower, giving views through arched doorways into broad rooms. What furniture there was had been pushed aside, and the chambers were packed with more people, kneeling in rows with their heads bowed. The calm and quiet of the priests and their servants were beginning to feel almost unnatural.
Are they
drugged
? Or is this some ritual they've all trained for?
The Priests of the Black managed to convince people who thought bearing a demon meant an eternity in hell to do it
anyway
for the good of the Church; they obviously had a considerable influence over their followers.

Four floors up, one of the rooms was different. There were more people, but instead of waiting in neat rows, they were huddled together in the center of the room. Most of them were servants in gray robes, with a few of the half-clothed figures Winter guessed were prisoners. They watched the group of intruders go past with a mixture of curiosity and fear that she hadn't seen on any other faces.
What the
fuck
is going on here?

The fifth floor was the top of the tower, a bit wider than the others. It was set up as a sumptuous office, with a vast desk of polished oak so ancient it was nearly black. Winter couldn't imagine how they'd gotten it up the stairs, and the same was true of the heavy glass-paneled shelves, which bore rows of tattered, ancient books. Thick carpet was soft underfoot, and a row of elaborately carved chairs cushioned in red and white velvet sat in front of the desk. The whole setup rang a distant bell in Winter's mind, but it took her a moment to place it—it was almost identical to the way Mrs. Wilmore had arranged her office back at the Prison, with her on one side of a massive, intimidating desk and rows of disappointing students sitting on the other.
Is this where the pontifex brings his priests for a scolding?

There were three robed figures behind the desk, all wearing the glittering obsidian masks of the Priests of the Black. One, tall and broad shouldered, sat in a cushioned armchair, while the other two, probably women by their builds, stood off to his left. None of them were obviously armed, but they didn't need to be.
Any one of them could be a Penitent.

“Winter Ihernglass,” the man behind the desk said in Vordanai. His voice was a liquid rasp, as though something had damaged his throat. “And her sidekick Bobby Forester. I'm afraid I don't know the rest of you. I am the Pontifex of the Black.”

There was a long silence. Winter's eyes flicked to the corners of the room, but there were no guards waiting there, only the young man who'd been their guide standing beside her.
He must either be a Penitent himself or have these two women here to protect him.
Infernivore was no help; the demon was straining at her will, but in no particular direction, as though there were demons all around.
He's very confident in his power, to invite us in here. But if he doesn't know what Infernivore does, or what Bobby and Alex can do, maybe we can cut the head off the Black Priests here and now.
That, of course, would probably mean none of them would get out alive, with the possible exception of Bobby.

“I know why you're here, of course,” the pontifex said. “You want Viper, the Penitent Damned who poisoned your precious Vhalnich. As a gesture of good faith, you may have her.”

The two women stepped around the desk, and the one in back, taller, reached forward and pulled the mask off of the other. The face underneath was unfamiliar to Winter, plain and spotted with scars. She looked at Winter impassively, and Winter strained toward her with Infernivore. She still felt nothing useful.

“Alex?” Winter said quietly. “Is she the one we were following?”

“I can't tell.” There was a lot of tension in Alex's voice, carefully disguised. “I can't even sense
you
.”

The taller woman drew a long, curved dagger from a pocket of her dark robe, and Winter took a reflexive step back, hand dropping to her sword. Before she could say anything, the masked woman drew the knife in a smooth motion across the Penitent's throat, leaving a gush of crimson in its wake. The shorter woman dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, without even a gurgle. Waves of red pulsed into the plush carpet. The masked woman tossed the dagger beside her victim and stepped back.

“There,” the pontifex said. “Your goal is accomplished.”

Winter's mind whirled, discarding one conversational gambit after another. Her brow furrowed, and finally she could only give vent to her frustration.

“What the
fuck
is going on?” she said. “Why would you want to
help
us? And what's to stop us from killing you right now?”

“The answer to all of your questions is the same,” the pontifex said. “Because I am not in charge here anymore.”

“What?” Maxwell said. “That's not possible.”

“If you're not in charge,” Winter said, “who is?”

The remaining woman pulled off her mask. The face underneath had thinned, and the glorious red hair was once again hacked short into an unruly mop a few inches long, but the green eyes were still the same brilliant green. Winter's eyes went wide.

“I am,” said Jane, with a smile like a shark.

“I
don't like this plan,” Sothe said. “I should have stayed with Raesinia.”

“Raesinia's got Barely and Joanna and half a company of the Girls' Own watching her,” Marcus said quietly. “Not to mention she can't be killed.”

“Ionkovo's come for her before. He's too clever by half. The last time I left her alone,
you
let him grab her.”

“This time she'll be ready for him,” Marcus said. “I'm more worried about him turning up
here
. We could already be too late.”

“If they'd started shooting, there'd be more commotion.” Sothe stood by the rail that lined the edge of the wooden bridge and peered into the darkness. Lanterns and cook fires lit up the small town of Polkhaiz, but there was no obvious sign of an alarm. “I could go in on my own.”

“There might be too many guards even for you,” Marcus said.

Sothe opened her mouth to object, then said nothing. Her attitude toward him was different than he remembered. He was used to the assassin treating him as a sort of semi-competent junior officer, and while she still snapped at him in unguarded moments, she would periodically go quiet and thoughtful. He wasn't sure which state he found more unnerving.

She nodded at a point of light moving on the far end of the bridge. “Here he comes.”

After a moment Marcus could make out the outline of three men. Two carried muskets with fixed bayonets and wore tall shakos, leaving the third looking short by comparison. It took them a few minutes to cross the bridge over the frozen river, and Marcus resisted the impulse to shout at them to hurry or double-check his own weapons. Two pistols were strapped to his side, along
with the sword at his belt, and Sothe carried a long blade in a scabbard in addition to her usual complement of smaller weapons.

“Sothe,” the man said with a nod.

“Whaler,” Sothe said. “Thank you for responding so quickly.”

“Who's that with you?”

“Column-General Marcus d'Ivoire,” Sothe said. “We need to see the duke at once.”

“His Grace will be in bed,” Whaler said. “It can't wait till morning?”

“I'm afraid not,” Marcus cut in. “Please. It's important.”

Whaler raised the lantern to examine Marcus, then shrugged cheerfully.

“God help you if it isn't, column-general or no,” he said. “I've seen His Grace shout at the
king
for waking him up before breakfast. Come along.”

He turned and started back across the bridge. The two guards fell in alongside Marcus and Sothe when they followed. They
were
big men, Marcus noted, both six-footers and broad shouldered. Their shakos were lined with white fur, which marked them as Life Guards, the personal regiment of the King of Borel, from which he assigned companies to accompany his favored commanders and friends. They were supposedly elite, although Marcus had seen too many “elite” palace troops who failed to stand up to the test of actual battle.
For Dorsay's sake, I hope they're as good as their reputation.

“Whaler's putting on a show,” Sothe whispered. “Dorsay will have heard by now that you and Janus are back. He needs to know how this affects his deal with Raesinia.”

“Whatever gets us in there quickly.” The back of Marcus' neck felt itchy, expecting an attack at any moment. He'd argued for simply sending Dorsay a warning, but Sothe had pointed out that here on the Borelgai side of the line they had no idea whom they could trust.
Anyone could be working for Orlanko
.

A dozen more guards, ordinary Borelgai soldiers in their mud-red uniforms, stood at stiff attention and saluted as their party came down from the southern end of the bridge. Beyond was Polkhaiz, ablaze with lamps and campfires. Marcus couldn't help looking around, out of professional curiosity, and assessing the state of the Borels' defenses. They were formidable, he decided. The buildings closest to the bridge had clearly been reinforced and loopholed to turn them into blockhouses, and a line of four cannon sat across the main street like a particularly forbidding barricade. To the left and right, where the land sloped to meet the river, shallow trenches had been dug in the frozen soil
at what must have been enormous effort, with heavy logs laid across their fronts to make breastworks. More cannon sat in pits up to their muzzles, and the cold, hard earth would make those positions almost as tough as a fortress' embrasures.

Some of the work looked very recent; the Borelgai army clearly wasn't slacking while the duke negotiated with the Vordanai.
No wonder he's happy to feed us. It keeps us from attacking, and his position gets stronger every day.
He felt desperately grateful that Raesinia had stopped Mor from launching his assault.
Across the ice, under all those guns, with this nightmare of a town at the end?
Not to mention the Borelgai cavalry, who no doubt waited on the plains beyond.
No army in the world could storm this place.

Beyond the first row of houses and their defenses, most of Polkhaiz seemed to be given over to housing for Dorsay's officers. Sentries stood in the streets and by the doorways of even the commonest houses, and most buildings had at least a dozen horses harnessed outside. More men saluted as Whaler led them off the main street, down a lane between the Sworn Church and one of the bigger houses. Farther on, a tall fence obscured the ground of a large manor, with the peaked roofs of the upper stories and a few tall pines showing above it. Another pair of Life Guards sentries watched the main gate.

At Whaler's wave, the two soldiers swung the iron gate open. Beyond was a short lane, leading across a snow-covered field to the house's front door. The two men from the front kept pace behind them, and two more stood beside the tall columns that flanked the entrance. They were considerably shorter and less impressive than the two who accompanied Whaler, and something prickled Marcus' memory.

“Send someone to wake the duke,” Whaler was saying. “And bring something warm to drink for our guests—”

Looking casually over his shoulder, Marcus saw that the two men behind them were also short and not particularly well turned out, shakos cocked and uniforms sloppy. The cuffs were folded over—
as though they didn't quite fit—

“Trap,” he muttered to Sothe. He saw her eyes go wide, then cold and hard. When she moved, he was ready.

Marcus threw himself down and sideways, getting clear of the line of fire between the two pairs of converging guards. Sothe did something similar, but far more graceful, rolling into a crouch and coming up with steel in her hand. A knife flashed across the distance between her and one of the door guards, catching him in the throat. His companion brought his musket up, aimed at
Sothe, while the pair behind them each took a step forward and rammed their bayonets into the backs of Whaler's companions.

The first guard fired, the sound of the weapon shatteringly loud in the stillness, but Sothe was no longer where he was aiming. She'd slipped sideways, lithe as a shadow, and drawn her sword. Powder smoke billowed around her as she came forward, and the guard brought up his musket in a clumsy parry, far too late. She slipped under his guard, ran him through the belly, and smashed the side of his head with her pommel as he went down for good measure.

Meanwhile, Whaler was scrambling under his coat for a weapon. One of the two real Life Guards was down, but the other had managed to half turn, tearing a chunk of bloody meat out of his back but getting a gloved hand on his opponent's weapon. The false guard jerked the musket back and fired, catching his wounded assailant in the chest, and this time the Life Guard went down. By then Marcus had one of his pistols drawn, however, and he aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. The false guard flopped backward into the snow.

Another report made him look around. The second gate guard staggered back, missing a good chunk of the back of his skull, and collapsed. Whaler, a pistol in one hand, glared down at him in contempt, then winced and slapped a hand to his leg. There was a long cut there, quickly staining his trousers crimson.

As though the shots had been a signal, there was a furious round of firing from inside the house, muzzle flashes lighting up the windows as if there were a thunderstorm within.

“What—” Whaler looked from Marcus, still holding his spent pistol, to the dead guards. “This isn't your Vordanai, is it.” It wasn't a question.

“It's Orlanko,” Marcus said. “We were hoping to get here before he moved. Can you walk?”

Whaler straightened up, putting weight on his injured leg. His face went white, but he nodded. “At least back to the road.”

“Get help,” Marcus said. “Anyone you're sure you can trust. We'll try to get to the duke. Go!”

Whaler nodded without argument and hobbled back toward the gate. Marcus tossed his pistol aside and walked to Sothe, who was staring at the house intently. As Marcus opened his mouth to speak, she grabbed his arm and dragged him to the side, and the big double doors at the front of the manor swung open. Six musket barrels emerged, firing a salvo that raised sprays of snow from where they'd just been standing.

“This way!” Sothe let go of his arm and ran, somehow skipping lightly over the snow that lay several feet deep around the side of the house. Marcus slogged after her, sinking in with every step. She stopped in the shadow of a pair of pine trees, and he crashed to the ground beside her, panting.

“Do you know where you're going?” he said.

“No,” Sothe said shortly. “But we're not getting in that way.” She cocked her head, not taking her eyes from the building. “What tipped you off?”

“They weren't tall enough,” Marcus muttered. “I had friends in the War College who met Borelgai delegations, and they said there was a height requirement for the Life Guards. The king likes his soldiers big and strapping.”

“Orlanko must have taken the real guards by surprise and swapped uniforms,” Sothe said. “But
someone
is still fighting in there, so we've still got a chance. You really want to go in after Dorsay?”

Marcus let out a deep breath. “Raesinia seems to think he's important. And Orlanko wanting him dead is a big mark in his favor in my book.”

“Fair enough. Stay behind me, and be as quiet as you can.”

As quiet as Marcus could be was not very quiet compared to Sothe, who moved like a zephyr through the snow and low bushes. Marcus could see flickering lanterns at the front door, but the men didn't seem to be making any move to come after them. He and Sothe crept slowly around the corner of the house, and once the lanterns were out of view, Sothe straightened up and hurried to the wall.

“They'll be watching the front and back doors,” she said. “And the main staircase, if Orlanko's got them following the old Concordat procedure. We could try to find a servants' stair, but that's risky. Can you climb a rope?”

Marcus nodded. “Have you got a—”

“Hold this.”

Sothe had produced a coil of rope—black, of course, and as thin as a ramrod—from a back pocket. She handed one end to Marcus, looped the other over her shoulder, and began to climb the wall. It was mortared stone, with cracks between the rocks for finger- and toeholds, but even so Marcus gaped at the fluid ease with which the assassin gained the second story. There were windows there, the shutters closed and locked, but that also seemed to present no obstacle. Holding on with one hand, Sothe slipped a thin-bladed tool through to flip the catch, pulled the shutter open, and shattered the pane with her elbow. She reached through the resulting gap, turned the lock, and raised the sash. The whole ascent had taken perhaps sixty seconds.

Karis Almighty.
Marcus wondered, not for the first time, where Raesinia had found this terrifying woman. Sothe had told him once that she used to work for Orlanko, which explained her knowledge of Concordat procedure, but she remained closemouthed about the circumstances. He shook his head weakly as the rope twitched in his hand, and he felt two solid tugs.

Thankfully, the thin rope was knotted every couple of feet, though Marcus' thick boots still made the climb harder than it ought to have been. He grabbed the windowsill, watching for broken glass, and hauled himself in. Sothe was already at the door of what turned out to be a small guest bedroom, neat and well furnished.

“I can hear them moving around, but nobody's shooting,” Sothe said. “Stay here for a minute.”

Marcus crouched obediently and waited while she opened the door a fraction and ghosted out into the darkened corridor. A shot split the quiet, making him jump, but on reflection it sounded as though it had come from the other end of the house. A few moments later Sothe's hand appeared, beckoning him forward, and he stepped carefully into the corridor. She led him forward to a corner, then pressed herself against the wall.

“There's more of them than I thought,” she said. “But they don't know we're here. I think Dorsay's got some guards left, barricaded in the master suite.” She nodded at the corner. “That's down here, past the main stairs. There's at least six of them trying to figure out what to do next, plus the group downstairs.”

“Hell,” Marcus said. “Maybe we ought to wait for Whaler.”

“No telling if he got away or if Orlanko's people picked him up. They may have reinforcements on the way for all we know.”

She reached into the lining of her coat and withdrew a stack of half a dozen thin throwing knives, little steel arrowheads weighted at one end. Then she shrugged out of the garment, leaving her in only her tight-fitting blacks. More blackened steel was visible in sheaths on her hips and thighs.

“I'll take the ones facing Dorsay's room,” she said. “I need you to handle anyone who comes up the stairs. Think you can manage?”