A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  Gabriel flew the last fifteen imperial miles contemplating the possibilities of moving human soldiers with even a little support from the air. The difference in scouting, the incredibly enhanced power of a magister, the communications...

  He considered visiting Aneas, who would need a resupply in a day or so.

  Below him, six miles out from the inn at the edge of the rolling downs that marked the Green Hills, the veteran armies of Morea and Alba marched. Again he dove.

  Every time you go down to wave, I have to climb back up! the griffon said.

  Love you, Gabriel said. He was thinking that yesterday, he had flown with Amicia’s arms around his waist, and today, if he was lucky, he would find Blanche...

  Thinking of Blanche immediately led him to consider that Irene would naturally expect him to marry her to be emperor. And she had tried to kill him. And she could not be trusted.

  Marry them all! Ariosto said, helpfully.

  Gabriel coughed.

  Then he passed through the invisible boundary that marked the edge of the Wyrm’s demesne and felt an immediate lightening in the work his body and his mind had to do the fight the sorcerous plague within him.

  So many questions.

  The byres around the inn were half full of beasts—an odd sight as the lorilindel was in bloom on the hillsides, and the eastern edge of the Green Hills was already more purple-pink than green, something never seen during the annual drove. But Donald Dhu and his men had brought half the drove back to feed the armies. This made Gabriel consider that he’d mortgaged his own riches to pay for the animals, and that the Brogat, at least, was unlikely to pay any taxes for a year or even two. He wondered about Thrake, which had known two years of war.

  He wondered how long the merchants of Harndon could fund the war. Even if he and the queen pledged their credit, it was ultimately the merchants who handed over their money, and it was the merchants who took the greatest risks.

  In among his other pastimes, he needed to find a great deal of money.

  He skimmed over the full byres, looking for a landing spot. He was ahead of the army here; he could see Count Zac toiling up the switchbacks on Heartbreak Pass to the west, and thus he knew that he would have no harbinger but the Wyrm himself, but he expected that some arrangement would have been made for flying creatures.

  But even as his eyes scanned the ground, his thoughts were on logistics.

  There will be no taxes from the Brogat, and Jarsay is not much better, thanks to bloody de Vrailly. Harndon had a major fire; a third of the waterfront warehouses were burnt. Albinkirk is still half a ruin, and half of the fields around Albinkirk are abandoned. Occitan, by reports, is better, but not much better. Morea is stable because of our fighting a year ago, but Thrake was burdened with taxation for two years before that to support the usurper, and Lanika is too poor to tax.

  We’re winning the battles. But we’re losing the war.

  If the Outwallers have enough people to collect furs, we’ll have cargoes for Galle and Hoek, but if the rumours are accurate, there’s no one there with the gold to buy them.

  The Etruscan cities ask for imperial aid. The Imperium has little enough aid to give...but if I am going to fight Ash this year, or next, I will need to be able to borrow money in Venike and Genua.

  It will be ten years before the revenues of Alba and Morea are fully restored. In those ten years, we will have won or lost, and we will still be paying. If we win.

  If we lose...

  If Galle is truly being destroyed...

  He saw a tall man—no, an irk—standing in an empty pen, fifty paces on a side, waving two scarlet flags. When he leaned out and looked carefully, he saw that each flag had his six-pointed spur rondel painted in gold.

  Heraldry. So useful.

  One of the unique qualities of the helmet that the irk armourer had made him was that, when closed, it was silent inside. It did not cut off all sound; it was clearly hermetical. It simply eliminated the sound of the rushing air over his head, so that he could hear other sounds, like the wingbeats of approaching wyverns.

  But sometimes, it was pleasant to flip the visor open and let the wind touch his face, and he did this as Ariosto, screaming his pleasure at the two fat sheep penned for his pleasure in a corner of the fold, descended from the heavens like the raptor he truly was, at least from the waist up.

  He was crushed into his saddle as the great beast decelerated, wings cupping air, the magnificent pinions of his wing edges rippling and sparkling, red, gold, green, white, black in the sunlight. He screamed a hundred feet above the sheepfold, freezing both petrified animals in their tracks, and then, as delicately as a dancer placing her foot, the griffon’s talons shot out and took a sheep and swept along a few inches from the ground. He flew another thirty paces and landed nimbly on his leonine back legs, dropping the newly dead sheep at the feet of the irk, who bowed.

  Want some, friend? Ariosto asked.

  You know I like mine cooked, Gabriel said. Don’t you think you could kill your sheep after we land?

  What’s the fun in that? Ariosto complained. Then he was eating, the welter of griffon impressions replaced with a simple, almost transcendent pleasure.

  Gabriel was lucky to get free of the meal before the blood spurted. The lion was clearly very much present in the hybrid, especially at meal times.

  The irk nodded. “Ser Gabriel? Master Smythe is at the inn and requests your presence.”

  Gabriel nodded and followed the tall figure as it walked down from the high fells along a stone wall so ancient that Gabriel couldn’t even reckon whether men had built it, and then along a running stream to the vale within a vale that was the ground immediately around the inn.

  The inn itself was more like a small town than a simple inn. At its heart sat the oldest building, a tall pile of stone with a central tower and two long wings that faced the inner stables, two more long low buildings, across the central yard. But outside the central yard was another ring of buildings: workshops and lodgings, a complete outer inn with its own kitchens and common rooms and snugs, and yet another tall stone tower both for defence and to lodge more travellers. The walls of the original inn rose sheer from the rock, and at the corner of the tower, the besiegers had set their ladders and climbed, attempting to take the inn by surprise, just a month before.

  The inn had already been stripped and emptied, and Gabriel expected to find things out of place, things missing or forgotten. Or perhaps he expected to see some sign of the assault, or of fire. He had heard that the frustrated attackers had used fire on the roof beams.

  If they had, there was no sign whatsoever of damage. The outer buildings looked as they always looked, at some comfortable midway point between newness and shabby decay. And the Old Inn was untouched. Inside the great main doors, the ancient, somewhat grimy settee, a huge bench with a leather cushion shining and black from years of dirt, made of some unknown and incredibly tough hide, sat in its accustomed place.

  “This way,” the irk said.

  Gabriel saw the Keeper standing at the bar in his enormous common room, and the two men bowed low. The Keeper of Dorling was every bit as much a personage as the Duke of Thrake.

  “Your son is with the army,” Gabriel called out. The Master of Dorling had served throughout the campaign with Tom Lachlan, and had won himself some renown. And lived to bask in it.

  But the irk was already vanishing up the well-remembered corridor to the paneled room.

  And there, smoking, sat the dragon. Master Smythe.

  He rose, and nodded. “Pipe?” he asked. “There’s a nice Etruscan red wine on the sideboard.”

  “How much wine do I need?” Gabriel asked.

  Master Smythe smiled. “I have acted in your name. Time is very...difficult. Is that the right phrase?”

  “Time is tight,” Gabriel said. He poured himself some wine and smelled it. It was a delicious smell, like autumn and smoke turned into liquid.

  The irk handed him a cu
p of clear water. “Flying can dry you out,” Gabriel said. He looked—really looked—at the irk. “You are also a dragon,” he said.

  The irk frowned.

  “I told you,” Smythe said to the irk.

  The irk was clearly annoyed. “How did you know?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “Just to start, it’s extremely unlikely that there’d be an irk here before the Faery Knight rides in.”

  The irk’s face shifted, and suddenly Gabriel was looking at himself.

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Most of the people I know have already decided that one of me is quite enough.”

  “He’s young and still learning.” Master Smythe winked at the irk. “Sit quietly and learn.” Master Smythe gestured and the Gabriel changed back into an irk.

  The real Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose, tried not to laugh or cry, and sat with his wine. “You acted in my name?” he asked.

  “I have invited all of our major allies to dinner. And your eternal displays of mock violence.” Master Smythe shrugged.

  “Tournaments matter,” Gabriel said.

  “Of course. They are barbaric and a colossal waste of money and energy, people die, bad feelings are born...” Master Smythe sat back. “Shall I go on?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “All that may happen, but a tournament is...the best way to cover our meeting. And I am about to begin a great empris.”

  “Yes, yes. Princess Irene was already at Middleburg with some of her people. I have invited her. In fact, I used her fear of the plague to lure her. She must be dealt with. Also, the queen is on her way, and the Prince of Occitan. The Faery Knight, Kerak, Harmodius, your brother, the pretty nun, Tom Lachlan, the Keeper himself, the Duchess Mogon, the leading Outwaller sachems and war leaders.” He shrugged. “And me. It will be quite a feast. I have called it the Tournament of the Dragon.” He smiled, and blew smoke. “I can’t think why.”

  Gabriel lit his own pipe. The tobacco was from the Outwallers, and was light and easy. He tried to blow a smoke ring and began to cough.

  “And the plague?” he asked.

  “As soon as all the leading hermetical workers are present, we will begin work. But already we have several areas that show promise. It is clear that the plague is not as natural as we first believed. It has both a sorcerous component and a necromantic component. It is, in fact, a blend of three kingdoms of magery, and...” Master Smythe smiled nastily. “And from it, I am learning...we are learning. Learning things I do not think our adversaries wished us to know.”

  “Here we go,” Gabriel said. “Off into a world of mystery.”

  “No. But I do agree that the single most important thing we can all do, now, is to join together for dinner. And then talk. And then, after that, act.”

  “And the plague?” Gabriel asked again.

  “I know you fear it. You do well to fear it. To all intents, you are already dead, and only Mortirmir’s brilliant sleight of hand is keeping any of you alive. But you see, now that you are here, that sleight of hand can be maintained almost without effort. And...” He shrugged and blew smoke. “I think we have understood it now. Hermetically.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Then...”

  “Get some rest. The army will come in tonight.”

  “Except for the siege of Ticondonaga.”

  “Hartmut left some Gallish sailors as a garrison. They have already offered to surrender, in exchange for being allowed to go north to their friends on the Great River. Your brother will accept. Ticondonaga will be rebuilt.” The dragon blew a smoke ring.

  “Gavin will be pleased,” Gabriel said.

  “You will have almost five days to prepare. The tournament will begin on Monday, and I have it in hand with the Keeper. We will have the tournament that the king failed to hold. Every knight in all three realms who is not incapacitated or destitute will attempt to appear.”

  “From Occitan?” Gabriel asked.

  The dragon shrugged. “Ask me no questions...” he said.

  Gabriel nodded, drew in some smoke, and then tried, again, to blow a smoke ring, and failed.

  “I went to Lissen Carak,” he said.

  Master Smythe’s head turned.

  “I went and looked at the gate,” he said.

  The dragon allowed a little smoke to trickle from his human nostrils.

  “I have questions,” Gabriel said. “How many gates are there? Is it seven?”

  “There may be as many as fifteen,” Master Smythe said.

  “So why the number seven?” Gabriel asked.

  Master Smythe sat back and looked at the young irk and then back at Gabriel. “The gates can go to seven places,” he said. “Some gates only go one,” he went on. “The master gates, at Arles, and Lissen Carak, and Such Zen, at least, go to all seven. The rest go to one, or two, or three.

  “Where is Such Zen?” Gabriel asked.

  “It lies as far beyond Etrusca as Etrusca is beyond the seas, and then that distance again. Or so I am told. I have never been, and neither has any other of my race in fifty lifetimes of men.” Master Smythe shrugged again. “Such Zen is beyond our ability to cover. Arles is either fallen or under siege. Ash has made one or two attempts on Lissen Carak...”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Ash’s allies had Lissen Carak until it fell to the knights of the order after the Battle of Albinkirk.” He met the dragon’s sharp eyes. “Just two hundred fifty years ago. And he tried to get it back in the old king’s lifetime, didn’t he? In the events that led to the battle that my father and all the old men thought had settled the Wild for good. At Chevin. Except that Ash is working to a schedule, is he not?”

  Master Smythe smoked in silence. Outside, they could hear Count Zac swearing, and the sounds of men dismounting and calling for wine or ale.

  “Mogon’s people,” Gabriel said.

  Master Smythe nodded. “I see,” he said.

  Gabriel shook his head, his anger sudden and uncontrollable. “Why do I have to work this out for myself? Why won’t you just tell me?” he asked. “My world is teetering on the edge of extinction and I’m being made to work on puzzles! I just buried a man—a strange, bitter man whom I, God help me, loved in my own strange, bitter way. I wasn’t there when he died, because I’m running about solving puzzles, and by God, Wyrm, if I didn’t have Ariosto, this would take me weeks. Is that what it was supposed to do? Take me weeks? Are we on the same side, or not?”

  Master Smythe didn’t flinch. “I believe we are on the same side. More strongly, since I reentered my own realm and got to examine the plague in detail. I told you I learned from it. The necromantic marker tells me a great deal. It tells me that we are not on the wrong side. It tells me that it is Ash who has brought in these awful things from the past.” He released a puff of smoke. “As to the puzzles,” he said. “I am bound. Surely you, of all people, understand a binding. And honestly, Gabriel, I am making this as easy as I can for you. I promise.”

  Gabriel looked down at his wine cup. “Apologies,” he said. “People are dying. I feel impotent. I don’t even want to face Irene, much less...much less.” He looked up. “We have to save Arles?”

  “If it has already fallen, we have already lost,” Master Smythe said. “No, now we are in a grey area. If it has already fallen, we may have already lost.”

  “The gates only open at certain times,” Gabriel said.

  “Yes,” the dragon answered, obviously pleased.

  “Only some gates open at those times, which are conjunctions of the spheres.” Gabriel leaned forward.

  “Probably. I really don’t know. I’m too young. I wasn’t...around...last time.” Smythe toyed with his pipe.

  “Ash wants to let something in,” Gabriel said.

  “Perhaps,” Smythe said.

  “The Odine want to get out,” Gabriel said.

  Master Smythe smiled. “There you have it,” he said. “Well deduced.”

  “Why don’t we let them go and slam the door behind them?” Gabriel asked
.

  “Because that would unleash them again, to move unchecked, and breed. Even if I didn’t think they would come back here eventually, when they had made a wasteland of everything,” he shrugged.

  “You are still not telling me the whole story,” Gabriel said with some of his earlier anger.

  Master Smythe turned away. “Why do you think that? Of course it is fiendish and complicated...”

  “No, damn you,” Gabriel said. “If the Odine are so terrible—which I fully believe! And you and yours came here to bind them, then you are so clearly the better people that you had only to tell us and we’d have supported you.”

  Master Smyth raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he asked. “Askepiles? The former Duke of Thrake and his son? And, pardon me, your mother? Let me push the dagger in deeper, Gabriel. Irene! Irene would have allied with Ash. Still might. She is the very archetype of human very eager for power. Many will trade almost anything for power.” He sighed. “Some of my kind too, and Mogon’s and the Faery Knight’s. All of us share this.”

  Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “Simple fear?” he said. “No more deep dark secrets?”

  Master Smythe shook his head. “I have a dark forest of secrets,” he said. “But I promise you that simple fear, and a passion for secrecy, is at the root of most errors. Never ascribe to some conspiracy of evil what can be explained as easily by ignorance and fear.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I’ll drink to that,” he said. Gabriel looked at the young irk and raised an eyebrow. “You have new allies?”

  Master Smythe’s blank eyes gave nothing away. “Circumstances are changing,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” Gabriel asked.

  “It means that evidence—hard evidence—of the nature of Ash’s fall, or perhaps merely of his allies...either way, the evidence suggests that events since at least Chevin have been manipulated. My isolation is ending. But...”

  “But?”

  Master Smythe stood up. “You know, Gabriel, the truth is that I find you a very easy man with whom to speak. Too easy. I have been alone too long, and what Ash says of me is true. I love men, perhaps too much. I have already told you far more than I should.”