A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  “So there are seven gates?” Kerak asked. He leaned forward. “Now this is interesting.”

  Master Smythe drummed his fingers. “There are at least fifteen gates, no two the same. A few are master gates that can be used at all the conjunctions. A few are single-use gates.” He shrugged. “No one knows where they all are.”

  Pavalo Payam rose. “My master knows where all of them are. There was a scroll. I stole it. From the Necromancer.” He looked around.

  “Do you remember what it said?” Amicia asked.

  “You stole it from the Necromancer?” the dragon asked. “I am impressed.”

  Payam bowed to the dragon’s compliment and shook his head to Amicia. “I could not even read it,” he said. “But my master will know.”

  Desiderata held up her hand. “There are some number of gates, and they go to different places. How many?”

  Gabriel looked at Smythe. “Seven places in total. I believe.”

  Master Smythe looked pained, but he nodded affirmation.

  Desiderata looked at the dragon. “Surely, we are allies, and you can tell us these things?”

  Master Smythe took a deep breath and, for the first time any of them could remember, hesitated and released the breath without speaking. He looked around. He considered.

  “Just tell us the truth,” Gabriel prompted. He was standing, his painted chart from Lissen Carak in his hand, in sweat-stained arming clothes, and he had never looked more like an emperor.

  Master Smythe waited a long time. Finally, slowly, he began.

  “Imagine that there was a weapon,” he said. “Imagine that weapon was so powerful that with it, you could conquer...anything.” He looked around. “Whom would you trust with that weapon?” he asked.

  Desiderata nodded. “I would be very careful in my choices,” she said.

  “Bless you, my lady. I understand that at this moment, we are allies struggling together to save ourselves and our perceptions of our world from Ash, and perhaps from his allies. Yet my kind—for good or evil—have charged themselves with making sure that this thing that we hold so precariously does not fall into the wrong hands. Once, so long ago that you possibly cannot imagine it, a single race almost eliminated all the others. In fact, it has happened three times. Not just here. Not just on the eight worlds. But...everywhere. And everywhere is vast.”

  He looked around. “When one petty baron fights another,” he said, “children die and women are raped and crops are burned. The hate comes, and for some generations, those who survive are scarred. Is this not true?” He didn’t pause. “And those of you whom I admire, you strive to prevent this. When you fight, you fight to minimize the loss, and the hate, to heal the scars as soon as they may be healed.”

  Some men nodded. Others looked as if they had never considered such things.

  Sauce snorted. “Some knights, maybe,” she said. “Tom fights for the hell of it.”

  Master Smythe looked at her the way a teacher looks at a difficult student. Sauce stuck her tongue out. “Sod off,” she said. “You don’t scare me.”

  Master Smythe shook his head. “But imagine there was an order...like the Knights of Saint Thomas...who fought only to prevent others from fighting? Ignoring right and wrong for a greater cause?”

  Gabriel shook his head a fraction. “Sometimes there is only fighting,” he said.

  Master Smythe sighed. “I have lived longer than a hundred of you, and yet I will say that I have never, once, seen a situation improved by a war.”

  Gabriel scratched under his beard. “Yet you seem to want us to fight the Odine,” he said.

  Smythe gave him the same look he’d given Sauce. “That is a different matter entirely,” he said.

  Gabriel made no comment. His nasty smirk suggested that he thought he was right.

  When Smythe stayed silent, Gabriel looked around. “That sounds very noble,” he said. “Let me suggest an alternative scenario,” he said. “Let’s suppose that after the Odine, you see us, especially the race of man, as the next most dangerous. And you will stop at nothing to see that we do not gain control of the gates.” He nodded. “Now, let me take that thought further,” he said. “Let me suggest that if you did not need our help to suppress the Odine, we wouldn’t know any of this.”

  Master Smythe frowned. “This is foolish,” he said.

  “Really?” Gabriel said.

  They stood, eye to eye.

  “You don’t fear oblivion and defeat,” Gabriel said. “You fear that we’ll kill Ash and beat the Necromancer and the Odine and in the process, we’ll win the gates. And because you fear us so much, you and Tar and any other surviving dragons are treating us as potentially hostile at every turn, and trying to arrange it so that we’ll defeat your enemies but not understand anything...”

  “Please stop,” Master Smythe said. “You could cross a line that would force me to cease to support you at all.”

  “Seems to me we’re supporting you, laddie,” Bad Tom said.

  Ser Gavin and Ser Gregario and a number of others nodded.

  Sauce made a face as if she’d eaten something she disliked. “I hate to agree with Tom,” she said. “But...”

  Gabriel turned to the dragon. “I don’t think anyone in this room has the least interest in the conquest of everywhere. I think it’s all we can do to save ourselves. So I propose that while I follow the agreed plan, you and these ladies and gentlemen work out a...treaty. An agreement that satisfies everyone, or better yet, leaves everyone equally dissatisfied, about control of the gates. Would that not be the adult solution, rather than a massive betrayal of your tools when they’ve become too powerful?”

  “Treaties can be broken,” Master Smythe said.

  “And so must be maintained. But I tell you, Master Smythe: we need to move forward in an aura of trust, and not an aura of lies. It is not so much that all of you struggle to keep the occupants of the other spheres out, is it? It’s that you intend to keep us all in. Not just the Odine.”

  Master Smythe sat back and looked at the ceiling.

  Gabriel shook his head. “And one of you has already betrayed your pact of dragons, hasn’t he? Who is Rhun?” he asked.

  Master Smythe’s head shot round, and for a moment, his eyes glowed red and his expression was not human at all.

  “So really, you need us, because you cannot, and do not, even trust the other dragons to do the right thing. Your allies are right here in this room. I think we need to be treated that way. As allies.”

  Master Smythe looked around.

  “When you asked me if I planned to go to Antica Terra, you already foresaw this moment,” Gabriel said, his voice grim and remorseless.

  Master Smythe nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  There was a pause, mostly while people looked at each other and didn’t understand.

  But Amicia understood; the queen; Ser Michael, Bad Tom, and a number of others. They understood.

  Morgon understood. He looked at his captain. “When are we leaving?” he asked.

  “Where are they going?” Ser Gregario asked. “The tournament’s just opened.” He and Blanche exchanged a look, one suggested that people who didn’t share their immediate plans were in a great deal of trouble.

  Gabriel sat back. “I’m taking about a third of the army to Antica Terra,” he said.

  Bad Tom looked smug, and Ser Gavin looked annoyed, and Ser Gregario shot to his feet. “What?” he demanded.

  Gabriel looked around. His own officers were prepared to obey. The imperial officers shrugged; Harald Derkensun didn’t even look up. But most of the Albans were appalled, starting with the new Archbishop of Lorica, who had a hand to his throat as if he’d been attacked. He exchanged a look with Blanche, of all people.

  He rose. “My lord; that is, Your Majesty, if I read today’s events correctly.” He was a tall, ascetic man, and a plain speaker. Well beloved by the people of Albinkirk already. He took a breath. “My lord, you are the sword and shield of the nor
th. You cannot just abandon us. Your duty as a knight...I beg you to reconsider.”

  Gabriel looked around. “Friends,” he began. He rose. “This decision was not taken lightly. But it was taken almost a month ago. And we began to prepare for it more than a year ago, when we started rebuilding the imperial fleet.” He nodded at the looks of surprise. Master Smythe raised an eyebrow. “The game is vast, my friends. What Master Smythe and I agree on is that we have at least two enemies, and perhaps as many as five or six. All of them are playing for the same ends...to win control of some number of gates at the conjunction of the spheres. We have to guess at our enemy’s next moves. But let me say this clearly. The fall of Harndon or Arles would hurt every one of us here as immediately as the fall of Lissen Carak. If we lose the gates...then the very best we can look forward to is an endless war against a rising tide of sorcerous foes.”

  “You’re going to relieve Arles,” said Ser Gregario, who saw the strategy clearly. And was annoyed he hadn’t been consulted.

  “Four days ago it still held against the undead,” Gabriel said.

  “You’re sure? How do you know?” the archbishop asked.

  Gabriel sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” He glanced at the dragon, and the dragon met his eye and pursed his lips. “I have to guess. But I believe that we have hit on a strategy that is sufficiently original to surprise all of our opponents, deceive them into believing we are following their lead, and has incidental side effects that are beneficial.”

  “Name one?” asked Rebecca Almspend. “You are taking a third of our army several thousand miles to fight an opponent who is not Ash and about whom we know almost nothing. I thought”—she tried not to sound arch—“I thought we were putting Du Corse and his people on ships to do this task.” Almspend was looking at the queen, her best friend, who turned her head away. The final planning staff had been very small. Gabriel and the queen had known that feelings would be hurt.

  “I can’t risk Du Corse’s failure,” Gabriel said. “There are factors about which we had not been informed a month ago. Sea monsters. Eeeague. The Odine.” He sighed. “Let me lay out three side effects that are beneficial. First, we will, if we succeed, save Antica Terra from domination by the Necromancer, if it is indeed he, and not some new force. Second, the merchants of Venike and Genua will underwrite the entirely of this year’s campaign and probably next year’s as well. Which is good. I am out of money; the queen is out of money. The empire is out of money. The costs of this war are...staggering.”

  The archbishop stared at him. “You are making the Venikans pay?” he asked.

  Gabriel shrugged. “I will make them pay,” he said, as if delivering a death sentence. “But this way, I can also visit Dar as Salaam. Or rather, Morgon can. It is Al Rashidi who holds most of the answers.”

  Harmodius nodded, and Master Smythe smiled. “I told you that you were going to Antica Terra,” he said.

  Bad Tom nodded. “And horses, don’t forget.”

  Heads turned.

  Bad Tom grinned. “The horse plague’s bad here, eh? But there’s no horse plague in Antica Terra, and we can remount the whole army.”

  “No ussse to usss if the army isss in Etrusssca and Asssh isss at our gatesss here,” the Faery Knight said. Lord Gregario gave him a firm nod, happy to have an ally.

  Gabriel nodded at Gregario. “Look. This is all very high risk. We have to win every battle, make all the right guesses, and even then...even then...” He looked around. “You and Gavin and Tapio have to hold here until I come back.”

  The Faery Knight played with his long chin. “My ssscoutsss sssay that Asssh is moving in the wessst. N’gara will be asssailed. Will thisss army of the north come to my aid?”

  Nita Qwan looked around and rose, but Mogon shook her head and spoke herself, her voice deep and resonant. “Even now, Kevin Orley is raising men and Rukh to attack the Sossag country. Who will aid us?”

  Gavin stood. “We won’t even wait to be summoned, my lord and lady. We’ll march the day after tomorrow.” He looked at his brother. “We mean to surprise Ash with our temerity.”

  “We are all going to attack,” Gabriel said. “West from N’gara, north from Ticondonaga, and east from Liviapolis.”

  * * *

  An hour before dawn, and the morning star burned like a baleful eye. Kranmer’s comet, a well-known harbinger of doom, shone red-gold in the dark sky to the west, his long tail extending back over the horizon.

  Smoke was saddling his horse while Anne and Isabeau, who hadn’t been to bed, laid out tack by lamplight.

  “Son of a bitch,” Smoke said. “Son of a bitch.”

  Farther along the line, Cully was looking over his kit, inspecting each item.

  No Head brushed past him. “We’re not fighting today,” he said. “An’ you can get any stuff you need in the city.”

  Cully watched the squires and pages. Angelo di Laternum’s new squire pushed past.

  “Cully?” the young man asked.

  “How can I help you, young sir?” Cully answered.

  “Is it true we’re all getting cured of cough?” the boy asked. He coughed into his hand.

  “On parade, in one hour,” Cully agreed.

  No Head helped Tippit with his bridle, and the older man spat. “Wilful would ha’ loved this,” he said.

  “Oh aye,” Cully said. “He’d be rubbin’ our faces in it this minute.”

  Mark my words.

  Cully went to help Heron and Urk of Mogon. They hadn’t even received their basic kit yet.

  * * *

  Sukey was already cured. She stood with Kaitlin and Blanche, counting things. Much had been loaded by those in on the plan during the last three days, but everything had hinged on the cure for the cough and until they were safe to leave the circle, some things could not even be packed.

  The tents were being left standing. The captain claimed he had tents already made and loaded on the ships—ships none of them had ever seen, waiting in the city’s military yard, ships he and No Head had designed and Milus and Alcaeus had watched built. So people said.

  When Sauce rolled her eyes, the captain—now the emperor—laughed. “What do you think No Head and I were doing with all those drawings?” he asked.

  There had been a great deal of secrecy, and Sukey, who had known most of it for a month, gave quiet orders and took the deepest breaths she could manage. And thought of her mother.

  Morgon Mortirmir came down the steps from the attic of the stables, lacing his points.

  “Magister?” Sukey asked. “You need a squire.”

  “Or an apprentice or both,” he said. “Tancreda and I need to run a brief errand and then we will be any help we can manage.”

  “Can you answer me one question?” Sukey asked. “Will...I...get my breath back?”

  Mortirmir nodded. “Yes. It will take weeks. But yes. Have you seen the chaplain?”

  “Father David?” Sukey smiled. “He’s asleep. And I’m letting him sleep. He waited on the sick hand and foot.”

  “Tell him I’d like a moment when you see him awake. Doesn’t he have to pack?”

  Sukey smiled. “I packed for him. You have no idea how hard he prayed for me when I was sick.”

  Another hour found the entire company, old veterans and new recruits, all gathered together, standing in neat lines in the outer yard with their surviving horses in their hands, along with Count Zac and Ser Giorgos and all the imperial troops. The horses looked bad, most overtired, and there were no spares. The morning star was just setting, and the comet looked like a splash of light against the last dark of night.

  The captain rode out on Ataelus. He saluted Bad Tom and raised his voice. “In a moment, the company’s hermeticists will deal with the cough,” he said. “You’re probably all wondering where we’re going,” he went on. “We ride today for Middleburg, and we’ll go from there to Liviapolis. I don’t expect any fighting there, but I might be wrong.”

  Silen
ce.

  “And then we’ll board ships and sail to Antica Terra,” he said.

  Murmurs.

  “And then,” he said, “I’ll be leading you to hell.” He looked around. “I know you think I’m kidding,” he said. He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

  Mark my words...

  Part IV

  Antica Terra

  Kaitlin, Countess of Kendal, swung in a hammock deep in the bowels of the great ship Sant Graal and tried to decide if she was pregnant again, which would be incredibly unfair given the infrequency of the combination of lust, privacy, and her husband’s presence that would allow such a thing—or whether she was merely seasick.

  They had been at sea five days. Sailors said the wind was fair. She had no idea. Every time she went on deck, everything seemed a chaos and a panic, with men running to bellowed orders, sails going up and down, and the constant rolling of the huge round ship.

  The Red Knight, as she still thought of him, had ordered the three ships built. The emperor, now.

  She lay, feeling miserable, and thought of the beauty of the imperial coronation, the magnificence of the cathedral, and the speed with which they had moved in...and then out...of the city.

  She heard a great shriek, and she had to calm her muscles, a few at a time. She wondered if she was strong enough to find Blanche.

  She wondered if there was some other way to get home.

  And then she leapt out of her hammock, struck her knee on the floor, and ran, hand to mouth, for the main ladder.

  On deck, it was worse. The sky was grey, not blue, and the charcoal-grey waves were tall, and seawater blew in a heavy wind and soaked her instantly. The big round ship—some people said it was the largest afloat—took the seas well, but it was called “round” for reasons, and what made for good flotation didn’t help the seasick. The ship moved.

  Kaitlin heaved over the side, and there was another shriek.