“Lord Governor Marchand wants to see you immediately.” She tossed a bundle down onto the scarred tabletop. “I found you some clothes.”
“I have clothes,” Alver protested.
“You had clothes three weeks ago. Now you have stains held together with dirt. Change.”
The trousers, shirts, and vests fit surprisingly well, although Nina had to tie both their neckcloths. The shoes she’d found were a bit large. Dusty appreciated being able to move his toes, but Alver kicked his off. “I’m wearing my own. I’m a mage,” he added before Nina could protest. “I don’t care if the shoes don’t match the outfit.”
“Liar,” Dusty muttered, pulling the laces tight.
“We all should have bathed, but we don’t have time.” Nina had changed while she was gone and wore a courier’s tabard over clean clothes. An elderly man in a faded uniform stared as they stepped back out into the hall, then hurried away before they came close.
“What happened to him?” Alver asked, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his vest.
“Happened?”
“He had a split lip and a bruise on one cheek.”
“I’m a courier,” she sighed. “I’ve been gone for over six weeks, and the servants aren’t my responsibility when I’m here.”
“Maybe they should be,” Dusty growled. “He smelled of hunger.” He expected Nina to ask what hunger smelled like—her willingness to learn had been one of the things he liked best about her—but she merely frowned and kept walking. Keeping up kept him from looking around, but he’d have had to be moving a lot faster to have missed the scents of neglect.
When they stopped by an old, worn door, she twitched a wrinkle out of her tabard, took a deep breath, and led them into a large room. There were wide double doors and windows high in the long wall to his right, and a dais in the centre of the wall to his left. Centred on the dais was a sturdy chair with a high back and broad arms that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Harar. The man in the chair had steel-grey hair, cut even shorter than Pack hair, but his shoulders were still broad and square, and he wore the same uniform as the two-dozen soldiers who stood in ranks on either side of the dais. All of them carried the new rifled muskets. Sean had brought one the last time he’d come back from Aydori.
“You can fire them faster, aim them accurately, and while they’ve finally gone into mass production, they’re still stupidly expensive. It’d bankrupt a country if they tried outfitting their entire infantry with these things.”
“They’re not wearing the Imperial crest,” Alver muttered. “Those are bears, not ravens.”
“They want to free themselves from the Empire,” Dusty growled. “Because they’re not stupid.”
A bulky camera had been set up in the centre of the room, the photographer arguing with her assistants about . . . about angles, Dusty assumed, given the arm-waving. Teger, the Pack Leader before Otto, had a camera, but it was half the size.
Conversations stopped, and one by one the clusters of people standing by the walls turned to watch them cross the room.
“So, these are the children you brought me instead of the mage I sent you for.” Lord Marchand had a Pack Leader’s voice. Deep. Resonant. Confident.
Nina bowed. “They aren’t children, Your Lordship. Alver Goss is a white-flecked mage and Dustin Maylin is Pack. When Mirian Maylin refused to return with me, they offered their assistance.”
“Their assistance?” His brows rose. “And how exactly can they assist?” A few people snickered.
“Your Lordship . . .”
“Let them speak for themselves, Courier.”
“Sir.”
Lord Marchand beckoned them closer. “So, how can you assist me with the Empire?”
“I hate the Empire,” Dusty growled.
He shook his head. “Not what I asked you.”
No, it wasn’t. How could they assist? Wasn’t it obvious? “There’s no Pack or Mage-Pack in the Imperial armies.”
Dark brows rose. “And?”
The vest was hotter than fur. He tugged at the hem. “And that means we have an advantage because they don’t know how to defend against us.”
“An advantage? I don’t think so.” Lord Marchand stood and pointed at Dusty. “Silver.” Then at Alver. “Can you stop a bullet?”
Alver swallowed, glanced at Dusty, and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The shot hit him in the shoulder. As the scent of his blood filled the room, his eyes widened, and he crumpled to the floor.
Snarling, Dusty tried to fight free of the fabric wrapped around him, but strong arms grabbed him from behind, yanked him against a broad chest, and held a blade at his throat. It burned as it cut the skin. Silver. Like the collars. Like the blades the Imperial torturers had used. He froze, his heart pounding out Alver, Alver, Alver . . .
“Maylin.” Lord Marchand stepped off the dais, reached out, brushed aside his hair, and flicked an ear tip. “You’re the child she rescued, almost all grown up.”
“Lord Marchand!” Two soldiers held Nina on her knees while a third rolled on the floor in front of her, moaning and clutching a bloody nose. “What are you doing?” she demanded, struggling against their grip.
“Separating Bienotte from the Empire. You failed to bring me Mirian Maylin, but you brought me the perfect bait to draw her here and a way to control her when she arrives. I’m less displeased than I might be.” He smiled, showing white, straight teeth. Dusty bared his, and Lord Marchand flicked his ear again. “She’ll come for this one, and I won’t have merely her mage-craft. She’ll see to it that his kind fill our front lines.”
The double doors blew open. Dusty caught a glimpse of people filling the square outside, then they slammed shut.
Mirian’s feet were off the floor, and those closest to her had to brace themselves against the winds that swirled around the room and back out the windows. “His kind?”
“Mirian Maylin, I presume.” Lord Marchand sketched a mocking bow. “I have a proposition for you.”
She cocked her head. “I’m listening.”
“Do what I want, and the boy remains alive.”
His arms trapped against his sides, Dusty growled and kicked back against the soldier’s shins.
“Dusty.” Mirian held up a hand, and he stilled. “There are two boys,” she said.
“You arrived a little late for one of them. Sorry.” A ridge of scar tissue crossed the back of Lord Marchand’s left hand. Dusty hoped it had been made by teeth. “I hear healing isn’t one of your strengths.”
Mirian’s upper lip curled. Dusty relaxed as much as his position allowed, and the pressure on his chest lessened. Alver wasn’t dead. Mirian wouldn’t be talking if Alver was dead. She drifted closer. “What do you want?”
“I want to take Beinotte out of the Empire.”
“Why?”
“What?”
She sighed and probably rolled her eyes, although the solid white made it harder to tell. “Why do you want to take Beinotte out of the Empire?”
“Why should I bow to a distant command?” He smiled and indicated the surrounding soldiers. “I rule in Beinotte. Beinotte is mine. The people are mine.”
“Yours? And what do your people say about leaving the Empire? Leaving the trains, the Imperial Mail, the advances in medicine, the new electric discoveries—we get newspapers in Orin.” She nodded at the photographer. “Nice camera.”
“Thank you?”
“Your people also benefit from a number of the trade advantages that come with size. My father is a banker,” she added as Lord Marchand opened and closed his mouth without speaking. “Of course, given your tax rates, they’re not exactly seeing a lot of those benefits. Lower prices for imports don’t make much difference to people with barely enough to live on.”
“Lower prices for imports?” He laughed. “You’re not what I expected, Mirian Maylin. Sacrifices had to be made. I had an army to build.”
“So I see.” She swept a frown over
the soldiers. Dusty smelled fresh urine. “I assume these are merely the photogenic troops. Will you set your army against the Imperial garrison?”
“Of course. The garrison will surrender or be put to the sword. Or to the mage-craft, now I have you under my control.”
“And their families?”
“Can live if they swear fealty to me.”
“You’ll be the new . . . king?” Mirian’s brows drew in. “Maybe an emperor in time. You’ll expand your borders, restart the slaughter the establishment of the old Empire stopped.”
“Why not, I . . . wait.” He held up a hand, although he’d been the only one talking. “Are you arguing for the Empire? You?”
She shrugged. The wind continued to swirl around the room. “My argument was with Emperor Leopold. And you’ve heard how that ended.”
Lord Marchand reached back and gripped Dusty’s shoulder. “And I know how this will end as well.”
“Do you?” Mirian studied him for a moment. “Are your people willing to die for your ambition?”
He tightened his grip before releasing it. “They’ll die if I tell them to!”
“And if they object?”
Dusty couldn’t see Lord Marchand’s expression, but given the way the winds strengthened, Mirian didn’t care for it. “Since we’ve established you’ll be staying, you can deal with them, too.”
Mirian smiled. It was a Pack expression. “You’d best deal with them first.”
The stones in the outside wall became sand. The doors, unsupported, slammed onto the tiles. A crowd of angry people surged forward.
“They’ve been listening,” Mirian added.
“Stop them,” Lord Marchand snarled, “or your boy . . .”
Dusty felt the liquid silver slide down his neck, felt reaction loosen the soldier’s hold, spun, and punched him in the crotch as hard as he could. By the time the big man hit the floor, he was out of shirt and vest and struggling to yank the trousers off.
“Shoes first,” Alver gasped. “Idiot.”
“Shut up, Alver!”
“Shoot!” Lord Marchand roared. “Shoot them!”
“You should have paid more attention to the stories,” Mirian said.
And all the metal in the room liquefied.
Dusty kicked out of the last of the clothing, changed, and stood over Alver, teeth bared. He could smell steel in amongst the blood. Steel and gunpowder. Eyes squinted nearly shut, Alver had his hand under his clothes, pressed against the wound.
Huge hands grabbed Dusty’s tail.
Dusty changed, spun around, and changed again, crushing the soldier’s wrist between his teeth. The soldier screamed, and Lord Marchand yelled, “Stop them!”
Thirty—well, twenty-nine—large men pulled a variety of edged weapons. Lord Marchand waited until they charged forward, then ran for the side door.
The smell of shit filled the room and twenty-nine large men lost interest in the attack. Most of them hit their knees. Three or four hit the floor and rolled, moaning.
“Anti-constipation spell,” Alver groaned, grabbing a handful of Dusty’s fur and hauling himself to his feet. “Healing as a weapon. They really should have paid more attention to the stories.”
“That’s what I said.” Mirian drifted to the floor by Alver’s side. “I can . . .”
Alver stepped back. “No! I’ve got the bleeding stopped. Dusty can look at it later.”
“Your Wisdom?” Nina knelt with one knee on Lord Marchand’s back, his arm twisted up between his shoulder blades. “I didn’t know. I believed Lord Marchand when he said the Empire was bleeding us dry.”
“Empires do that,” Mirian agreed. She held the other woman’s gaze for a moment, then nodded and walked toward where the doors had been. “Time to go home, boys. You can go in,” she added as she passed a group of older people at the forefront of the mob. Dusty thought they looked like the sort of people who worried about littering and road repairs.
“Are you done?” one of them asked warily.
They’d paid attention to the stories.
“Your Wisdom!” One of the richly dressed people in the room pushed forward. “Wait!” When Mirian turned to face him, he blanched. “What do we do now?”
“It’s not my place to say, but you could start by listening to the people.” She shrugged. “Lower taxes. Maybe put some money into the waterworks; I could smell sewage on my way in.”
“The Empire . . .”
“Is not my problem.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t make it my problem.”
He swallowed and wiped his palms on his trousers. “Yes, of course.”
Dusty stayed in fur, close enough to Alver’s side he could take part of his weight. They paused by Nina, who’d turned Lord Marchand over to the crowd. Alver touched her arm. “Are you going to be okay, Nina?”
She took a deep breath and released it slowly, squaring her shoulders. “I’ll be fine. What about you?”
Alver snorted. “Mirian is a terrible healer. I’m not. It hurts, a lot, and when I get the time, I’m going to rock back and forth and cry for a while, but closing a hole is a first level spell.”
“Boys.” Mirian drifted over the ridge of sand.
“Just a sec!” Alver called, then nudged Dusty with his knee until he noticed the way Nina’s fingers were twitching by her side. “Go on. We’re saying goodbye. He won’t mind.”
She looked dubious. “I’d rather keep my fingers.”
Dusty pushed his head against her hip. Nina smiled and rubbed behind his ear.
“Boys!”
Dusty changed, grabbed a banner lying abandoned in the square, wrapped it around his hips, then hurried to catch up. “Mirian, what if the people end up deciding to leave the Empire?” They could hear shouting from the government building. “I mean, the Empire is still evil, no matter how much of an ass Lord Marchand is.”
“Then that’s their choice.”
“And you . . .”
“I’m certainly not going to help the Empire.”
Dusty opened his mouth to protest again, but Alver cut him off. “You could have lifted us out of there without talking to Lord Marchand at all; why didn’t you?”
She made a face at a pile of horse shit and twitched her gown to one side. “I wasn’t talking to him. I was talking to whoever takes over from him.”
“One of that lot?” Alver tucked his hand into the crook of Dusty’s elbow. “It’s going to be a mess here for a while, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You could . . .”
“No.”
“Because if you do it for them, they’re yours and you want them to be their own people.”
“Yes.”
“The Empire still needs to be destroyed,” Dusty muttered.
Mirian opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head. Dusty had no idea what she was denying.
“You could have offered Nina a place,” Alver said after a moment.
“I could have,” Mirian agreed. “But this is her home, and she doesn’t strike me as the type to abandon a fight.”
She didn’t, Dusty acknowledged silently.
“Mirian.” They were out of the square now and walking down the broad street they’d crossed earlier. Alver peered into a shop window. “As long as we’re here, can I pick up an apology present for my mom?”
“No.”
“Are we in trouble?”
“So much trouble.”
And the wind lifted their feet off the ground.
The Tale of the Wicked
By John Scalzi
The Tarin battle cruiser readied itself for yet another jump. Captain Michael Obwije ordered the launch of a probe to follow it in and take readings before the rift the Tarin cruiser tore into space closed completely behind it. The probe kicked out like the proverbial rocket and followed the other ship.
“This is it,” Thomas Utley, Obwije’s XO, said quietly into his ear. “We’ve got enough powe
r for this jump and then another one back home. That’s if we shut down nonessential systems before we jump home. We’re already bleeding.”
Obwije gave a brief nod that acknowledged his XO but otherwise stayed silent. Utley wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know about the Wicked; the weeklong cat-and-mouse game they’d been playing with the Tarin cruiser had heavily damaged them both. In a previous generation of ships, Obwije and his crew would already be dead; what kept them alive was the Wicked itself and its new adaptive brain, which balanced the ship’s energy and support systems faster and more intelligently than Obwije, Utley, or any of the officers could do in the middle of a fight and hot pursuit.
The drawback was that the Tarin ship had a similar brain, keeping itself and its crew alive far longer than they had any right to be at the hands of the Wicked, which was tougher and better-armed. The two of them had been slugging it out in a cycle of jumps and volleys that had strewn damage across a wide arc of light-years. The only silver lining to the week of intermittent battles between the ships was that the Tarin ship had so far gotten the worst of it; three jumps earlier, it had stopped even basic defensive action, opting to throw all its energy into escape. Obwije knew he had just enough juice for a jump and a final volley from the kinetic mass drivers into the vulnerable hide of the Tarin ship. One volley, no more, unless he wanted to maroon the ship in a far space.
Obwije knew it would be wise to withdraw now. The Tarin ship was no longer a threat and would probably expend the last of its energies on this final, desperate jump. It would likely be stranded; Obwije could let the probe he sent after the ship serve as a beacon for another Confederation ship to home in and finish the job. Utley, Obwije knew, would counsel such a plan, and would be smart to do so, warning Obwije that the risk to wounded ship and its crew outweighed the value of the victory.
Obwije knew it would be wise to withdraw. But he’d come too far with this Tarin ship not to finish it once and for all.
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