by S L Farrell
Hirzgin 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 Hirzg?”
Her face tightened. “I’m told that Hirzg 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 Cenzi 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 Starkkapitan 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 Cenzi, 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.
“Cenzi’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 ra
in. 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.”
“What I know doesn’t matter,” Talbot told him. “I’m the Kraljica’s aide, not the Kraljiki. Damn you to the soul shredders, Sergei…” He shook his head, glaring at the ruins of the bridge. The Garde Brezno were sidling closer to the edge, staring at the wreckage. Shouts and lanterns were hurrying toward them. “Allesandra’s going to be furious.”
“She’ll be more furious when we take down the other pontica,” Sergei answered, “but she also won’t be able to undo that.” But Talbot wasn’t going to admit that Sergei was right. He knew it before Talbot responded, knew it from the way the aide’s thin face closed up.
“That’s not going to happen,” Talbot said. He looked at the people running toward them. “Sergei, you can still survive this: admit that you disobeyed her and set the black sand packets, but that you were doing it in case we had to retreat tomorrow and there was no other way to stop the Tehuantin from crossing over to the Isle and onto the North Bank. You can tell her that this was an accident; your lamp set off the fuse. She won’t believe you; she’ll be terribly angry at what you’ve done, but she won’t be able to prove anything. I’ll back you that far, Sergei. But no further. The other bridge stays up.”
“Talbot…”
“No,” Talbot said firmly, interrupting Sergei. “It’s either that, or I tell her exactly what happened here and that you intended this all along. She’ll have you executed as a traitor then, Sergei, and I wouldn’t blame her. Which is it to be? You decide.”
Talbot was right. Sergei knew that, knew Allesandra well enough to realize that even if she understood his reasoning, he’d gone beyond the bounds of what she could forgive if she knew the whole truth. Dead, he could do nothing for the city. Dead, he could do nothing more to atone for all he’d done over his life. Dead, he couldn’t take down the other bridge.
“All right,” he told Talbot. “I’ll take your offer.”
She’d followed Nico back into the maze of Oldtown, to another nondescript house in another nondescript narrow lane. There was nobody there, nobody came to Nico’s knock. The door had been locked, but that was no issue-not to Rochelle. She’d picked the lock and they’d gone in. Nico had nearly immediately told her that he needed to pray. She told him that both of them needed to eat-but there had been nothing in the house. She’d gone foraging, finding stale bread in an abandoned bakery, and moldy cheese elsewhere. She’d taken water from the nearest well. When she returned to the house, Nico was in the front room on his knees. He’d paid no attention when she tried to get him to eat, when she tried to force some water between his cracked and bruised lips, when she’d jostled and yelled at him to try to get his attention.
Her brother was lost, mumbling half-intelligible prayers to Cenzi and unresponsive. He ignored her, as if he no longer cared or even knew that she was there. She could get no reaction from him at all. He seemed to be in a trance.
Fine. She was used to madness. She’d dealt with it long enough with their matarh.
She slept a little on the floor next to him, but couldn’t sleep long. She found herself awake in the dark with Nico still praying next to her. By now, she thought, it must be only a few turns before close to First Call. “Nico? Nico-talk to me.”
There was no answer. He was in the same position he’d been in for turn upon turn. So, Nico had abandoned her, too-well, she was used to being alone, to making her own decisions. She couldn’t help Nico, couldn’t go wherever it was he was, but there were still things she could do, that she was supposed to do. She touched the hilt of the knife she’d stolen from her vatarh, stroking the bejeweled hilt.
Promise me you will do what I couldn’t do. Promise me…
“I will,” she told her matarh’s ghost. “I will.”
She went back to Nico, kneeling on the bare wooden floor. His legs must have long ago lost any feeling. His hands were clasped in the sign of Cenzi, his head bowed down toward them, his eyes closed. She could hear him mumbling. “Nico?” she said, touching his shoulder. “Nico, I need you to answer me.”
He did not. The mumbling continued, unabated. She hugged him once. “Then pray for me,” she told him. “Pray for both of us.”
There was no sign he’d heard. She stood, watching him, then finally left the room. She closed the door behind her, and went out into the streets of Oldtown. In the early morning, the streets were dark and deserted. Most of the inhabitants, those who could, had fled eastward out of the city. There were strange flashes in the sky to the west, accompanied by distant thunder, and southward, clouds of smoke were touched underneath with the glow of fires.
South. Rochelle went that way, sliding easily through the shadows cast by the moon.
She had no idea how long it was before she came to the Pontica Kralji, linking the North Bank to the Isle. There were no gardai on the bridge, no traffic at all. The moon was setting and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, extinguishing the stars at the zenith. The waters of the A’Sele roiled around the pilings, dark and mysterious. The smell of burning wood mingled with the scent of mud and river water.
Something bright flared in the sky ahead of her, trailing sparks and painting the currents of the A’Sele with its bright reflections. The apparition brightened and swelled, descending rapidly. She saw it fall, felt the impact through the soles of her boots, saw the fire of the explosion. Someone shrieked distantly in pain and alarm and the smell of burning grew stronger, overlaid now with a sulfurous stench. Another fireball shrieked into the southern sky; this one exploded high above the Isle, sending black shadows racing.
A rider appeared from the Isle a’Kralji end of the pontica, galloping over the bridge toward her, his cloak billowing behind. Rochelle shrank back against the bridge supports; the rider hurtled past her without a glance, turning sharply left toward the River Market. She could see the leather pouch around his body: a fast-rider carrying a message.
That meant that the Kraljica was most likely on the Isle. Allesandra. Her great-matarh. Her matarh’s voice seemed to whisper in her ears: “Promise me…”
Another fireball played false sun, this one also slamming to earth somewhere on the Isle. She could hear the wind-horns of the Old Temple growling a low alarm.
Rochelle ran across the pontica, half-expecting someone to shout after her, or perhaps for an arrow to find her. Nothing happened. She was on the Avi a’Parete on the Isle. All about her were the Isle’s grand buildings, dominated here by the Kraljica’s Palais, directly ahead on the left. She slid to her left, following a street dominated by government buildings. Farther south, she could hear activity: horns calling, people shouting, She turned the corner, moving southward again; ahead, she could see people far down the street. She hurried to the wall surrounding the palais. A servants’ door was set there to one side. She knocked on it, waited, knocked again. No one answered. She crouched down and took out her lockpick kit. A few breaths later, she pushed the door open and slipped inside the grounds.
She found herself standing in the gardens of the palais. The scent of flowers was strong, and she could hear a fountain trickling water nearby. There was no one in the gardens at all, and few of the palais windows were lit.
Another fireball lifted its
bright head over the far wall of the palais grounds. It seemed to be heading directly toward her and the palais, but at the last moment when it seemed to be about to strike the palais itself, it shattered into a thousand fragments, each hissing and glowing as they fell-a counter-spell must have found it. She wondered how many fires the sparks would set, and whether the fire-teni would come to put them out.
Rochelle ran to the nearest palais door. Locked: again, she took out the picks, manipulating them until she heard the snick of the mechanism opening. She opened the door just enough to slide inside.
She found herself in what must have been the servants’ corridor: a plain narrow hallway with cross-corridors opening off to either side and a large door at the end. If this was like Brezno Palais, as she expected it would be, then most of these doors would be unlocked. The servants needed to have access to all parts of the palais to serve their masters and mistresses, and to do so in the most unobtrusive manner possible. Doubtless, the palais was honeycombed with such passages.
But the back corridors of Brezno Palais had also been a bustle of activity. This one was silent, and Rochelle found that strange. She moved quickly to the main door, easing the door open a crack. She glimpsed one of the main public hallways of the palais; she could also hear voices. There were several people walking hurriedly away from another room just farther down. One of the men she recognized immediately: Sergei ca’Rudka, the silver nose gleaming on his wrinkled, pasty face, his cane tapping an erratic rhythm on the tiles. The woman alongside him was talking, in a hurried and angry voice. “. .. don’t care what you were thinking or what your reasons were. I’m furious with you, Sergei. Absolutely furious. And Talbot; why in Cenzi’s name didn’t you check with me? You knew I’d ordered the ponticas to stay up.”