True Power

by Gary Meehan

  “The city will not fall until we have secured the Saviors.”

  “I can see how a couple of babies would give you the tactical advantage.”

  “It would inspire the True,” said Gwyneth. “Cow the New Stathians. Demonstrate what we’re doing is God’s will. Better than . . .” She made a gesture with her hand, forgetting the goblet. Wine splashed on to Damon. He grimaced. “Better than this pointless waste of ammunition. We might as well smash our heads against the walls.”

  “You could always suggest it.”

  “Perhaps you could volunteer? Show us how it’s done?”

  Beat his brains out on cold stone? Damon couldn’t deny he deserved it. “It’s not only force can conquer a city,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “You could always try knocking politely.” Gwyneth gave him the same exasperated look he’d received so many times from Megan. “Edwyn did it at Janik. Of course, he had secret converts to the Faith inside the city to let him in.”

  “There are no True in New Statham,” said Gwyneth.

  “For amnesty and a thousand sovereigns, I’m sure you’ll soon find some.”

  “Bribery?”

  “More commissions, consultancy fees and miscellaneous expenses paid to intermediate facilitators.”

  Gwyneth curled her lip. “You cannot pay someone to be True.”

  Oh, you can, thought Damon. We’re all corruptible; we’re all desperately looking for the easy way out. Offer it to us and we’ll snatch it before you can say “betrayal.” “How about the auxiliaries you recruited in Ainsworth?” said Damon. “You think they’re all absolutely loyal?”

  “They know the penalty if they’re not.”

  You couldn’t pay someone to believe, but you could frighten them. The Book of Faith had a whole chapter devoted to the suffering that would be meted out to those who rejected the teachings of the Saviors and forsook God. Especially moneylenders, Damon recalled from his time in the seminary; Edwyn must have fallen behind on his mortgage repayments.

  “A bit of gold could prevent an awful lot of death and destruction,” he said. Gwyneth gave him a blank look. Damon shuddered. This was not a girl who thought those things were worth preventing. “It can speed things up. Then you can go after Meg—Then you can ride north.”

  A draft of cold air heralded a newcomer: a soldier with burn marks down the left side of his face. Someone had got too close to an exploding gun. He hurried up to the captains’ table and saluted.

  “We’ve breached the wall,” he said.

  The outer wall, thought Damon. New Statham had three, each thicker than the last.

  “Can we get the guns through?” asked Tobrytan.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Men?”

  “Thin men, sir.”

  “Take those who will fit and secure the outer city,” said Tobrytan.

  “You’re going to send the men into Saviors-knows-what without artillery support?” said Sener.

  Gwyneth cast a glance at Damon, then stepped forward. “No, he’s not,” she said. “The blasphemers have seen what we can do. It is time to offer them a choice.”

  It felt less like a triumphal parade, more like a funeral procession. The world was eerily quiet now the guns had stopped, just the relentless crunch of boots and hoofs as the True marched through New Statham. Sullen citizens gazed at them from the edges of windows or the shadows of alleys, cheeks sunken by hunger, dirty faces streaked by tears. The accusation in their eyes seemed to be reserved for Damon; it was as if they knew not only of his defection to the True but of his betrayal of Eleanor in the Kartiks.

  The trek through the city was taking forever. The main road wound its way between the three rings of walls as if they were a labyrinth, rather than cutting straight through to the heart of the city. It was another of the defensive measures Edwyn the Third had insisted upon, tripling the distance to the palace, giving the city’s guards more opportunities to attack any invaders and more time for the king to escape. As the city had never actually been attacked until now, it merely gave its citizens something to grumble about.

  The vanguard of the witches’ army moved from the outer city into the middle city. Edwyn had used the spaces between the walls as parks where he could hunt in safety, but in the centuries since his death they had developed into cities of their own, populated by rickety buildings four or five stories high, that seemed as if they’d collapse if looked at with anything stronger than peripheral vision. They passed the shack Damon had stayed in when he had arrived in New Statham after escaping the seminary, packed in, a dozen to a room. There he had learned to survive on the streets using any means necessary: pickpocketing, burglary, fencing, forgery, smuggling, prostitution, rigged games of chance. He had also learned there was no honor among thieves, and so had his comrades when one night Damon had relieved them of their ill-gotten gains and skipped south to Hickton.

  After an interminable trudge they arrived in Saviors’ Square. The palace loomed above them like a displaced mountain, its towers straining for the sky as if its architect thought the best way to reach heaven was by stairs. No building in the Realm could match its scope or grandeur, mainly because Edwyn had bankrupted the treasury to pay for it and none of his successors could afford to compete.

  The city’s guard was standing in parade formation, their numbers not as great as the True had been led to believe: fattened by rumor or thinned by comrades? Had those reluctant to accept the witches’ terms been cut down by those whose loyalty to the Faith was a little less absolute? Civilians lined the edge of the square, curious despite the situation. No priests though. Damon hadn’t seen a single one since they had entered New Statham.

  The True parted to display the guns they had dragged along with them—huge chunks of dirty iron, still smoking and stinking of sulfur as if they had been chiseled from the bowels of hell. An order sounded. There was a cacophony of weapons—swords, pikes, knives, maces, bows—hitting paving stones. A second signal had the soldiers of New Statham ripping off their surcoats, which were emblazoned with the sign of the circle, and casting them aside, exposing plate armor and stiffened leather.

  An officer stepped forward. There were only lieutenant’s pips on his shoulders. What had happened to the captain?

  “We have your word? No further harm will come to the city?”

  Osgar leaned on the huge battle-ax, which he used only as a walking stick these days and looked over to Gwyneth. He grimaced. The general hadn’t been keen on the plan—Damon suspected it didn’t involve enough slaughter for his tastes—and had only agreed to it to humor the Mother. When the city had signaled its willingness to surrender—or at least certain inhabitants with idiosyncratic definitions of solidarity and access to sharp implements had signaled their willingness to surrender—he had been as surprised as anyone.

  “True will not harm True,” Osgar wheezed.

  The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what we agreed.”

  Gwyneth bustled forward. A hiss shot around the guards, prompting True soldiers to step around her, forming a bodyguard. They’d heard about her in the city then, but what exactly? Damon doubted it could be as bad as the reality.

  “We come to renew the message of the Saviors,” she said, raising her voice, “free from the pollution of the priests.” Osgar looked unimpressed but made no effort to silence her; the True were loath to contradict one another in front of outsiders. “Those who recommit to God will be allowed to continue their lives in peace.”

  “You never said we would have to . . . have to join you.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to?” said Gwyneth. “You freed yourself of the priests, didn’t you?”

  The lieutenant swallowed. “We have them under arrest.”

  “Is that local slang for ‘hanging from the city walls by their entrails’?” said Gwyneth. “Sorry. Southern girl. Not from round here.”

  “We have no authority to execute anyone.”

  “The secon
d Pledge of Faith gives you that authority.” I pledge to uphold the Faith and destroy its enemies. Gwyneth flicked her hand. “Never mind. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?”

  “There was . . .” The lieutenant glanced back at his men. “But it can wait until later.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Gwyneth. She whispered into the ear of one of her bodyguards, who peeled away and went over to one of the carts the True had brought with them. “We can deal with it now.”

  “I don’t want to put you out,” said the lieutenant, twitching. He looked like he wanted to run. “I’m sure you need to . . . to rest after all the . . . all the invading you’ve done.”

  Gwyneth gave him a sly smile. “Oh, it’s no trouble.”

  The bodyguard returned, heaving a small chest way too heavy for its size. Gwyneth pointed at the lieutenant and the bodyguard deposited the chest at his feet. There was an unmistakable chink. For the benefit of those who did mistake it though, the bodyguard kicked open the chest. A heap of gold coins glittered in the sunlight.

  A wave of astonishment and anger burst forth from the city guards. A couple lunged for the lieutenant and got in a few blows before the True beat them back. Damon guessed the lieutenant hadn’t told them giving up the city wasn’t solely to save the population from the horrors of siege and pillaging.

  Gwyneth looked to the lieutenant as he dabbed his bleeding nose. “I guess you’ll be reconsidering the benefits of being True,” she said.

  four

  The footsteps of Damon, Gwyneth and the True captains echoed like applause. There was a mustiness to the air: less like entering a room than opening a tomb. The throne room had been unused since the spring, when the War Council had gathered to plan the retaking of Ainsworth, and detritus from that meeting still littered the floorboards: maps showing routes that had been marched and hastily retraced; parchments containing battle orders that were never followed; discarded food that had decomposed to evil-looking blobs.

  As they marched across the room, light streaming through stained glass cast lurid colors on their skin. The windows depicted the Unifier’s conquest of Werlavia, which the conquered seemed very happy about despite their wounds, dismemberments and beheadings—the glaziers had got very good at red. Damon wondered how the True’s victories would be written, whether the desperation and dread would be commemorated.

  “You probably want to get the cleaners in,” he said. “I know this firm. They hardly ever nick anything.” The captains turned to him, a collective what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here? on their faces. Damon wasn’t sure they’d accept “morbid curiosity” as an answer.

  Gwyneth ascended the steps that led to the Unifier’s throne. It had been unoccupied for four decades, its scarred wood offering another history of the Realm: the mismatched back leg that had to be replaced after the throne had been damaged on its journey up from Statham; the pockmarks that demonstrated just how bad Edwyn the Fourth was at darts; the dark patches said to be the blood of Aldwyn the First, assassinated after his lords had a violent reaction to his proposal for yet another suicidal attempt to invade the Snow Cities. Gwyneth dusted its seat with her sleeve and sat down.

  “Prepare the troops,” she said. The acoustics amplified her voice, making it dominate even the vastness of the throne room. “We march for Hil tomorrow.”

  “No, we do not, Mother,” snapped Osgar.

  “You’re questioning my orders?”

  “He is kind of in charge,” said Damon. Everyone glared at him again. “Not helpful?”

  “The men are in no fit state to march hundreds of miles and tackle mountains only the Unifier was able to sur—” Osgar broke off in a coughing fit—“to surmount.”

  Sener hurried up to his father to check he was all right. The general waved him off with an irritated flick of his hand. “We cannot fight the Hilites and the winter at the same time.” The general coughed again. “We need to consolidate our hold on the city, resupply, rearm. We will attack in the spring.”

  “The spring?” spat Gwyneth. “She could be anywhere by then.”

  “If God wants us to have the Savior,” said Sener, “he will lead us to him.” He had always been ambivalent about Joanne’s prophecy.

  Gwyneth turned to Tobrytan. “And you agree?” Tobrytan shrugged. “You’re happy about my si—the Apostate holed up in the Snow Cities laughing at us while she does God knows what to your daughter? What was her name—Clover?”

  Damon doubted Tobrytan was happy about anything, ever. “I do what God commands,” the captain said.

  “And you think God doesn’t want us to secure the Saviors?”

  “The decision has been made,” wheezed Osgar. He turned his back on Gwyneth and began to hobble out of the throne room. “And get out of that chair. You look ridiculous.”

  That night, Damon found an out-of-the-way corner of the palace to hide away in. It looked like a servant’s quarters: a bed a toddler would have found cramped; whitewashed walls mottled with mold; a dirty window obscured by condensation; a pitcher of water that had long since been colonized by algae. Most of the palace staff had marched with the army on its ill-fated attempt to retake Ainsworth—you couldn’t expect priests to look after themselves during such a long journey—and the rest had scarpered once they knew the True were making this their base.

  He curled up on the bed—stretching out wasn’t an option—and pulled the grubby sheet over himself, more for the illusion of comfort than any actual warmth. He craved sleep but he was scared to. He’d see her again, her final breaths rejecting him, her body tumbling into nothingness. Had Eleanor killed herself to spare him or spite him? Was there a chance of redemption or should he pray the True were right in their beliefs and he had done nothing less than God’s work?

  There was a scuffling outside his room. Damon curled up tighter, a small boy huddling against the monsters. There was whispering, then the creak of hinges. Damon wriggled back until the wall blocked his way. Candlelight briefly haloed the silhouette of an approaching figure before the door squealed shut.

  His eyes adjusted back to the gloom, confirming the identity of the newcomer. Gwyneth. Damon relaxed his locked-up muscles and sat up.

  “Up for a midnight feast, are we?” he said. “A pillow fight? Have to warn you, I fight dirty.” In the seminary, the boys had stuffed their pillows with books, slates and the occasional brick.

  Gwyneth leaned in close. She had changed and bathed, found a scent of roses and vanilla—a perfume left behind by some priest’s mistress, Damon guessed. To his surprise, she slipped a hand under the sheet and touched him in a way that made him feel better than he had any right to.

  “Did she do this for you?”

  “Meg—?” Damon cleared his throat. “Megan? We weren’t . . . It wasn’t like that.”

  There was a glimpse of a smile, lit up by the moonlight that had the misfortune to struggle through the window. “No, it wouldn’t be.”

  “It’d be like doing it . . . you know . . . with your sister.”

  “Yes, my sister.”

  “No,” said Damon, “your sister, rather than your sister. The generic as opposed to the specific. You not remember your Stathian classes?”

  “Brother Brogan was very boring. I used to catch up on my sleep during his class.”

  “I suppose you were up all night a-plotting,” said Damon. He rambled to distract from what Gwyneth’s hand was doing. “Of course, if we still spoke Werlay everything would be clearer. It’s got a much wider set of pronouns. Mind you, one of them does mean ‘the man who stole my pig in the dead of night,’ so it is open to accusations of over-specialization.”

  “Do you always talk so much?”

  “It’s my substitute for”—he squealed—“action.”

  “Do you like my action?”

  Damon tensed. “It’s certainly better than a lot of the things I’ve endured.”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “You should have said. I would have g
one first. I tend to be a bit of a sleeper.”

  “I want you to kill the general.”

  Damon smacked Gwyneth’s hand away and scrambled off the bed. “You want me to kill . . . ? Are you mad?” He remembered who he was talking to. “Well, of course you are, but, I mean . . .”

  The accusation flew over Gwyneth’s head, which was helpful since Damon was keen for his own to stay attached.

  “He will lead us to our defeat. We cannot stop until we have the Savior.”

  “Why?”

  “We have been tasked by God.”

  “Did He set an actual time limit?” asked Damon.

  “Osgar’s an old man with all the imagination of a lettuce.” Gwyneth tucked her gown under her and sat on the bed. “We could have been dug in here for weeks or months thanks to his rigid thinking. You come along and we take the city within a day.”

  “It wasn’t a particularly original idea,” said Damon. “And I’m not sure . . . single-mindedness is a reason to kill someone.”

  “You saw how Osgar treated me,” said Gwyneth. “Who does he think he is? My grandfather?” Not considering what you did to your last one. “He’s a sick old man who’ll be lucky to see out the winter. You know he hates you, don’t you?”

  “Not as unique a feeling as you’d think,” said Damon. “I can live with it.”

  “He’s just looking for an excuse to have you executed.”

  “I can live with that too. Well, you know, probably not literally . . .”

  “Do you want me to give him one?” asked Gwyneth.

  “That probably would kill him . . . Oh, you mean an excuse.”

  “To execute you.”

  “You know, in the grand scheme of things, I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” said Damon. There are people far more deserving of signing my death warrant. “Why don’t you ask Tobrytan?”

  “He’s too in love with following orders.”

  Gwyneth slunk out of the bed and headed for the door. Was that it? Had he talked himself out of it?

  “You’ll do it?”

  Maybe not. “I’m not really a killing kind of guy.”