by Butcher, Jim
“Which changes nothing about our duty,” he said. “Anyone, even Nicodemus, can seek redemption, no matter what they’ve done, as long as they have breath enough to ask forgiveness.”
“I don’t suppose a pair of sucking chest wounds could get us around that?” I asked him. “Because if they would, I’d be tickled to provide them.”
Sanya let out a bark of laughter.
Michael smiled, but it was brief and strained. “My point is that we can undertake such an aggressive move in only the direst of circumstances.”
“Faerie stands poised on the brink of an internal war,” I said. “Which would probably reignite the war between the Council and the Vampire Courts—and in the bad guys’ favor, I might add. One of the most dangerous men I’ve ever known is about to have involuntary access to the knowledge and power of a Fallen angel, which would give the Denarians access to major influence within the United States. Not to mention the serious personal consequences for me if they succeed in making it happen.” I looked back and forth between the two Knights, and held up one hand straight over my head. “I vote dire. All in favor?”
Michael caught Sanya’s hand on the way up, and pushed it gently back down to the table. “This isn’t a democracy, Harry. We serve a King.”
Sanya frowned for a moment, glancing at me. But then he settled back in his chair, a silent statement of support for Michael.
“You want to talk to them?” I asked Michael. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I didn’t say that,” Michael replied. “But I will not set out to simply murder them and have done. It’s a solution, Harry. But it isn’t good enough.”
I settled back in my chair and rubbed at my head with one hand. An ache was forming there. “Okay,” I said quietly, trying to make up a plan as I went along. “What if…I set up a talk? Could you be lurking nearby for backup?”
Michael sighed. “There’s a measure of sophistry in that. You know they’ll try to betray you if it seems to be to their advantage.”
“Yeah. And it’ll be their choice to do it. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Some way to deal with the problem while still giving them a choice about what to do? Preferably in some manner that will get as few good guys killed as possible?”
He looked pained, but Michael nodded.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll try to set it up.”
“How?” Sanya asked.
“Let me worry about that,” I said. I checked the clock on the wall. “Crap. I’m late for a meeting. Can I borrow your phone?”
“Of course,” Michael said.
I glanced around the quiet house on my way to the phone and frowned. “Where is everyone?”
“Charity took them elsewhere for a few days,” Michael said. “There won’t be school in this mess, anyway.”
I grunted. “Where’s Molly?”
Michael paused and then shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think she went with them.”
I thought about it for a moment and thought I knew where she’d be. I nodded around the kitchen. “How do you keep things running around here with Molly under the roof? I figured things would be breaking down left and right.”
“Lots and lots of preventive maintenance,” Michael replied steadily. “And about twice as much repair work as I usually do.”
“Sorry.”
He smiled. “Small price. She’s worth it.”
The reasons I like Michael have nothing to do with swords and the smiting of evil.
I got on the phone and dialed McAnally’s Pub.
“Mac,” answered Mac, the ever-laconic owner.
“It’s Harry Dresden,” I said. “Is Sergeant Murphy there?”
Mac grunted in the affirmative.
“Put a beer on my tab and tell her I’m on the way?”
Mac grunted yes again.
“Thanks, man.”
He hung up without saying good-bye.
I made another call and spoke to a humorless-sounding man with a Slavic accent. I muttered my password, so that no one in the kitchen would overhear it, but the connection was so bad that I wound up all but screaming it into the receiver. That kind of thing is to be expected when you’ve got a wizard on both ends.
It only took the Jolly Northman about ten minutes to get my call through to my party.
“Luccio,” said a young woman’s voice. “What’s gone wrong, Harry?”
“Hey!” I protested. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a man, Captain. Just because I’m calling in doesn’t mean that there’s some kind of crisis.”
“Technically true, I suppose. Why are you calling?”
“Well. There’s a crisis.”
She made an mmmmmm sound.
“A group known as the Knights of the Blackened Denarius has kidnapped Baron Marcone.”
“The crime lord you took it upon yourself to assist in joining the Accords?” Luccio asked, amusement in her voice. “In what way is that relevant to the White Council?”
“These Denarian creeps are also signatories of the Accords,” I said. “Marcone’s retainers are crying foul. They’ve asked me to formally protest the abduction and summon an Emissary to resolve the dispute.”
Seconds of silence ticked by.
“In what way,” Luccio repeated, her voice much harder this time, “is that relevant to the White Council?”
“The Accords don’t mean anything if they aren’t enforced and supported,” I said. “In the long run, it’s in our own best interests to make sure they’re supported now, before a precedent is set and—”
“Don’t bullshit me,” the captain of the Wardens snarled, a hint of an Italian accent creeping into her speech. “If we take formal action it could provoke a war—a war we simply cannot afford. We all know the Red Court is only catching its breath. We can ill afford the losses we’ve already taken, much less those we might assume in a new conflict.”
I made sure to keep my voice steady, grim. “Mab has contacted me personally. She has indicated that it is strongly in our own best interests to intervene.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. I hadn’t ever specified who we meant. And with any luck the mention of Mab would keep Luccio’s attention completely. The only reason the Red Court hadn’t wiped us out in the years-long war was that Mab had given the Council right-of-way through the portions of the Nevernever under her control, allowing us wizards to stay as mobile as our opponents, who had considerably less difficulty employing mortal vehicles to maneuver its soldiery.
“Jesu Christi,” Luccio spat. “She means to withdraw our right-of-way through Winter if we don’t accede to her demands.”
“Well,” I said, “she never actually came out and said that.”
“Of course she didn’t. She never speaks plainly at all.”
“She does keep her deals, though,” I pointed out.
“She doesn’t make deals she can’t slide out of. She’s forbidden the Ways to her people but also to the Wyldfae as a gesture of courtesy. All she needs to do is relax her ban against the Wyldfae, and we’d be forced to travel in strength every time we went through the Ways.”
“She’s a sneaky bitch,” I agreed. I crossed my fingers.
Luccio exhaled forcefully through her nose. “Very well. I will forward the appropriate notifications, pending approval by the Senior Council. Which Emissary would you prefer?”
“The Archive. We have a working relationship.”
Luccio mmmmm ed again. I heard a pencil scratching. “Dresden,” she said, “I cannot stress to you enough how vital it is that we avoid general hostilities, even with a relatively small power.”
Translation: Don’t start another war, Harry.
“But,” she continued, “we can afford to lose the paths through Winter even less.”
Translation: Unless you really have to.
“I hear you,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better,” Luccio said, her tone blunt. “There are those on the Senior Council
who hold the opinion that we’re already fighting one war because of your incompetence.”
I felt heat flush up my neck. “If they bring that up, remind them that my incompetence is the only reason they weren’t all blasted to molecules by a newborn god,” I shot back. “And after that, remind them that because of my incompetence, we’re enjoying a cease-fire that we desperately needed to replace our losses. And after that—”
“That is enough, Warden,” the captain snapped.
I fought down my frustration and clamped my mouth shut.
Hey, we were coming up on the holidays. They’re a time of miracles.
“I’ll notify you when I learn something,” Luccio said, and hung up the phone.
I hung up too, harder than I really needed to. I turned to find Michael and Sanya staring at me.
“Harry,” Michael said quietly, “that was Captain Luccio, was it not?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You never told us that Mab threatened to go back on her bargain.”
“Well, no.”
Michael watched me with troubled eyes. “Because she didn’t. You just lied to Luccio.”
“Yeah,” I said shortly. “Because I need the Council’s say-so to set up the meeting. Because I’ve got to set up the meeting so that the gang of murdering bastards who tortured Shiro to death will have a chance to prove to you that they’ve still got it coming.”
“Harry, if the Council learns that you’ve misled them—”
“They’ll probably charge me with treason,” I said.
Michael rose from his seat. “But—”
I stabbed a finger at him. “The longer we delay, the longer those creeps stay in town, the longer Summer’s hit men keep coming after me, and the more likely it is that innocent people are going to get hurt in the cross fire. I’ve got to move fast, and the best way to get the Council to move is to let it think its own ass is about to fall into the fire.”
“Harry—” Michael began.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t give me the speech about redemption and mercy and how everyone deserves a second chance. I’m all for doing the right thing, Michael. You know that. But this isn’t the time.”
“Then what is right changes because we’re in a hurry?” he asked gently.
“Even your Book says that there’s a time for all things,” I said. “A time to heal—and a time to kill.”
Michael looked from me to the corner by the back door, where the broadsword Amoracchius rested in its humble leather scabbard, its plain, crusader-style hilt bound in wire. “It isn’t that, Harry. I’ve seen more of what they’ve done than you have. I have no qualms with fighting them, if it comes to that.”
“They’ve already blown up a building, tried to murder me, and set off a situation that nearly got your own children burned down in the cross fire. In what way has it not come to that?”
Instead of answering, Michael shook his head, took up Amoracchius, and walked further into the house.
I scowled after him for a minute and muttered darkly under my breath.
“You confused him,” Sanya rumbled.
I glanced at the dark-skinned Knight. “What?”
“You confused him,” Sanya repeated. “Because of what you did.”
“What? Lying to the Council? I don’t see that I had much choice.”
“But you did,” Sanya said placidly. He reached into the gym bag on the floor next to him and drew out a long saber, an old cavalry weapon—Esperacchius. A nail worked into the hilt declared it a brother of Michael’s sword. He started inspecting the blade. “You could have simply moved to attack them.”
“By myself? I’m bad, but I’m not that bad.”
“He’s your friend. He would have come with you. You know that.”
I shook my head. “He’s my friend. Period. You don’t do that to your friends.”
“Precisely,” Sanya said. “So instead you have placed your own life in jeopardy in order to protect his beliefs. You risk your body to preserve his heart.” He brought out a smooth sharpening stone and began stropping the saber’s blade. “I suppose he considers it a particularly messianic act.”
“That’s not why I did it,” I said.
“Of course it isn’t. He knows that. It isn’t easy for him. Usually he’s the one protecting another, willing to pay the price if he must.”
I exhaled and glanced after Michael. “I don’t know what else I could have done.”
“Da,” Sanya agreed. “But he is still afraid for you.” He fell quiet for a moment, while his stone slid along the sword’s blade.
“Mind if I ask you something?” I said.
The big man kept sharpening the sword with a steady hand. “Not at all.”
“You looked a little tense when Tessa’s name came up,” I said.
Sanya glanced up at me for a second, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. He shrugged a shoulder and went back to his work.
“She do you wrong?”
“Barely ever noticed me. Or spoke to me,” Sanya said. “To her I was just an employee. One more face. She did not care who I was.”
“This second of hers, though. The one who recruited you.”
The muscles along his jawline twitched. “Her name is Rosanna.”
“And she done you wrong,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cause when you talk about her, your face says that you been done wrong.”
He gave me a brief smile. “Do you know how many black men live in Russia, Dresden?”
“No. I mean, I figure they’re kind of a minority.”
Sanya stopped in midstrop and glanced at me for a pregnant moment, one eyebrow arched. “Yes,” he said, his tone dry. “Kind of.”
“More so than in the States, I guess.”
He grunted. “For Moscow I was very, very odd. If I went out to any smaller towns when I was growing up, I had to be careful about walking down busy streets. I could cause car accidents when drivers took their eyes off the road to stare at me. Literally. Many people in that part of the world had never seen a black person with their own eyes. That is changing slowly, but growing up I was a minority the way Bigfoot is a minority. A freak.”
I started putting things together. “That’s the kind of thing that is bound to make a young man a little resentful.”
He went back to sharpening the sword. “Oh, yes.”
“So when you say that Tessa prefers to take recruits she knows will be eager to accept a coin…”
“I speak from experience,” Sanya said, nodding. “Rosanna was everything that angry, poor, desperate young man could dream of. Pretty. Strong. Sensual. And she truly did not care about the color of my skin.” Sanya shook his head. “I was sixteen.”
I winced. “Yeah. Good age for making really bad decisions. I speak from experience, too.”
“She offered me the coin,” Sanya said. “I took it. And for five years the creature known as Magog and I traveled the world with Rosanna, indulged in every vice a young man could possibly imagine, and…obeyed Tessa’s commands.” He shook his head and glanced up at me. “By the end of that time, Dresden, I wasn’t much more than a beast who walked upright. Oh, I had thoughts and feelings, but they were all slaves to my baser desires. I did many things of which I am not—” He broke off and turned his face away from me. “I did many things.”
“She was your handler,” I said quietly. “Rosanna. She was the one getting you to try the drugs, to do the deeds. One little step at a time. Corrupting you and letting the Fallen take control.”
He nodded. “And the whole time I never even suspected it. I thought that she cared about me as much as I cared about her.” He smiled faintly. “Mind you, I never claimed to be of any particular intelligence.”
“Who got you out?” I asked him. “Shiro?”
“In a way,” Sanya said. “Shiro had just driven Tessa from one of her projects in…Antwerp, I believe. She came storming into Rosanna’s apartment in Venice, f
urious. She and Rosanna had an argument I never completely understood—but instead of leaving when I was told to do so, I stayed to listen. I heard what Rosanna truly felt about me, heard her report about me to Tessa. And I finally understood what an idiot I’d been. I dropped the coin into a canal and never looked back.”
I blinked at him. “That must have been difficult.”
“My entire life has been one of a snowball in Hell,” Sanya said cheerfully. “Though the metaphor is perhaps inverted. At the time I judged the action to be tantamount to suicide, since Tessa was certain to track me down and kill me—but Shiro had followed her to Venice, and he found me instead. Michael—not the Chicago Michael, the other one—met us at Malta and brought Esperacchius, here, with him, offering me the chance to work against some of the evil I’d helped to create. From there I have been Knighting. Is good work. Plenty of travel, interesting people, always a new challenge.”
I shook my head and laughed. “That’s putting a positive spin on it.”
“I am making a difference,” Sanya said with simple and rock-solid conviction. “And you, Dresden? Have you considered taking up Fidelacchius? Joining us?”
“No,” I said quietly.
“Why not?” Sanya asked, his tone reasonable. “You know for what we fight. You know the good we do for others. Your cause runs a close parallel to ours: to protect those who cannot protect themselves; to pit yourself against the forces of violence and death when they arise.”
“I’m not really into the whole God thing,” I said.
“And I am an agnostic,” Sanya responded.
I snorted. “Hell’s bells. Tell me you aren’t still clinging to that. You carry a holy blade and hang out with angels.”
“The blade has power, true. The beings allied with that power are…somewhat angelic. But I have met many strange and mighty things since I took up the sword. If one called them ‘aliens’ instead of ‘angels,’ it would only mean that I was working in concert with powerful beings—not necessarily the literal forces of Heaven, or a literal Creator.” Sanya grinned. “A philosophical fine point, true, but I am not prepared to abandon it. What we do is worthy, without ever bringing questions of faith, religion, or God into the discussion.”