Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  Voren cursed. “Well, this explains the presence of our Crown-Prince.”

  “Sir?”

  “He’s brought the bulk of the royal navy here to redeploy us, Chevalier-General. He’s taking the army back across the sea to defend Sarresant proper. They’ve been losing the war on the ground there”—he gave a soft, bitter laugh—“for the past six months.”

  “Sir,” she began, heat creeping into her voice, “if they redeploy us back to the Old World, how can the colonies stand against the Gandsmen? They are doubtless mustering fresh levies even as we speak.”

  “Perhaps the Duc-Governor can broker a peace. If not …” His voice lingered. “Then the colonies will fall.”

  She slumped into the cushions of her chair, stunned. Could it be true? It was clear the navy was here for a grand purpose, but to evacuate the army from the colonies? This was her home. This was her men’s home. Nominally they owed allegiance to the crown, but she’d never seen a scion of the de l’Arraignon line before Louis-Sallet made his trip across the sea. If their armies boarded his ships and sailed away, thousands would die. Tens of thousands. New Sarresant would be sacked. Villecours would burn. She’d seen the barbarity of the enemy commander firsthand, at Fantain’s Cross, and Oreste. Could they abandon their people, their homes to the mercy of such a man?

  The door to the general’s private room banged open before she could reply. Foot-Captain Marquand stumbled in unannounced, wielding a freshly cooked chicken leg in one hand and a tray she could only assume had been meant for her in the other. Thankfully, Voren looked amused. The general’s aide rushed to the doorway a moment later, stuttering an apology. Marquand affected not to hear, offering a gesture that might have been a salute before he crashed down into one of the long couches at the far side of the room.

  Voren leaned back in his chair, eyebrow raised. “One of yours, d’Arrent?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, with a glare for Marquand. “One of our fullbinders, in need of a reminder that his talents do not confer the sort of privilege he seems to think they do.”

  “Very well. Why have you invited him here? Can he be trusted with strategic confidence?” The look he gave Marquand suggested what he thought of that.

  “Yes, sir, he can be trusted. He’s a drunken fool, but he’s loyal to … to the army.” She’d been about to say he was loyal to Sarresant, but the words soured in her mouth in light of the revelation of Louis-Sallet’s intent.

  Marquand coughed. “He’s sitting right here, sir.”

  She ignored him, returning her attention to her commander. “Sir, I’ve called him here to demonstrate firsthand the power of Need.”

  “Now hold on a minute,” Marquand said, setting down the grease-soaked remains of her lunch on the upholstery beside him. “You never said anything about—”

  She slid her eyes shut, and found the golden thread of Need within Marquand, ignoring his sputtering protests. It proved far easier to repeat with a subject with whom she was familiar, snapping into place as easily as she might have tethered any other binding. The reserve of Need was small but, driven by her own requirement to show her commander, proved sufficient.

  Once again the feeling of seeing herself, her eyes rolled back as if stunned or in a trance, sitting in the cushioned chair opposite Marquand’s place on the couch, made her stomach turn. Voren’s eyes went wide, and he rose to his feet.

  “This is it?” her commander asked, craning his head to regard Marquand in a wholly different light. “This is the Need binding?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said with Marquand’s voice, straining to control the slurring effects of whatever wine he’d drowned himself in this morning. “I see through his eyes, and control his movements.”

  “Fascinating,” Voren said, rubbing his chin.

  The reserve of Need ran dry, and her vision slid back behind familiar eyes.

  “Fuck you, d’Arrent!” Marquand roared, springing to his feet. Or at least, he might have done, if his knees hadn’t buckled beneath him halfway up. Sputtering a few more choice curses, he scrambled to pick himself up off the ground.

  She turned to look down at him, shaking her head. “Find a trough to soak your head, Marquand. That’s a direct order.”

  He knew better than to try her. For other men, the presence of two senior generals might have been enough to corral their behavior toward some semblance of normalcy, no matter how much they’d had to drink. For Marquand, she knew it was only the memory of a few sound thrashings in the dueling grounds that kept him restrained. He stormed out of the meeting room, still hurling curses. She pitied whoever came between the foot-captain and the nearest flagon of wine.

  “Well,” Voren said after he’d gone, wearing another amused look. “I suppose I can infer the binding has unpleasant aftereffects?”

  “Perhaps, sir. I have not as yet had time to give it a proper study.”

  “Find the time. Requisition whatever resources you require; I will see it approved. We cannot fight another campaign without the full use of this ability.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, feeling a renewed pang of concern. “Will it be in the Old World then? The next campaign?”

  Voren sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “See to your new leyline binding, d’Arrent.”

  “Sir, I cannot believe the crown would give this order.” She knew she overstepped in pressing her commander after he’d given her a cue to leave. She didn’t care. “Are you certain the Crown-Prince means for us to leave the colonies undefended?”

  “He’d have given the order already if he had given proper forethought to the consequences.”

  “Sir?” she asked.

  “What would you choose, d’Arrent, between right and duty? Could you board that ship, knowing you consigned the people of New Sarresant to death and torment at the hands of our enemies?”

  She made no reply.

  “Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon is a boy,” Voren said finally. “Untested, young. He’s hatched a brilliant plan and sailed across the sea to see it done. Now he faces the reality of his dreams, and he blinks.”

  She sat in silence, regarding her commander. Voren was an old man, but no ancient graybeard for all that. Yet he seemed taxed, brought low beneath the weight of the orders he would soon be asked to give.

  “We are soldiers,” he said abruptly. “We are soldiers, and we do not blink.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, hearing the hollowness of her own words. It was almost beyond thinking, questioning an order. Years of training ingrained obedience in her bones. The pointless regulations she could set aside easily enough, but a direct order from the crown? It was not her place to question. It was not Marquis-General Voren’s place to question. Yet here they stood, contemplating the bedlam Louis-Sallet would unleash on this city when he gave the order for its protectors, for natives of the colonies to board ships and sail off across the sea. Her men would be asked to turn their weapons on their own people before the end. There would be riots, and worse.

  “See to your new binding, Chevalier-General,” Voren repeated in a weary voice. “I expect a full report within a few days’ time.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said again, rising to salute. Her commander gave the counter-salute and she made her exit, down through the common room and once more onto the bustling streets of the Harbor. Whatever else was coming, she had work to do.

  34

  SARINE

  An Unmarked Street

  Maw District, New Sarresant

  She kept to the shadows whenever she could. Faith was abundant in the Maw, but her body had limits when it came to maintaining leyline tethers. Fatigue was a hindrance she could do without; no telling how much longer the evening’s pursuit would continue.

  She’d followed these two since sundown, when they left from a back entrance of Reyne d’Agarre’s estate. Right away it had been clear these were no ordinary guests, nor were they the servants and gardeners who frequented the grounds. One was a wiry man of middling height, lean, wi
th a hip-scabbard dangling from his belt. The other man towered over his companion, a brute who went without a cloak despite the chill creeping into the autumn breeze. Together they made a beeline through Southgate, crossing through the Market district at the center of the city, traveling along the Riverways just far enough to cross the river and make their entrance into the Maw.

  These two were the first she’d followed who did more than routine comings and goings, errands to the butcher shop or the candlemaker or any of the dozens of other artisans and merchants required to keep an estate like d’Agarre’s running in good order. She’d hoped they would lead her into the Gardens, the Harbor, or the military camps outside the city. Still, she might learn somewhat about d’Agarre’s operations, even here in the slums. And neither of these men had a look suggesting they kept permanent residence in the Maw; with luck, she might follow them after they’d conducted whatever business they were about, and make a connection elsewhere. For now, vigilant pursuit.

  Her breath caught as they came to a halt, and the larger of the two men craned his neck to look up and down the street. By reflex she tethered Faith and faded from view, slivers of a second before he saw her. The Nameless take her luck; she’d been caught between hiding spots as she tailed them. She’d kept a good distance behind, but the bigger man had already cast a suspicious eye once back in the Market, a sign he thought they might be followed. He hadn’t seen her, thank the Gods, but if she kindled further suspicion they might abandon the night’s errand. Seconds passed, and it seemed she’d been quick enough this time, or at least the man gave no outward sign that anything was amiss. He turned his attention back to the building in front of which they’d stopped. A warehouse. Storage space was cheap in the Maw, provided you didn’t mind the constant threat of local toughs breaking in and stealing your goods. There were a few less reputable merchants who did business in the district, and it seemed one was working here in spite of the late hour. The upper floors of the warehouse streamed light back out onto the street, and even from two blocks away she could hear the sounds of activity coming from the building. The shorter, wiry man gestured to someone on the other side of the main door, and she could hear raised voices.

  No telling whether the men she followed or the men inside the warehouse might be binders, able to detect her leyline tethers. But she was here for information, and a few risks had to be taken to get it.

  She tethered Mind, fixing the binding to a point beside the men rather than into herself. Had she done the latter, it would have sent out copies of her, exact mimics made of light and energy. Instead, as soon as the tether snapped in place her senses seemed to leap forward; she saw and heard as if she stood just beside the men.

  “ … drops from the lily petals,” the wiry man finished, just as her senses shifted.

  Some kind of pass-phrase? She cursed under her breath for having missed the entirety of it.

  A pair of eyes through an opened slat in the door replied, even as they looked him up and down. “And the fish will swim upstream with the morning tide. Thank the Gods you’ve arrived.”

  “Everything’s in order then?” the big man said in a gruff voice.

  “Yes, everything’s ready. Come around the back to make your entrance. Tell ’em ‘Margot waters the lemon trees’ and they’ll let you in.”

  The slat slid shut and the two men walked the alley between the lighted warehouse and the dark one beside it, leaving her view. She released the Mind binding, feeling her senses snap back where they belonged. A grueling binding to maintain, not least for the dizziness that followed when she let it go. She paused, safely hidden in the shadows, to let the effects fade. Whatever was going on inside that warehouse pertained to d’Agarre’s plans, of a certainty. And she had the password to the back door if not the front. She could always tether Faith and wait to squeeze inside if they opened for someone else, but no telling whether any more arrivals were expected.

  “What do you think, Zi?” she whispered. “Worth trying to sneak inside?”

  Her companion materialized on her shoulder, his scales as bright a red as she had ever seen them.

  Yes, he thought to her, then faded once more from view.

  Well, that settled that.

  She lingered in the shadows long enough to be certain the two men had made their entrance, then took a deep breath and let her Faith dissipate. She strode toward the rear entrance of the lighted warehouse with a show of outward confidence. As she drew near she heard once more the dull buzz of activity within. This was more than a few secret conspirators. No telling precisely what she might find inside, but it sounded like a crowd. As usual for the Maw, she had enough Faith and Body to get away unseen, in haste, if she had to. She’d gotten into places she wasn’t meant to be scores of times for the benefit of her sketches. She could do this. One more deep breath for good measure, and she approached the door.

  The slat was shut when she arrived. She rapped the door twice, firm and clear. A long moment passed, time enough for her nerve to threaten to fade, before the slat whipped open without so much as a warning. A pair of suspicious eyes regarded her from the other side. Young eyes, absent crow’s-feet or any other adornment of age.

  “What do you want?” came the voice from beyond the door. Her first thought had been to use charm, but in the moment she decided confidence was the better approach. The street rats of the Maw had little enough use for pretty girls or flattery, but they respected strength, and they were used to being too unimportant to be noticed.

  She affected an air of detachment, only deigning to look the young man in the eyes for a moment before glancing back toward the street as if her mind were occupied by other matters.

  “Margot waters the lemon trees,” she said nonchalantly. “Here with a follow-on delivery from the estate.”

  The eyes on the other side of the slat narrowed, suggesting a frown.

  “Is there a problem with your hearing, boy?” she demanded, letting a touch of irritation into her voice.

  “No, m’lady, only, they’ve started and—”

  “Gods damn it, you mean to tell me I’m late? Open the bloody door then.”

  She kept the satisfaction from her face when she heard the sound of locks being unlatched. The door swung inward, revealing a lanky youth.

  “Thank you, boy,” she said, striding by him with a sense of purpose. She nodded ahead, toward the hallway that forked left and right. “Which way to the meeting?”

  “Either way,” he mumbled. “Just in the center of the warehouse there.” He pointed down the hallway.

  She turned her back on him, walking down the right fork without sparing a glance back over her shoulder. With any luck he’d see nothing more than someone more important than he was, on business he didn’t need to understand.

  Now that she’d made it inside, her suspicion of a crowd gathering here was confirmed in spades. She tethered Faith as soon as she was clear of the youth and the door, fading from view. A long corridor wound its way around the outer edge of the building, the windows lining the inner wall giving her a view into the warehouse proper. Inside she could see the makings of a grand reception, with dozens of men and women—perhaps half a hundred or more—assembled beneath a series of crates piled along the west wall in a kind of makeshift stage. Most of the attendees had the look typical of Maw denizens: ragged clothes, gaunt faces, eyes that alternated between desperation, fear, and rage. Some few street toughs in leathers, but most were the types that hid from thugs when they came calling. A strange mix. She emerged at the back of the room, still shrouded in Faith for the time being, just as the smaller of the men she’d followed here, the wiry one with the dueling sword, climbed atop the crates and turned to address the room.

  “Thank you,” the man said in a clear voice that carried through the hall, stilling the murmurs and chattering of the crowd. “Thank you for coming to hear my words tonight.”

  He waited for silence to fall before he continued. “I know you have all heard promises
before, promises of protection, perhaps. Of food. Empty words from men who would place themselves above you. Rich men, clawing for a seat on the Council-General. Bosses looking to legitimize their gangs. Nobles. Priests.”

  “What makes you any different?” a voice called from the crowd.

  “Because,” the man shouted back, his voice coming alive with a chilling intensity. “Because I can deliver on the promise of my words. Others promise bread; I promise blood.”

  At this, the larger of the two men approached the stage, carrying a wide crate. With a grunt and the focused attention of everyone in the room, he hefted it up to the speaker, who wasted no time prying the top open. He reached inside and withdrew a long-barreled musket, obviously meant for the army camps outside the city, and a hush fell over the crowd.

  “You see? The time for action approaches. I do not ask you, the least of the citizens of this city, to bide your time with the comfort of promises. I propose instead to give you the power to forge your own way. Strength is the answer, brothers and sisters. Égalité will never come from the deliberations of men with everything to lose. Only the desperate can change the world.”

  Murmurs spread through the room, hot with anger, affirmations of what had been said.

  Yellow, Zi thought to her. What? Almost she asked after it, then remembered Zi had said the same when Reyne d’Agarre had stolen the crates at the Harbor, and again before the violence in the Maw. Was this man using the same gift? Did this man have a kaas as well?

  “You fear to act,” the man said, a challenge to the crowd. “You fear to act because the priests and the soldiers have magic they claim comes from the Gods, and they wield it like reins fastened about your necks. But I tell you now: Our cause is not without a power of our own.”

  In a blink, he moved from one end of the stage to the other, too fast to be seen without the benefit of a Life binding to sharpen her senses. A gasp rose from the crowd and he moved again, drawing the dueling blade at his side in a threatening stance, then moved once more, seeming to fade in and out across the stage.