by Jim Butcher
“I’ve ordered my full century on watch and armed, Bernard, and I’ve sent runners to the watchtowers to make sure the balefires will be lit if there’s trouble, but that’s as much as I can do on my authority.”
“Then do it on Gram’s,” Bernard said. “Get the Knights armed and ready and the rest of your Legion armed out. Bring the local folk inside the walls and get word to Riva. Without the support of the Rivan Legions, it might not matter if we are ready to fight.”
With an irritated growl, Giraldi shoved Pluvus’s weight onto Harger, who accepted it with a grunt. “Bernard,” Giraldi said, “you don’t understand. Pluvus is bringing charges against you. Treason, Bernard. He says you were a part of a plot to assassinate Gram.”
“That’s a load of slive droppings, and you know it.”
“But I’m not a Citizen,” Giraldi said, his tone quiet. “And off your steadholt, neither are you. With Gram down —”
“How bad is he?”
Harger grunted. “Not good, Bernard. Unconscious. The knife got him low in the back. He’s not as young as he used to be, and he’d been drinking pretty heavy the past few weeks. I’ve done as much as I can for him, but we sent one of our Knights Aeris to bring a healer with more skill than me. I’m a workhorse, but this is delicate. Beyond me.”
“At least you’ve done that. Did he take any word of the attack?”
Giraldi made a frustrated sound. “Bernard. There hasn’t been an attack. There hasn’t been any sign of an attack.”
“It’s coming,” Bernard snapped. “Crows and carrion, you know what Gram would do. Do it.”
“I can’t,” Giraldi snarled, “Pluvus gave specific orders against a general arming at ‘wild and unfounded rumor.’ Unless Gram gives me orders himself, I won’t be able to do any more than I already have. You don’t think I want to, Bernard? I’ve a wife and three children here. I don’t have the authority.”
“Then I’ll—”
Giraldi shook his head. “You don’t either. There are men here who know you, but there are a lot of new ones, too. Those fools you met at the wall today.”
Harger let out a nasty chuckle.
Giraldi shot the healer a hard look. “You flattened the son of a Rivan Lord, Bernard. They’re insulted, and they aren’t going to take any orders from you. You don’t have the rank to do this.”
Amara stepped forward and said, “I do.”
The three men fell abruptly silent. Giraldi reached up and swept off his helmet, a polite gesture. “Excuse me, young lady. I didn’t see you there. Miss, I know that you want to help, but—”
“But this is man’s work?” Amara asked. “None of us have time for that, centurion. My name is Amara ex Cursori Patronus Gaius. His Majesty has seen fit to grant me the honorary rank of Countess, which I believe entitles me to the same privileges of command as Count Gram.”
“Well, young lady, in theory I’m sure that —”
Amara stepped closer to the centurion. “Why are you wasting my time, centurion? You obviously believe that there is a threat, or you wouldn’t have armed your men. Stop getting in my way and tell me who I have to bring to heel to get anything done around here.”
Giraldi stared at her in baffled surprise. Then he looked at Bernard and said, “Is she telling the truth?”
Bernard folded his arms and eyed Giraldi.
The centurion passed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “All right, Your Ladyship. I suppose the first place to start would be Pluvus —”
Harger drawled, “Pluvus agrees with whatever the lass says, don’t you sir?” He took Pluvus’s hair and nodded his head back and forth. “There you have it. I’m the doctor, and in my medical opinion, this man is of sound judgment. Sounder than when he’s awake, anyway.”
Giraldi swallowed nervously. “Yes, and then you’d have to speak to Pirellus, Your Ladyship. He’s the Knight Commander of the garrison here. If he goes with you, the other centurions will follow his lead, and their men with them.”
“Pirellus? Pirellus of the Black Blade?”
“Aye, Your Ladyship. Strong metalcrafter he is. Fencer like I’ve rarely seen. Old blood, old family, that one. He don’t care much for these puppies we got, but he don’t care to be ordered about by a woman, either, Your Ladyship. He gave ’Finder Olivia headaches like you never saw.”
“Wonderful,” Amara said, drawing in a breath, thinking. Then she turned to Bernard. “I need my sword back.”
Bernard’s eyes widened. “Don’t you think killing him is a little extreme? Especially since he’d cut you apart.”
“It won’t come to that. Get it for me.” She turned to Giraldi and said, “Take me to him.”
“Your Ladyship,” Giraldi said hesitantly. “I don’t know if you understand. He and the rest of the Knights are abed already.”
“They’re gambling and wenching you mean,” Amara said. “I’ve seen it before, centurion. Take me to him.”
“I’ll have the sword, Countess,” Bernard rumbled.
She looked back at him and flashed him a quick smile. “Thank you, Steadholder. Healer, perhaps the truthfinder needs a good bed.”
“I think he does, at that,” agreed Harger cheerfully. He toted Pluvus into the cell and dumped him unceremoniously on the bare palette. “The closest bed possible.”
Amara had to stifle the laugh that leapt to her throat and struggled to keep her expression stern. “Centurion, lead on.”
“Come on, Bernard,” Harger said. “I know where they put your stuff.”
Amara followed Centurion Giraldi up out of the basement of what turned out to be a storage building and into Garrison itself, laid out in the standard formation of a marching camp. “Mutiny,” he muttered. “Assaulting a seniorofficer. Abducting a senior officer. Misrepresenting the orders of a senior officer.”
“What’s that, centurion?”
“I’m counting how many ways I’ll be executed, Your Ladyship.”
“Look at it this way,” Amara said. “If you live to be hanged, we’ll all be very fortunate.” She nodded toward the barracks that would customarily house the Knights of a camp. Lights still glowed inside, and she heard a piper and laughter from within. “This one?”
“Yes, Lady,” the centurion said.
“Fine. Get to your men. Make sure they watch the signal towers. And ready any other available defense of the walls.”
The centurion drew in a breath and nodded. “All right. Do you think you’ll convince him, Lady?”
“The only question is whether or not he survives it,” Amara said, and her voice sounded cool to her, very certain. “One way or another, those Knights will be ready to fight, by the Crown.”
Harger came panting up to them out of the dark, blowing like an old but spirited horse. He held the sword Amara had claimed from the Princeps Memorium in his hand and offered her the hilt. “There you go,” the healer panted. “Hope you work quick, girlie. One of the guards thought he saw a light from the furthest tower, but it went out. Bernard took a horse out to see what’s going on.”
Amara’s heart skipped a beat. Bernard alone in that country. The Marat that close. “How far is the tower from here?”
“Seven, eight miles,” Harger said.
“Centurion. How long to move troops that far?”
“Without furycrafting? At night? That’s rough country, Lady. Maybe they could be here in three hours or a little more, as a body. Light troops could do it a lot faster.”
“Crows,” Amara breathed. “All right. Get the rest of the troops out of bed, centurion. Assemble them and tell them that the Knight Commander will address them in a few moments.”
“Uh, Lady? If he won’t come —”
“Leave that to me.” She slipped the sword’s scabbard through her belt, holding it at her hip with her left hand and stalked toward the Knight’s barracks, her heart pounding in her throat. She stopped outside the doors and took a breath to stabilize herself and clear her mind. Then she put her hand on the d
oor and shoved it open, hard, letting it rattle against its frame.
The inside of the barracks was thick with the smell of wood smoke and wine. Furylamps burned in shades of gold and scarlet. Men played at draughts at one table, stacks of coins riding on the game, while groups threw dice at two others. Women, most of them of an age to speak of their status as camp women, draped on a man’s arm here and there, carried wine, or sprawled on a sofa or in a chair, drinking or kissing. One girl, a lithe young thing in a slave’s collar and little more, danced to the music of the piper before the fire, casting a slender, dark shadow there like some kind of exotic ornament.
Amara took a breath and walked to the nearest table. “Excuse me,” she said, keeping her voice cool, businesslike. “I’m looking for Commander Pirellus.”
One of the men at the table looked up at her with a leer. “He’s already had his girls for tonight, lass. Though I’d be happy to fill your . . .” His eyes wandered suggestively. “. . . time.”
Amara faced the man and said, cooly, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Where is Commander Pirellus?”
The man’s face darkened with drunken anger, and he straightened, picking up a knife in his fist. “What? You saying I’m not good enough for you? You some kind of snob whore that only goes for rich boy Citizens?”
Amara reached for Cirrus and borrowed of her fury’s swiftness. Her arm blurred, drawing the short guardsman’s blade from its scabbard at her hip. The sword leapt across the space between them before the startled soldier could react, and Amara leaned forward enough to let it dimple his throat. The room abruptly went dead silent, but for the crackle of the fire. “I am a Cursor of the First Lord himself. I’m here on business. And I have no tolerance for drunken fools. Drop the knife.”
The soldier made a strangled sound, holding up one hand to her, palm out. The other, he lowered to the table and set the knife down. Amara could feel the ugly stares of the men around him focusing on her like the tips of a dozen spears about to be driven home. Her throat grew tight with fear, but she allowed none of it to be seen on her face, leaving her expression cool, calm, and merciless as an icy sea.
“Thank you,” Amara said. “Now. Where is Pirellus?”
Amara heard a door open behind her, and a calm, almost languid voice said, in a lazy Parcian drawl, “He’s having his bath. But he’s always at the disposal of a lady.”
Amara drew the sword from the throat of the soldier before her and with a glance of disdain, turned her back on him to face the speaker.
He was a man, taller than most, his skin the dark golden brown of her own. His night-black hair, worn long against Legion regulations, spilled down in a damp tangle around his shoulders. He was lean with hard, flat muscle, and bore a slender, curved sword of metal blacker than mourning velvet in his hand. He faced Amara with an expression of bland, confident amusement on his face.
He was also dripping wet and as naked as a babe.
Amara felt her cheeks start to heat and firmly kept herself from giving away her embarrassment. “You are Pirellus, Knight Commander of Garrison?”
“A Parcian girl,” Pirellus said, a wide, white smile coming over his mouth. “It has been a very long time since I have sat down and entertained a Parcian girl.” He inclined his head, though his sword did not change its casually ready position at his side. “I am Pirellus.”
Amara arched an eyebrow at him and looked him up and down. “I’d heard so much about you.”
Pirellus smiled, confident.
“I thought you’d be,” she coughed delicately, letting her gaze linger significantly. “Taller.”
The smile vanished. With it, Amara would hope, some of that arrogance.
“Put on some clothes, Commander,” Amara said. “Garrison is about to come under attack. You will arm and prepare your men and address the members of the Legions who are assembling outside even now.”
“Attack?” Pirellus drawled. “By whom, may I ask?”
“The Marat. We believe they have the support of a company of Knights. Possibly more.”
“I see,” he said, his tone unconcerned. “Now, let me see. I’ve seen you somewhere before. I’m trying to remember where.”
“The capital,” Amara said. “I went to some of your matches two years ago and was in a class you lectured at the Academy.”
“That’s right,” Pirellus said, smiling. “Though you were dressed up like a woman at that time. Now I remember — you’re that little windcrafter girl who saved those children in the fires on the east side of the city. That was bravely done.”
“Thank you,” Amara said.
“Stupid, but brave. What are you doing here, schoolgirl?”
“I’m a Cursor now, Pirellus. I’ve come to warn you of an attack before you get buried in a Marat horde.”
“How thoughtful of you. And you are speaking to me instead of the garrison commander, because?”
“I am speaking to you because you are the ranking capable officer. The Count is unconscious, Pluvus an idiotic politico, and the watch commander a centurion without the rank to order a general mobilization. You will order it and send to Riva for reinforcements.”
Pirellus’s brows shot up. “On whose authority?”
“On mine,” Amara said. “Countess Amara ex Cursori Patronus Gaius of Alera.”
Pirellus’s expression changed again, to a scowl. “You got yourself a title for that little display, and you think you can go where you please and order around who you like?”
Amara abruptly reversed her grip on her sword and laid it, blade gleaming, on the table beside her. Then she turned to face him and walked toward him, stopping less than an arm’s length away. “Pirellus,” she said, keeping her voice to a low murmur. “I’d rather not be here. And I’d rather not pull rank on you. Don’t force me to push this as far as I’m willing to.”
His eyes met hers, hard, stubborn. “Don’t threaten me, girl. You’ve got nothing to do it with.”
In answer, Amara called upon Cirrus again and struck the man with her open hand across his cheek, a ringing blow that had landed and turned his head before he could avoid it. Pirellus stepped back from her, blade coming up to rest pointing at her heart in pure reflex.
“Don’t bother,” Amara told him. “If you will not do what needs to be done, I challenge you to juris macto here and now, for negligence of duty treasonous to the Realm.” She turned from him and reclaimed the blade, turning back to face him. “Blades. I can begin when you are ready.”
The commander had stopped and was staring at her intently. “You’re kidding me,” he said. “You’ve got to be joking. You could never beat me.”
“No,” Amara said, “but I’m enough of a blade to make you kill me to win. You’d be killing a Cursor in the execution of her duties, Commander. Whether I’m a man or woman, whether I’m right or wrong about the coming attack, you will be guilty of treason. And we both know what will happen to you.” She lifted her sword and saluted him. “So. If you are willing to throw your life away, please, call the duel and let us be about it. Or get dressed and make ready to defend Garrison. But one way or another, you will hurry, Commander, because I have no time to coddle your ego.”
She faced him across the space of a pair of long steps, her blade held up, and did not blink at him. Her heart raced in her throat, and she felt a drop of sweat slide down her jaw to her neck. Pirellus was a master metalcrafter, one of the finest swordsmen alive. If he chose to engage in the duel, he could kill her, and there would be little she could do to stop him. And yet it was necessary. Necessary to convince him of her sincerity, necessary for him to know that she was willing to die to get him to act, that she would sooner die than fail in her duty to Alera, to Gaius. She stared at his eyes and focused on the task before her and refused to give in to her fear or to let it make the sword tremble at all.
Pirellus stared at her for a moment, his expression dark, pensive.
Amara held her breath.
The Knight s
traightened, slowly, from his casual slouch. He laid the fiat of his blade across his forearm, holding it in one hand, and bowed to her, the motion graceful, angrily precise. “Countess,” he said, “in the interests of preserving the safety of this garrison, I will do as you command me. But I will make a note of it in my report that I do so under protest.”
“So long as you do it,” Amara said. Relief spun in her head, and she nearly sat down on the floor. “You’ll see to the preparations, then?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship,” Pirellus said, his words exquisitely barbed and courteous. “I think I can take care of things. Otto, let’s get something into the men besides tea. Wake everyone up. Camdon, lass, fetch me my clothes and armor.” One of the men at the draughts table and the collared dancer went running.
Amara withdrew from the room and out into the town again, sheathing her sword and taking deep breaths. It was only moments later that she heard a tightly focused roar of wind and looked up to see a pair of half-dressed Knights Aeris hurtle into the night sky on different headings, bound for Riva, she had no doubt.
She had done it. Finally, Garrison was readying itself for battle. Troops started assembling in the square at the center of town. Furylights glowed. Centurians barked orders, and a drummer began playing fall in. Dogs barked, and wives and children appeared from some of the other buildings, even as other soldiers were dispatched to wake those in the outbuildings and to draw them into the protection of the town’s walls.
It was in the hands of the soldiers now, Amara thought. Her part was done. She had been the eyes of the Crown, its hands, giving warning to Alera’s defenders. Surely that would be enough. She found a shadow against one of the heavy walls of the town and leaned back against it, letting her head fall back against the stone. Her body sagged with sudden exhaustion, relief hitting her like a hard liquor, making her feel heavy and tired. So very tired.
She looked up at the stars, now and then visible through the pale clouds overhead, and found herself vaguely surprised that no tears fell. She was too tired to cry.
Drums rolled, and trumpets sounded out orders, different brazen tones calling to separate centuries and maniples of the Legion. Men began to line the walls, while others drew water in preparation for fighting fires. Watercrafters, both Legion Healers, like Harger, and homeskilled wives and daughters of the legionares made their way to the covered shelters inside the walls, where tubs of water were filled and held in preparation to receive the wounded. Firecrafters tended to blazes on the walls, while windcrafters of the Knights at Garrison took to the air above, flying in patrol to warn and ward any surprise attack from the darkened night skies. Earthcrafters manned stations at the gates and walls, their weapons nearby, but their bare hands resting on the stone of the defenses, calling on their furies to imbue them with greater obdurate strength.