Reign of Stars

by Tim Pratt

  "I am not so sure," Char said. "Bothvald is very clever. After the raids, he executed two of the League lieutenants and Captain Leonitas, claiming they were to blame for the inside information given to the thieves. The Black Sovereign was mollified to receive their heads, and killing Leonitas earned him the loyalty of some of the man's enemies." Char shook his head. "We've shaken Bothvald, and his position is yet precarious, but we have not toppled him."

  "So we haven't even succeeded in toppling Bothvald," Zernebeth said icily. "Let alone made any progress toward our true purpose, which is putting me back in power."

  "I thought it might come to this," Skiver admitted. "So I had one last score in mind. Something big and flashy, to put us over the top. Bothvald won't be able to put it on Leonitas's head, since he's already been rendered headless. With a little work, this could be just the thing we need."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  In the end, Alaeron insisted on coming along, even though Skiver assured him it wasn't necessary. His role was simply to sit outside the walls, in the crawler, with the time-altering staff, prepared to intervene if anything terrible happened. Skiver had sketched out an elaborate plan that involved Char descending into hidden tunnels beneath the palace, opening gates that were never unlocked, allowing Skiver, Genthia, and...that woman...to slip inside, overcoming the elaborate defenses that Bothvald himself had installed, and reaching the Black Sovereign's private vault.

  There really was such a thing, where Kevoth-Kul kept items that were especially precious to him. The greatsword he'd used to conquer the nation. The skulls of the enemy chieftains and giants he'd personally slain, which he'd had gilded, for some reason. Jewels and tribute of particular value given by neighboring nations in an attempt to keep him from invading, back before he'd ceased to be a threat to anyone but his own citizens. Also, a cache of the rarest and hardest to distill of the Black Sovereign's favorite drugs. Items, in other words, of great personal significance, the loss of which would sting Kevoth-Kul in a way the theft of mere money never could.

  The vault was lined with adamantine, so Char couldn't simply ghost through and steal them himself. They were counting on Skiver's skill with lock picking, Genthia's willingness to cheerfully murder anyone who stumbled upon them, and...that woman's...mastery of the treacherous arts in general to see their way through.

  Alaeron sat in the crawler, in the dark, waiting. He tried to think about the wreck he'd uncovered in the Felldales, and how he would handle the exploration once Zernebeth was in charge again and all was right with the world. But instead he kept thinking about...that woman.

  All right, don't be childish: about Jaya. He hadn't seen her—she'd met the others closer to Starfall—but he knew she was out there. He'd once been infatuated with her, stupidly looking for love where she saw only opportunity, but now he knew better, he was more mature, more worldly, he'd been through so much—

  "Hello, Alaeron."

  He jumped—so much for being casual and sophisticated—as Jaya appeared from the shadows, Kevoth-Kul's immense greatsword leaning against her shoulder as if she carried swords nearly as long as she was tall every day. She was a vision of loveliness, long dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, dressed all in clinging, shadow-gray, practical thieving clothes—she was like the opposite of pale Zernebeth.

  Before Alaeron could react to her presence, Jaya leaned the greatsword against the crawler, then stepped forward and kissed his cheek. "I've always felt terrible about how things worked out between us, Alaeron. I'm glad I was able to come and help you with this. I wouldn't even let Skiver pay me my usual rate—only half, as a gesture of apology." She took his hands, looked into his eyes, smiled, and then disappeared back into the dark.

  Alaeron hadn't said a single word. Not that he could think of anything to say, even now that she was gone. He had expected to feel a surge of rage or hate when he saw her again, but instead all he felt was...a sort of vague fondness, like you might feel toward a beloved nephew who'd disappointed you, but for whom you nevertheless had a certain natural affection. Maybe this meant he'd gotten over her—both over the betrayal of her pretending to care about him when she didn't, and over the fact that he'd gone right on caring about her afterward, anyway. Perhaps his complicated feelings for Zernebeth had overwritten his differently complicated feelings for Jaya.

  He could not remember when an idea had given him more relief.

  The others arrived moments later, Genthia and Skiver lugging a chest between them, Char drifting along in their wake. "—couldn't believe it when she kissed that guard right on the mouth!" Genthia was saying. "And then the woman just collapsed, her eyes rolled back, at first I thought it was because it must be such a good kiss, but Jaya told me she had an alchemical sedative on her lips!"

  "That's our Jaya," Skiver said, as Alaeron absently rubbed his cheek. He hoped Jaya had rubbed the poison off her lips before kissing him. Skiver glanced at the sword. "She gone already, eh? Places to go, people to do wrong." After they wrestled the chest onto the crawler, he patted Alaeron on the shoulder. "You all right?"

  "Fine," Alaeron said, and was amazed to realize he meant it.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Char brought the good word to their house in Hajoth Hakados two days later: "Bothvald fled the city before the Sovereign could put his head on a pike. The rumor is he's headed to Brevoy, though no one seems to know for sure, and the Sovereign sent riders after him in that direction. Kevoth-Kul is furious at the loss of his precious things, especially since Bothvald assured him his private vault couldn't be breached. Of course, since only Bothvald knew the precise nature of those defenses, the Sovereign assumed he was involved in that theft, and probably behind all the others."

  "Too bad for Bothvald he consulted with me about the vault's security," Zernebeth said. "I thought my assistance with that project had cemented his loyalty to me. Not the sort of mistake I'll make again."

  "When a League servant found all those gilded skulls I hid in Bothvald's rooms, and word got back to the Sovereign..." Char shrugged. "Bothvald was doomed. The League couldn't protect him from the Sovereign's wrath, and they didn't want to—the other captains think Bothvald betrayed their secrets to thieves in exchange for riches."

  "Perfect," Zernebeth said. "Now they know passing me over in favor of Bothvald was a horrible mistake."

  "So you return to Starfall tomorrow?" Alaeron said.

  "Yes. I'll arrange a meeting with the other captains. I want you at my side. And Char too."

  "I never get invited to the good parties." Skiver sighed.

  Zernebeth rose from her divan, walked to Skiver in her stateliest manner, and then—shockingly—extended her hand. After a moment's hesitation, he took it, and she shook it solemnly before letting go. "I thought you were a simple thug, Skiver—but it seems I misjudged you. You're a complex thug, and I can appreciate the distinction. Nevertheless, I should return with Char—who is still a member of the League—and with Alaeron, whom I made a point of welcoming back to the League's ranks so recently. Your presence would be rather more difficult to explain, and anyway, it's better if one of us remains in the shadows, in case things go badly."

  "Makes sense," Skiver said. "For what it's worth, you're not quite as horrible a human being as I'd assumed, either."

  Zernebeth turned and beamed at her two apprentices. "Tomorrow, to Starfall, and back to the heights of power."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The captains of the Technic League sat arrayed around the triangular table, listening patiently while Zernebeth gave a speech that was simultaneously imperious and gracious, the upshot of which was that she was willing to return to the ranks of the League, assuming she received all due honors, and if the other captains were willing to implement some necessary changes to security to avoid future fiascos like the one that began with her ousting.

  It was an impressive speech, and she was an impressive figure, Alaeron had to admit. She was still one-armed, but she'd shopped in the market that morning and was arrayed
in what passed for full dress among Technic League captains: an armored garment of rare metal scales, crisscrossed by leather straps dangling with tools and weapons, and shining black boots capable of stomping dissent into mush.

  Still, Alaeron wasn't sure the speech had worked its intended magic. He was hardly a student of human nature, but the blank expressions on the faces of the League captains worried him.

  The captain with the metal eyepatch—Elias, Alaeron thought his name was—spoke first. "You're delusional. Bothvald was a criminal fool, but what makes you think we want you back at all, let alone back in the best workshop? We only let you back in this chamber because we thought you might have some worthwhile information to sell."

  The gnome captain chimed in. "You allowed yourself to be overthrown by a traitor and a thief, and he wasn't even a competent traitor or thief—he was caught! You aren't fit to sit at our table. We're better off without Bothvald and you both."

  Zernebeth scowled. "My knowledge, my experience, surely you can't discount—"

  "Oh, we'll buy anything interesting you have to offer," Elias said. "And in light of your past contributions to the League..." He glanced around at the other captains. "I suppose you could begin again, and try to prove your worth, as all aspirants to the League do. Bring us something good, something really extraordinary, and we might find a room for you, and allow you back on a probationary basis."

  "Too merciful," the gunslinging dwarf captain muttered, but the others shrugged and murmured assent. Alaeron had the impression they didn't care one way or another.

  "Now if you'll excuse us, Zernebeth?" Elias said. "This room is really only for League members. You're welcome to stay, Char—your devotion to Zernebeth was fine when she was a rising star, but you've tethered yourself to a sinking stone, lad. You've got too much promise to waste on her."

  Zernebeth tried to rally. "If I could have a few men, to take on an expedition—"

  The captains chuckled. "Leave us, Zernebeth, while you still have one arm left," Elias said. "The chirurgeons are disappointed they didn't get to vivisect you. You did a fair bit of damage in your escape, you know, and we could hold you accountable for that. Don't make us regret our largesse."

  Alaeron touched her shoulder before she could say anything else, and she walked out, head held high, face composed, giving no sign at all that her heart was broken. Char scowled around the room and followed them out.

  Once they were outside the compound's walls, she said, in a low voice, "Char. I want you to stay in the capital. Pretend you've forsaken me, all right? That you care more about your career than our friendship. Keep an eye on things here, and gather any intelligence that might be useful to me. Anything I can use against the other captains, or to get leverage, or garner support..."

  The apprentice nodded, then sank down into the ground and out of sight.

  "Perhaps if you brought them the time-stopping staff," Alaeron said.

  She shook her head. "We both know it's cracking—the case is broken, and it's getting worse. The thing could fail at any moment. It's powerful, but it's not enough."

  "I've still got the black box in my pack, with the myrmidon inside..."

  "I'm not sure a wild automaton would do my cause much good," she mused. "We could put the box in their meeting room, hidden under the table, and if we could contrive a way to open it by remote control, and release the myrmidon into their midst, it might kill all of them. If there were no living captains, no one could say I wasn't a captain...but, no, myrmidons are immensely destructive, it might wreck half the city before anyone brought it down. The boxes seem to require a personal touch to open anyway."

  "Ah. Still. It was a...bold idea," Alaeron said.

  Zernebeth looked at the sky and chewed her lower lip for a moment. "I need something awe-inspiring, something so impressive they'll have no choice but to take me back." She turned her gaze to his face. "Get Skiver, and the crawler. Take me back to the wreck in the Felldales. Perhaps there's another staff, one that's not cracked. Or we can find whatever must be locked in that vault you couldn't open." She seized his hands, and though her skin was cold, her eyes were so bright they looked almost fevered. "There's something there. My vision was so clear, so compelling! It meant something, Alaeron, I'm sure of it. And whatever that wreck contains, I can use it to force them to give me back the life I deserve." She paused. "And the life you deserve, too."

  "I'll do my best to make sure we get what we both deserve," Alaeron said.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "Here we are again," Skiver said. "Something came by and ate the corpses of the horses, I guess, but otherwise it doesn't look any more disturbed than it was when we left." Skiver climbed out of the crawler and walked across the churned earth toward the mouth of the tunnel that led down to the wreck. "Let's—"

  He shouted and dove out of the way just as a loud humming noise filled the air, then abruptly ceased. Alaeron raced over, but Skiver was unharmed. "Someone's down there," he said. "By the door to the wreck. I saw 'em move, just before they aimed their weapon—some kind of nasty Technic League thing."

  Zernebeth stalked toward the wreck, though she was cautious enough not to stand at the mouth of the tunnel. "Who dares fire upon members of the Technic League?" she bellowed. "I'll feed you to the things in the meat garden if you don't explain yourself now!"

  "Captain Zernebeth?" a bewildered female voice said. "Is that you? But—Captain Bothvald said you were dead!"

  Zernebeth said, "Do I know you?" in icy tones.

  "I—I'm Carys, captain, the League hired me as a guard..."

  The name was faintly familiar, and a moment later it clicked for Alaeron, just as Skiver said, "She was the other guard. The one the annihilator didn't take, the one we thought was dead or fled...Bothvald must have found her, and found out about the wreck."

  "Do you have something we can toss down there to get rid of her, without too much destruction?" Zernebeth whispered. "I don't want the tunnel to cave in."

  "I, ah, of course, I—"

  "Carys?" Zernebeth called, and then, in her most imperious voice, "What are you doing her? We thought the annihilator killed you."

  Carys's voice was small and nervous. "When that monster attacked, I...I knew we couldn't fight it. I saw it pick up Goddoff in its claw, he was screaming and begging for help, and...I just panicked. I ran, and tried to hide, and stumbled on a hill tribe that tried to kill me, but I made my way back to Starfall. I nearly died of thirst on the way. Captain Bothvald made sure I got the care I needed. He said you were dead, and told me I was the only survivor of the expedition to Gorum Pots. I told him we hadn't stayed in Gorum Pots, that it was just a stop along the way. I—I'm sorry—"

  "Is Bothvald here now?" Zernebeth demanded.

  "Yes, ma'am. He told me to return here, to secure the site, to make sure no one else found it...I was so frightened, but he gave me a vial of something that took all my fear away, except now it's wearing off. He arrived this morning, and said to defend the wreck against anyone who tried to enter."

  "Throw your bomb," Zernebeth said in a low voice, and Alaeron tossed a clay orb into the tunnel. Carys shouted, and there was a another weird hum, and then silence.

  "Carys?" Zernebeth called. She frowned. "Is she dead?"

  "The bomb releases a cloud of sleeping gas. Unless she's wearing filters in her nose, or is under the influence of some protective spell..." Alaeron shrugged. "She should be snoring by now."

  "We'll have to risk it. Arm yourselves." She took the green staff—there were dozens of cracks in its case now—and Alaeron had the Earth-Mover; Skiver said he was fine with his knives, thanks. They went down the sloping tunnel, Alaeron in the lead, and there was Carys, looking bruised and battered, asleep beside one of the League's weapons, shaped vaguely like a crossbow, but with something like a spyglass welded on top, and no bowstring.

  Skiver picked up the bow-gun. "All right, I'll take this and knives. I know when to take a hint."

  "Bothvald." Z
ernebeth said something in a language Alaeron didn't know, but he was willing to bet it was profanity. "I can't believe he got here first. He wants to steal everything from me."

  "He's outnumbered three to one," Skiver pointed out. "The odds against him are almost bad enough for me to feel guilty. Almost."

  "Perhaps. Unless he's opened the door that you and Alaeron couldn't," Zernebeth said. "Depending on what he's found in there, we could be the outnumbered ones."

  "Cheerful thought," Skiver said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Behind the Black Door

  They proceeded down the curling corridors, approaching the murder holes with caution in case Bothvald had seeded them with traps, but apparently he'd been more concerned with charging forward than keeping anyone from following him. The corpses they'd left behind were gone, though whether Carys had removed them in the course of securing the site, or whether some operation of the wreck had dealt with the disposal, Alaeron wasn't sure. Zernebeth knelt by the remnants of some of the murderballs and prodded them, scooping up the pieces and putting them in her pack—planning to break them down for useful components later, Alaeron assumed.

  They approached the room at the center of the spiral, and Zernebeth gestured for silence. She rushed through the door, Alaeron and Skiver at her heels, as she lifted the staff and fired a pulse of time-altering energy.

  Bothvald was standing by the door to the vault, among the silver statues, and when they arrived, he looked at the newcomers, and sighed theatrically. "You."

  Zernebeth lifted the staff and depressed the button again, but again, there was no discernible effect on the Ulfen, though the staff pulsed with light, and developed more hairline fissures in its case.

  "Interesting," Bothvald said. "Many beam weapons pass easily through glass, but not in this case." His voice had a strange, crackling quality, and he reached out to tap on the nearly invisible barrier that once again cut off his half of the room from theirs. "I wonder if it's a shortcoming of the weapon, or a property of the glass? I'll have to take samples and find out. If you'll excuse me, I was just about to open this door." He turned back to the vault.