The lack of sleep must have caught up to Zosia, pried back her shell a little, because she felt his words like a snail feels salt. It wasn’t just the speech itself, the final fist shake of a desperate, tired man who saw his own death not five paces away. It was that he obviously believed it, believed it as much as she believed the sun set in the west.
All across the Star, Zosia and her agenda had been championed by people she had never met, never even heard of, people who put everything on the line in her name… And all across the Star, she disappointed them, because at the break of day she was just as petty and stupid as they were. She felt an urge to tell the man to flee into the darkness and start over somewhere else, his mind scrubbed free from the oily film of idealism, while she finished digging a grave for the woman who had helped burn her world to ashes. She also felt an urge to snatch the shovel from his hands and beat him with it, a harsh lesson, but well needed, to never waste a breath praising a woman you know only from songs to her memory.
A horn blew from down in the valley, where the sentries had intercepted the man and the war nun the day before, sparing Zosia from having to choose between her urges. The man looked at Zosia, Zosia looked at the man, and then they both looked down at the dead servant of the Chain who had traveled so far to find her. Choplicker kept his gaze on the Lark’s Tongue that only he could see, and then started barking fit to raise the dead, trotting up into the darkness. Yet the dead did not rise, and the man went back to digging as Zosia went after her devil.
Ji-hyeon was half dressed and less than half awake when she heard the first horn, and Choi and Fennec rushed into the dim command tent before the second sounded. Fennec helped himself to a bowl of kaldi while Keun-ju assisted Ji-hyeon into the rest of her armor—the plain but sturdy breastplate, greaves, and hauberk Zosia had helped her put together. Pulling the helm modeled after Cold Cobalt’s over her head and feeding her long blue hair through the back, she took up the thick iron scabbard that housed her twin swords.
“How ready are we?” Ji-hyeon asked, her knees weak from more than the busy night she’d spent with Keun-ju. Maybe the day would be won and they would have plenty more time together, but they hadn’t taken any chances. “How close are they?”
“They’ll be most of the way across the vale before Singh and her riders are in position to support the rest of the cavalry, but that’s all right.” Fennec sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as her. Not an auspicious start to the morning. “What good’s the high ground if we leave it to meet them, anyway?”
“What good’s fighting at all, before there’s enough light to see the enemy?” said Keun-ju sleepily.
“They’re trying to smother us before we’re able to make the most of our defense,” said Ji-hyeon. “A good thing we’re early risers. If the other captains don’t show up in five minutes we ride without refreshing, and hope they remember their roles.”
“Tapai Purna’s squad will reinforce your guard, General,” said Choi, offering a curl of bone the Ugrakari girl had taken from a horned wolf. “She offers this horn as a token of esteem for the honor.”
“Maroto’s people?” asked Fennec. “What good are scouts at the front?”
“They are much better at fighting than scouting,” said Choi. “Too loud. Too wild. They volunteered to scout for a reason, but without Maroto they’ll have no cause to avoid honor-making.”
“So Maroto never took the oath?” Ji-hyeon tried not to be too disappointed. It would have been something to have all the Villains with her, but if only two were sitting out the fight, her absent father and the grizzled barbarian would be missed the least. “I’d hoped he’d come around, especially after Sullen and Grandfather—”
“Grandfather?” Keun-ju tugged the last strap of his banded armor tight. “I didn’t realize I’d missed the wedding!”
“Maroto swears too many oaths, rather than not enough,” said Choi, whatever the devils that meant.
“General, I do think we need to reconsider your whole leading-from-the-front strategy,” Fennec said. “Even with your devil protecting you, it’s just too dangerous—”
“This isn’t my first dance,” said Ji-hyeon. “I know better than to wade in too deep. I’ll just bust a hole in their front line, then fall back. Repeatedly if needed. But I have to be close enough to the action to see where I’m most needed, not hiding out in the rear.”
“In that case you may wish to sound the horn, General,” said Choi.
“What? Oh! Come on,” said Ji-hyeon, rushing outside with her guards following her. Chevaleresse Sasamaso had their horses ready, five reins wrapped in her gauntlet. There was something surreal about the camp being this bustling and loud by torchlight, with not a star in the black predawn sky. More horns sounded from all over the camp, from all over the valley, and, lifting her visor, Ji-hyeon slid Purna’s gift between the steel canine jaws to wrap lips around the horn and blow a high, mournful trill.
Now that it had begun in earnest, nothing could stop the Second Cobalt War.
“Nothing’s going to stop me from finding her,” said Maroto, although, swaying on his gelatinous legs in the blinding lamplight of his tent, he had to agree that Purna had a point. He couldn’t risk breaking his oath to not raise arms against Queen Indsorith more than he already had, but he also couldn’t hope to find Zosia in the middle of a battlefield without doing just that. Still, he couldn’t let something happen to Zosia before he could come clean about his wish to Crumbsnatcher—she was about to go out and kill a whole lot of Imperials, all because she blamed them for something that Maroto had accidentally set into motion. It might not change her plans for the day, since Zosia had never turned her nose up at fighting Crimson soldiers, but she had a right to know. Not just for her future, but for theirs—he’d fucked up enough for ten lifetimes, and couldn’t live another day knowing Zosia thought him a friend instead of the source of all her hurt…
“Still with us, big guy?” said Purna, and Maroto realized he’d almost fainted. Again. What had become of the insatiable stinghound, that a single graveworm could lay him flat out for a day solid, and keep harassing him into the following morning? Only one thing for it, really.
“Diggelby, I need to see Diggelby. Right now.”
“Don’t blame him for your appetites, Maroto,” said Purna, flicking him in the chin and nearly sending him sprawling. “You must be comfortable in that bed, since you were in such a hurry to make it. Now crawl back in it so I can get to work—we’re riding out with the general, I just wanted to say good-bye in case… Well, I wish you were coming. It’s going to be epic.”
“I am,” Maroto decided, everything making sense now. Giving Purna his best serious face, he said, “I swore an oath to protect you, Tapai Purna, and I don’t break oaths.”
“Except to the Queen of Samoth?” Purna looked skeptical.
“Not even to her. Now, help me to Diggelby’s tent—he’s been collecting shields from every encounter we’ve had, since clear back at that ambush in the Wastes. Says he’s going to mount them in his den once he gets back home. I think he could spare a few in tribute to King Maroto.”
“Whatever, man,” said Purna, though she wasn’t much of an actor—girl was over the moon her old hero had decided to get out of bed. “But if you can’t walk out of his tent on your own, there’s no way I’m letting you get in the fight.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Maroto as she helped him into the breastplate he’d mostly been using as a platter at the mess tents. “The Mighty Maroto’s got a trick or two yet to impress the devils.”
Sullen crawled out of nightmares and his tent, on his hands and knees beside the cold remains of their campfire while horns bleated and packs of bleary-eyed soldiers rushed all around, torches waving in the darkness. He focused on the dirt between his hands, terrified to look up at the black sky lest he see the Faceless Mistress looming over him, returning to claim him for failing to carry out her will. Yet when he refused himself another mome
nt’s fear and looked up, he saw only the darkest purple that preludes dawn. A dream, nothing more. Wiping his mouth and seeing the greasy black smear his lips left on the back of his hand, he allowed maybe it was a little early to call it.
A soldier rounded his tent at a full run and nearly careened into him before pivoting past. It was the other woman his uncle ran with, the duchess, dressed in what looked something like a scalemail catsuit. She had one of the weakbows Grandfather hated so much, though it was the largest specimen he had ever seen, all polished wood and inlaid metal gleaming in the light of the lantern her companion carried. Hassan was the bloke with the light, and in his other hand was the meanest-looking sword Sullen had ever seen, all serrated edges and hook tip. It provided a dull, earthy contrast to his frilly armor—Sullen hadn’t even known you could dye leather pink, but it admittedly suited the man.
“Sullen!” said the duchess. “Just the moon-head we were looking for!”
“Moon-head?” Sullen touched his globe of white hair, too self-conscious to be mad.
“Your uncle Maroto extends his most sincere wish that you and your grandfather join us on the front,” said Hassan with a bow, “where we may fight side by side, back to back.”
“Huh,” said Sullen, remembering what had happened the last time he trusted his uncle on the battlefield and not so sure he wanted to give him a second chance just yet. What if he was the one to end up crippled on the ground, begging for Maroto’s aid?
“We shall be acting as the personal guard of General Ji-hyeon,” said the duchess. “It is the most honorable of—”
“We’ll be there in five minutes,” said Sullen, hopping to his feet and ducking back into the tent without wasting another breath. Dark as the tent was, his eyes seemed to be getting keener by the night, and, giving Grandfather a firm nudge, he started fitting his gear in place. Only when he was all set and the old man had yet to respond to his patient muttering for him to get up did he take a closer look at his grandfather. His heart stopped, and his “Get up, Fa,” never left his lips.
Only Grandfather’s face emerged from the blankets, but that was enough to tell. The old man’s eyes were wide, his face frozen in a contorted rictus, his tongue drying out in his slack mouth. Sometime in the night, he had…
“Sulllllllen.” The voice drifted from Grandfather’s slack mouth.
“Fa! Are you… What’s wrong?”
“I… Cannnnn’t…”
Even now his voice was fading, and Sullen put his ear to the old man’s lips as tears began to well. “What, Fa? Tell me.”
Grandfather cleared his throat, a gummy, smacking sound, and whispered, “I can’t feel my legs.”
Sullen slowly sat back, staring at his grandfather. The old man lost it, laughing until he coughed, and then laughing some more.
“Not going to be able to feel your arms, in a minute,” grumbled Sullen, but he was smiling, too. It was time to see if they could find Grandfather a worthier end than dying in his sleep, a million miles from home. As if in answer, another horn sounded from the front.
“What the bloody shits are they doing?” Domingo demanded of nobody at all, but Brother Wan glanced back at his passenger and answered the rhetorical question anyway.
“I believe they are announcing our attack, Colonel Hjortt,” said the anathema, his ghoulish face so pale it could be seen even on this Gate-black morning.
“That was one of our horns, not one of theirs,” said Domingo. “Think I don’t know the difference? Some dunce in the ranks is giving away our position!”
Another Imperial horn sounded, this time from the left flank instead of the right, and before Domingo could mount a proper splutter the damned cavalry issued a toot of their own from the vanguard. What was the point in sneaking up under cover of darkness if you blew your fucking horns the whole way? Was this the kind of cocksure madness Efrain had cultivated among the ranks? If so, good riddance to bad command.
“Perhaps the officers mean to alert the Myurans to the attack?” said Brother Wan.
“What attack? There is no attack, not until we can see something—oof!” A bump in the murky morning punctuated Domingo’s point with bone tremors and a heaving stomach. “Stop the cart, Wan, this is more than close enough—I said take us down a bit, do you know what a bit means? At this rate dawn will find us in the bloody valley, bumping up against the rear, and I need to be able to survey the full field.”
“I wouldn’t have you miss that,” said Brother Wan, tugging the mare to a stop with malicious abruptness. “No, I want us both to be able to see everything.”
If only Domingo’s body could be mended by willpower alone, he would have leaped from his bower in the wagon bed and punched Wan in his lipless mouth, and not stopped until his knuckles were full of splinters from the anathema’s wooden teeth. If only, if only… Domingo was even more on edge than he usually was at the start of an encounter. He already regretted his decision to employ the Black Pope’s weapon, though so far all he had seen was a disappointingly mundane prayer performed over his regiment while the witchborn clerics walked down the lines, dabbing oil on their foreheads. After it was all done and they started moving out he’d asked Shea if she’d felt anything during the ritual, and she said she’d felt bored, so apparently you got the same result from taking the oil as not. Wan had tried to talk Domingo into accepting the mark as well, but he had countered by pointing out that Wan himself had said only those on the battlefield would be at risk, and as Domingo didn’t intend to set a single wagon wheel in the valley there was no need for him to find religion this late in life.
“It was wise to press on instead of waiting for the Thaoans,” said Brother Wan, tying the reins on the wagon’s unlit lantern post and stretching his thin arms. “What a pity it would have been, if Colonel Waits had lived up to her name and insisted we postpone the attack until the queen sent her permission.”
“Waits is a damn good woman, damn good,” said Domingo, not much liking having his thoughts, however sensible, repeated back to him by this witchborn. “I appreciate her enough not to put her in a prickly position. And what did I tell you about sticking your nose into my nut, Brother Wan?”
“Do you wish to know a secret?” said Wan conspiratorially, twisting around and slinging his legs over the back of the riding board, so his dusty sandals brushed the edge of Domingo’s padded command nest. “It’s something I’ve never told anyone, not even Her Grace.”
“Hmmm,” said Domingo, not appreciating how chummy Wan had become ever since he’d come out of the horned wolf attack with a few bruises from a tent collapsing on top of him while Domingo was dashed near to pieces. Wan evidently took his grumbling for assent, as he usually did these days.
“You know why Her Grace entrusted this mission to me, and me alone, don’t you?” The eagerness in the witchborn’s voice was disquieting, but around them the black was finally giving way to grey, allowing Domingo to see his guards… Except even after suffering through the needles of pain in his neck to peer around, there was no sign of the six stout pureborn soldiers he had ordered to replace the two who had fallen during the wolf attack. He was alone with Wan on the dew-dusted hillside as light finally returned to the Star. “Besides my commitment to the Burnished Chain, and my ability to carry out this morning’s ritual, there was another reason she blessed me with this sacred mission. Can you guess why?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” said Domingo, cheering himself by focusing on the lack of mist this morning.
“It’s because I share a… special relationship with Sister Portolés.” At the mention of the queen’s assassin Domingo spat over the side of the wagon. “Her Grace interviewed me after being apprised of my abilities by Cardinal Diamond, and of course my history with Portolés. It was then I was deemed essential for the job—the thought being that if we caught Portolés upon the road, I could plumb all her secrets, no matter how dearly she wished to keep them.”
“This is not news,” said Domingo, wondering just
where this nonsense was going. He could see a bit farther down the hill now, and the silhouette of the Lark’s Tongue was coming into view above the distant fires of the Cobalts, but he still couldn’t make out the valley floor. He could hear distant shouts and the clang of metal, though, and it sent a warm thrum through him, just as that concerto does through every good colonel. “On further evaluation, take us closer, Wan, we’re still higher up than I thought.”
“I will take us down soon enough, Colonel,” said Wan, and the casual refusal to follow an express order filled Domingo with a loathing quite unlike anything a civilian, or even a son, could ever inspire. “As I was saying, I entered into our pope’s confidence in part because she assumed I might be able to dig into her mind anyway, and in part because she was sure I could look into Portolés’s. Have you guessed my secret yet?”
“You’re a bloody dull storyteller?” said Domingo, though they both knew that wasn’t true, and the real reason was beginning to materialize; like the lightening landscape around them, even with large swaths missing a definite shape was taking form.
“The truth, Colonel Hjortt, is this…” Wan narrowed his eyes at Domingo, muttered something unintelligible, then grinned. “You blame yourself for Efrain’s death. You regret not doing more to prepare him for the role he took on. You think that by punishing everyone else who played a part, however small, you can absolve yourself of the greater sin.”
A Crown for Cold Silver Page 59