A Crown for Cold Silver

by Alex Marshall

  “Urgh!” She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and when she opened them again she waved away the guards who had begun creeping closer. “Okay, Dad. But let’s be real here. We both know what the stakes were. And now I’m raising them. Substantially.”

  “Hear me out, I beg you,” he said in that pleading tone that always got under her first father’s skin. “Let me broker a truce with the Empire. You said you know it’s not a game, and I believe you, so you know that my plan involved a lot less risk for everyone. A lot less death. A lot less pain. I can get my people in the Empire back on board, if we act fast, color what happened here as unprovoked aggression by the Fifteenth. We can still take Linkensterne, which means you still have a choice to do the most good for the most people.”

  “We both know I don’t have a choice anymore,” she said, hoping reason would cut through his emotion. “Even if the Empire was willing to look the other way for this and every other crime I’ve committed against the Crown, I’ve got my own house to worry about. If I roll over and tell the troops we’re teaming up with the Imperials they’ve been fighting all year just to take some shitty Immaculate border town, half of them would walk. The good half.”

  “They’re mercenaries, Ji-hyeon, they’ll do what you pay them to do.” Her father smiled knowingly. “Don’t pass the blame on this, Ji-hyeon—you want to take on the Empire, because you’re young and ambitious and naïve enough to think you can swing it. Nothing more.”

  “There’s a lot more,” said Ji-hyeon angrily. “The Crimson Empire is a plague on the Star, and—”

  “Oh please!”

  “They are, and you fucking know it! The Black Pope rules in all but name after their last civil war, and what do you think that bodes? Her missionaries have been gnawing away at every Arm of the Star, and as soon as the Empire recovers from its infighting there isn’t a power in the world that will be able to stop them. They’ve found a new way to win wars, Dad—by not fighting them. You get enough converts, and pretty soon the whole Star bows before Diadem… This could be the last chance for anyone to stop them!”

  “Spoken like a true believer.” Kang-ho shook his head. “Jun-hwan will never forgive me for singing you all those old songs.”

  “Listen to me, Dad, for once, listen! If I did things your way we’d have Linkensterne, a free state, a bastion of liberty… But for how long, before Diadem and all the Immaculate converts decide we’re another Sunken Kingdom, in need of spiritual cleansing? We walk away now, when the fight’s hard but not unwinnable, and we’ll never have a second chance—never!”

  “God of the Seas, but I was wrong about you,” said Kang-ho, delivering the lowest blow yet doled out: “You’re exactly like your other father.”

  “Yes, well, say one thing for him, he never tried to murder my boyfriend.” Ji-hyeon crossed her arms.

  “Your what?” Her father looked honestly confused.

  “Keun-ju! You stopped him from leaving with me, and would have had him executed, if Papa hadn’t stopped you!”

  And there was the recognition she was looking for. Kang-ho pulled on his pipe to stall for time, probably trying to decide between acting contrite or superior. Fortunately for him, he decided on the latter; Ji-hyeon preferred her second father when he was being an honest asshole rather than a deceitful charmer. “So Fennec spilled the rice, eh? Well, whatever the fox told you, yes, I kept Keun-ju on Hwabun, but I never planned on hurting him. To say nothing of an execution! Does that really sound like me?”

  When she didn’t answer, he said, “Look, you can ask him yourself, if you listen to reason and do things my way. Once we’re all back on Immaculate soil, I’ll send for him to meet us in Linkensterne, and you kids can carry on in whatever way you wish. What do I care if you want to piss on five hundred years of tradition and elope with your Virtue Guard? Jun-hwan may never forgive you for bringing such dishonor on our house, but I’ll always love you.”

  “So he’s still safe on Hwabun?” This was fucking it, right here, if her dad lied to her one more time…

  “Welllllll… no, no he’s not,” said Kang-ho guiltily. “But he’s safe, I promise, he’s with the best swordswoman the Star has ever known.”

  “Zosia?” When her dad gulped she poked his armor hard enough to feel the iron plates beneath the canvas coat. “The woman you tried to pay Chevaleresse Singh to murder? I wonder what instructions you gave her about how to deal with Zosia’s companion?”

  “How… Gods shit on my face, she’s not…”

  “One of my captains, now. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you, catch up on old times.”

  He looked all around, as though the specter of Cold Cobalt was about to leap out of the darkness, and when he turned back to her there were tears in his eyes. “You’re breaking my heart, Ji-hyeon.”

  “Just like you broke Grampa’s heart, to hear you sing it.”

  “She’ll murder me, Ji-hyeon, she’ll fucking murder me, right here, in front of you!” She actually felt bad for her second father, even after all his bullshit, so she patted his shoulder and said:

  “No she won’t. Not without my order, and big a jerk as you’ve been, I’m not a monster.” She hoped both clauses of her statement proved true before the end. “You wait here and think about whether you want to ride with us, against Samoth, or if you’re going to get back on your horse and get the fuck out of my camp. But if you turn your back on me, Dad, I can’t make any promises. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a message from my captain.”

  It would have been nice for him to say something supportive, like maybe he was a teensy bit impressed at what an amazing general she obviously was, but instead he just stared at her, beyond words. Well, that would have to do for now—Fennec looked ready to drop from running up the hill. Her father stayed behind, watching her go, but when Fennec whispered the report in her ear, and then repeated it, as she commanded in a surprisingly steady voice, she was glad he hadn’t left.

  As she plodded back over to him, a wild giggle burst out of her, every ache in her body forgotten and the day’s dire battle suddenly small. The expression on her face must have revealed something of the message’s tenor, for her father looked as concerned as if both her arms had fallen off.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

  Her voice broke when she tried to speak, because even though she’d only met the man a handful of times, even though she’d fled the Isles in part to escape him, she never would have wished him harm beyond the sting of rejection. Who could have done such a thing? Other than her, of course.

  “You’re scaring me, Ji-hyeon, what’s happened?”

  “I…” Horribly enough, another giggle came out. “I…”

  “What? What did you do?”

  “I killed my fiancé,” said Ji-hyeon, trying to remember what Prince Byeong-gu had even looked like. She recited the rest as precisely as it had been told to her. “I killed him, and I cut off his head, and I stuffed the white scarf he had worn in mourning for me into his mouth, and then I wrapped it all up in one of my Cobalt pennants and delivered it in a box to the Linkensterne garrison under cover of darkness.”

  Her father opened and closed his mouth several times, but when nothing came out she answered his unvoiced question:

  “I mean, I didn’t. Obviously. No. But tell that to Empress Ryuki; she’s just declared war against the Cobalt Company. Oh, and offered governorship of Linkensterne to whoever brings her my head. So there’s that.”

  Like everything else about her adventure in the Crimson Empire, it sounded so simple when she said it out loud. Instead of yelling at her, like she expected, her second father stepped forward and held her, and though her hand started hurting worse than ever and her back ached under his embrace, she did not join Kang-ho in shedding tears. She was too busy planning what to do next.

  After her meeting with Hoartrap, Zosia had a powerful need to be away from Choplicker for a spell, and so before she entered the prisoner’s tent
she stopped in the darkness between campfires. Kneeling down, she scratched behind the monster’s ears, scratched like she’d never scratched before. He groaned happily, licked her shaking hand.

  “We’ve got a history, old devil,” she told him. “I hope our future goes better for both of us. Now go treat yourself to whatever you want, so long as it harms no mortal.”

  He was off like an arrow, not giving her so much as a parting bark as he loped away. Zosia instantly regretted her carelessness—just what treat would he be able to secure for himself; how far might he range from their camp to obtain it?

  Near on twenty-five years she’d had the devil bound to her, and after all this time she didn’t know much more than she’d started with. Going forward she’d have to be a hell of a lot more specific with what she offered him, like she’d done in Hoartrap’s tent. It had taken hours of pondering her wording before she’d dare to say it, and considering how well it had turned out, that had been a lesson, albeit an obvious one. Nothing with devils should be done rashly.

  As she picked herself up, the chill of the looming winter cut through the dirndl she had not worn since the last time Efrain Hjortt had graced her with his presence. The dress no longer fit her as well, the woman who had sewn it with the help of her husband having a bit more weight on her bones, and a whole hell of a lot more on her heart. She tried to recall what Leib had said to her as they worked by the light of their hearth, what it was that had made her laugh so hard she’d pricked herself with the needle… She couldn’t remember. Could barely remember the sound of his voice, though it had been but a year since he’d been taken from her. Murdered. In all that time, Zosia had spent far more hours intentionally not thinking of him to spare herself the hurt than she had cherishing the good memories. Hardly seemed right. And now she had no earthly fucking idea why he had died; if Portolés had told the truth to Hoartrap and Queen Indsorith wasn’t involved, then just what in every hell was she doing out here, waging war against the Crimson Empire? What had she been doing for the past year, if not preparing to avenge him?

  Doing what she did best, apparently—making a lot of people dead for no damn reason at all.

  The guards saluted as she approached the tent, probably having expected her earlier in the evening. Looking at the dark flap, she almost turned around and went back to her own tent, utterly drained now that the shock she’d suffered in Hoartrap’s tent was wearing off. What a fucking day: climbing mountains, fighting Imperials, fighting her friends, trafficking with devils, and to top it all, learning credulity-straining revelations. That the first new Gate in recorded memory had opened right at their feet was dire enough, a signal that forces more powerful than she could imagine were actively seeking to reshape the world. The other part of the ceremony, though, the thing that Hoartrap believed was the true purpose of the Imperial sacrifice, with the opening of the Gate but a part of the price they paid to complete the ritual… could she really believe such a thing was even possible?

  Yes, she decided, she had to. Hoartrap was in fear of more than his life when he’d told her everything. If he believed it had happened, then it had.

  Which meant that the Star of today was unlike the Star of any day before it, stretching back for five hundred years. The world could never go back to what it had been this morning, when she’d bandied words with an avowed heretic digging the grave for a sister of the Chain. Word would spread quickly of the miracle that happened this morning, and then the entire Star would shudder before the supreme witchery of the Burnished Chain. Everyone would become a believer. What did Hoartrap say the Chainites called it? The Day of Becoming?

  It almost made what had happened to Leib and everyone else in Kypck seem small. Almost convinced her to go check if Maroto had come back to camp yet, licking his wounds. She wanted to see the look on his face when he found out Purna was alive, and all because some spoiled fop from the old capital had been nicer to his dog than Zosia had been to hers. Almost made her stagger back to her tent, so she could bury her head in her cot and sleep for days, hiding in dreams that couldn’t possibly be as mad as the waking world.

  Almost, but the last time Zosia had put off interrogating a prisoner who would supposedly speak only to her the woman had been murdered in the night. It was time to get the truth out of Efrain Hjortt: assuming Portolés was right and Queen Indsorith hadn’t sent him to Kypck, who had? The obvious suspect was the Burnished Chain, but Zosia was done with suspicions. She was ready for facts. When the Gate had opened beneath the Imperial army the entire Fifteenth Cavalry had disappeared along with most of their regiment, which meant Hjortt was the only one left alive from that day, save her.

  A day hadn’t passed that she hadn’t cursed herself for not finishing the job, for giving Hjortt’s people the chance to save him from the fire, but now she praised the stars overhead and the devils beneath them that she’d stuck a pin in him for another day. Who knew, depending on what he told her, she might not kill him now, either—wouldn’t it be something, if every time she caught Efrain Hjortt he gave up some new secret, and then she could toss him back in for another day?

  “Evening, Captain Zosia,” said one of the guards as she shook off her thoughts and accepted his offered lantern. “He’s in a bad way, barber ain’t sure he’ll live the night. He doesn’t seem able to move much, but we chained him to a post to play it safe.”

  Just like they’d bound Sister Portolés, apparently; it was enough to make a girl wonder if somebody liked her, upstairs or down. Everything happens, according to the Chain, and maybe they were on to something. “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  Hjortt groaned as the light of Zosia’s lantern reached the foot of his cot, and exhausted as she was, much as she’d thought she’d changed over the last year, the sound of his discomfort brought a smile to her face.

  “Good evening, Colonel Hjortt,” she said, taking her time crossing the room. An old trick for getting the prisoner’s heart moving before you even started. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? And yet it seems like only yesterday.”

  “A very long while, but not long enough,” he said, his voice hardly anything like she remembered. “I wondered how it was possible… Even after everything, I wanted it to be true, but I had my doubts. But… but it’s really you.”

  Zosia was glad she’d saved the dirndl for him. The light reached the top of the blankets, the prisoner closing his eyes from the glare, and she nearly dropped the lantern. Whoever this beat-up old man was, he wasn’t Efrain Hjortt, and she came closer, holding the lantern up as though his wax disguise would melt away, revealing her nemesis. She could almost see a resemblance in his nose, despite all the bandages on his cheek. But then she was just confused, because she did recognize him, but hadn’t seen him for so long she couldn’t place it…

  The Fifteenth. Of course. The fucking Fifteenth Regiment out of fucking Azgaroth.

  “Nicely played, Cavalera,” she said, sitting down on the edge of his cot and hooding the lantern so he could open his eyes again. Disappointed though she was at being tricked, she had to respect her adversary’s cunning. “They pulled you out of retirement to lure me in, huh? The disinformation was a nice touch; I would’ve eventually gone after the Fifteenth Cavalry, but if I thought that awful boy was still in charge I’d never be able to resist.”

  He slowly opened his bloodshot eyes. They were wet with tears. He looked so old. “You… you remember me?”

  “Remember you? Motherfucker, you rode me worse than every other regiment combined! Why do you think I ended up on that lunatic suicide mission to storm Diadem? You’d have kept us in the high country for years without getting a crack at King Kaldruut.” Zosia shook her head in amazement. Twenty-odd years ago she had cursed his name almost as much as that of the king he served, but seeing him down all the days, she recognized that he’d just been playing his part, the same as she had played hers. He’d always fought fair, too, which was more than could be said for most of his peers. “Domingo Cavalera, Colonel of the Fi
fteenth Regiment out of Azgaroth. I understand you probably don’t believe me, given the circumstances, but by the six devils I bound, it’s damn good to see an old face.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t share your sentiment,” he growled, blood leaking through the bandage on his face.

  “Shit, let me get that,” said Zosia, dabbing his chin with her sleeve, unable to stop smiling. What she wouldn’t have given to see him laid low like this back in the day, but now… now she just felt bad for him. He was just like her, a relic of days gone by trotted out for one last job. “This is ridiculous, keeping you in irons in your condition. I’ll have them unlock you immediately. Anything else I can bring you, Colonel Cavalera? Food, drink, smoke? A bug for the pain? Anything at all, I’ll fetch it myself.”

  “Yes,” he said, the words falling hard as a hammer shaping a sword. “You can give me back my son’s thumbs.”

  Zosia froze. “What?”

  “His thumbs, woman—you took them, didn’t you? Bad enough you burned him like a witch, but he went into the crypt looking like a fucking thief.”

  Zosia stared at her old opponent, tried to speak… but nothing came out.

  “And it’s Hjortt now, Domingo Hjortt. I kept my wife’s name, even after she left.”

  “Colonel… Hjortt?” Zosia sank back down to the ground, and seemed to keep sinking, all the way down to the lightless reaches beneath the earth, where the Flintlanders say the First Dark gave birth to all the monsters and devils of the world, the worst of which were named mortals. She couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t do anything but let out a long, miserable sigh. She had killed Efrain Hjortt after all, had killed him first, and hadn’t even realized it. Now that the hour had arrived, Zosia found herself unable to keep the promise she had made to him back in Kypck—not a single tear fell to mark the passing of the young colonel who had set her on this blood-drenched road, the path that had seemed so obvious a year before now lost in shadow.