Guns of the Dawn

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

‘Mr Northway,’ she said, ‘would you explain precisely what you have been doing these nine days?’

  ‘Emily, my work keeps me extremely busy—’

  ‘Mr Northway—’

  ‘Very well then, Miss Marshwic, I shall tell you. I have stalled. I have delayed. I have lost papers and misheard orders. I have done all in my power.’

  ‘Have you, indeed? And is he saved, then?’

  He did not answer, but his eyes flicked down to the paper in his hands, and she snatched it from him. This encounter had become unreal, too close to that other time when he had held in his hands the news of Rodric’s death.

  Her eyes skimmed across the details, scantly phrased and no more than she had expected. The Denlanders were terse and economical with words when drafting death warrants.

  ‘So,’ she said.

  ‘Emily please—’

  ‘This is where your best has led us, is it?’ she asked him.

  ‘I do not have the authority—’

  ‘Mr Northway, I suspect your motives,’ she told him, and he sat back and stared at her.

  ‘Do you, indeed, Miss Marshwic?’

  ‘Is this the man who could get anything he wanted? Who worked his way from bootblack up to governor in so short a time, and to hell with any who got in his way? Is this him who has ridden the tide of invasion and bobbed back into place like a buoy? And can he not have one man released from his own cells by sleight of hand or legislation or bribery?’

  He looked up at her with no hint of any of their shared past in his expression. ‘And is this what you think of me, Miss Marshwic?’

  ‘Show me what else I can think, from what I have now seen,’ she told him.

  He stood, and was round the desk quickly, reaching to capture her wrist in his grip. ‘I have done so much, so much, and this is all I have from you to show for it?’ he burst out. ‘I see you have regained your righteousness. I had thought it a casualty of the war.’

  With more ease than she would have believed, she prised his fingers away from her skin. ‘Does he still live, Mr Northway?’

  ‘He lives. The Denlanders have not seen this yet.’

  ‘And when will they? How long do I have to say goodbye?’

  She had thought that he would storm down there at once and present it to them, but something softened in him. ‘In three days, Emily, they will want to know why they have not heard, and they will send a courier by rail to deliver the orders in person. Three days is all I can give you.’

  She could not thank him. She could not muster the words for it, the taste of gall was too strong in her mouth.

  As she walked away from his office, she thought, though, of all the hard, hard work he had done to scrub away the stain on his character that had once estranged him from her, and here was the next stain to discolour him, as though these things worked to some exacting cosmic schedule.

  In the cells, she could not tell Scavian he was due to die. The guards must not realize the order had come. She held him, though, and kissed him on the lips, and said nothing at all, and she knew that, from that gesture, he understood what knowledge had reached her.

  *

  She rode back to Grammaine with a dead heart. Brocky and Tubal would have to know. Perhaps the three of them could cobble some last-minute action together. Or die in the attempt. The latter seemed more likely.

  She decided that she would be game for it if they were.

  She let Grant take her horse, noticing another in the stables that she did not recognize.

  ‘Is there a visitor, Grant?’

  ‘Yes, miss. No man I know, but it’s you he’s here to see. Miss Alice is with him now.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she can keep him entertained. I’m in no mood for seeing anyone.’

  She entered the house and caught an echo of the voices from the drawing room, Alice’s voice, and the man’s lower tones. She knew as soon as she heard it that it was familiar from somewhere: a young man’s voice, a deep voice.

  ‘But you must have been very brave, to lead the fighting like that,’ Alice was saying. ‘I’ve always thought that I should like to meet a soldier who has actually fought.’

  ‘There’s no shortage of those, nowadays,’ replied the visitor, and Emily went cold all over. The accent was subtle, hidden, but she knew it too well to mistake it. A voice from Denland.

  She had her hand on her pistol butt as she pushed her way into the drawing room, seeing Alice spring up from the arm of the man’s chair. He rose a little more slowly and at first she did not recognize him, dressed as he was in civilian clothes.

  The desperate charge through the swamps. The deaths of those beside her. Surrounded by the Denlanders, her gun discharged, hacking and hacking away until they brought her down. Then waking, tied to the frame, and a doctor finishing with her. And behind him . . . this man. This soldier, the man who had caught her. Doctor Lam’s pet provost.

  He smiled at her, a soldier-to-soldier smile that admitted a parity, and no quarter.

  ‘Lieutenant Marshwic,’ he said, ‘good to see you again.’

  32

  Do not do anything rash.

  ‘Alice, please leave us,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ Alice demanded. ‘I was having a lovely talk with this gentleman. It’s rare enough to have a man visit us here, let alone a proper soldier.’ Her voice made it plain that she did not count Brocky in that category.

  ‘A soldier, yes,’ Emily said. ‘He and I met during the war. In fact, I have a very clear memory of him clubbing me to the ground with a rifle butt, although at the time I believed it was simply a musket butt. Then he must have taken me to his camp, for when I awoke I was a prisoner of the Denlanders. Alice, have you not heard a Denlander speak before, you idiot girl?’

  Alice froze, mouth open, and then she turned very slowly to stare at the man beside her, as though he was a venomous spider Emily had pointed out on her shoulder. He nodded gravely.

  ‘Provost Marshal Carl Gottred, formerly of the Denland Army of the Levant, at your service, ma’am.’

  ‘But . . . but I thought you were . . .’ Alice looked utterly betrayed. ‘I thought you were one of us.’

  Gottred shrugged. ‘I must be one of them. Sorry for the mistake.’

  ‘Alice, please leave. I need to speak to the provost.’

  Alice nodded wordlessly, backing away until she found the door, and seconds later Emily heard her footsteps hammering up the stairs.

  ‘Pleasant girl,’ said Gottred.

  ‘Hmm. I’ll surrender to the Denlanders but I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one,’ Emily said drily. ‘I never knew your name all that time you were sitting at Doctor Lam’s shoulder. Gottred, is it? And provost marshal? Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. But I’ve left the army now.’

  ‘So to what do I owe the honour?’ She lowered herself onto the chaise longue facing him. ‘Are you selling something?’

  He sat himself down again. He still had the solid, bluff soldier’s bearing, whether in service or not. ‘I tried that, going back to my old ways. Didn’t last twenty days back in the shop. I took on another type of service.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I work direct for Parliament now.’

  ‘I see.’ She felt her stomach lurch. ‘I know what brings you here, then.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘You’re here for Scavian.’

  He paused. ‘And who’s Scavian?’

  ‘Giles Scavian. The Warlock.’

  His expression was still quite blank. ‘You’ve a Warlock in chains at Chalcaster, is that it?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know.’

  He shrugged a little. ‘The army’s rounding them up, I know that much. Doctor Lammegeier told me, last time we spoke. They’re too dangerous by half.’

  ‘The man is a friend of mine. A close friend. It was his word as much as anyone’s that led to the surrender at the Levant.’

  He grimaced. ‘Then I’m sorry
. He’ll not live. I hear the orders are being sent out to execute them, every one we have in custody.’

  She nodded grimly. ‘So now we see the true face of Denland, the reasonable tyrants. The executions have started.’

  ‘Tell me what you would do in our place? We must have peace,’ he said.

  ‘At any cost?’

  ‘Yes!’ He had half stood up, as though to argue it out with her like two soldiers rather than as civilized people in a country house’s drawing room.

  ‘Tell me, Provost, when the Warlocks are all dead, when poor Giles Scavian is dead, who will you turn upon next?’

  He regarded her silently.

  ‘What about me, Provost? Do you think that once you’ve killed all the Warlocks, there’ll be no one else to rally to? What about the veterans and the war heroes? When are you coming for me?’

  He continued watching her silently, and the silence was drawn out longer and longer in the echo of her words, until he forced her to keep on talking. ‘You’ve come for me, haven’t you? That’s why you’re here.’ She was very conscious that he was alone and that she still had the pistol digging into her side. He must have noticed it. Perhaps he had one of his own, concealed inside his jacket.

  ‘I’m assistant to Doctor Lammegeier now, Lieutenant Marshwic. He sent me to speak with you. This comes direct from him, not from Parliament.’

  ‘My, is the glorious republic suffering from schisms?’

  ‘It has differences of opinion, just like any other body of reasonable men,’ he said. ‘The doctor requests that you do not let yourself get involved.’

  ‘Involved in what, Provost?’

  ‘Just because I’m not in uniform doesn’t mean I like playing games,’ he told her. ‘Doctor Lammegeier says there must be no revolution.’

  She tried to keep her pose casual, resting against one arm of the chaise longue. ‘And why should that concern me? I can’t quell an uprising just by leaning out from my window.’

  ‘But you could start one,’ said Gottred. ‘The doctor believes that – and so do I after just asking a few questions about you in the town. You are held in very high esteem. The King is still at large. If you were to raise a flag for his cause, they’d come to you, all right. You’d have your revolution.’

  ‘Some might say it would be my duty, as a loyal subject of the King, to do just that,’ she replied acidly. ‘You seem to misjudge my degree of loyalty to your country.’

  He let out a long breath and then reached inside his jacket. Instantly her hand was on her pistol butt, but he drew a piece of paper out and scanned it almost furtively. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Doctor Lammegeier said so many things that I must reread them.’ He looked over his notes and she saw his lips moving. Soldier to soldier, she felt a little camaraderie for this man who, like herself, was trying to readjust to a civilian world. If they were both still wearing uniform, it would be so much easier.

  ‘There are already some stirrings of unrest,’ he explained. ‘The King’s name has started fires, killed a few soldiers, north of here. When provoked, we are bound to act, Lieutenant. So far there have just been arrests. Parliament is worried, though.’

  ‘I should hope so.’

  ‘Parliament is drawing up plans, Lieutenant,’ he continued, ‘to deal with an uprising. Those involved – those that are not killed – will be taken away.’

  She bit off a sharp retort. ‘Taken away?’

  ‘To Denland. There are plans for labour camps. As a deterrent, you understand. There is much work to be done back home. The idea is popular. ‘And if that does not prove sufficient at quelling unrest . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Execution camps have been mentioned also.’ He was putting a great deal of work into keeping his manner military and brisk. ‘I have seen plans and designs. There is something like an abattoir, but one for men. We are told it will be very efficient. Humane, that is another word I have heard used.’

  She stared at him, turning this unfamiliar notion over in her mind as he continued speaking.

  And if that does not prove sufficient, it will be not only the rebels, but their families, their associates, those who hide or feed them . . .’ He crumpled the sheet of paper in his hands. ‘Doctor Lammegeier does not like this. I do not like this. But if we are pushed, if we are hurt, we must react. Do you understand?’

  Emily was staring at him, but what she saw now was the Levant: the Denlander camp in all its oiled efficiency; the attack on the barricade; the major from the Couchant telling her about the Golden Minute. She did know the Denlanders, and she knew that what Gottred described was quite plausible. They had no hate in them, no anger or aggression, and they had no honour and no sense of guilt. They would do just exactly what was required. She remembered Doctor Lammegeier’s new word: genocide.

  ‘I see,’ she said, after a while. ‘So why come to me?’

  ‘Because the doctor remembers you, fondly. Because your name is spoken even back in Denland. Because your name is spoken in Parliament, and not fondly. You must not let them use you as a banner for rebellion.’

  ‘Execution camps.’ She tried to imagine the idea, and saw lines of weary men and women, even children, digging their own graves. She saw his ‘something like an abattoir’ in all its polished glory.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Gottred, and she found that she believed him. ‘I am sorry for your friend, too. There is nothing that can be done. We are too close to rebellion.’

  ‘Dear God in Heaven.’ She stood up, wondering what came next. If she and the others made a move to rescue Scavian, that would count as rebellion, wouldn’t it? If she did rescue Scavian, then people would soon hear of it. Would that be enough to spark the fuse? Perhaps it would.

  But if she did nothing, then he would be dead, and part of her along with him. Damn them all for putting me in this position.

  ‘What will you do?’ the provost asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. I cannot say. I can’t see that I have any options.’ She hauled the pistol from her belt suddenly and he was out of his chair, clutching inside his jacket for the weapon she had known was there. She waited until the tension had passed, and then said, ‘My father killed himself with this, you know.’

  He frowned at her.

  ‘In his study, late one evening. He took a glass of wine and his pipe, and this gun, to his study. He drank, he smoked, he looked out into the dark beyond his window, then he put the muzzle to his temple and . . . blew his brains out.’ Her voice shook only slightly as she recounted it. ‘Because he could not face what his world had become. Because he could not see a way out. Is that what I myself am supposed to do? Is that the plan?’

  ‘Why can you not just live in peace?’ he asked.

  ‘Could you, when doing so would condemn to death someone so close to you?’

  ‘He is . . . your lover?’ he said quietly.

  ‘He could have been. He should have been.’

  ‘Ah, I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ She put the pistol back in her belt. ‘I will not be the foil for the sins of my people, why should you be for yours? Will you stay and eat, perhaps?’

  ‘I must return to Doctor Lammegeier,’ he said. ‘Please consider his warning carefully. He has fought first to save Denland from you, now he fights to save it from itself. Once we have done the unthinkable, it would be too painful to ever turn back to the light again. Once we have made ourselves into monsters, we shall never again be men.’

  *

  Emily had gone to Chalcaster once more, with Tubal this time, but the soldiers at the governor’s office had kept them outside for almost two hours. They had sat on the steps and waited, patient and stubborn, and told every visitor, every clerk and courier, how they must see Mr Northway Eventually, through their sheer bloody-mindedness, they had badgered their way inside, but Mr Northway was not apparent. They spent nigh on another hour cutting a path to his office, which route had always been so easy before. When Emily had forced the doo
r open, despite the clamouring of a dozen secretaries, she found the man was gone.

  He had fled to avoid her wrath. He had gone to ground, she knew. When the bloody deed was done, he would resurface and set about his campaign for her anew.

  Never, she said to herself. Once Scavian is gone, there will never be another. And not him – never him.

  They waited there for some time, but Cristan Northway was nowhere to be found. Instead, they went to see Scavian. The prisoner was an easier man to visit than the mayor.

  It was painful, that visit. For all she knew, it could be the last, and yet she could think of so little to say to him. He bore it bravely, gaunt from his captivity. In the end she just sat at his feet, glaring at the guards, as Tubal shared with him reminiscences of the war: people he and Scavian had known before she joined up, expelled members of the Survivors’ Club.

  ‘What did happen to the money?’ Scavian asked wryly. And then, ‘You’d better keep mine in the pot, I suppose.’

  In mid-afternoon they travelled back to Grammaine, because the time had come. There would be no outside assistance. Plans had to be made.

  *

  It was in the yard at Grammaine that they found Penny Belchere hitching up her horse.

  ‘Emily!’ The girl started in surprise as the buggy drove in. ‘Why I’ve just come to find you.’

  ‘You’ve not looked too hard then,’ Tubal commented. ‘I think you rode past us on the road. At least I assume it was you.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, did I?’ She put a hand to her mouth. Emily barely recognized her out of uniform save that, like Emily herself, she still wore breeches and rode like a man.

  ‘How can we help you?’ Emily asked, and Belchere fumbled in her saddle pouch, drawing out a sheet of paper.

  ‘Same as usual,’ she explained gaily. ‘You’d think we’d have stopped meeting like this when the war ended, but here I am again.’

  Emily took the message. Her name was on it, in a hand she knew well.

  ‘He gave you this, did he?’

  ‘For your hands alone,’ Penny confirmed. ‘He didn’t look happy about it. Mind, he’s not looked happy these last days, at all. I heard you and he had a row.’