by Tanya Huff
So he’d find a coffee shop and eat, find a whorehouse and fuck, buy a bottle and take it back to his room and empty it where no one could overhear what the liquor let loose. If he were very lucky, he’d be called to the emperor while he was drunk and get bounced back to private and sent to one of the southern colonies to fight natives, disease, and heat.
Halfway across the square toward the shops fronting the north side, Reiter saw Chard talking to a young couple obviously in from the country for the festival. No one from Karis wore that much homespun.
He walked another three steps before he recognized them.
“The mage who escaped from you, my sixth mage; I have word that she’s on her way to Karis.”
Not only Mirian, but Tomas.
He’d freed them, burn it! Freed them and here they were, ready to play a part in the emperor’s horror story.
And Chard was talking to them. The one person in the entire flaming city who’d recognize them on sight.
But Chard hadn’t given the alarm. Did he not know who they were?
Reiter angled west. No one would suspect one soldier talking to another. No one should suspect…anything if he talked to Chard. They’d spent days together on the road before he’d disappeared into the palace.
“Private Chard.”
“Captain Reiter!” Chard spun around and smiled so broadly Reiter could see a missing back tooth. “You’re not in an oubliette!”
Behind Chard, Mirian put her hand on Tomas’ arm. Just a touch, but it closed his mouth and held him in place. They were both wound so tightly—eyes a little wild, breathing fast and shallow—he was amazed at their control.
“Do you even know what an oubliette is, Chard?”
“Sure, Cap, it’s like a dungeon. Sergeant Black said you were probably in one.” Chard pushed an obviously new bicorn up off his forehead and scratched at the red line where the leather binding had pressed into his skin. “I think he was kidding, but I bet there’s bits in that palace no one knows about, right? The sarge got sent north to the Spears and that trouble in the port. They’re wanting rights about something, I dunno. Pretty near everyone that went into Aydori got reassigned out of Karis. Just me and Corporal Selven and Hare, and now you, left as Shields. And you disappeared. I heard some guy named Linnit cleared your stuff out of quarters.” He took a deep breath and flushed. “I’m glad you’re not court-martialed or dead.”
“Why would I be dead?”
“’Cause, you know, it was a special mission and we lost them, but you were in charge and…”
Every time Reiter saw her, her eyes were paler than he remembered. Here and now, they truly seemed more silver than gray. The barest gleam of color between the white and black. When Chard’s voice trailed off, finally realizing no one was listening, he said, “So, what’s going on here?”
“This is my…uh, sister and her…uh, husband. Yeah. They’re uh, they’re here for the festival.”
Reiter reluctantly turned his attention back to Chard. “You don’t have a sister. You have two brothers. Try again.”
“He’s trying to convince us to leave,” Mirian said quietly, the words running together.
“He should have called every soldier in this square over here to help take you back into custody,” Reiter said at the same volume, gaze still locked on Chard’s face.
“It wouldn’t have helped.” She sounded entirely matter-of-fact.
Reiter remembered the circle of trees and almost smiled. “I suppose not.”
Chard opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then to Reiter’s surprise said, “It’s not right.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“And you can’t make me…What?”
“Have you told Private Chard why you’re here?” She was here to free the mages because she sure as shit wasn’t here to give herself up to any prophecy. Chard opened his mouth, confused, but Reiter raised a hand, giving Mirian room to answer.
“No.”
He almost smiled again at the way she made one word, two letters, sound like a challenge. “Chard, go away.”
“But, Cap…”
“Private, this is not something you want to be involved in. This is not something you want to be interrogated about, and every moment you spend talking to us brings you a moment closer to shit you do not want to be in.”
“Yeah, I get that, Cap, and I’m getting that you know what’s going on more than me, and I’m fucking thrilled you showed up, and I’m good with walking away and letting you deal because…”
“Chard. Get to the point.”
Chard, who was squinting toward the square, swallowed and nodded past Reiter’s shoulder. “Lieutenant Geurin’s coming this way.”
“He’s never seen me,” Mirian began.
“He hasn’t,” Reiter agreed. “But he’s one of the few people in Karis who might be able to see what Tomas is, and that’s as bad.”
Mirian’s lips pulled back off her teeth. “Worse.”
Reiter turned. Lieutenant Lord Geurin’s uniform had been draped in enough braid that anyone who hadn’t been forced to endure court dress might mistake it. The plume in his bicorn was as high as regulation allowed and absurdly poofy. He’d recently been shaved and his narrow mustache looked like a dark line on his upper lip. He was, at the moment, the most dangerous man in the square.
“I see you finally made it back to the capital, Captain, although I hear you failed in your mission. My uncle seems to think he’s seen you around the court, but given the…inexpensive uniform you’re wearing, he must be mistaken.” His smile was as self-satisfied as it had ever been. His gaze flicked past Reiter, over Chard, and paused on Mirian…
At the last instant, Reiter managed to lay off enough that he didn’t break the lieutenant’s jaw. Or his own hand.
Geurin dropped like he’d had his strings cut. His mouth opened and closed but no sound emerged. His hat spun away, the plume bent.
“You punched him, Cap!”
“I did.” The soldiers by the meat pie cart had already noticed. Another minute and they’d be on their way over. “And when they ask you why, tell them I said Major Meritin informed me of what the lieutenant wrote in his report.”
“What did he write?”
“I have no idea, but I’m certain it was self-serving and puerile.”
“He’s going to be mad you hit him.”
“I’m a captain, he’s a lieutenant.”
“He’s a lord.”
Reiter smiled tightly. “Tell him to take it up with the Duke of Burron. And now, I’m going to take my sister and her new husband to the inn where they’ll be staying.”
Chard shoved his hands in his pockets and squinted down at the lieutenant. “Yeah, I’d have hit him, too, if he’d said that to me in front of my sister. If I had one.”
“Thank you, Chard.”
He shrugged and grinned, but he met Reiter’s gaze squarely, and something in his face said he knew exactly what he’d been thanked for. “It’s okay. No one likes him.”
Her hand still on Tomas’ arm, Mirian remained silent until they were far enough from Chard and the group of soldiers gathering around the fallen lieutenant they wouldn’t be overheard. “Why?”
Reiter, walking on Tomas’ other side, a shield against the curious, drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Why did he interfere? Why was he helping them? Why was he committing treason…again? “One of the mages was killed,” he said at last. “I was there.”
“And you did nothing to stop it,” Tomas growled.
He’d accused himself of that more than once, so he had an answer ready. “I couldn’t have stopped it. At best, I’d have died with her, and that won’t help the rest.”
“Who?” Mirian asked and Reiter heard a similar self-accusation in her voice. Why wasn’t I here in time to stop it?
“You couldn’t have stopped it either,” he said. “Her name was Kirstin. Small, dark-haired, blue flecks.”
“Kirstin Yerick. Her husband was o
ne of the Pack Leader’s advisers. She has twin sons. Had.” Tomas’ response had a soldier’s rhythm. Superiors didn’t want emotion in reports. “And Danika?”
“Danika is…alive.” He remembered the dagger drawing a gaping red line across pale flesh, her expression when she threw Kirstin’s choice at the emperor. “Uninjured.”
Tomas actually stumbled, his breathing suddenly ragged.
Danika was family. That explained why Tomas was here.
“Captain, how did Kirstin die? Why did she die?”
“She died because the emperor is…insane.” Saying it out loud made it real. Explained why he was here. “I’m not going to tell you how.”
He could feel Mirian leaning around the boy to stare at the side of his face. He expected a protest. He didn’t get one.
They left the square and started down a narrow street between a wine shop and a tavern, the tavern’s patio extending far enough to mask them from prying eyes, but offering no cover should anyone try to overhear their conversation. Reiter didn’t expect to be followed—Chard was right, no one liked Geurin—but this wasn’t the time to take chances. “I have a question for you now.” He moved out into the street just far enough for him to be able to look Mirian in the face. “As stupidly suicidal as it is, it’s obvious he’s here for family. Why are you?”
She stared at him for a long moment. Made longer by the danger they were in. Finally she said, “Someone had to do something, and I was there.”
“That’s it?” Reiter knew that tone. He’d heard it from young soldiers who suddenly found themselves called heroes because they were the last man standing. And every one of them—the ones who didn’t brag and bluster and accept the accolades as their due—was a soldier he wanted to have at his side. “You’re a mage.”
“You’ve known that since we…” Her lip curled. “…met.”
Tomas growled low in his throat.
“Unless you’re planning to get her killed,” Reiter snapped, “stop it.”
The boy’s back straightened as he went silent. Definitely military. Good. If he could be convinced to follow orders, the odds he’d survive this madness went up.
“Powerful?” Reiter’d seen what she’d done in Abyek. Seen a man burn where he stood. He knew she was powerful, but he was curious about what she’d say.
She didn’t.
“Yes,” Tomas snapped. “She’s powerful.” He began to move between them, but again a touch to his arm held him in place. “We don’t need your help.”
“Yes, you do. Among other reasons, I can get my hands on the artifact that’ll remove the tangles from your mages.”
“The net? We don’t need it. I took the other net off.”
The ab…Tomas came from mage-craft and the tangles suppressed mage-craft. “Did you feel anything when you touched it?”
“Me?” He frowned. “No. Why?”
Either the Pack had moved far enough from their beginning or Mirian had fried it before Tomas arrived on the scene. Given the blackened gold, he suspected the latter. “You won’t be able to take the rest of the nets off.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re not on her.” They turned together toward Mirian.
She sighed and said, “We need his help, Tomas.”
“Then why are we standing here?” Tomas demanded, glancing back toward the square.
“Because you don’t just walk into the Imperial palace.” Mirian shrugged, the movement so deliberate she’d obviously thought about making it. It was too common a gesture for the girl she’d been. “It’s the logical reason,” she explained. “If people could just walk in and out of the palace, it would be a security nightmare.”
Reiter grinned. “Which brings us to tomorrow. The Soothsayers have Seen a public festival…”
“The banners.”
“The banners,” he agreed. “During public festivals, people walk in and out of the palace. You’ll be able to disappear into the crowds.” He frowned. They were so country he could see the emperor heading right for them, beaming broadly, wanting to share the wonder. “But not dressed like that.”
Reiter knew Mirian was young, but he hadn’t realized how young until he saw her in one of the clothing stores up by the garrison. The tallest of the captive mages, the one who wore green, wasn’t very old, but Mirian was younger still. Once convinced she could do nothing until the next day, she’d relaxed. The tension that had her nearly quivering in place out on the square was gone. Even though the reason behind that tension still remained.
“If we can’t go into the palace in homespun…” She’d steered Tomas away from the square. “…then we logically have to buy new clothes.”
Given the quality of the clothes she’d been wearing when she came out of the river, Reiter found her to be surprisingly sensible about buying secondhand.
In spite of the pittance they were paid, junior officers were expected to take part in the socializing that might lead to promotion. Single men who had only to come up with a dress uniform managed, but for those with families who already found their pockets to let every payday, it could be a disaster outfitting wives and sometimes older children. The Duchess of Novyk, whose husband had been a past Commander-in-chief of the Shields, had convinced her wealthy friends to donate gently used clothing and Lady Shops had sprung up in every garrison town. The rising numbers of women in the army who suddenly had to outfit husbands had put a rack or two of mens’ clothing in most of them.
Mirian moved from rack to rack, touching fabric, pulling clothes out to hold against her. Reiter thought it was the first time he’d seen her smile although, given their history, that was hardly surprising. It was definitely the first time he’d seen her wrinkle her nose and roll her eyes at what he’d thought was a kind of pretty pink-flowered thing.
Both of them clearly came from money. Tomas pulled what he liked from the racks without looking at the tags. Mirian checked the tags, but weighed quality against price. Then she put Tomas’ choice of jacket back and pulled another that even Reiter could see had been badly mended down the inside of one sleeve.
“You’re not going to be wearing it long enough to pay the price of the other,” she told him quietly. Sensibly.
Reiter found their relationship interesting. They weren’t equals; she was definitely in charge. They didn’t act the way he thought lovers should act, but while they weren’t attached at the hip they stayed close and touched when they were close enough. Still, he’d noticed the mages did the same, so the touching could be cultural.
And it didn’t matter. Whatever he felt about this young woman—and in all honesty he had no idea whether it was admiration, desire, guilt, or a mix of all three—he’d captured her twice, had her dragged through the woods, tied her in the back of a wagon, and drugged her. She might tolerate his presence for the sake of freeing her countrywomen, but she’d never trust him.
He recognized his purse when she pulled it out to pay and her brows lowered as she silently dared him to say something. “Spoils of war,” he said. The shop girl frowned, Tomas scowled, but Mirian laughed, and losing his back pay seemed worth it. It wasn’t like he’d need it after tomorrow.
Leaving the shop carrying a worn carpetbag, dressed in their new clothes, Tomas had the easy confidence of the aristocracy. Watching him move with a grace Reiter knew he’d never master, no one would suspect the younger man ran on four feet and ate raw rabbit.
Mirian twitched at her clothing and looked annoyed. “How can you run in a skirt like this?”
“Perhaps Imperial ladies don’t run.”
The skirt didn’t look all that tight to Reiter. It fell straighter than what she’d been wearing, but with fabric enough gathered in the back for her to take a full stride. He’d watched her check the range of movement in the shop. On the other hand, he did have a sister even if he hadn’t seen her for some years. “The color suits you.” The dress was a deep burgundy with black trim. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.”
Any of the young men under his command would have jumped in with further compliments or a protest of how she shouldn’t care what the enemy thought. Tomas remained silent, clearly very certain of his place.
“Where are you taking us now?”
Reiter tried not to resent the easy way she’d tucked her hand into the bend of Tomas’ elbow. “To a guesthouse where relatives of officers stay when they’re in Karis. The Soothsayers didn’t give a lot of warning for this festival, so there should be room. My sister lives in Aboos, it’s a northern port. That should be enough to explain your accents.” The narrow streets off the square were still essentially empty and, as he had no way of knowing who else might be at the guesthouse, it was safer to talk while walking. “Get into the palace as early as you can tomorrow then make your way to the first assembly room. It’s powder blue with winged babies on the ceiling. I’ll find you there. He has them—the women—on a shifted sleep schedule, and if we can get to them early, it’ll still be night in their rooms.”
“Cells,” Mirian corrected.
He let it stand because she was right.
“Won’t having to wake them slow us?”
“Fewer guards on at night,” Tomas told her.
Reiter nodded. “There’s a limited number of guards. I’ll bet most of them sleep when the women do.”
“If there’s a garrison right on the square, how can there be a limited number of guards?”
“The guards in the north wing are his private guards. They’re not army, not soldiers, they’re…” He took a deep breath and locked down the memories of them watching as Adeline slashed open Danika’s chest, as they dragged the wolf from the observation room. “…they’re prison guards who’ve bought into his insanity.”
“If it’s so bad, and you know how to get the nets off, why have you waited?” Tomas asked. “You know the palace. You know where they’re kept.”
“You think it’s easy to commit treason? You could turn on your…” What was he called? “…on your Pack Leader?”
“I wouldn’t get the chance. If a Pack Leader went crazy, the nearest Alphas would take them down.”