“Yes, of course they’re trustworthy, Uncle Alleyne-that’s why they sent both of us, to show that we’re not under threat. Now, are we going to do this?”
“You’re not, we are, Pilot Officer,” Loring said. “Salander, you’re with. . Mary, Ritva, Ingolf, Ian. John, feed a link in after them.”
“Lead it in, more like,” the big man said imperturbably in his soft burring accent that rendered more like as murr loik.
Loring nodded. “Confirm that all’s well on the other end and relay the code.”
Alyssa didn’t complain, though even in the darkness he thought he could see she’d like to.
In the soup again, Ingolf thought. Christ, the things I do. .
The hidden door was cleverly concealed; an aluminum slab had random pieces of rock and brick fixed to it, and enough soil to grow honest-to-goodness plants, all cunningly arranged to overlap the opening. A counterweighted lever system opened it from within.
Mary flashed Ingolf a thumbs-up as she followed her sister in; all he could see was an indistinct flash of one blue eye behind her mask. She made the same gesture to Alyssa, who was a cousin-daughter of her mother’s brother-and got the purse-lipped glare and elevated middle finger of resentment as she passed. Alyssa mouthed something silently; no way of telling what, but something along the lines of you big blond horse wouldn’t have surprised him.
Fred Thurston had described the tunnel concisely, and Ingolf’s hands and feet found the metal rungs set into the concrete wall without trouble.
“Go,” he said softly, as Ian landed beside him.
His voice fell into the void with the flatness of still enclosed air. The near-absolute dark grew worse still as the five went forward, each guiding themselves with a hand on the wall. The scent of damp concrete and old stagnant water was strong in the chilly air, and occasionally his boots made a tack sound in a shallow film of it as they slanted downward towards the bottom of the tunnel’s curve. It was probably some sort of pre-Change engineering work mostly, and he could almost feel the monstrous weight of the city wall above. Perhaps it went by an old building’s foundations that were taking the weight. He certainly hoped so.
There must be drainage, but it was far from perfect, and the film of water turned to a shallow puddle when they reached the bottom. He could feel it when the floor started to climb again, you always could, especially when you were in full gear-even a slope invisible to the eye was all too obvious to the legs. Everyone drew a weapon, mostly daggers; Ingolf thought of his bowie and decided on the tomahawk he kept tucked through a loop at the back of his belt. If it came to it, he wanted something handy in close quarters, and the light axe had stood him in good stead before.
Knife-fights in the dark, in a cave. Wouldn’t that be a treat, not knowing who you were hitting. Christ, the things I do. .
The tunnel was fairly broad, enough for three men to move abreast and high enough that he could only just touch the top with the poll of his belt-axe when he put an arm up. In the darkness it was impossible to tell whether it was pre-Change, or something the elder Thurston had installed to have up his sleeve. Apparently the workmen hadn’t talked, his elder son hadn’t told anyone before he died, and the secret remained safe with the younger. That would end tonight, one way or another.
From what Fred said, his dad arranged this when his grip on Boise was still shaky and kept it close because it might turn out handy. It’s doable for the numbers we have planned, but it’s still going to be tight, he thought, as they came to a halt as much by instinct as anything else.
Cole Salander tapped out a sequence somewhere in the blackness ahead, softly, knuckle on solid-sounding metal. There was a breath of warmer air and. . not exactly light, but not-quite-total darkness. Then a small glimpse of genuine light above them, a beam from a bull’s-eye lantern, the dull gleam of roughened piping set in the wall for climbing, and a voice:
“Up here, and quick. There are Cutters on the roof three stories up, so keep it quiet.”
Oh, joy, Ingolf thought. We’ve got enemy ass right over our heads ready to dump on us. This night just gets better and better. Christ, the things I do. .
Mary and Ritva went up first, climbing with the light silent grace of cats. Ian Kovalevsky followed, and then Ingolf, noting in passing that the trapdoor was a solid block of concrete with a square of worn old-style synthetic glued to its top. That would overlap onto the surface beyond, concealing any line, and the trap itself was beveled in all around the edge, fitting into a similar circuit in the floor. A counterweighted lever mechanism raised it; the thing was four feet on a side, and far too heavy to lift by hand. A splendid little asset, now being expended for its one and only use, fulfilling the purpose for which it had been made.
They were in a walk-in closet as they came out; that gave onto a smallish room that had probably been an office once, though probably not now since it had neither gaslights nor an exterior window. Beyond the frosted-glass cubicle was a sense of shadowy gloom around them, and concrete pillars; what had been something called a parking garage before the Change, and warehouse space since, the old openings in the walls bricked up to keep out weather. He’d seen the same done elsewhere, since the ramps between the floors were perfect for moving loads around.
“I’m Captain Wellman, Special Forces. This is it?” a man a bit older than Ingolf said, as the two women checked the situation outside and then turned to whisper a code word down the way they’d come; he had Captain’s bars, the same sort as a lot of the National Guard insignia in the Midwest, likewise derived from the old American army.
“Ingolf Vogeler, Captain Wellman,” Ingolf said softly, sketching a salute after he sheathed his weapon.
Carrying an axe to your first conversation was tactless. He could see that the Boisean officer recognized the name, if not his face. It was a little disconcerting how often that was happening these days. He’d been well known at home in Readstown, of course, but he’d been the Sheriff’s son there. And anyway, Readstown was a very small puddle to be a bullfrog in, and over the wandering years since then he’d gotten used to being just another stranger to everyone except the people he was working with. In Montival he was one of the people who’d been on the Quest, Ingolf the Wanderer according to some bards he’d like to strangle. A certain degree of fame had its drawbacks, and he made a mental note to figure the likelihood of being known into his calculations.
“Pardon me if we’re not being entirely trusting,” he said. “Last-minute changes of plan in a major operation give me hives.”
That got a smile, a slight unwilling twitch of the lips, and a nod as from one professional to another.
More of the Dúnedain came up through the opening in the floor, and then the unmistakable troll shape of John Hordle. He gave a gesture, holding up two fingers. Ingolf winced slightly. That meant both-of-you-know-who were on the way across the river along with the assault echelon, and that was so dangerous he didn’t even say the names to himself.
It’s amazing how much more protective I’ve gotten about Rudi than I was when it was just the nine of us out in the wildlands. Maybe there’s something to the way he complains that being king is a lot less fun than becoming king.
They were committed now. Wellman nodded at Hordle too, evidently recognizing him on sight. That wasn’t very surprising, particularly considering how distinctive the man was; the Dúnedain were Montival’s equivalent of Wellman’s outfit, after all. He seemed to know his job, which would include finding out all he could about his probable opposition.
A hard-looking dark man had a map spread out on the floor. Ingolf pegged him instantly for a long-service NCO. They knelt beside it, and Cole’s former superior did too. This hadn’t been part of the original plan, but you used what came to hand. A quick glance saw four other men keeping watch through narrow slits in bricked-up arches, with pairs of Ranger archers joining them and others spreading out through the space. The bull’s-eye clicked on, opened just enough to show the details.
“We’re here,” Wellman said, tapping the corner of South Capitol and West Myrtle. “Which I assume you knew before you came through.”
South Capitol ran southwest from-logically enough-the old State Capitol building, ending in the main gate complex; Myrtle ran northwest to southeast, crossing it in a good sensible grid. The building he touched was a rectangular mass a block long and half a block wide. It never hurt to spend a little more effort getting a good grasp on the area you had to operate.
The Boisean pointed upward. “Three stories up. At that level, it’s a flat roof for half the area, and then this section goes up another six.”
He put a sketch down by the map. The higher section was L-shaped, with the bottom of the L facing Myrtle.
“The part we’re in now was rental storage until trade went to hell. The upper section is government offices except for the last two floors, which are long-term records storage.”
Everyone nodded; the higher parts of still-occupied ancient buildings tended to be used for purposes which didn’t require climbing that many stairs multiple times a day. Dumping old tax records to be slowly nibbled into oblivion by mice was a typical one. There were ways to use the old elevator shafts, but they were all expensive, usually treated as luxuries for rulers and the very wealthy or employed for military necessities.
Wellman went on: “All deserted at this time of night, even the janitors have gone home.”
Well, that’s nice to know. There had been no way to check on little details like that from the outside, and the devil was in the details. Maybe Wellman getting involved was a good thing.
“The problem is that there’s a Cutter detachment on the flat roof right above us, keeping an eye on things; they’ve got a perimeter like that around all the approach roads to the gates on the inside, I presume exactly to guard against an attempt from within the city to rush one and open it. They’ve got a signal fire ready to go, and cowhorn trumpets. They report by blowing a signal every hour. It’s not as bad as a night heliograph, but it’s workable. Nine men, three placed so and three mobile and three resting. They’re relieved at sunset, midnight and dawn.”
His finger traced South Capitol towards the gate, tapping to either side of the road. “These used to be parking lots. They’re mixed-use row housing now, three stories, workshops and stores on the bottom and people living over. Nothing to worry about, the people will probably keep their heads down until they know what’s happening.”
Ingolf nodded. That sort of infilling was standard practice in modern walled towns. Space was always at a premium; the whole point of a wall was defense, but the number of men required to hold it went up geometrically as you increased the area enclosed by the perimeter. Fortified settlements were always as densely packed as water supply and hygiene allowed. Besides their sheer ludicrous size, pre-Change cities seemed to have come in two varieties: insanely overbuilt, or insanely dispersed and spread out. Or both. Usually both, in fact.
“The gate complex is here, two blocks. Street patrols are all Cutter light cavalry, though how they plan to feed that many horses during a siege is anyone’s guess. There’s definitely a High Seeker there-one at each of the major gates, in fact. I dealt with one of the junior Seekers once, and it was a memorable experience. I wouldn’t go near a High Seeker if I was on fire and he had the only water in miles. You have some way of handing this one?”
“Yes,” John Hordle said, glancing at the way they’d come. “Oi’ve done it, taking off their ’eads works foine.” He tapped the greatsword’s hilt. “Or burning them or chopping them to bits. They do stop moving in the end. But loikely we won’t ’ave to do it the ’ard way because we’ve zommat special coming. Good thing there aren’t more of them, innit?”
“The problem is going to be getting to the gate,” Wellman said. “The bastards can. . see things. See them coming before they’re visible.”
“The first problem is the sentries,” the hitherto silent noncom said.
“Sentry removal?” Ingolf said. “That’s not a problem.”
Ian Kovalevsky chuckled. “Not if you’ve got the love of a good woman,” he said.
Hordle grinned, which made his face look like a boiled ham in a good mood. He got the joke, but the Boiseans looked baffled.
“We’ll ’andle it,” he said, and glanced at the tunnel entrance again.
The last of the Dúnedain were up, about fifty in all, with Alleyne Loring bringing up the rear. A man in the gear of a Boisean regular came next out of the office, with the traverse side-to-side red crest of an officer on his helmet. More followed him, not too noisy for men wearing armor of articulated lames and hoops of steel, but a lot more so than the Rangers. The second wave of the assault group had made it, or at least the lead element had. Though how many more could before someone on the wall noticed was anyone’s guess. The regulars filed off to quiet commands, taking knee in ordered rows with the points of their pila like a growing thicket of steel points in the gloom.
“Got a job of work to do,” Hordle said. “Won’t go away by itself.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
City of Boise
(formerly southern Idaho)
High Kingdom of Montival
(Formerly western North America)
June 26th, Change Year 26/2024 AD
Fifteen minutes later, Ingolf was remembering a story he had run across while he was dickering over a salvage contract for the Bossman of Iowa back about five. .
No, six. Damn, goes faster all the time. I thought I knew how things worked even if I didn’t like it, I got the contract for the run to the east coast, and that was when this really strange stuff all started, six years ago.
. . six years ago. Just about the only good thing he’d ever heard about the CUT was that it disapproved of burning coal; mining it was among the very limited set of jobs that made soldiering look good. Iowans dug up a lot of the filthy stuff around Des Moines, not having near enough wood for such a huge city, and the air there always smelled of it.
When the dicker was over and while they sat and twiddled their thumbs and waited for the young Bossman to come in and OK the deal-he hadn’t been the most reliable of men, having been raised without hearing the word “no” very much-one of the ministers had told him that cages of small birds were taken down into coal mines in Iowa. To test for poison gasses that sometimes accumulated underground and either choked the miners or swept through the tunnels in walls of flame that burned them alive.
Yeah, there are worse ways of making a living than fighting cannibals to salvage artwork for rich assholes.
The little critters keeled over and went toes-up behind the bars before the gasses reached dangerous levels for humans, which sometimes gave the workers time to throw down their picks and run. It was a neat trick when it worked, and Ingolf had been raised among matter-of-fact farming folk who were prosperous enough but couldn’t afford much sentimentality. He would have been sorry to use a dog that way, but he’d have done it if he had to and birds came in only three categories: edible ones, nonedible ones, and ones which were pretty before you decided whether they were edible or not. And at a pinch, they were all edible.
The thing was that the birds probably thought the miners kept them around and fed them and cleaned out their cages because they loved them.
Likewise, the Cutters on the rooftop probably didn’t think of their role as making plenty of noise while getting killed so their main force would know what was coming, but that was about what it amounted to. That was why officers who knew their business tried to get someone else’s men assigned this sort of duty, and rot
ated it when they couldn’t. Or saw that the ones they could spare most got it.
I pulled a lot of outpost duty when I was young and stupid, he thought as they padded forward through darkness as black as the ink of the bureaucrats who laired here in the daytime. So the whole point here is to kill this bunch without making a lot of noise. Don’t think it’s necessarily going to be easy just because you’ve done it before, Ingolf old son. Nobody ever managed it with you, though that was partly dumb luck at first.
The inside of the office part of the building was very nearly as inky-black as the tunnel had been; there just wasn’t much ambient light to come through the windows with the moon down and the sun not up yet, and the Cutters outside were sensible enough not to eliminate their night vision by keeping a fire going. The downside was that they were concentrating on the streets and relying on the access door alerting them if anyone tried to break through that way because it was thickly fastened with chains and padlocked. Or on hearing the sound of windows breaking. It was a double-type door, windowless pre-Change metal and still strong.
“Saw,” Hordle said softly.
He gripped a section of the chain, pulling and twisting to hold it rigid. Ian pulled the flexible wire saw out of a pouch; the Force used them too, and the Dúnedain had good gear. Unlike their models in The Histories in peacetime they charged heavily for their services when the clients could afford it, with a bank in Corvallis as their business agents, and nobody tried to stiff them. Not twice. A bunch of pissed-off Rangers and a Corvallan debt-collector. . that was like a grizzly bear with a catapult mounted on its head.
Ian looped the flexible blade around the chain and began to work the handles, going slowly to keep it quiet and prevent heat buildup that might ruin the tool’s temper. The miniature chips of diamond set into the wire carved at the soft steel, a quiet ruhh. . ruhh sound.
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