by Paula Volsky
Girays knew that. He was too kind to remind her. Moreover, he’d even more pressing concerns of his own. His beloved estate of Belfaireau, family seat of the v’Alisantes for generations, was a handsome prize by any reckoning. In the event of a successful invasion the Grewzian conquerors would inevitably appropriate the house and lands. She hadn’t even thought of that until now.
Despite the strength of the summer sun, the day seemed to darken. She took a sip of iced coffee and changed the subject.
TWO DAYS LATER she received an invitation to lunch with vo Rouvignac, now back in town. The deputy underminister proved more communicative than his associates of the ministry, but less than thoroughly forthcoming.
“I would answer if I could, Miss Devaire,” he assured her between spoonfuls of chilled lobster bisque. “But I myself am kept quite in the dark these days.”
She did not believe him, but knew no polite way of expressing skepticism, so she smiled understandingly, allowed an appropriate interval to elapse, then changed the phrasing and angle of her questions. He probably did want to enlighten her, as far as he safely could. When she asked about Karsler Stornzof, he was able to tell her that a thorough search of the ruined Waterwitch Palace had revealed the Overcommander Stornzof’s body intact in an underground chamber untouched by fire. The body had been sent back to Grewzland, where the Confraternity of the Promontory would oversee its final disposition. As for the diminished remains of the Grandlandsman Torvid Stornzof, they had been quietly interred in a Toltz cemetery. Despite its fury the fire had claimed no other victim.
And the Hetzian adept, Nitz Neeper? Still in Sherreen?
Difficult to say. Master Neeper had been interviewed by government officials at some length upon his arrival. Vo Rouvignac himself had not been present at these meetings, he declared; in any event, their content was considered sensitive. There was reason to suspect that Master Neeper had recently been transferred to another location that vo Rouvignac could hardly specify; really, it amounted to so much speculation.
And the Sentient Fire? She had seen it with her own eyes, she knew that it was real, but was it practical? Was it remotely reliable or controllable? Could it actually serve as an effective weapon of war?
“As to that, Miss Devaire, I am hardly a competent judge,” vo Rouvignac declared modestly. “If you desire concrete fact, I fear that you must do as I do—read the newspapers.”
SHE FOLLOWED HIS ADVICE, and two days later her copy of The Republican carried the banner headline, HAERESTEAN DEMAND REFUSED.
Her pulse quickened. This was it. She read on. The article was long and loaded with detail, but the gist was simple enough. The Vonahrish president, with the full support of Congress, had responded to the Haerestean Parliament’s request for the transfer of Eulence Province to Haerestean ownership with an unequivocal refusal. The Haerestean government had already responded with a formal statement of protest. Diplomatic relations between the two nations had broken off. The Haerestean ambassador had withdrawn from Sherreen, and the embassy was closed. The High Council in Grewzland had issued an emphatic censure of Vonahrish policy, together with a pledge in support of abused Haereste, brother nation of the Imperium.
They would launch that assault within hours. Perhaps, miles to the south in Eulence, it had already begun. Luzelle set her newspaper aside. She did not want to be sitting here alone in her rented rooms at a time like this. She wanted to be with Girays, right now, this minute, but could not respectably indulge the impulse. She couldn’t very well turn up alone and uninvited at his town house door, it wasn’t suitable.
Too bad. I’m going.
She stood up. Her summer straw hat hung on a peg in the tiny vestibule. Before she reached it, somebody knocked on the door. She opened it. Girays stood on the threshold.
“Have you seen the newspaper?” he asked.
THEY WENT TO THE NEAREST CAFÉ and found the place jammed, for it seemed the natural instinct of Sherreenians in times of common trouble to assemble, consume much coffee or wine, and talk. Luzelle supposed that the cafés and taverns all over the city must be similarly crowded and noisy. The volume and intensity of discussion was daunting. Strangers addressed one another with the ease of old acquaintance, and everybody seemed to have some theory, belief, expression of hope and confidence, or declaration of impending doom to offer. The rumors flew, and many were presented as statements of absolute fact, but nobody actually knew a thing.
Everyone was in the same boat, all dependent for information on the newspapers, which were in turn obliged to await dispatches from the Haerestean border, hundreds of miles to the south.
Sherreen waited. That evening’s special edition of The Republican announced in letters two inches high, HAERESTE INVADES EULENCE PROVINCE.
And after that, Sherreen waited again.
TWENTY-FOUR TENSE HOURS DRAGGED BY. Luzelle spent many of them with Girays and others loitering outside the offices of The Republican. The stretch of Cliquot Street before the building was choked with pedestrians and closed to wheeled traffic. The offices of the two rival journals—The Sherreen Messenger and The Parabeau Gazette—were similarly besieged, but the largest crowds gravitated to the city’s oldest, preeminent source of news. The men, women, and children gathered there were quiet, orderly, patient, and remarkably considerate of one another. A sense of strong solidarity reigned.
The late-summer sun beat down on Sherreen. Straw hats and parasols offered limited protection. Vendors of chilled drinks and overpriced snacks of every description circled the edge of the crowd, doing brisk business. As the hours wore on, the crowd remained quiet and civil, but certain proprieties began to erode. Men loosened their collars and cravats, and some even removed their jackets. Ladies stripped away their white lace gloves, as they would never have dared under ordinary circumstances. Small rugs, blankets, and mantelets seemed to appear out of nowhere to spread themselves out on the ancient cobbles, and scores of citizens tired of standing seated themselves right there in the street.
Luzelle did not want to sit down in the street, and could not bring herself to ask Girays to do it. When she could no longer bear standing in the sun, they withdrew to the comparative comfort of a doorstep in a shaded entryway, and there she could rest for a while. But her weakness cost them their good position near the front door of the office building, and they could not hope to regain it.
Girays went and brought back chilled fruit juice and cheese pastries. They ate and she felt her energy returning. The sacrifice of their place did not seem to matter much. The hours were passing, and no revelations rewarded endurance.
The sun was leaning on the western rooftops, the shadows were stretching to soothe Cliquot Street, and Luzelle began to wonder what they would do when darkness fell. Give up, go home, and return in the morning? Or wait here along with so many others throughout the night, into the morning, and beyond, as long as it might take? She was sick beyond words of the endless waiting and no doubt Girays was equally fatigued, but she could hardly tolerate the thought of not being present to learn the outcome, and she suspected he shared her sentiments there too.
The emergence of a sweaty, haggard journalistic lackey burdened with a stack of The Republican’s scarcely dry special edition resolved her dilemma. The shouting crowd surged forward, up the short flight of stone stairs, and the newspapers flew from the journalist’s hands. Luzelle chewed her lower lip in frustration. She and Girays were nowhere near the source, they would never get their hands on one of those early reports.
Hundreds of others shared her plight. A storm of mixed protest and appeal arose. Some anonymous philanthropist blessed with generosity and powerful lungs mounted the stairs, where he stood waving his arms vigorously. The clamor abated as his compatriots recognized his intention. The crowd fell back and fell silent. Standing alone at the head of the stairs, the philanthropist began to read in a strong voice audible to every listener.
VONAHRISH VICTORY
Eyewitness Account from Carnoche Muni
cipality
Shortly after sunrise this morning, a force consisting of two divisions of Haerestean infantry heavily supported by troops and artillery of the Unified Army of the Imperium, crossed the border into Vonahr to advance upon Carnoche Municipality, capital of Eulence Province. Around 7:30 A.M. the Second Corps of the Vonahrish Army under the command of General vo Lieux-v’Olliard engaged the enemy in the fields to the east of the town. It is widely rumored that vo Lieux-v’Olliard dispatched a message to the Undergeneral Retzlof, commander of the Grewzian units, revealing the existence of a new weapon of inconceivable destructive power and offering the enemy a final opportunity to surrender, but this report remains unverified.
In the midmorning the Grewzian artillery opened fire, which Vonahrish gunners returned. Immediately following the commencement of the exchange, the sudden outbreak in their midst of intense wildfire threw the Haerestean and Grewzian troops into great disarray. The fire, distinguished at a distance by its unusual green color, first manifested itself among the enemy gunners, but in the space of mere seconds expanded to extraordinary breadth and height, spreading across the field to overwhelm the invading troops with terrible rapidity. It was noted and commented upon by many observers that the blaze seemed almost possessed of some predatory awareness, for there were many sightings of fleeing victims pursued, overtaken, and arrested by long, tentacular arms of flame.
Within minutes the entire enemy army was engulfed in a sea of furious green fire—a piteous and dreadful spectacle, never to be forgotten by any witness. The sight of their foes writhing in torment, accompanied by the ghastly chorus of shrieks and pleas, awakened the compunction of many Vonahrish soldiers, several of whom are reported to have begged their commander to extinguish the allegedly arcane conflagration.
The green fire never abated, however, before its work of devastation was complete, at which time the flames dwindled out of sight as speedily and inexplicably as they had arisen. It is believed that every enemy soldier perished, although a contingent of civilian spectators was permitted to depart unscathed. Casualties are believed to number somewhere between forty and forty-five thousand men. There was no Vonahrish loss of life.
The terrifying potential of this new destructive force loosed upon the world is obvious and undeniable. Yet its use in this instance appears justified in view of the immediate results. Upon conclusion of the engagement General vo Lieux-v’Olliard quickly moved the Second Corps across the border into the vicinity of Velque, first of some four municipalities of note standing between the Vonahrish force and the Haerestean capital of Tibille. On the outskirts of Velque, vo Lieux-v’Olliard’s advance was intercepted by a Haerestean delegation offering terms of surrender.
The terms have been accepted by General vo Lieux-v’Olliard on behalf of the Vonahrish Republic. The Second Corps is withdrawing from Haereste, having eliminated the threat of foreign invasion in the near or foreseeable future.
The reader fell silent. His listeners were similarly silent for a stunned moment. Then the crowd exploded into prolonged cheers that rolled forth to fill Cliquot Street and the avenues beyond with exultant thunder.
THE BREEZE THAT SWEPT along the River Vir was warm but fresh. Today the air of Sherreen felt cleaner and somehow lighter than it had been for weeks past. Luzelle inhaled deeply.
“Beautiful. Tastes of early autumn,” she said.
“About time,” Girays opined. They were passing a small pier colorfully decked with pennants. “Care to hire a row-boat?”
“No, it’s so pleasant here under the trees. Let’s just walk.”
They sauntered on along the shady footpath edging the river. Many pedestrians were out upon the path, enjoying the weather. People were chattering, quarreling, playing, laughing. Toddlers were squalling, their nannies shushing them. Vendors were hawking their tidbits and trinkets, while a strolling musician fiddled for coppers. The scene breathed agreeable normality. Hard to believe that the city had confronted the imminence of disaster mere weeks earlier.
On they walked arm in arm until they came to the teeming Waterfront Market, with its ceaseless racket and activity that could grate on ragged nerves, but seemed purely stimulating today. The ancient Bridge Vinculum rose before them, and on the far side of the river loomed the castellated towers of the grim old Sepulchre; fortress-prison and house of horrors in the days of the revolution, but now nothing more than a historical curiosity, one of the interesting sights of Sherreen.
As they walked on through the market, they encountered an urchin selling copies of The Sherreen Messenger, and they did not pause, but the big headline caught Luzelle’s eye in passing: WESTERN ALLIANCE RATIFIED.
Desperate nations, it seemed, were sometimes capable of blindingly swift action.
The news was already old; she had read it hours earlier in The Republican. So had Girays. She knew that he would pick up on her thought without need of explanation when she remarked, “Fine for the Principalities, they’re safe under Vonahrish protection now. Kyrendt, Travorn, Ferille, and the Republican-Enclaves as well, but what about Rhazaulle?”
“A little distant for membership in a western alliance,” Girays returned, “but not beyond the reach of aid. I don’t think it will be long before our Grewzian friends see green fire kindling on the Rhazaullean front. And elsewhere in the world as well. Lanthi Ume, perhaps. Xoxo. Jumo Towne.”
“It’s horrible. The slaughter—the thousands of men burned alive.” Luzelle swallowed. “And we’re partly responsible for bringing it all about.”
“It is horrible,” he agreed. “But the alternative to Masterfire is Endless Fire. Well, the Grewzians have tasted Masterfire. They’ve no weapon of remotely comparable power, and they know it. It’s quite possible that the Sentient Fire will never actually be loosed upon an army of men again. The mere threat will suffice to deter the Imperium.”
“Until the Grewzians buy or steal the secret, or learn how to kindle green fires of their own.”
“That’s always possible. The best Vonahrish course, in my opinion, is for us to use this respite effectively. Strengthen ourselves, avoid repeating past errors, never again allow the Imperium or anything of that ilk to launch itself upon an unprepared world.”
“How long a respite do you think we’ve got?”
“Something between days and decades.”
“And then?”
“Indeed. And then.”
The Waterfront Market was behind them. The footpath along the river resumed, and they were back in the pleasant shade of the trees. They walked along in silence for a while, until Girays observed conversationally, “You’ve had weeks to mull over all those offers you received—the speaking engagements, articles, books, and so on. Reached any decisions?”
“Well, I haven’t entirely made up my mind yet,” she confessed. “So many seem so tempting, but I can’t manage them all. The only one I’m quite certain of at the moment is the Bulaude Fellowship. That one I’ll definitely accept.”
“I see. So you’ll be tied to Sherreen all through next year.”
“For the most part, yes.”
“No doubt you’ll be busy.”
“Very. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Do you think your schedule might accommodate a wedding?”
“Whose?”
“Ours.”
“Ours?” She stopped and turned to look at him. He was smiling, the smile that had always warmed her, and she wanted to fling her arms around him. That smile and face were part of the essential terrain of her mind, and always would be. Her heart was pounding, and she let herself recognize at last how deeply and powerfully she had ached for a second chance. Assent almost flew out of her mouth, but she tightened her jaw and held it in. There was more to consider than spontaneous emotion, and she was, as His Honor had pointed out, no longer a green girl.
“I wouldn’t marry anyone else,” she told him. “But we tried betrothal once already. Remember what happened. Disaster.”
“Years ago. We�
��ve both changed since then.”
“Yes. Some things haven’t changed, though. You still want a wife willing to divide her time between Belfaireau and Sherreen. I still want liberty to travel and pursue my work. Even with all the love in the world between us, how long before we’d find ourselves at one another’s throats?”
“Even with all the love in the world between us, we remain reasonable, intelligent adults, do we not? We are capable of negotiating a compromise.”
“Negotiating?” She tasted the word. A slow smile crept across her face. “Shouldn’t we have lawyers or something?”
“We’ll represent ourselves.”
“You know what they say about that.”
“We’ll prove them wrong. Come then, Miss Devaire. State your conditions.”
“I must continue my career, that’s certain. I must be free to travel.”
“How free? Be specific.”
“Well—” She considered. “An excursion as often as every eighteen months, not to exceed eight months in duration.”
“As often as every thirty-six months, not to exceed three months in duration.”
“That’s ridiculously inadequate!”
“Let’s hear your counteroffer.”
“Oh. Well. Every eighteen months, six months’ duration.”
“Every two years, six months’ maximum duration.”
“Ummm. That’s—not so very bad. All right, I can accept that if you can.”