“Captain,” she said, with a slight bow. “Colonel. Welcome. I am Auriana Daatifica.” When she spoke, the right half of her mouth didn’t move, giving all her words a slight lisp.
Marcus nodded nervously, trying not to stare. “I was told you had a message for me.”
“We’ve been expecting you.” Auriana stepped out of the doorway and gestured. “Come in. Captain, I must ask that you remain behind.”
“Of course,” Giforte said, looking relieved. “I’ll see you upstairs, sir.”
Marcus stepped through the doorway, and Auriana shut and bolted the door behind him. They were in a small chamber with bare rock walls, lit by more candles. Auriana led Marcus through another arched stone doorway, walking with a slow, gliding gait that could not quite conceal a limp.
“You were in Khandar with the mistress, weren’t you?” Auriana said.
“I was with the Colonials there, yes,” Marcus said carefully.
“She has told us about you. You fought to bring us our sacred texts.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Here,” Auriana said.
They were walking down a long gallery, with more archways on both sides. Auriana indicated one of the left, and Marcus peered inside. There was a closet-sized space beyond, empty except for a pair of candles and a massive steel tablet propped against the far wall.
Marcus’ breath caught in his throat. The last time he’d seen one of those tablets, they were hidden in a nightmare temple under a mountain in the Great Desol, two thousand miles away and a lifetime ago. The light playing over the deeply incised runes on their surfaces brought back memories of smoke and fire, of corpses with glowing green eyes lurching through the darkness to rend and tear, of magic that screeched like knives on glass and blasted solid stone to fragments. Of looking down the sights of musket at Jen, beautiful and terrible, wreathed in sorcerous power, and pulling the trigger.
Not that it was worth a damn. Musket balls had been no more effective than mosquito bites. They’d survived thanks to Ihernglass, who’d somehow acquired a power from these very tablets. They were the treasure Janus had gone to Khandar to find, his other secret weapon. The Thousand Names.
He’d known they were somewhere in the city, but he’d done his best to put them out of his mind. Demons and sorcery, he’d decided, were above his pay grade, no matter how high that pay grade ended up rising. Leave that sort of thing to Janus.
But Janus was in the League, and the Names were here in Vordan.
“I was there,” Marcus said. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”
“As you will,” Auriana said. “Come with me. The mistress is waiting.”
At the far end of the gallery was another archway, blocked off with a curtain. Auriana pushed through, and Marcus followed her into a somewhat larger room. Here someone had made an effort to make the raw stone chamber more comfortable—lamps shed a bright, warm light, and overlapping carpets underfoot cut the chill. A half dozen sleeping pallets clustered against one wall, and a pair of portable writing desks of the sort Marcus had used in his army tent sat against the other. Small cushions were scattered everywhere, mounding up in the corners. In the center of the room a young woman sat, eyes closed, hands folded in front of her, breathing slowly and deliberately.
“Mistress,” Auriana said diffidently. “Colonel d’Ivoire is here.”
The young woman opened her eyes. She was dressed in a robe like Auriana’s, gray instead of black, and had the dark hair and gray skin of a Khandarai. Marcus recognized her, vaguely, from a hurried introduction before they’d all taken ship. He gave an awkward nod and dredged up his rusty Khandarai.
“It’s Feor, right?”
She got smoothly to her feet, speaking in good, if accented Vordanai. “It is. It’s good to see you, Colonel d’Ivoire.” Feor gestured to Auriana. “I will speak to the colonel alone, Auri.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Auriana sat where Feor had been, with some difficulty from her stiff leg. Feor took Marcus’ arm and led him back through the curtain.
“Your Vordanai has gotten a lot better,” Marcus said. She’d been able to manage only a few halting words the last time they spoke.
“Out of necessity,” Feor said. “I have had a great deal of practice.”
“Who are those two?” Marcus indicated the curtain. “If I’m allowed to be in on the secret.”
“Janus told me I could tell you whatever you asked,” Feor said. “Though I am not to bother you unnecessarily. Auri and Justin are my students. There are three others as well, though they are not here at the moment.”
“Ah.” Marcus shifted awkwardly. “You’re teaching them . . . magic?”
Feor gave a wan smile. “I am teaching them what I can. Mother knew a hundred times what I know, but she is not here, and our need is great. We must unlock the power of the Thousand Names if we are to defeat the abh-naathem.”
Marcus could parse that, after a fashion. Naathem was the Khandarai name for someone who could use magic, a sorcerer; it literally meant “one who has read.” Abh was false, deviant, deformed, disgusting.
“People like Jen, you mean. The woman we fought in the temple.” An agent of the Priests of the Black. She’d called herself one of the Penitent Damned.
Feor nodded. “They know that we have the Names. They will try to destroy us. I believe that the gods have set us against them, as a trial of strength.”
“So you’re training them to be wizards?” The idea seemed ridiculous, something out of a fairy story.
“I am training them to read a naath from the Names. They must learn the characters, but more important, they must prepare their spirits. Reading a naath is a trial that few escape unscathed.”
“Is that what happened to Auriana? She seems . . .”
“Yes. She was fortunate. Others have . . . not been so lucky.”
There was something deep and haunted in Feor’s eyes. Marcus coughed, nervously, feeling as though he were standing at the edge of a vast abyss.
“I got a message,” he said after a moment. “There was something you needed to tell me.”
Feor nodded again. “Every naathem can feel others of our kind, if they are close enough, depending on the strength of the naath on both sides. There are a few small powers in the city, but in the past few days I have felt something . . . larger. An abh-naathem of great strength. Janus wanted you to be warned.”
“One of these Penitent Damned?”
“I have no way of knowing, but Janus thought it likely. That a wild naathem could be so strong is vanishingly unlikely.”
“Wonderful,” Marcus muttered. He had met two of the Penitent Damned, the demon-bearing agents of the Priests of the Black. The first, Jen Alhundt, he had fallen in love with, right up until she’d tried to kill him in the underground Desoltai temple. The second, Adam Ionkovo, had tried to get him to betray Janus, dangling the truth about what had happened to Marcus’ family as bait. After Orlanko’s fall, the Penitent had slipped out of a locked and guarded prison cell without leaving a trace. “Can you tell me where this abh-naathem is?”
“Not unless he comes very close to here.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Be careful,” Feor said. “And keep your eyes open. If you catch a hint of anything amiss, tell me at once.” She hesitated. “I lack the power to confront an abh-naathem directly, but it’s possible I will have information that can help.”
Marcus nodded slowly. That’s not exactly reassuring. “All right. Thanks for the warning. Anything else?”
“No.” Feor hesitated. “May I ask you something?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you have any word of Lieutenant Ihernglass and Corporal Forester?”
It had been Ihernglass and Forester, Marcus remembered, who rescued Feor during the Khandarai campaign. Ihernglass h
ad taken the quick passage back to Vordan with Janus and Marcus himself while Feor and Forester had stayed with the rest of the regiment on the slower transport.
“I know they’re both in the east with Janus. Ihernglass raised a company of women to help defend the city, if you can believe that.” Marcus still wasn’t sure he could, or why Janus had allowed it. “I think Forester was helping him. They all marched out with the Army of the East.”
“They were well?”
“They were the last time I saw them, after the Battle of Midvale. There’s been fighting since then, and we haven’t gotten much word.”
Feor nodded gravely. “Thank you.”
“Of course. If you get any more information, about this abh-naathem or”—Marcus wanted to say “any other weird nonsense,” but thought it might not be politic—“ask Giforte to send word.”
“I shall. I wish you the best of luck, Colonel.”
“Thanks.” Between the queen and this mysterious sorcerer, Marcus was beginning to think he’d need it.
* * *
The actual trick of faking the queen’s exit from the city was accomplished with a minimum of fuss. The first step was the queen’s announcement that, in the interest of safeguarding the Orboan line, she had reluctantly agreed to leave the city for an unnamed, more secure location. She gave quite a nice speech for the occasion, Marcus had to admit, but the occasion was somewhat spoiled by the fact that it was only lightly attended; the commons had apparently decided it was dangerous to get too close to the queen. Those who did attend, forced to by custom or social position, came with conspicuous bodyguards. Combined with the heavy presence of Patriot Guards, Grenadier Guards, and red-coated Mierantai, the armed men probably outnumbered the civilians.
Marcus had reluctantly agreed that the performance was necessary to reassure the public that the queen had not, in fact, been killed in the blast, contrary to rumors already racing through the city. Having proven that she was still in one piece, at least to those who’d bothered to show up, Raesinia was whisked down from the platform and into a waiting coach, guarded by a phalanx of Grenadier Guards on horseback.
It headed north, toward the road that led past Ohnlei and into the country. Near the edge of the city, however, they stopped to collect the queen’s luggage and supplies for the journey. A servant girl, dressed in a hooded robe, climbed into the darkened vehicle with a few personal effects. Raesinia, suitably reattired, climbed out. The double would be told the switch was for security reasons, to guard against an ambush on the road.
Marcus waited beside Raesinia, watching the convoy of coach, wagons, and guards rumble away. He had to keep reminding himself that it was the queen standing beside him. In plainclothes, she looked like any other pretty young girl, her slight figure making her look younger than her twenty years.
“Colonel?” she said as the convoy turned a corner and passed out of sight.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
Raesinia winced. “For starters, you’re going to have to stop calling me that, or this ruse isn’t going to last very long.
“Oh.” Marcus tapped the hilt of his saber uncomfortably. “Then . . . my lady?”
“Raesinia,” said Raesinia. “I have a name. Raes, even, if you prefer. Remember, I work for you now.”
Officially, Raesinia was now a courier in Marcus’ service, giving her a plausible excuse to be staying at Twin Turrets should anyone inquire. Only Lieutenant Uhlan and his Mierantai guards knew the truth.
“All right.” Marcus gritted his teeth. “Raes.”
“Is something wrong?”
There were at least a hundred things wrong that Marcus could think of, starting with the fact that Marcus had been ordered to try and protect the Queen of Vordan while she wandered around incognito playing at being a private investigator. He forced a smile. “I’m just worried that you won’t find the accommodations at Twin Turrets up to your usual standard.”
Raesinia waved a hand irritably. “Never mind about that. Are you ready to get started? I have a few ideas, but of course I welcome anything you can come up with.”
Marcus closed his eyes for a moment and blew out a long breath. All right. This was the assignment, the mission Janus had handed him. Marcus might not approve—the thought of being personally responsible for the safety of the queen while she wandered around the city might leave him a bit weak at the knees—but that was neither here nor there. Trusting Janus’ judgment has gotten me this far. It’s too late to stop now.
“Of course, your—Raes,” he said. “I’m at your disposal.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And, come to think of it, I may have a notion of where to begin.”
Chapter Five
MARCUS
“Hello, Colonel!”
“Preacher!” Marcus waved aside his old friend’s salute and shook his hand enthusiastically. “Thanks for lending a hand.”
“It’s nothing,” the Preacher said. He was a balding, wiry man with blotchy skin pockmarked by old powder burns. “God and the general have endowed me with this troop of half-wits, and I’m glad to be able to put ’em to some use.”
The half-wits in question, standing in a neat line behind the Preacher, bore this abuse without comment. Some of them had regulation army uniforms, but more wore only blue jackets over civilian clothes, like most of the volunteers. They had the soft look of a good upbringing in their faces, and they wore serious expressions. To Marcus’ surprise, one of them was a young woman, in a neatly tailored uniform with her hair tied up in a severe bun.
The skies had cleared, and the autumn sun warmed the flagstones of Farus’ Triumph. Patriot Guards were everywhere, patrolling by the half dozen or standing watch over the hulking metal shape of the Spike. Patriot-Doctor Sarton’s invention had been getting quite a bit of employment of late. Nearly every day, the broadsheets boasted of more traitors discovered and spy rings unraveled. The bleachers had been expanded since the day of the attack on the queen; apparently, the novel executions were a popular entertainment.
The Preacher’s troop had already torn apart the wooden platform that had covered the site of the royal box, exposing the shallow bomb crater in the center of a ring of cracked flagstones. At a gesture from their leader, the students offered Marcus a passable salute and returned to what they’d been doing, which seemed to involve going over the ground with measuring tapes and taking a lot of notes.
“I was surprised to hear you were still in the city,” the Preacher said. “I’d have thought Janus would want you at his right hand when the lead starts flying.”
“I’m a bit surprised to be here, to be honest,” Marcus said. “But he says he needs someone he can trust in the city to keep an eye on things.”
“They need looking after, that’s a fact,” the Preacher said, shooting a sour look at the nearest squad of Patriot Guards. “I’ve never seen such a gang of useless arse-polishers.”
“That’s starting to become an unhealthy sentiment to express out loud,” Marcus said. The latest round of victims of the Spike had included several men whose crime was “discouraging confidence and enthusiasm for the government and the war.”
The Preacher spit on the cobbles. “If they don’t like me, they’re welcome to file a complaint. I answer only to God and General Vhalnich.”
“I’m surprised,” Marcus said, eager to change the subject, “that you’re not out in the field yourself.”
It was hard to tell behind his ferocious beard, but it looked as though the Preacher was blushing. “Ah, well. I’m getting old for that sort of thing, you know? Keeping up with the boys in Khandar just about wore the legs off me.” He shook his head. “Besides, for all that they’re Sworn Church lackeys, the Leaguers still believe in Karis and His salvation. It never sat right with me, fellow Karisai killing each other over who kneels to who. That’s how I ended up in Khandar in the first place, you know. So I could point m
y guns at proper heathens.”
“So you’re still training down at the University?”
“To the extent that such a thing is possible with this bunch of fumble-thumbed lack-brains. With the Lord’s help, I may be able to pound a thing or two about laying guns into their skulls before sending ’em off to war.” He turned to the scurrying students and raised his voice. “Johannes! You got an answer for me yet?”
A gangly youth barely out of his teens shot to his feet. “Yes, Captain!”
“Let me see it.”
Johannes approached, glancing nervously at Marcus, and handed his notebook to the Preacher. The artillery captain’s eyes flicked over the columns of figures.
“You lost a ten in there someplace,” he said, “but I don’t reckon it matters. This is how much powder you think you’d need to make a blast this big, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” Johannes said, standing at such strict attention he was vibrating. “Judging by the radius at which the blast cracked the flagstones, and the distance—”
“Yes, yes. Now, how big a pile would that much powder make?”
Johannes’ eyes crossed as he calculated. “If you just dumped it? It’d be roughly a cone. We can reverse the volume formula—”
“You’re not getting it. Lord knows I’m not surprised. Colonel, how big was the royal box?”
“Maybe ten by ten,” Marcus said.
“And how much space under it?”
“Not much. Less than a foot.”
The Preacher looked at Johannes. “Could you fit that much black powder in there?”
The boy blinked. “Er . . . no, sir. Not even close. But I’m sure my calculations weren’t that far off—”
“What it means,” the Preacher said, “is that we’re not dealing with ordinary black powder. Which you ought to have known from the start, because without a complicated fuse you can’t get a whole pile of powder to go off at once. It’d get sprayed around, you see?” At Johannes’ expression, he sighed. “You don’t see. God help us all.”
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