The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “So what happened?” Marcus said. He was starting to feel sorry for Johannes. “Something exploded.”

  “You ever hear of flash powder?” the Preacher said, turning away from his hapless student. “Stage magicians use little bits of it sometimes. It’s basically your standard powder but ground up much finer so it burns faster and hotter. Not much good for guns or muskets, ’cause you’ll bust the barrel wide-open. It works for blasting, though, if you can afford to waste it.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Marcus said.

  “Flash powder’s expensive. It’s dangerous to make—the finer you grind powder, the better the chance that something’ll accidentally touch off the lot, you know? And like I said, it’s not good for much. You can usually get the job done with black powder just fine.” The Preacher looked back at the crater. “Unless you need to stick a big bomb in a small space.”

  “So that’s what they used here?”

  “Has to be. Quite a bit of it, too.” The Preacher shook his head. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere near it. It’s God’s grace that Her Majesty wasn’t there.”

  “I can agree with that,” Marcus muttered. “Okay. Flash powder. Do you have any idea where that might come from?”

  “Somewhere close by is the best I can tell you. It doesn’t travel well. Even a little damp will ruin it.”

  “That’s something.” In truth, it was much better than Marcus had expected. He’d hoped the Preacher could tell him something about the bomb, but he hadn’t expected much. All Marcus knew about powder was that it came in little paper cartridges. “Maybe we can track down the source.”

  The Preacher nodded. “Good luck. My boys and I are at your disposal if you need anything.”

  Marcus looked at the scurrying students. They were boys—and one girl—young, unseasoned, and enthusiastic. After a few more weeks of the Preacher’s instruction, they’d be handed off to Janus, who would throw them into the fire. After that . . .

  “Luck to you, too,” he said quietly as he turned away.

  Marcus walked back to Twin Turrets, by way of the Saint Dromin Street Bridge. Vordan City was changing around him, and one of the most visible signs of the times was the near disappearance of carriages from the streets. The army had an insatiable demand for horses, both to mount the outmatched Vordanai cavalry and to serve as beasts of burden alongside oxen and mules. The Ministry of War had scoured the streets for animals, and those that remained commanded ten times the price they had previously.

  There were still two in the stables at Twin Turrets, along with a small coach, but any vehicle was an object of curiosity now, and Marcus preferred to avoid the attention. Those carriages he did see were pulled by laboring teams of unfit animals, and carried men wearing the blue-and-black-striped sashes of the Patriot Guard. These rattled back and forth between the Cathedral, where the Deputies-General sat, and the Hotel Ancerre where the Directory had its headquarters.

  Other effects of the war were more subtle. The price of a four-pound loaf, the staple of the working poor, had dropped after the revolution, but it had never reached the one eagle that Danton had promised, and since the start of the war it had begun a steady upward march. Armed guards once again stood outside bakeries, protecting the proprietors from hungry customers. Prices of other goods fluctuated wildly, but always with ruinous effect: coffee had virtually disappeared from the shops, while warehouses bulged with stacks of cheeses and bolts of cloth unsalable at any price.

  It all went back to the blockade; Marcus was no expert, but he knew that much. Trade overland to the north and east, with Murnsk and the League, was obviously impossible. At the declaration of war, the mighty Borelgai fleet had weighed anchor and put Vordanai ports from Nordart to Essyle under their interdict. Any Vordanai trader who wanted to take his goods to a foreign market risked being blown out of the water by a ship-of-the-line, and the only cargoes coming in did so in black-sailed ships, by the dead of night. Fortunes were being made, rumor said, by cruel men who risked capture or death for the chance to sell their wares for a hundred times what they’d cost.

  North of the Triumph, at the base of the bridge, a pamphleteer had set up shop. His table was covered in stacks of flimsy paper, each weighed down with a stone against the wind. The pamphlets had changed, too. Instead of the familiar caricatures that had served as bylines—the Hanged Man, the Drunkard—each sheet bore spots of colored ink in its top-left corner for easy identification. Two black dots meant the author was aligned with the Conservatives, who dominated the Directory, while a bewildering array of colors indicated allegiance to the hundred different factions that made up the Radicals. Other combinations meant other splinter groups Marcus had never heard of, some of which might have merged or disappeared by the time their manifestos came back from the printers.

  Cartoons were popular, as usual. Marcus stopped to examine one marked with blue and green dots. Directory President Maurisk, caricatured as a near skeleton, was strapping a fat man in a headsman’s black hood to the table of the Spike. “I’m sorry,” he was saying, “but you’re now surplus to requirements.” He was surrounded by hundreds of double-circle grave markers, piles of them reaching into the sky like jagged mountain peaks. The caption read HAVING SPIKED THE REST OF VORDAN, THE PRESIDENT ELIMINATES THE EXECUTIONER.

  Farther down, where the rainbow of color turned to solid black-on-black, another cartoon showed a heroically proportioned Maurisk with a sword in either hand, facing down slavering caricatures of a Borel, a Hamveltai, and the Emperor of Murnsk, along with another figure Marcus didn’t recognize. Behind him was a girl, her dress half torn off—nothing like a woodcut nipple to boost sales—labeled VORDAN. The caption read YOU’LL HAVE NO MORE OF HER, YOU BLAGGARDS! The girl was weeping in her hands, but Marcus thought she was intended to look a little bit like Raesinia.

  The pamphleteer, a fat man with wispy eyebrows and a bald, spotted pate, caught Marcus’ frown and raised his hands defensively.

  “I just sells ’em, sir,” he said. “I ain’t responsible for the contents.”

  “Who’s this?” Marcus said, tapping the fourth figure. It was a big man with a hatchet nose, almost birdlike in appearance.

  The pamphleteer looked around conspiratorially, then shrugged. “Supposed to be Durenne, the Minister of War. Not much of a likeness, if you ask me.”

  “No,” Marcus said. He frowned. “What’s he done to get the Conservatives so mad?”

  “He’s the closest thing the Radicals have to a leader, and he’s on the Directory. Some people says he’s a spy for the Borels, or the Sworn Church, or somebody.” The man shrugged again. “Like I said, I just sell ’em. You want that one?”

  Marcus gave the pamphleteer a couple of pennies, but left the cartoon under its stone paperweight. There had been plenty of politics when he was at the War College, of course, but after his exile to Khandar his life had been blessedly free of it. The Colonials never attracted anyone with any ambition, and there had been a brutal simplicity to their relationship with the Khandarai, at least until the rise of the Redeemers.

  Now, though, politics in Vordan City had risen to a new and deadly level, and Janus had plunged him into the middle of it, right where he felt least prepared to be. Marcus sighed and turned his steps over the bridge. The Preacher’s right. I ought to be out in the field. Here he felt trapped, useless. Surely Janus must have someone better for this than me?

  Maybe, he thought morosely, he just wants to keep me out of the way.

  * * *

  Marcus’ black mood had not lifted by the time he returned to Twin Turrets. He acknowledged the salutes of the Mierantai guards with a grunt and stalked into the grand dining room, where Janus’ imported servants laid simple but vast meals for the garrison. It was a bit late for lunch, but there was always something left over.

  Ordinarily, the hall would be empty by this hour—the Mierantai servants wer
e very punctual—but today Marcus found one end of the big table occupied by the Queen of Vordan, dressed boyishly in a linen vest and trousers, wolfing down a plate of eggs and sausage while leafing through a stack of broadsheets and pamphlets.

  “Marcus!” she said, swallowing hastily. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Marcus swore silently. “I’m sorry, Your—Raes.” She scolded him every time he used her title. “I should have left word where I was going.”

  Raesinia waved a hand dismissively. She held up a pamphlet, which to Marcus’ horror bore the same cartoon he’d seen earlier, with Maurisk defending a weeping Vordan.

  “Is this supposed to be me, do you think?” she said.

  Marcus kept his face wooden. “I really couldn’t say.”

  “I think it is. The hair’s about right.” She frowned. “Not much of a likeness, really. I haven’t got that much . . . chest.”

  The woodcutter, Marcus had to admit, had used a bit of artistic license where Raesinia’s feminine endowments were concerned. He shook his head, trying to banish the disrespectful thoughts, and said, “Where did you get those?”

  “Oh, I sent one of the guards to pick them up,” Raesinia said. “I hope that’s all right. I didn’t think I should go wandering off by myself. Sothe usually brings me the lot every morning, but obviously she’s not here.”

  “There’s really no need for you to concern yourself with filth,” Marcus said. “I—”

  Raesinia laughed aloud, until she caught his expression. Then she frowned. “You’re serious?” She waved at the pile. “How else am I supposed to know what’s going on?”

  “I wouldn’t trust those things to give me an accurate picture of events in the city,” Marcus said stiffly.

  “They tell me what people are saying about events in the city,” Raesinia said. “That’s better.” She shook her head when his face remained grave. “Come and sit down, would you? And get something to eat if you’re hungry.”

  Feeling as if he were on a parade ground, with every senior officer in the College watching him, Marcus went to the serving table at the other end of the room. Metal army plates and trays looked out of place against the elegant wooden furniture, which needed silver and dainty pastries instead of piles of fried eggs, strips of roast beef, and a stack of rough bread. Marcus took a modest portion and turned back to Raesinia. To his horror, she’d pulled out the seat beside her and was gesturing for him to take it.

  “Your—” He swallowed. “I couldn’t. I mean, I was going to take this to my room. I thought—”

  “You are really going to have to get over this,” Raesinia said. “Would it help if I ordered you to treat me like a scullery maid?”

  Marcus blinked.

  “I don’t think I will,” Raesinia muttered. “Your head might explode. But if I’m supposed to be incognito, you’re going to have to unbend a little bit.”

  “Yes, Your—” Marcus took a deep breath. “Yes, Raes. I’ll try.”

  “Sorry,” she said as he sat down. “I know this is hard for you. I spent the better part of a year disguised as a commoner. I’ve gotten used to it.”

  Marcus had spent only a little time around Raesinia before the bombing, but her manner had definitely changed. Going through her official functions as queen, she’d seemed—dignified, possibly, or even a bit morose. Now she had the bubbling cheerfulness of someone who’d sloughed off a great weight. Combined with her change of costume, it made it difficult to see her as anything but a pretty young girl, intelligent eyes alive with humor as she flipped through the day’s crop of scandals and diatribes.

  She is the Queen of Vordan, for God’s sake. It is not appropriate to be contemplating her bosom or lack thereof. Marcus addressed himself to his plate. The food was actually quite good, though the combination of spices was unfamiliar. Presumably it was in the Mierantai style, whatever that was. The mountain folk had been unfailingly polite and obedient, but something about their manner discouraged casual questions.

  “So,” Raesinia said, flipping over another broadsheet and squinting to read the fine print on the back, “we need to discuss where to begin our investigation in the bombing.”

  Marcus paused, fork halfway to his mouth. He’d been hoping the queen hadn’t been serious in her desire to take an active role. “Yes.” He took a bit of sausage and chewed slowly, buying time. “Actually, I believe I may have a place to start. I asked Captain Vahkerson from the new artillery school to have a look at the site and see if there was anything he could tell me.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  Marcus nodded. “He was our artillery commander in Khandar. He knows his business.”

  “And did he find anything useful?”

  “I think so.” Marcus related the Preacher’s description of flash powder and why he thought it must have been employed in the bombing. “He says that transporting it long distances is difficult,” he concluded, “and I would think that’s doubly true now, with army agents requisitioning every bit of powder they can get their hands on. So if we can figure out where there might have been a store of flash powder, that could give us a lead.”

  “That’s a definite possibility.” Raesinia tapped her finger on the table. “How many mills near the city can make the stuff, do you think?”

  “I have no idea,” Marcus admitted. He congratulated himself for suppressing his desire to add a title. “But there must be a way to find out. I was going to go looking after lunch.”

  “Do you have an idea of where to start?”

  Marcus had had the vague thought that he should ask the army quartermasters, but since the sources of the Vordanai army’s powder might come under the heading of state secrets, he wasn’t sure he’d get an answer without a direct appeal to Janus. He shrugged. “Not specifically.”

  “I think I might,” Raesinia said thoughtfully. “There’s somebody you ought to meet.”

  * * *

  Marcus had spent so much time riding in carriages since his return to the city that he hadn’t quite appreciated how big the place felt to a pedestrian. By the time they’d recrossed the Saint Dromin Street Bridge to the Island, then walked the length of the Grand Span to the South Bank, he found himself short of breath. Too much time on horseback, not enough time marching with the troops. The worst of it was that none of his companions seemed affected; he might have expected that from the two Mierantai guards, but Raesinia kept up easily, clomping along in big, practical, unladylike boots.

  On reaching the South Bank, they’d taken a left turn and walked along the river through Newtown toward Oldtown. Looking up at the decaying tenements and around at the teeming streets, Marcus was glad he’d insisted on bringing the guards. The two Mierantai had left their red uniforms and rifles behind in favor of plainclothes, but they carried long walking sticks and, like Marcus, wore swords on their belts.

  Newtown was even more crowded than it had been before the revolution. After the declaration of war, people had flocked to the city, mostly from along the League border or from coastal towns threatened by Borelgai raids. Many of the men had been absorbed into the new army, issued blue jackets and antique muskets and sent to the front, but thousands of women, children, and men too old or infirm to fight remained. Those with money fought over increasingly rare rooms at inns and boardinghouses, or rented the estates of nobles who’d fled to their country estates. Those without camped in the streets of Newtown.

  Their small party drew a considerable amount of attention, mostly from people desperate to sell whatever they had to make a few coins. Marcus was offered household furnishings, pots and pans, a dented silver cup, and any number of bottles of wine. Having arrived with whatever they could throw into their farm carts, the refugees were now trying to trade those meager belongings for food. They were also trying to trade themselves, at depressingly low prices; the influx of new prostitutes had evidently lowered both
prices and standards, and every few yards Marcus got shockingly direct offers from ragged young women. Some of them were clearly novices at the trade, farm girls tarted up in ratty lace and too much makeup. He saw one girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen staring fixedly at the cobblestones while her father, one arm around her shoulders, solicited offers from the crowd. Marcus forced himself to look away.

  Raesinia was getting a fair number of offers herself, usually shouted from a safe distance out of respect for the armed Mierantai. She seemed able to ignore them, but Marcus flinched with every lewd remark.

  “I could have done this myself,” he said into her ear. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” Raesinia said. “And I’ve seen worse, so there’s no need to apologize. You should have seen the crowd that stormed the Vendre.”

  “I did,” Marcus muttered. Though, admittedly, the view had not been great from his prison cell.

  “We’ll be fine. Here’s the Cut.”

  The border between Newtown and Oldtown, where the money had run out for Farus V’s grand plan to rebuild the capital along rational lines, was as vivid as a scar in the fabric of the city. On one side, the buildings stood ten stories high, and the streets were a neat grid; across the broad avenue of the Cut, half-timbered buildings leaned drunkenly against one another along winding avenues that followed the tracks of medieval cow paths.

  Here the poverty was of a different sort. People might be crowded ten to a room, but no one was sleeping in the streets. When Marcus had been Captain of Armsmen, Giforte had explained that Oldtown was firmly in the grip of a network of gangs nearly as ancient as the monarchy, who ruled their territory with iron fists and sharp knives. Those who wouldn’t abide their rules ended up shoved into Newtown, or the even worse shantytowns to the south, where the city faded into the swamps. Those who made trouble were found floating down the river in the morning.