The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  If the gate was ornamental, the wall was decidedly not. It was old stone, twelve feet high and topped with rusty iron spikes. It dated from a time when the citizens of Vordan would periodically take it into their heads to burn the scholars of the University for sorcery, though nowadays it was more useful for keeping unruly students away from the taverns of the Dregs.

  Today, though, the wall was again serving its original function. A mob had gathered outside the Gate of Wisdom, mostly Southside laborers by their clothes but a few better-dressed young Northside men mixed in. They all seemed to be shouting at once, producing an incomprehensible babble, from which the occasional disjointed phrase emerged.

  “—spies! They’re all spies—”

  “Turn them over!”

  “Spike! To the Spike!”

  A line of Patriot Guards with halberds kept the crowd out of the University. There were only a dozen of them, spread thin across the broad gateway, and Marcus could see only fear and force of authority was keeping the mob back. A concerted rush would batter the guards to the ground, halberds or no.

  “Hell,” Marcus said, rapping on the front panel to alert the driver. “Stop here.”

  “Sir?” The driver, one of the Mierantai servants from Twin Turrets, had the same harsh accent as Uhlan and the others.

  “We’d better not try to push through that.” Marcus opened the door. “We’ll go on foot from here and make our own way back. Take the carriage back to the house.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marcus couldn’t tell if the driver was relieved to hear this or no. Hayver definitely blanched, though.

  “Right,” Marcus said as the carriage wheeled around. “Stay close, you two.” He looked at Andy as he said it, and she gave him a grim smile.

  “I grew up in the Docks, sir. I know my way around a mob.”

  Hayver stepped in close to Marcus’ right side as he led the way to the gate. “What do you think they’re so angry about, sir?”

  “Damned if I know. I expect we’ll find out.”

  That was their last coherent bit of conversation before they plunged into the shouting, gesticulating mass of humanity. No one attempted to bar their way, but people were packed so tight Marcus had to elbow and shove to make any progress. While Marcus hadn’t grown up in the Docks, he had spent years in Ashe-Katarion, a city that considered orderly queues a dangerous foreign invention, so he was no stranger to the art of strong-arming his way through a press. Hayver trailed in his wake while Andy made solid progress of her own on the other side.

  As they got closer to the front, the shouting got a little more coherent. The crowd, kept a few paces back from the line of guards by the lowered halberds, shouted insults and curses.

  “You should be fucking ashamed! Protecting Sworn scum!”

  “Out of the way!”

  “They can’t hide in there forever!”

  Marcus shoved a particularly obnoxious ranter out of the way and secured a place in the front rank. He paused to make sure his escort was still with him—Hayver had one hand on the back of his coat, while Andy was rubbing her elbow with a satisfied expression—then stepped forward, sliding between two protruding halberds. The guards, seeing his uniform and the eagles on his shoulders, looked at one another uncertainly.

  “I need to get through,” Marcus shouted, over the roar of the crowd.

  “I’ve got orders to keep the public out!” one the guards shouted back.

  “I’m not the public,” Marcus snapped. “I’m Colonel Marcus d’Ivoire, personal liaison to General Janus bet Vhalnich.”

  The guard exchanged a glance with his nearest companion, and then stepped aside, lowering his halberd. Marcus moved through the gap, towing Hayver and Andy, and sidestepped to allow the guard to get back into line. The crowd roared its disapproval.

  “Down with army traitors!”

  “To the Spike with all the officers!”

  “Shame! Shame!”

  Marcus would have liked to question the Patriot Guards about what was happening, but they were fully occupied. Beyond the Gateway of Wisdom, the University was a maze of ancient stone buildings and courtyards, built out and added to haphazardly over the centuries. Marcus had only the vaguest idea of the layout, and he stood looking at the mess with a sinking heart. On his previous visits, he’d always asked a passing student for directions, but the near riot at the gate was apparently keeping everyone inside. The lanes and courtyards he could see were deserted.

  “I know the way, sir,” Hayver said, guessing the problem.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, sir. I spent a fair bit of time wandering around on crutches while I waited for my leg to mend. Captain Vahkerson’s offices are over in the Old Bully.”

  “Lead the way, then.”

  Hayver headed off down a lane at a confident walk. Evidently, being asked to lead made him feel buoyant, because as they went he pointed out various ancient landmarks and structures along the way and explained their origins and nicknames. Marcus soon learned more than he ever wanted to know about the Vermillion Hall, Bungo’s Ass, the Three Virgins, and other minutiae of University life.

  “Where did you learn all this stuff?” Andy said as they passed a cracked, faceless statue that, for some reason lost in the mists of time, was called the Pole-Vaulter.

  “While I was in the hospital,” Hayver said, looking suddenly apologetic. “I had a lot of time on my hands.”

  “I spent most of my time in bed with a fever,” Andy said. “But still!”

  “I just talked to people.” He shrugged shyly. “I like finding things out.”

  “Remind me to introduce you to Fitz someday,” Marcus said. “I think you’d get along.”

  “Here we are, sir.” Hayver gestured to another long, low building, covered in wilted, browning ivy. “The Old Bully. I think the captain is on the second floor.”

  The doors—heavy oak studded with iron, looking as old as the University itself—were solidly closed. Marcus rapped as loud as he could, then rubbed his knuckle.

  “Yes?” said a nervous voice from inside. “Who is it?”

  “Colonel Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said. “I’m here to see Captain Vahkerson. He asked for me.”

  A whispered conversation took place behind the door, and then there was the squeal of a rusty bolt being drawn. The door swung inward, revealing dusty, gloomy darkness. Two young men in the traditional black robes of University students stood behind it, squinting in the daylight.

  “He’s upstairs,” one of the students said. “Come in, quick. I have to bolt the door.”

  That took quite a bit of effort, the young man grunting as he forced the rusty bolt closed. He looked at his palms afterward and frowned.

  “Cut myself,” he said, wiping away a little trickle of blood.

  “Bad essence in rusty metal,” the other said. “Better clean it out. Argvine pollen and honey—”

  “Don’t be stupid. De Calabris says argvine pollen makes things worse—”

  “De Calabris wouldn’t know a bone saw from a toothpick. All his really good work was done after Effartes joined his salon, and he was clearly cribbing.”

  “Oh, if you’re so fond of Effartes, why don’t you suck his fucking cock?”

  “Better him than de Calabris. He died of quicksilver sores—”

  “Excuse me,” Marcus said. “Medical students, right?”

  “That’s right,” the first student said, rubbing at his lacerated palm. He appeared to notice Hayver and Andy for the first time, and his cheeks flushed. “Oh. Sorry for the language, miss.”

  “Please,” Andy said. “I could swear in five languages by the time I was ten.”

  “Which five?” Hayver said.

  “Would you please,” Marcus interrupted, “tell me where Captain Vahkerson is?” He’d raised his voice
a little, but he was still surprised to find all four of them staring at him. He cleared his throat.

  “Also,” he went on, “I’d like to know what the . . .” He paused, glancing at Andy, and then deliberately went on: “. . . what the hell is going on outside. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  * * *

  The University’s vaunted gas lamps were shut off, and all the windows had heavy curtains drawn across them. They made their way down the corridor by the light that leaked past the heavy cloth. Paintings hung on the walls, darkened and anonymous, and here and there sculptured busts or ornamental tables made for dangerous obstacles.

  “It all started,” said the first student, whose name was Norman, “with one of those awful broadsheets.”

  “The New Patriot, it calls itself,” said the other, who was called Geoff.

  “Somebody got their hands on the University records—”

  “Probably bribed the bursar, the man could have given Rackhil Grieg lessons—”

  “—and found out that there were a bunch of foreigners still here.”

  “Most of the students left when all this started,” Geoff explained. “And a lot of the rest volunteered for the army. That’s why they put Captain Vahkerson’s gunnery school here, and moved the casualties who need long-term care into our hospital. There was plenty of space. It’s mostly just us medical types left.”

  “Along with a few foreigners who couldn’t go home or didn’t want to. They’re not spies.” Norman gave a disgusted snort. “But this New Patriot person started giving the mob ideas, and before long they’re convinced we’ve got a whole nest of conspirators in here.”

  “What’s that got to do with Captain Vahkerson?” Marcus said.

  “Well, the thing is, there’s nobody really in charge around here anymore,” Norman said. “The master and his people took off during the revolution, and now the bursar’s locked himself in his cellar and won’t see anybody. Captain Vahkerson’s the only one willing to give orders, so people are listening to him.”

  “He does have a talent for being obeyed,” Marcus muttered.

  “He’s using Professor Indica’s office, since it’s got a good view of the gate,” Geoff said. “Here. Captain? I’ve brought Colonel d’Ivoire.”

  The door, one of many identical doors on the second-floor corridor, was so dark with multiple coats of resin that it looked as though it might be made of iron. It opened, and to Marcus’ surprise a young woman stood behind it. It was the girl he’d seen at Farus’ Triumph with the Preacher, her dress still severe, her tight hairstyle showing some signs of coming apart at the edges.

  “Colonel!” the Preacher said. “It’s all right, Viera. The colonel’s here to help.” The Preacher strode over. The office was a large one, with a full table and chairs in addition to a massive desk and liquor cabinet. In the back wall, a large multipaned window was covered by a curtain, and three more students were clustered around it, peering through a narrow gap.

  “Captain,” Marcus said. “I came as quickly as I could. It looks like you’re having some problems.”

  “Not really my problems, in truth, but I can’t just leave ’em be. Did Norman and Geoff fill you in?”

  “Somewhat. How many foreigners have you got here?”

  “Just Viera and the three lads over there. She’s one of mine, and the other foreigners are all medical types.” The Preacher’s bearded face clouded over. “I’ll not hand any of ’em over to be spiked, you understand? It’d be plain murder.”

  A woman cannoneer? Marcus looked at Viera, who stared back at him icily.

  “I don’t suppose you happened to bring about a company of grenadiers with you?” the Preacher said.

  “Just the two you sent me. I didn’t know we’d be standing a siege.”

  He wished, momentarily, that he’d brought Uhlan and his men—if it did come to a fight, the veteran Mierantai riflemen would have been a reassuring weight on his side. Then again, if it comes to shooting down unarmed civilians in the street . . . He shied away from the thought.

  “I thought as much,” the Preacher said. “How many do you figure at the main gate?”

  “Maybe five hundred,” Marcus said.

  “There’s more now,” one of the boys called from the window. “At least a thousand. They’re going crazy!”

  “Listen.” The Preacher stepped closer and spoke quietly. “We’ve got to get these lads out of here. It’s only a matter of time before someone decides to push through those Patriot Guard. I need your help.”

  “You’ve got it, but I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

  “If we can get them off the campus . . .” The Preacher eyed Marcus sidelong. “I hear tell that you’re sneaking Hamvelts and Borels out of the city.”

  Cora’s refugees. Marcus thought he’d been careful. Cargo ships left every day for the front, with army crews, and he’d impressed on them the need for silence about their extra cargo. The name of Janus bet Vhalnich was one to conjure with, as he’d found at the Gateway of Wisdom, and mentioning that this was all part of the general’s plan was usually enough to secure enthusiastic cooperation. It made Marcus feel guilty, but only a little. Janus would certainly approve, if he knew.

  They’d been sneaking the refugees out slowly, one family every few days. But if the Preacher knows about it . . .

  “Don’t worry too much,” the Preacher said. “Nobody’s been telling tales. But sometimes I inspect those ships, when we’re sending cannon and powder, and I saw something I shouldn’t have. A few of the boys admitted it when I asked them, on the condition that I keep it quiet.”

  “They shouldn’t have even done that,” Marcus grumbled. But he couldn’t bring himself to be too angry—the Preacher could be very persuasive.

  “You’re doing God’s work, keeping those women and children from the Spike. You must be keeping them somewhere beforehand, so I thought if we could sneak this lot over the walls, then you could get them away to wherever the hideout is.”

  Balls of the Beast. This is not what I signed up for. Marcus sighed. “We could probably manage it. But are you really sure this is necessary? It seems like—”

  “They’re breaking in!” one of the young men at the window shouted. He had a broad Borelgai accent.

  “What?” The Preacher whirled and sidestepped the desk, pushing the students aside. “What happened to the Patriots?”

  “They just . . . left,” said one of the other students. “I was watching. Someone came to talk to them, and they just marched away!”

  Marcus was only a step behind the Preacher, tugging the curtain farther aside. The window had a view of one of the main avenues through the maze of courtyards, ending in the Gateway of Wisdom. The halberds of the Patriot Guard were indeed nowhere to be seen, and the crowd—grown considerably since they’d passed through—had flooded past the walls out of sheer momentum. They milled in the first courtyard, uncertain what to do with their sudden victory, but before long a new wave of arrivals seemed to infuse the mob with a sense of purpose. Large groups fanned out in every direction, waving sticks, cudgels, and other impromptu weapons.

  “Saints and fucking martyrs,” Marcus swore.

  “Why would the guards leave?” said one of the students, this one Hamveltai. “Oh God.” He lapsed into his native language, muttering to himself. Another young man, who looked enough like him that Marcus guessed they were brothers, put an arm around his shoulders and spoke to him quietly in the same tongue.

  “The Directory wishes to throw us to the mob,” Viera said. It was the first time she’d spoken, and her voice was as clipped and precise as her appearance. Her accent was hard for Marcus to place, with the Hamveltai tendency to turn W’s into V’s but without the broad vowels.

  “Why would they do that? We swore to their inspector we were loyal to nothing but knowledge!”

  “I
do not think they care what we swore,” Viera said. She turned away from the window. “Colonel d’Ivoire. Do you have somewhere we can hide?”

  “I might,” Marcus said, eyes still tracking the mob. “The problem is going to be getting off the grounds. There’s plenty of them still left at the gate.”

  “There’s the Porter’s Gate on the north side,” the Preacher said. “But that’s locked up tight. I had hoped we could rig some kind of rope ladder to go over the walls—”

  “We don’t have the time,” Viera said.

  “What about the Students’ Gate?” Hayver said.

  Marcus turned, startled. He’d forgotten the two rankers were there. Andy still stood by the door, looking nervous, but Hayver had stepped forward.

  “There isn’t a Students’ Gate,” said the Preacher.

  “I have never heard of one,” Viera said.

  Hayver shrank a bit, cheeks burning. Marcus caught his eye and nodded encouragingly, and that seemed to hearten him.

  “It’s not really a gate,” he said. “It’s a bit of a secret, really. Passed down among the older students. There’s a spot on the south wall where there are holes in the brickwork, under the ivy. You can climb over, and then some of the iron spikes come off.”

  “How do you know this?” Viera demanded.

  “I . . . talked to people. While I was here. One of the men in the hospital with me was a student who’d gotten hurt at Midvale. He told me all about what it was like when he was here . . .” Hayver swallowed. “Before he died.”

  “Can you find this place?”

  Hayver nodded. “Once I could get out of bed, I went to look for it. I know how to get there.”