The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  He reached for the decanter and splashed a little more brandy into his glass, then settled back in his chair with a grin. Well, we know how to deal with traitors. Sarton’s Spike was operating with metronomic efficiency. One or two more traitors wouldn’t tax it.

  “Sir?” Kellerman said, standing by the door. “They’re ready.”

  “Send them in,” Maurisk said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Kellerman opened the door. Maurisk’s office was on the top floor of the hotel, in a suite that had once been reserved for visiting ministers or heads of state. It had an impressively large and polished desk, bookshelves lined with matching sets of all the great works, and deep leather armchairs just a bit shorter than the massive wingback throne in which Maurisk himself sat. Perhaps a bit too opulent for Maurisk’s tastes, truth be told, but impressions were important.

  Outside, in the well-appointed waiting room, three men stood between a pair of Patriot Guards with sashes and halberds. Two of them Maurisk had expected: General Martin Hallvez, author of the disaster on the northern front, and Robert Zacaros, commander of the Patriot Guard. The contrast between them was strong: the former was a spare man with thin features and a white goatee, wearing an unmarked army uniform, while the latter was thick-bodied and sported a bushy brown beard shot with white streaks, and wore not only the blue-on-black sash of the Patriot Guard but a gold starburst pin he’d designed himself to denote his rank. Zacaros’ hair was thinning on top, and he grew the sides long and slicked them over to cover his scalp. More gold gleamed at his collar and dripped from his cuffs.

  It was the third visitor who made Maurisk’s lip curl. Giles Durenne, a pair of tiny spectacles perched on his famous beak of a nose, dressed in shabby blacks that made him look like an unkempt crow. Even his eyes were dark and colorless, and his black hair was pulled back in a short queue.

  His appointment to the Ministry of War had seemed like a safe sinecure for a leading Radical in the first days after the revolution, since the new government had intended to dismantle most of the army until it could be rebuilt on more Republican grounds. The declaration of war had changed everything, of course. While Durenne had never disputed the Directory’s ultimate authority, as a matter of course the Ministry of War—still mostly staffed by officers appointed in the old king’s time—did much of the business of military and thus held considerable power there, especially among the old regiments. Maurisk was thus obliged to take him seriously. At least for the moment.

  “Gentlemen,” Maurisk said. “Come in. Your guards may remain outside, Commander. I don’t believe we’ll need them.”

  Zacaros nodded—he never saluted, considering it beneath his dignity—and waved the two halberdiers away. Hallvez stepped in front of the desk and stood with military stiffness, his face schooled into impassivity. Zacaros slumped into a chair beside him, sighing. Kellerman closed the door.

  “General,” Maurisk said.

  “Sir.” Hallvez gave a definite ironic twist to the word.

  “I’ve read your report.” Maurisk tapped a stack of paper on his desk. “It seems to contain some . . . irregularities.”

  “Such as?”

  “You claim you were ordered over the Murnskai border in a preemptive attack, over your own protests. But my colleagues at the Ministry of War seem certain no such order was issued.” He nodded at Durenne, who remained stone-faced.

  “That’s because the order didn’t come from the Ministry,” Hallvez said. “It came from this office, by Patriot Guard courier, as a suggestion. When I objected, I was told to obey or face removal from my post for treason.”

  “And so you marched your army, unprepared, into Murnskai territory, taking no precautions—”

  “My precautions were not the issue,” Hallvez said, showing a hint of emotion for the first time. “Two-thirds of my troops were volunteers, with no training or drill. The fallorii, the Murnskai border guards, are light cavalry famous for their deviousness. They started cutting us to pieces within days.”

  “Because you were unable to bring them to battle, and let your men fight piecemeal.”

  “How would you suggest bringing them to battle, sir? A swarm of riders with three horses each, who know every inch of their damned country?”

  “Enough,” Maurisk said. “It’s clear that this”—he waved dismissively at the report—“is a tissue of lies intended to cast blame on this Directory for your failings and undermine the war effort. Which, I may remind you, is treason. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Hallvez’ lip twitched. “Only that I ought to have resigned on the spot rather than obey your suggestions. Thousands of Vordanai boys that you asked to protect their country are dead or prisoners in Murnsk because of my cowardice. I will live with that until the end of my days.”

  “Fortunately,” Maurisk drawled, “that will not be very long. Commander, please take this traitor away. Make sure the broadsheets print the time of his appointment with Dr. Sarton so the public can observe the fate of those who betray our homeland.”

  Zacaros dipped his head, heaved himself to his feet, and took hold of Hallvez’ arm. The general shook himself free and walked out of the office, with the Patriot commander following. Maurisk waited until they were gone, then tossed back his brandy and poured himself another.

  “I heard in the papers Hallvez had gone mad,” Durenne said from where he was leaning against the bookshelves.

  “Mad, traitorous, or both,” Maurisk said. “What does it matter?”

  “Are you sending suggestions to all our generals?”

  “Too many of our officers have dubious loyalties,” Maurisk said. “They need to be reminded of their duty.”

  “I wonder what you sent to de Brogle. Instructions to feed his men on rats and patriotic rhetoric, perhaps?”

  Maurisk slammed one hand on the desk. “De Brogle will pay for his crimes. As will anyone who works against Vordan.” He eyed Durenne. “What do you want?”

  “I just wanted to hear what Hallvez had to say for myself,” Durenne said. “Being Minister of War, you know.”

  “I remind you that Directory business is confidential,” Maurisk said. “I don’t want this treasonous nonsense to spread.”

  “As would happen if, for example, Hallvez had a trial in the Deputies?”

  Maurisk’s hand clenched into a fist. In theory, the Ministry of War, like all the ministries, was now subject to the authority of the Deputies-General, which had in turn delegated power to the Directory. So far, though, the ability of the Directory to enforce its will on the Minister of War had not been seriously tested, as Durenne, in spite of his Radical politics, had been willing to play along. If Durenne brought things to a head, he would almost certainly lose in the end, but he probably could force a public vote on the matter. If that happened, no oath of secrecy would keep Hallvez’ story out of the papers.

  Durenne laughed. “You shouldn’t scowl so much, Johann. It makes you look constipated. I’m only tweaking your tail, of course. How could I object to the punishment of such an obvious traitor?”

  “I don’t appreciate being toyed with,” Maurisk said. “Is there a point to this?”

  “Only that if the Directory is going to be in the business of issuing orders directly to the military, I think we might as well pack up the Ministry of War and be done.” Durenne leaned forward. “I have worked with you because the good of the state requires it. But if you continue to go behind my back, I will have no choice but to bring matters to a public vote. Don’t push me, Johann.”

  “I’m sure it was just an oversight,” Maurisk said stiffly. “We’ll consult you in the future, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Durenne opened the door to leave, and Maurisk spotted Kellerman hovering outside. He beckoned the young man in and poured a little more brandy into the glass.

  “We have someone wa
tching him, don’t we?” Maurisk said when he heard the outer door close behind Durenne.

  “Yes, sir,” Kellerman said. He was a treasure Maurisk had picked out from the initial flood of volunteers: prim, efficient, and a rabid idealist, someone who wouldn’t shrink from any task that furthered the cause. We could have used him in the old days.

  “Good. I want to know who he talks to, who he spends time with. What messages he sends. Use more men if you need to, and don’t worry about being spotted. A little reminder will do him good.”

  “Of course, sir.” Kellerman bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “What an obedient little viper.” A pleasant voice, with the hint of a Murnskai accent.

  Maurisk shoved his chair back from his desk, scrabbling for the knife strapped to its underside. His fingers found the hilt, but he couldn’t get the damned thing out of its sheath, and before he figured out what he was doing wrong his slightly brandy-fogged mind had finally caught up with events. There was a man standing in front of the desk, a man who hadn’t been there moments earlier. He was young and handsome, with brown hair and a well-trimmed goatee, dressed in close-fitting black. The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and in one hand he carried a bottle labeled with the image of a charging bull.

  “I brought you a gift.”

  “You,” Maurisk said, heart hammering in his chest.

  “Hamveltai flaghaelan,” said Adam Ionkovo, placing the bottle on the desk. He sat in the chair Zacaros had vacated, as casually as if he had not just walked into the most heavily guarded room in Vordan without even opening the door. “It’s your favorite, if I remember correctly. I imagine it’s hard to come by these days.”

  “I . . . yes.” There was dust on the bottle. A ninety-one, Maurisk noted absently. A good year, and rare even in the best cellars. A full bottle was worth several thousand eagles. He blinked. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I would check up on things,” Ionkovo said, folding his hands in his lap. “Given how circumstances have . . . evolved. Your attempt to eliminate the queen did not go as planned, I take it.”

  Maurisk’s hand twitched. His office was as secure as it was possible for a room to be, but speaking those words aloud still made him cringe. He fought down the urge ruthlessly, sat up a little straighter, and pulled himself back to the desk.

  “She left the box too early,” he said. “Regrettably. But I have her under control.”

  “So I hear.”

  “I can deliver her whenever you like. If our agreement still holds.”

  “It does,” Ionkovo said. “Bring me Raesinia, Vhalnich, and the Thousand Names, and Vordan will have peace.”

  “It would be easier to secure Vhalnich and the queen if we were to bring the war to an end,” Maurisk said. “As it is, the people—”

  “The Pontifex of the Black is not in the habit of delivering payment without results. The agreement stands.”

  Maurisk regarded his guest coldly, his fear finally coming under control. Ionkovo was the very embodiment of everything he hated about the Sworn Church: the ancient, hidden hand of Elysium, reaching out like a puppeteer to make the world dance to its tune. Once, he would never have consented to speak with such a creature.

  But Raesinia’s betrayal had opened his eyes. After the fall of the Vendre, he’d genuinely hoped that the world might change; the will of the people was sweeping away the old chains, and—properly guided—it could lead to a new era of enlightenment. Then he’d seen Raesinia, the young woman he’d trusted as one of his closest companions, now dressed in the garb of a queen.

  He’d realized then that nothing had changed. The old chains still held. They’d all meant nothing to her, less than nothing; the will of the people had been a useful tool to bend to her own ends. It had opened his eyes to what was needed. A true revolution required a purge, as Farus IV had understood over a hundred years before. It needed a man willing to do what was necessary, without restraint.

  Ionkovo had come to him soon after the war had begun, and laid out his price. Maurisk hadn’t hesitated. He needed peace to continue his work. Raesinia, Vhalnich, and some dusty Khandarai artifact were a small price to pay.

  “As you say,” Maurisk finally said, “the queen is in hand.”

  “What about Vhalnich? He keeps winning battles.”

  “Vhalnich will need to be . . . reined in, but I don’t anticipate any difficulty. Once our position is secure, he will either deliver himself to us or reveal himself as an outright traitor, and any support he has will melt away. Once we have him, it shouldn’t be difficult to force him to reveal where he’s hidden your Thousand Names.”

  “That’s good,” Ionkovo said. “That’s very good. I wanted to be certain you were still committed.” He leaned forward. “Because if Vhalnich’s little successes make you think you can stand against us, you had better think again. The Borelgai fleet dominates your coasts, and the Emperor of Murnsk is coming with all his power. Hamvelt is a sideshow. If you don’t give us what we want, we will crush this city under our heel.” He grinned, showing teeth. “Not that you, personally, would be around to see it.”

  “I told you, everything is in hand.” Maurisk was appalled to find himself sweating. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ll tell that to the pontifex,” Ionkovo said. “He’ll be pleased to hear it. When will your position be ‘secure’?”

  “Another few weeks, at most. Preparations are well under way—”

  “Very well.” Ionkovo stood up and bowed. “A pleasure speaking with you, as always.”

  The Penitent Damned circled around the desk, coming to Maurisk’s side. Maurisk started to turn in his chair, but Ionkovo laid a hand on his shoulder, and he froze in place. Ionkovo passed out of sight, behind him, and there was a whisper like silk brushing silk.

  It was several long seconds before Maurisk risked turning around. There was no rear door in his office, not even a window. No way out, but Ionkovo was gone nevertheless.

  Maurisk pulled his chair back up to his desk and took a moment to compose his features and let his hammering heartbeat slow. Then, once he was certain he was in control, he said, “Kellerman?”

  The door opened. “Yes, sir?”

  “That colonel, the one who was in here breathing fire. Do you recall his name?”

  “De Ferre, sir.”

  “Is he still in the city?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But I will find out directly.”

  “Do so. And tell him I would like to speak with him.” Maurisk had dismissed the old nobleman as a hopeless reactionary, and only listened to his complaints with half an ear. But he remembered the venom the man had aimed at Vhalnich. “Tell him I may have an assignment for him after all.”

  Chapter Ten

  WINTER

  Winter opened her eyes with some difficulty. It felt as though someone had glued them closed with spirit gum. She sat up, or started to; the slight movement set off a pain in her head like a cannon going off.

  “Rest easy.” Her mind felt fuzzy, and it took a moment to recognize the voice. Janus. “What did I tell you about leading from the front? Here.”

  Winter blinked, and her surroundings became a bit less blurry. There was a canteen in front of her, and she took hold of it greedily, sucking down cold, clear water until it was empty. Then, cautiously, she tried sitting up again. Her heartbeat thudded in her head, each pulse producing a stab of pain, but this time she managed to get upright.

  It took her a moment to realize what was so disorienting about her surroundings—she was not in a tent. Instead she found herself in a bed in a well-appointed bedroom, with heavy curtains drawn across the windows. A table and chair were pulled up by the bedside, and Janus sat with his hands folded, regarding her with broad gray eyes. She handed back the canteen, and he gave her a full one, which she swallowe
d from a bit more slowly.

  “The cutters have been all over you,” Janus said. “From the Girls’ Own, naturally. Your Lieutenant Forester was quite the watchdog. They tell me that if you were going to develop a fatal swelling of the brain, you would have done it by now, so you’ll probably recover.”

  Winter reached up to touch the side of her head. There was a lump there, although lump was probably not an adequate description of a swelling bruise bigger than her palm. Touching it brought on another shooting pain, and she closed her eyes and took deep breaths until it steadied.

  “You’re lucky it didn’t break your skull,” Janus said. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “I got into a sword fight,” Winter said. Her tongue felt thick. “With someone who actually knew what to do in a sword fight.”

  “In that case, it’s fair to say you got off lightly.”

  “Bobby. Lieutenant Forester. She’s all right?”

  “He is.”

  “What about . . .”—Jane—“the rest of the regiment?”

  “Losses were light, I’m told. Your charge carried the farm, and Captain Altoff brought his battery forward to break up the Deslandai attack.”

  “Did we win the battle?”

  “Oh yes.” Janus seemed vaguely amused that she’d asked. “We’re in Desland. The city has capitulated.”

  “Oh.” Winter blinked and took another swallow of water. “Congratulations.”

  Janus smiled, just a moment. “Thank you. It’s a step in the right direction, but only a step.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “A couple of days,” Janus said. “I hoped you’d wake up today. I wanted to speak to you before I left.”

  “Left?” Winter felt as though her mind was still not working properly. “Where are you going?”

  “North. Most of the army is already on the road. I’m leaving the Third”—Winter’s regiment—“here in Desland for the moment. You’ll keep order in the city and organize our supplies. I intend to make Desland our base for the rest of the campaign.”