The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “Just so long as you don’t call me sir,” Marcus said. “It was bad enough getting that from Adrecht all those years.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself.” Robert grinned. “We always said you’d go a long way. After you left for Khandar, the boys and I used to say we didn’t think you’d take us literally.” Robert eyed the colonel’s eagles on Marcus’ shoulders. “Now it looks like we were right after all.”

  Marcus searched his old friend’s face for a hint of jealousy. In the old Royal Army, captain was the highest rank a War College graduate could hope to achieve, lacking a noble pedigree. Colonelcies were reserved for the scions of ancient bloodlines. The colonel of a regiment, they’d used to joke, was there to look good at the head of the parade, while the captains ran things for him. No doubt it had been true in many outfits—the system had always been an awkward compromise between the noble tradition of martial leadership and the need of a modern army for officers with specialized training.

  Now Marcus had been promoted beyond what he could dared to hope for, in the old days, thanks to Janus bet Vhalnich, and much of the Royal Army tradition had been swept away. The new volunteer battalions elected their officers, putting men who’d never even set foot in the College in the higher ranks. Not to mention Ihernglass and his battalion of women! Amid this change, Robert had made his career in the bastion of tradition, the Ministry of War itself. As the colonels had departed for the front lines, he’d quietly risen, until he’d become the senior military subordinate of Giles Durenne, the new Minister of War himself.

  Not jealous, Marcus decided, or else very good at hiding it. That was good. He hadn’t been sure what to expect when he asked Robert to meet.

  “Is that coffee you’re drinking?” Robert said, raising his hand to signal the waiter.

  “I’m honestly not sure,” Marcus said, pushing it away and making a face.

  “Wine, then.”

  It seemed a bit early in the day, but Marcus let him order two glasses. When they arrived, Robert raised his in a toast.

  “To Adrecht,” he said. “He deserved better.”

  “To Adrecht,” Marcus murmured. His old friend had indeed deserved better. Janus’ campaign had broken him, costing him an arm and finally driving him to mutiny and betrayal. His bleached bones lay somewhere in the shifting sands of the Great Desol. He sipped the wine and set the glass down, feeling awkward.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Robert said. “I’m assuming this isn’t just a sudden desire to catch up with old school friends.”

  “I . . .” Marcus hesitated, and Robert laughed out loud.

  “Oh, just come out with it,” he said. “You go cross-eyed when you’re trying to be subtle. You want a favor.”

  “Something like that.” Marcus shook his head. “I’m sorry to have to come to you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Robert said. “I’m used to it. Since I took over at the Ministry, you wouldn’t believe how many old classmates have suddenly remembered we used to be pals when they come asking for supplies.” He smiled as he said this, but it still stung a little.

  “It’s not that kind of favor.” Marcus hesitated, but there was nothing to do but come out with it. “You know I’ve been working for General Vhalnich.”

  “So I’d heard. They say you’re his right hand.”

  “That might be a stretch.” If I was his right hand, I’d expect him to tell me more about what was going on. “But he trusts me, and I’ve been representing his interests in the city. After the attempt on the queen’s life, Her Majesty asked General Vhalnich to investigate. I’ve been leading that effort.”

  “Interesting. I understood that the Directory and the Patriot Guard had determined the bomb was planted by Borelgai spies.”

  “The queen had reason to believe that elements in the Patriot Guard were involved. She thought it best to have an independent inquiry.”

  “I see.” Robert’s lip quirked. “You’ve found something, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I have.” Marcus swallowed and barreled past the point of no return. “I believe that the President of the Directory was responsible for the bombing.”

  Robert blinked, but showed no other sign of surprise. He stared at Marcus for a long, silent moment, then took a swallow from his glass. “You don’t set your sights low, do you?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather not be involved at all,” Marcus said. “But I can’t ignore the truth.”

  “You have evidence?”

  “Just . . . hints, so far,” Marcus said. “But we’ve identified a location used by the plotters as a base. There may be records there, documents, correspondence, that sort of thing.”

  “I begin to see the picture,” Robert said. “You can’t exactly ask the Patriot Guard to stage a raid.”

  “No. And I don’t have the authority to do it on my own.” Raesinia was all afire to investigate on their own, but Marcus had convinced her to let him try going through channels. I have to try. “With the Armsmen dissolved, the Ministry is the only organization with the standing to look into it.”

  “If the Directory is involved, how do you know you can trust the Ministry?”

  Marcus grimaced. “Minister Durenne is Directory President Maurisk’s chief political opposition. He’s not likely to be involved in his conspiracy. And besides . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t trust the Ministry, but I trust you, Robert. I know that if there’s a plot, you’d never be part of it.”

  “I’m honored,” Robert said dryly. “I might have changed since we were at the College together, you know.”

  “We’ve all changed,” Marcus said. “But not that much.”

  Robert drained his glass and set it on the table. He traced one finger around the edge, pensively, and there was a long, quiet moment.

  “It puts me in a hell of a spot, you know,” he said finally.

  “I understand,” Marcus said. “I wouldn’t do it if I felt like I had any choice.”

  “I know.” Robert put on a faint smile. “People change but, as you say, not that much. The Marcus d’Ivoire I knew wouldn’t put a friend on the spot, unless he was certain his duty demanded it.”

  For a moment, Marcus saw Adrecht’s face, scared and pleading. He said nothing.

  “And please believe me,” Robert said, “when I say you are still my friend. I wish we’d come back together under better circumstances.”

  “So do I.”

  “So take it from one friend to another when I tell you that the best thing you can do is to drop this, right now, and never mention it to a living soul.”

  Another pause stretched awkwardly.

  “The minister . . . ,” Marcus began.

  “The minister does not have as much power as many believe,” Robert said. “He leads the Radical party, yes, but they are far from united, and in any case the Conservatives are currently ascendant. Suppose I take this to him. Suppose, for the moment, that he believes you completely. What then? You’re asking him to risk everything—his life—on one gambit, one chance to bring Maurisk down. If he can’t convince the Deputies-General the allegations are true, Maurisk would have him on the Spike before dawn as a traitor, and who knows how many others with him.”

  “You don’t think he’d risk it?” Marcus said.

  “I’m certain he wouldn’t. Durenne dislikes Maurisk, and I’m sure he’d be happy to see the Directory fall, but above all he’s concerned with maintaining his position. Balancing the demands of the Radicals and the orders from the Directory is hard enough without bringing on a crisis. If I brought this to him, he’d ask me where I heard it, and when I told him he’d tell Maurisk, to keep the peace. Then you would be the one who’d find the Patriots at your door some morning.”

  Marcus shook his head. “If we had proof Maurisk was trying to kill the queen—”

  “He’d say it was
fabricated,” Robert said. “The Conservatives would believe him, the Radicals wouldn’t, and they’d shout at each other twice as loud as before.” He shrugged. “If you brought proof to the deputies yourself, some of them might listen. But Durenne would bury it first, and I can’t say I’m certain he’d be wrong. Have you considered what it would do to the country to have this crisis now? Things are bad enough at the front.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Your duty, of course. Serving your country, its queen, and its people.” Robert gave a wry grin. “It’s never quite as clear as they make it seem in class, is it?”

  When Robert had departed, leaving a few coins to pay for the wine, Andy returned and sat down in the chair he’d vacated.

  “What happened?” Andy said. “You don’t look happy.”

  “He wouldn’t listen.” Marcus pressed one hand into the other, listening to the knuckles pop.

  “He didn’t believe you?”

  “I don’t know if he believed me or not. But it doesn’t matter. The Ministry won’t help us.”

  “But—” Andy shook her head, confused. “But then what do we do now?”

  Our duty. “What Raesinia wanted to do all along. Go down to that warehouse and find out for ourselves.” Marcus gritted his teeth. “Every member of the Deputies can’t be as cowardly as Durenne. Once we splash this across the broadsheets, they’ll have to do something about it whether they want to or not.”

  * * *

  RAESINIA

  Of late, Raesinia had been spending more time at Mrs. Felda’s church than Twin Turrets. She told Marcus this was because she needed to consult with Cora, but in truth she was more a hindrance than a help to the girl’s continuing efforts to pin down the web of false orders and missing documentation that outlined the missing gunpowder. Tracking to the warehouse had been simple enough, but finding out where it went from there was proving more difficult. Cora was still hoping to find a pattern in the records that would lead them to a suspect, but Raesinia wasn’t optimistic.

  We have to go and see what they’re hiding. Marcus was determined to do things by the book, which meant trying to convince the army to launch an investigation. Raesinia wasn’t optimistic about that, either. Durenne would be a fool to provoke a confrontation, unless he wants to end up on the Spike. Backing Maurisk into a corner is too dangerous. But Marcus had refused to be persuaded. His naïveté can be sweet, when it’s not so annoying.

  While the colonel had waited for his audience with his friend in the Ministry, therefore, Raesinia had stewed. She came to Mrs. Felda’s because there was always something for her to do, while at Twin Turrets there was only the watchful silence of the Mierantai guards and a trunk full of books she’d already read. Today Lieutenant Uhlan and Hayver were her escorts, both in plainclothes and armed with cudgels.

  Mrs. Felda put them to work, as she did anyone who appeared to be the least bit idle. Raesinia wasn’t sure if she knew they were soldiers, but it wouldn’t have mattered; she was fairly certain that Mrs. Felda would still have conscripted her to fold laundry or stir pots even if she knew Raesinia was Queen of Vordan. Currently, Lieutenant Uhlan was carrying heavy sacks of provisions from the back door into the basement, while Hayver sewed up worn-out clothing. The boy had proven to be a dab hand with a needle.

  Raesinia was cutting vegetables for the endless cauldrons of soup that were the cornerstone of meals at Mrs. Felda’s. The diet of bread and broth was dull, but there were few complaints from the refugees. Every day, new stories trickled in about fresh atrocities visited on foreigners or other undesirables in the name of national security. Every night, Mrs. Felda led a prayer for the safety of those Marcus had already passed along to the Army of the East’s supply train, in which Free and Sworn residents both joined.

  Beside Raesinia at the chopping table was the tall, severe young woman who’d returned with Marcus from the University. She attacked a pile of potatoes as though they had done her a personal injury, hacking them into irregular chunks with a long knife. Raesinia discreetly moved her own work a pace farther down the table, to avoid being pelted with flying bits of spud.

  “Verdoht!” the woman said. It sounded like a curse. The knife jangled as it bounced on the floor, and the woman held one hand in the other, blood welling between her fingers.

  “Are you all right?” Raesinia said, taking care to enunciate clearly. She didn’t recognize the language the woman was swearing in, but it had a far eastern tone. Most of the refugees spoke at least a little Vordanai, but their skill varied widely.

  “No, I am not,” the woman said in a clipped, precise accent. “I am losing a knife fight to a folgaht potato. I doubt my honor will ever recover.”

  Raesinia found herself smiling. “I can’t do much for your honor. How about your hand?”

  “My hand is not bleeding too badly.” The woman wiped her palm on her trousers, heedless of the bloodstains, and peered at the long cut along her index finger. “I will survive, I suspect.”

  “We ought to bind it up,” Raesinia said. “I doubt Mrs. Felda would appreciate blood as an extra ingredient in her soup.”

  The woman smiled. “It might give it some more flavor.”

  Mrs. Felda kept strips of clean linen handy for bandages, an essential precaution with so many children about. Raesinia grabbed one, dunked it in the boiling water of the cauldron, and gestured for the woman to hold out her hand. She gritted her teeth and hissed as Raesinia pulled the bandage on, but made no other complaint as she wrapped the wound and tied the cloth tight.

  “There,” Raesinia said. “Can you still bend your finger?”

  The woman tested it, winced, and nodded.

  “What happened to the knife?”

  “Over there, I think.” The woman pointed, and they fished around under the table until they found it, steel still spotted with blood. Raesinia tested the edge with her finger and found it dull.

  “No wonder. This needs seeing to. Do you know how?”

  “No,” the woman said. “This is my first time for kitchen work.”

  “Come on. There’s a stone in the pantry.”

  “Thank you. Ah . . .”

  “It’s Raesinia. Raes, if you like.”

  The woman nodded, following in Raesinia’s wake. “I’m Viera.”

  The pantry was a small room off the main hall, its theological function long forgotten. It had no windows, and rows of shelves held any food that wouldn’t bear long storage. There was also a basin and a whetstone, as Raesinia remembered. She pulled them out and demonstrated the long, easy strokes that would sharpen the blade, then let Viera try for herself.

  “You came here from the University, right?” Raesinia said as the scrape of metal on stone formed a steady rhythm.

  “Yes,” Viera said. “Colonel Marcus kindly came to fetch us when the crowd wanted us on the Spike.”

  “Had you been there long?”

  “Not long. I came after your revolution.”

  “What were you studying?”

  Viera gave a brief grin. “Guns. Under Captain Vahkerson.”

  “That’s . . . unusual, isn’t it? For a woman.”

  “Before this I was studying with an alchemist in Hamvelt. He felt it was beneath him to have a girl as an apprentice, but my father paid him a great deal. Unfortunately, I succeeded in burning down the greater part of his laboratory, so my status was in some dispute at the time of the revolution. When I heard what had happened, I decided to come here.”

  Raesinia nodded sympathetically. “I suppose you found out it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Freedom and equality for all and so on.”

  “Philosophy and nonsense,” Viera said, her tone implying the two were synonymous. “I came because I heard your women were permitted to fight. At Midvale, and now in the Army of the East.”

  “Fight?” Raesinia blinked. �
�But why come and fight if you didn’t care about the revolution?”

  “Because I love to see things explode,” Viera said matter-of-factly. She gave the blade a final pass and held it up to admire her handiwork. “My father says it is a sickness with me, this love, but after the fourth tutor quit he began sending me to alchemists in the hope that I could at least learn to do it safely. I was glad to be able to study with Captain Vahkerson.”

  “Oh,” Raesinia said. “What will you do when you get to go home?”

  “Begin again, I suppose.” Viera shrugged. “But home is in Vheed, which is a very long way from here, especially in wartime. So meanwhile I make do. Is there news of Captain Vahkerson, do you know?”

  Raesinia shook her head. “Nothing that I’ve heard.”

  “A pity.” Viera regarded her curiously. “And you? You work with Colonel Marcus?”

  “Y . . . yes.” It took Raesinia a moment to remember her cover story. I’m getting sloppy. “I’m a courier, mostly. There’s not enough soldiers left to do everything, so he hired a few civilians.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “A little bit, I suppose.”

  “He has a wife?”

  Raesinia shook her head. “He spent most of his career in Khandar.”

  “Hmm. You think he would be averse to finding one?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” Raesinia said, cheeks reddening a little. “Why, are you planning to marry him?”

  “I’d thought about it. He saved my life, after all, and that is supposed to make me go all starry-eyed.” She shrugged. “He is a kind man with a fine figure, and I think Father would accept a colonel for a son-in-law. It would keep the proposals away, at least. What do you think?”

  “I think,” Raesinia said, “that we have more potatoes to chop.”

  “There must be a more efficient way,” Viera said as they wandered back to the table. “If the potatoes were strapped to the outside of some sort of explosive chamber, and the powder input carefully regulated—”