The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  * * *

  He got to sleep surprisingly easily that night, settling into the soft bed in his second-floor room more comfortably than he had done in weeks. His dreams were full of fire, and when a knock at the door dragged him out of slumber, he found himself reflexively looking around for signs of a blaze.

  “What?” he managed, blinking and shaking his head. “Is something wrong?”

  “Open the door,” Raesinia said.

  “Raesinia? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened. Just do it.”

  Marcus rolled out of bed and pulled on his undershirt before crossing the room and pulling the door open. He’d extinguished all the candles before going to bed, but left the curtains open, and a square of moonlight fell on the carpet and edged the shadows with a silvery glow.

  Raesinia pushed into the room before he could say anything, slamming the door behind her. Marcus hastily backed away a step as she turned to shoot the bolt, then fixed him with a stare.

  “Your Majesty . . . ,” he said. “I . . . uh . . .”

  He noticed—it was impossible not to notice—that Raesinia was wearing a sheer silk nightgown that did little or nothing to hide the shape of the figure beneath it. A woman’s figure, Marcus had to admit. The queen’s diminutive height made it easy to forget that she’d passed her twentieth year. When he wrenched his eyes away from that, he took in the knife in her right hand. It was a long, thick blade, probably filched from the butcher’s block in the kitchen.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Marcus said. “Dressed like that.” He took another step backward, doing his best to keep an eye on Raesinia without actually looking at her. “And . . . perhaps you should put down the knife?”

  “Colonel Marcus d’Ivoire,” Raesinia said, with a note of command in her voice. “Sit down on the bed and be quiet.”

  “I—”

  “Am I your queen or not?”

  “You are,” Marcus said. “Your Majesty.”

  He sat, and she stepped forward, into the square of moonlight. It made her skin look as pale as parchment, and her eyes glowed.

  “I am going to show you something,” she said. “It’s something I have never shown to anyone, at least not of my own free will. I’m doing this because I trust you, and because I don’t want us to have any more . . . misunderstandings.”

  Marcus swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”

  “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, the consequences would be . . . dire. For me.” She cocked her head. “Janus already knows, of course. I know you don’t understand. Just nod.”

  Marcus nodded.

  “Fuck.” Raesinia took a deep breath. “God, sometimes I wish I could still get drunk. All right. You helped Janus capture the Thousand Names in Khandar, correct?”

  “Yes.” A chill ran along Marcus’ spine. “How do you—”

  “So you know magic is real,” Raesinia interrupted. “You know that a person can carry a demon inside her.”

  Marcus saw Jen’s face, two images superimposed: eyes closed, resting in his camp bed, calm and beautiful, and with her features twisted into a snarl as she hurled rock-shattering magic in the Desoltai temple.

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “That makes this easier. Watch closely, and don’t move.”

  Raesinia raised her left hand, and brought the knife up, blade flashing silver in the moonlight. Marcus half rose from the bed, intending to tackle her and wrench the weapon away, but the force of her gaze pinned him to the spot. He stared as she held out her left palm and, deliberately, carved a gash across it. The knife was well honed, and her flesh parted easily under it, like a well-cooked roast. Blood welled, coating the blade and dripping to the floor in a steady patter.

  “Your Majesty,” Marcus said, his throat tight. “Raesinia. Please.”

  “Just watch.”

  She stared at her hand, as though she felt no pain at all. The patter of blood slowed, and finally stopped, leaving her palm coated with gore. She frowned and wiped it against the front of her nightdress, leaving crimson streaks on the pale fabric. Then she held the hand out for Marcus’ inspection. The skin was unbroken, perfect and smooth, as though the wound had never been.

  Marcus looked from the queen’s hand to her face. There was still resolve there, but also fear, the tension of someone expecting a blow.

  “How did this happen?” Marcus said.

  “Orlanko.” Raesinia let her hand fall to her side. “There was a time when I was very sick. The Last Duke sent word to Elysium, to—”

  “—the Priests of the Black.”

  Raesinia nodded. “I don’t remember much. One of them came to see me, before I . . . expired. He brought me back, with this thing. Ever since then . . .” She shrugged. “I can’t be hurt, not for long. I can’t die. I’ve been shot, stabbed, fallen from more tall buildings than I can count, had my brains blown out and my limbs broken. None of it sticks.”

  “Balls of the fucking Beast,” Marcus said, forgetting himself enough to swear in the presence of his monarch.

  “More or less. Orlanko wanted a regency when Father died. He planned to marry me to some Borelgai prince; then I would conveniently ‘die’ and be spirited away to Elysium to spend the rest of eternity in a cell. He and his cronies would have ruled Vordan, and made us all kneel to the Sworn Church.” She sighed. “You and I tossed that plan out the window, obviously. So now the Church wants to take Vordan by force. After all, it has a demon for a queen.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Janus. Sothe. Cora. Orlanko, obviously. My father did, though I only found that out too late.”

  “The king knew?”

  “He was the one who asked Janus to try to find a solution.” She looked down for a moment, face shadowed. “He was trying to protect me, and I had no idea.”

  It was easy to forget, with all the talk of the death of the king, that to Raesinia he’d been a father instead of a sovereign. Marcus hesitated, uncomfortably, then said, “Why tell me?”

  Raesinia closed her eyes. “I once had a dear friend who thought I was in danger. He did something foolish, and now he’s dead. He wasn’t the only one. Everyone is always so . . . so ready to sacrifice themselves for me, and they have no idea it’s all pointless.” She opened her eyes again, unshed tears glittering in the silver light. “I’m finished with that, you understand?”

  “I . . . think so.”

  “I understand if you think I’m . . . a monster, a demon, any of that. But please understand that I only want the best for Vordan. That’s all. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “I know.” Marcus shook his head. “I would never—”

  “It’s all right. I am a monster. Someday I’ll leave this kingdom and never come back.” Her face tightened. “But not before Vordan is safe.”

  “Raesinia . . .” Marcus trailed off, not sure what he’d intended to say. There was a long pause.

  “So. Now you know.” Raesinia wiped the blade of the knife on her nightshirt, smearing it further. “Cora stays behind. I come along. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Marcus said.

  “Good.” Raesinia turned. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  “Raesinia!” Marcus called as she reached for the door.

  She looked over her shoulder. “What?”

  “Here.” He walked across the room, avoiding the spatter of blood, and handed her a folded robe. “The guards might be making the rounds. You don’t want to cause . . . comment.”

  “Ah.” Raesinia looked down at herself. “Good point.”

  * * *

  RAESINIA

  On the whole, she thought, watching Marcus plan the raid the next day, that went as well as could be expected.

  The silk nightgown had probably been a little over-the-top, but it was an
impractical piece that she’d always hated, and it was good to finally have an excuse to feed it to the fire while indulging her occasional taste for melodrama. And, she had to admit, it had been fun to watch Marcus’ eyes pop.

  Viera’s offhand comment had made her wonder a little about Marcus. He didn’t seem to have pursued female company since his arrival in Khandar, but nothing she’d heard made her think that he had left a particular companion somewhere, or that he preferred men for that matter. He had an odd prudishness that made it hard to imagine him, for example, visiting a whorehouse, but at the same time a soldierly earthiness that made it difficult to believe that he never indulged. Perhaps he does, but feels guilty about it afterward. That sounded like Marcus.

  Now Viera was hard at work in what had been Twin Turrets’ sitting room, mixing and grinding while there was still daylight to work with. She’d responded enthusiastically to Raesinia’s tentative approach, and hadn’t even asked to hear the plan before beginning her work. I guess she really does just enjoy blowing things up. Andy, for her part, had acquired a riverboat and other necessary gear with impressive efficiency. Whatever Marcus might think, Raesinia was glad to have the girl on her side. Hell, I would have liked to have one or two like her before the revolution.

  Marcus, going over details of the escape plan with Uhlan and Hayver at the map table, caught sight of Raesinia and straightened up. He gestured for the others to continue what they were about and came in her direction, expression dark. Raesinia gritted her teeth. Don’t tell me he’s changed his mind now.

  “I’ve been thinking about what we discussed last night,” he said quietly. “I’ve got a question.”

  She nodded, and they ducked through a doorway into a spare room piled high with furniture from the rest of the house. There was barely room to stand among the overturned chairs and overloaded tables, and she felt reasonably secure they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “What is it?”

  “You said Cora knows?”

  Raesinia pursed her lips. “She knows . . . something. She saw me get shot at the Vendre, but she hasn’t asked for any details on how I survived.” There had been several times when Raesinia nearly spilled the whole story, but she worried that Cora might find the truth a burden. She’ll need to know, someday, but not yet.

  “What about the others from your old group?” Marcus said. “What about Maurisk?”

  “That’s . . . difficult.” Raesinia blew out a breath. “I met with Maurisk after the revolution, and I told him I used a double that day. Whether he believed that, I honestly don’t know. If he was behind the bombing, then presumably he bought my story, or he’d know that wouldn’t have killed me.”

  “Unless . . .” Marcus scratched his beard. “Something feels wrong. We know there’s a Penitent Damned in the city—”

  “We do?” Raesinia said. “How?”

  “Janus left behind some . . . sources of information,” Marcus said. “But the Priests of the Black would know about your . . . abilities, so they wouldn’t try to blow you up, either.”

  “And someone planted the bomb under the noses of the Patriot Guards,” Raesinia said. “Which leads right back to Maurisk, or someone close to him.”

  “Right.” Marcus rolled his eyes. “Saints and martyrs, give me enemies who wear proper uniforms. Then I know who to shoot at.”

  “Have you thought about what happens if we find proof Maurisk was involved?”

  Marcus nodded. “The Deputies-General will be in session tomorrow. We’ll dress you back up as the queen, march onto the floor, and present the evidence. Durenne won’t be able to sit on that. You can demand that the Deputies revoke the emergency powers of the Directory and put someone else in command of the Patriot Guard.”

  “If Maurisk still thinks I’m in the country, that ought to catch him off guard,” Raesinia said. She sighed. “I’m worried about Sothe.”

  “I’d be a little more inclined to worry for anyone who tried to cause trouble for her.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed Raesinia’s lips. “That, too.”

  * * *

  They spent an hour at Mrs. Felda’s, getting into costume and waiting for the last light of the sun to leave the sky, and then set out for the Oldtown docks. The boat Andy’s contact had promised was just where it was supposed to be, a flat-bottomed river tub that could be propelled by either poles or oars. Eight men and two young women clambered on board, and Marcus, sitting in the stern, shoved them away from the bank.

  The six Mierantai wore plainclothes and long coats, not too out of place in midautumn. They’d kept their long-barreled rifles concealed on the quick walk through the streets, but now they held them openly, trusting to darkness to conceal them from other river traffic. This was at a minimum in any case; before the war, boats had plied the river by lantern light, but as trade had dwindled, reasons to risk a nighttime trip had become rarer. There were even rumors that bands of outlaws were operating off Thieves Island once again, preying on incautious travelers.

  Andy and Hayver each had a musket and a pistol, as well as a sword from Twin Turrets’ small armory. Neither looked terribly comfortable. Hayver handled his weapons gingerly, checking and rechecking some memorized list of preparations, while Andy looked as though she’d prefer something long and heavy to swing in the place of powder and blades. Marcus also carried a pistol and his saber, the battered weapon looking more in keeping with his plainclothes outfit than it ever had on his dress uniform. Raesinia herself had a pair of pistols, though she freely admitted it was more for the look of the thing than because she expected to present an enemy with a serious threat.

  It was an easy trip downstream, drifting with the current, Marcus keeping them near the bank with periodic shoves of his pole. Raesinia would have been hard-pressed to pick out warehouse 192 from the ranks of brick-sided structures with darkened windows that lined the river, but Andy pointed it out as they approached. A lonely lantern hung near the front door, and two more illuminated the little two-decked riverboat tied up to a short stone pier.

  They all watched as their target drifted past. Once they were well beyond the pier, Marcus started poling them closer, until their little boat scraped against the muddy bank. One of the Mierantai got out, taking a coil of rope with them, and helped the craft in place while everyone else disembarked. Marcus handed the pole to Lieutenant Uhlan, who remained behind with two of his men and the “distraction.”

  Viera had produced three wine bottles full of a viscous black stuff, which she’d promised would take fire instantly, even on a damp surface, and not only burn hot enough to ignite wood but give off copious black smoke. Once everyone was clear—Hayver managed to nearly tumble on the slippery mud, soaking his pants to the knees—Uhlan pushed the boat back into the river, and his men unshipped the oars. They made their way slowly upstream, against the current, toward the lights of the Patriot Guard boat.

  The rest of them stood in an alley between warehouse 192 and one of its neighbors, illuminated by nothing stronger than moonlight. Marcus had a bull’s-eye lantern, which he opened a crack, enough to send a spot of brilliance onto the wall of the building. It was plaster over a brick wall, gray with age and rotting where rain had gotten through the whitewash.

  “The door is closer to the river side,” Marcus said in a whisper. “About fifty paces along.”

  Andy nodded and drew a long fighting knife from her belt. She walked to the corner of the building and started pacing, counting under her breath. When she got to forty, she began sinking the knife into the plaster, listening to the tip scrape on the bricks underneath. At fifty-two, the knife hit wood with a thunk.

  “That’s it,” Marcus said, waving the Mierantai forward. “See how much of the plaster you can get off, but stay quiet.”

  Raesinia stood with Hayver, watching the end of the alley for any movement amid the shadows, while the soldiers attacked the wall with their
knives. Great chunks of plaster peeled away, and white dust covered everyone’s clothes and cascaded across the ground. In a minute or so they were able to reveal the rough shape of a doorway, lined top to bottom with wooden boards, as well as a bit of the brickwork around the edges.

  Two of the men produced crowbars and stood ready. Marcus held up his hand and stared upward, listening.

  The signal, when it came, was unmistakable. A soft whoosh echoed across the water, followed a moment later by a much louder crunch. Flames leapt into the sky, visible over the roof of the warehouse and reflected on the surface of the river. A moment later, the stars began to flicker and dim, outlining a rising column of black smoke. Men’s voices raised in alarm rang through the alleys.

  “Go!” Marcus said. “Get it open!”

  The two Mierantai attacked the door with vigor, wrenching the boards away with a series of cracks and crunches that would have been as audible as musket shots if not for the roar of the burning riverboat. Once they had the old door clear, Marcus grabbed one of the bars and, glancing at Raesinia, worked it under the doorframe right beside the latch.

  “Polite thieves?” she said.

  “Right.” He grinned and threw his weight against the bar. The latch gave way with a splintery crunch, and the door swung open.

  They slipped inside and into darkness. Marcus kept his lantern shuttered until they’d closed the door behind them, then opened it enough to allow two of the soldiers to light glass-enclosed hurricane lamps. As the flames caught, shadows danced and wavered throughout the warehouse, and tiny points of fire gleamed on polished metal. Raesinia’s breath caught in her throat.

  “That,” Andy said, “is a lot of cannon.”

  They were lined up, hub to hub, rank after rank of them, at least three dozen in various sizes. Beside them stood stacks of chests that Raesinia assumed contained the ammunition. An equal number of caissons, small carts that would be dragged behind the cannon into battle, stood in neat rows. Beyond that was a shadowy mountain of small kegs; Raesinia made a quick estimate of her size and did some rapid calculations in her head.