The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  Unless we do something about it. Andy stopped in front of a doorway, and Raesinia looked above it to the swinging sign, which proclaimed the establishment the Dead Dog. A canine skeleton, though wired to the wood, managed to look down at Raesinia with what seemed like an aggrieved expression.

  Andy squared her shoulders and pushed open the door. Raesinia followed.

  The last time Raesinia had done this sort of thing, it had been in the Dregs, in the hothouse intellectual environment of places like the Blue Mask. There had been wine, gallons of it, but it had always been secondary to the exchange of ideas. People came to argue about the deep questions of law and human nature, in the company of other people who understood the importance of such matters.

  The Dead Dog, by contrast, was a place where people came to get drunk. It was dark, lit only by a few candles on each table and a fireplace at one end of the room, and smelled mostly of smoke and wine, with a faint undertone of piss. The tables were big, thick things built like ships, scarred and stained black by years of spills of smoke. The chairs were crates, barrels, or loose collections of planks nailed together by someone who didn’t care much about comfort. There was no bar, but a trio of colorfully dressed women came and went constantly through a door to a back room, bringing clay jugs to the patrons.

  The patrons were Dockmen, Raesinia surmised. There was a certain uniformity about them, big, heavy men with broad shoulders and arms like wrapped cords, dressed in rough leather and interested only in their drinks. There was practically no conversation, only the occasional exchange of grunts or the rattle of dice where a few patrons were doing a bit of desultory gambling. Aside from the servers, there were no women in evidence.

  “What,” Raesinia said under her breath, “are we doing here, again?”

  “Looking for people I used to know,” Andy said. “Just follow my lead.”

  Raesinia was aware of eyes following them, from behind mugs and under slouched hats. Andy strode confidently through the tables, ignoring the gazes, and Raesinia stuck close behind her.

  “Hey,” someone said as they passed by. “That’s not Wee Andy, is it?”

  Andy didn’t respond, but a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Raesinia tensed. The man who’d seized her was old and running to fat, with gray hair under his cap. He looked up at her, blearily, eyes struggling to focus.

  “It is!” he said. “Fuckin’ Wee Andy. You used to grab bread for me from the wagons on the Green Road.” He turned to his companions, who’d all lifted their eyes to stare. “Wee Andy had the fastest fingers in the Docks.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “And the best tongue, too. She had this thing she’d do where—”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Harry,” Andy said, putting her other hand across his. “But I’m afraid I’m a little busy.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that,” Harry said, jerking her a step closer. “It’s been, what, seven years? You can’t spare the time to have a drink with ol’ Harry?” He looked her up and down. “You went and grew some tits, too, didn’t you? I bet you’d be good for a proper fuck now, what do you say? For old times’ sake. Used to be only two bits, but I bet you could charge—”

  “If you don’t let go,” Andy said pleasantly, “I’m going to break your fingers.”

  “Eh?” Harry’s expression changed slowly, as what she’d said worked its way into his sodden brain. “The fuck? I’m just bein’ friendly.”

  “So am I. I haven’t broken anything yet.”

  “Better listen, Harry,” one of the other men said. “I heard she’s one of Mad Jane’s lot.”

  Harry turned around. “So fuckin’ what? Mad Jane fucked off to the wars, and good fucking riddance. Crazy bitch strutting around tellin’ everyone what to do—”

  A hand landed on Harry’s shoulder. It belonged to a very large man with skin like old leather, and it gripped tight enough that Harry flinched.

  “Jane will be back,” the big man said. “In the meantime, I won’t hear that kind of talk.”

  Harry’s friends were suddenly all extremely interested in their drinks. Harry looked up at the newcomer, then released Andy’s wrist, looking a bit sick.

  “Sorry, Walnut. Just . . . you know. Wanted to catch up with an old friend.”

  Walnut gave Harry’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go, and Harry’s face went white.

  “Sorry, Andy,” he said.

  “It’s nothing,” Andy said, rubbing her wrist. “I came here looking for you. Can we talk?”

  * * *

  Walnut shared a table in the back of the establishment with two other men, who were introduced as George the Gut and Flopping John; the source of the former’s appellation was obvious, and Raesinia was not sure she wanted to know the origin of the latter’s. She and Andy sat across from the three, Raesinia crossing her legs underneath her to get a little more height and keep her chin above the level of the table.

  “I didn’t know you were still in town,” Walnut said to Andy. “I thought you marched off to war with all the rest.”

  “Marched off, got shot, spent a while in the hospital at the University,” Andy said. “By the time I was better, they’d all gone.”

  “All the worse for you,” John said. “I bet the food’s better in the army. Bakers are back to filling out the bread with sawdust, and there’s a good trade in rats again.”

  “I got nothing against rat,” rumbled George the Gut. “I got a recipe.”

  “I’m staying at Mrs. Felda’s,” Andy said. “And the stories I hear from people who come in . . .”

  Walnut sighed. “It’s the fucking seedies. Worse than tax farmers. At least with tax farmers it wasn’t our own people shoving the boot in.”

  “Even the Oldtown gangs are having trouble,” Jack said. “Lots of fighting over there.”

  “What about the Leatherbacks?” Andy said.

  “Hardly any Leatherbacks left,” Walnut said. “The girls all went with Jane, and half the boys joined the army. Only us who’ve got families to feed stayed home.”

  “That’s something, isn’t it?” Andy said. “Harry seemed to show some respect.”

  “Harry’s a prick,” Walnut said.

  Raesinia took a long breath and said, “Janus is coming back.”

  The table went silent. Eventually John, looking down at his fingers, muttered, “You want to be careful with that kind of talk.”

  “Everyone knows it,” Raesinia said. “And if Janus is coming, Jane and the rest will be with him.”

  “Who knows?” George said. “I heard he works for the Hamvelts now. Can’t see Jane working for the bulls.”

  “Besides,” Walnut said, “they’re going to stop him at Orlan.” He grinned. “Has to be true—I read it in the papers.”

  “He’ll be here,” Raesinia repeated. “And he’s going to need your help.”

  “With all respect, miss,” John said, “who the fuck are you? Just ’cause you share a name with the queen doesn’t mean you get to give orders.”

  Raesinia glanced at Andy.

  “The thing is,” Andy said, “I’m not the only soldier hiding out at Mrs. Felda’s. Marcus d’Ivoire is there.”

  “The Captain of Armsmen?” George said.

  “The one who kept the black-coats from firing at the Vendre,” Walnut said. His eyes were wary. “Janus’ right hand in Khandar, right?”

  “Right,” Raesinia said. “And he’s here to get ready for Janus’ return.”

  Jack’s brow furrowed. “Get ready how?”

  “There aren’t enough troops at Orlan to stop the Army of the East,” Raesinia said, trying to sound more certain than she felt. “That’s why the Directory is arming the seedies. They’re going to fight, and it’s going to be bad. Janus is going to have to cut through to the Island, and that means the Grand Span.”

  This was an assum
ption, but not a difficult conclusion to reach. The bridges from the north side of the river were all small and mostly arched, and Raesinia could only imagine the nightmare it would be trying to force a passage over them. The Grand Span, on the other hand, was wide, sturdy, and flat, which made it the obvious choice for an army trying to reach the Island. Unfortunately, this would also be obvious to the defenders, and the approach to the Grand Span went squarely through Newtown and the Docks.

  The men at the table might not have been well educated, but they weren’t fools. They’d all been through the rioting and the skirmishes around the Vendre during the revolution, and she could see they were all only too aware of what it would mean to have a real army going up against a dug-in defender in the streets around their homes. Everyone was silent for a moment.

  “I thought the Patriots had been busier than usual,” John said. “They’ve been bringing wagons over the Span and down the Green Road the last couple of days.”

  “Doing what?” George said.

  Jack shrugged.

  “Defensive positions,” Raesinia said. “Ammunition stores. Cannon.”

  “Saints and martyrs,” Walnut muttered.

  “Fucking bastards,” John said.

  “Marcus wants to do something about it.” This wasn’t quite the truth, Raesinia was aware, but Marcus was too focused on keeping her safe and not worried enough about the city that was in her charge. It’s what he would want, if he were thinking straight. “But we need help. We need whatever Leatherbacks are left, and anyone else you can gather.”

  Walnut looked at Andy, who nodded encouragingly, then at his two companions. His brow furrowed.

  “If—if, mind you—we were of a mind to help, what would you want us to do?”

  “Help us keep the seedies from hurting people.” Raesinia leaned forward. “Mrs. Felda’s is full of people who’ve run away from the militia and the Patriots. We need safe places for them, food, extra hands. And . . .” She hesitated. “Maybe a bit of poking around. Nothing dangerous. But if we can send Janus information, maps of where the Patriots are and what they’re up to, it will make the fighting shorter.”

  George was frowning. John said, “Listen. You mean well, but you have to understand what you’re asking. It’s all well and good if Janus wins, but what if he loses? The Patriots will ask who helped him, and people will talk. Every one of us could be on the Spike by the end of the year. I’ve got a wife and kids to think about.”

  “What makes you think they’ll leave you alone if Janus loses?” Andy said. “We fought the tax farmers, we fought the fucking black-coats, and we took the Vendre. If the goddamned Directory thinks they can push us around, they’ve got another think coming.”

  “You all know what the Patriot Guard are like,” Raesinia said. “A bunch of bullies and cowards. If it comes down to them against Janus bet Vhalnich and Mad Jane, which side are you going to bet on?”

  Walnut looked at John, then back at Raesinia. Slowly, he nodded, and his huge hands tightened into fists.

  * * *

  “I am supposed to keep you safe,” Marcus said. “That is what Janus ordered me to do. And I can’t do it if you keep running off every time a thought pops into your head!”

  They were in the attic of the church, a windowless, claustrophobic space stuffed with forgotten boxes of holiday ornaments and stacks of unused prayer books. Linen and bedding that hadn’t been disturbed in decades had been hauled out to deal with the influx of refugees, disturbing the dust of decades and leaving the air thick and choking. With the number of people now in Mrs. Felda’s care, it was about the only place left they could talk without being overheard.

  “It had to be done,” Raesinia said. “We need the Leatherbacks. And they agreed to help!”

  “Ionkovo can walk through walls,” Marcus said. “And that monster from Willowbrook shrugged off musket balls like they were champagne corks. Either one of them could come back at any time!”

  “If they do, what makes you think I’d be safe here?”

  “I’ve organized watches,” Marcus muttered, but the question clearly cut him to the quick. He could see as well as Raesinia that a few half-starved refugees standing guard with cudgels were not going to do much to stop the Penitent Damned. He and Lieutenant Uhlan were the only proper soldiers in the place, and they had only one musket between them and a couple of pistols.

  “But you’re right,” Marcus went on, rallying. “Our only hope is keeping it absolutely quiet that we’re here at all. And going out to talk to people isn’t going to help!”

  Now it was Raesinia’s turn to wince, but she had an answer ready. “Word is going to get out about Mrs. Felda’s sooner or later. If the Leatherbacks are operating again, then nobody will immediately associate it with us.”

  “So you’re using them as cover?”

  “I’m helping people.”

  “It’s not part of our mission,” Marcus said. “Janus ordered me to take care of you, not to defend the city.”

  “Would you shut up about your orders?” Raesinia said. “I don’t answer to Janus, and I can’t stand by and watch.” She shook her head. “Besides, if we can get a good map of the Patriot Guards’ defenses, that will help when the Army of the East gets here. It’ll save lives.”

  “If he’d wanted me to make maps, he would have said so,” Marcus said, but that was weak, and they both knew it. They’d had no contact with Giforte or the flik-flik team, and had no idea if the line linking them to Janus’ army was still in operation.

  Raesinia let out a long breath. “Look, it’s done. We’ll have them come here from now on. Will you at least talk to them? Cora and I can handle setting up safe houses for the refugees, but if we are going to be of any use to Janus, you’re the one who knows what kind of information we should be looking for.”

  “All right, all right.” Marcus looked up at Raesinia, as though considering her in a new light, and she felt herself blush slightly.

  “What?” she said. “Am I failing to live up to your expectations for a queen again?”

  “In a way,” Marcus said. “I was just thinking that maybe this is what I ought to have expected a queen to be like.”

  Raesinia snorted, but her cheeks reddened further. She turned away to hide them. I don’t need his approval. “I’m glad you’ve learned something—”

  There was a knock on the trapdoor, and she fell silent. Marcus, sitting beside it, said, “Yes?”

  “Raes?” Cora said. “There’s someone down here asking to talk to you.”

  “One of the refugees?” Raesinia said. “Or someone from the Leatherbacks?”

  “Neither.” Cora lowered her voice. “I think it’s your friend Rose.”

  Rose . . . Raesinia shot to her feet after a moment’s thought, cursing herself for not getting it faster. Sothe had used that name when Cora met her, during the fall of the Vendre. She’s here! She rushed to the trapdoor and pulled it up. Cora was already backing down the ladder, too slowly for Raesinia’s taste—she nearly jumped, twenty-five-foot drop be damned. I’ve fallen a lot farther.

  But there were people watching, so she followed Cora down, carefully. The church didn’t have a true second floor, just a balcony that ran along one wall, where seats had once been positioned for distinguished guests to watch the service. Mrs. Felda had used it for storage before the crisis; now the food stocks had mostly been eaten, and bedding laid out on the creaking wooden floor so that refugees could sleep in shifts. This area had been allocated to later arrivals, which meant they were almost all Vordanai—mothers with young children, for the most part, along with quite a few old men and women who’d been forced from their homes by the seedies and left with nowhere to go. Men of fighting age found looking shiftless were liable to be dragged into service in the Patriot Guard, while unaccompanied young women disappeared to even worse fates.

  Raesinia
picked her way through the makeshift beds, full of exhausted people sleeping in spite of the early hour, and down the rickety switchback stair that led to the main floor. The church smelled mostly of the huge pots of soup Mrs. Felda and her assistants churned out, but with a strong undertone of unwashed bodies and overflowing privies. Filthy children ran about, chasing one another with sticks.

  Sothe looked like any other refugee, wrapped in gray, fraying homespun, the dirt of several nights on the road obvious on her face. A thick bandage wrapped her side, and she walked with a limp, favoring one ankle. Raesinia pushed her way through the crowd and wrapped her arms around her maidservant, carefully avoiding her wounded side.

  “Thank God,” she said. “I was so worried about you.”

  Sothe, as always uncomfortable with such displays of emotion, patted Raesinia awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re well. My mission was successful, I think, until . . .” She lowered her voice. “We were attacked. One man, but he was . . . exceptional. I believe he may have been a Penitent Damned. By now they certainly know that you were never there, and they may know you never left the city. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Raesinia whispered. “It was never going to hold up indefinitely.” Ionkovo had seen her, in any case, so the word was out. “I’m just glad to have you back. We tried to send you a warning, but . . .”

  Marcus, a bit slower down the ladder, pushed his way through the crowd and stopped facing the two of them. Raesinia disentangled herself from Sothe and put on a more dignified face.

  “I’m not sure the two of you have been formally introduced,” Raesinia said. “Marcus, this is Sothe, my head of household and close personal friend.” Sothe shifted uncomfortably at this description, but Raesinia didn’t give her a chance to object. “Sothe, this is Colonel Marcus d’Ivoire, also my friend and Janus’ personal representative.”