“Is it a problem?” Winter said, trying not to smile.
“You might as well join in. No stopping them at this point, sir.”
The other two rankers, Jenna and Vicky, Winter had never met. The idea that there were women under her command that she’d never met, whose names she’d never even heard, filled her with a momentary guilt, but she shoved it aside. They were both Vordanai, who’d volunteered after the declaration of war. Jenna was a Docks woman, about Winter’s age, with prematurely gray hair tied up in a coiled braid. Vicky was a Northsider, daughter of a successful livery stable owner, who’d run away to join the army as soon as she heard the Girls’ Own was recruiting. They both offered Winter crisp salutes, but the expression on their faces made her uncomfortable. It was the look of women meeting a legend. When did I become a legend?
They waited at the foot of the bridge, as the sun slid past the horizon, until a couple of howitzer shells went past, both splashing noisily into the river. Then, with Sothe in the lead, they ran, sprinting across the cracked flagstones of the Grand Span. Here and there, corpses dotted the bridge, unlucky soldiers who’d been caught in the blasts. Winter kept her head down and her mind on her footing. The bridge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, and she was pleased to note she wasn’t the only one breathing hard by the time they reached the cover of the buildings on the other side. Sothe and Bobby look like they could keep running all day, though.
The entrance was right where Cyte had said it would be, in an alley behind a row of cafés. Most of them had metal trapdoors leading down to their basements, where new stock could be moved in, and the tunnel entrance looked identical to all the others, secured by a battered padlock. Sothe opened this with a pair of slim wires and a few moments’ work, and Winter was relieved to see that they had the right place. Instead of a café basement, a ladder led down into the dark.
Andy had brought a pair of lanterns, and she handed one to Sothe and hooked the other onto her back. She’d also brought a brown linen satchel stuffed with something that looked unwieldy, though she hadn’t mentioned it aloud. Sothe went first, managing the ladder one-handed, and Andy brought up the rear with the lantern dangling from her straps.
The shaft went down farther than Winter had expected, a good thirty feet, before ending on a slimy stone floor. The light of the lanterns revealed a tiny passage, with a large iron pipe fitted to its ceiling. Cyte hadn’t exaggerated the close quarters—there was room for one person to walk, bent nearly double at the waist, and that was all. By the time Winter reached the bottom of the ladder, Sothe was already well along, and there was nothing to do but follow.
This was the first potential hurdle. If somehow the Patriots did know about the tunnel, it would have been child’s play to block it, or arrange an ambush at the other end. They were nearly helpless in such tight quarters, and Winter had her heart in her throat all the way through. She counted steps, to reassure herself that the tunnel had to end somewhere. At one point the light showed an open space above her, and she guessed they were under the statue at the center of the square. Halfway through. Above them, guns boomed and grumbled, barely audible through the intervening earth.
“I’ve found the ladder,” Sothe said sometime later. “I’m going up.” As Winter reached the bottom and started to climb, there was a sharp, metallic noise from above. “Had to break the lock,” Sothe reported. “The top’s clear.”
One by one, they emerged from another trapdoor disguised as a basement access, this time behind the imposing brickwork bulk of the Hotel Ancerre. Joanna, Winter noted, climbed out of the tunnel on distinctly shaky legs, and Barely, right behind her, took her hand and squeezed it tight.
“Are you all right?” Winter said.
The big woman nodded, mutely, breathing deep.
“She’s not good with tight spaces,” Barley said. “There was this time back when we were kids—”
Joanna slashed her hand in a clear gesture of negation. Barley shrugged.
“She’ll be okay,” she said. “Just give her a minute.”
“That’s the kitchen door over there,” Sothe said. “I’ll go in first. The rest of you come through when I give the word.”
The others all looked to Winter, who nodded. Having seen Sothe in action under the Vendre, she was happy to let her take the lead. They pressed themselves against the wall, four to either side, while Sothe eased the door open and ghosted through. A few moments later, they heard her voice.
“Everyone stay quiet! The rest of you, come in.”
Winter opened the door. The hotel kitchens were vast, but apparently underused—only one of the three hearths was burning, and most of the long wooden tables were piled with dirty cookware and other debris no one had gotten around to cleaning up. Four women in dirty linen stood by a tub of foamy water, brushes in hand. They were all staring at a swinging double door, where Sothe was standing. She had her arm around the neck of a man in hotel livery, a bloody knife held tight against his throat. Her other hand held a pistol, aimed at the closest of the women. At her side, another man wearing a Patriot Guard sash was still twitching as blood from the slash across his throat puddled on the floor.
“Don’t hurt him!” one of the women shouted, letting her brush fall into the tub. “Please, we—”
“Quiet!” Sothe hadn’t discussed her plan beforehand, but Winter felt she got the gist. She kept her voice low. “Nobody’s getting hurt if you don’t make a fuss.”
“We’re not with the Patriot Guard,” one of the other women said as the rest of Winter’s group filed into the room and shut the door behind them. “We just work here, I swear.”
“I know. Cooperate, and we’ll let you go.”
“We’ll have to tie them up,” Sothe said. “Just in case.”
“They didn’t give us any choice,” the man she was holding said. “The boss just told us they were moving in—”
“Prisoners,” Sothe interrupted. “Where do they keep the prisoners?”
There was a moment of silence, broken by a crackle from the hearth. Then one of the women, hesitant, volunteered, “There’s no prisoners here. No cells or nothing.”
Winter’s throat went tight, but Sothe shook her head.
“Maurisk wouldn’t let her out of his sight. He’s here, isn’t he? The Directory President?”
“On the sixth floor,” the man said. “We’re not allowed up there anymore. We just drop meals off with the soldiers.”
“That has to be it, then,” Winter said.
“Is there a way up that isn’t guarded?” Sothe said.
“We use the back stairs,” one of the women said. “But there’s a guard, day and night.”
“Only one?” Sothe said
The woman nodded.
“I’ll handle him,” Sothe said curtly. “Winter, get the others tied up and gagged. I won’t be long.” She removed her blade from the man’s throat and said, “Show me the way. If you shout, this is going into your kidney.”
He nodded frantically, very pale, and they disappeared through the swinging doors. Winter looked at the four women, and smiled apologetically.
“Sorry,” she said. “But we really can’t just leave you.”
The one who’d spoken first looked at the others, swallowed, and sighed. “I suppose you can’t, can you?”
Bobby and Andy handled the binding, using kitchen twine. Even if no one found them, Winter thought, it wouldn’t be that hard to work loose. They’d just finished gagging the women when Sothe reappeared, still leading her charge at knifepoint. Bobby bound him as well, and set him beside the hearth with the others.
“The stairway’s clear,” Sothe said, “for the moment.” She bent to satisfy herself that the Patriot lying in the doorway was dead, then wiped her knife on his clothes and sheathed it. “I think we can get up to the sixth-floor landing.”
“Lead the way.
”
Winter gestured the others over, and they crept after Sothe, single file. Winter didn’t ordinarily think of herself as noisy, but she felt like a clumsy child in too-large boots following behind Sothe, who seemed to prowl down the drab service corridors without even disturbing the air. They turned a corner, passed another closed door, and reached a switchback staircase, narrow and windowless. Another man in a Patriot Guard sash lay propped against the wall, a dark stain spread across his chest.
“I don’t know how long we’ve got until shift change,” Sothe said, her tone implying that this ignorance was a personal failure. “So we’ll have to hurry.”
Fortunately, there were closed doors separating the back stairs from the hotel proper at every level above the first, and they climbed without sighting any more Patriots. Winter was more worried about running into a servant, but the place seemed deserted. Most of them have probably run off. It was strange to be in the headquarters of the enemy, with her own army outside grinding inevitably closer.
Though the sound of the guns had grown more infrequent, she noticed. With night falling, Cyte would be giving orders to dig in and hold until morning.
Six stories up, they were faced with another door. Conveniently, it came equipped with a small peephole, and Sothe peered through it, then gestured for Winter to do likewise.
It looked as though the door was disguised as part of the wall, the better to conceal the presence of servants from the eminent guests. Directly ahead, the main stairs curved upward, gaudy in red carpet and gilt carved banisters. Two Patriots with bayonetted muskets waited at the top, perhaps twenty feet away. To the left, closed double doors presumably led to the grand suite that occupied most of this level, with four more sash-wearing guards standing in front of them.
“Six,” Winter said.
“And who knows how many more down below or through the doors,” Sothe said. “We’re not going to be able to take them all out quietly.”
“All right,” Winter said, taking a deep breath. “This is where it turns into a fight, then.”
“I can take the two on the stairs,” Sothe said.
Winter nodded. “Sergeant?”
“Sir?” Maura said softly.
“Take Jenna and Vicky and follow Sothe. Grab the muskets if you can. Once we start making noise, they’ll try and come up the main stairs, but you’ll have a good shot and plenty of cover. Keep them back as long as you can.”
“Yessir.”
“Joanna and Barley, you’re with Andy, Bobby, and me. We’ll give the guards on the left a pistol volley, then take out anyone still standing.”
“Got it, sir,” Barley said.
“Okay.” Winter put her hand on the door latch and pressed until she felt it click. She drew a pistol with her other hand. “Ready? Three, two, one—”
She slammed her shoulder into the door, throwing it wide, and charged through, clearing the way for the rest. Sothe surged past her, one arm a blur as she threw a knife. It caught one of the Patriots by the stairs in the throat, and he staggered backward, gurgling. His companion gave a shout and lowered his musket, but Sothe had already crossed the distance between them, putting one hand on the barrel and jerking it up before he pulled the trigger. The weapon roared, the ball pocking into the plaster ceiling, and the recoil jerked it out of the guard’s hands and sent it clattering down the staircase. Sothe drove the heel of her palm into his jaw with a crunch, slamming him back against the wall, and had another knife out to finish him before he could catch his breath.
Winter transferred her pistol from her left hand to her right, fetching up against the banister at the top of the stairs and steadying her aim. She sighted carefully—ten yards, not a hard shot—and pulled the trigger. The Patriots were just starting to react, lowering their muskets, and her shot caught one in the chest, driving him against the doors. To Winter’s left, more pistols cracked, and one of the Patriots dropped his weapon and clutched at his shoulder. Splintery holes appeared in the door where the balls went wide.
She was already moving, dropping her pistol and drawing her sword as she charged through the thin smoke. A musket roared, a deeper sound than the pistol’s report, and she flinched but kept moving. The other Patriot set his weapon, bayonet glinting and ready to skewer her, but she spun to one side, dodging the point, and aimed a cut at his head. He was fast enough to get his musket up to parry, her saber leaving a notch in the wooden stock, but Joanna was right behind her, slamming a big fist into the man’s gut and then catching him in the back of the head with her elbow as he doubled over. Andy and Bobby, both with swords drawn, came at the other guard, who swung his bayonet wildly from one to the other as they went to opposite sides. He made a wild lunge in Andy’s direction, which she deflected easily, while Bobby cut the guard down from behind.
“Get clear of the doors!” Winter said, stepping to the edge of the corridor. The others obeyed, and a moment later there was an explosion of musketry from inside. Big chunks of wooden paneling exploded outward as musket balls punched through the flimsy wood, spraying the corridor with splinters.
“Bobby, open it!” Winter shouted. “Maura, hold here as long as you can, then fall back toward us. Sothe—”
Sothe was already running toward them. Bobby stepped in front of the still-smoking doors and applied her shoulder where they met. Winter had no idea if they were locked or not, but it didn’t make any difference; the latch practically exploded out of the wood, and Bobby stumbled through, Joanna and Barley following her with pistols drawn.
The room beyond was a broad foyer, with a big table in the center and a cluster of armchairs at one end. Two doors led off on one side, and three on the other. Of more immediate interest than the sumptuous decor were the six Patriot Guards who’d just fired the wild volley through the door. The two rankers fired their pistols, reflexively, but the shots went wide; Winter, leaning around the doorframe, aimed more carefully and put a ball into the forehead of one of the Patriots just as the others worked up the courage for a bayonet charge.
Joanna and Barley, on the left, worked as a well-practiced team as three of the guards closed in. The big woman took the front, waiting until the last moment to dodge the bayonets. She managed to get out of the way of two of them, while the third ripped a narrow cut along her ribs. As this last attack went past, though, she grabbed his weapon and pulled him forward and off-balance. Barley surged out from behind her, opened the Patriot’s stomach with one slash of her long knife, and then ducked under the next man’s attempt to brain her with a musket butt. She sliced the back of his leg to the bone, jumped under him as he stumbled, and rammed her blade to the hilt in the chest of the third man as he recovered from his lunge.
Winter’s opponent, a scared-looking young man, seemed less than fully committed to his attack, and danced backward from his thrust as soon as she feinted at his eyes. She ignored him for a moment, turning to cut down a more energetic guard who was trying to skewer Bobby while she drew her sword. He fell with a cry, and Winter spun back to face the timid boy, only to find a knife sprouting from his throat as if by magic. The musket fell from his nerveless fingers, and he slumped against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. Sothe, coming up behind Winter, had another small knife in her hand.
“More of them coming up the stairs,” she said. “I jammed the door to the back steps, and Maura’s trying to hold them. But we have to work fast.” As she spoke, the roar of muskets and the lighter bark of pistols came from behind them, along with frantic shouting from below.
Winter pointed. One door, on the far right, had a crudely installed bar and padlock on the outside. “If she’s here, she’s in there—”
The door opposite opened, and Winter felt Infernivore stirring in the pit of her mind as a figure almost twice her height squeezed through the doorway. He was dressed, as he had been dressed the last time she saw him, all in black, with a glittering obsidian facemask.
As he stepped forward, two more men, similarly attired, came out behind him, sheltering behind his protective bulk. One was the young man Winter had fought in Desland, and the other was the older man with the long white fingernails. It was the latter who spoke, his Vordanai flavored with a strong Murnskai accent.
“You’re bolder than I gave you credit for, Ihernglass,” he said. “We sensed you the moment you arrived, of course, and your objective was not hard to guess. I expected to have to hunt you down, but you’ve kindly delivered yourself exactly where you’re wanted.
“You’re awfully bold, for someone who was running for his life the last time we met,” Winter said, working hard to keep her breathing steady. Her demon thrashed and roared, a caged animal scenting food. Three Penitent Damned. She swallowed hard. If I can just manage to touch them . . . “We’re here for the queen. Stand aside.”
“You had the advantage last time of being an unknown factor,” the man said. “This time I believe we quite understand each other. I will make you a counterproposal. Surrender, and your companions will be permitted to leave.”
“I—” Winter began.
“He’s stalling,” Sothe spit. At the same time, she whipped the blade in her hand in a perfect end-over-end throw that would have ended right between the old man’s eyes. Even as the knife left her hand, though, the younger Penitent was pulling his companion to one side, so the blade bit into the wallpaper and stuck there, quivering.
Sothe, who’d apparently expected this, was already drawing two longer knives from her belt. The huge Penitent Damned took a step forward, floor shaking under his tread, and grabbed the big table in both hands. He lifted it high, swinging it down like an oversized club to batter Winter, Sothe, and Bobby into the wall. Bobby, though, caught the other edge of the table in her hands and stopped it cold, the smack of wood on flesh audible through the growing firefight in the hallway. She and the Penitent strained, and the wood groaned and popped for a moment before shattering with a noise like a musket shot in a spectacular shower of splinters.
The Price of Valor Page 61