Colonel Williams spread a hastily-sketched map of the palace on Jeffrey’s desk, shoving books and papers to the floor without an apology. “The palace has too many levels for this to be truly accurate,” he said, “but it should give you an idea of what we’re dealing with.” He pointed at spots irregularly spaced around the perimeter of the building. “These are the exits,” he said. “The main door is obviously where we’ll have to concentrate our forces, but I’m guessing the Baroness is too smart to push through there. She’s more likely to feint and make her real attack here, at the west door, or here, at Ansom’s Gate. The other two are small enough that we can easily barricade them and defend them with only a handful of soldiers, with runners in case I’m wrong and she tries to enter through one of them.”
“What about the Justiciary?” asked one of the captains, a woman with white hair and an unlined face.
“Already sealed off,” Jeffrey said. “Those doors are meant to stop a prison riot. Diana won’t get through that way.”
“When you get your orders, take your troops and go immediately to your stations,” Williams continued. “The goal is to keep them from entering the palace at all costs, but we have to be prepared for the possibility they’ll overwhelm us. Remember, most of the side routes will be blockaded; if the Baroness’s troops get through and you have to fall back, don’t head down one of those blind hallways or you’ll be trapped. Any time you do fall back, send a runner so we can keep track of where you are. Don’t give up ground unless you absolutely have to. And stay out of the rotunda; we’ll have riflemen there to pick off the Baroness’s soldiers if they’re stupid enough to try to cross that big open space.” He mopped his forehead. “The arrows show where you should go in the event you’re pushed back. Memorize those routes. We’re depending on having soldiers at certain points if the Baroness pushes too far in. Don’t deviate from the route unless you have orders from me or from his Majesty.”
“That’s all. Gather your troops and dig in to your positions,” Jeffrey said, “and may heaven bless us all.”
Imogen lingered after the captains had dispersed. “Where is Elspeth and Alison?”
Jeffrey’s eyes went blank momentarily, and Imogen remembered what Elspeth had told her about his magical talent. “Mother is in the north wing, and Owen took Elspeth and went to ground in the city. It’s essential Diana not find her, and Owen is as good at hiding as anyone I’ve ever known.”
It was just as essential Diana not find Jeffrey, but then there was no point in Imogen mentioning that. “And you will be where?”
Jeffrey scowled. “I’m putting a small force right at the entrance to the east wing as a decoy, just in case, but I will be locked in the north wing. I hate being so vulnerable, but if she kills me…I wish I understood what drove her to this. She wasn’t obsessed with power when we were younger.”
“People are not the same their whole life.”
“I know. I shouldn’t be worrying about this. Too many other things to worry about.” He took her hand. “I want you to take your tiermatha and one other, preferably one that isn’t as fluent in Tremontanese, and guard Ansom’s Gate. I know you heavy cavalry types are trained to thrust rather than slash, and with the narrowness of that entrance I’m counting on you having an advantage over Diana’s infantry if they break through. By heaven, I wish we had more time.”
“We have enough time to be ready, and that is a good enough wish,” Imogen said. “But I think my tiermatha is slow because I want my saber and it is not here yet.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Imogen raised her eyebrows. “You mean that you and me have more time? What will you do with this more time?”
“This.” He hugged her tightly, laying his bristly cheek against her soft one. “Imogen, you know our chances aren’t good, right?”
“I know. But they are not so bad either. You have good fighters who will die to keep you alive because they love their country and do not want it to be ruled by a crazy bony person.”
He laughed. “She is rather bony, isn’t she?” He released her and stepped back. “Don’t die if you can help it.”
“I cannot promise what will happen, but I know my enemies will shake to know my saber is at their throats. And I will not die if I can help it. So you will not either.” She didn’t say what they both knew, which was if Jeffrey died, it would only be because Imogen was already dead. “I must go,” she said.
He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then shook his head and held the door open for her. She saluted him, then went to find her tiermatha. They had work to do.
Sharp-edged granite blocks, fitted together so tightly they made a sheer cliff eighty feet tall, formed the northern wall of the palace. No windows pierced the cliff, which extended to the left as far as Imogen could see before curving out of sight. To the right, Imogen’s view was blocked by the irregular jutting block of the north wing, whose large windows would offer a too-easy entrance if they weren’t some thirty feet above ground level. They were dull in the moonlight, blocked from the inside by improvised barriers of planks and upended desks. One of those windows belonged to Jeffrey’s office. They’d probably turned that enormous claw-footed desk of his into a shield. He would be farther inside, in one of those smaller meeting rooms with no outside access, no hopelessly indefensible windows. She allowed herself one more thought of him, then went inside.
“There’s no movement, but then it’s unlikely they’ll try this door,” she told the tiermathas. “There’s no gate in the outer wall on this side, and the west door is bigger. But that means it’s even more important we stay alert, because this is the entrance where the enemy can do the most damage if it’s not secured. Excuse us.” This last was directed at several men and women carrying boards and hammers. They began securing the door as neatly as if they’d been trained to defend the palace against intruders. Imogen gestured for her troops to move farther down the passage, away from the noise of the hammers.
“The goal is to keep the enemy from entering for as long as possible. Once they get inside, the advantage is theirs. We don’t want to fight a defensive battle if we can help it.” She held up one of the gun Devices they’d been issued. “These are only for short-range fighting. They each have six shots. Point, squeeze the trigger, use it up, toss it aside. They only have enough source for those six shots. Try not to shoot any of your friends.” A murmur of laughter went up. “If we can block the door with their bodies, so much the better. If not, then it’s saber work, and you all know the drill. We can fit three across without falling over each other. Front rank fights until the second rank takes over, then retreat to the rear. Third rank pulls out anyone who falls. Keep moving and keep fresh.”
She didn’t tell them that even if they kept moving so no one tired, every time they switched positions they would lose ground. No sense discouraging them before they’d even met the foe. “When I give the command to retreat, the two first ranks hold position while everyone else moves, then those six run like hell and get down, because our fallback position is manned by riflemen who will hold them back until we’re ready to come at them from the side corridors. Beyond that, we’ll have to improvise. Any questions?” No one spoke. “Then let’s get ready for a long day.”
The carpenters had finished nailing up thick planks and were now carrying in furniture which they slotted together neatly to make a barricade bristling with chair legs and finely polished table tops. The barricade would make things more difficult all around; the enemy would have trouble forcing their way past it, but it would also make it hard for the tiermathas to get clear shots at them. “Don’t shoot unless they get past this,” Imogen called out. “Let’s not waste our Devices.”
She leaned back and stared at the opposite wall. The waiting could kill you, so she’d learned to let her conscious mind slip away, to become nothing more than a pair of eyes, a pair of ears, a pair of nostrils just waiting for a signal that it was time to meet the foe. The wall was cov
ered with fuzzy red paper; she reached behind herself and rubbed it as if she were petting Victory. Victory would be disappointed to miss this battle, but it wasn’t a fight for horses. If Imogen rode her into the palace, she’d have to lie across Victory’s neck to keep from cracking her head against the low ceiling of this narrow hall. Still, the idea of Diana’s soldiers breaking through the door to come face to face with an enraged Kirkellan war horse made her smile.
“Thinking of your enemies lying on the floor under your feet?” Dorenna asked.
“Thinking of Victory trampling their skulls under hers,” Imogen replied.
“That would be something to see, wouldn’t it? I wish we weren’t trapped in here like rats. So much better to be free to scatter them as we rode through.”
Imogen remembered the cell walls closing in on her and closed her eyes. “Let’s not talk about being trapped, all right?”
“We have plenty of space to fall back, plenty of provisions, and a good communications network. I’m confident in our chances,” Saevonna said, leaning against the wall opposite Imogen and sliding down it to sit on the floor.
“That’s because you’re disgustingly optimistic,” Dorenna said. She scuffed her toe against the bare stone of the corridor and said, “So where’s Marcus?”
Saevonna looked up at her. “In the rotunda. He’s a rifleman,” she said in an emotionless voice. “He’s probably safer than I am, unless they get up to the second floor. He’s…not the best swordsman, but he can take care of himself.”
“Of course he can,” Imogen said. “Thirty-six hours. Thirty-five, now. Probably less than that. We can hold out that long.”
Saevonna nodded. She looked as if she was wrestling with some inner enemy. “Is anything wrong?” Imogen asked.
“He asked me to marry him,” Saevonna said, still in that flat, emotionless voice.
Imogen gasped. Dorenna dropped to squat beside Saevonna. “What did you tell him?”
“To ask again when this was all over. I didn’t…it was too unexpected.” She closed her eyes and banged her head gently against the wall behind her.
Imogen and Dorenna exchanged glances. “What are you—do you know what you’re going to tell him?” Imogen asked quietly.
“No,” Saevonna said, her eyes still closed. “I wish the enemy were here. I need something uncomplicated I can point my saber at. At least then I know what I’m doing.”
Imogen and Dorenna looked at each other again. “You know we’ll support you, no matter what you choose,” Imogen said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Saevonna said cryptically. She pushed herself up. “I’m going to check the fallback route again. Please don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want them distracted.”
“She doesn’t care about us being distracted,” Dorenna murmured when Saevonna was gone.
“Shut up. She clearly needed to tell someone. Dor, what if she leaves?”
“She won’t leave. We’re family. She’ll make him come home with us.”
Imogen shook her head. “She’s adapted to life here better than anyone else. I know her Tremontanese is better than his Kirkellish.”
“Shut up. I can’t think about this right now. I wish she’d kept it to herself.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” Dorenna went from a crouch to a sitting position. “What happens if the enemy breaks through somewhere else?”
“We wait for new orders and join the fight, probably.”
“You don’t think they’d make us wait here in case they try to enter at more than one point?”
“I don’t know, Dor.”
Dorenna cursed. “I hate this part.”
“Me too.”
Revalan came down the passage, balancing long rolls of bread in his arms and a basket of fruit over his elbow. “Breakfast,” he said. “Early breakfast, anyway.”
The bread proved to be stuffed with meat and cheese. The three of them ate in silence, Imogen preoccupied with Saevonna’s predicament. Saevonna loved Marcus, but did she love him enough to give up everything she knew for him? She’d be a foreigner in Aurilien her whole life. Her children would grow up city-dwellers who knew nothing of riding free across the plains, knew nothing of what it was to hunt the cunning reindeer or cuddle with their family inside their tent against the howl of a winter storm.
She had a brief but vivid memory of watching Jeffrey at a time when he wasn’t aware of her scrutiny, telling Elspeth some story. His whole face was alight with humor, his long fingers gesturing as he illustrated a point, and she remembered how she’d wished he’d turn that look on her—and then he had, and it had warmed her down to the core. He loves me, she realized, and fear filled her at the thought. She didn’t know if she returned his affection, didn’t know if she even wanted to. Being a diplomat was one thing; letting go of her life entirely was very different.
She heard something scrabble at the outer door. “Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. There it was again. Then the door shook with the faintest of tremors.
“They’re trying to break it down,” Revalan said, “but they don’t have a battering ram.”
The tremors came regularly for a short while, as if several people were slamming into it with their shoulders. Imogen was joined by Dunevin, captain of the second tiermatha. “Sounds like it’s holding,” Dunevin said, sounding uncertain, but Imogen had learned Dunevin always sounded uncertain no matter what he actually felt or thought.
“For now,” Imogen agreed. Neither of them had to say until they get a battering ram. Imogen tried to think if she’d seen anything on the palace grounds Diana’s soldiers could press into service to batter down a door. Even if they did, they’d probably use it against the main entrance, where they could pour through into the entry hall and down the wide corridor toward the rotunda, all of which were too vast to be successfully blockaded. Imogen thought of Marcus, waiting on the second floor. Heaven help him if he was as distracted as Saevonna was.
Hours passed. Occasionally someone would try and fail to beat down the door. Imogen ordered the tiermathas to walk around, stay relaxed and rested. They’d have plenty of warning if Diana’s troops managed to break through.
A young runner trotted up the hallway to Imogen. “All the entrances are still holding firm,” she said, “but the main doors are starting to weaken. Hold your position for a secondary assault.” She ran off the way she’d come.
Imogen passed the word. They waited. Her warriors paced the length of the hall, or talked quietly, or napped in the way experienced fighters did, catching rest when and where they could. Imogen’s runner, a boy no more than twelve, curled in a ball off to one side, sleeping the sleep of someone who hadn’t fully grasped the precariousness of their position. Imogen let him sleep. With luck, they wouldn’t need him. She knew better than to count on luck.
The pounding on the door began again. This time, it was louder and more rhythmic. “This is it,” Imogen called out. Warriors stood and stretched and unlimbered their gun Devices. She prodded the runner with her toe. “Warn Colonel Williams they are trying to break through here.”
Another runner came up the hall, breathing heavily. “They’re through the front doors,” he said. “Hold position here.”
Imogen nodded, but both boys were already gone. “We may have to fall back to support the others,” she said, “so be prepared to retreat even if we haven’t lost our position.” She drew a deep breath. “These soldiers have no idea what it’s like to face a Kirkellan warrior in battle. We have a reputation for ferocity and I want us to live up to it today. Fight well, fight long, and let your sabers drink deep.”
They roared in response, and for a moment, the pounding against the door ceased. Imogen grinned. That’s right, you poor deluded fools who think you’re justified in fighting against your own King, she thought, just you think about what’s waiting for you on this side of the door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The pounding resumed. Whoever h
ad built Ansom’s Gate had built it well, and the carpenters had made it stronger. It was a long time before they began to hear the creaking complaint of wood stressed almost beyond its capacity. Then they heard the door splinter beyond the wooden barrier, and the planks shuddered. Every eye was fixed on the barricade, whose spindly-legged tables and delicately carved chairs seemed like nothing more than a gossamer web the enemy could brush aside without a thought.
The planks splintered and exploded inward. A soldier in Tremontanan green and brown struggled through the gap, kicking at the remnants of boards and door to widen it. A shatteringly loud clap, a spark of light, and he fell, his throat a gory mess. Imogen looked at the warrior who’d fired the shot, who looked as stunned as the dead man did. “There’s a hole,” she said lamely, and pointed at the barricade. “I didn’t know it would do that.”
“Well, keep on doing it,” Imogen said. Another soldier clambered over the broken wood and the broken body of his comrade and began tearing at the barricade, followed by more soldiers until the area between the door and the barricade was filled with enough of them that they were getting in each other’s way. The Kirkellan fired more shots, but few of them struck soldiers because the barricade, except for that one lucky hole, was well-built and without many gaps. Another soldier went down, then another. Their comrades were pulling them out as fast as they could, and the Kirkellan shot at those rescuers and managed to take down a few more.
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