The Prophecy Con (Rogues of the Republic)

by Weekes, Patrick

  “Come back.”

  The eyes jerked open. Shenziencis pulled her spear away, and the dwarf stood, swaying slightly.

  She pointed to where the others stood behind her. “Go,” she said, “and then wait.”

  He shuffled off to them. He would be tractable now, stupid but obedient. Alive, he might have tried to obey the letter of her command while twisting the spirit. The smart ones did.

  That was why Shenziencis usually killed the smart ones just as soon as they’d given her enough words to be useful. Words like “kill” and “wait” and “come.”

  She breathed in deeply, taking in the fresh morning air, and that was when she realized she could still hear breathing.

  It was a human woman, lying beside the rubble a little ways away. Her yellow hair was crusted with blood and plastered to the side of her face, and her commoner’s dress was muddy and torn.

  She stared at Shenziencis with wide eyes.

  “Are you hurt?” Shenziencis asked, walking toward the woman. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  The woman did not answer. She got to her feet instead. One of her legs was broken, and she whimpered, but didn’t cry out.

  She was trying not to talk.

  “Tell me a story,” Shenziencis said, “and I will let you live.”

  The woman took a few limping steps back, leaning on the rubble heavily. The look she gave Shenziencis was filled with terror, but there was anger as well. The woman’s jaws were locked together, the muscles below her ears standing out taut.

  Shenziencis sighed. “I need the words,” she said. “Without the words, there is only one thing you can do for me. Is that what you want?”

  Questions. Even the ones who had some idea about how the magic worked could be caught up by the questions.

  Not this one, though. Her breath harsh, she turned and took a few stumbling steps away before her leg gave out, and she fell with a wordless cry.

  She cried out again when Shenziencis grabbed hold of her shoulder and pulled her up.

  “Enough,” Shenziencis said. “Be silent, then, if you wish.”

  Then she unhinged her jaw and brought the poor dear inside.

  The woman kicked. Shenziencis did not mind. The prey was right to fight, just as Shenziencis was right to eat. It was nature.

  It was also futile. The head slid slowly down her throat, the arms twitching and grabbing at nothing, the legs thrashing. When the head reached the point in the throat where Shenziencis kept her power, the body went still. Shenziencis flexed the muscles of the throat, pulling the rest of the body slowly in, savoring the sweet taste of life still fresh on the skin.

  It took a few minutes, and the sensation as new life blossomed inside her core occupied Shenziencis completely. Lost in the pleasant glow, she came back to her senses to find Princess Veiled Lightning’s bodyguard standing over her, Arikayurichi in hand.

  Gentle Thunder’s armor was scuffed and dented. The last she had seen of him—before the train section she had been on had pulled ahead—he had been caught in the train wreck. Even an ax forged by the ancients could only protect its wielder so much. His face was hidden behind his golden dragon helmet, but Arikayurichi was lifted high enough for her to guess at his mood.

  “You are a monster,” he said. “When I find the princess, I will tell her as much.”

  Shenziencis smiled. “You did not object when I killed the Republic justicar earlier. In fact, you hid the information from your princess.”

  “That was for our mission,” he said. “We needed to hide the body. He was an enemy, and Veil would . . . not have understood. But these?” He flung his free arm out at the rubble. “These were innocents! Their deaths should come only if demanded as a sad necessity of our quest, not simply to slake your thirst for blood!”

  “I ended the lives of a few,” she said with a sniff. “What of you, Gentle Thunder? How many died when you destroyed the dwarven contraption?”

  “Too many.” He looked now not at her, but at Arikayurichi, still held high in his hands. “Their deaths were unnecessary.”

  “Besyn larveth’is,” said the ax, its enchanted voice calm and reassuring.

  “No. We have not protected the innocent.” Gentle Thunder reached up with his free hand and lifted the dragon-faced visor of his helmet. “We have killed too many, and for what? A book?”

  “It is not a simply a book,” Shenziencis said. “It holds a message regarding the ancients. A very important one.”

  “Kutesosh gajair’is,” the ax said, more firmly this time.

  “Yes.” Gentle Thunder glared at her and brought his free hand to Arikayurichi, moving to a two-handed grip.

  Shenziencis made no move to defend herself.

  “I wish only to survive,” she said. “I believe I may be of use to you in locating the manuscript.”

  “I think not.” Gentle Thunder raised his weapon, stepped forward, and brought it down with a fierce shout.

  Shenziencis blinked, then opened her eyes to see the golden blade of Arikayurichi a handbreadth from her face.

  She looked past it to Gentle Thunder, whose fierce glare was slowly falling away.

  “My apologies,” Shenziencis said, “but it was not you to whom I offered my services.”

  Gentle Thunder grimaced, his armor squeaking with strain as he tried with all his mortal might to force Arikayurichi to strike her. Then he stumbled backward, breathing hard.

  “Why?” He was looking at his weapon, not her. “You are the Bringer of Order! You have honored the Empire for centuries with your service! Why, damn you?”

  “Kun-kabynalti osu fuir’is,” Arikayurichi said, and it seemed honestly sad as it did.

  Then the ax-head snapped back in through the slot left by the raised visor.

  The head wrenched back out as Gentle Thunder dropped to his knees, and then chopped back in again. Gentle Thunder’s arms trembled, and Arikayurichi wrenched free again, and then chopped in one final time with a noise that was much softer and wetter than the first two strikes had been.

  When it pulled free a moment later, the movements were clean and practiced. One hand held the ax-head out and wiped its head clean on the grass.

  The other snapped the dragon-faced visor shut.

  Gentle Thunder, or at least his body, got back to its feet.

  “I will endeavor to prove myself worthy of your trust,” Shenziencis said, bowing low. “Now, do you wish me to inform the princess that you will be remaining silent?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Shenziencis turned to see Princess Veiled Lightning limping toward them from the direction Gentle Thunder had come. She had fallen from the train well before Gentle Thunder had caused the crash, a victim of the dwarf’s cunning trick, and Shenziencis was pleased to see that she had survived.

  “Veil.” Gentle Thunder’s body turned, and Shenziencis raised an eyebrow infinitesimally in a bit of professional surprise. It was not Gentle Thunder’s voice, but if not for the magic in her core that made every living being’s voice an aura for her to read and manipulate, she would never have been able to tell. The intonation was utterly perfect, down to the little hesitations of a man who had cared for a woman since childhood. “I thought you . . . I am pleased to see you were not harmed.”

  As he spoke, Shenziencis tapped into the magic at her core, and sent her minions away. It took more strength to command them in silence, and it only worked if she had gotten their words before they died in the first place, but it was necessary. Princess Veiled Lightning would not tolerate the presence of undead servants . . . at least, not those she knew were undead.

  While the dead shuffled away safely in the distance, the princess grimaced and stood a little straighter, giving Gentle Thunder a tight smile. “You trained me for years, Thunder. If I could not roll my way clean in a fall like t
hat, my father would have had you executed for educating me so poorly.”

  “Then I suppose it is fortunate for both of us.” Arikayurichi even managed the tiny intake of breath that would signify an amused chuckle from a man who did not give himself to laughter. “As for my silence . . .” He looked over, his dragon-faced visor pointing at Shenziencis for a moment. “Attendant Shenziencis is concerned that too many lives have been lost on this mission.”

  “The uncultured rulers of this Republic care so little for their own people,” Shenziencis said in disgust. She gestured at the wreckage of the train. “Look at what Isafesira de Lochenville did to escape us. In our effort to avert death, we are most assuredly causing her to kill more innocent people. I said as much to Gentle Thunder, and he said that if I wished to share my opinion with you, he would not gainsay me.”

  “It is not my place.” Gentle Thunder’s body nodded, then turned back to Veiled Lightning. “What do you wish, Veil?”

  Princess Veiled Lightning’s lavender skirt was torn, and strands of hair hung free from her braids. She was clearly tired and hurting more than pride would let her show.

  But Shenziencis had read her correctly. That pride would do more than keep her standing when it would be easier to sit.

  “If we flinch from watching the Republic kill a few of its own now,” she said, “we will have to watch them kill many more of their own, and ours, in the future. Isafesira de Lochenville is a murderer of her own people and a threat to ours.” She took a breath, looking at each of them in turn. “I must continue. If you believe this quest dishonorable, I free you both to return to the Empire.”

  “This quest is dangerous, possibly even foolhardy . . . but it has never been dishonorable.” Gentle Thunder’s body bowed low before the princess. “I am with you to the end, Veil.”

  “As am I,” Shenziencis added. “This Isafesira de Lochenville has disgraced the Temple of Butterflies—my temple—not once but twice.” She smiled, and it was in no way a false smile. “I would share words with her.”

  Fourteen

  LOCH WOKE UP hurting, but not as much as she’d expected.

  “How long?” Her voice was scratchy. She reached out blindly, and hands pressed a cup into her hands.

  “Few days,” Kail said, and helped her drink. This wasn’t the first time he’d nursed her back from a bad fight.

  She coughed on the first swallow, then recovered enough to sip. “The manuscript?”

  “Still with your friend Ethel,” Kail said, “since apparently you threw it at him.”

  “I thought I was throwing a knife.” She took another sip and got more this time.

  “That’s a relief. I thought you were trying to be sporting.”

  Loch opened her eyes. Daylight slid through the window of what was clearly a room at an inn. “Where are we?”

  “Jershel’s Nest.” Kail took the cup back.

  Loch knew of the city, vaguely, though she’d never been there. “Up near the Elflands?”

  “Last city before them. The front half of the train stopped here after the crash.”

  “Irrethelathlialann here, too?” Loch sat up, wincing a little at the tightness.

  “You’d be dead if not for Icy doing whatever weird Imperial energy not-quite-magic he does until Ululenia and Desidora got here,” Kail said instead of answering her question. He stepped forward into her space, blocking any move to get up, which was what she’d been about to do.

  “Glad they could join us, then.” Loch looked at him. “Anything else I should know about?”

  “Tern took a bolt in the chest. It was touch and go, but she’s fine. Resting, like you should be.”

  “I will, just as soon as you tell me how long we’ve got before Irrethelathlialann gets transport out of town.”

  “Captain, stop.”

  “I’m fine, Kail.” She glared up at him. “I’ve been knocked on my ass before.”

  “You nearly died,” he said, and the way he said it, evenly and without changing expression, gave her pause. “Tern nearly died.”

  “How many people did die when the train crashed?” She really didn’t want to know the answer to that question, but a good commander had to know.

  “Captain, stop,” he said again, but this time it was softer.

  “That many.” Loch lay back against a lumpy pillow. “Hell of a plan we came up with, huh?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  “Fault doesn’t matter.” Loch thought of Gentle Thunder swinging the ax, of diving out of the way and feeling so smart as he chopped through the train instead of her. “I let the fight happen. Against the Imperials, against Irrethelathlialann, even against Jyelle.”

  Kail blinked. “Jyelle?”

  “Long story. Apparently I need to avoid unshielded daemons for awhile.” Loch held out her hand. Kail passed her the cup, and she took another sip. The cup was rough on her fingers, chipped along the rim.

  “Are we doing the right thing?” she asked.

  “You can’t turn yourself in,” he said, shrugging. “You’d be giving the Learned exactly what they want, and we both know it would only postpone the war, not stop it.”

  “But it might have given someone else time to prevent it.”

  Kail laughed. “You think anyone else is even trying?” He took the cup away from her. “It’s you or nothing, Captain. So don’t die, all right?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Loch said, and he looked at her, still angry, but then gave a grudging nod and a bit of a smile. “Now—really—bring me up to speed, and I’ll lie here instead of getting up as long as you keep talking.”

  Voyant Beaulieu of the Learned Party stood by the mantle in his sitting room, clutching his brandy snifter tightly and trying not to sweat as Voyant Cevirt of the Skilled Party smiled. The Urujar man’s smile was a white slash across his dark face, and Beaulieu had always found Urujar a little unnerving to begin with, though even in the Learned Party, one didn’t admit those sorts of things these days.

  “If you wish to make an accusation,” Beaulieu said stiffly, “I suggest you make it plainly.”

  “If I made an accusation,” Voyant Cevirt said, “we would have to investigate that accusation publicly, with justicars. Is that something you want? Do you want the Republic mired in the mud with half the Voyancy disgraced while the Imperials send zombies across the border and kill our people?”

  “These insinuations are deeply insulting, Cevirt,” Beaulieu said, “and I will remember them the next time—”

  “Shut. Up.” Cevirt stepped in, and before Beaulieu could react, Cevirt’s hand closed on his wrist. It slammed the brandy snifter against the mantle, locked behind his elbow, and brought the jagged edge of the broken snifter to Beaulieu’s throat.

  An intricate crystal mosaic covered the wall above Beaulieu’s mosaic. Beautiful glowing gems showed Heaven’s Spire in all its glory looking down over a green and healthy Republic. Beaulieu looked at it desperately, the glass sharp against his throat.

  “That is how you kill someone, Beaulieu,” Cevirt said. “Quietly, with minimal fuss, on your own or using people you hired with your own money. You don’t send the gods-damned Knights of Gedesar, a military unit, after one of our own civilians, no matter how unhappy you are that she took down your patron, Archvoyant Silestin.”

  “What do you want?” Beaulieu asked without moving his neck at all. He had always loved the mosaic on the wall, and now he looked at it as though it had the power to keep him alive.

  “I want to end the life of the man who sent hired killers after my god-daughter,” Cevirt said, “and then say that he slipped and had a tragic accident, and there would be questions, and a shadow of scandal, and it might affect my political career, but believe me, Beaulieu, I would get away with it.”

  After a long pause, he shoved Beaulieu away.
<
br />   “But the Voyancy needs you alive right now,” Cevirt went on, “so what I will accept is you calling off the Knights of Gedesar.”

  Beaulieu rubbed his neck. He didn’t look at his hand afterward to see if there was blood on it. He was shaking, but he refused to show that much weakness. “I do that, and you forget this?”

  Cevirt smiled, and Beaulieu flinched. “You do that, Voyant, and you get to live. If I were you, I would call off your knights very quickly, and then I would get to work on cleaning up the evidence, because until you have done so, I have you on a string, and I will not hesitate to pull that string when I need you to dance. Are we clear?”

  Beaulieu jerked out a nod, and Cevirt held his stare for another moment, then left without another word.

  Then Beaulieu collapsed into an overstuffed chair, looking at his hands for blood.

  Stupid, so stupid. He’d told himself that it was what Silestin would have wanted, that it was justified to use the Knights of Gedesar, given how dangerous that Loch woman was. He was a stupid old man, and now the Skilled Urujar voyant had something over him.

  He pulled a message crystal from his pocket, his hands shaking. Best to do that first. Then make arrangements for Captain Nystin, the knight they’d spoken with. There were a few papers to be burned as well.

  The crystal whined as he tried to activate it, and he shook it, glaring. He hated the new advances in magic. Some of the crystals gave him headaches, and others were entirely too complicated. “What’s the matter with you, blasted thing?” he muttered.

  It was glowing red, Beaulieu saw . . . and then he realized that it wasn’t the message crystal. The chair had the same light. So did the carpet. He held up his hands and saw red on them.

  The crystal mosaic on the wall was glowing crimson, and as Beaulieu stumbled to his feet, stones from the wall fell free and formed the shape of a man.

  “What do you want?” Beaulieu stammered, stepping back even as the crystal-man pulled itself upright. Its hands were wrong, Beaulieu saw. They ended in hooked blades instead of fingers.