Dairy stood back up and swallowed. “I . . . thank you. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”
“Well, if you want to help, go tell Loch I’ll be finished on time, so she can get everyone started on the rest of her brilliant plan to get onto the damn treeship, steal the damn book, and stop the damn war.”
He nodded. “I’ll help however I can,” he said, and strode out. He’d already gotten taller since the last time Tern had seen him.
“Ink me.”
Icy coughed. “You never told me about Enella and the maid.”
“Oh, yeah, just made it up. Can’t have a kid as strong as an ogre and immune to magic going around feeling self-destructive and desperate to redeem himself. That’s a recipe for crap going wrong. Hey, ink me?”
Icy reached over and dabbed the pen. “Remind me not to underestimate you, Tern.”
“Why the hell would I ever do that? Rest of you all have magic and talents and combat training to get by.” Tern carefully moved onto another unfortunate series of serifs. “I’ve gotta rely on skill.”
Sixteen
ARCHVOYANT BERTRAM DIPPED a dry biscuit into his kahva, sighed, and put it down on the saucer while he read the report.
“Damn it, Cevirt,” he said plaintively, tossing the paper to the voyant across the table, “I wasn’t ready to retire quite yet.”
The Urujar voyant sighed. “Neither was I, as it happens.”
“Tell me the airships will be enough, then.” Bertram bolted his kahva, wincing at the heat as it worked its way down to his gut.
“Enough to do punitive raids, certainly.” Cevirt didn’t look at the report. He didn’t have to, as he’d written it late the evening before. “Enough to provoke a retaliation from the Empire.”
“But not enough to stop that undead army from destroying half the towns along the border.”
“Not nearly enough, no.”
A display case on the far wall held an old suit of armor, heavy and decked out with crystals that glowed even after a hundred years. Archvoyant Silestin, Bertram’s power-mad predecessor, had probably kept it around as a sign of power. In the few months since Bertram had come to lead the Republic, he’d looked at the damn thing as a warning.
“A ground war.” Nervous, he grabbed the biscuit he hadn’t wanted before and took a bite. It was cold and damp in his mouth, but he chewed mechanically and swallowed. “A gods-damned ground war.”
“An offensive.” Cevirt slid the report back across the table. “If you want to stop the undead, we cannot just station troops on the border and hope to contain them. We need to march them across the border and take the battle to them.”
Bertram tossed the rest of his biscuit back onto the saucer. Crumbs dotted the table. “We barely won the last war, Cevirt.”
“We didn’t win the last war.” Cevirt took a small sip of his own kahva. Bertram always had trouble reading Urujar faces—he was old, and there hadn’t been many of the dark-skinned fellows around where he’d grown up—but it was obvious Cevirt hadn’t slept any better than Bertram had himself. “We fought some ugly battles neither side really wanted, and then we signed a treaty and threw a parade.”
Cevirt was, if anything, sugar-coating it. The Empire had had most of its airships tied up further north, and the Republic had been able to use its own air superiority to push the Imperial forces into a fight the Republic could win. If Republic troops marched in openly, the Imperial airships would be waiting, and then the only question would be which side was more willing to catch its own people with the flamecannons.
“If you don’t have the nerve, say so,” Cevirt snapped, and Bertram realized he’d fallen silent for too long. “We sent my niece out on a wild hope, and that was the only other option we had.”
Bertram waved in apology. “Do you have the Skilled votes?”
“I’ve spent the last week putting knives to the throats of my four.” Cevirt sat back, fingers clasped. “I’ve got two of them. If you can get three, that will take us to seven.”
“I don’t want to go to war on a simple majority, Cevirt.”
“Then get more votes. Your party wanted to go to war, remember?” Cevirt’s voice was calm, but his dark fingers were pressed together so tightly that the color had been leeched from the tips. “And if they protest, remind them that you all backed Silestin, and he’s the reason we’re here . . . and if that doesn’t work, then tell them the Skilled will be running on defense next election, and if you want the puppeteers calling the Learned fat old men who’d rather hide on the Spire than fight for their country, we can make that happen.”
Bertram felt the muscles at the back of his neck tense, and he leaned forward. “Now hold on just a minute.”
Then he paused at a curious whining noise coming from behind him.
It was coming from the walls, Bertram thought, and then saw that the crystals in the old suit of armor were glowing an angry red. He raised a hand to point it out to Cevirt, but even as he did, the crystals crackled and popped cleanly from the armor and skittered across the ground to the doorway. With an angry little shudder, crystals spat from the walls as well, sending little puffs of plaster flying as they shot free.
The glowing red crystals formed a pile, and the pile moved, and Bertram’s first thought was assassins. His second thought was, to his shame, They’re welcome to this damn job, then.
But then the pile slid into a humanoid shape, and the crystals dimmed into earth tones and flesh tones and normal colors, until something stood before them that could, in dim light after a few too many drinks, be taken as a man.
“You wish to protect yourselves,” it said. “I will show you how.”
Irrethelathlialann made his way up the ramp toward the treeship that would take him home.
Skoreinis croaked on his shoulder, and his voice sounded in Irrethelathlialann’s head. You hate it so much, this outside world?
“Clearly.” He could block the creature from his head with a sufficient effort of will, but Skoreinis had always been, if not friendly, at least loyal as a fellow servant of the Dragon.
There is plenty of other work to do. Ask him to send someone else.
Irrethelathlialann let out a breath through his nose. “Then I would be inflicting this world upon some other elf.” His fingers played at the ring he wore, reassuring him of the comforting magic it carried.
And you do not think they could perform at your level. Skoreinis laughed in his mind, and a stag’s antlers flickered momentarily atop the raven’s head. Such arrogance, elf.
Irrethelathlialann chuckled along with him, unwilling to argue. The creature was rarely kind, but he was also rarely wrong. What mattered was that his job was done. The Love Song of Eillenfiniel would be safe with his master soon, and the humans could shed each other’s blood to their hearts’ content while the real war played out more quietly.
Down below, porters handled luggage while servants lashed down crates carrying supplies for the journey. The treeship’s voyage was actually a cruise, complete with stops at beautiful sites all across the Elflands and a high-stakes suf-gesuf tournament available to all passengers. He would be leaving once they reached the Dragon’s palace, however.
The human woman, Loch, had played well, and Irrethelathlialann smiled to himself as he reached the back of the line near the top of the ramp. Her plan at Ajeveth had been sound, and she had very nearly gotten away with the manuscript on the train.
You admire her?
“I acknowledge her.” He lowered his voice to avoid disturbing an elven couple in front of him, clutching their bags nervously. This visit out of the Elflands had to have been trying for them.
Her last attempt to rifle your pockets was pathetic.
Irrethelathlialann frowned. It had been unlike her. He had not had the manuscript on him, of course, so that had never been a possibility. He had chec
ked immediately to ensure that he still had his ticket as well. “Desperation, perhaps,” he murmured, twirling the ring on his finger as he thought. The urge to activate its magic was quick and temporary. At this range, the elves in front of him might be affected, and that would be needlessly cruel.
“If you would present your ticket, we would be grateful,” said a lovely elven woman with sapphires glittering on her cheeks. Irrethelathlialann favored her with a smile and passed the diamond-shaped leaf to her. “One plus a guest?”
“Indeed.” Irrethelathlialann nodded, and on his shoulder, Skoreinis ducked his head as well, and said something in the elven woman’s mind that made her laugh.
“Regretfully,” she added, still smiling, “I remind all passengers boarding that crystal-based magic is forbidden in the Elflands.”
“I hear your words and appreciate your courtesy,” he said, bowing with a little grin that matched her own. The rule had been put in place for fairy creatures, and those few humans who were granted leave to visit. The idea that any elf would bring artifacts of such a nature into the Elflands was absurd.
“Pleasant voyage, carried upon winds of joy,” she said, and Irrethelathlialann moved past her and up the gangplank.
The alarm sounded as he stepped onto the deck of the great treeship, and Irrethelathlialann looked around in confusion.
A pair of large elven guards in leaf-armor stepped toward him. “Your pardon, respected traveler, but it would be dangerous for us not to perform a brief inspection of your person, as our fragile ship is sensitive to even the most seemingly innocent magics.”
They were already prodding him with wooden wands, and one of them chimed as it passed near his waist.
“That is of course only reasonable,” Irrethelathlialann said through gritted teeth.
The guard reached into his pocket cautiously.
A moment later, he pulled out what had to be the ugliest contraption of fused-together crystals Irrethelathlialann had ever seen.
Perhaps she is less pathetic than I had believed, Skoreinis said.
“Well played, Isafesira.” Irrethelathlialann smiled, let out a long breath, and prepared for a long and tedious visit to the enhanced security station.
The alarm went off on the treeship, and Loch kissed Pyvic long and hard.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked as he pulled away.
“Positive. You’re an awful thief.”
“I’m a good scout,” he shot back, clearly not sure whether to be offended.
“And I may need you for the rescue later. Keep Kail out of trouble, and do whatever you can to keep the war under control until I get the manuscript.”
“Wait.” Pyvic frowned. “Your job is to get a book, and mine is to stop a war?”
“This is what happens when you let me assign jobs.” She squeezed his hand. “Stay alive.”
“You, too.” Pyvic turned to Dairy, who had been watching them with embarrassment. “Keep her safe.”
“Yes, sir.” Dairy gave a salute. He was wearing a normal shirt and riding pants now, but a few months of military service had apparently trained some things into him.
Loch watched Pyvic leave, sighed, and shook her head.
“What was that for?” Dairy asked.
“I’m not supposed to tell him I’ll miss him. Considered bad luck among scouts.” At Dairy’s confused look, Loch smiled. “Superstition more than anything else, but you were with the Knights of Gedesar, and I’m sure they had their own odd bits. You ever try to sneak up behind someone, but they could sense you coming, even when you were certain you weren’t making any noise?”
Dairy thought for a moment. “No, ma’am. Everyone always sees me.”
“I suppose that makes sense for you, Champion of Dawn,” Loch said, and Dairy blushed. “But for us normal people, that happens sometimes. Like we’ve all got a bit of Ululenia’s ability to read minds, or Desidora’s way of seeing people’s auras. Something like that.” Ahead of them, a crowd was forming at the base of the gangplank, as elves and fairy creatures (she assumed, though they mostly looked human) grumbled about the now-stalled boarding line. “Anyway, among the scouts, there’s a superstition that if you miss someone, it’s like your heart is reaching out to them wherever they are . . . and that if their heart hears your heart, it will reach back, and someone the scout is trying to sneak past could feel that movement even when the scout wasn’t making any noise at all.” She shook her head. “It’s a little stupid when you try to explain it out loud. Most of the time, we just say that it’s bad luck.”
“No, I think I understand,” Dairy said. “You’re afraid that caring will make you weaker. That seems very sad.”
“It’s war, kid. It’s pretty much built on sad.”
“Miss Loch,” Dairy asked, looking at the crowd, “are we going to join the people going on board now?”
“Not just yet,” Loch said.
“All right.” Dairy waited a moment, and when Loch remained silent, he added, “Can I ask why not?”
Then Tern was pressing through the crowd. “Excuse me, pardon me, hey, chivalry, jerk! Yeah, I see that look,” she added, “try me, these things are steel-toed!” She reached Loch and produced a diamond-shaped leaf covered in gold-inked writing. “Edges,” she said, passing it to Loch.
“Still wet?” Loch asked, taking it very carefully.
“Little bit.”
“Should I—”
“Do not blow on it,” Tern said, “unless you want to smear the elven goddess lady in the upper corner.”
“Noted.” Loch continued to hold the ticket very carefully by the edges.
“Also don’t fold it, shake it, or . . . look at it too hard.”
“You blew on it,” Dairy said, and Tern glared at him. “I’m sorry!”
“You all would just pant all over it and mess up the ink,” Tern growled. “I have an expert degree of precision when blowing.”
“Please give Hessler my congratulations,” Loch said, and had the satisfaction of watching Tern go red. “Now go get to the ship, and tell Desidora and Ululenia to be ready.”
Tern stalked back off into the crowd boots-first, glaring at everyone. Loch smiled and held up the ticket to see it in the light. It was, as far as Loch could tell, very official looking.
“Shall we join the crowd now?” Dairy asked.
“Gradually,” Loch said. “We don’t want to be the last in line, but we need to give our guys time to get into position for the plan.”
“Yes,” said Dairy, after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t think I actually heard what the plan was.”
“I’ve got it written down,” Loch said as they started to make their way through the crowd. “I’ll show you once we’re aboard.”
“Oh. All right.” Dairy fell in beside her. “You . . . you do miss him, though, right?”
“Wouldn’t be human if I didn’t, Dairy.”
“So you’re saying yes?”
“That would be bad luck.”
Kail had the airship now semi-definitively known as Iofegemet ready for departure by the time the others arrived.
Desidora came alone—well, with her hammer, but that didn’t exactly count. Pyvic showed up a few minutes after the alarm sounded, nodding to both of them and taking a spot at the railing while Kail tied down the lines and brought the control console online.
Icy, Tern, and Hessler came along soon after. Icy looked calm, while Tern was wiping bits of gold ink off her fingers. “How’d it go?” Kail asked.
“Pretty sure I messed up the kerning,” Tern said.
“I believe Tern did an admirable job, given her injury and the limited time available.”
“How’s your arm?” Hessler asked. “Do you need a chair?”
“I’m good,” Tern said, swaying in place a little. “Maybe I won’t
throw up this time!”
“Works for me.” Kail thumbed the master control crystal, and the panel hummed. “Iofegemet’s ready to go as soon as Ululenia gets here.”
“Is she not here?” Icy asked, frowning. “I have not seen her since this morning.”
With a flutter of white wings, a dove landed on the railing. My apologies, Ululenia said into everyone’s mind. I was delayed.
“I hope you gave the matter the attention it needed,” Hessler said, and then, as everyone on the deck except Desidora turned to look at him, he coughed. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to . . . you should really ask her.”
“We really shouldn’t,” Pyvic said.
“Although the fact that you care marks you as good boyfriend material,” Tern said. Kail noticed that she was losing color again. “Okay, yes, chair, thank you.”
“Everyone hold on.” Kail lifted Iofegemet up, flashing the signals to people on the ground for a normal departure.
The deck swayed slightly. Tern clomped in her boots and determinedly refused to sit down.
Ahead, the afternoon sky was clear but cool, a perfect day for flying. Off to starboard, the treeship’s alarm was still going strong. According to information Ululenia had scrounged up, it should keep going for a few more minutes like that, even if they destroyed or removed the crystals Kail had planted in the elf’s pocket.
“Tern, seriously, sit down,” Kail called over. “Turbulence in five, four, three . . .”
“Hessler said he was going to get me a chair!”
“I thought I was going to take you to a chair! Aren’t most of them bolted to the deck?”
“And, oh no, turbulence,” Kail said, and swung Iofegemet hard to starboard.
The deck pitched. Alarms went up on the ground below. Tern fell over with a thud and a curse.
Iofegemet swung out of its flight lane and veered dangerously close to the treeship.
“Oh, dear, what a terrible mistake on my part,” Kail deadpanned.
“You ass!”
“Timed operation, Tern. You know how it goes.” Kail looked over at Ululenia and Desidora “Ladies? Icy?”
The Prophecy Con (Rogues of the Republic) Page 27