Lamentation

Chapter 8

Rudolfo

First battles, Rudolfo thought, set the tone for the entire war.

Rudolfo sat astride his horse and watched the line of forest. Gregoric and his other captains gathered around. “I’ve had a vision,” Rudolfo said to his men in a quiet voice. “The first battle shall be ours.” He smiled at them, his hand upon the pommel of his long, narrow sword. “How shall we realize this vision of mine?”

Gregoric nudged his horse closer. “By striking fastest and first, General.”

Rudolfo nodded. “I concur.”

“We’ll send the scouts in first and drive them west like pheasant. Sethbert is no strategist, but his general Lysias is Academy bred-very conservative. He’ll see the ploy and try to engage the scouts, judging them to be the inferior force. He’ll think to put them between the ruins and the river and call up his contingency to keep the battalion occupied.” His voice was low, and Rudolfo watched him make frequent eye contact with the others, measuring them.

One of the other captains smiled. “First battalion will fall back at rapid retreat after a modest effort to hold their ground. If Lysias sees that what he thought was a brigade is only a battalion, he’ll most likely pursue.”

“Or divide his force when he sees that the scouts are our primary assault,” Gregoric said. “Or both perhaps.”

Rudolfo smiled, remembering the song very well. “Feint with the cutlass, strike with the knife.”

“Then, strike with the cutlass, too,” Gregoric said, finishing the lyrics out.

Rudolfo nodded. His father, Jakob, and his First Captain of the Gypsy Scouts had taught them the song to keep time with their blade and footwork. Later, Rudolfo realized, it had really been a strategy lesson, teaching him the Hymnal of the Wandering Army. Three hundred and thirteen songs had never been written down in the two thousand years that Rudolfo’s people had occupied the Ninefold Forest. They were written in the hearts of the living, moving fortress that first Rudolfo had built so long ago, the Wandering Army, and sung down to his recruits from the first day of training forward.

“If he pursues the retreating battalion-as I’m sure he will,” Gregoric continued, “he’ll find three more waiting and we’ll net that fish.”

“Excellent work, captains,” Rudolfo said. “I will ride with the scouts and open this war in a way that is fitting for the general of this Wandering Army.”

Gregoric nodded and the others did the same. It pleased Rudolfo that none of them worried about him entering the field. It meant they understood him and respected him as a soldier and a general.

“Very well,” Rudolfo said. He turned toward his aide. “And afterward,” he said, “I will dine with the men.”

Two hours later, Rudolfo hid in the copse of trees surrounded by magicked scouts. He sat on his horse but the scouts around him were on foot. Their magicks would move them at nearly the speed of a horse and hide them from the eye. But at those speeds they would not be quiet. They would sound like wind rushing across the ground.

Gregoric looked at Rudolfo. “General, would you give the whistle?”

Rudolfo smiled and nodded. “For Windwir, my Gypsy Scouts,” he said quietly, and then whistled, low and long.

He kicked his horse alive and bolted toward the Entrolusian infantry encamped in the forest across the meadow, smiling at what they would see.

A horse, a single rider galloping forward with a narrow sword lifted high in the air. Around him, a wind low to the ground and roaring towards them.

He lowered himself on the back of his horse, holding his sword low and across the stallion’s dark side. He heard his Gypsy Scouts around him, catching slight glimpses of the ones nearest-though very slight.

They raced the meadow, entering the woods at breakneck pace. A few magicked Delta Scouts shouted because there wasn’t time to send up birds. Rudolfo assumed one must’ve decided to brave the rushing, invisible river because he heard the briefest clash of steel and a magick-muffled scream. The first of the Entrolusian soldiers rallied to that shouting, and Rudolfo rode straight into the center of them, Gypsy Scouts mowing over them like a wind of blades. Rudolfo turned then and rode back, laughing and waving his sword. He chose a man and rode him down, then took the ear off his sergeant.

“Where’s your captain?” Rudolfo shouted.

The sergeant sneered and lunged forward with his sword, drawing a line of blood along the horse’s side. Rudolfo kicked him back and brought the sword down on his neck. The sergeant fell, and Rudolfo whipped the sword over and took the ear off another sold cf abroier. “Where’s your captain?”

The soldier pointed, and Rudolfo put the sword through his upper arm. He’d not fight in this war again, but he’d have his life for his respect.

Rudolfo spun the horse and rode in the direction the man had pointed.

It did not surprise Rudolfo that Sethbert’s worst and weakest were out for this particular battle. It was wired into the Academy to use the worst resources first as a gauge of your opponent. It also told the farmers at home they, too, could die heroic deaths.

He found the captain standing with three soldiers and an aide. The ground moved around him strangely, giving the Delta scouts away, but Rudolfo let his own contingent take care of them.

He slid from the saddle and killed one of the soldiers. One of his scouts-he thought it might be Gregoric-slipped in and killed the other two.

The Entrolusian captain drew his sword and Rudolfo slapped it down and aside. “They send me children,” he said, gritting his teeth.

The captain growled and brought the sword up again. Rudolfo parried, then stepped to the side and went in with his knife to slice at the sword hand.

The captain’s sword clattered to the ground, and Rudolfo pointed his own sword at the aide. “Ready your general’s bird.” He nodded to the captain. By now, at least six Gypsy Scout blades pressed in against the shaking captain. “You will write Lysias a message in B’rundic script.”

The aide drew a bird and passed a scrap of paper and a small inking needle to the captain. The captain swallowed, his face pale. “What shall I write?”

Rudolfo stroked his beard. “Write this: Rudolfo has slain me.” The man looked up, confused. Rudolfo whistled, and a knife tip pricked the young man’s neck. “Write it.”

He wrote the message and passed it to Rudolfo, who inspected it. He handed it to the aide and watched him tie it to the sea crow’s foot. After the bird launched, he pushed his sword into the captain and climbed back into his saddle.

“For Windwir,” he said again, and turned back to join his men.

Then, for the next nine hours, Rudolfo helped his Wandering Army send that first message in blood to the man who had snuffed out the light of the world.

Petronus

Petronus skirted the ruined city and followed the river south. Three or four leagues downriver from the shattered and blackened stubs that had once anchored Windwir’s piers, Petronus remembered a small town. Once he reached it, he’d recruit what men-or even women-that he could and return to begin his work.

It would be months, he realized, and the rains would be upon them sooner than that. Not far on its heels, the wind and the snow of a northern winter. With the Androfrancines gone, there’d be no one to magick the river. Some years it froze. Some years it didn’t. But with the Androfrancines gone, there’d be no need to go upriver with any frequency.

Petronus rode his horse along the bank, careful to keep from the forest. The first battle of the war had gone late into the night-he’d heard bits of it as he’d ridden south-and from time to time, during the day, he saw the birds lifting and speeding off carrying whatever word they carried. He’d also listened to it as he lay in his fireless camp and tried to sleep, before rising early to silence and morning fog.

As he rode in the quiet of the day, Petronus wondered about this new war and what had started it.

The Entrolusians would easily outnumber the Wandering Army, but if Rudolfo was his father’s son, he’d be fierce and swift and ruthless.

He was less clear why they were fighting, but wasn’t willing to stop and ask, either. It had to do with Windwir, but just what eluded him. Neither of those two armies had anything to do with the city’s destruction-that was something the Androfrancines had done to themselves, meddling with what they had no business meddling with.

Still, Rudolfo and Sethbert would have their piss together and see who could go the farthest.

His horse started, jerking its head and frisking. Petronus felt a hand on his thigh, and realized that invisible hands held his horse by the bit. “Where are you going, old man?”

A face stretched up and the light hit it in a way that Petronus could barely see its outline. Magicked scouts. But which?

“South to Kendrick Town,” he said, nodding in that direction. “I’ve business there.”

“Where do you come from?”

Petronus wasn’t sure how to answer. Caldus Bay was too far for any citizen to have reasonable business so far away. He glanced back over his shoulder, taking in the black expanse of Windwir. “I was bound for Windwir on Androfrancine business,” he said. “But when I arrived, there wasn’t anything left of it. I just thought any survivors would have headed south.”

“We’ve been instructed to bring any survivors before Lord Sethbert, Overseer of the United City States of the Entrolusian Delta.”

Petronus squinted, trying to see the line of the man’s face. “So there were survivors?”

“It’s not our place to say,” the scout said. “We will bring you before Lord Sethbert.” Petronus felt his horse being pulled. At first the roan resisted, and Petronus considered doing the same. He’d known Sethbert when the Overseer was a pimple-faced teenager. The young son of Aubert had been in the Academy around the time of Petronus’s death by assassin’s poison. They certainly hadn’t seen much of each other.

But what if he recognizes me? He chuckled. Thirty years had changed him. He was twice the size he’d been and his hair had gone white. He was an old man now, moving a bit slow. Dressed in ratty fisherman’s robes. It had been three decades since he’d worn the blue cloak or the white robe. The man that he had been in those days wouldn’t even recognize the man he had become.

“Very well,” Petronus said with a laugh, “take me to Lord Sethbert.”

They moved quickly through the wood. Those places where the sunlight lanced in, Petronus caught shadows of the dark clothing and the drawn battle knives of the Delta scouts. They reminded him of the Gray Guard, and he thought about Grymlis again and the Marsher village.

A black field littered with bones as far as the eye could see.

Petronus shook off the memories. “I heard fighting in the night,” he said.

No quick reply and no boasting. These men were defeated, he realized. He’d not press the question to them again.

In silence, they made their way to Sethbert and the Entrolusian camp.

The camp was alive with activity, a small city of tents blended into a forested hillside, invisible until you were within it. He saw servants, war-whores, cooks and medicos all busy about their trade. For the whore, his escort even paused for a moment, laughing and pointing at the young lieutenant she was riding.

Finally, they stopped outside the most lavish array of connected tents Petronus had seen. It even out-glamoured the silk Papal Suites that the Gray Guard accompanied around the Named Lands during the Year of the Falling Moon, that time each century when the Pope wandered the Named Lands to honor the settlers who homesteaded the New World.

They walked Petronus to the side of a large open canopy, and whispered for him to dismount.

“Wait here. When Lord Sethbert is finished, he’ll send for you.” Then, taking his horse, they left him there. He couldn’t help but hear the one-sided conversation.

“I just hope you’ll be able to speak soon,” the voice said. “I’m running out of patience, boy. You are the only witness and I must hear your story.”

Petronus looked for the voice, and saw an obese man sitting upon a folding throne that creaked beneath his weight. He was chastising a boy in robes not dissimilar to his own. With Sethbert’s tone, he would’ve thought the boy would hang his head, but instead, he was looking all around.

He’s counting the guards, Petronus realized, and with no subtlety. But Sethbert wasn’t noticing as the boy cased the open air court.

What’s he up to? Perhaps a spy from the other camp. But Jakob would’ve certainly never used a boy in such a hapless way. Surely Rudolfo could not be so very different from his father? Then he saw the line of his face.

He’d had a professor of human studies at the Francine School named Gath. “Show me the line of a man’s face,” Gath would say to his classroom, spanning the students with his finger, “and I will tell you the intentions of his heart.” Petronus stayed late after class three afternoons per week and asked that old professor every question he could think of.

It had never failed him, and he knew exactly what the line of the boy’s face meant.

The intention of his heart was to kill Sethbert, and as careless as he was studying Sethbert’s circumstances, Petronus was fairly certain that his intentions wouldn’t matter once the guards saw what he was doing.

Petronus shouted and raced beneath the canopy.

Jin Li Tam

Jin Li Tam rode across the prairie ocean and watched the metal man beside her. He’d been silent most of the day, his eyes fluttering as the lids flashed up and down. He was drumming his long, slender metal fingers on the saddle.

Every time she looked at him, she remembered his tone when he’d told her he knew how Sethbert destroyed Windwir. Somehow, Sethbert had used this mechoservitor to bring down a city and end an era where knowledge of the past was carefully preserved… and protected.

She shuddered. “What are you doing, Isaak?”

His fingers and eyelids stopped, and he looked over at her. “I am ciphering, Lady. I’m calculating the supplies and surface are cnd eyea necessary to rebuild the Androfrancine Library.”

She was impressed. “How can you possibly do that?”

“I’ve spent a number of years logging expeditionary expense ledgers and cataloging the financial reports of various holdings,” he answered. “Once I’m finished, I will modify my numbers based on the economic growth patterns between now and the day the reports were written.” A gout of steam from his back. “These will merely be initial inquiries,” Isaak said. “I will have to present Lord Rudolfo with something far more accurate.”

She smiled at the metal man. “You really mean to do this, don’t you?”

He turned to her. “Of course I do. I must.”

Jin Li Tam chuckled. “It’s a giant task.”

“It is,” he said, “but a pebble shall fell a giant and a small river make a canyon over time.” She recognized the quote from the Whymer Bible. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact passage-and she certainly couldn’t find it if you pushed that heavy, square book into her hands.

“Hopefully you’ll have help.”

“I’m sure Lord Rudolfo will free my brothers.” He paused and blinked. “But of course, there will be other Androfrancines that were not in Windwir when I-when it fell.” He looked away.

Others, she thought. Others. The expeditions, the scattered schools, missions and abbeys. They would be out there, and soon-if not already-they would hear about the fall of Windwir.

“What do you calculate the library holdings outside Windwir to be?” she asked.

“Ten percent. The mechoservitors-all of us-account for another thirty between us.”

“Gods,” she whispered. She thought about all that was lost, but it was quickly burned out with what they could save. Forty percent of that massive library would still be a significant trove of knowledge. This was what Rudolfo had chosen when faced with the end of an age. And he’d made this decision, sending them north to the Ninefold Forest, before he made his final decision about going to war.

That was a rare thing. A man who thought of what to guard before he thought of what to kill. She smiled at this. Of course, this Rudolfo seemed to be a man who could do both at the same time.

And she smiled at that, as well.

“I am hoping you will help, as well, Lady Tam.”

Now it was her turn to blink. He was clever, this metal man. “I see.”

“Your father’s bank holds the Androfrancine accounts,” Isaak said. “I’m sure that Lord Rudolfo intends to combine some form of Entrolusian reparations supplemented by Androfrancine holdings in order to fund this venture. It far exceeds the Ninefold Forest Houses’ economic capacity.”

“I’m certain my father will be interested in this endeavor of Rudolfo’s.”

He certainly would be. She wouldn’t be surprised at all if there were a bird waiting for her already, encouraging an alliance with the Gypsy King to keep House Li Tam connected with what little knowledge of the First World remained.

She wasn’t sure she minded that at all.

Neb

When the summons arrived, Neb decided to use it as an opportunity to see exactly what he was up against. He listened to the Overseer’s chiding, all the while counting the guards, counting the steps he’d need to take and planning his route to and from the Overseer’s assassination.

Sethbert was well guarded, especially since yesterday’s defeat at the hands of the Wandering Army. They’d at least doubled the contingent of honor guard that took up positions within view of the Overseer and his creaking wooden throne. And there had to be Delta scouts nearby, though Neb couldn’t see them.

Magicked or not, he doubted he’d survive the attempt. And he wasn’t even sure he’d be successful. The Overseer was easily three times his size, and Neb had nothing but his rage to guide him. Beyond a few fistfights with the other boys, he’d never raised his hands in violence… much less raised a knife.

The woman’s words came back to him: Sethbert has destroyed Windwir. He felt the anger stir inside him, and he summoned a memory of his father, Brother Hebda, with his arm around him sitting in the park. He reminded himself of how that would never happen again because of this man, because of what he’d done.

Even if it cost his own life, Neb had to go through with it. He could think of nothing else to do.

He heard shouting, and looked up.

An old man was running toward him, shouting a name he did not recognize.

“Del,” the old man said, “thank the gods I’ve finally found you.” He looked vaguely familiar; Neb couldn’t place it.

He was a large man-not nearly the size of Sethbert, but broad shouldered and powerfully built. He had to be approaching seventy, but he moved like he was younger. His white beard stood out from his face, long and unruly, and beneath his straw hat, wisps of white hair poked crazily out. His eyes were set in laugh lines and crow’s-feet, and before Neb could react, he’d been swept into the man’s embrace, squeezed and lifted by those massive arms. Putting him down, the old man gave him a stern look. “I told you to wait for me.”

Neb looked at him, not sure what to do or say.

Sethbert cleared his voice. “You know this boy?”

The old man looked surprised, then turned. “Yes, certainly. Humble apologies for interrupting, Lord-I was overcome with relief.”

Sethbert squinted at him, too, and Neb wondered if the old man seemed familiar to him as well. “You’re the old man my scouts took by the river.”

He nodded. “Yes, Lord. We were returning to Windwir when the city…” He let the words trail off. “I’d been looking for survivors when-” he patted the boy’s shoulder and Neb felt the strength in the large hand that settled on him “-when Del here must’ve wandered off.”

Neb opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it. What was this crazy old man doing?

Sethbert looked at him then, his eyes cold and calculating, his lips pursed in thought. “I was under the impression that he had seen the city fall. My medicos believe some trauma or another has stolen his voice.”

The old man nodded. “Aye,” he said. “But we only arrived after.” His voice lowered. “His mother passed some days ago; he’s not spoken since.” Then he leaned in closer and whispered. “He’s never been altogether right if you know what I mean, Lord.”

Sethbert’s eyes narrowed. “What is his relationship to you?”

The old man blinked. “He’s my grandson. His father was an Androfrancine. They wanted to put him into their orphans’ school but I wouldn’t allow it.” He met Sethbert’s eyes. “I don’t hold to their secrets and their smugness. His mother and I raised him.”

Neb had never seen anyone lie so quickly, so competently before. He studied the old man’s face, looking for some tick that would betray him. Not cetrie hing.

He realized Sethbert was speaking to him, and looked up.

“Is this man your grandfather?”

Looking at the old man, he realized he’d seen him before. In the Great Library… but where? It hadn’t been so long ago, either. Or perhaps he looked like someone else-someone well known to him. But why would he lie to Sethbert, creating an elaborate story about a grandson and a dead mother?

Their eyes met and the old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, Del? Are you going to answer the Overseer?”

Slowly, Neb nodded once, then twice.

“And you did not actually see the city of Windwir fall?”

Looking at the old man again, Neb felt a stab of memory. The fire, the lightning, ash falling like snow on the ruined landscape. The screaming, hot wind that blasted out from Windwir, the ships burning and sinking in the river even as they cast off their lines to drift south.

Neb shook his head.

Sethbert scowled. He leaned in to the boy, his voice cold and hollow. “I should teach you to be more truthful.”

“I intend to do just that, Lord,” the old man said with a firm voice. “Though I’m sure he was just confused. These are dark days for all of us.”

Neb wasn’t sure what to expect next, but a scout signaled Sethbert, and the Overseer motioned him closer. Sethbert looked once more at Neb and then at the old man.

“You were bound for Kendrick when my men took you?”

The old man nodded. Neb knew Kendrick. It was a small town not too far south of Windwir. He’d been to it a few times on various errands. “I thought there might be survivors there.”

Sethbert nodded. “I find it odd that you did not tell my men about your missing lad.”

The old man went pale and stammered for a moment. “I beg your forgiveness, Lord. I heard fighting the night before and I was uncertain of how much to say.”

The Overseer smiled. “These are, as you say, dark days.”

The old man nodded.

“What is your name then?”

“I am called Petros.” It was a common name, the name of P’Andro Whym’s indentured man, the one who had served the scientist-scholar beyond the terms of his agreement and had been named in one of the gospels as the greatest of the least.

Again, Sethbert squinted. Neb did, too. Even the name seemed familiar.

There was a fluttering, and a gray bird dropped heavily onto the arm of Sethbert’s chair.

A winded bird-keeper raced beneath the tent. “Apologies, Lord Sethbert, but this one refused our net.”

Neb saw the markings on the bird, but they were unfamiliar. Sethbert waved the bird-keeper off. Instead, the Overseer hefted the bird, pulled its message pouch himself and unrolled the small script. As he read it, his face grew red and his eyes grew narrow.

He looked up at them again. “I’m afraid I’ve pressing matters to attend to.” He paused. “You’re free to go… but no farther than Kendrick. I may have other questions of you.”

But Neb was fairly certain he would not. Sethbert’s interest in him had been the story of Windwir’s fall. No doubt so that he could bask in his handiwork.

For a moment, he considered opening his mouth, somehow protesting this turn of events. Certainly, this old man Petros had some reason for the lies. Neb might have thought him mad, but he’d seen the hardness in the bright blue eyes and could see that the old man was playing Sethbert like a Marsh whistle. That and the familiar face and the familiar name were enough for Neb to know that he would have to figure out how to kill Sethbert another time.

As they walked out from under the canopy, he felt the pressure on his shoulder shift, and realized the old man had been speaking the entire time. His fingers, moving ever so slightly, had been tapping a message out into his shoulder. Of course, Neb didn’t know what it meant. He’d just started nonverbal language training this last year. If the school had not been destroyed, he’d have been at least competent by the end of his last year.

Once they were out of earshot, Petros leaned over. “I’ve just saved you from a foolish path.”

And suddenly Neb knew where he’d seen this man’s face before. Certainly, he was older and larger now… and dressed quite differently. But this old man bore a striking resemblance to a portrait Neb had walked under a thousand times in the Hall of the Holy Sees in the Western Wing of the Great Library, where the faces of the Popes gazed down from the walls with sober faces, careworn faces. The second newest painting-hung ne c_thext to Introspect’s-was the only face that smiled, though it was slight.

Petronus.

Of course, it couldn’t be. That man had been dead for over thirty years.