The Thousand Names

Chapter Eighteen

MARCUS

After drinking to Adrecht, they’d had to drink toasts to the other captains, to be polite, and then to the king, the Princess Royal, and the Last Duke, and of course to Prince Exopter their royal host. At that point Marcus’ memory became a little blurry, though he was fairly certain Jen had suggested getting out the regimental roll and going through every name on the list, amidst a fit of giggles.

While things had not actually come to that, they’d made a fair start on the bottle, and it had been all Marcus could do to find his way back to his room at the end of the night. Jen, one arm thrown around his shoulders like an old comrade, had suggested he sleep where he was, but he was fairly certain she was drunk enough that she didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

He woke the next morning feeling surprisingly fresh, and moreover suddenly confident of what he had to do. He passed over his usual shabby uniform in favor of his dress blues, which Fitz had carefully laundered. His room included a mirror, miraculously unsmashed during the sack, and he stopped for a moment to regard himself with some satisfaction. If not the spitting image of the young man who’d graduated from the War College, he looked at least like a proper Vordanai officer.

Fitz was waiting in the antechamber, immaculate as usual, bearing a sheaf of paperwork under his arm. He saluted smartly as Marcus emerged. Marcus wondered if the young man’s hearing was good enough to tell when his chief was up and about, or if he just stood poised in front of the door all morning, like a guard dog.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning.” Marcus glanced at the papers. “Anything really important in there?”

“Nothing urgent, sir.”

“Good. Put it somewhere and come with me, then.”

Fitz saluted again, set the papers on a broken end table that Marcus had been using as a desk, and fell into step behind his superior.

“May I ask,” the lieutenant said as Marcus led him through the mazelike corridors of the Palace, “where we’re going?”

“We’re going to see the colonel,” Marcus said.

“Ah.” His tone didn’t indicate what he thought of the idea.

Marcus struggled to keep hold of the mood he’d had on waking. Jen had been right. Whether the colonel was sulking or not, there were questions that needed to be answered. He tried not to picture Janus’ face, gray eyes sharp with irritation, an eyebrow raised in sarcasm. “Really, Captain? Well, if you’re not capable of attending to such matters yourself. .”

He shook himself mentally, looked back to make sure that Fitz was still there to provide moral support, and turned down the last corridor that led to the suite of rooms the colonel had claimed for himself. Somewhat to his surprise, the lieutenant stopped in his tracks.

“Something wrong, Fitz?”

Fitz shook his head. “I’m not sure, sir. But the colonel requested a pair of guards for this corridor, and I’m fairly certain I added the post to the duty roster.”

“Which company would have it today?” Marcus said. Fitz seemed to keep the entire schedule of the First Battalion in his head, writing it down only for the benefit of mere mortals.

“Davis’, sir.”

“That explains it,” Marcus said darkly. “Remind me when we get back to have a word with him.”

“Yessir.”

Marcus continued down the corridor, his good mood draining away. They were deep in the interior of the Palace, and apart from occasional skylights, illumination was provided by braziers of burning candles in discreet alcoves. It was probably his imagination telling him they were getting farther apart as he approached the colonel’s door, as though he were descending into a realm of shadows.

Or possibly not. Just up the corridor from the entrance to Janus’ suite, one of the braziers had fallen over. The candles had drooled wax all over the flagstones before guttering out, leaving that section of the corridor in semidarkness.

“Sir,” Fitz said urgently, “something is definitely wrong. I know there should be guards on the colonel’s door.”

“You’re right.” Marcus’ skin started to crawl, and he let one hand drift to the hilt of his sword. “Maybe he’s gone off somewhere and taken the guards with him?”

“Possibly-” Fitz sniffed the air and pointed. “Over there!”

They hurried past the colonel’s door. The corridor beyond was disused and mostly in darkness, but the huddled shape Fitz had spotted was wearing Vordanai blue.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus said, pulling up short. The sentry lay in a boneless heap against the wall, blood leaking from his ear and the back of his skull to pool on the floor underneath him. A spray of dark red stained the wall itself, as though he’d been slammed against it with great force. His musket lay forgotten nearby.

Fitz knelt, but only briefly. “He’s dead, sir.”

“I can see that,” Marcus said, forcing his mind to work. “I want you to run to the barracks and collect as many men as you can round up in five minutes, then come back here. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, but-”

“I’ll check on the colonel.” Marcus drew his sword. “Go!”

• • •

The door to the colonel’s rooms was slightly ajar, and something metal glinted in the gap. It took Marcus a moment to recognize it as the bolt, complete with fitting, torn out of the rock wall.

What the hell is going on? Marcus prodded the door with a boot and kept his sword in front of him. The door opened into the suite’s anteroom, which Janus used as an office, and more doors let off into a dining room, bedroom, and servant’s quarters. The office was dominated by a big, flimsy table, which had been cracked in half by the impact of another body. This sentry’s face was contorted and black with the agony of strangulation, and his throat had gone a dark bruised purple.

Marcus took a deep breath, the point of his sword twitching. He considered calling out, but if the assassins-and what else could they be? — were still in the suite, he’d only be warning them. And if they’ve done their work and gone? It seemed unthinkable, but his mouth went dry.

The door to the bedchamber was half open. Marcus padded toward it as quietly as he could, and stopped abruptly at the sound of voices from within. The first, to his relief, was Janus’.

“I had been expecting-something like this,” the colonel said in Khandarai. A young man answered, his tone pleasantly menacing.

“You must be a fool, then, to walk so willingly to your death.”

“Your mother is the fool, if she thinks that killing me will change anything.”

Marcus resumed his quiet advance. Through the gap between door and doorframe, he made out a flash of blue uniform that was probably Janus at the back of the room.

“You understand nothing. The latest fool in a long line of fools who thought us easy plunder, and found out different.”

“Times have changed. The Redeemers have-”

“They have changed nothing. They wash in, and wash out again, like waves on a beach. It is of no importance. Mother remains.”

“The Last Duke does not agree. Neither, I suspect, does the Pontifex of the Black.”

“Gahj-rahksa-ahn.” Marcus didn’t understand the word, but the Khandarai spat it as though it tasted foul. “If you are the best he can muster, his order has fallen low indeed.”

There was a footstep, and Marcus’ sliver of vision was eclipsed by someone in brown moving between him and Janus. It was the best chance he was likely to get, and Marcus had not survived five years in Khandar by being chivalrous. He kicked the door out of the way and dropped into a lunge that would have made his old fencing master proud. The sword went in just between the young man’s shoulders-

Or should have. As Marcus started to move, the stranger twisted in place, impossibly fast. Marcus got a glimpse of bald head and a thin, mirthless grin. One of the man’s hands came up, viper-fast, and the edge of his palm struck the flat of Marcus’ sword a moment before impact. There was a sharp, wild ring of steel on stone. The blade had been neatly severed a third of the way down its length, and the shorn-off end slammed against the wall so hard it raised sparks. It bounced like a leaping salmon and pinwheeled across the room while Marcus stared incredulously at the broken fragment protruding from the hilt.

His eyes were still trying desperately not to believe what they’d just seen, but the rest of his body had enough sense to send him reeling backward as the stranger’s hand came around again, a lazy backhand blow that whistled through the air with the force of a cannonball. Marcus scrambled away, searching for his balance, and came up against the broken table in the main room. The stranger blurred in front of him, and only another wild dive to the side kept Marcus out of his path. With a crack like a gunshot, one end of the table exploded in a shower of splinters.

Marcus ended up on the floor, rolling until he bumped into a bedraggled sofa. He’d lost the remnant of his sword, and spent a moment scrabbling for his belt knife, but the Khandarai was on him before he could draw it. Marcus rolled again as the man came at him, but this time the stranger anticipated the move, and Marcus fetched up against his suddenly interposed foot.

“Good-bye, raschem,” the man mouthed. But before Marcus even had time to flinch, the assassin was gone, twisting away faster than the eye could follow. Marcus saw the glitter of steel overhead, and then heard another tremendous impact, as though a battering ram had crashed home.

Adrenaline drove him to his knees, though he was still desperately fighting for breath. Janus was in the anteroom, a thin-bladed sword in hand, and it was his attack the stranger had been forced to avoid. The Khandarai’s riposte had been intended to plaster the colonel against the doorframe, but Janus had ducked away, and the punch had hit home hard enough to crack the ancient sandstone. Janus’ sword flicked out as he moved, scoring a line on his opponent’s flank that cut through the Khandarai’s shirt and left a bright crimson stain.

At least he bleeds. Marcus struggled to his feet as the stranger rounded on Janus, warier now. The Khandarai tried to swat the colonel’s blade aside, as he had Marcus’, but Janus kept his nimbler weapon just out of reach and circled the tip around to pink his adversary’s sleeve. After the third try, this seemed to enrage the Khandarai, who picked up a nearby chair and hurled it like a handball. Janus twisted out of the way, and then had to dive for his life as the assassin came bulling in after the missile.

Marcus cast about, looking for a weapon. The best he could come up with was an ornamental lamp, and he was just reaching for it when someone whispered in his ear.

“Sir. Perhaps these would serve?”

Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see Augustin, Janus’ aged manservant, crouched beside him, a pistol in each hand. They were fancy guns, all oiled wood and silver chasing, but, important to Marcus’ mind, they were cocked and loaded. Marcus grabbed them without a word.

“Careful, sir,” Augustin said. “Hair trigger.”

Marcus was already spinning away, a gun in each hand. Janus had bought himself a few moments by ducking under the damaged table, but the stranger heaved it aside like a cheap toy. Marcus aimed carefully as the Khandarai stalked forward, and even managed a smile.

“Good-bye, demon,” he said, but the words were drowned under the blast of the pistol’s report, mind-shatteringly loud in the enclosed space.

The Khandarai spun as though he’d been punched in the shoulder and staggered a step. Marcus dropped one pistol and switched the other to his right hand, then let his mouth fall open in naked disbelief. The assassin raised one hand, blood dripping slowly from his palm. When he opened his fingers, Marcus heard the soft ping of a pistol ball bouncing off the stone floor.

He caught the thing-

“Get down, sir!” Marcus just had time to recognize Fitz’s voice. His instincts threw him to the ground and pressed his hands over his ears. Another roar of gunfire, a dozen times more violent, ripped through the chamber, and Marcus could hear the crazy zing and whine of ricochets. It was followed by a horrible wrenching sound and a shrill scream, then by ringing silence.

Marcus looked up cautiously. A dozen men stood on both sides of the outer doorway, the muskets in their hands still smoking. In the corridor just beyond, another soldier lay in a vividly crimson puddle, one arm and most of his shoulder torn away. Behind him was Fitz, his back pressed tight against the wall, eyes wide as saucers. There was no sign of the assassin.

To Marcus’ immense surprise, he himself appeared to be uninjured, or at least in no immediate pain. He found Janus also levering himself to his feet. The colonel fixed Marcus with an almost rueful look.

“Sir,” Marcus said, when he’d found his voice. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t believe so, Captain.” Janus tossed his sword to the floor and patted himself inquisitively. “No, it appears not.”

“Fitz?” Marcus called over his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yessir.”

Even the bare few seconds that had passed seemed to have been enough for the normally unflappable lieutenant to regain his composure. His voice doesn’t even tremble, Marcus thought, a bit enviously.

“Anybody else injured?”

“I’m afraid Corporal Denthrope is dead, sir,” Fitz said. “The rest of us seem to be unhurt.”

“Right.” Marcus almost tossed aside the remaining pistol, checking himself at the last moment when he remembered it was still loaded. He carefully closed the hammer instead and turned to the doorway. “We’re going to want runners to every duty company. Close all the gates, start a cordon at the outer wall, and-”

“No,” Janus said, behind him.

“What?” Marcus rounded on the colonel. “Sir, with all due respect, that was an assassination attempt. It was nearly successful. We can’t just let him go-”

“They won’t be able to stop him,” Janus said. “And I’d sooner not lose any more men trying.”

Marcus wanted to scream. Part of him was still stunned by the impossibility of what he’d just seen, and the fact that Janus obviously knew something he wasn’t bothering to share made him want to pick the colonel up by his collar and shake him until he explained what the hell was going on. Half a lifetime of military decorum warred with raw emotion, and his fists clenched until the knuckles went white.

“Sir,” Fitz said urgently, “there’s more. The lower city is on fire.”

“Fire?”

That cut through the budding rage like a bucket of cold water. Marcus had lived in Ashe-Katarion long enough to absorb some of the fear its citizens had for the prospect of fire. Built largely of dry wood and straw-stuffed mud bricks, the city was a perfect tinderbox. Buildings were packed so tightly against one another that a blaze, once started, was almost impossible to stop.

The prohibition on the use of fire as a weapon was the one rule that everyone observed, even the street gangs. For the most part the Khandarai got by without lamps or candles and cooked in stone fire pits, so the risk of accidental flames was small. Nevertheless, large portions of the lower city burned down every twenty or thirty years. Among the upper classes, who lived inside the stone walls that served as a highly effective firebreak, these events were known as the “crimson flowers of Ashe-Katarion,” and the citizens often gathered on rooftops to drink and watch the show.

“Where?” Marcus said. “And how bad is it?” There was no such thing as a fire service in Khandar, but the Colonials might be able to accomplish something.

“Bad,” Fitz said. “Our sentries on the wall reported that four fires started along the west edge of the city, more or less simultaneously. There’s not much wind, but you know how these things spread. I’ve sent runners to all our patrols outside the walls.”

“Good.” Marcus turned to Janus. “Sir. Four fires at once has to be enemy action. It could be cover for some kind of insurrection-”

To his astonishment, the colonel was smiling. Not his usual smile, tight-lipped and gone in an instant, but a wild, almost mad grin.

“Go on ahead, Lieutenant. The captain and I will follow presently.”

Fitz’s eyes flicked from Janus to Marcus, who gave an infinitesimal nod. He saluted and herded the gawking rankers with their smoking muskets out into the corridor. Once they were out of sight, Janus spun to face Marcus.

“Don’t you see, Captain? It’s still here.”

“I don’t understand. What’s still here?”

“The Names. When we found the vault empty I thought they must have been removed from the city months ago. With all of the Desol to hide them in, it would have taken years to ferret them out. But this. .”

Marcus frowned. “What makes you think they weren’t?”

“The fire. Enemy action, you said, and very perceptively. But why would the Redeemers burn the city?”

“To try to get us, I would assume. .” Marcus trailed off as Janus waved his hand.

“No, no. They must know we’re camped inside the walls. A fire would be inconvenient, but certainly not devastating. A lone fanatic might try such a thing, but four fires at once? No.”

“Then what?”

“Cover. You said it yourself. It keeps us penned up inside the walls while they remove the treasure from the city.” Janus’ mad smile was fading, and his brow furrowed.

“But. .” Marcus tried to follow this chain of logic, certain that there must be some flaw. “What makes you think this is related to your ancient treasure in the first place?”

Janus raised one eyebrow. “I should think you would have guessed that as well, Captain. After all, it was you who spared my life from their assassin.”

“I might have,” Marcus said. “But-”

“Tell me, do you think an ordinary man could move so quickly, or strike with such force? Could an ordinary man have caught a pistol ball in flight?” He spun and pointed to the cracked stone doorframe. “Do you know of any normal man who could fracture rock with his bare hands?”

“I don’t know what I saw,” Marcus replied, hedging.

“You know,” Janus said, with a quick smile, “but you’re not prepared to believe the evidence of your senses. I believe mine, Captain, and what they tell me is that the treasure of the Demon King is real. Now we must move quickly to retrieve it, as His Majesty has instructed. And,” he added, as an afterthought, “to keep it out of the hands of the Last Duke.”

WINTER

Winter woke before dawn with a pounding pain in the back of her head, a mouth that tasted of sewer water, and a need to visit the privy that would brook no delay.

Bobby lay against her, head resting on Winter’s shoulder. Feor was in the opposite corner, neatly curled up in a catlike ball on a pile of cushions.

Winter extricated herself from Bobby, who murmured a little and didn’t wake, and found that one of her legs had gone to sleep. She quietly slapped the flesh to try to work some life back into it, then limped out into the corridor. The Khandarai practice of large communal chamber pots had caused some serious embarrassment for Winter in the past. Fortunately, at this early hour, no one was about to watch her. Afterward, greatly relieved, she groped her way back through the semidarkness to the little room she’d shared with the two younger girls.

She had dreamed, after all, but her dreams had been strange, disjointed things. Jane had been there, of course, but so had Captain d’Ivoire, and Sergeant Davis, and others she couldn’t quite remember. Whatever it had been, it was fading quickly.

Her plan to use her own revelation to distract Bobby from brooding on what had happened to her had worked a bit too well. The younger girls had taken to drink with cautious enthusiasm, and it wasn’t long before all talk of magic and Mrs. Wilmore’s was forgotten, at least for the moment. Winter had never been a world-class drunkard herself, in spite of her bravado. There was always the danger that, in an inebriated state, she would do something that would compromise her secret. It was oddly liberating to be in the company of people who already knew, and after the initial tide of melancholy had receded she found herself enjoying the experience.

It was considerably less enjoyable now, of course. She rubbed vainly at her eyes and wondered if there was anywhere to get a cup of cold water or, more usefully, a pail of it. Pushing back through the rag curtain into the little room, she found that Bobby had slumped the other way, snoring serenely against one wall, while Feor-

Feor was on her feet. Her eyes were open, but queer, as though she were staring at something far beyond the walls of the tavern. She swept her gaze across Winter but didn’t seem to see her.

“Feor?” Winter whispered, not wanting to wake Bobby. “Is something wrong?”

Feor’s lips worked silently. Winter stepped into the room to take her shoulder, but as soon as the doorway was clear the Khandarai girl bolted, brushing aside Winter’s outstretched arm and dashing through the flapping rag curtain into the hallway. Winter stood for a moment in shock, listening to her retreating footsteps, then spat a curse.

“Bobby!” she shouted. “Bobby, wake up!”

The corporal’s eyes snapped open and she sat up with a yawn. “Sir? Did I-”

“Come on,” Winter snapped. “Feor’s gone. We’ve got to catch up to her before she gets into trouble.”

“Yessir!”

Bobby jumped to her feet, military reflex overcoming hangover fuzziness, and followed Winter down the corridor. Winter heard stirring in the other rooms, and a few angry shouts, but paid them no mind. The common room was dark and empty, with no sign of Feor, and Winter dashed across it and out into the predawn street.

Thankfully, the Khandarai girl had not turned off into one of the many twisting alleys that webbed the lower city. Even this early in the morning, a fair number of people were about, mostly tradesmen and porters making deliveries. Among the increasing bustle, Winter caught sight of Feor moving down the street at a jog, heading farther out into the slums and away from the gate to the inner city.

She’d made it three streets before they caught up to her, forcing their way through the early-morning crowd. Winter grabbed Feor’s good arm and jerked her to a halt, breathing hard. Spikes of pain lanced through her head with every heartbeat, and her throat felt as though it had been rubbed with sandpaper. Brass Balls of the Beast. Whose brilliant idea was this, again?

Feor turned, and after a moment she lost her thousand-yard stare.

“Feor!” Winter said. “Are you all right?”

“She’s here,” Feor said urgently. “Please let me go.”

“Who’s here? Where are you going?”

“Mother is here. I have to find her.” She looked in the direction she’d been running. “I can feel her.”

“Mother?” Winter fought for breath. “I thought. . you said. .”

“I have to go to her,” Feor said. She looked back at Winter, her eyes full of tears. “Please. You don’t understand.”

“Sir?” Bobby said. “What’s going on?”

Winter looked back at the corporal. Remarkably, she didn’t even seem to be out of breath, much less suffering the aftereffects of a night’s debauchery.

“She thinks she’s found her mother,” Winter said in Vordanai. “Not literally her mother. The high priestess of her order, or something like that. She wants to go to her.”

Feor jerked at Winter’s grip again. Winter bit her lip, indecisive.

“We can’t stay here,” Bobby said.

A quick glance up and down the street confirmed this. The three women were the center of a widening circle of stares, and the cast of the gray-skinned faces was decidedly unfriendly. Winter wasn’t sure if they thought they were seeing two Colonials accost a Khandarai girl, or if a general dislike of foreigners was enough, but either way things seemed to be taking an unhealthy turn.

“We can’t let her wander off on her own,” Winter said. “I’m going with her. You should-”

“I’m coming with you,” Bobby said, and smiled. “Besides, I think we’ll be safer as a group.”

Winter didn’t have the strength to argue, and wasn’t sure she wanted to in any case. She turned back to Feor.

“We’re coming with you,” Winter said. “No arguments.”

Feor blinked, then shook her head. “Mother will-”

“I said no arguments. Come on-we can’t just stand here.”

The Khandarai girl hesitated, then gave a quick nod. She set a fast pace down the street, and Winter and Bobby followed close behind.

“Feor, how far do we have to go?” Winter said.

“Not far,” Feor said. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration. “She’s moving, I think. And there are others-around this next street-”

She broke off, looking up. Winter followed her gaze. Ahead of them, a faint glow was building over the city. For a moment Winter took it for dawn. Then her slightly befuddled mind reminded her that they were walking basically west, away from the inner city. The light grew brighter as she watched, until she could make out coils of smoke rising into the still-darkened sky.

Fire. Shouts of alarm were beginning to rise all around. Fire was the eternal terror of every citizen of the lower city.

“Sir!”

Winter whipped around in time to see Feor take off again, toward the flames. There was no time to think. Bobby was already pounding after her, and Winter gritted her teeth against the pain in her head and followed.

• • •

For the first few moments they were fighting a sudden tide of people. The beginnings of the blaze brought the lower-city folk out of their buildings like fleeing roaches, carrying their children or bundles of goods. There was no effort to fight the flames, and remarkably little screaming or confusion. This was a moment that these people had expected their whole lives, and they reacted with a silent, deadly determination to escape.

Winter was buffeted from all sides, swept backward a few steps, and torn away from Bobby. She looked about in panic and finally spotted the corporal sheltering in the gap between two wooden buildings. Winter worked her way over, shoving so hard she was practically knocking people over, until she could get out of the main stream of traffic.

“We’ll never find her in this,” Winter shouted in Bobby’s ear. “The roofs, maybe-”

Then she stopped, because the human flood tapered off as quickly as it had begun, leaving the street empty except for a few slower-moving groups or those who’d been knocked down or dazed in the mayhem. Winter got a glimpse of Feor, who had, incredibly, made progress against the tide and was nearly at the end of the street. She pointed, got a nod from Bobby, and started to run again.

No actual flames were visible yet, but the glow was definitely brighter, and Winter could smell woodsmoke. Feor rounded the corner a few yards ahead of them, and Winter nearly collided with two young Khandarai helping an elderly man down the road. She spun out of their way at the last moment, ignoring the vicious looks, and kept after Feor. Bobby was a few steps ahead, but when she came to the corner she suddenly pulled up short, and Winter nearly cannoned into her as well.

The next street was a short one, only twenty or thirty yards before it ended in a T-junction, and judging by the distance they’d run they had to be getting close to the outskirts of the city. The glow was much more intense here, and Winter could see tongues of flame licking up in the brightening sky. None were close, however, and she realized there must be two fires, one to either side of them. Straight ahead, in the direction that led out of the city, the night was still dark.

A dozen men stood in the street. They wore white tunics and grubby white trousers, overlaid with a full-length black hooded cloak that each had tied in a peculiar loop around his waist to leave his arms and legs free. All carried drawn swords, the distinctive heavy-ended falchions of the Desoltai. They were young men, full-bearded, with dark hair and skin a darker shade of gray than the urban Khandarai. One raider had his face concealed behind a blank gray mask, featureless except for a pair of eye holes.

Winter knew him, though she had never seen him personally. Every member of the Colonials had heard the story of Malik-dan-Belial, the Steel Ghost of the Great Desol. He had been causing trouble for the prince and his Vordanai allies since long before the Redemption. Supposedly he was a sorcerer, or had made a pact with demonic powers. She’d always dismissed that kind of campfire story-but now, face-to-face with that blank, glowering mask, she thought about the arcane light that had bloomed under Feor’s hands and wondered. He didn’t need demonic powers, though. He had ten armed men, and she and Bobby wore only knives. Winter skidded to a halt, her heart pounding, and looked around for Feor.

One of the buildings letting onto the street was an ancient tumbledown stone place, little more than a wall around a central courtyard with more modern wooden buildings at the back. The makeshift front gates of this relic had been opened, and a small caravan was emerging.

First came a huge, bald man whom Winter recognized as one of the eckmahl, eunuch servants like the one who had originally accompanied Feor. Behind the giant walked an old woman, wrapped from head to toe in white linen under a tattered gray robe. She was supported on one side by a boy of fourteen or fifteen, who was also as bald as an egg. Another man walked beside her with the air of a bodyguard.

After these three came a cart, a four-wheeled vehicle with long wooden poles at the front and rear instead of traces. These had crossbars allowing men to haul the load, and there were eight-four ahead and four behind-doing just that. These men were dressed like ordinary Khandarai laborers, but they pushed with a measured, steady tread that spoke of coordination and training. Each of the haulers was trailed by a slowly dissipating wisp of white vapor, as though they were all smoking something in unison, and Winter caught a whiff of the smell of burning sugar.

At the sight of the interlopers, the old woman and her minders stepped out of the way of the cart. It proceeded slowly past the Desoltai and up the street, toward the edge of the city. Leaning on her young companion, the crone stepped carefully toward Feor, while the desert raiders looked at one another uncertainly.

The Steel Ghost said something, too quietly for Winter to catch. When the crone spoke, her Khandarai was dry but intelligible.

“We will attend to them in a moment.” Her eyes were fixed on Feor. “First I must welcome my poor wayward lamb.”

“Mother!” Feor fell to her knees, sobbing, and prostrated herself full-length on the dirt in front of the old woman. “Mother, I beg forgiveness.”

“Shhh,” the old woman clucked, in a tone that was not at all reassuring. “All will be well, my child. You have been away for a long time.”

Feor, head bowed, said nothing. The old woman looked up at the two Vordanai. Her face was invisible beneath a deep cowl, but the ends of bandages hung limp on her chest and swayed whenever she moved.

“And these are your friends?” she said. “Bring them here.”

These words finally broke through Winter’s indecision. Time to run. She didn’t want to leave Feor, but she and Bobby weren’t going to be able to rescue the girl from a dozen armed men. Maybe I can round up a squad or two and intercept them-

She grabbed Bobby’s arm and turned back up the street, then stopped in surprise. Standing in their path was the young man she’d assumed was a bodyguard, bald-headed like the rest but fit and dangerous-looking. She hadn’t seen him move. He raised his hands, blood dripping slowly from his palms.

“Don’t!” The shout came from Feor. “Mother, please. Leave them be. They saved me.”

“Did they?”

“Sir?” Bobby said quietly. “I can go left, you go right, and one of us should be able to hit him from behind. He hasn’t got a sword.”

The young man smiled at them. Winter swallowed hard.

“I don’t think that would be. . wise,” she said to Bobby.

“But-”

Footsteps behind them cut the discussion short. Three of the Desoltai arrived unhurriedly, and together with the bodyguard they escorted the two Colonials back up the street. The cart was still grinding away, and the rest of the Desoltai had gone with it, including the Steel Ghost. The old woman remained with Feor, who was speaking rapidly in low tones. Winter caught a few words-she was telling her story, sometimes tripping over her tongue in her effort to get it out quickly.

Something the girl said made the old woman look up sharply at Bobby. Winter kept one hand on the corporal’s arm, and she could feel her stiffen.

“She’s. .” Bobby put one hand to the side of her head. “I can feel something. Something’s wrong.”

Feor had finished, returning to her facedown crouch. The old woman ignored her, focusing on the two Vordanai. When she finally spoke, her tone was even less friendly than it had been.

“I had hoped for better sense from you, my child.”

“It seemed the only way. I owed them a debt.”

“There are no debts of honor with heretics,” the old woman snapped. “No deals with raschem.”

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Feor pressed her forehead to the ground. “Please. I beg for mercy.”

“Mercy,” the old woman said, almost contemplatively. Then she made a hawking noise, like she wanted to spit. “I cannot. Obv-scar-iot must be released to one who is more worthy of it.”

“I accept your judgment,” Feor said. “But these two-”

“Are raschem. If we let them go, they will fall into the grip of the schemer Orlanko. No.” She shook her head. “I grant you the mercy of a swift death. Onvidaer, see to it.” The hood swung up the street, toward the wagon. “We are falling behind. Akataer, with me.”

“Mother!” Feor looked up, anguish in her voice, but the old woman had already turned her back. The young man, Onvidaer, stood in her place, while the three Desoltai gathered closer around Winter and Bobby.

Three. Winter’s mind whirled desperately. There had to be a way out, somewhere. Turn and grab the sword arm of the closest? She might wrest the weapon away, if he was inattentive, but she was no swordsman. And Bobby would be left unarmed against the other two.

Her chest was tight. Once the old woman had passed out of sight, Feor climbed slowly to her feet and stood in front of Onvidaer. She was a head shorter than the young man, but she looked up at him with a mix of defiance and something Winter couldn’t quite place. Something seemed to pass invisibly between them.

Feor reached out and grabbed his hand, guiding it up to her own throat. She raised her chin slightly to let his fingers tighten around her windpipe, and there was a long, frozen moment.

Then Onvidaer let his hand fall away. “I cannot,” he said wonderingly.

“You must,” Feor said. Her throat was smeared with the blood from his palms. “She will feel my death. She must feel it.”

He shook his head. “I cannot.”

One of the Desoltai stepped forward. “I will take the duty, if it pleases you,” he said. His tone was respectful, but Onvidaer glared at him as though he were a poisonous insect.

“Please, Onvi.” Feor closed her eyes. “It is Mother’s judgment. I accept it.”

There were only two Desoltai watching her now. Winter tensed.

Onvidaer pursed his lips briefly, then appeared to reach a decision. The Desoltai who’d stepped forward opened his mouth to speak, but got no further. The young man stepped forward and brought his hand into the side of the desert raider’s head. The crack of shattering bone was audible, and the Desoltai was lifted off his feet to fall in a crumpled heap on the earthen street.

The other two Desoltai started to shout and raise their swords, but Onvidaer moved so fast he was a blur. He grabbed the sword arm of the first, twisting it easily out of the way with another crack, then punched the man in the chest. Something crunched, and the Desoltai staggered backward. Before he could fall, Onvidaer spun behind the third man, grasped his head between his palms, and twisted it one hundred eighty degrees.

The two Desoltai silently collapsed. Feor, still staring at where Onvidaer had been, was trembling.

“Let these two go, then,” Feor said. “But she must feel me die.”

“No!” Winter said involuntarily.

“She must!” Feor said, turning to face Onvidaer. “Or you will die in my place.”

The young man’s face was an agony of indecision. He raised one hand halfheartedly, then let it fall. Feor, shaking her head in frustration, bent to snatch up one of the fallen Desoltai’s weapons.

“Wait,” Winter said, thinking desperately. “Just wait.”

Onvidaer turned to her, apparently aware for the first time that she was speaking his language.

“A Vordanai patrol turned up,” Winter said. “Ten men. Twenty,” she corrected, thinking of the speed at which Onvidaer had moved. “You had to fight your way free.”

Feor’s eyes glittered with tears. Onvidaer cocked his head, considering.

“A patrol,” he said. “Following you.”

Winter nodded eagerly, but Feor shook her head. “You will still be punished for failure!”

“Punished, but not killed,” said Onvidaer. “I will endure.”

“I-”

“Go,” he said, gently removing the Desoltai blade from her grip. “Take your friends and go. Leave, and never return.”

Feor fell to her knees. “N-never. .”

Onvidaer looked up at Winter. “You will care for her?”

“Yes,” Winter said without hesitation.

“Good. Do not make me regret allowing you to live.”

He turned and ran after his mistress, great loping strides carrying him along faster than he had any right to move. Winter, Bobby, and Feor were left alone with the three Desoltai corpses.

Flames were licking ever higher into the sky. Winter fought her instinctive desire to curl into a ball and hide. Instead, she stepped closer to Feor. The Khandarai girl had her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Winter touched her tentatively.

“Feor,” she said, when this drew no response. “Feor!”

Feor looked up, her normally impassive face flushed gray-red and streaked with soot and tears. Winter grabbed her roughly by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

“We have to go. We can’t stay here.” She gestured at the flames. “Come on!”

“I. .” Feor shook her head feebly. “No. Leave me here. Just. .”

“You heard him,” Winter snapped. “I’m supposed to take care of you. Now come on, or Bobby and I will carry you!”

That got Feor moving, at least into a stumbling walk that Winter guided with a hand on her shoulder. Bobby fell in on the other side, having claimed one of the falchions from the dead Desoltai.

“Sir,” she said, over Feor’s lowered head, “what the hell just happened?”

Winter shook her head. Without any knowledge of Khandarai, Bobby was totally in the dark, but Winter didn’t feel much better off herself.

“I wish I knew,” Winter said. “I’ll explain what I can later. For now. .” She glanced over her shoulder at the growing wall of flame. “I think it’s time to run.”