The Second Empire

NINETEEN

As the ladies-in-waiting quaked, terrified, the Queen twitched and snarled in her chair, the whites of her eyes flickering under closed lids. She had been like this for almost two hours, and they longed to cry out to someone for help, a doctor or apothecary to be sent. But ancient Grania, who had been at the palace longer than any of the rest and whose dark eyes were unclouded by any vestige of senility, told them to hush their useless mouths and pretend nothing untowards was happening, else the guards posted outside might take it into their heads to come in. So the little flock of ladies embroidered and knitted with absent fervour, stabbing fingertips with monotonous regularity while brimming over with hiccuping little sobs for the predicament they had found themselves in: and Grania glanced towards heaven and helped herself to the wine.

None of them noticed when the black furred shape with ruby eyes crept back into the chamber through the smoke hood and took up its accustomed place in the centre of a huge web that quivered sootily in the shadows of the rafters. The Queen sighed, and sagged in her chair. Then she rubbed her eyes and stood up, putting a hand to the hollow of her back. For several seconds she looked what she was: a tyred woman in her sixth decade. As the ladies-in-waiting chattered around her she took the goblet of wine that the silent Grania offered and drained it at a draught.

“I am getting too old for this sort of thing,” she said to the aged woman who had once been her wet nurse.

“We all are,” the crone retorted drily. And to the brightly plumaged chatterers about her she snapped: “Oh shut up, all of you.”

“No,” Odelia said, “Keep talking. That is an order. Let the guards hear us gossiping away. Were we too silent, they would be the more suspicious.”

“How bad is it?” Grania asked the Queen as the surrounding women talked desperately of the weather, the price of silk, all the while trying to spare an ear for the Queen’s words.

“Bad enough. They have massacred many of his Cathedrallers. The poor fools charged massed arquebusiers with nothing more than sabres.”

“And his Fimbrians?”

“Strangely supine. But something tells me that their commander, Formio, is not letting the grass grow under his feet. The rest of the city is under curfew. Fournier has installed himself in the East Wing. So sure of himself is he that he has only fifty or sixty men around him. The rest patrol the city. There are fires down by the dockyards, but I don’t know what they signify. Arach’s vision is limited, and sometimes hard to decipher.”

“Sit, lady. You are exhausted.”

“How can I sit?” Odelia exploded. “I do not even know if he is alive or dead!” She passed a hand over her face. “Pardon me. I am tyred. I was blind: I should have foreseen this.”

“No-one else did,” Grania said bluntly. “Do not torment yourself because you are no soothsayer.”

The Queen sank back down upon her chair. “He cannot be dead, Grania. He must not be dead.” And she buried her face in her hands and wept.

It was a long, weary way from the waterfront to the Pontifical palace, and it took Corfe and Albrec most of the remainder of the night to traverse it. Fournier’s patrols were easy to dodge. They spent as much time gawking at the wonders of the great city as they did keeping an eye out for curfew-breakers. They were, when it came down to it, untutored men of the country awed by the size and sprawl of the capital. Eavesdropping on their conversations as they trooped past, Corfe realised that some of them did not even know why they were here, except that it was some kind of emergency engendered by the Merduk war.

Halted at the gates of the abbey by watchful Knights Militant, Corfe and Albrec were eyed with astonished disbelief when they demanded to see Macrobius. They were still fettered, and liberally plastered with mud and sewer filth. But something in Corfe’s eye made one of the gate guards dash off at once to fetch Monsignor Alembord. The portly Inceptine looked none too pleased to be dragged out of his bed, but there was no denying that he recognised the bedraggled pair straight away. They were ushered inside the gates amid much whispering and brought to a little reception chamber where Corfe demanded a blacksmith or armourer to cut off their manacles. Alembord waddled away, looking thoroughly confused. He was almost entirely unaware of the coup that had taken place: Fournier’s men had left the abbey alone, as Corfe had suspected they would.

The yawning armourer arrived soon after with a wooden box full of the tools of his trade. The fetters were cut from the two prisoners’ wrists, and Corfe had to clench his teeth against the agony of returning circulation in his hands. They were swollen to twice their normal size and where the iron had encircled his wrists, deep slices had been carved out of the puffed flesh. He let them bleed freely, hoping it would wash some of the filth out of them.

Basins of clean, hot water, and fresh clothes were found for the two men. The clothes turned out to be spare Inceptine habits, and thus it was dressed as a monk that Corfe finally found himself ushered into Macrobius’s private suite. It still wanted an hour until dawn.

Private though the suite might nominally be, it was crowded with anxious clerics and alarmed Knights Militant. They and Macrobius listened in grim silence as Corfe related the events of the past thirty-six hours, Albrec narrating his own part in the storey. As he and Corfe had agreed, however, no mention was made of the spy at the Merduk court.

When they had finished, Macrobius, who had listened without a word, said simply: “What would you have me do?”

“How many armed men can the abbey muster?” Corfe asked.

“Monsignor Alembord?”

“Some sixty to seventy, Holiness.”

“Good,” Corfe said. “Then you must sally out at dawn with all of them, and go to City Square. Call a meeting, raise the rooftops-create a commotion that will get people out on to the streets. Fournier does not have enough men to clamp down on the entire city, and he will not be able to cow the population if they can be raised against him. Get the people on to the streets, Holiness.”

“And you, Corfe, what will you do?”

“I’m going to try and get through to my men. If you can make enough of a commotion, Fournier will have to take troops away from their containment and then there will be a good chance I can break them out. After that, he will be defeated, I promise you.”

“What of the Merduks?” Alembord asked with round eyes.

“I am assuming they are on the move even as we speak. If they force march, they can be here in four or five days at most. That does not give us much time. This thing must be crushed by tomorrow at the latest if we are to take the field in time.”

“Very well,” Macrobius said, his chin out-thrust. “It shall be as you say. Monsignor Alembord, rouse the entire abbey. I want everyone in their best habits, the Knights in full armour and mounted, with every flag and pennon they can find. We shall make a spectacle of it, give Fournier something to distract his mind. See to it at once.”

As the unfortunate Alembord hurried away, Macrobius turned back to Corfe. “How do you intend to get through to your men?”

“With your permission, Holiness, I will retain the disguise I’ve been given. I will be a cleric desiring only to offer spiritual succour to the beleaguered soldiers. For that reason, I will go to Formio’s Fimbrians first. The idea of a priest offering comfort to my Cathedrallers would not stand up.”

“And will you go alone?”

“Yes. Albrec here is too easily recognizable, even by these bumpkins from the south. He will have to remain here in the abbey.”

“And what about the Queen, Corfe?”

“She, also, will have to be left to her own devices for a while. For now it is soldiers I need, not monarchs.”

Count Fournier’s beard had been tugged from its usual fine point into a bristling mess. He paced the room like a restless cat while his senior officers stared woodenly at him.

“Escaped? Escaped? How can you be telling me this? The one man above all who must be contained, and you tell me he is at large. Exactly how could this have happened?”

Gabriel Venuzzi’s handsome face was sallow as a whitewashed wall. “It seems he managed to lever up a grating and make his way into the sewers, Count. He and that nose-less monk who was incarcerated with him.”

“That is another thing. I specifically said that the prisoners were to be confined separately.”

“There are not enough cells in the waterfront dungeons. By my last estimate, we have almost four-score prisoners down there. Some of them are even three to a cell now. Every officer above the rank of ensign is being picked up. Perhaps we could relax the rules a little.”

“No! We must cut off the head if the body is not to crush us. Every man on the lists must be arrested. Start using the common jails if you have to, but take every name on the list!”

“It shall be as you say.”

“What of the Queen?”

“Still confined to her chambers.”

“Have the guards look in on her every few minutes.”

“Count Fournier!” Venuzzi was shocked. “She is the Queen. Do you expect common soldiers to tramp in and out of her chambers like gawking sightseers?”

“Do as I say, damn it. I don’t have time for your lace-edged court niceties, Venuzzi. Our heads will all be on the block if this does not come off. How in the world could he have got away? Where would he go? To his men, obviously. But how to get through the lines? By subterfuge, naturally. Venuzzi, inform our officers that no-one- no-one-is to be allowed through the lines to the Fimbrians or the Cathedrallers. Do you understand me, Venuzzi? Not so much as a damned mouse.”

“I am not an imbecile, Count.”

“I thought that also until you let Cear-Inaf slip away. Now get out and set about your errands.”

Venuzzi left, his formerly pale face flushed and furious. Fournier turned to a beefy figure who lounged by the door. “Sardinac, get some more men up here in the palace, and some artillery pieces.”

The man called Sardinac straightened. “We don’t have too many artillerists to spare, Count. These are hired retainers we’re working with, remember, not Torunnan regulars.”

“Don’t I know it! Take some of the guns which they have deployed about the Fimbrian quarter. And send another courier in to treat with that ass Formio. His position is hopeless, and it’s not his fight. Safe conduct out of the city-the same as the last one.”

Sardinac bowed, and exited in Venuzzi’s wake.

Fournier wiped his brow with a scented handkerchief. He was surrounded by fools, that was the problem. Such a beautiful plan, but it had to work in all things or it would work in none. There was so little margin for error.

Out on to the balcony his restless feet took him. You could see a corner of City Square from here. It was like glimpsing a slice of some odd carnival. He could see Knights Militant bedecked with banners, richly robed priests-and a milling crowd of several thousand of the city lowly who had braved the curfew to see what was going on. That also had to be contained. His men were like butter scraped across too much bread. Who would have thought Macrobius would issue out of his lair and get up on his hind legs to preach, the old fool?

There was a lit brazier in the room, the charcoal red and grey with heat. Fournier went to the table, unlocked a small chest and took out a battered scroll with the broken seal of the Merduk military upon it. He studied it for a moment thoughtfully, and seemed about to consign it to the brazier, but then thought better of it. He tucked it into the breast of his doublet and patted it with one manicured hand.

“Sergeant! We’ve a priest here wants to go and talk to the Fimbrians,” the young soldier said. “That’s all right, ain’t it?”

The sergeant, a corpulent veteran of many tavern brawls, marched ponderously over to the barricade where the black-robed Inceptine stood surrounded by half a dozen nervous young men with the slow-match smouldering balefully on the wheel-locks of their arquebuses. He drew a sabre.

“New orders, Fintan lad. No-one to go through the lines. Courier arrived just this minute. Father, your time has been wasted. You might want to say a prayer for us, though, out here facing those damned Fimbrians.”

“By all means, my son.” The priest, his face hidden in the cowl of his habit, raised his hands in the Sign of the Saint. As he did, the wide sleeves of his raiment fell back to reveal badly cut wrists. The soldiers had bowed their heads to receive his blessing, but they snapped upright when a clear young voice shouted out: “Sergeant! Bring that man to me at once!”

Colonel Aras was standing outside a nearby grain warehouse surrounded by a crowd of other officers and couriers. He stalked forward. “The priest! Grab that priest and bring him here!”

The Inceptine tensed as he found the barrels of six arquebuses levelled at him. The sergeant looked him up and down quizzically.

“Looks like someone else is in need of a prayer, Father.”

“It seems so, Sergeant,” the priest said. “Be careful of those Fimbrians. They collect the ears of their enemies, I’ve heard.”

“Bring him into my quarters, Sergeant, and be quick about it!” Aras barked, white-faced. “Enough chatter.”

The Inceptine was escorted past the crowd of staring soldiers and into the cavernous interior of the warehouse. There was a little office within, divided off from the rest of the building. They left him there. Some young noblemen were bent over a map. They straightened and nodded at him, looking a trifle bewildered. Aras ordered the room emptied.

“You can throw back your hood now, General,” he said when they had gone.

Corfe did as he was told. “I congratulate you, Aras. You have quick eyes.”

The two men looked at one another in silence for a long moment, until Aras stirred and reached for a decanter. “Some wine?”

“Thank you.”

They drank, each watching the other.

“What now?” Corfe said. “Will you turn me over to your master-and the kingdom over to the Merduks? Or will you remember your duty?”

Aras flopped down into a chair. “You have no idea what this has cost me,” he whispered.

“To do what? Betray your country?”

The younger man sprang to his feet again, his face outraged. But it leaked out of him like water from a punctured skin. He stared into his wine.

“You were wrong,” he said quietly. “Wrong to go about things the way you did. The great men of a kingdom cannot be trampled upon. They will not wear it.”

“And in the end their own prestige is worth more to them than the kingdom. You know me, Aras. If a man has ability I couldn’t care less whether he’s a duke or a beggar. Look at Rusio. I made him a general though he was one of my bitterest enemies. But Fournier-he is motivated by more than wounded pride, you must know that. He has his heart set on ruling Torunna, even if it is only as a pawn of the Merduks. You are all-all of you-merely his tools, to be used and discarded.”

“He’s going to negotiate a peace, and end the war with honour,” Aras said.

“He is going to capitulate unconditionally, and feed off the carcase that the Merduks leave behind.”

Aras turned away. “What would you have me do?” he murmured. “Betray him?”

“A traitor cannot be betrayed. These Fimbrians you are besieging. They served under you in battle. They held their line at your orders, and died where they stood because you asked them to. They are your comrades, not your enemies. When did Fournier ever set his shoulder beside yours, or face a battle-line with you? Give it up, Aras. Do the honourable thing. Order your men to stand down and let me save this city of ours.”

Aras said nothing for a long time. When he spoke again it was in a loud voice. “Haptman Vennor!”

A young man in the livery of one of the southern lords put his head around the door. “Colonel?”

“The men are to stack arms and stand down. This priest here is to be escorted through our lines to the Fimbrian barracks. Dismantle the barricades. It is over.”

Haptman Vennor gaped at him.

“Sir-on whose authority-?”

“Obey my orders, damn it! I command here. Do as I say!”

The startled officer saluted and withdrew.

“Thank you,” Corfe said quietly.

“I hope you will speak up for me at my court-martial, sir,” Aras said.

“Court-martial?” Corfe laughed. “Aras my dear fellow, I need you in the ranks. As soon as we have this little mess sorted out, we have a meeting with the Merduk army to arrange. I cannot afford to lose an officer with your experience.” He held out a hand. Aras hesitated, and then shook it warmly. “I won’t let you down, sir, not again. I am your man until death.”

Corfe smiled. “I think I knew that already, or part of me did-else I would have bolted as soon as you recognised me.”

“What do you want me to do with these mercenaries?”

“They will remain under your command for now. Mercenaries or not, they are still Torunnans. As soon as Formio and his men have shaken out, we’ll march on the palace together.”

Odelia stood on the balcony and watched the smoke of war drift over the tortured city. Out by the North Gate there were crackles of volley-fire rolling still, and the waterfront was a mass of fire above which the smoke roiled in billowing thunderheads. The masts of ships stood stark and angular against the flames. Some of them had had their moorings cut to save them from the inferno and they were drifting helplessly down the estuary towards the sea.

Nearer at hand, the deafening roar of the artillery salvoes had subsided at last, to be replaced by a chaotic storm of gunfire and the massed roaring of men fighting for their lives. The Fimbrians were storming the palace, and terrified valets and maids had come running to her chambers to huddle in panic-stricken crowds, like rabbits fleeing a wildfire. And Corfe was alive. He and Formio were retaking the palace room by gutted room. Fournier had lost the gamble, and would soon surrender his life as well. It warmed her to think on it.

The doors crashed open and a knot of grimy soldiers burst into the room, making the maids scream and cower. Behind them came Count Fournier himself, along with Gabriel Venuzzi and a gaggle of the southern nobles’ sons who had marched into the city scant days before with such pomp and heraldry. They were smoke-blackened or bloodstained now, with frightened eyes and drawn swords. Fournier, however, was as dapper as always. In fact he seemed to have taken special care with his toilet, and was dressed in midnight blue with black hose and a silver-hilted rapier. He held a handkerchief to his nose against the powder-smoke that eddied through the entire palace, but when he saw the Queen he pocketed it with a flourish and then bowed deeply.

“Your Majesty.”

“My dear Count. What could possibly bring you here at this time?”

A crash of gunfire drowned his reply and he frowned, irritated. “Your pardon, Majesty. I thought it the merest good manners to come and make my farewells.”

“Are you leaving us then, Count?”

Fournier smiled. “Sadly, yes. But my journey is not a long one.”

The roar of battle seemed to be rageing just down the corridor. Fournier’s companions took off towards it, yelling-except for Gabriel Venuzzi, who collapsed upon the floor and began sobbing loudly.

“Before I go,” Fournier went on, “there is something I would like to give you. A parting gift which I hope will be of some use to the-ah, the new Torunna which will no doubt come into existence after my departure.”

He reached into the breast of his doublet and pulled out a tattered scroll. It was bloodstained and ragged, with a broken seal upon it.

“You see, lady, despite what you may think, I never wanted harm to come to this kingdom. I simply could not see any way to save it except my own. Others may save it-that is quite possible-but in doing so they will also destroy it. If you do not see what I mean already, I am sure you will one day.”

Odelia took the scroll with a slight inclination of her head. “I will see you hanged, Count. And your head I will post above the city gate.”

Fournier smiled. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Majesty, but I am a nobleman of the old school who will take his leave of the world in the manner he sees fit. Excuse me.”

He walked over to a table in the corner which had decanters of wine and brandy set upon it, ignoring the crash and roar of the fighting which was rageing a few doors down. Pouring himself a goblet of wine, he sprinkled a white powder into the glass from a screw of paper he had palmed. Then he tossed off the liquid with one swift gulp.

“Gaderian. As good a vintage to finish with as any, I suppose.” He bowed perfectly. When he had straightened, Odelia could see the sudden sweat on his forehead. He took one step towards her, and then folded over and toppled to the floor.

Odelia went to him and despite herself she knelt and cradled his head in her hands.

“You are a traitor, Fournier,” she said gently. “But you never lacked courage.”

Fournier smiled up at her.

“He is a man of blood and iron, lady. He will never make you happy.” Then his eyes rolled back, and he died.

Odelia shut the dead eyelids, frowning. The firing down the passageway reached a crescendo, and there was the clash of steel on steel, men shrieking, orders half lost in the chaos. Then a voice she knew thundered out: “Cease fire! Cease fire there! You-drop your weapons. Formio, round them up. Andruw, come with me.”

An eerie quiet fell, and then booted feet were marching up the corridor, crashing on marble. Through the door came Corfe and Andruw, with a bodyguard of Fimbrians and wild-eyed Cathedrallers. Corfe’s face was badly bruised and black with powder, and one eye was swollen. The Queen rose, letting Fournier’s head thump to the floor.

“Good day, General,” she said, aching with the need to run to him, embrace him.

“I trust I see you well, lady?” Corfe replied, his eyes scanning the room. Coming to rest on Fournier they narrowed. “The Count made good his escape, I see.”

“Yes, just this moment.”

“Lucky for him. I’d have impaled the traitor, had I taken him alive. Lads, cheque the next suite. That yokel down there says there’s no more but we can’t be too sure.” Andruw and the other soldiers tramped off purposefully. Corfe noticed the bedraggled heap of the weeping Venuzzi and kicked him out of his way.

“The city is secure, Majesty,” he said. “A force has been sent out to bring in the head of Colonel Willem. He is holed up to the east with some of the regulars.”

“What of the other conspirators?” the Queen asked.

“We shot them as we found them. Which reminds me.” Corfe drew John Mogen’s sword. There was a flash as swift as lightning, a sickening crunch, and Gabriel Venuzzi’s head spun end over end, attached to the body only by a ribbon of spouting arterial blood. The ladies-in-waiting shrieked; one fainted. Odelia curled her lip.

“Was that necessary?”

Corfe looked at her with no whit of softness in his eyes. “He had eighty of my men shot. He’s lucky to have died quickly.” He wiped his sword on Venuzzi’s body.

Odelia turned her back on him and walked away from the puddle of gore on the floor. “Clean up that mess,” she snapped at one of the maids.

The view out the window again. Fully a quarter of the city was burning, most of it down by the river. But the gunfire had stopped. Macrobius was still preaching in City Square, as he had been doing since dawn. What was he talking about? she wondered absently.

Corfe joined her. He looked like a prizefighter who had lost his bout.

“Well, you have delivered the city, General,” Odelia said, angry with him for all manner of reasons she could not name. “I congratulate you. Now all you have to do is save us from the Merduks.” Was it possible that Fournier’s last words had registered with something in her? That disgusting murder in cold blood-right in front of her eyes! What kind of man was he anyway?

“Marsch is dead,” Corfe said quietly.

“What?”

“He was killed while leading the breakout attempt.”

She turned to him then and saw the tears coursing down his cheeks, though his face was set as hard as marble.

“Oh Corfe, I’m so sorry.” She took him into her arms and for a moment he yielded, buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder. But then he pulled away and wiped his eyes with his fingers. “I must go. There’s a lot to do, and not much time.”

She turned to watch him. He left the room blindly, tramping through Venuzzi’s gore and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

Torunn’s brief but bloody agony ended at last as the regular army stamped out the last embers of the abortive coup. The fires were brought under control, thousands of the capital’s citizens mobilised to form bucket chains. Safely perched on a cherry tree in the heights of the palace gardens, the homunculus watched the spectacle with unblinking eyes. As darkness fell, it took off and flapped northwards.

That night, on the topmost battlements of Ormann Dyke’s remaining tower, Aurungzeb, Sultan of Ostrabar, hammered his fist down on the unyielding stone of the ancient battlement.

“Who is sovereign here? Who commands? Shahr Johor, you may be my khedive, but you are not irreplaceable. I have indulged your whims once before, and forgiven you for the failure which resulted. You will now indulge me!”

“But Highness,” Shahr Johor protested, “to change a battle-plan when the army is only days away from contact with the enemy is-is foolhardy.”

“What did you say?”

Hopelessly, Shahr Johor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your pardon, my Sultan. I am a little tyred.”

“Yes, you are. Get yourself some sleep ere the fight begins, or you will be of no use to anyone.” Aurungzeb’s voice lost its harsh edge. “I am not a complete child in military matters, Shahr Johor, and what I am suggesting is not a complete rewriting of the plan, merely a minor revision.”

Shahr Johor nodded, too weary to protest further.

“Batak failed to have this Torunnan commander-in-chief neutralised. That traitor Fournier failed to deliver Torunn to me without a fight. Batak tells me that the coup has already been stamped out-in the space of two days! There has been too much intrigue, and all of it a mere waste of time. Enough of it. Brute force is all that will destroy the Torunnans-that, and a good battle-plan. I have made a study of your intentions.” Aurungzeb’s voice fell, became more reasonable. “Your plan is fine. I have no quarrel with it. All I am asking is that you strengthen this flank march of yours. Take ten thousand of the Hraibadar from the main body and send them along with the cavalry.”

“I don’t understand your sudden desire to change the plan, Highness,” Shahr Johor said stubbornly.

“There has been a lot of coming and going between here and Torunn. I suspect”-here Aurungzeb lowered his voice further-“I suspect we may have a traitor in our midst.”

Shahr Johor snapped upright. “Are you sure?”

Aurungzeb flapped one massive hand. “I am not sure, but it is as well to be suspicious. That mad monk escaped from here with the connivance of someone at the court, and who knows what information he might have in his addled pate? Make the change, Shahr Johor. Do as I wish. I shall not meddle further in your handling of this battle.”

“Very well, my Sultan. I bow to your superior wisdom. The flank march we planned will be augmented, and with the best shock infantry we possess. And no-one shall know of it but you and I, until the very day they set out.”

“You relieve my mind, Shahr Johor. This may well be the deciding battle of the war. Nothing about its conduct must be left to chance. Mehr Jirah has half the army convinced that the western Saint is also our Prophet, and the Minhraib, curse them, are simple enough to believe that it means an end to war with the Ramusians. It may be that this is the last great levy Ostrabar will ever be able to mobilise.”

“I won’t fail you, Highness,” Shahr Johor said fervently. “The Unbelievers will be struck as though by a thunderbolt. In a few days, not more, you will sit in Torunn and receive the homage of the Torunnan Queen. And this much-vaunted general of theirs shall be but a memory.”