Swords of the Imperium (Dark Fantasy Novel) (The Polaris Chronicles Book 2) (24 page)

Jibriil swallowed. “That, milady, is where I come in. I happen to know those mountains more than most, as my father was an Ursalan mountaineer. I’m to serve as a guide for a small group. No more than two others.”

“And who is to accompany you?”

“That is for you and Sir Aslatiel to decide. The primate expresses that the sooner the mission starts, the sooner he will allow the Liberation Army to cross unmolested. And the sooner you’ll be able to find…
her
.”

“I’m not going with this asshole. Neither will Karma,” Hadassah said.

“I’ll go with him,” Draco said, “but I’m coming back
alone
.”

Lotte pointed at the door.
“Leave.”

The two tromped out, casting toxic glances at Jibriil. As they did so, Aslatiel stepped in. Following him was Enilna.

“Satou,” Aslatiel said, “this man has been vetted by General Chang. He tells the truth, or what passes for it these days. We must move the army soon, before the Teufelsbrucke becomes impassable for the winter.”

“Of course,” Lotte said. “The campaign
must
go on. Who really cares about the greatest threat your Imperium has ever faced? What if Mezeta decides to kill your padishah? Meanwhile, we’re being used as
pages
.”

“And what would you have us do instead?” Aslatiel said. “If you have a better idea of where to search for her, then I’m listening. But by squabbling here, we are wasting our time and effort.”

“I can’t believe you trust that fake priest.”

“I never said I did. But right now, he’s our only lead. I also wish to see Mezeta eliminated, but victory comes first!”

Taki’s hand shot up. “I’ll go. We’ll have our alliance and be one step closer to Mezeta.”

Lotte shook her head. “Natalis, you don’t have to—”

“I
want
to.” Taki crossed his arms. “How else will I make leutnant? And more important, no one in Sir Aslatiel’s company knows just how treacherous the arch—this man can be. He could easily endanger them if given the chance. So I’ll go. I’m stronger now. I can defend myself from the likes of him if needed.” He fixed a glare on Jibriil.

Lotte did not relent.

“Duly noted, Fahnrich Natalis,” Aslatiel said with an approving nod. “That leaves one spot to fill. Most of my squad is injured, and I must remain here for diplomatic reasons, so I suggest taking my sister. I will request her transfer immediately.”

“Sir!” Enilna piped up. “I volunteer. Lucatiel is all the way in Sevastopol. It would take her at least a fortnight to arrive, even if she took
Ba’gshnar
’s personal flying thingy.”

“You’re too inexperienced,” Aslatiel said. “Though you do have a point about the travel time. Rana it is, then.”

Enilna stamped her foot. “She
just
lost her lover! She’s in no shape to climb mountains and fight monsters! Don’t be a huge dick, sir!”

Taki tensed. Such words would have gotten her a drubbing from any officer.

Aslatiel drew in a breath and locked his gaze with Enilna’s. “Watch your words, kadet.” He sighed. “But yes, you’re also right for the second time. You’ll accompany Natalis and Sir Jibriil, then. I only permit this because we’re so undermanned right now. You must be careful. Understood?”

Enilna clasped her hands together. “Thank you!”

“Very well, then. It’ll be Shpejtspate joining you, Natalis. Remember that much hinges on your decisions.”

Taki nodded. “Aye, I know.”

Jibriil rose. “Thank you for your trust, milords. There is no need to worry about the actual dealings with the Ulrichtochten. The primate has drawn up an irresistible offer for them. The hard part will be getting there.”

“When do we leave?” Taki asked without making eye contact.

Jibriil bowed. “Preferably tonight, under the new moon. The streets are less restive, but there’s always risk of being mistaken for royalists. I’ll be waiting in the tavern. Take as long as you need.”

“First,” Taki said, “let’s get one thing straight. This is an Imperial mission. You may be our guide, but I am the one in charge. If I think for a moment that you mean us harm, Shpejtspate and I walk away. I’m sure your new master wouldn’t look kindly on that. Do you understand, Jibriil?”

No indignation or raged marred Jibriil’s features. The man only smiled, bowed again, and backed out of the door.

Taki let out a slow breath, now aware of the fact that he’d been holding it for a while. Lotte clamped a hand on his shoulder. Not caring that others were watching, Taki placed his hand over hers. She’d been right about the city: it was indeed a treacherous place, and the primate was more dangerous than any opponent they’d ever faced, though he wasn’t even an enemy. Still, there was a mission at hand. Taki steeled himself and resolved to complete it, even if it meant working with a man he’d hated so much. For his career, for his honor, and for his new nation, he’d endure anything.

Ringo hated ships and seafaring. Spending weeks in constantly heaving, claustrophobic monotony had been a special type of torment best inflicted on true monsters: regicides, cuckolding wives, and Hecaton Mezeta. He especially despised that, out on the ocean, whether he lived or died was entirely out of his hands. A storm or an encounter with a sea beast would snuff his existence as casually as stepping on a roach near the jakes, and with just as little consideration. On land, he stood a chance; on land, he could rise up again even if he fell. But at sea, there was nothing but an inky void to drown in. What also peeved him was that all sailors clearly enjoyed the superiority that their knowledge and skill gave them onboard, whereas he was a clueless landlubber. Even their language was incomprehensible: port and starboard, mizzenmasts and spinnakers, and tacking and jibbing. None of the bastards probably knew how to ride.

The monotony would have been less stifling if he had come with peers to drink, gamble, and sing with, but Janus had been busy with his ancient knickknacks, and Juan had spent the entirety of the voyage suckling Hecaton’s shriveled teats. The idiotic Valencian was firmly under the witch’s spell, and thus he would be the first to die after Hecaton. However, the individual who had rattled Ringo the most was actually Janus’s servant girl, the one he called Samara. She had not spoken once during the voyage, leading Ringo to believe that she was a mute and most likely touched in the head. Strangely enough, he had never seen Janus grope her for amusement as one might expect from a bored man on a long journey. Once, Ringo had attempted to pick through Janus’s luggage to see what manner of ancient tools the man had brought along, only to see Samara holding a belaying pin, ready to strike. He had sometimes sensed her presence in the shadows, especially when he was alone. Whenever he had tried to flush her out, however, he had found nothing.

Thus, Ringo was glad to be back on land, where a man of honor and means could truly be a master of his world. The port of New Korinthos smelled like stale urine and thrice-digested fish, but he did not mind. In fact, the first thing he had done after tromping sullenly off the boat was to find a tavern to binge on real food—anything besides watered-down grog and hardtack. He had considered buying a girl, but harbor whores were universally infected with the pox. Wenching could wait until they were further inland. A fortnight at sea had killed his libido, anyway.

“Ale, your freshest meat, and fluffy bread. Keep it coming, too,” Ringo said, and slammed the round of Old Nayto on the bartop. The tavernkeep picked up the round, inspected the headstamps, and shook it gently near his ear to check for the subtle swish of smokeless powder grains. Satisfied, the keep brought out a tankard of hoppy ale, a plate of just-made blood sausage, and a warm wheat boule. Ringo attacked his meal, drained the ale, and felt human again.

“Did you come here on the
Cuenta
from Astarte?” the keep asked.

Ringo nodded.

“Oy, it was good joss to come here then.”

“How so?” he asked through a mouthful of bread.

“You’ve been at sea, so you couldn’t have heard. We just got word from the clipper captains a day earlier. Astarte’s gone over to the Imperium.”

Ringo’s eyes widened, and he straightened to let out a gasp, only to be interrupted by beer-soaked crumbs that tumbled down his trachea. He doubled over, coughing and gagging and pounding his chest. The tavernkeep reached out, but Ringo angrily waved him off.

“What do you mean,
gone over
?”

“I mean what I said, Sir Knight. The city’s run up the Osterbrand flag beside its own.”

“Who fucked up the siege?”

“There was no siege. I’m told assassins took Princess Sophie’s life, and in the chaos the Liberation Army entered.”

Ringo squeezed his temples in disbelief. “They killed Princess Sophie? The animals! The fucking spetsnaz were involved, I bet my life!”

“Sir Knight, I must decline the wager.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ringo snarled. Goose bumps erupted on his skin. If Astarte was lost, that meant his promised reward had evaporated, too. His dreams of a hundred thousand rounds of Old Nayto started to dissolve into excrement. There was no work for a chevalier in the Dominion—no, the Imperium—and he lacked the funds to return. He was marooned in enemy territory.
I’m ruined! I’m fucking ruined! Mezeta, you bitch, did you plan this? Why not just kill me instead? Damn you to hell!

“Sir Knight?”

Ringo’s face contorted into an agonized rictus while he dug into his scalp with his nails. His lips twitched, and he frothed from between clenched teeth.

The tavernkeep sucked his teeth and started to slowly back away.

“The primate,” Ringo said. “What of the
primate
? Does he
live
?”

The tavernkeep cringed. “I’m told, Sir Knight, that the man was named a viceroy by the Imperium. He’s their dog now. Just goes to show that the nobles always come out on top regardless of who wins, eh?”

Ringo wiped tears away with his sleeve. If the primate still lived—and more importantly, if he still had wealth—then perhaps there was some merit in following Hecaton for the moment. The chance to salvage even a small reward was better than the execrable, short future he was otherwise left with. Besides, there were probably others who might wish to reward him for the witch’s death. Perhaps someone might even seek to hire him as a bodyguard, for the man who took down Hundred-Arms Mezeta would earn fame beyond imagination. He resolved to bide his time. He’d suffer the misery of being Hecaton’s man for a while. And then he’d pull her intestines out through her mouth.

“I’ll take my change in Luger,” he said, and stuffed the last of the bread in his mouth. The keep hastily returned five rounds.

Ringo was still jittery when he left the tavern. Nausea coursed through him, and he ducked into a side alley where he retched his lunch all over the bricks. He punched the wall in impotent anger: at the primate, at Hecaton, at his compatriots, and at his own body for rejecting a meal that he had paid too much for. He squatted, brought his hands up to his face and started to sob in earnest. His master at the Ordo had told him once: sometimes it was better to weep rather than keep his rage contained. But
only
in private.

When he was done, he rubbed at his face and stood. Samara knelt almost right next to him, petting a stray kitten and feeding it morsels of jerky from a pouch. Ringo’s jaw dropped. She had seen the entire thing. She had seen him wail like a woman.

“You bitch,” he snarled, “how long have you spied on me?”

Samara blinked and shook her head.

“Don’t play coy. The others are too stupid to notice your snooping, but I do. What’s your aim? Are you telling Janus my secrets?”

Samara scooped up the kitten, curtsied, and started to walk away.

Ringo had tolerated enough. He could always pay Janus back for property damage, and this damnable wench more than deserved a split lip and a broken tooth. He stepped forward and clamped a hand on her shoulder, intending to spin her around and into a proper slap. For a moment, he was struck by how
muscular
she felt underneath her habit.

Ringo’s world exploded in white. His perspective upended itself, and he landed face down in the soft dirt of the alley. Before he could fully process what had happened, he felt the unmistakable sensation of a knife-edge against his throat. Someone’s knee was on his back, and his wrists were caught in an iron-vise grip. The kitten peered at him and started to lick his nose.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell them that I saw you have a good cry,” a woman purred in his ear.

“Sa-Samara?” Ringo gasped.

“Hey, sexy.”

He struggled, only to feel the knife press harder. “Who…no,
what
the fuck are you?”

“Not so loud, boyfriend,” Samara admonished. “I really didn’t want you to see this side of me, but I won’t tolerate abuse in our relationship. So, no more hitting, and no more cursing. If you’re good, I’ll do something nice for you.”