The Guns of Empire (4 page)

He was also surprisingly short, topping Raesinia by only four or five inches and barely reaching to Jo's nose. His eyes went from Raesinia to her bodyguards and back again, and the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Your Grace,” Raesinia said. “I regret that we haven't had the chance to meet before now.”

“We have, as a matter of fact,” Dorsay said. He spoke good Vordanai, though his aristocratic Borelgai accent gave it a nasal twang. “I visited your father's court with a military delegation, and we were introduced to the royal children. You were about two years old, but I thought you comported yourself with dignity. Though I don't blame you if you don't remember.”

“My mistake, then.” Raesinia found herself smiling automatically in response. “Your journey here was smooth?”

He shrugged. “As smooth as it can be, at my age. Every time I think Georg is finally going to leave me alone to my hounds and my brewing, up comes a messenger telling me I must ride at once for the latest crisis.”

It took Raesinia a moment to realize that ‘Georg' was Georg Pulwer, the King of Borel. She raised an eyebrow. “I sincerely hope we can put this crisis to rest here and now.”

“My back would certainly be grateful. Accrued interest on too many nights in the saddle. And now that your man Vhalnich's given the Hamvelts a good scare, maybe everyone's ready to talk.” He looked up at Jo. “Are you from his women's regiment? Or is that just a rumor?”

“The Girls' Own,” Barely said, voice stiff with belligerent pride. “We've been with them since Desland.”

Dorsay turned to the shorter woman. “You were at Jirdos, then? When Vhalnich finally cooked di Pfalen's bacon?”

“I . . .” Barely seemed flustered, having expected some insult. Jo nodded vigorously.

“I'd very much like to speak to the two of you at some point, then. Have you mark up a few maps. Some of the Hamvelts are talking a lot of nonsense about what happened, and I'd like to get it straight.” He glanced at Raesinia. “If Her Majesty doesn't mind.”

“Of course,” Raesinia said. “You're welcome to—”

She froze. Coming up behind Dorsay was another man, short and plump, his face dominated by huge spectacles that distorted his eyes into pale blurs. Raesinia felt her fists clench of their own accord, and her pulse raced.

Orlanko
. The Last Duke, the master of the Concordat, Vordan's former secret police. The force behind the plot to take the throne from her, a plot that would have succeeded without Janus' intervention. The one responsible for so much spilled blood.
Ben's, Faro's, who knows how many others.
His allies among the Priests of the Black had saved Raesinia's life when she lay dying, and cursed her with the demon that denied her any hope of a normal existence.

“Majesty,” he said, with a tiny bow. His expression was unreadable behind the huge glasses.

Raesinia looked back to Dorsay, her expression set, refusing to let her emotions show.

“What,” she said, “is he doing here?”

Dorsay looked uncomfortable. “He's been a guest of Georg's at the court in Viadre. Since he's been advising on Vordanai matters, it seemed natural to invite him to be part of our delegation.”

“This man, Mallus Kengire”—Raesinia deliberately emphasized his lack of title, though she found herself unable to think of him as anything other than “Orlanko”—“has been stripped of his lands and title for high treason. So far as the Vordanai government is concerned, he is a wanted criminal. He has no right to take part in a sensitive negotiation.”

“I believe I have every right,” Orlanko said. “We are here to compromise, are we not?”

“There will be no compromise on
this
point while I sit the throne.” Raesinia looked him square in the eye. “You may scuttle back to your friends in Viadre if you wish, but you will never return to Vordan.” She turned back to Dorsay. “And if I see him again, my participation in this conference is over.”

“Your Majesty!” Orlanko said, with a calm tone that carried a hint of mockery. “I am an invited guest, and this is a peace negotiation. I realize we have had our differences, but surely . . .”

Dorsay frowned, and for a moment Raesinia thought he was going to call her bluff.
Then there's nothing to do but storm out.
She'd spoken in haste and in anger, still unsettled by Prince Dzurk's fantastic bluntness, but she'd meant every word.
Any peace that brings Orlanko back is worse than war.

“Mallus,” Dorsay said. Raesinia wasn't sure she'd heard anyone address Orlanko by just his given name, not even her father. “Perhaps you should return to our camp.”

“What?” Orlanko's voice descended to a hiss. “I have a mandate from His Majesty. You can't—”

“I have orders from His Majesty as well,” Dorsay said, unperturbed. “Including instructions on what results he expects from this conference, and they don't include breaking it up before it begins. Now, are you going to walk out of here under your own power, or shall I have my guards escort you?”

“You wouldn't dare,” Orlanko said. “You up-jumped half commoner. Lay a hand on me and His Majesty will have you farming mud in Vinbria.”

“It's been my earnest desire to be away from matters of state these last twenty years, but His Majesty continues to require my expertise.” Dorsay shrugged. “Besides, I'm willing to bet that I know Georg considerably better than you do.” He raised one hand, and a Borelgai officer hurried over.

Orlanko turned on his heel and stalked away before the soldier could reach
him. He shot Raesinia a last glare, which she returned as levelly as she could. Only when he'd left the room did she look back at Dorsay.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My apologies,” Dorsay said. “I did not mean to discomfit you.”

“Does your king really listen to him?”

Dorsay looked around. At least a dozen members of his own delegation were within earshot. He shrugged again. “Georg listens to everyone,” he said after a pause. “He's always very open-minded.”

The Borels are not unified,
she thought.
And Dorsay and Orlanko are on opposite sides. Interesting.
The question was, who else was in Orlanko's faction?
If we can play them off one another at the conference table—

“His Lordship,” the butler boomed, “Count Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, First Consul of the Kingdom of Vordan!”

—

The room went quiet as the main doors opened. Slowly, without wanting to seem like they were interested, the assembled dignitaries crowded around.

Janus wore a new dress uniform, less ornate than he'd worn as Minister of Justice, though his shoulders carried laurels wrought in gold to match the leafy crowns of the ancient consuls. Six soldiers accompanied him, all wearing silver pins in the shape of a rearing scorpion. Over the winter Janus had reorganized the army and created new badges and insignia; the scorpion marked veterans of the Khandarai campaign.
His most loyal soldiers, presumably.
Raesinia felt suddenly cold.

The First Consul waved as he entered, raising a hand as all three foreign delegations pressed forward. Count Dzurk shouldered his way to the front of the Murnskai and stared at Janus in open fascination, while the Hamveltai delegation was a roil of shoving and elbows. Dorsay stayed by Raesinia's side, pushing through the crowd in a more dignified fashion.

Raesinia tried to see Janus the way the others saw him, these foreigners who knew him only by reputation. Tall, passably handsome in a cold way, but with huge gray eyes that seemed to shine with their own inner light. He had a way of looking at a crowd so that each man felt his gaze, as though the two of them were face-to-face. And when you
were
face-to-face with him, the power of his intelligence was like the heat of an oven, threatening to burn anything that strayed too close.

He looks like a king.

“My lords,” Janus said, in a high, ringing voice. “My sincere apologies for being late. Armies are needy beasts, I'm afraid.”

There was a ripple of uncertain laughter. Janus smiled, just for a moment.

“I have kept you waiting, and so I will get straight to the point,” he went on. “Tomorrow morning we will begin what promises to be a great deal of tedious back-and-forth over how we might achieve peace. I thought I might be able to improve the process by laying
our
cards on the table, as it were. These are Vordan's terms.”

What is he
doing
?
Negotiators in the Ministry of State had spent weeks on their strategy, and this had been no part of it.
Should I stop him?
But that would show division in front of the other leaders, and if Janus chose that moment to stage a confrontation . . .

He knows I won't.
His gaze lit on her, just for a moment.
Of course he knows. I don't dare interfere, because I don't dare force a showdown, not in public.

But why?

“There is one power not represented in this room,” Janus said, “who are nevertheless at the heart of this war. It is they who began it, inserting their agents into the Vordanai court to take advantage of the illness of the late king. When that failed, it was they who pushed the other powers to make war on Vordan, to interfere in a purely internal political matter.

“I speak, of course, of the Sworn Church of Elysium. They are the true enemy of Vordan in this struggle. And until Vordan is convinced
they
are willing to make peace, we dare not put away our swords.

“So our terms are these. The leaders of the Sworn Church must swear to never again interfere in matters of state in Vordan, or in any other country where they are not welcome. To guarantee their good behavior, a Vordanai army will be permitted to occupy the fortress of Elysium, at the Church's expense. In return, the Vordanai state will agree to a cessation of hostilities, with all captured territories to be returned to status quo ante.”

Raesinia had thought the room quiet before. Now it was dead silent, as though everyone present was holding their breath. She herself was too stunned to speak.
What the hell does he think he's doing?

“We will accept nothing less,” Janus went on. “Indeed, we cannot. The Church will pick up new puppets no matter how many we smash to pieces. If we are ever to have peace, this is the only way. I urge you—”

There was a commotion among the Murnskai delegation. Prince Dzurk, medals jingling, pushed clear of his companions and strode across the empty space between him and Janus. The Colonials closed ranks in front of their
leader, polite but firm, and the prince was left staring at Janus across a wall of blue uniforms.

“You arrogant
blykaak
,” Dzurk said, accent thickening further in his rage. “You
dare
insult Father Church like this? No southern army will ever come within sight of the walls of Elysium. I invite you to try. You will all find your graves in the empire, and I will piss on them!”

“If necessary, I will take you up on that invitation,” Janus said mildly. “But I'd prefer not to have to.”

“Just because you defeated a pack of fat old bankers, you think you are invincible.” Dzurk's hand went to his belt, searching for the hilt of a sword that wasn't there. “The warriors of Holy Murnsk will be pleased to show you the error of your ways.”

Janus gave a little shrug and one of his brief smiles. Dzurk snorted and spat at the feet of the nearest Colonial, then turned and stalked away.

Suddenly everyone was shouting. In the pandemonium, Raesinia grabbed Duke Dorsay's arm. When he turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, she mouthed,
Later.

Dorsay nodded.

—

“Is the man mad?” Dorsay said.

The best suite in the hotel had been reserved for Raesinia, but in Talbonn that didn't amount to much. Everything was ornate, oversized, and covered in gilt, a commoner's idea of luxury. A few obvious repairs couldn't disguise the generally threadbare state of the place, with flaking paint and patchy carpets. Raesinia sat at a wrought-iron table covered in gold leaf, made to look like a blooming flower. She glanced down, not wanting to meet Dorsay's eyes, and picked idly at a bit of gold where it was peeling.

Sothe stood by the door. All the other servants had been dismissed for the evening, and to Raesinia's surprise Dorsay had come alone.

“I don't believe the First Consul is insane, no,” Raesinia said carefully.

“Then does what he said represent the position of the Vordanai government? Does he speak for Vordan?”

There was a long silence. A piece of the gold leaf tore free.

“The First Consul is our highest authority on . . . military matters,” Raesinia said carefully. “In that sphere, he has my full confidence.”

Dorsay sat back in his chair, eyes hooded.

“I thought the prince's performance felt a little forced,” Raesinia offered.

The Borelgai shrugged. “Prince Dzurk may be a boor, but perhaps not quite as
big
of a fool as he seems. I think he finds the appearance of boorishness convenient.”

“I didn't think he was such a religious type.”

“I suspect it is more about pride. With the Murnskai, it is always about pride. They believe the south has looked down on them since the days of the Tyrants.” Dorsay shook his head. “They will never agree to these terms. Even if the emperor wanted to, his people would rise against him when they found out. Dzurk may not be a religious man, but the commoners of Murnsk worship with a fervor you southerners find hard to understand.”

“And the Borelgai?” Raesinia said.

“Borel is . . . more complex. We've always been a mix of north and south. Old and new, Mithradacii and Vanadii. Church and commerce.” Dorsay sighed and ran a hand over his bald pate. “I've always been a soldier, Your Majesty. Matters of state make me uncomfortable.”