The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (25 page)

The Mother Matriarch looked uncomfortable.  “Not poisons, my dear.  Our salves are meant to heal.”

“But they harm the abominations.”

“Evidently.”

“And your protective marks, they work against the abominations as well?”

“Yes, they seem to.  Though they are not absolute proof against the greater ones.”

“Then perhaps...”  Ardent paused, realizing she was trying to design a trap she had already argued not to spring.  “I will keep it in mind, thank you.  I believe we have our assignments then.  The brothels, the Hammer, your man Chelaith.  And I shall continue to have my people dissuade the rioters.”

“You won't pull out?” said the Lord Governor.

“Not for now.  We'll see how this goes.”

The Lord Governor rose to clasp her hand, beaming, and after a moment the Commander did so as well, though the thundercloud had not left his face.  She traded nods with the High Guildsman and the Mother Matriarch, and then she stepped away to the folding-screen set up in the corner, to escape through the shadows she'd come in by.

“Void's Teeth,” she muttered to her waiting Enforcers, a five-member detail she had left lurking in case of trouble.  They fell in at her heels as she strode down the white path, two behind and three on the flip-side as usual.

“So we continue surveillance, nothing more?” said her right-hand woman Zhahri, disappointed.  Thin-blooded and driven, she had been one of those Ardent poached from Taradzur-
kai
upon her exit.  “There hasn't been much to see.”

“Scouts coming and going, acting like they're invisible,” said her left-hand man Ticuo.  He was not her usual third, but she had pulled him from her main Enforcement squad because he'd been born in Bahlaer and knew most of its Kheri in person.

“We're not fighting,” she told them.  “Not yet.  I'd like to make some mischief though, see how they respond.  Crates of manure and the like.”

“Not crates of eiyets?” said Zhahri.

“We don't want to kill them.  The name of the game is containment.  Until we see what the other bait fishes up, we're just here to keep our people safe.  Understood?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Now let's give them some exercise.”

*****

The anonymous tip about a Shadow depot came at the end of the midday meal.  Sarovy, in the mess-hall, set his fork down as a scout rushed over waving a map.  He had barely picked at his food anyway, not much of an appetite these days.

“What is it?” he said, trying to recall the scout's name.  They all blended together in his mind, no matter that they came from all points of the Empire and represented all sizes, all builds.

“A target, sir.”  The scout flattened the map beside him, black bracer peeking out from beneath his orange-and-green sleeve.  If not for the Crimson medallion he had pulled out from under his garish tunic, he was indistinguishable from the rest of the colorblind citizenry.  “The fellow would barely answer a question, but I ghosted over to spy on it, make sure it wasn't fake, and it looks like there's stuff there.  Lots of stuff.  Not sure who it belongs to, though.”

Sarovy peered at the parchment, childishly hand-drawn but with landmarks that let him match it to his mental map.  “Lower Hook...not too far.  We can look into it.  Roust the...”  He ran the roster through his head.  “Roust Arlin's platoon and find me Vrallek and the Scryer.  I will be in my office.  —Oh, and tell the stableman to bard my horse.”

The scout saluted then scarpered, and Sarovy rose with the map, scanning the mess-hall for the men he needed.  He had the inklings of a plan already coalescing in his head, and in short order had several ruengriin and infantrymen at his heels, still licking their fingers or scrubbing crumbs from their beards.  He had them wait in the assembly hall as he took the stairs in threes.

Comparison of map to map told him he was right: the marked building was a warehouse in Lower Hook, in the Ridgeline neighborhood near the river.  Scribbles indicated a basement, and his city maps showed the area riddled with old tunnels.  A fine place for smugglers.

A fine place to get ambushed.

“Come in,” he said to the banging on the door.  He knew it was Vrallek by the heavy tread and the odor—a mix of ruengriin and ogrekin stink, like having dirty fingers stuck up his nose.  A moment later he heard another man shove in, then the quiet tension of a staring match between equals.  “At ease, lieutenants.  We have found a target for our aggression.”

“A brothel?” said Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek, grinning.

“No, and don't make me speak to you about your attitude.  We've been tipped off to a cult storehouse.  I expect a trap, so we will be cautious.  Lieutenant Arlin, I want half of your platoon geared for close quarters; the other half stays here.  Houndmaster, I want all of your ruengriin in whatever armor they can wear and still haul things.  Bring Sergeant Presh for lights, and I will need all of your scouts as well, but for a different task.  The rest of your men are excused.”

“That doesn't leave many,” said Vrallek with a chuckle.

“Send up two scouts—any two—immediately.  Dismissed.”

The heavy boots thumped away, and Sarovy moved to pull on his armor.  Off went the uniform-coat, on went the padding, then the chainmail, then the light plates.

The sound of slippers alerted him to Scryer Mako.  He glanced back to find her watching him with a raised brow as he worked the buckles at his sides.  “You summoned?” she said.

“We have a—“

“Tip, I heard.  Any reason you didn't use the earhook?  Or our connection?”

He grimaced.  For all the convenience of mentalism, he still felt leery of it.  “I prefer to speak in person.  I need a portal.”

The other brow went up.  “We need a portal for clearing out a storehouse?”

“No, I'm considering—“  He saw the scouts crowd up behind her and beckoned them all inside, the plan still assembling itself.  “I need you to give them portal stakes,” he said, nodding to the scouts.  “I want a portal on the rooftop.  Archers, veiled.”

“Why do you need a portal for that?  You could just send them.”

“To climb a building under veil?”  He paused.  “Can a veil cross through a portal?  I do not know how magic interacts with itself.”

Scryer Mako shrugged one shoulder, arms crossed.  “Mine will.  I'm a Scryer, it's my job.  Why do you need veiled archers on a roof?”

“Why would I ever not need veiled archers on a roof?”

She rolled her eyes.  “Yes, you're very tactical.  But is there a threat?”

“Not stated.”

“Then why the subterfuge?”

“Because we are taking a cult storehouse.  They attack from darkness, spring traps—“

“Then someone should take portal stakes into the storehouse, not up on a roof.”

He frowned.  She had a point.  “Can you sustain two portals at once?”

“Of course.”

“Then portal stakes with Sergeant Presh as well.”

“The place isn't teleport-blocked?”

“And how would I know, Madam Scryer?”

“I'll go through with the archers then and take a good scan of it.”

“I do not want you exposed to—“

“How sweet.  But I'll be fine with the archers.  I don't care if they get shot for me; they're Trivesteans.”

“Not all of them.  There are several Wynds.”

“Oh, that's even better.  Wynds are meaty.”

“Er,” said a scout, and Sarovy tore his gaze from the gleam in the Scryer's eyes.  This scout was scruffy, earth-dark—local-looking.  “You said you wanted all of us, but most are still in the field...”

“I asked the Houndmaster to bring them in.  I have been told he has his ways.”

“Yeah, but so what do you want from them?  If it's to re-deploy them, he can do that himself, you don't have to summon them all the way back here.”

Sarovy regarded the man, wondering how that worked, then nodded stiffly.  “Tell him to give them the location—here, I've marked it—and have them disperse around the area to observe.  You can make yourselves undetectable?”

“Hard to notice, more like.  Works best in crowds but we'll do our best.  Anything else?”

“No.  See to it, scout...?”

“Telren.”

“Scout Telren.”

The scout saluted then scurried off with the map, leaving Sarovy with the Scryer and a second scout blending into the woodwork.  If he did not stare at the man, he could easily forget he was there.  “You.  Get me one team of archers.  Dismissed,” he said pointedly, and the scout gave a sheepish look and slunk out.

“You would prefer us have some privacy?” said Scryer Mako, amused.

Sarovy turned away, ostensibly to attach the rest of his armor.  He knew he had a hard shell.  He had cultivated it over more than a decade of grinding effort, intent on regaining something that he had lost—not honor, not rank, but the fire he had once possessed.  The drive, the desire for anything.

He did not have it.  Just duty.  And no patience for flirtation.

“You are capable of wards?” he said.

“I'm not brilliant at them, but we're all taught how.”

“Ward me, please.”

He heard the question on her lips, but then she let it die and came forward, and as he felt her start tracing something on his back-plate, he let himself exhale.  He did not want to deal with this, did not even want to be aware of it, but now that he was, he had to work around it.

A shiver of sensation passed over him, like being enfolded in a blanket.  Then it dissipated and she said, “Done.”

“Thank you.”  He swung on the short red cloak with the Blaze Company flare, clasped it, buckled on his heirloom sword.  Pulled the crested helm and diamond-shaped shield from the stand.

“I don't see why you need all that gear,” she said, eyeing him up and down as he turned.  “Or a ward.  You're not leading them in, are you?”

“No.  But I plan to make of myself a target.”

She gaped at him but he brushed by, already hearing the buzz of anticipation from the men below.  They hushed as he stepped out to the balcony, most of the ruengriin still struggling with their bulkier armor.  Chain tunic, steel cuirass and gorget, sallet helm, winged pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves, like miniature battering rams.  He had seen them in action similarly armored, and knew they could move frighteningly fast.  Sergeant Presh, on the other hand, matched the infantrymen in chain and hardened leather plus a broad-brimmed iron hat, an adaptation from the Jernizen campaign to ward off the saber-blows of their cavalry.

“Good,” said Sarovy as he rattled down the stairs. “We have a storehouse to empty at the river's edge, possibly benign, possibly full of cultists.  We will enter and secure the building, determine the ownership of the materials and remove them if they are Shadow Cult.  Civilian opposition is to be captured, cult opposition killed.  I have already warned the council of this.  Now we carry it out.”

A rough cheer went up from the crowd, and Sarovy knew that this was necessary.  The men needed to stretch their legs, flex some muscle, do some work, even if it was running after rumors.  Otherwise, penned up in here like they were under siege, they would take it out on each other.  But the tension made this dangerous; an unwarranted clash between soldiers and citizens could bring the city down around his head.

Thus his presence.  He had to see bad behavior to correct it.

“Vrallek, Arlin, start them out.  I will join you shortly.”

The lieutenants saluted, and with hollers they began to herd the men into the street.  From the stairs above, Sarovy felt Scryer Mako's stare boring into his back.  Before she could speak, the second scout rushed up with six yawning archers on his heels.

“Archers, sir!” he crowed.

“Yes, I see that.  The six of you with Scryer Yrsian.  You, scout...?”

“Kemithry, sir.”

“Scout Kemithry.  Where did Scout Telren go?”

“Here,” came a voice from his side, close enough to make him twitch.

“The two of you, get portal stakes from the Scryer.  Deliver one pair to Sergeant Presh, who I believe just marched out the door.  Tell him to use them once inside.  Take the other pair to a rooftop overlooking the storehouse entry.  You can climb, I hope.”

“Sure,” said Scout Telren.  “This whole city is brick.  Easy as pie.”

“Sure,
sir
,” the other scout corrected in a sharp undertone.

“Right.  What he said.”

Sarovy eyed them for a moment, then said, “Dismissed.  You as well, Scryer.”

He heard her slippers on the stairs, her frosty silence, and then the scouts and archers brushed past to follow her.

Sarovy made for the door, hoping to get out before Lieutenant Linciard could spot him and send the entire Lancer platoon as his guards.  Linciard was off-shift according to the roster, and usually spent that time holed up in his office—luxuriating in privacy for once in his peasant life—but the commotion might yet draw him out and Sarovy did not want to deal with that.

Outside, Lancers Garrenson and Serinel were already waiting, armored and horsed.