The Prophecy Con (Rogues of the Republic) (27 page)

While the dead shuffled away safely in the distance, the princess grimaced and stood a little straighter, giving Gentle Thunder a tight smile. “You trained me for years, Thunder. If I could not roll my way clean in a fall like that, my father would have had you executed for educating me so poorly.”

“Then I suppose it is fortunate for both of us.” Arikayurichi even managed the tiny intake of breath that would signify an amused chuckle from a man who did not give himself to laughter. “As for my silence . . .” He looked over, his dragon-faced visor pointing at Shenziencis for a moment. “Attendant Shenziencis is concerned that too many lives have been lost on this mission.”

“The uncultured rulers of this Republic care so little for their own people,” Shenziencis said in disgust. She gestured at the wreckage of the train. “Look at what Isafesira de Lochenville did to escape us. In our effort to avert death, we are most assuredly causing her to kill more innocent people. I said as much to Gentle Thunder, and he said that if I wished to share my opinion with you, he would not gainsay me.”

“It is not my place.” Gentle Thunder’s body nodded, then turned back to Veiled Lightning. “What do you wish, Veil?”

Princess Veiled Lightning’s lavender skirt was torn, and strands of hair hung free from her braids. She was clearly tired and hurting more than pride would let her show.

But Shenziencis had read her correctly. That pride would do more than keep her standing when it would be easier to sit.

“If we flinch from watching the Republic kill a few of its own now,” she said, “we will have to watch them kill many more of their own, and ours, in the future. Isafesira de Lochenville is a murderer of her own people and a threat to ours.” She took a breath, looking at each of them in turn. “I must continue. If you believe this quest dishonorable, I free you both to return to the Empire.”

“This quest is dangerous, possibly even foolhardy . . . but it has never been dishonorable.” Gentle Thunder’s body bowed low before the princess. “I am with you to the end, Veil.”

“As am I,” Shenziencis added. “This Isafesira de Lochenville has disgraced the Temple of Butterflies—
my
temple—not once but twice.” She smiled, and it was in no way a false smile. “I would share words with her.”

Fourteen

L
OCH WOKE UP
hurting, but not as much as she’d expected.

“How long?” Her voice was scratchy. She reached out blindly, and hands pressed a cup into her hands.

“Few days,” Kail said, and helped her drink. This wasn’t the first time he’d nursed her back from a bad fight.

She coughed on the first swallow, then recovered enough to sip. “The manuscript?”

“Still with your friend Ethel,” Kail said, “since apparently you threw it at him.”

“I thought I was throwing a knife.” She took another sip and got more this time.

“That’s a relief. I thought you were trying to be sporting.”

Loch opened her eyes. Daylight slid through the window of what was clearly a room at an inn. “Where are we?”

“Jershel’s Nest.” Kail took the cup back.

Loch knew of the city, vaguely, though she’d never been there. “Up near the Elflands?”

“Last city before them. The front half of the train stopped here after the crash.”

“Irrethelathlialann here, too?” Loch sat up, wincing a little at the tightness.

“You’d be dead if not for Icy doing whatever weird Imperial energy not-quite-magic he does until Ululenia and Desidora got here,” Kail said instead of answering her question. He stepped forward into her space, blocking any move to get up, which was what she’d been about to do.

“Glad they could join us, then.” Loch looked at him. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Tern took a bolt in the chest. It was touch and go, but she’s fine. Resting, like you should be.”

“I will, just as soon as you tell me how long we’ve got before Irrethelathlialann gets transport out of town.”

“Captain,
stop
.”

“I’m fine, Kail.” She glared up at him. “I’ve been knocked on my ass before.”

“You nearly died,” he said, and the way he said it, evenly and without changing expression, gave her pause.
“Tern
nearly died
.”

“How many people
did
die when the train crashed?” She really didn’t want to know the answer to that question, but a good commander had to know.

“Captain, stop,” he said again, but this time it was softer.

“That many.” Loch lay back against a lumpy pillow. “Hell of a plan we came up with, huh?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

“Fault doesn’t matter.” Loch thought of Gentle Thunder swinging the ax, of diving out of the way and feeling so smart as he chopped through the train instead of her. “I let the fight happen. Against the Imperials, against Irrethelathlialann, even against Jyelle.”

Kail blinked. “Jyelle?”

“Long story. Apparently I need to avoid unshielded daemons for awhile.” Loch held out her hand. Kail passed her the cup, and she took another sip. The cup was rough on her fingers, chipped along the rim.

“Are we doing the right thing?” she asked.

“You can’t turn yourself in,” he said, shrugging. “You’d be giving the Learned exactly what they want, and we both know it would only postpone the war, not stop it.”

“But it might have given someone else time to prevent it.”

Kail laughed. “You think anyone else is even trying?” He took the cup away from her. “It’s you or nothing, Captain. So don’t die, all right?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Loch said, and he looked at her, still angry, but then gave a grudging nod and a bit of a smile. “Now—really—bring me up to speed, and I’ll lie here instead of getting up as long as you keep talking.”

Voyant Beaulieu of the Learned Party stood by the mantle in his sitting room, clutching his brandy snifter tightly and trying not to sweat as Voyant Cevirt of the Skilled Party smiled. The Urujar man’s smile was a white slash across his dark face, and Beaulieu had always found Urujar a little unnerving to begin with, though even in the Learned Party, one didn’t admit those sorts of things these days.

“If you wish to make an accusation,” Beaulieu said stiffly, “I suggest you make it plainly.”

“If I made an accusation,” Voyant Cevirt said, “we would have to
investigate
that accusation publicly, with
justicars
. Is that something you want? Do you want the Republic mired in the mud with half the Voyancy disgraced while the Imperials send zombies across the border and kill our people?”

“These insinuations are deeply insulting, Cevirt,” Beaulieu said, “and I will remember them the next time—”

“Shut. Up.” Cevirt stepped in, and before Beaulieu could react, Cevirt’s hand closed on his wrist. It slammed the brandy snifter against the mantle, locked behind his elbow, and brought the jagged edge of the broken snifter to Beaulieu’s throat.

An intricate crystal mosaic covered the wall above Beaulieu’s mosaic. Beautiful glowing gems showed Heaven’s Spire in all its glory looking down over a green and healthy Republic. Beaulieu looked at it desperately, the glass sharp against his throat.

“
That
is how you kill someone, Beaulieu,” Cevirt said. “Quietly, with minimal fuss, on your own or using people you hired with your own money. You don’t send the gods-damned Knights of Gedesar, a
military
unit, after one of our own civilians, no matter how unhappy you are that she took down your patron, Archvoyant Silestin.”

“What do you want?” Beaulieu asked without moving his neck at all. He had always loved the mosaic on the wall, and now he looked at it as though it had the power to keep him alive.

“I
want
to end the life of the man who sent hired killers after my god-daughter,” Cevirt said, “and then say that he slipped and had a tragic accident, and there would be questions, and a shadow of scandal, and it might affect my political career, but believe me, Beaulieu, I
would
get away with it.”

After a long pause, he shoved Beaulieu away.

“But the Voyancy needs you alive right now,” Cevirt went on, “so what I will
accept
is you calling off the Knights of Gedesar.”

Beaulieu rubbed his neck. He didn’t look at his hand afterward to see if there was blood on it. He was shaking, but he refused to show that much weakness. “I do that, and you forget this?”

Cevirt smiled, and Beaulieu flinched. “You do that, Voyant, and you get to live. If I were you, I would call off your knights
very
quickly, and then I would get to work on cleaning up the evidence, because until you have done so, I have you on a string, and I will not hesitate to pull that string when I need you to dance. Are we clear?”

Beaulieu jerked out a nod, and Cevirt held his stare for another moment, then left without another word.

Then Beaulieu collapsed into an overstuffed chair, looking at his hands for blood.

Stupid, so stupid. He’d told himself that it was what Silestin would have wanted, that it was justified to use the Knights of Gedesar, given how dangerous that Loch woman was. He was a stupid old man, and now the Skilled Urujar voyant had something over him.

He pulled a message crystal from his pocket, his hands shaking. Best to do that first. Then make arrangements for Captain Nystin, the knight they’d spoken with. There were a few papers to be burned as well.

The crystal whined as he tried to activate it, and he shook it, glaring. He hated the new advances in magic. Some of the crystals gave him headaches, and others were entirely too complicated. “What’s the matter with you, blasted thing?” he muttered.

It was glowing red, Beaulieu saw . . . and then he realized that it wasn’t the message crystal. The chair had the same light. So did the carpet. He held up his hands and saw red on them.

The crystal mosaic on the wall was glowing crimson, and as Beaulieu stumbled to his feet, stones from the wall fell free and formed the shape of a man.

“What do you want?” Beaulieu stammered, stepping back even as the crystal-man pulled itself upright. Its hands were wrong, Beaulieu saw. They ended in hooked blades instead of fingers.

“Your voice,” said the crystal-man, and lunged forward.

Unlike Voyant Cevirt, it didn’t stop when it reached Beaulieu’s throat.

Captain Nystin grimaced as he felt the hum at his hip. Still leaning against the airship railing, he glanced around, then slid a small
yvkefer
case from a hip pocket. He flipped it open, slid the message crystal out, held it to his ear, and thumbed it on.

“You have failed twice, and risk drawing attention to this arrangement,” said a voice in his ear. The message crystal gave the voice a chiming undercurrent that always made Nystin’s teeth ache. “You will complete your operation successfully regardless of the cost. All legal ramifications can be ignored. Remain silent from this point forward. Engage at Jershel’s Nest.”

Nystin slid the message crystal back into its custom
yvkefer
case and tucked it back into his pocket. The magic-resistant metal would block any attempt to use the crystal against him, but knowing he had magic on his body still made his skin crawl. He’d fought too many battles, seen too many friends die at the hands of some spell or some monster to ever feel comfortable with it.

But as commander of the Knights of Gedesar, he didn’t have the luxury of refusing to handle things he wasn’t comfortable with. Without the message crystal, his contact in the justicars couldn’t have gotten word to him the morning after the disastrous attack on the airship. Without it, he’d have no idea where Loch and her gang were holed up.

He turned at another knight’s approach, then nodded to Hex. The older man limped to the railing and let out a little grunt as he leaned against it.

“Getting hot?” he asked without looking over.

Nystin didn’t look at his hip. Most of the knights were trained to be so distrustful of magic that the presence of the crystal would make some of them uneasy—even angry. “Warm enough. The train went sour. Three dead, half a dozen injured, and we were one flamecannon shot from falling out of the sky. Not as clean as they like it up the chain.”

“There is no chain,” Hex said, still not looking over.

“Beg pardon, Lieutenant?”

“It’s hard enough to get clearance to hit a damned
tavern
.” Hex spat over the side. “Civilians everywhere, panicking as you come through the door, screaming because they don’t know you’re trying to save them from something raised by Byn-Kodar himself. A train? No way we got the nod on that.”

“Lieutenant, if you’re making an accusation—”

“Shut up, Nystin.” Hex still didn’t look over. “I’ve got scars older than you are, and I still remember you dropping your blade on the first day of training.”

Nystin swallowed. “I was disarmed, as I recall.”

“Your memory’s being kind, then.” Hex gave a rusty chuckle. “Straight thrust on a dummy reinforced like a golem. Blade popped right out of your hands.” Then he finally did look over. “So I’m asking you straight: we taking commissions?”