Tomorrow's Kingdom (27 page)

Alas, there were not. Though the window was not ten paces away, even an especially daring and desperate prisoner—even one who was strong and lucky—would be hard pressed to make the climb without slipping. And though she was not nearly as high up as she'd been in the turret chamber, she was certainly high enough to plummet to her death.

Closing and latching the window, Persephone slowly walked over and sat back down on the bed. Unsheathing her dagger, she laid it on her lap and stared straight ahead as she formulated a plan. When the New Man commander arrived, she would call to him. She'd make him come into her chamber first, and then she'd kill him. And any soldiers he'd brought with him. And Alice too …

Persephone spent the next hours alternately pressed against the wall, pleading for Azriel to wake up, and
imagining the attack that would see her enemies dead at her feet.

Then, late in the day, she heard the distant sound of a main-floor door opening—and a few seconds later, the sound of booted feet clomping up the stairs.

Clutching her dagger tight in her sweaty hand, Persephone walked over to the door of the chamber. Licking her lips, she was about to call out to the commander when she heard an odd tapping sound behind her.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw something that caused her to whirl around and scream.

For there, perched outside the right windowpane on the impossibly narrow ledge, his every muscle straining with the effort of clinging to the wall, his eyes bluer than ever in a face streaked with blood, was Azriel.

THIRTY-THREE

A
S SOON AS MORDECAI
ducked into the main building of the New Man training camp, he barked an order to have Lord Atticus escorted to suitable chambers. Then, brusquely declining the commander's offer of a hot bath, a warm meal and clean clothes, he followed the man into his private office.

“How many soldiers do you currently have under your command?” Mordecai demanded as soon as the two of them were alone.

“Not as many as I'd hoped for, Your Grace,” admitted the commander. “However—”

“How … many?”

“Fewer than eight thousand,” replied the commander.

“
FEWER
THAN
EIGHT
THOUSAND
!” bellowed Mordecai. “How is that possible? My army numbers in the
tens
of thousands! More than a fortnight ago I sent a letter to the commander of every camp and outpost in the kingdom—I ordered them to send as many armed men as
they could spare and to do so at once!
I told them that I would not tolerate delays
!”

“It is not really a question of delays,” said the commander with a calmness that only served to inflame Mordecai further. “In some cases, the troops are coming from such far-flung places that they've not yet arrived. In other cases, it seems the commanders took to heart your words that they send only those men they could spare, and what with the growing discord throughout the realm, they felt that they really couldn't spare—”

“I care
nothing
about what they felt,” snarled Mordecai, outraged that the commander should think that he would when he, himself, was hungry, thirsty, dirty, exhausted and in such agony that he could barely hold his head up!

The commander took a deep breath. “Your Grace, with eight thousand men we should be able to engage the army of the great lords as long as it is not too—”

“
I
DO
NOT
WANT
TO
‘
ENGAGE
'
THE
ARMY
OF
THE
GREAT
LORDS
!” shrieked Mordecai. “
I
WANT
TO
CRUSH
IT
BEFORE
IT
HAS
A
CHANCE
TO
FORM
!”

“I understand, Your Grace,” said the commander.

Mordecai glared at him. He did not know what
Murdock
would have done in the face of such incompetence, but he knew what
he
was going to do. He was going to brook no excuses; he was going to show that he could be as steely a commander of men as the world had ever known.

“Commander,” he said, “what good is a standing army if it is not prepared to go to war at a moment's notice?”

The commander frowned. “Your Grace, no army could
possibly
be prepared to go to war at a moment's notice—”

“Excuses,” muttered Mordecai.

“Your Grace?”

“I ask for action and you give me
excuses
.”

The commander spread his large, capable hands wide. “Forgive me, Your Grace, if it appears that way, but we are speaking of undertaking the single greatest military campaign the realm has ever seen and—”

“I know what we are speaking of,” snapped Mordecai, thinking how pleasant it would be to smash to pulp every one of the fingers on those large, capable hands.

“I know you do, Your Grace, I
know
you do … just as I know you know that preparing for such a campaign requires time. Even for a standing army,” said the commander carefully. “Troops that have recently been made to march hard over long distances must be given a chance to recuperate. Blades must be honed, horses re-shod and given the size of the force we are bringing together, it is absolutely
critical
that we establish a supply train for we cannot be assured of being able to find what we need as we go. Moreover, there is the training of the men to consider—”

“You are commander of a training camp,” snarled Mordecai, who was getting
dangerously
tired of hearing excuses. “Are you telling me that the soldiers under your command are not trained?”

“Of course they are
trained
, Your Grace,” said the commander without flinching, “but they are trained for the tasks that have primarily occupied your great army these many years. Slave catching and Gypsy hunting, relocating lowborns and putting down minor rebellions.
The men need to … to
refine
the skills they have learned that they might be as effective as possible in a true battle situation.”

“Well, since I'm quite sure that Lord Bartok is not wasting any time gathering
his
army, they'd better refine them quickly,” said Mordecai with a shrug of his uneven shoulders.

“They will, Your Grace,” assured the commander, seeming relieved. “You have my word that all will be in readiness within six weeks.”

“You have six days.”

The commander looked stunned. “Y-Your Grace, I fear—”

“Yes?” interrupted Mordecai, his dark eyes glittering. “Tell me, Commander: what is it that you fear?”

Looking as though he could almost hear the sound of the saw being sharpened against the whetstone, the commander said nothing, only swallowed hard.

“Six days, then?”

Hesitantly, the commander nodded.

“Excellent,” breathed Mordecai. “Now, what about that hot bath?”

THIRTY-FOUR

I
T TOOK PERSEPHONE
less than a second to get over the shock of seeing Azriel perched on the narrow ledge outside the chamber window like a broad-shouldered, bloody-faced gargoyle.

Flinging her dagger aside, she flew to the window and unlatched it with hands that trembled so badly that she could not stop fumbling.

“No … no hurry, wife,” gasped Azriel. “By all means, take your time.”

Finally managing to flip the latch, Persephone hastily opened the left pane of the window.

“You're insane!” she exclaimed as she watched him inch his way toward the opening.

“Thank—”

He slipped so abruptly that Persephone didn't even have time to scream. One minute he was there, and the next minute he was gone. Gone … except for the one hand that had managed to grab onto the sill.

Leaning out of the window so fast and so far that she
nearly pitched herself headfirst out of it, Persephone seized the back of Azriel's tunic with both hands and heaved with all her might. She wasn't nearly strong enough to pull him all the way up, of course, but she
was
strong enough to lift him the few inches that he needed to be able to throw his other hand onto the sill, and thereafter to give them both the illusion that she'd be able to support him if he slipped again.

“Oh, thank the gods you're alive, thank the gods, thank the gods,” babbled Persephone as Azriel dragged himself through the window and dropped to the floor. Sinking to her knees beside him, she took his head in her hands and kissed him deeply before pulling back and anxiously examining the frighteningly ugly wound at his temple.

“It's nothing,” murmured Azriel as he woozily slipped his arms around her. “Less than a scratch.”

“It is
not
less than a scratch,” said Persephone fiercely. “And when I get my hands on Alice—”

It wasn't until the chamber door began to open that Persephone suddenly remembered the sound of booted feet climbing the stairs. Scrambling to her feet, she saw Alice leading a one-eyed, sabre-wielding New Man into the chamber.

“I thought you said the Gypsy was dead,” said the New Man, flicking his one green eye toward Azriel while absently fingering his black eye patch.

“I thought he was,” said Alice, her eyes darting between Azriel and the open window. “Anyway, he's hurt. Shouldn't put up much of a—”

“Leave us,” said the New Man.

As Alice scurried out of the chamber and closed the door behind her, Persephone gauged the distance to her dagger. Just as she was about to launch herself at it in the extremely faint hope that she'd be able to grab it and gut the New Man before he had time to react, two things happened.

The first was that Azriel clamped his hand around her ankle in an obvious effort to prevent her from doing anything reckless.

The second was that the New Man went down on one knee, bowed his head and murmured, “Your Majesty, it is an honour.”

“It is?” blurted Persephone, who was so amazed that she couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Yes,” said the New Man. “It isn't every man who gets two chances to save a queen.”

Persephone stared at him, racking her brains to remember when he'd previously saved her and wondering how on earth she could have forgotten such a thing.

As she did so, he lifted his head, fixed his green eye upon her and said, “I was the soldier tasked with removing you from the birthing chamber and disposing of you on the night of your birth, Your Majesty. I was the one who defied the Regent and saved your life.”

“Do not imagine that I am a good man, Your Majesty, for I would not have risen to my present rank if I was,” said Commander Darius. “Unlike many of my fellow soldiers, however, I try to avoid murdering infants—and queens.”

“I see,” said Persephone, who had to agree that this did not sound like the personal philosophy of a good man.