Ventus, Karl Schroeder [books to read in your 30s .txt] 📗

centuries! Turcaret represents our last best chance of finding out what the Flaw is. We can’t throw away the opportunity.”

“You sound just like her. Responsibility be damned! We may not get another chance to escape, have you thought about that? Especially if you’re right and the Winds are quarantining the place. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to die here. Which is what’s going to happen if we don’t get out now.”

“I sound like her? Is that what this is about, Mr. Chan? Is this about her?”

“No, I… —don’t change the subject.”

“You’re the one who changed the subject!”

“I—” Axel was right on the edge. He straightened up suddenly, and walked away. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Just stop.

He couldn’t stop, though. Calandria had run out on him. She didn’t trust him; after all they’d been through together, she didn’t believe in him. He was damned if he was going to take it out on this… tourist whom he’d been saddled with.

“Axel—”

“Shut up!” He walked further away.

Damn, it was cold. He would be happy to be away from here. His toes were numb, and his back kept seizing up whenever a lick of breeze made it past his cloak. It was too dangerous to light a fire; the noose of pursuers was too tight.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to go along with Marya’s idea of finding Turcaret’s body. He supposed in some abstract, academic sense it was important to know why some people could speak with the Winds while others couldn’t. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference to their survival, and it would be moot the instant Armiger had been erased from the surface of the planet. Let Ventus stew in its own juices—but let him and his friends be safe first.

Worst of all, they were riding away from Cal, just when she needed them most. On the second day of their journey Axel had awakened cursing, and leapt on his horse with every intention of going back. That was when they learned they were being pursued.

Everything was coming unravelled. Sure, they were going to escape now that the navy was here. He even told himself Calandria would see sense and try signalling, and maybe she would be offworld before he was. But Axel couldn’t shake the feeling that things were starting to swing wildly out of control. The Winds were in a frenzy—two nights ago they had been awakened by dawn light at four a.m. One of the orbital mirrors had swung round and made it bright as day for three hours, while immense shapes cruised back and forth in the upper atmosphere. And twice now Axel had spotted the wizened shapes of the creatures Jordan called morphs—always in the distance, but always staring back. Were they being shadowed by the things? If so, why hadn’t the Winds attacked?

And Axel himself? He felt like some core of self-reliance had been stripped away. He needed help! He had to get out of here, and now. Was that how Calandria felt? Out of her depth? And would she react to that feeling by fighting all the harder?

He ran his hands slow and hard through his hair, tilted his head back, and roared at the sky.

“Axel?” Marya had come up behind him. She sounded contrite—or maybe just wary.

“What?” he said wearily.

“I never asked to be here,” she said.

He looked at her. Marya wasn’t angry, but she had a determined cast to her that he was learning to respect. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. You’re right, of course. We’re so close we might as well take the chance. After all, it’s why we came here.” Or close enough as makes no difference.

“I wish she was here,” said Marya. “Truly I do. And I wish all this would end, and end happily.”

“I know.”

“Then let’s get going,” she said. “We can just get there by dark, I think.” She pranced toward the horses.

I no longer know what I’m doing. The realization had him scowling as he followed her; strangely, though, the idea also made him feel free. Recklessly, he laughed.

“All right! Let’s pay a visit to our old friend Turcaret.”

*

Practically every light in Turcaret’s mansion was lit. The manor house was much larger than the Boros home, perhaps because it was younger by several centuries. Its walls seemed to be all window, tall graceful arched portals of leaded glass separated by stolid buttresses. Like a multi-story cathedral. At another time, Axel might have stopped to admire it; Jordan Mason could have told him everything about it after one glance. Right now, all he could afford to think was, the place is crawling with people.

He and Marya crouched under some bushes on the edge of the lawn, about a hundred meters from the house. It was a cloudy night, so the lights from the manor were practically the only source of illumination. The golden wash from the windows spread across the lawn, which was dusted with the first snow of winter, and outlined a crypt in the center of the grounds.

“Commencing reentry,” said the voice of the ship. “Estimated time of arrival at your location: fifteen minutes.”

“They’re on their way,” Axel told Marya.

“Great. Let’s go then.” She rose stiffly.

“Wait!” He grabbed her arm. “Look.” He pointed at the lawn.

“What? All I see is snow.”

“Tracks! Tracks everywhere.” Dozens of sets of footprints fanned out from the manor, encircling the crypt, vanishing into numerous small outbuildings, or terminating at the black walls of forest that surrounded the grounds.

“I see them,” said Marya peevishly. “So what? This is a busy place.”

Axel growled in frustration. “And when did the snowfall stop?”

“Two hours ago.”

“Listen,” he said. “If the snow stopped a couple of hours ago, then those footprints were made since then. After nightfall.”

“Oh.” She sat down suddenly. “You mean they know we’re here?”

“I think they know someone’s coming,” he said. “But I’m sure they don’t know why. And that’s about our only advantage at this point.”

“So what do we do?” she whispered.

He eyed the crypt. “How fast can you run?” It was a rhetorical question; she was pretty good for somebody who ran on tiptoe.

“I get it,” she said. “We run over to the crypt, get the head of John the Baptist and hope the ship arrives before the soldiers.”

“John the who?”

Marya rolled her eyes. “Forget it. Well? Let’s do it then.”

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered; but he stood, and at the count of three, they jumped the bushes and ran onto the lawn.

They made it ten meters; twenty; thirty. Still no outcry. Maybe I was wrong, Axel thought.

“There! In the field!”

Maybe not. Hounds bayed, and the black silhouettes of men disengaged from the shadows of the trees on the far end of the grounds.

“Keep going!” He spun around, not waiting to see if Marya had obeyed. Six hounds were racing across the snow. Forcing himself to act slowly, Axel went down on one knee, pulled the laser pistol and steadied it, then waited for them to come within range.

Each dog in turn became a blood-red beacon, and tumbled to lie still. As each fell the next blossomed with light; an observant man would have seen the speckled line of red light that joined the crimson flare to Axel’s hand. To anyone else, it must have seemed that the snow itself welled red and bit the dogs. The last one fell no more than four meters from Axel, and before it stopped sliding he was on his feet.

Marya stood at the entrance to the crypt. Several men were converging on her; she cowered back against the stone.

“Hang on!” shouted Axel. Two more men were moving to cut him off; he cursed as he saw swords gleaming in the light from the house. Not that they could kill him—Turcaret had tried that all too scientifically already—but they hurt.

And they could easily kill Marya.

“Stop!” cried the first man. He planted himself directly in Axel’s path.

Axel kicked him in the head and kept on running.

Two men held Marya. She struggled, then slumped in one’s arms. Or seemed to; Axel heard the man shout in surprise as Marya slipped down and out of her peasant dress, leaving him astonished holding it and her sprawled in her black unitard on the snow.

She shrieked—probably from the cold. Then she rolled to one side and disappeared.

Madwoman, thought Axel. Then he was there, with five men surrounding him.

The best tactic was to let them stab him; that way they overextended themselves, and none of them expected him to reach over the sword in his chest and smack them in the face. Which is what he did. As before, the blades lacerated him but did not penetrate his skin.

The last two realized he was armored and became more wary, but he didn’t give them any time, because he could see the doors of the manor opening, and armed men pouring out.

“Axel!” He sent his last opponent down with a side kick and turned to find Marya next to him. Her body below the neck was enveloped in an inky black cloud; she was shivering uncontrollably.

“I improvised,” she said.

“You’re brilliant,” he said, and hugged her with one arm. Then they ran over to the crypt.

The doors were bronze, very solid, and very closed. He pulled hard on the ring set into the right panel, but it didn’t budge.

“Lock,” said Marya, pointing.

“I know, I know.” He took out the pistol. “Cover your eyes.”

The metal glowed, groaned, and a hole appeared above the lock. Axel kicked the door. It held fast. “Bastard!” He shot the lock again.

“Axel!” They were surrounded again. Marya stepped between Axel and the soldiers, shouting, “Get the door!”

“Get the door? What are you going to do, hold them off with your bare hands?”

Someone tackled Marya from the side. They rolled out of sight around the corner of the crypt.

Axel shot the door again and as they came for him he hit it with his shoulder. It gave way just as if someone on the other side had opened it and he fell through.

Luckily, it was only three steps down. Axel hit all three on his way to the floor. When he rose, cursing, he was entirely in darkness, except for a panel of grey representing the door. A man was silhouetted there. The man was saying, “I’m not going in there.”

“Wise!” shouted Axel.

“We’ve got your accomplice!” said another voice. “Come out or she’s done for.”

Axel barked a laugh. He stepped up, fumbled until he found the hot edge of the door, and said, “Get stuffed.” Then he closed it.

“ETA five minutes,” said a voice in his head. “Are you ready for us?”

“Oh yeah.”

He shuffled around for a bit, bumping into sarcophagus-shaped obstacles every couple of meters. Axel had night-vision just like Calandria, but that only worked when there was some source of illumination, even if it was too faint for ordinary human sight.

“Fuck it.” He undid his cloak and threw it over a stone something. Then he shot it with the laser.

The cheerful flames showed him to be in a small room with about ten large stone coffins. Four were lidless and empty; the others all had faces and names carved into their stone covers.

He looked around quickly, and found Turcaret’s coffin was the one over which he’d draped his cloak. Grabbing the cloak by an unlit corner, he flung it over an empty lamp sconce on the wall, and