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

turned his attention to getting the coffin’s lid off.

It was heavy, but when he braced both feet against the nearby wall and put his shoulder to it, the stone grated slowly to the side. A rank stench wafted out, making him gag.

“Madness, madness,” he grunted as the lid fell off with a resounding crunch.

“Hello,” he said to the withered but recognizable corpse in the sarcophagus. Then the flames ate the last of his cloak and he was plunged into darkness again.

“Shit.” He had several seconds of grace period; the dying embers from the cloak were enough for his augmented night vision. He could faintly see the shape of the body. He unceremoniously dumped his pack on Turcaret’s chest and dug everything out of it, throwing clothes and food all over the floor.

Shielding his eyes, he said, “Ever wanted to travel?” to Turcaret. “Well now’s your chance.” He fired the laser, flicking it quickly right-to-left.

The worst part was reaching into the sarcophagus in the dark, and pulling Turcaret’s mostly-severed head off his body. When he had the stinking thing free, Axel jammed it into his pack and stepped back to retch.

“I better get a medal for this.”

“Locked onto your signal,” said the ship. “We’re on final approach. We should be visible to you.”

Axel listened. Confused shouting came from outside the crypt. “We see you,” he sent.

It was easy to open the door of the crypt and saunter out. Nobody was paying him the least bit of attention.

It was also easy to see, since the sky was lit from horizon to horizon by the vernier engines of a nicely solid and real military starship about a kilometer overhead. As it stopped directly over the field, threw out four massive landing legs and began its descent with a deafening roar, the soldiers around the crypt bolted for the trees. Axel put his fingers in his ears, squinted, and walking out to meet the ship.

In moments it was down, metal feet sinking into the snow, then the ground, finally easing to a stop as thousands of tonnes of weight made the ship’s diamond-fiber muscles quiver. The vernier engines, which it held high above itself on long arms, coughed and fell silent. Axel took his fingers out of his ears, and shook his head rapidly. A breeze smelling of hot metal tickled his cheek.

A wide door in the bottom of the craft opened, and a broad ramp extended to touch ground. Men in vacuum armor jumped out and began to take up firing positions. Axel felt warmly happy, despite the fact that two of them had their guns trained on him.

He raised his arms. “I come in peace,” he said in High English.

An officer strolled down the ramp. “Are you Chan?”

“The very same. Good to see you, major.”

“I’m sure,” said the officer drily. “We don’t appreciate being used as a taxi service, Mister Chan. Where’s your companion?”

He nodded in the direction of the house. “They took her. A little local trouble, I’m afraid. Uh, can I lower my arms now?”

“At ease.” The two marines lowered their weapons. “I suppose we’ll have to go ask for her back.”

“Here,” said Axel. He lobbed the pack at the major, who caught it awkwardly. “This should pay our way, once it’s been analyzed. And, uh, can we get Marya and get out of this hell-hole now? I’ll bet the swans will be here any second.”

The major opened the pack, gagged, and dropped it. “What the hell—?”

“It’s a long story,” said Axel. “And if you want to hear it, we’d better get a move on.”

The major looked from the pack to Axel and back again. Then he whirled and said, “Nonfatal settings! Fan out. I’m going to negotiate a hostage situation.” He walked towards the house, paused, and said “Coming?” to Axel.

Axel grinned. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

*

Three hours later, he sat at a viewscreen and watched as Ventus fell away below. Too bad it was night; he would have dearly loved to have traced the course of the journeys he and his companions had made across the land.

Every now and then the display flickered with blue-white light. The Diadem swans were attacking. While they had easily taken out Marya’s ship, they were no match for this cruiser, as the captain had pointed out proudly and at length.

Axel was tired, bruised and chilled to the bone. Soon he would go take that bath he had been dreaming of for months; for now, he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Somewhere below Calandria was getting ready to confront Armiger. Axel had argued with the captain for a good hour, trying to convince the man to follow Marya’s directions to the queen’s palace and interrupt the siege. They probably had enough firepower in this ship to eliminate Armiger; but it had been the god Choronzon who had hired Axel and Calandria to kill Armiger. As far as the Archipelagic military were concerned, the war against 3340 was over.

Axel no longer cared about Armiger anyway. He just wanted to get Calandria back.

“Hey.”

He turned. Marya stood in the doorway. She had cleaned herself up, and looked beautiful in a snow-white gown, framed by the door’s ivy in warm summer-like light from hidden sconces. She stood barefoot on the genetically-tailored grass of the ship’s civilian quarters, and appeared relaxed and confident, as though she had not been squawling and biting the arms of medieval soldiers earlier in the evening.

“You’re amazing,” he said.

“You look like hell,” she laughed. “Why don’t you get some rest? There’s nothing more we can do now.”

He turned back to the window. “We have to go back,” he said. “We’re not done here.”

She touched his arm. “I know. First we’ll have the remains of Turcaret analyzed. They may give us some valuable insights into why the Winds won’t talk to us. And then we’ll go back for your friends.”

“It’s just that…” He didn’t want to say it. Marya waited patiently.

“We have to get Calandria,” he said. “She’s so obsessed with 3340, and Armiger. Sometimes I think… I think she wants to lose. Wants to die, or something worse.”

Marya frowned. “We can’t save her,” she said.

Axel turned back to the viewscreen. Ventus was visibly a globe now, in crescent phase as the ship headed away from the sun. Diadem twinkled brightly above the limb of the horizon.

“If not us,” he said, “then who?”

31

“Parliament’s forces are on the move,” said Matthias. “He’s going to try it.”

Matthias was in full battle gear—not the gold-worked breastplate and shimmering epaulets Galas had always seen him in before. In plain black leather and iron, he looked like a common soldier now, except for the red flag rising above his back that signalled his rank. Nothing he could have said or done could have projected the gravity of the situation more than this simple change of clothing.

Galas was briefly ashamed. She was dressed as always in velvet and gauze finery. She pictured herself picking up a sword, strapping on a shield and entering the fray like some barbarian queen. She would love that. She would love to do anything rather than what she had to do.

Regally, she nodded to Matthias. “Go then. You have my complete confidence.”

“My lady…” For a second his composure cracked. He was an old man suddenly, saddled with an impossible task. They would lose this battle; both knew it.

Galas smiled most carefully; her responsibility now was to act the part for which she had been born. So that these people died believing in… something, anything. Even if it was a failed dream.

“Dear Matthias, I only meant I would wish to have no one else in command of my force, now or ever.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” He bowed. “But I have given equal authority over to General Armiger. He will be commanding the defense of the gate.”

“Good.” He bowed again, and turned to leave.

“Matthias?” She couldn’t go through with it—perhaps she could hide her true feelings from the rank and file, but it would be unworthy to do so to her closest friends. When he looked back with a puzzled look, Galas said, “No one should have to die for me.”

He glared at her. “You are the rightful monarch and heir, blessed by the Winds. We would all be honored to die to defend you.” He walked quickly away.

Galas stared after him. She felt a stab of pain in her chest—sorrow made physical—and hugged herself miserably.

Dawn had just broken. Morning light slanted in through the ruined windows of the great hall. The shattered flame pattern worked in stained glass seemed like a centuries-old joke only now reaching its punch-line. To hinder Lavin’s men from gaining access to the tower through the thin walls of the hall, Matthias had doused everything in here with oil. This great chamber would be an oven soon.

Men in heavy battle armor ran back and forth, faces blank with concentration or fear. One or two even laughed, but it was forced bravado; they knew she was here, they wanted to prove themselves to her even in this situation.

She should be doing something.

“You!” She pointed at one of the running men. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Your majesty?”

“I wish to give a… a final address to the commanders. Are they here?”

He shook his head. “They’re dispersed about the walls, your highness. To call them back would be…”

She waved her hand. “Go on. I’m sorry. Go on.”

They were bringing in ladders to lean up against the tall windows. She was just in the way now. Galas stepped back to let a procession of men past, then flipped the hem of her dress up over the pooling oil, and stalked back into the tower.

It was even worse in here—pandemonium as blacksmiths, carpenters, and anybody with nothing better to do tore up the floorboards of the tower’s back entryway. Armiger had some use for them; no one questioned the sanity of the move. Only half the first floor was wood anyway; the front reception area had a floor of marble. She hurried, hopping up the wooden servants’ stairway while sweating men tore the steps out behind her.

“Can I help?” she asked one of the sappers, who was straining with a crowbar against the ancient wood.

He lost his grip and stumbled. “Your—your highness?” He went down on one knee, inadvertently stabbing his shin on an upthrust nail. He ignored the injury, and awaited her orders.

She reached out. “Please—I want to help. Tell me what to do.”

He jerked back in horror. “Your highness, no! This is hard work, and it’s not safe. You should be above, in the stone halls where fire won’t reach.”

“I see.” She made her face into the royal mask again. With a curt nod, she left the man to his work, ascending to the marble-floored corridor that led to the tower’s entrance hall.

She came out on the first landing above the main entrance. This part of the Summer Palace had been held sacred by the defenders until last night. It had remained as she remembered it from infancy, the paintings, chandeliers, statuary all in place, the servants ready in their niches. Now the great bronze doors were invisible under piled stone and bracing timbers, and the deep carpets and tapestries were grey with powdered stone and sawdust from the effort of blocking up the entrance. There was no one here now, but overturned tables and other barricades lay ranked like pews aimed at the entrance. Should the attackers get this far, the defenders would assail them from behind these barricades, killing and dying to prevent even so