Helm

  Marilyn put down her spoon. “Marry the mistress.”

  “No, Father is still set on you.”

  “Did you do something to upset him?”

  Sylvan misunderstood. “Well, you’re not that ugly.”

  Marilyn smiled grimly and didn’t enlighten him. “I won’t marry you, you know.”

  He shook his head. “What you desire isn’t an issue anymore.” He looked oddly disturbed. “More’s the pity.”

  “You’d marry me against my will? Do you plan on never sleeping?”

  Sylvan shook his head again. “If I marry you, you’ll want it more than I. A lot more.”

  Marilyn kept her mouth closed. What on earth is he talking about?

  Sylvan stood and looked at her, eyes narrowed. “I wanted to do it myself, however long it took. Now, though, it looks like that won’t be an issue. Unless you’re willing now?”

  Marilyn frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Willing to be mine in body and soul, without my father’s little device.”

  “What kind of device are you talking about?” She didn’t like the sound of this at all.

  “Never you mind. Are you willing?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  He sighed. “I thought so.” He turned and knocked on the door. The bolts rattled and it opened inward. He looked back once more. “You will be.”

  The door shut and the bolts thudded home. She stared at the wood and worried.

  Ricard spent two hours waiting for dusk just below the timberline, with Lillian. Of all his cousins, she was the only one he’d ever felt comfortable with. His mother had tolerated Lillian in a way that she hadn’t Lillian's older brothers. Perhaps it was because Lillian had also lost a parent while a baby, like Ricard.

  “Dexter and Anthony are fine. I left them with the army though they almost caught Dexter with a false message, just as they decoyed me to the west. Leland is in Laal and coming up from the south with his troops. The armies will converge here.”

  “What about Father?”

  Ricard shook his head. “No news, but I might have some soon. My mother’s found some way to send messages out of the Station. I’m meeting a contact of hers tonight in the town.”

  “Well, good. I’m glad she’s alive. Did you hear about Dame Bridgett?”

  Ricard nodded but said nothing, watching Lillian carefully. Her eyes were clear of tears but had dark circles below. News of the deaths of Martin, Bridgett, and a few others had come before the battle of Breathless Pass. The bodies had been burned but rumors of horrible wounds had still gotten out of the station.

  “Will they kill us all?” Lillian asked tonelessly.

  “No,” Ricard said firmly. “We outnumber them now and, thanks to the invasion of Cotswold by the Rootless, we’ll continue to. In fact, we’ve been funneling news of the Rootless invasion to every level of Siegfried’s forces. Before we attack again, we’ll let it be known that deserters won’t be harassed if they want to go home to protect their families. Well, not by us. Siegfried is probably pretty tough on his deserters—there haven’t been that many.” He stared out the tiny window to the darkening sky and remembered burned farmsteads near the borders and families dragged from the homes and slaughtered in the snow. “And they have reason to fear us, too. Without some sort of assurance, I’d not want to be a lone Cotswolder in the Laal countryside.”

  Pearson, his guide, drinking hot tea on the other side of the cabin with Matilda de Swain, drained his cup and stood. “It’s time, Captain.” Pearson was a small man, serious, worry lines etched into his face. He was responsible for every covert agent and courier working under the enemy’s eyes.

  Ricard swallowed the last of his own tea, cool now but still wet and sweet. “Keep well, cousin.”

  Lillian smiled slightly and said, “I’m not the one headed into enemy territory.” Ricard grinned, gave her the empty cup, and shrugged into his outer clothing.

  It was dark and snowing when they reached the outskirts of town, a fact that pleased Pearson. “If you have to run, this’ll hide you.”

  “What about you?”

  “They know me here—I’m a well-known collaborationist. They won’t even bother me for being out past curfew. As long as you don’t blow me.”

  Koss had been clear on this. Pearson’s network’s continued intelligence was crucial to the upcoming fight. “I’ll die first.”

  Pearson nodded. “I depend on that.”

  They passed by the front of the Blue Whale Inn twice, walking casually, then again on the street behind. Ricard kept his eyes on the shadows. The guide watched the windows. Finally Pearson left him waiting in the barn down the street and dared the interior.

  Time stretched on and Ricard’s imagination pictured troops closing on the barn.

  He spent his time peering through a crack in the barn wall, but all he could see were the dim outlines of the neighboring buildings through a fog of swirling snowflakes. Relax. He probably bought a glass of ale, to explain his presence. It would be odd if he didn’t stay to drink it.

  Finally a single figure appeared, walking through the dark, resolving into Pearson just before he opened the door. He was smiling and the worry lines were gone. “All clear. Your mother’s in there. Let’s go.”

  Ricard followed him back to the inn shaking his head. And I thought he was worried about his entire network, not just this mission.

  They shook off the snow in the mudroom off the kitchen, stamping their feet and flapping their coats, then, head bared, Ricard pushed through the inner door.

  And into a trap.

  Yes, his mother was there, smiling. So was Siegfried Montrose and ten armed men.

  He bolted backward but someone shoved him from behind, before he could get out the door, giving the guards time to round the worktable at that end of the room and take him. Two held his arms while another pulled his dagger and the hidden short sword from their scabbards. Ricard looked over his shoulder to see who’d stopped his exit and saw Pearson standing there, blocking the door, unmolested, unguarded…

  “How long?” he asked him.

  Pearson looked at him, still smiling that almost serene smile. “What?”

  “How long have you been theirs?” he spat out.

  The answer came from his mother standing beside the central brick ovens. Someone had overstoked the oven, probably some of Siegfried’s men. Why should they care if they set the inn on fire? The oven interior was white hot and the partially open iron door glowed red at the hinges. “Ten minutes, son. Only ten minutes.”

  He turned his head back. “Impossible.” His mother’s smile was eerily like Pearson’s. “Did you take his family?” he asked to the room at large.

  Siegfried had turned away as soon the guards had removed Ricard’s weapons and was fiddling with something set on one of the far counters. Now, though, he laughed and turned back toward Ricard. “Really. Ten minutes ago he was fighting like a wildcat.” He pointed at one of his soldiers, standing over a sink.

  The man turned his head. He was holding a cloth-wrapped bundle to his face, which Ricard presumed held ice or packed snow. The top of the cloth was red with blood.

  Siegfried stepped to one side revealing what he’d been fiddling with.

  Ricard stared at it for a moment before realizing what it was. “What are you doing with the Glass Helm?”

  His mother explained. “The high steward knows how to use it to, ummm, adjust attitudes.”

  Ricard shivered. He’d never seen his mother look so calm or happy. She’d always been edgy and angry, all his life. “He used it on you, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Though we were working together before that. But not for the right reasons.”

  Ricard stared. No, don’t tell me…

  “Your mother has been an enormous help to me.” Siegfried said. “Between giving me your military code and keeping the Floating Stone grounded she was worth five thousand men. However, she’s been even more he
lpful since wearing the Helm.” He glanced back at the bench. “As you will be, as soon as it finishes recharging.”

  Ricard stared at his mother. “Why?” His anguish and disgust showed in his voice and expression.

  For an instant the smile faltered, then returned. “I did it for you. You should’ve been steward here. Your father was the heir. He would still be ruling if not—” She stopped herself. “I’ve got better reasons now.”

  Ricard squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth together. No, no, no… He opened his eyes again. His mother’s treason was at its limit—the damage maximized, but Pearson behind him could betray Lillian’s hiding place and the entire network of agents in the valley or, worse, use it to feed false information back to Captain Koss. And then there was the damage that Ricard himself could do, if the Helm worked as well as they claimed.

  He slumped in the grip of his guards, apparently overcome, and they shifted, surprised, pulling him back up. He surged with them, stamping down into the instep of one, then kicking into the knee of the other, all the time watching Pearson, still behind him, out of the corner of his eye.

  Pearson surged forward, reaching for Ricard’s shoulders. Ricard let him close, then surged back against him, smashing back with his elbow with all his might and focus. Pearson’s larynx took the bony point and collapsed, cartilage breaking. His neck folded forward and he dropped, choking, to his knees.

  The guards surged back toward him and he vaulted forward, over the worktable, temporarily gaining breathing room, but no more. He was trapped between the guards at the door and more coming around the brick ovens to ring him in.

  His goal, however, was not escape. On the end of worktable was a five-liter ceramic jug labeled olive oil. He picked it up and threw it at the guard between him and the ovens. The jug was heavy and the man had plenty of time to duck.

  Then the jug smashed against the red-hot iron door and the oil splashed into the white-hot interior. Flame gushed from the door like a dragon vomiting, spreading burning oil and cinders across the floor and over his mother.

  The advancing guards threw themselves back, scrambling toward the door.

  Ricard took one look at Siegfried, wondering if he had a chance to get him or the Helm, but the high steward was being helped out a smashed window, one hand clutching the Helm and the other beating at a smoldering patch of cloth on his thigh.

  His mother was down, motionless, in a pool of burning oil, her hair already gone, her clothes nearly so. The ceiling was on fire, casting a lurid glow over everything. Ricard’s own clothing was smoldering and a gust of hot wind seared his face. He turned again and saw one of the guards reaching back into the kitchen, trying to pull Pearson from the interior.

  They might be able to get a tube into Pearson’s throat. Even if he couldn’t talk, he’d be able to write the names of his agents. Ricard moved that way, ignoring searing pain, then stopped when a spear poked through the doorway. He looked around for a weapon, something to parry with, and spied a half-full four-kilo sack of flour. He grabbed it and, holding it by the bottom, flung his arm out, scattering the flour into the air between himself and the door, trying to snare the spear tip with the cloth bag so he could get by and finish Pearson.

  The cloud of fine flour ignited, turning the air around them all into a sea of flame. It was the last thing he saw.

  Siegfried sat in the snow surrounded by his guards and held packed snow against the burn on his thigh. So close! He’d nearly lost everything: the Helm, this war, his life, all from the actions of one supremely insane man acting against all odds. One minute Siegfried had everything going his way, and the next…

  Despite the curfew a crowd of the townspeople was manning a pump wagon and spraying water over the buildings closest to the inn. Others shoveled snow, flinging it past gouts of flame thrusting out windows or through the gaping hole where the back door used to be.

  That fireball had killed two of his men standing outside the building as well as those in the antechamber, trying to recover the spy, Pearson.

  In his present mood, Siegfried would’ve liked to let the entire town burn to the ground, but he clamped down on the impulse to order the firefighters slain.

  He struggled to his feet, still clutching the Helm. “Back to the Station! Hurry!” He was feeling especially vulnerable just now. An arrow from the dark, lead shot from a sling, a thrown knife—he wanted thick stone walls between himself and his enemies.

  Never again would he risk the Helm. He should’ve had Ricard de Laal tied down the moment he was in the room. And the Helm should have never left the Station. Are all these mountain people like that madman? Impossible. Or he wouldn’t hold as much of Laal as he did.

  Still, his next subject would be completely immobilized before Siegfried or the Helm entered the same room. Someone who could influence and betray his enemies. Someone like…the younger daughter of Arthur de Noram.

  Chapter 21

  KAESHI-WAZA: REVERSALS

  The first units to reach Zanna’s temporary camp were reserve militia, followed closely by the professional reserves stationed at Noram City. Her father, after several contradictory messages, finally sent a heliogram indicating his intent to join the expedition in a few days.

  Damage control, Zanna thought cynically. He can’t put his interpretation on it without being here. She asked herself the question again, the one she’d asked over and over again in the last week: Why did he ignore this invasion for so long?

  There were barely three thousand troops with her so far. Marshall de Gant and the majority of the professionals were barely a third of the way from the Plain of the Founders, and their advance units wouldn’t arrive for another four days.

  She knew what her father would say, if she asked! Stay put until you can advance in force.

  She sent the scouts out and called her unit commanders to her. “Start on the pass.”

  One of the professional commanders said, “We’re not waiting for Marshall de Gant’s forces?”

  “No. With luck, we’ll have the way open by the time he arrives and he can proceed directly into Laal. In the meantime, large numbers mean nothing in the pass—some spots are less than four meters across—so waiting for the rest of the army is pointless.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless there’s some other reason you’re reluctant?”

  The officer looked embarrassed. “No, Gentle Guide. We’ll begin immediately.”

  Leland’s troops advanced up the Tiber carefully, taking outposts by stealth and surprise whenever possible. The slow pace galled him, but Gahnfeld pointed out that they were not so large a force that they could afford to leave enemies at their back.

  He remembered running up this road three months earlier, covering the entire distance to Brandon-on-the-Falls in less than ten hours. They’d spent two days covering a third of that same distance, and it was harder now to take the outposts by surprise.

  What’s happening in Laal Station? He wondered what Siegfried had done with his father, with the other hostages in town. He was surprised that Siegfried hadn’t started a withdrawal from Laal. News of the Nullarbor invasion must’ve reached him by now. Doesn’t he realize his people need him?

  I DOUBT IF HE CARES. HE STRUCK ME AS INTENTLY SELF-FOCUSED.

  Leland shook his head.

  The latest message from Captain Koss put the majority of Laal troops only a day away from the valley facing light opposition.

  “Pick up the pace, Myron,” Leland said. “Or we’re going to be late for the party.”

  Marilyn found the piece of wood just before breakfast.

  She’d started early, before dawn, and, unable to sleep, went through every dynamic and static stretching exercise she knew. That killed forty-five minutes and brought a rosy predawn glow to the eastern sky. She meditated after that, taking, as her focus, the picture of a bird flying from a cage.

  When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the bed.

  The frame was oak, rectangular, with a cotton mattress per
haps six centimeters thick. She pulled it away and found thin planks running from the head to the foot. Lifting one of these, she found oak dowels, perhaps three centimeters thick, running perpendicular to the planks and supporting them. They were almost exactly the length and thickness of a jo, the short staff she was so familiar with, but they were firmly glued into the long frame members.

  She removed all the planks, then lowered herself down, midway down the bed, between two of the dowels, and put her foot against one side of the frame and her shoulder against the other. She took a deep breath and then pushed. The bed was extremely well made. After four attempts, all she had was a bruised shoulder.

  She took a towel and folded it into a pad for her shoulder. The bed gave on her next attempt, the glue releasing from the two dowels on either side of her. Some vertical wiggling and the glue gave on the other end of her chosen dowel. She left the other one in place and put the bed back together, then spent some time smoothing the dried glue off the ends by rubbing it on the stone floor.

  The result wasn’t perfect but the wood was good—nice even grain without any warp. She tried a few tsuki, thrusts, with it, then ran through some of the jo basics. The wood sang in the air and she stopped, satisfied.

  She took the pillows from the bed and the extra blanket and formed the semblance of a sleeping body beneath the bedding, then she kneeled, to one side of the door, the staff resting across her lap.

  It’s time to leave.

  “What do you mean, she’s gone!”

  Sylvan, satisfied that the fault wasn’t his, replied calmly. “She’s not in her room but her guards and the servant who brought her meals were tied up and locked in her room. The servant has a broken arm and the other two are still unconscious. The servant says she had a staff. We found a cross member missing from the bed frame.”

  Siegfried stepped away from the workbench. They were back in the plating lab, and he’d given the order to have Marilyn brought to him after breakfast. Sylvan watched his father’s hands. The fingers were locked together and, though Siegfried’s voice was calm, Sylvan could see the knuckles turning white.