Bermond shook his head. “All of the gunpowder that came over in the Crossing went bad.”
“Even if they found some preserved under ideal conditions,” Hall added, “it would never have lasted more than a century.”
“To power a cannon, they would have had to synthesize it, or some substitute.”
“That’s not beyond all possibility, sir. Who knows what the Mort may have dug out of their mines?”
Bermond frowned at Hall, who fell silent. Kelsea considered waking Arliss to ask his opinion, then abandoned the idea. He would only exacerbate the contention at the table. He clearly held the military men in small esteem; before falling into his doze, he’d taken several opportunities to bring up the army’s old failures during the Mort invasion, harping on them so gleefully that Kelsea wondered whether he’d lost money on the outcome.
“So what will the Red Queen do first?” she asked.
“Invade our borders.”
“Full invasion?”
“No. A few villages only, at first.”
“What’s the point of that?”
Bermond sighed in exasperation. “Majesty, put it this way. You don’t throw yourself off a cliff hoping that the water is deep enough. If you’re the Red Queen, you throw stones at the water, because you can afford to; you have all the time in the world and no shortage of stones. The Red Queen may not consider you a real threat, but she won’t act in ignorance of the facts either.”
“But why raid us? Why not simply send spies?”
“To demoralize the populace, Lady.” Bermond pulled out a small dagger, one of the seemingly infinite number of weapons that hung on his person, and made a slashing motion in the air. “See? I cut off your pinky finger. You don’t need your pinky, but I’ve made you bleed. Moreover, I’ve shown that I may violate your person at any time.”
Kelsea thought this further evidence that conquering was an incredibly stupid business, but she closed her mouth before she said something regrettable. Beside her, Arliss emitted a light, slurping snore. “Arliss! Do you agree with this assessment?”
“I do, Majesty,” he croaked, jerking to attention. “But don’t fool yourself; the Tearling’s already infested with spies as well.”
Mace nodded agreement, and Kelsea turned back to Bermond. “Will they invade by the Mort Road?”
“Doubtful, Majesty. The Mort Road sends them through the Argive Pass, and no army wants to come down switchbacks out of the mountains; it leaves them wide open. We will still need to blockade the road, though, to prevent them from using it as a supply route.” Bermond leaned over the map, shaking his head. “It’s a pity the Argive Tower is gone.”
Kelsea looked a question at Mace, who replied, “Once, Lady, there was a fortress built at the mouth of the Argive Pass. The Mort army tore it down as part of their retreat, and now it’s only a bunch of stones littering the floor of the pass.”
Bermond traced a finger over the northern Mort border, where the mountains fell into hills. “Here is where I’d come, if I were Genot. That’s craggy hill country, and the terrain will slow them down, but there’s plenty of forest cover, and a sizable force can spread wide, rather than bottlenecking at any one point.”
“What’s our best option to repel such an attack?”
“You can’t.”
“Your helpful attitude overwhelms me, General.”
“Majesty—”
“Colonel Hall, what do you think?” Kelsea asked, turning to the second-in-command.
“I’m forced to agree with the General, Lady. There’s no hope for ultimate victory here.”
“Wonderful.”
Hall held up a hand. “But you could slow them down. Considerably.”
“Explain.”
Hall leaned forward, ignoring Bermond’s deepening frown beside him. “Our only option seems to be delaying tactics, Lady, a campaign designed to hinder and slow the main bulk of the Mort army. That means guerrilla warfare.”
“To what end?” asked Bermond, throwing up his hands. “They will take the country regardless, quick or slow.”
“Yes, sir, but it extends the time during which the Queen might make peace, or explore other options.”
Kelsea nodded, pleased. Hall, at least, was capable of thinking creatively. Bermond was glaring at him openly now, but Hall seemed determined not to notice as he continued. “The possibilities are even better if they try to move their army as the General has indicated. I grew up in Idyllwild, Majesty. I know that part of the border like the back of my hand.”
“What of the border villages?”
“Evacuate them, Majesty. They’re vulnerable, and the Mort army comes for plunder as well as territory. Let them find a bunch of empty villages, and it will at least give them pause.”
“Majesty, that wouldn’t be a wise use of resources,” Bermond announced fretfully. “Evacuation takes a lot of manpower. Those soldiers would be better stationed back from the border in case the Mort reach the Almont.”
“Have you heard nothing I’ve said, Bermond? The Mort army is already assembled, and you yourself just said they’ll begin by invading the villages on the border. Those people are in immediate danger.”
“They chose to live on the border, Majesty. They knew the risks.”
Kelsea opened her mouth to snap back, but Mace jumped in ahead of her. “An evacuation would burden the interior with a flood of refugees, Lady. Refugees must be fed and housed.”
“So we feed and house them.”
“Where?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Lazarus.”
“What if they refuse to come?” Bermond asked.
“Then we leave them out there, if that’s their choice. We’re not talking about internment.” Kelsea smiled pleasantly at Bermond. “But I’m sure you’re capable of explaining it to them in just the right way.”
“Me?”
“You, General. You will take a good chunk of the army, as many as you deem necessary, and go out to evacuate and secure the border and the Mort Road.”
Bermond turned to Hall. “Evacuation will be your responsibility.”
“Just a moment,” Kelsea interrupted. She dug in her memory for what Arliss had told her of military structure. “Hall, being a colonel, I assume you command your own battalion?”
“I do, Lady. The left flank.”
“Good. Your battalion will separate from the main army and undertake a guerrilla operation along the lines you mentioned.”
“Majesty!” Bermond snapped, his face reddening. “I deploy my own troops.”
“No, General. This is the Crown’s operation, and I’m conscripting a battalion of your army for other work.”
“And my executive officer as well!”
“Yes, him too.”
Arliss snorted. Kelsea glanced at him and found him grinning around a newly lit cigarette. It smelled just as terrible as before, but Kelsea said nothing. It was Arliss who had informed her of the obscure right of the Crown to take direct military action, an old remnant of powers granted to the American executive. When she met his eye, he gave her a wink.
Looking around the table, she found both Pen and Mace glaring at Bermond, who was staring daggers at Hall. But Hall was still watching Kelsea. The flare of ambition in his eyes was easy to see, but there was something more, something she couldn’t identify but liked nonetheless.
If this one wasn’t built to be a soldier, I’d have him in my Guard tomorrow.
“Of particular concern to me are the cannons,” Kelsea told Hall. “I saw ten of them, but there may be more. I couldn’t tell whether they were iron or steel. Your first task will be to disable them.”
“Understood, Majesty.”
“Cannons,” Bermond scoffed, and turned to Mace again. “There’s no gunpowder. Are we really to base military strategy on a girl’s fever dreams?”
Mace began to reply, but Kelsea cut him off. “That’s the second time you’ve failed to speak directly to me, General. And if y
ou value your career, all your years of service, as much as I do, it’ll be the last.”
“This plan is not tenable, Majesty!” Bermond snarled. “It’s a waste of good people!”
“So is the lottery!” Kelsea snapped back. “I don’t suppose any of your loved ones have ever been shipped, General?”
Pen grasped her elbow in a gentle squeeze.
“Not mine.” Bermond’s eyes flicked toward Hall.
Pen leaned in close to Kelsea and murmured, “Hall’s brother, Lady. They were close.”
“I apologize, Colonel Hall.”
Hall waved her away. He didn’t seem offended; his eyebrows were lowered in thought, his mind clearly already far away, out on the border. Kelsea couldn’t tell whether he believed her about the cannons or not, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d said yes.
“Is there anything else?”
Neither of the army men said anything. Bermond looked as though he had swallowed something distasteful. Kelsea wondered briefly whether she should be concerned about Bermond’s loyalty, but dismissed the thought from her mind. He didn’t seem the type to try to stage a coup, even if he’d been twenty years younger. He simply wasn’t imaginative enough.
“We’re done then,” Mace announced. Bermond and Hall stood quickly, startling Kelsea.
“Thank you,” she told them. “In a week, I’d like a progress report from each of you.”
“Majesty,” they murmured, and remained standing, staring at her for so long that Kelsea wondered if something was wrong with her appearance. She was on the verge of asking when she finally realized what they were waiting for.
“Dismissed.”
They bowed and left.
Chapter 10
The Fate of Thomas Raleigh
It’s difficult to analyze the motivations of a traitor. Some betray their country for money, some for revenge. Some do so in order to satisfy a feeling of true alienation from their country’s values. Some betray when they have no choice. Often these reasons will blur; treachery is hardly a one-size-fits-all proposition. Indeed, one of the most famous traitors in Tear history sold his country for the most basic motive of all: because he didn’t know why he shouldn’t.
—The Early History of the Tearling, AS TOLD BY MERWINIAN
I should have known, Javel thought, both at that moment and many more times that day. I should have known that this is where things would end.
He didn’t know why he still listened to Arlen Thorne. In hindsight, he could see what a stupid plan it had been: Thorne had engaged a single Caden to assassinate the Queen, and not even one of the famous ones . . . Lord Graham the younger, who was barely more than a boy. Rumors quickly flooded the city that the new Queen had actually killed the assassin herself, but that was bullshit. The Mace had killed him, then killed his retinue, and burned down his entire household for good measure. Graham had failed spectacularly, and worse, publicly; his body had hung in the center of the city for less than an hour before the crowd tore it from its post and ripped it to pieces. Javel had resolved never to lift a finger for Thorne again. But of course, the summons had inevitably come, and now here he was.
They met in a large warehouse out on the eastern outskirts of New London. Javel knew the place; at one point it had been used to house lumber before sale or transport to Crossing’s End. But Thorne had apparently taken it over for his own dark work. One of his innumerable Census thugs met Javel at the door, looked him over for a moment, and then waved him inside. Javel found himself in a small antechamber, lit by a weak fire, surrounded by men who looked just as angry and confused as himself.
Thorne hadn’t arrived yet, but looking around the room, Javel began to understand what was driving this entire endeavor: money. He felt a fool for not seeing it before, but of course he had been thinking only of Allie. He hadn’t considered the enormous amount of wealth at stake in the shipment, how much some people had to lose.
Lord Tare leaned against the far wall, his ridiculous purple hat taking up more space than the rest of him. The Tares held lands in the east, fields of wheat stretching for miles across the Almont Plain, and they took toll from the Mort Road. In fact, Javel remembered hearing of some contention at one point: Lord Tare liked to charge toll by the head, while the Regent wanted him to charge by the conveyance. But the Regent hadn’t been strong enough to force such a change, and if Lord Tare was still charging by the head, then the shipment represented a monthly gold mine.
Two Caden, the Baedencourt brothers, were seated in front of the fire. They were nearly twins, blond-haired and blue-eyed, with flowing beards that reached all the way to their considerable guts. No one would dare plot against the Queen without consulting the Caden, but Javel wasn’t even sure that the Baedencourts were empowered to negotiate for the rest. They were simply the easiest Caden to get hold of, since they could usually be found drunk and whoring in the New Globe.
The Caden had their own problems now. It was common knowledge in the Gut that the Regent had offered them an exorbitant bonus to find and kill the princess, and they had committed the bulk of their resources to that endeavor, ignoring the everyday jobs—guarding nobles under threat, collecting bounties, and escorting valuable deliveries—that were their bread and butter. For the past few months the Caden had bled money, expending an enormous amount of manpower for nothing, and at any rate the royal treasury was now closed to them. Their failure to find the princess had also cost them a considerable amount of prestige, which further cut into business. It had always been standard practice for nine or ten Caden to join each shipment when it left New London; there was no better deterrent to would-be vigilantes. Escorting the shipment was understood to be fairly soft duty for Caden, but it still constituted a significant piece of their collective income each month. Now that was gone as well.
In the past month, Javel had heard rumors of Caden taking freelance jobs to make ends meet: manual labor, highway robbery, teaching swordsmanship or archery to nobles’ sons. One handsome Caden named Ennis had even been hired as the escort to a noble’s homely daughter, taking her to dances and reading her poetry and God knew what else. Even to Javel, who had no great love for the assassins, this was a sorry state of affairs. He wondered how the Caden themselves must feel, after being steeped for so long in arrogance and exclusivity, and couldn’t quite imagine. Either way, it seemed more than likely that the Baedencourts were freelancing here, and so Javel didn’t trust them, didn’t trust their commitment to the enterprise.
Four more men, none of whom Javel knew, were seated near the fire. One of them was a young, weaselly looking priest, which gave Javel pause; he wouldn’t guess that God’s Church would involve itself directly in something like this. The priest’s shaved head and thin white hands marked him as an ascetic, and given his youth, Javel thought he was probably one of the Holy Father’s stable of personal aides. Beside the priest was a scruffy blond creature who looked as though he’d crawled from the gutter. A thief, or even a simple pickpocket, probably looking for a quick pound.
Money, Javel thought. It’s all about money for all of them. For everyone but me.
And what is it about for you? a voice, thin and cold, hissed deep inside him. Thorne’s voice, Javel realized, horrified, as though he’d somehow allowed Thorne to worm his way even into the darkest corner of his own mind.
It’s about getting Allie back, he replied angrily. That’s all it’s ever been about.
No answer. Thorne was gone. But the question had been asked, and Javel sensed that real damage had been done. He was working to free a slave, surely a noble endeavor if there ever was one. But Allie was only one slave . . . one of tens of thousands who had gone the same way. Javel had no thought of the rest; he was only trying to get his own. And did that make him any better than these men?
I am better, he insisted to himself. I know I am.
But now, peering into the darkest corner of the room, he saw the worst development of all: Keller, his fellow Gate Guard, lo
unging against the wall with crossed arms and a satisfied expression. Javel remembered a night, several years ago, when Vil had quietly sent several of them off the gate and down to the Cat’s Paw to fetch Keller, who had gotten himself into real trouble this time. There had been problems before; Keller had once flung a woman through a wall, and there had been several rape accusations, one of which had required a direct appeal to the Regent before it disappeared. But even Javel had been unprepared for what met them at the Cat’s Paw, where they found Keller drunk off his ass, one blood-covered hand still clutching a straight razor. He’d beaten the whore within an inch of her life before slicing up her face and tits. Javel could still see the girl weeping in the corner, blood pouring from the razor slashes that crisscrossed her upper body. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Javel had gone home at dawn and drunk himself to blackout, thanking God that he was alone, that Allie couldn’t see him. Now here he was again, tangled in bad business, staring at Keller across a shadowy room.
Thorne came in, clad in a deep blue cloak that swirled around his insectile body. Javel was relieved to see that Brenna was not with him this time; there were still two hours of daylight left outside. Thorne’s bright blue eyes marked each of them in turn before he turned to take off his cloak, and Javel watched him curiously, wondering what Thorne’s real game was here. He ran the Census, but that was a day job at government pay. By night, Thorne was a king on the black market, and even if the shipment disappeared forever, his income wouldn’t suffer that much. Of course Overseer of the Census was a useful post, one that allowed him to lean on many people, but someone as slick as Thorne always had other ways of applying leverage.