Chapter Fifteen
Somewhere over southern Germania, 7th day of Ur
"And now, everyone, the moment you've all been waiting for."
Suleiman looked up, as Siesta finished clearing away the dinner plates. Around the great table in the Ostland's officer's mess, Kirche's assembled band of heroes sat slumped in their chairs, sighing with satisfaction after what had proven a rather good meal.
Or at least the boys did. It was something Suleiman had noticed; in Halkeginia the womenfolk, at least among the nobility, seemed to pay much more attention to manners and maintaining an elegant appearance than the men did.
"I take it you actually have a plan?" asked Louise, a sour edge to her tone.
"Oh ye of little faith," quipped Kirche, smiling. "Did you think I had you spend the day banging out music and gyrating in skimpy outfits for my own amusement?"
"Do you actually want an answer to that question?" retorted Louise. Kirche laughed, and nodded at Professor Colbert, who stood up and left the room.
"We know that Tabitha and her mother are inside Alhambra," Kirche went on. "We have, in effect, two options. We can attack the place directly, which might work if we only have the garrison to contend with. If what Bart told us is correct, they have around three hundred soldiers and ten noble officers. But like as not Joseph has hidden some of his North Parterre myrmidons in there to trap us, so this will have to be our last resort."
Colbert re-entered the room, carrying a heavy-looking roll of what might have been leather. At Kirche's direction, he unrolled it on the freshly-cleared table. It was a map, showing what looked like a cluster of buildings on a hilltop, with a village nearby. The heroes stood up to peer over it.
"Once again, we have his grace to thank for this," Colbert said.
"This is Alhambra?" Saito looked down at the map, then back up at Colbert. "Why does the Margrave have this?"
"It's a copy of a map stolen from the Gallians a century ago," Colbert explained awkwardly. "It's less than ideal, but nothing more recent is available. The Gallians are understandably reluctant to let people map their fortresses."
"It'll have to do," Louise cut in. "Kirche?"
"My plan, in short, is to sneak into the fortress disguised as performers," Kirche went on. "We'll set the Ostland down out of sight of the fortress, and travel overland in those two wagons father provided."
She pointed at the map, at what looked like a ramp leading up the rocky hillside to the fortress.
"Alhambra is built on a rock outcropping, and the ramp is the only way up or down," she said. "Once they let us inside, they'll like as not have us set up in the main parade ground here," she pointed at the largest of the various open spaces enclosed by the buildings. "Either that, or in the main hall here," she pointed at one of the buildings nearby.
"The boys and Alice will set up the stage, and us girls will have a sneaky little look round. Being a bunch of pretty girls in skimpy outfits, those big tough manly guards won't watch us as closely as they'll watch the boys, and anything actually important will have its own guards in any case. We need to confirm Tabitha's location – though it'll most likely be the main keep, since that's the most secure – and find as many ways in and around the place as we can."
"Question," Louise raised her hand as if in class. "Why should they let us in?"
"Now, that's where things get a little complicated." Kirche turned to Suleiman. "Suleiman, you will be our master of ceremonies, and I your lovely assistant in charge of the girls."
"Me?" Suleiman asked, taken aback.
"When we arrive at the ramp, you and I will present ourselves to the sentries, explaining that you bear a gift and letter of introduction from Henry of Navarre," Kirche continued. "The gift, needless to say, is ourselves and those kegs of beer father provided for us."
Kirche's father had provided an entire wagonload of kegs, each containing a very fine Germanian beer the average Gallian soldier would not often have the privilege of tasting.
"But why would we have a letter of introduction from Henry of Navarre?" asked Louise suspiciously. "Isn't he some kind of upstart noble?"
"He's a member of the Royal family, albeit distantly," Alice replied sourly. "A cousin to Princess Isabella, and Princess Charlotte, so Bart told me."
"Quite the Royal delinquent," Kirche cut in, with the air of one who found the whole tale most amusing. "Apparently some local bigwig took a fancy to his childhood friend and wouldn't take no for an answer. Next thing anyone knows, Lord Grabbyhands is bleeding out on the floor and his mansion is on fire. His fellow nobles declared vendetta on Henry and tried to have him killed, Henry stirred up the local knights and peasants against them, raised his own army, and it all went downhill from there."
"Sounds like an interesting guy," mused Saito sarcastically. "So, why would we have a letter from him, and why would the governor accept it?"
"Because of what happened next," Kirche went on, evidently enjoying herself. "Not long before you arrived, darling, Tabitha went off on one of her little trips. She came back with a rather fine Navarrese cheese, which she was kind enough to share with me. At about the same time, Navarre suddenly calms down. All of a sudden, little Henry is Isabella's best friend and handling her business in Yspano."
"She sent Tabitha to slap him down?" Saito asked, incredulous.
"Well, if Tabitha blasted your door in and offered you the easy way or the hard way, wouldn't you be in the mood to play nice?" Kirche retorted, still smiling. "Anyway, the point is that Henry is currently one of Isabella's main flunkies, so a letter and gift from him would be of great interest to the governor."
"But where did you get the letter from?" demanded Louise.
"One of father's little helpers," replied Kirche, with a wink. "Don't worry, it'll be enough to convince the governor."
Louise gave her a very sour look, implying that she strongly suspected that there was more to this story than Kirche was letting on.
"Now, getting back to the important part." Kirche turned back to Suleiman. "The letter should be enough to get us all inside the fortress. It'll also get you and probably me into the governor's apartments. He'll believe that you are an agent either of Isabella or Henry, or both, and will want to know what this is all about. We'll tell him that Isabella and Henry want to be assured of his loyalty and support should…anything happen. It will also, incidentally, be a grand opportunity to winkle some information out of him about Tabitha."
"And when we escape, it will look as if Henry is responsible." Alice fixed Kirche with a very small and unpleasant smile. "Very clever, Miss Zerbst."
Suleiman's heart sank. He had known that this mission would be dangerous, but he never would have dreamed of such responsibility. What if he were to fail? What if he could not convince the governor that he was who he claimed to be? Their plan would be exposed, and they would all be in terrible danger!
"Miss Zerbst…"
"Now don't start getting cold feet," admonished Kirche sternly. "You're the only one who can do this."
"I believe in you, Suleiman," added Tiffania turned to smile at him. "You can do this."
All eyes were upon him. Suleiman gulped. Tiffania's warm smile, that trusting, loving smile, only made him feel even worse. Even knowing that they were counting on him, that this was his part, his role in the drama, he could not shake off the cold dread of failure.
He should refuse. He should insist that he could not do it, to beg Kirche to select someone else. He was just Suleiman the troubadour, Suleiman the wanderer!
Suleiman the failure. Suleiman the betrayer. Suleiman the coward, still running from his fears.
"I will do it, Miss Kirche."
"Excellent!" Kirche beamed. "I'll go over it with you in more depth before the time."
The die cast, Suleiman felt curiously…relieved. He looked up at Tiffania, and if anything, her smile was even brighter than before.
"Moving on, once Suleiman and I are done with the governor, we'll head back down to oversee the preparations. We will take careful note of the layout, and the position of locked doors. If possible, I'll hit the locks with a disabling spell I found in one of Jan's rare books. While the show is going on, our infiltration team will find Tabitha and her mother, and sneak them out via the secret escape tunnel, before returning for the end of the performance."
She paused, smiling at them in confident expectation of being told that her plan was a work of genius.
"That's a terrible plan!" complained Louise.
"I assure you, it's brilliant," replied Kirche confidently. "Besides, does anyone have an alternative?"
She looked around the room. No one spoke. Louise scoffed and looked away.
"Uh, what's this about an escape tunnel?" asked Saito suspiciously. "There's nothing on this map."
"Of course there isn't," said Kirche. "Bart told me that there's one, but he doesn't know exactly where, unfortunately."
Another pause, this one rather awkward.
"So..." Louise said, "you want to use an escape tunnel, the location of which you do not know, and the exit of which you do not know."
"Not a problem!" Kirche beamed. "Verdandi will find it for us!"
"Verdandi?" bleated Guiche, suddenly horrified. "My precious Verdandi? You want to send my darling, beautiful Verdandi into deadly danger?"
Suleiman was torn between feeling sorry for Guiche and finding his overblown manner distinctly unsettling. Guiche's devotion to his familiar was legendary.
"Nobody can operate underground like Verdandi can," Kirche went on. He'll find that tunnel in no time. Once he's found it, he can locate the exits, then hide inside the castle end and wait for us. My Flame will go along as a bodyguard, and Montmorency's Robin will go along to bring the locations to us."
"You can't have my Robin!" shrieked Montmorency, shaking her fists. "What if someone steps on him?"
"He's small enough that no one will notice him," replied Kirche calmly. "Montmorency, he's the only one who can do this."
Montmorency glared at her, then relented, sitting down with a flounce.
"Who's going to be the infiltration team?" asked Suleiman.
"Our best fighters," replied Kirche. "Myself, Saito, Louise, and Alice."
"What about us?" demanded Guiche, followed by Malicorne and several of the Ondines.
"Because you'll be needed for the show," replied Kirche sternly. "You're good fighters, but we need you in reserve in case anything goes wrong. Montmorency, Tiffania, Irukuku, we need you on stage to keep the audience distracted, and you can't fight anyway."
"Don't say it like that!" snapped Montmorency, with a humph. "I can't stand fighting!"
"It's true though," admitted Tiffania sadly. "I…I only know one spell anyway."
"Which one?" Suleiman asked, saddened by her downcast mood.
"It's one I've known for a long time," she said. She seemed to be thinking hard. "It makes people forget."
"Forget?" Louise asked, intrigued.
"They lose their memories," Tiffania went on. "I used it on people who found me in the forest, or saw my ears."
"You might have said something sooner!" declared Kirche excitedly. "You'll be perfect for the infiltration team!"
"Me?" Tiffania's cheeks reddened with embarrassment. "Well…I'll do my best, but…"
"Wait, Kirche!" Malicorne cut in. "If you and Tiffania go, there'll only be Montmorency and Irukuku to dance."
"Yes, that could be a problem," mused Kirche. "One busty, and one flat. Not much of a lineup."
Montmorency humphed and looked away.
"Then again." Kirche pulled out her wand and flicked it, causing a bell to ring. The door opened, and Siesta stepped inside.
"You sent for me, Miss Zerbst?"
"Siesta." Kirche paused a moment. "I need a favour from you."
"No way!" barked Saito, affronted. "You can't use Siesta! It's dangerous!"
"Siesta," Kirche went on, ignoring him. "We need one more girl for the dancing. Would you be willing?"
"No! Siesta!" Saito ran round the table and grabbed Siesta's hands, making her jump in surprise. "I can't let you go!"
"Mister Saito, please don't worry," Siesta said gently, after a brief pause. Her cheeks had reddened a little. "I am your personal maid, and want only to be of use to you."
"But it's dangerous!" pleaded Saito. "We could all be killed!"
"Mister Saito…" Siesta blushed, and looked away. "You and Miss Valliere are always putting yourself in danger. If you were to die, and I lived, I could not bear it."
"Siesta…"
There was a long, and rather meaningful pause. Watching them, Suleiman was struck by how similar they looked. The black hair, the dark eyes, something in the structure of the face. Would could be the cause of it?
"Well, that settles that!" proclaimed Kirche, sounding very pleased with herself. "Siesta will join the dancers!"
The Royal Palace, Kingdom of Tristain
Henrietta forced herself not to sigh, or rub her temples, or slump in her high-backed chair. It had been a long day, and nightfall had offered little relief.
"You are certain of this?"
"Yes, your Majesty," replied Agnes, Chevalresse de Milan, her face set in a grim mask. "The Ostland is confirmed to have left Anhalt-Zerbst yesterday morning. They were seen flying south-east, along the border."
Henrietta willed her mind to remain clear and focused. It had been six days since the Ostland had fled from Tristain. Six days since Louise, her dearest friend and courtier, had fled the country along with the Ondine Knights, kidnapping the Chevalresse la Durant while they were at it. Six days since Louise had given back her cloak, renouncing the titles and honours Henrietta had bestowed upon her.
Henrietta felt sick at heart. She was one of only a handful of people, along with Agnes, who knew the true reason for their escapade. She could not bring herself to condemn Louise, not for helping a friend in need, not for doing what was honorable, and kind.
"What am I to do?" she asked aloud, as much to herself as anyone else.
"Hunt them down, your Majesty!" Agnes' response was almost a snarl. "Punish them! They have flouted your authority!"
"Because they have embarrassed you, Agnes?"
"Your Majesty!"
Agnes barely stopped herself from shrieking something she would doubtless regret later. Henrietta had never seen her so angry, and supposed it was only to be expected. Louise and her companions had escaped from the academy while under guard by her musketeers, all of whom had been found unconscious. It would have been humiliating at the best of times, but it had caused no end of amusement to her detractors among the nobility.
But that was as nothing compared to her reaction when it was revealed just who the Ostland belonged to.
"They meant to do what they thought honourable," she said, sadly. "Besides, what would it do to their families? Those Houses have supported my throne, and that of my ancestors, for countless generations. If I condemn the Ondines, I condemn them too."
There was no escaping from it. When a noble was disgraced, his or her family was also disgraced, albeit to a lesser extent. She had no intention of attainting them, of stripping them of lands and titles; but there was little she could do for their reputations, for their standing in society. They would suffer, one way or another, and she could not be certain they would bear it with good grace.
"Your Majesty's concerns are valid," interjected Cardinal Mazarin. "But the fact remains that they have flouted your will. If you allow them to go unpunished, then those who do not respect your authority will be emboldened."
Henrietta sighed. No getting out of it.
"If they should dare to return, then I shall punish them as I see fit," she said. "But punished they shall be, unless circumstances should dictate otherwise."
She had barely finished speaking when Chamberlain la Porte came striding into the room.
"The Duke and Duchess de la Valliere beg audience with your Majesty on a most urgent matter," he said.
Henrietta was taken aback. She had known that the Duke was in the capital on business, but the Duchess too? What could have brought her all the way to Tristain from the border?
There could be only one explanation.
"Send them in."
La Porte bowed, and strode out the way he had come. Henrietta sat where she was, composing herself, until La Porte returned, rapping his staff on the floor by the door.
"The Duke and Duchess de la Valliere!"
Henrietta regarded the couple as they entered. Centurion de la Valliere was a fine-looking man in middle age, with long blonde hair and a broad moustache over a short, neatly-trimmed beard. In appearance and manners, he bore himself like the noble he had always been.
The woman next to him was his complete opposite. Instead of the courtly wear she had adopted upon marrying her husband, Karin de la Valliere was clad in her old uniform; a black manticore tabard over a coat of fine buff leather, tall black boots reaching up her thighs, her face covered by that famous metal mask. As she approached the desk, she swept off her hat and bowed like a man; a curtsey would have looked ridiculous.
"How now, your graces?" Henrietta greeted them, forcing her face to remain calm and regal; belying her churning stomach. "What would you ask of us?"
"Your Majesty." Centurion fell to his knees, his once-powerful voice was hoarse and full of anguish. "We have come to plead, most humbly, for your pardon on behalf of our foolish and disobedient daughter."
Henrietta's heart ached. She did not know him well, but her parents had always spoken highly of him, and she herself knew him to be a good and honorable man. It pained her to see him in this state.
"Rise, your grace," ordered Henrietta gently, and the Duke straightened up. "Please do not vex yourself. Regardless of Louise's reasons, you are no way to blame for this misfortune."
"Your Majesty," interjected Karin, her voice hard and cold. "This is no mere misfortune. You more than any other showed kindness and consideration to our daughter. You gave her your love, showered her with titles and favours, and she has repaid you with treachery and disobedience. Worse, she may have doomed our kingdom to a war it cannot win."
Her words hung like a dark cloud, chilling the very air. Henrietta drew a long breath, forcing her body to move as little as possible. She would not show weakness, not in front of her.
"You go too far, Madame," she said, her tone sweet reason and regal majesty. "There is no indication that her intentions pose any danger to my person or throne."
"Your Majesty, that is immaterial," retorted Karin icily. "She disobeyed the clear and direct command of her Queen, and in so doing betrayed everything I tried to teach her."
Henrietta forced herself not to shudder. Karin de la Valliere was infamous among nobles for her Law of Steel, the unbreakable and uncompromising code by which she conducted herself. Henrietta knew it well, both from her late mother and from Karin herself. She also had a shrewd idea of what awaited Louise if her mother had her way.
"Madame, I find myself in the curious position of pleading for her," she said. "She gave me her reason, and I know her too well to think her false. She was driven to her deed by honour, by love for a dear friend, and for the sake of justice."
"Justice born of treason is not justice, your Majesty." If anything, Karin seemed to be getting angrier. "Give the word, your Majesty, and I will bring that girl to justice."
Centurion balked at her words. Henrietta fixed her eyes on Karin, forcing down the cold dread churning in her stomach.
"Madame," she said, in what she prayed was a commanding tone. "Do you mean to kill your own daughter?"
Centurion let out a strange, choking sound, staring at his wife in horror. Karin ignored him.
"No, your Majesty," replied Karin. "I will punish that girl, as proof of our loyalty to your throne. Then I will drag her and her companions back here to face your judgement. This Karin the Maelstrom vows."
Henrietta cleared her throat. It was exactly what she feared.
"I understand your intentions, Madame," she said. "As always, you act in accordance with the ancient ways of nobility. But I must insist that you forbear."
Centurion blinked in surprise, glancing from his wife to Henrietta and back again, as if he were watching a game of tennis. A vein began to twitch on Karin's forehead; never a good sign.
"Your Majesty," her words were almost a growl. "If she goes unpunished, your rule is undermined. There are still those who think you weak, who would bend you to their will or force you from your throne. I act to defend you from them."
"To defend yourself, you mean!" Agnes almost spat. "Your family are the ones called traitors, your grace."
Centurion bridled, then faltered as Karin stepped past him, fixing her eyes on Agnes.
"I feel I should know you, mademoiselle," she said, her tone level but cold.
"I am Agnes, Chevalresse de Milan, Captain of the Queen's Musketeers," replied Agnes.
"I remember you." There was something dangerous in Karin's tone. "That graceless, bad-tempered girl, whom the nuns in the orphanage despaired of. That violent spitfire, who was chosen to be a musketeer for the princess. Were you a maid of mine, I would have thrashed your bad nature out of you. But you bested six mage knight cadets, and won the King's approbation. You...and your absent friend."
Something flashed in Agnes' eyes, something Henrietta could not make sense of. But she had no time to wonder at it.
"Were you anything less," Karin went on, "I would have no respect for the Musketeers."
"Enough of this," Henrietta interjected. "Madame, I understand your wish to prove the loyalty of your family, though I myself never doubted it. But if you are indeed loyal, then you must prove it by allowing me to handle this matter."
"Your Majesty..." Karin seemed to be fighting something deep in her soul. "Did you not hear what I said?"
"I am not deaf, Madame. I am your Queen, and if justice must be meted out, than it shall come from my hand, and mine alone."
Henrietta paused a moment, gathering herself.
"If Louise and her companions return to this kingdom, then they shall face my judgement," she went on. "I would have you remain here, Madame, so as to be on hand when that happens. If we face them together, then your loyalty cannot be questioned. But before then, there are matters of which you must be made aware."
"Matters, your Majesty?" asked Karin, apparently curious.
"Namely the identity of the girl Tabitha, whom Louise seeks to rescue," Henrietta said. "Also, the identity of one of her companions."
Scarlet Citadel, Romalia
"How long before they are ready?"
Striding along the Scarlet Citadel's lower dock, Fernando Sotomayor had a clear view of the two airships; Riverenza and Contrizione. They hung in mid-air beside the sheer stone wall of the dock, held fast by mooring ropes. Lay brothers and aeronauts swarmed over them, some carrying supplies on board by hand, others working the enormous derricks that lugged heavy pallets to and from the deck.
Their hulls were long and sleek for speed, while the lanteen sails above and below made them agile in the air. They could not hope to take on a true warship, but they could out-manoeuvre and outrun one easily enough.
Just what the order needed, especially for a mission such as this.
"They will be ready within the hour, Grand Master. The last supplies are being loaded now, and Contrizione is ready for...that thing."
Fernando suppressed a sigh as he glanced up at his companion. Carloman the Deathstroke towered over him, a bullet-headed wall of muscle clad in crimson armor and robes. Normally quiet and stoic, it was unusual for him to express such...distaste.
Not that Fernando minded. He understood the reason only too well.
"That is why we have two ships, Carloman," he said mildly. "You won't have to go anywhere near it."
"I fear nothing for myself, Grand Master." There was just a hint of reproach in his tone. "I fear for our brethren, not to mention our ships."
"I understand completely," replied Fernando. "But fear nothing. She will not cause trouble while I am in command."
"Grand Master..." Carloman paused, looking away in what might have been embarrassment. "She is a mad dog, Grand Master. She..."
"...is quite useful, with a tight leash and the right master," interjected Fernando, his violet eyes fixing Carloman's own. They were brown and remarkably soft, almost gentle, at least when he was like this. "Do not treat me as if I am made of porcelain, my son."
"Forgive me, Grand Master." Carloman halted, and bowed his head. "All that I am, I owe to you. If you had not come for me..."
He trailed off, his gauntlets clanking as they clenched into fists. Fernando felt a twinge of pity for the younger man, and the misfortunes that had brought him into the Scarlet Tower's service.
"You were a convenient scapegoat," he said gently. "Someone had to answer for Richemont's foolishness, for his greed and treason. You were all Mazarin could find, and mere association was enough for that old buzzard."
He reached up, placing a fatherly hand on the younger man's pauldron.
"I have never doubted your loyalty, and never will. You have suffered for the honour of the Church, and that sacrifice was used against you. But you must have faith in me, Carloman. Can you believe in me, Carloman?"
"Yes, Grand Master." Carloman bowed his head again. "Please forgive my doubts."
"You are forgiven, my son." Fernando made a quick gesture of benediction. "See to the ships. We set off as soon as she is ready."
Carloman bowed, and strode away to the nearest of the ships, the Riverenza. Smiling, Fernando retreated from the docks, feeling the eyes of the Lay Brothers upon him. His presence had given them new motivation, driving them to work harder and faster. That was all to the good.
The night wind plucked at his robes as he strode towards one of the barrack blocks. His destination was not hard to find; its tall chimneys smoking merrily, its heavy doors marked with a stylized flame emblem.
The Temple of the Siphonatores. Most kept well away from that place, but Fernando knew he had nothing to fear.
A guard stood outside; a brother-militant clad in the order's red tunic and sallet. He bowed his head as he saw Fernando approach, and pushed the door open. Inside was a long foyer, its walls carved with images of holy fire and the destruction of evil, at the end another pair of double doors; these lined with metal and heavily reinforced.
A half-dozen men were waiting around the inner door. They wore thick armour and robes of leather, their heads covered with close-fitting hoods. They formed a line and bowed their heads respectfully as he approached.
One of them, standing directly in front of the door, wore no hood. As he bowed his shaven head, Fernando saw the brand on his neck, in the shape of a talon.
Her brand.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She is..." The unmasked Siphonator was interrupted by a piercing scream, and a gout of flame flashing behind the door. Fernando smirked, and the Siphonator pushed the door open for him.
The chamber beyond was large and round; the moonlight pouring in through a hole in the ceiling. At the centre stood three poles, to which three men were shackled.
Three men, a few hours ago when they had been taken from the dungeons. Two of them hung slumped against their poles, their flesh scorched black and smoking, the stench of it filling the air. The third was still alive, his eyes bulging with mortal terror. He been caught selling information to Germanian agents, and Fernando had been most interested to know just what he had been selling, and where he had gotten it from.
Before them danced a young woman, cinders and wisps of flame floating and twirling where her wand twirled in the air, her black hair bouncing and coiling like a mass of gleaming serpents. She wore a long, thick, wide-sleeved shift, of the sort the sisters of the order wore under their outer robes. Just visible between the neck and her hairline was a dark, jagged scar.
Fernando stood there, watching her dance, smirking as he felt a presence overhead; a presence as familiar as she was. Golden eyes shone in the darkness, staring hungrily down at him.
But those eyes knew better than to target him.
"Sister Minerva."
"Oh! Fernando!" The young woman almost jumped. She turned to face him, and bowed her head.
"I wasn't expecting you." Her voice was suddenly mellow. "I was just about to commence on this one." She nodded at the still-living prisoner, who looked as if he had seen Hell itself.
"After all..." Her tone changed again, becoming low, almost seductive. "He confessed everything, just like you said he would. I was about to release him."
Fernando saw the man's reaction. He knew what was coming.
"Don't let me detain you," he said, concealing his irritation with her familiarity. Minerva let out a giggle, and flicked her wand at a smaller door set in the wall of the chamber. It clunked open, revealing a long corridor with sunlight just visible at the other end. The man stared at it, almost weeping with pathetic, desperate hope.
"I say...you can go." She flicked her wand again, and the man's bindings disintegrated in a quick burst of flame. The man ran for the door, whimpering in blind terror.
"But Scorchy doesn't."
A great black shape fell from the ceiling, landing in front of the fleeing prisoner with a crash. Fernando covered his face, shielding his eyes from the blast of flame. He heard a long, terrible scream, then lowered his arm to see 'Scorchy' devouring the charred remains of the prisoner.
"Is that all?" he asked, as the enormous Ruin Dragon finished its brief snack.
"Yep! All the guilty ones you gave me!" Minerva turned to face him, bouncing on her heels. "Are we ready to go?"
Fernando was more than a little glad he hadn't brought Charlotte with him. She would have a conniption if she could this, and he didn't entirely blame her. Minerva the Infernal was Charlotte the Pure's opposite in every conceivable way. Where Charlotte was pure and elegant, Minerva was wild and bloodthirsty. Where Charlotte had suffered for the sins of others, Minerva had been cast down for her own.
Fernando knew which of the two he preferred. But Minerva's talents were sufficient to earn her a certain...latitude. So long as she did not push him too far.
"You will travel on the Contrizione, with Captain Cain," he said. "Don't do anything rash until we reach Alhambra. Understood?"
"Nothing rash," she mused, putting a finger on her lips. "So...no burnings?"
"No."
"Can I brand?"
"No."
"Oh but they like it!" she whined. "I promise! They really do!"
"When we reach Alhambra, then you can burn" Fernando went on, speaking to her as if she were a child. "All inside must burn. The villagers you will spare unless I say otherwise, but all inside the walls must burn."
Minerva sauntered over to the dragon, and laid herself down on the colossal beast's snout. The normally territorial and aggressive Ruin Dragon let out a snort of contentment. He loved his master.
"I'll do it for you, Grand Master," she drawled. "I'll burn them. I'll burn anyone you tell me to burn. I'll burn until the heretics and apostates and hypocrites are burned to ash. For God, and the Founder, and you."
"Excellent. Make ready, we leave soon."
Alhambra, Kingdom of Gallia, 8th day of Ansuz
The fortress of Alhambra loomed over the sands like a distant mountain.
Seated on the driving board of the foremost wagon with Kirche, Suleiman had a clear view of the fortress as they approached along the desert road. It was set atop what looked like a rock outcropping or a small mesa. The sides were craggy cliffs, with a long ramp set into one side, leading up from the road to the main gate. The fortress itself was a chaotic cluster of buildings, with little about them to give the impression of a fortress, or that they had been in any way designed for war.
It was not until they drew closer that he saw the battlements, the shapes of men rising from behind them, dark shadows against the falling sun.
"Remind you of anything?" Kirche asked, in a friendly sort of way.
"I have seen places such as this," Suleiman replied, cautiously. "But…it does not seem much like a fortress."
"It probably wasn't," replied Kirche. "It looks more like a pleasure palace to me. But thousands of crusaders died taking and holding it; most of them Gallians. No doubt they'd prefer to say they died taking a mighty fortress than a glorified bordello."
"Bordello?"
"Not till you're older."
Suleiman sighed as Kirche giggled at her own joke. They had reached the foot of the ramp, and two sentries emerged from a guard house cut into the rock wall. They wore long green tabards, the Gallian royal emblem emblazoned on their chests, and morion helmets that gleamed in the sunlight. The two approaching carried only their swords, but more of them emerged from the guardhouse behind them, carrying muskets.
"State your business!" one of the approaching guards called out. Suleiman took a quick breath, prayed a silent prayer to Cyras, then dropped down from the wagon, taking a moment to help Kirche down after him.
"Good morrow, friends!" he called out, hoping he didn't sound half as false as he thought he sounded. "I am Suleiman, a humble traveling showman and purveyor of honourable entertainments." He bowed low.
"Oh are you now?" sneered the guard, regarding him with suspicious eyes. "And what brings you and your entertainments to this fortress?"
"My good sir, surely you do not think us treacherous?" Suleiman forced his smile to stay in place. "We come bearing gifts from a worthy benefactor, one who has heard of your services here, and wishes to show his gratitude to the mighty garrison troops of Alhambra."
The guard looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and contempt, as if Suleiman had just tried to sell him women's underwear.
"And just who would this worthy benefactor be?" he asked.
"I fear that is not for me to say." Suleiman drew the letter from inside his traveling cloak, and held it up so that the guard could see the wax seal. "This letter of introduction is for the governor's eyes only."
The guard peered at the seal.
"Pierre!" he barked at one of the guards behind him. "Get the governor!"
The wait that followed was easily the tensest time of Suleiman's life. But sure enough, the main gate clunked open, and a man came riding down the ramp on a horse. He was short and somewhat portly, with a balding head of brown hair and a short brown beard. But his red coat and white trousers were of rich cloth and finely made, as was the blue cloak about his shoulders.
"This had better be important, sergeant," he complained as one of the guards took the reins of his horse.
"Travellers, my lord," replied the sergeant. He snatched the letter from Suleiman and handed it up to the governor. The governor took it, paused a moment as he noted the seal, then opened and read it.
"It says here you have brought gifts," he said, climbing down from his horse. "I would see them."
Suleiman bowed, and nodded to Kirche. Kirche turned and clapped her hands three times. The girls began piling out of the first wagon and lining up in front of it, the boys doing likewise at the second.
"I present to you, my lord, these lustrous desert flowers!" Suleiman stood back with a flourish, and the girls pulled aside their travelling cloaks. The guards gaped, their mouths dropping open, as Irukuku, Tiffania, Siesta, Montmorency, and Kirche posed flirtatiously before them.
"And also, with my master's compliments, a dozen kegs of the finest Germanian brew!"
The boys pulled aside the second wagon's tarpaulin, revealing the kegs. Alice was among them, her short hair and bound bosom giving her the look of a young man.
"I see." The governor smirked, and straightened up. "I am Philippe de Montcalme, Baron de Miscoeur, Governor of this fortress in the name of his Majesty, King Joseph! I bid you welcome, and ask that you perform for the garrison this night. You shall enjoy our full welcome and hospitality!"
"I thank you, my lord!" Suleiman bowed low. As the girls began clambering back onto the wagons, the baron leant in close once again.
"Once your people are inside, come see me," he said, conspiratorially. "Alone."
"Of course, my lord."
The baron barked out a laugh, and climbed back onto his horse. As he rode back up the ramp, Suleiman resisted the urge to shudder.
"Well done," Kirche whispered, as he climbed back onto the wagon. With a flick of the reins, he drove the horses onto the ramp, shafts groaning as they took the weight.
"There's a problem," he replied, once he was sure the guards could no longer hear. "The baron wants me to see him alone."
"I see." Kirche did a good job of hiding it, but he could tell that this had caught her off-guard. "Don't worry. Just do it like I told you and you'll be fine.
The wagons clattered through the gateway and into the fortress. Looking around, Suleiman could tell that Kirche had been right. This had once been a grand place, its walls and arches decorated with curving arabesques, and painted in elegant shades. But the colours were faded, the stucco and stone worn and cracked. Even if this were not a fortress, its inhabitants were inclined to treat it as one.
Following the directions of the soldiers, Suleiman drove his wagon into a corner of the main parade ground, right next to the main keep. Once both wagons were parked, the boys – Alice and Maxwell included – set about unloading. The soldiers themselves took charge of the barrels, their sergeants barking at them to put their backs into it, and threatening all manner of violence if they broke one.
A mage stood nearby, clad in a belted robe of the same green as the soldiers' tabards, a tall staff in his hand. He was watching the barrels very closely.
"He'll be checking them soon," mused Kirche from behind him. "Good thing we didn't spike them after all. This Baron Miscoeur is not a complete fool."
She turned, and fixed her eyes on a point behind him. Suleiman turned to follow her line of sight, and saw a young man in a green doublet and white breeches striding towards him. An expensive-looking sword hung at his hip.
"I am Sir Lancel de Rolet, aide-de-camp to his excellency the governor," he said imperiously. "The governor bids you attend upon him in his apartments. You will follow me."
Suleiman followed as Sir Lancel led him through the open double-doors into the keep. The interior was in far better shape than the exterior, showing much more of the grandeur that Alhambra must once have known.
Sir Lancel led him up a great staircase, then a smaller one, then along a series of corridors. There seemed to be very little going on in the keep. The only people they encountered were more soldiers, some of them guarding locked doors.
At last, they reached a grand double-door. Sir Lancel knocked, then led them inside.
The rooms inside were particularly grand. Much of the old elvish decoration remained, but the furniture, carpets, and wall hangings were all Gallian. At the centre of the main room, into which Sir Lancel led him, was an enormous desk that looked big enough to seat a dozen people. Behind the desk sat the baron, a self-satisified smirk on his face. Before it sat two empty chairs.
"Ah, excellent," he said. "That will be all, Sir Lancel." The knight bowed, and strode out, closing the door behind him.
"Do sit down," the baron said, gesturing to the empty chairs. "We have some matters to…discuss."
Suleiman did as bidden.
"Your master, the Duke of Navarre, is most generous," the governor went on, in an easy, languid tone. "His gifts are of greater worth than perhaps even he knows. My men are far from home, and life here is not always pleasant. They will remember this night for quite some time."
"My master wishes only to be of help to nobles such as yourself," replied Suleiman graciously. "These are difficult times."
"They are certainly strange ones," agreed the baron. "Just what does your master hope to gain by flattering me like this?"
Suleiman cleared his throat.
"My master and Princess Isabella are seeking out nobles, loyal nobles who have the kingdom's best interest at heart," he said. "Their goal is to protect the King from malicious elements, and ensure the continued unity of the kingdom."
"Oh really?" drawled the baron. "And what would a man such as your master know about malicious elements? A man who killed nobles for trying to uphold the law? A man who stirred up the peasants and raised an army in mockery of the authority of the crown?"
"Bart de Castlemount."
That got his attention. Slowly, purposefully, the baron sat up and leant over the desk, fixing Suleiman with a pair of shrewd, suspicious eyes.
"And what does Bart de Castlemount have to do with this?"
"He is an infamous traitor, who for many years has feigned loyalty to the rightful King," Suleiman went on, his heart hammering. "He was a partisan of Charles d'Orleans, the treacherous Prince who plotted to usurp the crown, and was punished by the will of heaven. He now seeks to place his master's daughter, Princess Charlotte, on the throne as his puppet. To that effect, he has fled the kingdom and taken shelter in Germania. My master believes that even now, he plots with the Germanians to invade the kingdom."
The baron kept staring at him for a long time, as if he meant to bore into Suleiman's very soul with those narrow eyes.
"I was not informed of this," he said, darkly.
"It has happened only recently," Suleiman replied. "The North Parterre agents listening to us even now are equally unaware."
The baron blinked, and Suleiman wondered if he had gone too far. He didn't know for certain whether there were any North Parterre agents present.
"And why, pray, would your master believe that agents of the North Parterre are here?"
Suleiman forced himself not to gulp, or shiver, or sweat. There was no going back now.
"Because his Majesty commanded that Princess Charlotte and her mother be imprisoned here under your watch."
For a long time, there was silence.
"There are only two possible ways that you could know that," said the baron, his tone very precise and controlled. "One is that you are what you say you are, a loyal servant of the crown. The other is that you are an agent of the traitor Bart de Castlemount. He is sufficiently well-connected to have discovered where the King intended to send his niece and sister-in-law. Perhaps your master has grown tired of bowing to Princess Isabella's will, and thrown his lot in with the traitors. It would at least be consistent of him."
Suleiman felt sick. His mind raced for a response. Should he cry out in denial, pleading with the baron to believe him? No, a man such as him would take it as an admission of guilt. Perhaps he should attack the baron, leap on him and strangle the life out of him before anyone outside could intervene? No, he might as well cut his own throat, for all the good it would do.
"I am a loyal servant of my master Duke Henry of Navarre," he said, with all the dignity he could muster. "And my master is a loyal servant of King Joseph. What proof, my lord, can I offer of my sincerity?"
The baron seemed to think for a moment.
"I could have you thrown into the dungeon and dosed with truth potions," he said. "But if you are telling the truth, I would have repaid the Duke's generosity with treachery, and he is known to be protective of his subordinates. No my good fellow, there is no inherent harm in allowing your young ladies to perform their dance. My men get so little amusement out here, and I have enough of them to ensure that your people don't try anything. But I do need...an insurance from you; just a little something to put my mind at ease."
"Here it comes..." Suleiman thought, his stomach churning.
"You will send me one of your people, to remain here until you leave. You have a free choice as to which one."
That took Suleiman by surprise.
"A free choice, baron?"
"A token of my magnanimity," replied the baron, whose smirk was anything but. "It doesn't cost me anything anyway. I have no way of knowing which among you are agents of the Duke, and which are mere dupes with no notion of what is going on, so choosing does me little good."
He chuckled a little, and Suleiman wondered if he had let something slip.
"No need for that face," he said, in what he must have thought was a kind manner. "I will not harm the hostage. As I said, I have no intention of aggravating your master."
Suleiman shivered. What did he mean by that? Had he made a mistake?
"I will make the selection, baron, and send that person to you presently."
"Very good." The baron sat back in his chair. "Don't let me detain you."
A thousand apologies for the long delay. This story has gone through something of a bad patch, but hopefully I'm through it now.
I confess I was getting a bit bored with this story, having to go through stations of the canon just to get everything in place for the later chapters. But that's just about over, and I've been able to have some fun with this.
A couple of explanations. Henry de Navarre is an OC of mine I developed for another fanfic plot, but which ended up getting junked. I found a convenient use for him here though. Minerva the Infernal is one of Zaru's OCs, and will hopefully prove quite entertaining.