into their path.
At the bottom of the road they struck the waterfront and turned right, ran another block, and clambered down the stone stairs to the water’s edge where their two dories bobbed, lashed to a rusting iron ring. The boys leapt into the boats and Tycho climbed in as quickly as he could, and a moment later they were rowing swiftly out into the Strait once more.
Tycho sat in the bow of his boat, staring back over the boys’ heads at the receding shore, but he couldn’t see the mist or any other figures walking in the shadows.
“God in heaven, it’s true,” Lycus whispered. “The deathless ones. The army of the dead. They’re real. They’re here.”
Tycho nodded slowly, but then frowned as he tried to remember exactly what he had seen stepping out from the dark alley. “He wasn’t dressed like a soldier, though. No uniform, no armor, no weapons. I think he was barefoot.”
“He was,” Lycus said. “I saw him. He was just wearing a shirt and pants. Nothing else. And they were torn up, too.”
“What kind of army goes around barefoot in rags?” Tycho muttered.
“What kind of army goes around dead?” Lycus asked.
The other boys were nodding and muttering in a quiet panic.
“It’s all right,” Tycho said loudly. “We’re all safe now. I doubt anything that clumsy and slow can swim, or at least not as fast as we can row.”
“What about the aether?” Lycus nodded toward the Palace of Constantine and the three Furies where the aether lay like a thick cloud all across the channel.
“We’ll just have to stay ahead of it,” Tycho said. “We’ll head up the Strait and stay away from land. If the aether keeps following, then we’ll just have to keep rowing, all night if we have to. And if you boys get too tired, then I guess I’ll just have to grow giant arms and row for you.”
The marines grinned sheepishly.
“What about the Eranians?” Lycus asked. “If the aether hasn’t reached Stamballa yet, they might try to capture us to find out what’s going on. There’s only six of us, sir, and we’re low on ammunition. We can’t take on anything too big.”
“I know.” Tycho turned to squint across the water to the bright lights of Stamballa on the far shore.
What the hell happened to Salvator? It’s not like Radu to take a messenger hostage, let alone kill him. He’s too refined, too proud, too honorable. And besides, he knows it’s something that his brother would definitely do, which is all the more reason for him not to. So where is that smug Italian?
“Change of plan. No one wants to row up the Strait all night, do you?” Tycho pointed at the distant lights. “We cross the channel and have a little chat with our friends over there.”
“Sir?” Lycus winced. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m still one of the Duchess’s ambassadors. I have every right to talk to them on her behalf, and every right to an armed escort. And how can they possibly object to six young men in wet rags?”
Lycus didn’t smile. “We can’t protect you from the Turks with these empty guns and a handful of knives for very long, sir.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.” Tycho eyed the billowing cloud of aether slowly expanding across the Strait from the Seraglio Point. “I have a feeling that tonight, the Turks will be the least of our enemies.”
The boys at the oars set to work and the two dories slowly crept across the Strait. The bright shore of Stamballa grew closer and clearer, and the dark shore of Constantia slowly faded into the shadows and mist, punctuated by distant screams of terror.
The crossing was quiet and clear until they reached the center of the channel and saw a small ironclad gunboat puttering toward them from the east. Tycho told the boys to go on rowing and so they were well into Eranian waters when the gunboat drew near and a small but bright lantern cast its light on the two small boats. But when it did, Tycho was already standing in the bow with his empty hands raised in greeting.
“Good evening,” he called out in Eranian. “I am Major Tycho Xenakis en route to meet with my colleague Salvator Fabris, who is currently a guest of the holy prince.” He deliberately avoided using Radu’s name, just in case his marines had not yet heard the rumor that the Vlachian lord now commanded the Turks. The last thing he needed was more friction between his Hellans and Vlad’s northerners.
“You will follow us to port,” a man yelled down from the gunboat, and the lantern switched off.
Tycho nodded at Lycus and the others, and they proceeded to row toward the Turkish shore with the gunboat growling along beside him. He could see the sailors on its deck, each one with the distinctive outline of a Numidian rifle slung over his shoulder.
As they reached the dock, Tycho whispered to the marines, “Whatever you do, you all need to act like my official escorts. You don’t speak to anyone but me. You don’t even look at anyone but me. And you damn sure don’t give up your weapons to anyone at all.”
“Yes sir,” the youths answered.
They tied up the dories at the bottom of the pier as the gunboat idled behind them and two dozen young Eranian soldiers trooped down to the water to meet them. Their commander said, “Major Xenakis, we were not expecting you. Your men will surrender their weapons and we will escort you to the embassy for the remainder of the night. I understand that the holy prince is quite busy this evening, so it is unlikely he will see you before the morning.”
Tycho climbed up onto the pier and the marines scrambled up beside him in two crooked lines, all with blank stares. “My men will be keeping their weapons, as per usual, and you will take me to see the prince immediately. We have a crisis on our hands, sir, and if something isn’t done about it this very hour, a great many people are going to die.”
“That isn’t my decision to make,” the officer said.
“Then let me make it for you,” Tycho said. “You’re stationed here at the waterfront. When the fighting begins, if the fighting begins, the first area to be shelled into oblivion on both sides will be where, exactly?”
The Turk frowned. “I will see what I can do, major.”
“Thank you.”
The Turks escorted the Hellans through the brightly lit streets of Stamballa, between houses full of clinking plates and glasses where voices laughed and sang. Tycho frowned at each one in turn.
Constantia should be like this right now, instead of a shrieking tomb.
The walk was long and hard as much of it was uphill, but Tycho struggled along as quickly as his legs would allow and his marines, God bless them, kept their own pace to match his, which in turn forced the Turks to keep theirs.
Finally they reached the iron gates of a modest estate and the soldiers from the waterfront turned over the Hellans to the soldiers from the house. Tycho repeated his urgent need to speak with the prince, and a few minutes later, after some heated discussion and exchange of papers between the Eranian officers, the Hellans were allowed inside the gate.
When they reached the doors of the main house, a massive white building of soaring columns and tiled floors, Tycho loudly declared that his men would remain there while he met with the prince. He shared a pregnant look with Lycus as he handed his Mazigh revolver to the youth, trying to silently order the young marine to only make good decisions while he was gone. The boy looked back with grim confidence, but Tycho had no idea whether that was a good thing.
Inside the house, a young man in a crisp white evening jacket escorted Tycho to a small vestibule, and left him there. The room was empty, but Tycho was familiar enough with it. The door behind him led back to the hallway, and the door ahead of him led into the prince’s office. There was often a guard here as well, but at the moment Tycho was alone.
And now the waiting begins.
But after only a few minutes he heard shoes clacking sharply on the floor outside, the doors opened, and Radu strode inside. The prince’s jacket was open, his shirt unbuttoned at his throat, and there was a certain disorder to his oiled black hair that Tycho found disconcerting.
He’s usually the very picture of nobility. This is bad.
“Major.” The prince strode past and opened the door to his office, and disappeared inside.
