The Reformer

Esmond winced mentally; the wine servers stepping up behind men relaxed and unwary, only this time with curved daggers in their hands, instead of flasks. That had happened to the commanders of a famous Emerald mercenary unit serving in Chalice, just after the Alliance Wars, although the men had mostly been able to fight their way out-quite an epic. In a way it was fortunate, reminding him of the thin crust he walked, over an active volcano. He was never safe here, never. . and it was no consolation that the local magnates played the same game among themselves. They were Islanders; they liked it.

It was strange. He hadn't really been happy since Nanya died; but it wasn't like he was numb. He could still feel some things just as well; he could be afraid, anxious, angry. . hatred was stronger than ever. It was as if some section of his psyche had been cauterized.

And I can still fight, he thought. And now he could fight Confeds, not just Islander pirates. I was wrong. I can still be happy. . in a way.

He drew his sword. 'Walking pace,' he said. Men running were more alarming than men walking. 'Follow me.'

Esmond turned the corner, walking lightly on the slimed cobbles. The streets here were narrow between banks of four-storied tenement houses, canyons of darkness with only a narrow slit of stars and moons above. The bright lights from the Confed garrision buildings were almost blinding by comparison, although the broad square of light there was narrowing quickly.

'Shit-charge!' Esmond yelled.

So much for being subtle. The doors were still open, but they were swinging closed; a section of frowsy- looking Confed regulars was doing it, under the direction of a noncom, a brick-built bristle-headed graying man with legs and arms like gnarled, scar-slashed tree trunks. He was wearing a scarlet dress tunic rather than armor and transverse-crested helmet, but there was no mistaking exactly what he was-and drunk or sober, he wasn't going to leave that door open. It was sixty yards between the alley where the Strikers had been waiting and the barracks gate. . they'd have plenty of time to drop the bar in place before the first Emerald mercenaries reached them. It wouldn't save them-the force had grappling hooks and ropes and the wall was low-but it would turn the battle into a bloody dogfight.

Esmond's body reacted with automatic reflex, turning his run sideways as the javelin went back over his right shoulder. One skipping sidestep, two, and arm and back and shoulder moved with the smooth inevitability of a machine. The javelin disappeared, arching up into the night. He'd practiced throwing at the mark, stationary and moving hoops, nearly every day of his life since he went into the boys' palaestra at six.

The Confed noncom looked up at the whistle of cloven air just before the long narrow steel head of the throwing spear punched into his throat above his breastbone. Eight inches of it disappeared, and the point crunched into his spine between the shoulderblades. He toppled like a cut tree, with only a single galvanic jerk as his heels came off the ground.

That paralyzed the men pushing at the door for a crucial two seconds; few of them had the noncom's experience, and they'd all been drinking wine much more potent than they thought it was. Time enough for twenty or thirty other Strikers to throw; they weren't Five Year Games victors, but they were closer, and there were a lot of them. Falling bodies knocked the gates wide again, and the Strikers burst through, roaring.

The courtyard had been set with trestle tables and lighted with tall iron tripods holding baskets of burning pinewood. Most of the Confed soldiers were sprawled about the picked-clean remnants of the pigs, bowls and cups in their hands, some of them with women in their laps, others watching a convoluted act involving four nude dancers and a very large trained snake. It took them gaping seconds to react, and none of them had weapons other than their eating knives at hand when hundreds of fully-armed alert soldiers poured through.

The first rank of Strikers launched their javelins and drew their swords; the second rank threw over their comrades' heads and plunged after them. Confed soldiers were dying-not only soldiers, Esmond vaulted over a whore in spangles and body paint, whimpering and pulling at the spear through her gut-and others were running, probably for their weapons. Some tried to make stands, grappling with the Emeralds or snatching up stools and eating utensils.

Esmond plunged through the chaos, over flagstones slippery with wine, spilled food, already wet with blood. Sword and buckler moved in clear, precise arcs; he seemed to be wading through honey, in a strange amber world in which everyone else moved very slowly, and he had more than enough time to do whatever was necessary. A solid wedge of men were following him, shields up and swords out. . A scrim of bodies marked the entrance to the barracks, men trying to get in, others trying to get out with snatched-up shields and assegais. The one in front of him stumbled and went down with a spear in his back, and then Esmond was facing an armed man at last.

The big shield with the crossed thunderbolts of Allfather of Vanbert on it-Allfather Greatest and Best-punched at him. The tip of the assegai glittered, held low and point-up for the gutting stroke. Esmond spun to the side, light on his feet as a dancer, hooking his buckler around the far edge of the oval shield and wrenching sideways to pin the Confed's spear arm against the frame of the door. His sword hilt went up high, like a beast fighter dispatching a greatbeast in the Vanbert arena after he'd teased it with the cape. The point punched down, in over the collarbone-unnecessary, the man hadn't had time to don his mail shirt, but you didn't think in a fight, you reacted on drilled reflex.

A wrench and jerk and the Confed went down. Esmond's foot and point snapped forward in a longe-lunge, skewered a thigh, pulled out with a twist to open the artery. He slammed his shoulder into another hastily-raised shield, and he was through the door. A Striker crowded through behind him, and in the dim light of the oil lamps he could see swarming confusion within, whores running and shrieking and the more sensible ones hiding under cots, men ripping weapons down from racks or stumbling in drunken bewilderment and getting in the way of their more sober comrades. . and more of his men coming in the tall open windows. Barracks didn't run to glazing, but you wanted plenty of ventilation in this climate.

'Strikers!' he shouted. 'Strikers to me! Down Vanbert! Down Vanbert!'

The Strikers were mercenaries, yes. They were also Emeralds almost to a man, and if there was one battle cry in all the world Emeralds could agree on, it was that.

Half an hour later, Esmond tucked his helmet under one arm and walked into the shrine room of the Confed headquarters, stepping over the bodies of the knot of men who'd died on its threshold. The slash on his thigh would make the leg stiffen in a little while, but for now he ignored it as he lifted out the ebony pole, with its golden wreath and hand and campaign-ribbons. He carried it himself onto the colonnaded porch that overlooked the courtyard, and the assembled Strikers roared his name as he held it high.

'Men!' he shouted, when the noise had died down a little. 'So much for the invincible Confederacy!'

Another roar, with heartfelt emotion behind it this time. 'Strikers,' he went on. 'We're soldiers loyal to our salt. But we're Emeralds, too. This-' he waved the standard '-has fouled the land of the Hundred Cities far too long. This war is against the Confederacy.' A hush, then. 'You know the gods favor my brother and me.'

Nods. Or at least, my brother's productively crazy. . hands of the Shades, maybe the gods do talk to him. Something does.

'The gods foretell the fate of the Confederacy-they tire of it. Vanbert shall burn!'

Wild cheers, and Donnuld Grayn looking at him with a raised eyebrow-the expression looked a little odd on the scarred, beaten-iron face.

'And think of the loot stacked up there,' the mercenary shouted.

This time the cheers split the night.

* * *

'Where the hell were you?' Esmond asked.

'I had an errand to run,' Adrian said, walking down the gangway.

Esmond peered behind him. 'Where's Helga?'

'As I said, I had an errand,' Adrian said, and forced a smile. 'Look, let's forget about it, okay? Business.'

'Certainly, brother,' Esmond said. 'This is Enry Sharbonow, Suttete of Preble, Chief Minister to the sovereign, Prince Tenny of Preble.'

Adrian bowed, returning the Preblean magnate's more elaborate salute. 'Everything went well? Where's the Prince?'