Chapter 12

 

Lord Lycon’s quarters were nothing much to write home about. Apparently, before the establishment of the zones, the croft-like structure had belonged to a knight of Queen Rowan’s personal bodyguard, or some such petty notable, and apart from being a more private establishment than the barrack houses, it had little enough in the way of distinction. Indeed, and granted that age might finally be telling upon him, it had required the rapid erection of a new hearth in every room to make it habitably warm. Above and beyond that, the furnishings were crudely-made, the roof was in the preliminary stages of a gradual fall-in, and from the sounds he’d been hearing, he strongly suspected that the thatch was more than fifty percent mouse in any case.

        He could hear some different sounds tonight, but the variation was not welcome: there was gunfire in the town, albeit at a fair distance. That suggested one of two locations: the daemon ghetto or the palace district, neither of which fell in particularly well with his plans. In fact, throughout his long career, he had never donned his uniform half so hurriedly, but as he was on the point of venturing forth, he was most unceremoniously visited. It was all he could do to conceal his indignation: squalid as they were, his were nevertheless a senior command officer’s quarters, and at least merited a properly requested and announced entry from all comers. To be fair to the visitor, however, the door guard appeared to be absent for reasons best known to himself, but Lycon had no great desire to be fair to this particular visitor: it was Lord Corin, smiling. Indeed, he seemed uncommonly pleased, being content to stare silently at his bemused host, who eventually lost patience:

        “To what, My Lord, to I owe the honour–?” began Lycon, with mounting detestation, which finally moved the guest to acknowledge him:

        “Shut up and listen to me, you filthy traitor.” Lycon shrugged, ably concealing his desire to shoot Corin where he stood. Which would have been fine, except that Corin was the only one of them who had a carbine in hand. Besides which, Lycon was rather keen to hear how the maniac proposed to explain himself.

        “Not content,” continued Corin, “with having murdered a beloved king, and having installed our dear ‘Gloriana’ in his place, you now intend to sell us all to the Lucinians? Spare your protests, Lycon. You invited their spies into the town. You had them in private audience, and in the palace. I know it all. And where are the hostages? Our only hold on the Lucinians? Released! That’s where! And under whose orders?”

        “Her Highness’s, as I recall. Who else should give such an order?”

        “I, for one, do not acknowledge your puppet whore, Lycon. She has betrayed us as clearly as you have, and will fare the worse for it.”

        “And she hasn’t invented you any new weapons in a good while, of course.”

        “Would you like to live, My Lord? No. I can afford to be more generous, even to such a capital criminal as yourself. Would you like to be allowed to retire gracefully, honourably, with your estates and titles unconfiscated? If you would, then it seems a small price for me to request that you order that mutinous plebeian rabble of yours to lay down their arms and surrender to my marines.”

        “I’m not aware, My Lord, that I own any ‘mutinous plebeian rabble.’ I certainly hope that I don’t.”

        “I’m talking about that Gloriana-loving scum up at the palace!”

        “Oh. So that’s where all the action is. But aren’t they your men, Lord Corin?”

        “I’m not a patient man, Lycon. We all know that you’ve got those wretched conscript rebels under your thumb. Unless you tell those vermin where their true loyalties lie, many good, loyal men are going to be killed when we shoot our way through them to get at that usurping harlot! Is that how you’d prefer it?”

        “By no means, My Lord, and would that it were that simple. If I denounce Her Highness, do you really suppose they’d follow me? Believe it or not, I’m very much afraid that those ‘vermin’ are genuinely loyal to her. You may take some heart from that: they have absolute faith in the monarchy. Don’t we drill it into them from birth? But we patricians, My Lord? To them, we’re just the people who live off their toils, beat them up, and bundle them into warships in times of our need. I care for such attitudes no more than you, but you must see it. This is why we have a monarchy: good public relations.”

        Corin, throughout this speech, was becoming visibly more disgusted and agitated with every blasphemous sentence, and in spite of himself, Lycon could not suppress a little sympathy with the hateful upstart. His almost total lack of faith in human nature was hard to argue with, although Lycon felt himself bound to question the maverick extremes it was leading him to. Attacks upon the status quo were to be deplored, certainly, but it had to work both ways, and Corin’s rampant paranoia was threatening to lose patience with sanity itself, never mind with the institutions he apparently believed he was protecting. Lycon made another attempt:

        “Try to see it, My Lord: it’s been the same for centuries. Any respect that our ancestors or we have ever gained from the herd has been through association with the throne. What have we ever done during a major riot or petty rebellion? I’ll tell you what: we’ve trawled out the king, because we know they’d have lynched us as soon as look at us. But the king? We’ve made it so that whoever sits in that lump of carved wood is their god. He – or she – can speak a few words, make the rebels hang their heads in shame, pronounce mercy on the followers and death on the ringleaders, and so on, so forth. To those conscripts, My Lord, I am afraid you are the rebel.”

        “Delight in sedition while you can, Lycon. The Admiralty is entirely on my side, as are hundreds of loyal troops.”

        “Only natural. You’ve had them in the service for years. They know a different, and no doubt a much more real chain of command. The same cannot be said for the thousands of new recruits and their kith and kin back home, just in case you were thinking of returning as king, My Lord.”

        “After this farce of a regency has been dissolved, we shall have no present need of a replacement. The Admiralty itself will be sufficient authority for the duration of the war with Lucinia.”

        “Ah.” Lycon nodded grimly. “Didn’t think of that. Definitely going ahead with that one, are we?”

        “Since you have taken such pains to throw away our advantages, I fail to see that we could do otherwise. But this is your final chance, Lord Lycon: will you or will you not pacify those rebels, or must I purge every last one of you?”

        “And, as I believe I told you, they wouldn’t listen to me if I tried.”

        “If this is so, you are of no use to me. Ought I to shoot you here and now, or would you care to come down to the palace anyway, and make the effort? Not that I suppose it will make much difference. She’s probably dead by now, anyway.”

 

One could say that the palace had fallen. The conscripts had fought their comrades bravely in the defence of their regent, spurred on to a great extent by the belief that they were in the majority, but whilst this may have been true for Albinor and its newly-acquired realms in general, it did not apply for Fort Rowan in particular. As the local unpopularity of their idol dawned upon the loyalists, their efforts decidedly slackened, and by the time Lord Corin had escorted his illustrious prisoner to the palace forecourt, there was virtually nothing left for him to do. After about thirty deaths and twice as many injuries, the defenders had given their cause up for lost, and surrendered to Corin’s veterans.

        The court was still in revolt, but even they had by and large been killed or rounded up, as the attackers stormed through the palace. They had been specifically instructed not to waste any uncalled-for effort in extending mercy to the daemons, but some prisoners had been taken of those that were found unarmed. One was being manhandled out of the main doors as the two admirals approached: a lady of the regent’s, none too tall and very slight, but requiring two well-muscled marines to restrain her. Lycon seemed to recall that her name was Epona, or something similar, and that she had been a close favourite of Gloriana’s. Though, if he was honest with himself, he did not find the courtiers very easy to distinguish from one another. They were all bold, sensual, disorganised creatures, and – he could hardly help recalling, and wishing that Lord Corin might – they had all fought equally bravely during the occupation. This one was putting up quite a fight right now, to little avail. Corin was obviously confident that she was under sufficient restraint not to break away, or even attempt to bite off his nose, as he approached her more closely than Lycon would have thought prudent.

        “The regent, my dear,” said Corin, in his accustomed throaty undertone. “Where is she, now?” In response, he was a given a recommendation to “Burn in Hades,” which he answered with a sharp intake of breath, followed by an order to the marine who was holding her by the left arm, to break it. Lycon, much to his own surprise, was shocked, and to his credit, the marine did not look especially happy, and must have been very thankful that the threat took immediate effect:

        “She’s gone!” the lady practically spat in Corin’s face, “and you’ll not find her, neither!”

        “Gone? Run out on you, has she?” Stolid silence. “Not run out on you? What’s she up to, then? What’s her plan? Answer me, you slattern! All right, then. We’ll do this your way. Trooper! The arm, if you please!”

        “Belay that!” shouted Lycon. “Give it up, Lord Corin! You’ve deposed the poor woman. What more do you need?”

        “Absolute assurance of her death would be quite pleasant. I should hate to think of her selling her marvellous designs to the Lucinians, or had you overlooked that possibility, Lycon?”

        “Point taken. Is that offer of yours still open? Immunity? Honourable discharge? Full pension? And so forth?”

        “You have me at a loss. What exactly have you to sell?”

        “Only a corpse, My Lord. But one you seem very keen on having.”

        “Indeed? Yes, Lord Lycon; I believe I can stretch a point. As long as we get her, you have my word that your person and your honour shall be fully protected. So where is she, then?”

        “One of the lower catacombs. There’s an altar attached to a hidden counterweight in that crypt beneath the great hall. You hit the eye of the dragon on the left rear side, and it pivots nicely. Plain sailing from there, really. The only way to bolt is into the mountains, and I doubt she’ll try that.”

        “And if she does, we’ll just seal her in. A few pounds of blasting gelatine should take care of that.”

        “Perhaps, My Lord. But those tunnels are rather ancient. Which is to say, they’ve certainly stood the test of time, and may not cave in so easily. Do be prepared. They are apt to be a little disconcerting.”

        “Spare your concern... My Lord. My marines can deal with anything, and are certainly not prone to fanciful fears. I thank you for your assistance. You men! Take this drab away, and lock her up with the rest of those freaks!”

        The lady looked daggers at Lycon as she was pulled away, which he found marginally hurtful. Not that he was especially proud of what he had just done, but he had hoped that she, at least, might have discerned his reasoning. Not that it much mattered, or prevented him from feeling an irrepressible rush of malicious satisfaction as Corin and his picked squad set out for the crypt, hope in their hearts.

 

In her chair at the archive panel, Gloriana wept as quietly as she could contrive, under the circumstances, and was again thankful for the permanent concealment that shame and vanity had endowed her with. The only likely observer of her distress, however, was ‘Lord’ Lath, who had been the single member of her court bodyguard to make it into the crypts. The rest had been shot down or taken in the storming of the palace: a shoddily co-ordinated manoeuvre on the part of Corin’s enthusiasts, which had afforded great potential for deaths by friendly fire and, for those who cared to make the effort, ad hoc escapes into the courtyard. To do full justice to the attackers, those who did make the effort fell victim to the snipers covering the gates, and the only other survivors were the prisoners.

        Gloriana had made her own withdrawal in the company of several courtiers, but they had been variously lost; shot, or split off in the general fracas, and only Lath remained. Almost any other of her confidantes would have been preferable in these terminal moments, but she was not remotely surprised: whatever his other deficiencies, he was, at least, a noted survivor, who had never been wildly enthusiastic for either the Albinor alliance or for Operation Neo Arcady. Or for her, come to that, but he had the keenest sensibilities where bolt-holes were concerned. Doubtless, he was only looking for the first opportunity to make a safe break for it, and such being the case, his advice could be summarily dismissed.

        “If you’ve quite finished your snivelling, Virana,” he snapped, demonstrating two vices fairly common to the daemons: over-keen hearing and a complete absence of tact, “Then I say we try the tunnel.”

        “It is sealed, Lath, and so it shall remain. Only Lycon knew of this place. We shall be safe down here until reinforcements arrive.” It was a straw worth clutching at, anyway, although Lath did not seem to find it so:

        “What reinforcements? You really think that scheming dotard gives a damn about us? He’s probably mapped this filthy warren out for them, by now! You stay and face them if that’s how you want to die, but I’m taking my own chances.”

        “And what chances, pray, would these be? Will you go to Lucinia and work yourself to death in some infernal pit of a sweatshop, or do you prefer the life of a wretched vagrant or a common highway robber?”

        “I’ll join the resistance, that’s what.”

        “Will you? I can just imagine that: ‘Former courtier of Gloriana seeks employment among sworn enemies of said Gloriana, whom he has had extensive hands-on experience fighting and suppressing in happier times. Short-term contracts preferred, but all manner of treachery undertaken.’”

        “Oh, traitor, is it? You failed us, lady. Why the hell should I stick my neck out for you, when I’ve a chance to get clear? They’ll not remember me, as long I’m out of your company. I’ll tell them I got out of the ghetto.”

        “I have not failed,” she replied, with enough firmness to compensate for a severe lack of conviction. “You forget Lieutenant Dorus: when the Union falls, the Albinor will realise that I was working in their interests all along.”

        “You think that makes any odds to Corin?”

        “Probably not, but Corin is not Albinor.”

        “Isn’t he, the bastard? I find it hard enough to tell them apart. You reckon your pretty-boy lieutenant can save us now? Though I guess, if you could get him to make a detour over these parts, he could always try out the Red Death on those scum–”

        “Suggest that again, Lath, and you may consider what you have left of my friendship to be lost forever.”

        “How shall I sleep at nights? Well, then; if you’re determined not to save us, you can’t object to me making the best shift I can of it, with or without your help.” Loading his carbine, Lath strode out into the tunnel and turned left, towards the ancient labyrinth. The next she heard of him was a shot, accompanied by the unmistakable shattering of the sound-proofed glass barrier. And if that doesn’t get its full attention, she thought, grimly unsurprised, I don’t know what will. Still, though she had no love for the wretched man, he had never maliciously harmed or betrayed her, and she had no particular desire to think of him as a lifeless, mangled heap. She set her hands upon the panel, and was all set to fill her head with noise, when she was distracted by the telepathic signal of alarm that was coursing through the system.

        An image resolved, claiming her full attention, and what remained of her composure: marines were descending the stairwell from the crypt. They had opened the altar-stone, and were gathering in the outer hall: a dozen or more of them, with Lord Corin as their leader. Lycon was not among them, but what difference did that make? Corin had certainly never heard tell of the catacombs from her lips, which left only one remotely probable informant.

        Again, she wept, freely and furiously, at this perfection of betrayal. All of her friends and allies who had not been killed had, to the best of her knowledge, thrown their lot in with her enemies, or at very least, simply left her to die. Neither faith nor love had moved them: they had followed her out of devout selfishness, and discarded her for the same. Not true. For a weak-willed moment there, she had forgotten Dorus: discourteous ingrate though he was, he had shown himself to be nothing if not faithful over the past months, and there was hope to be gleaned from that. Though she might be killed or taken in a matter of minutes, it would be more than enough time to ensure the successful completion of her designs. Perhaps that sorry little time-server Lath had been onto something, after all.

        And, while she was reflecting on that, she paid no heed as Corin’s assembled squad set off double-quick down the tunnel, and, to a man, failed to notice the archive room door, obscured amidst the twisted dimensions of the labyrinth. Following a brief stop to extract some broken glass from their boots, and some fruitless conjectures regarding the same, they pressed on, not at all hindered by the shared belief that a faint cry had been heard from somewhere far ahead.