The Red Winter Page 14

  Mr. Bonn had been against it from the start. The imp, as usual, had taken great pains to enumerate all that could go wrong: offending the uninvited, the unthinkable prospect of defeat, and, of course, technical difficulties.

  Technical difficulties. The king glowered at the Workshop engineers, futzing with their equipment, skittering with expressions of mounting anxiety.

  “What do you make of this cold spell, Your Majesty?” inquired the ironmonger. “A contrivance of your enemies?”

  Conversations hushed as Prusias turned to face his questioner. The smile died on the baron’s face, a mushroom dripping butter from the end of his tiny fork.

  The king smiled pleasantly. You will never return to Vrusk, my friend. Aloud, he said, “Which enemies would you be referring to?”

  “R-Rowan,” stammered the demon. “Of course I meant Rowan. Your lordship has no other enemies.”

  “If his lordship has no other enemies, why is his beautiful city burning?” inquired Lady Praav, a countess from Acheral. She gestured pleasantly to one of the windows where torrents of distant smoke were pluming into the night.

  “A routine demonstration in the ghetto,” Prusias growled. “Some smoke, but hardly fire. What can one say? Vyes are animals.”

  He laughed at the joke, but Lady Praav retained the pinched, disapproving expression that reminded him why he despised her. She was no demon, more of an immortal schoolmarm.

  “Are we in danger?” she asked politely.

  “Of course not,” Prusias replied. “The vyes live within the lowest district, and Workshop gargoyles have already been dispatched. Any troublemakers shall be dealt with.”

  At the far end of the long table, an immensely powerful warlord blew a smoke ring from his amber pipe. The rakshasa gestured lazily at the flustered engineers, his eyes three emerald slits within his tigerish face. “I hope the gargoyles weren’t built by these gentlemen,” he purred. “You should let me bring my legions within the city, Prusias. They’re more reliable than your toys.”

  The threat was obvious to everyone in the room—even the dullest the imps, courtiers, and concubines. Other than Queen Lilith, Lord Grael was the closest thing Prusias had to a true rival. Unfortunately, he was far too valuable to eliminate at this stage of the war. If Prusias lost Grael’s support, half the braymas in Malakos and Azur might revolt. Still, he could not let such an obvious taunt go unanswered. Prusias raised his glass.

  “Very generous, Lord Grael. Fortunately, I have Lord Braiden’s legions at my disposal. But rest assured I won’t forget your offer.”

  With a knowing smirk, the rakshasa raised his glass. Lord Braiden was the unfortunate demon Prusias had chosen to make an example of at his party. Hundreds of guests had witnessed their king savagely batter and decapitate a powerful rival with his bare hands in the grand ballroom. Prusias had not even wiped the blood from his breathless, grinning face when he declared Braiden’s lands forfeit and all his legions and servants property of the king. The message had spread among braymas like wildfire: This could be you.

  Still, Prusias could not ignore the obvious. While the party had been a rousing success, tonight was turning into a disaster. As the servants poured more wine, Prusias surveyed his other guests: a score of vital braymas, several witches, a representative from the lesser demons who had settled the former Americas, his worthless advisers … His eyes settled on a human woman, auburn-haired and striking. She was seated at one of the side tables next to a kitsune who played the sweetest belyaël in Blys. Unlike most humans, the woman seemed at ease among daemona. She couldn’t be from the Workshop—this woman actually had grace and style. Turning, Prusias motioned for Mr. Bonn.

  “Who is she?” he whispered in the imp’s ear. “The woman seated next to Marahkül.”

  “Madam Petra, my lord. She was very influential among the human settlements before Rowan took her hostage.”

  “The smuggler from Piter’s Folly?”

  The imp nodded. “Yes, my lord. Apparently, she did not take part in Rowan’s defense and felt uncomfortable remaining. She was permitted to leave.”

  Prusias’s face darkened. “How do we know she’s not a spy?”

  “She blames Rowan for her husband’s death, she prospered at Piter’s Folly, she is being watched, and we have insurance.”

  “What insurance?”

  “Her daughter,” sighed Mr. Bonn. “Young Katarina is now our special guest and has been housed with the Workshop children.”

  The king grunted his approval. “Special guests” were hostages, an almost meaningless asset when dealing with other demons, but marvelous currency with humans. They became very compliant when their loved ones were threatened. The demon’s eyes wandered hungrily over her figure to pause at a coppery gleam about her lovely neck. Prusias had a remarkably keen eye for luxury and could appraise most items at a glance. The smuggler’s torque was not fashioned of copper or red gold; it was made from one of the rarest materials on earth—the quills of a lymrill. Prusias was exceedingly curious how it had fallen into the woman’s possession. A greedy flame kindled in the demon’s eye. The smuggler and her torque—he coveted them both.

  “Invite her to dinner this week,” he muttered. “In the meantime, find out what the bloody holdup is. If we can’t view the attack, I want to know. I’m tired of sitting here grinning like a fool.”

  The imp bowed and walked briskly away to where Dr. Wyle was conferring anxiously with his colleagues. When Mr. Bonn had his word, the engineer nodded and mopped a face shining with perspiration. Beckoning to one of his associates, a young man monitoring a silver case adorned with dials and glass tubes, Dr. Wyle walked swiftly over. The malakhim stood aside to permit them approach. The engineer and his young assistant bowed.

  “Your Majesty,” said Dr. Wyle. “Please allow me to explain the difficulties.”

  Prusias cocked his head. There were so many powerful demons in the room that their auras overlapped into a nebulous haze. But now that Prusias could see Dr. Wyle’s colleague up close, he noticed something very peculiar.

  “I would very much like to hear your explanations, Dr. Wyle. Let’s begin with why a Workshop engineer is mehrùn.”

  The geneticist blinked. “Pardon?”

  Prusias pointed at the young man clutching his little gadget. “Mehrùn,” he repeated. “Your colleague is a magical human. Were you aware of this?”

  “I … I suppose he must be,” stammered Dr. Wyle. “It didn’t occur to me to mention—”

  Prusias cut the man off and fixed his eyes on the mehrùn.

  “Who are you?” he asked gruffly.

  The young man had broad shoulders, short blond hair, and an earnest air. Prusias could smell fear, but the mehrùn kept his composure as he bowed. “Jason Barrett, Your Majesty. I serve in the Workshop’s—”

  “Dr. Barrett is not a regular part of my team,” put in Dr. Wyle anxiously. “He’s just a technician we borrowed to—”

  The engineer fell silent as Prusias held up his hand. “Dr. Wyle, if you interrupt, you will dine on your own tongue. Continue, Dr. Barrett.”

  “As I was saying, Your Majesty, I serve in the Workshop’s communications division. Dr. Wyle asked me here to assist with the broadcast.”

  “So, you’re to blame for all of this …” The demon simmered, gesturing at the blank screens lining the far wall.

  “With all due respect, the Earth’s atmosphere is to blame,” replied the engineer. “There’s been a sizable shift in its magnetic field that’s interfering with our equipment. We’re trying to adjust our instruments to compensate.”

  Prusias waved off the technical gibberish. “Will there be a show?” he asked pointedly.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Would you stake your life on it?”

  “I believe I just did.”

  Prusias had to chuckle. Despite his present irritation, he liked this young engineer—he possessed a bit of dash so woefully absent from the average Workshop drone. “We
re you aware that you are mehrùn, Dr. Barrett?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I graduated from Rowan.”

  Prusias digested this slowly. “Did you, now?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Five years ago. Top of my class.”

  “Good for you, lad. And how does a Rowan graduate come to be at the Workshop, pray tell?”

  “They offered an internship and I accepted. This was back before the troubles began.”

  Prusias laughed and gazed about the magnificent room. “What troubles, Dr. Barrett? We seem to be doing rather well.”

  “Troubles for Rowan,” the young man clarified. “Troubles for common humanity.”

  “Common humanity,” Prusias repeated. “I like that phrase. You’re certainly not common humanity, Dr. Barrett—a Workshop engineer who hails from Rowan. Are you a spy?”

  The question was asked with a casual air, but there was nothing casual about its underlying gravity. The demon studied the human closely, his senses attuned for the innumerable tells that betrayed all but the cleverest liars.

  “No, Your Majesty. I’m not a spy. I enjoyed my time at Rowan, but I’m a member of the Workshop now. A member anxious to give Your Majesty his show.”

  Prusias nodded. He would have Dr. Barrett watched, of course, but he had passed his initial test. There had been none of the telltale signs of falsehood—not even an intensification of the fear that pulsed with every beat of that strong heart.

  “How much longer will you need, Dr. Barrett?” said Prusias. “As you can see, my guests are growing restless.”

  The technician gestured at his silver case, whose tubes were giving off a faint, phosphorescent light. “Five minutes, Your Majesty. I believe we’re getting close.”

  “Excellent,” said Prusias. He turned to Dr. Wyle. “Do you have the time?”

  The puzzled engineer retrieved an antique pocket watch from his coat. Taking it from him, Prusias rose from his seat and rapped his knife gently against a glass.

  “Lords and ladies,” he announced. “My honored guests. Please accept my apologies for the delay in presenting this evening’s entertainment. I’ve been assured it is due to the Earth’s ‘magnetic field’ and not the Workshop’s incompetence.”

  This elicited some welcome laughter. Prusias scanned his audience, his eyes drifting to the smuggler, who was listening attentively. What a delightful-looking woman. He gave a smile just for her.

  “I’ve also been assured,” the king continued, “that the problem can be remedied and our show will begin shortly. Like you, however, I grow impatient for entertainment. And thus, while Dr. Wyle explains what you will be seeing, we will give this young man five minutes to fix his little problem. Should he fail, you may do whatever you like with him and the rest of his Workshop associates. Whether the show goes on or not, you shall be entertained.”

  Lord Grael sat up with interest, as did a number of other braymas. While Dr. Wyle began sweating like cheese, the technician turned his attention to his contraption, studying the tubes and adjusting its dials with admirable calm. Glancing at the pocket watch, Prusias waited for the slender hand to reach the twelve.

  “Their time begins … now.”

  Heads turned toward Dr. Barrett as he spent several minutes adjusting various dials by infinitesimal gradations. Now and again, the glass tubes flared with phosphorescent light and the many screens flickered. But an instant later, the tubes dimmed and the screens went dark.

  “Frequencies are all over the place,” the technician grumbled. “We need a better antenna.”

  “How much time does he have, Your Majesty?” inquired Dr. Wyle anxiously.

  “Ninety seconds,” replied Prusias.

  Sweat was streaming down Dr. Wyle’s face as he gazed about at the demons, his ashen colleagues, and the blank displays. Meanwhile, Dr. Barrett set down his receiver and stared at it, as though it were a particularly challenging puzzle. Spittle flew from Dr. Wyle’s lips.

  “What are you doing?” he cried. “Pick it up! Keep adjusting it!”

  Dr. Barrett ignored him, choosing instead to gaze about the magnificent room, at its many fixtures and ornaments. Prusias looked on with interest as the technician strode suddenly toward Madam Petra.

  “What is that?” Dr. Barrett asked, pointing toward her torque.

  “My necklace,” she said coolly.

  “No,” he said impatiently. “What’s it made from?”

  “A lymrill’s quills.” She turned to allow her fellow guests a glimpse of the wondrous metal.

  “Can I have it?” asked Dr. Barrett.

  “Certainly not.”

  “Just for a moment,” he pressed. “Please.”

  With a glance at her host, Madam Petra slipped the coppery torque off her slender neck and let it dangle round her finger.

  “Ten seconds,” said Prusias, locking eyes with the smuggler.

  Snatching the torque from her hand, Dr. Barrett raced back to the receiver. Prusias glanced back at the pocket watch.

  “Five … four … three …”

  Dr. Barrett touched the torque to the receiver. Its tubes blazed like bottled flares, causing the wall of Workshop screens to flash on. Their images, although moving swiftly, were crystal clear.

  “Bravo!” cried Prusias, clapping his great hands. “And they say necessity is the mother of invention. Ha! It’s desperation. Well done, Dr. Barrett.”

  Rising from the table, Lord Grael approached the screens, pipe smoke trailing from the corners of his mouth. “What are we looking at, Prusias?”

  “The assault on Rowan’s fleet.”

  The rakshasa squinted, trying to make sense of the chaotic images. It looked as though hundreds of individual cameras were racing along ship decks, up masts, over bodies, while great waves crashed over the side, washing over the lens or sending the little cameraman on spinning, careening journeys into the gunwales.

  “When did this happen?” asked Grael, his expression grave and contemplative.

  Prusias laughed. “It’s happening right now, Lord Grael! We are witnessing the assault as it occurs. Dr. Barrett, is it possible to focus on one or two images? This many is too difficult to follow. A view of activity aboard the flagship would be ideal. Dr. Wyle, if you would explain what we’re seeing.”

  Sliding a panel out from the receiver’s base, Dr. Barrett adjusted several controls. The frenzy of images upon the screens were quickly reduced, consolidating down to a few dozen and then finally to two. Prusias watched Dr. Barrett’s face closely as the young man looked up from his controls to monitor what was happening on the screens. There was no emotion upon his face, no indication that these were his former friends, classmates, and teachers under attack. Dr. Barrett was just a competent technician doing his job. He might have been training his camera on butterflies.

  Good, thought Prusias. I’d hate to get rid of him unnecessarily. Unlike Dr. Wyle, this one doesn’t buckle under a bit of pressure.

  A single, very dark panoramic scene appeared on the screens. A recovered Dr. Wyle cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, Rowan launched a sizable force several weeks ago. To intercept them, we have engineered a highly predatory organism whose natural capabilities have been enhanced with a mechanized exoskeleton and even skinscrolling. With His Majesty’s support and blessing, we have produced a shoal of sixty creatures in a highly accelerated time frame.”

  “How big is that creature?” asked Lord Grael, staring at a squidlike tentacle that whipped across the screen.

  “Almost as long as a Hadesian galleon,” replied the engineer. “Two to three hundred feet, depending on the individual specimen. Our estimates suggest they will sink even the largest warships in less than twenty minutes.”

  Lord Grael’s smirk vanished in gratifying fashion. That’s right, friend, thought Prusias. Once they’re finished with Rowan, these monsters will be lurking off your coast and strangling your trade. And when you can’t pay my levies, I’ll offer your lands
to your own braymas in exchange for your head. You won’t last a week.

  Dr. Wyle scrolled to another image, a split screen of two repellent, insectlike creatures. “While the kraken is designed predominately as a ship destroyer, it’s also a troop carrier. Each specimen is capable of depositing forty-eight pinlegs and twelve scorps upon any ship it’s attacking. The pinlegs create havoc and relay information back to command while the larger scorps engage enemy personnel. Both have been programmed to recognize and prioritize high-value targets. While a crew fends off the scorps and pinlegs, the kraken destroys their ship. Dr. Barrett, if you would optimize the output spectrum …”

  Another adjustment and night turned into day, revealing an ocean teeming with ships and monsters. The formation of the Rowan fleet was like an arrowhead. The krakens looked like pale, bloated squids with round luminescent eyes and chitinous plates armoring portions of their heads and tentacles. The creatures had struck the larger ships in the vanguard where a furious battle was being waged. From the aerial view, it had an almost serene majesty with heavy seas churning into foam while sails flapped and fluttered away like party streamers. Here and there, gargantuan tentacles flailed up from the sea to crash upon decks or wrap themselves about the hulls and masts.

  Naturally, Rowan was responding. Bolts of lightning shivered and forked down from the sky, striking the whitecaps and krakens as they surged beneath the surface. Wherever the lightning struck, great puffs of steam rose like geysers.

  Satisfaction ripened in Dr. Wyle’s voice. “This is playing out like our simulations. As you can see, Rowan’s Mystics are utilizing electricity. While this is a sensible response, it is also doomed to failure since the krakens possess hyper-regenerative abilities. Unless catastrophic damage is inflicted in a very short period of time, the beasts will repair their injuries. Rowan would have more success if they focused on one at a time, but of course they don’t know that.”

  This pronouncement was followed by a dry, rasping laugh.

  Cold fish, this one, reflected Prusias. With humans, cruelty and cowardice were often found together.

  One of the braymas thumped his table as a frigate suddenly broke in half. The sea was already littered with wreckage. Prusias focused on one of the largest galleons—his galleon—as a second kraken fastened on to it. The gargantuan vessel had almost tipped onto its side, masts and spars snapping as the monsters tightened their hold.