Angus Wells - Lords of the Sky

“I’ve my orders.” Var met his stare expressionless. “My happiness is surely of no account.”

“No.” Talle smiled, exposing yellow teeth. “But better that you enjoy your work, eh?”

Var said stiffly, “I serve the Autarchy, Inquisitor. Now-with your permission-I’d see my men ready to disembark.”

“Yes, of course.” Talle waved a languid dismissal and Var turned away. As he went across the deck he felt the Inquisitor’s eyes on him, as if an overheated sun burned against his back. None of this, he thought, should be easy, and likely none too pleasant. He resisted the urge to glance back and went to his officers.

The Wrath of God reefed sail, slowing that the three accompanying vessels might take station astern. It had been Talk’s suggestion that they approach Grostheim in formal array, so as to impress those waiting ashore, and Var must admit they did make a gallant sight. He wondered what reception they should receive, and how Grostheim fared. Wyme’s reports had spoken only of hostile attacks on inland farms, and the governor’s fear that the demons grew stronger. Might they have grown strong enough to attack the city itself?

Var saw his men readied for landfall then went forrard again, arming himself with a spyglass.

At least the city stood, but not without damage. The glass showed him the signs of burning, blackened wood about the walls, and watchtowers contrasting darkly with the pale scars of fresh timber where repairs had been effected. Folk came from the seaward gate: he picked out Wyme’s sedan chair surrounded by the scarlet coats of Spelt’s soldiers. He passed the glass to Talle, who surveyed their destination, grunted, and returned the device without further comment.

The Wrath of God came alongside the wharf and Var accompanied Talle down the gangplank. The Lord’s Pilgrim, the God’s Vengeance, and the Fist of God stood to offshore, awaiting the disembarkation of Var’s marines before disgorging their own military cargoes. The sun stood high overhead and the air was warm: summer came earlier to this western land than to Var’s home. He adjusted his tricorne and saluted as he halted before Wyme’s chair. Alyx Spelt stood beside the governor, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized Var and saw the insignia of his new rank. Wyme commenced an unctuous speech of welcome, and Talle raised a hand, less in greeting than to halt the governor’s rhetoric.

“I am the Inquisitor Jared Talle.” He spoke as Wyme’s effusive litany spluttered into silence. “I am come to rectify your … problems. You already know Major Var, I believe. He is my aide, answerable to me alone.”

His tone brooked no argument, nor left room for discussion. Var saw Wyme’s florid features darken to a purplish hue, Spelt’s lips purse tight as his eyes narrowed. The practice of diplomacy seemed not to occur to Talle, nor did he appear to notice the resentment his abrupt declaration produced.

“Later, you will apprise me of the situation,” Talle continued curtly, “and I shall decide what measures I must take. Meanwhile, I’d find my quarters.”

Wyme seemed a moment lost for words; Var doubted he had anticipated this when he requested Evander send him an Inquisitor. Then he cleared his throat, struggling to retain some semblance of dignity. “Yes, of course, Inquisitor Talle. A room’s prepared for you in my mansion-if you and the major will accompany me?”

Var said quickly, “By your leave, Inquisitor, I’d see my men billeted, and the other vessels off-loaded.”

“Very well.” Talle nodded in agreement. “That done, join me in the governor’s mansion.”

Like Major Spelt, Grostheim itself exuded an air of tension, as if the city existed solely to anticipate further attack. Folk met the long column of blue and red-coated soldiery with cheers, as if rescue were come, but Var saw hollowed eyes and thinned cheeks, as if sleep and food were both in short supply. No less could he help noticing the signs of damage, where roofs or whole buildings had burned down, the charred remains often as not inhabited by people who appeared to live under the canvas pitched there. Also, the place seemed more crowded than he remembered, the sunny afternoon more redolent of Bantar’s poorer quarters than this airy western clime. He inquired of Spelt just what had happened, but the older man was again become taciturn, waving a stained hand and suggesting Var wait until they gained the privacy of Wyme’s mansion, where a full account might be delivered.

After a few moments of silence, Var complied.

Wyme sat behind his ornate desk, a decanter at his elbow, a brandy glass clutched in his right hand. Sunlight fell slanting across his round face, and Var saw he sweated. The brandy rippled as Wyme’s hand shook; Var wondered if that was the product of fear or Talk’s presence. Perhaps for Wyme there was no difference-surely the Inquisitor was an ominous figure, settled like a black crow in an armchair, his eyes sharp, darting from Wyme’s face to the two officers as if he accused them all of some unadmitted sin.

“The troops are settled?”

Var nodded. “And Major Spelt has arranged for provender.”

He glanced at Spelt, seeking again to establish some communication between them, but Spelt’s gaze was shifting nervously from Wyme to Talle.

“Then do we begin.” The Inquisitor gestured at chairs as if it were his study, not the governor’s, they occupied. “Sit.”

“You’ll take brandy?” Wyme indicated the decanter.

Before Var had chance to reply, Spelt nodded and found himself a glass. He filled it close to the brim, brows raised in inquiry as he looked to Talle and Var.

Talle only shook his head, fingers drumming impatiently on the chair’s arm. Var said, “A measure, if you please.” Did Talle disapprove, then damn him-surely they could retain some degree of civility. He smiled his thanks as Spelt passed him the glass.

“Now that we all gathered, Governor,” Talk’s voice was soft, “do you advise us of the situation. Commence with events after Major Var’s departure.”

“Attacks. More attacks.” Wyme’s eyes shifted from the Inquisitor’s penetrating stare as if he sought some avenue of escape. “Refugees began to come to Grostheim, quitting their farms.”

“And you did not order them to return?” Talk’s voice was cold with disapproval. “How shall this land be settled if every farmer comes running into Grostheim at the first hint of trouble?”

“No. I … How could I?” Wyme shook his head helplessly, his cheeks glowing. Sweat ran into his eyes like tears and he produced a kerchief, dabbing at his face. “They were free folk.”

“And you were the governor.” Talle made the past tense sound permanent.

Wyme’s flush deepened. “Save I ordered Major Spelt to force them back at bayonet’s point, they’d not have gone.”

“As well I’m here.” Talle spoke softly, no louder than a murmur. “Things appear in a sorry state.”

Wyme swallowed; Spelt emptied his glass and rose to fill it.

“Patrols were sent out,” the governor declared hurriedly. “They found the signs of attack, but not the attackers. Only one man was left alive. The demons sent him back, that he bring a message.”

He broke off, filling his glass. Talle said, sharply, “They spoke to him?”

Wyme looked to Spelt for support, but the Militiaman only sat slumped, staring ahead. “They did, Inquisitor. They told him they planned to come against Grostheim; that this land is theirs.”

“They spoke our tongue?”

“Yes.”

“The man’s name?”

Wyme looked again to Spelt, who said, “Captain Danyael Corm, Inquisitor.”