9 Midnight Maneuvers
MIDNIGHT MANEUVERS
THE REST OF the day was an ordeal for me.
My joust and the resulting fight had left me bruised and exhausted, and the sudden intrusion of death on the arena floor had brought the battlefield to this once-idyllic palatial estate.
The fact that everyone wanted to compliment me on my victory did not help matters.
“An inverted underhaw. Hah hah! I haven’t seen that sort of attack since the Battle of the Apies River,” Archduke Darius said.
He was a few drinks in, but if anything, his slight intoxication improved his charm.
His smile and laughter were infectious, and it was difficult to resist his suggestions to toast or have another drink.
He almost made me forget the anxiety worming in my stomach, the sudden always-alert feeling which the lancer shot had activated.
This morning, I’d been calm, relaxed, safely away from the front.
Now, my mind was back in the trenches, where even in ‘safe’ zones miles from the battlelines, a swarm of mounted raiders might buzz over the treetops, or a company of orbital drop troopers could smash through the umbrella shields to wreak havoc, a prelude to a major assault.
I rotated my gaze between the doors, the windows, the pillars, and every armed guard I saw made my hand twitch reflexively towards a lancer pistol which wasn’t there.
The drinks dulled the impulses, however, and I’d yet to draw my zeroblade on anyone.
I had knocked over a tray of drinks when the hordling servant carrying them surprised me, and several people had commented on my jumpiness when I spun to face them.
Darius, though, was perfect. He subtly kept the Allied diplomats from crowding me while simultaneously keeping me at the center of attention.
That and Wiktor’s quiet presence covertly supplying me with the drinks Darius called for and guiding me to a chair when I needed to sit meant that despite the crowd, despite the afternoon’s fatal combat, I was winding down.
My adrenaline rush was fading into a pleasant, inebriated stupor.
However, the relaxation meant all the aches of shielded combat came back. Major blows were weakened significantly by my personal force field, but that did not mean they didn’t hurt, and my whole body throbbed. The pain and sudden crash following an adrenaline high meant I was ready for bed.
“I’ve never seen such flying in a joust. You’d be a rum customer on the battlefield. I wouldn’t want to face you in real combat.”
“You flatter me,” I said, trying to inject some energy into my exhausted voice. “The way you fly, you’d take me down for sure.”
“Maybe, but you’ve got practical experience. I only have years of professional instruction,” Darius countered.
“Didn’t you just say you fought at the Apies River?” I asked.
Darius waved his drink. “I was present in a ceremonial capacity, cheering the troops and such when one of your cavalry armies surprised us. My father has refused to let me near the star front since. I’m not allowed to fight outside of tournaments and training exercises.”
“Training is essential to make a good soldier,” I insisted.
“True, but you need experience to make a skilled warrior. You don’t learn those moves on the tournament field, that’s for sure.” Darius chuckled, then called for another round.
I groaned. “Please, no. It’s late enough as it is.
I need to rest.” By now, most of the other Allied notables had gone to bed, and Darius and I were alone in the corner.
Prince Aureli was still awake, but he and Boleslaw were amiably chatting with a trio of attractive Federation delegates across the room.
I saw Lady d’Lyre shift slightly so her bosom brushed against the prince’s arm.
Judging by the way his pupils dilated, he noticed and appreciated the gesture, although he made no outward acknowledgment of having felt her.
I judged the prince would neither need nor appreciate my presence until morning, so I put my empty glass down and prepared to push myself up from my seat.
“We would enjoy sharing a drink with you,” a low, gravelly voice said.
It was a voice which could not have come from a human larynx.
I froze, looking up, far up, into the fanged, weathered face of a demon prince.
He had a pair of red stripes painted under each eye, which I almost remembered the meaning of, but could not quite recall.
His left horn was sheared short, and the left side of his face was a city-map of thin scars, remnants of Imperial pain-duels proving his ironclad resolve.
He wore the hides and feathers of several dangerous predators, the most stunning of which was the striped cloak made from the skin of a cave bearcat, one of the largest, most powerful predators this side of Fallspace.
I knew this Imperial would not have hunted his trophies with a lancer rifle, or even a zeroblade, but would have used an old-fashioned steel hunting spear.
My adrenaline was back, my body poised for action.
The last time I’d been this close to a demon, he’d been trying to kill me, then oozing brain fluid onto the sand at my feet.
Before attending this summit, I’d only seen Imperials dressed this way when they came screaming at me with zeroblades drawn.
My heart pounded, fit to burst, but I did not shiver.
I never trembled in fear. When afraid, I grew perfectly still.
Darius, himself suddenly wary, came to my rescue. “We would be honored. Please, join us.” The demon, along with his two friends, dragged low kneelers over and lowered themselves to join us at the table. Even seated on their heels, the Imperials towered over Darius and me.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
The lead demon, the scariest one, nodded in acknowledgment.
“You are Boylan, Sky Captain of the Royal Cavalry, Slayer of Prince Kerensky, Count Petrokov, and now Count Gretsky. I am Prince Selnikov, Devastator of New Darwin, Despoiler of Sternhaven, Slayer of Grand Duke Bogdanovsky, and ardent supporter of the Emperor. These are my hands, Count Gerasimov, Eater of Fey, and Count Zukov, Trainer of Heroes.”
I swallowed. I remembered from Astrid that Imperials listed their favorite achievements in their titles, and the number of titles they used indicated their perceived importance. Most nobles did not merit one, but Prince Selnikov had givenme three.
Darius kicked me under the table. I nearly attacked him, my nerves were so wound up, but I managed to stay my hand on the hilt of my dirk. Darius looked shocked for a moment, then made a tiny calming motion with his hand before twitching a thumb at himself and flicking his eyes towards the Imps.
“Have you met Archduke Darius, of Yezhidia? I’m afraid I don’t know him well, but he is a skilled rider, and I’m certain a capable fighter,” I said, my voice unnaturally level for how keyed-up I was.
“The Archduke, Cavalier of Red Dawns, is known to us,” Prince Selnikov answered. I filed the title away for future use.
The drinks arrived, thick crystal tumblers of smoking, sulfurous liquid. I fervently hoped it was not poison, retribution for their comrade’s death. Prince Selnikov lifted his cup, and I followed suit.
Before we could drink, a voice broke into our little circle. “What are we drinking to?”
The three demons did not turn. I glanced between them to see Prince Aureli, cheerfully smiling with a glass of sparkling wine in hand.
Boleslaw was behind him, looking unhappy, but she gave me a glance full of meaning which, unfortunately, went over my head.
My heart sank, and I looked back to Prince Selnikov, uncertain how this intrusion would affect the demon’s disposition.
Prince Selnikov rotated minutely to acknowledge Prince Aureli behind him. “We drink to the death of Count Gretsky.”
Prince Aureli guffawed. “I say, isn’t that a bit mor—” I got the feeling he would have said “morbid,” but Boleslaw leaned forwards and cut him off with a whisper.
The prince’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose in surprise, then he raised his champagne coupe.
“Really? Very well. To the death of Count Gretsky, then.”
As though he had said nothing, the three demons threw back their drinks. I did my best, but the liquid burned. Every reflex in my body said to spit the vile fluid out, but I managed to choke it down. I did not manage to avoid a sputtering, wracking cough, though.
The three demons laughed, small, vicious smiles playing about their bright fangs. One of them shouted something in their own language, and a large tankard of blue-green liquid was placed before me. “Drink, little demon slayer. It will soothe your throat.”
I was slightly wary, but I politely sipped the beverage. Happily, the liquid was cool and smooth, and it did stop my coughing. Gratefully, I thanked the prince. I looked to Darius, whose own face had gone pale, although he avoided coughing like I had.
One of Prince Selnikov’s hands, Count Zukov, I think, leaned forwards. “It is a great honor to drink tak with the prince. You did well not to vomit.”
“Oh,” I lamely replied, suddenly very glad I hadn’t spat the drink back into my cup. “I’m honored.”
“It was deserved. Today was a good kill,” Prince Selnikov said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
That had disturbed me from the beginning. “I, um, I cannot claim Count Gretsky’s death. I didn’t kill him. The guards did.”
“You stopped him from killing you with capable blade-mastery until your ally could strike the fatal blow. His death is still yours,” Count Zukov explained.
“It is easy to shoot a fighter in the back when they’re occupied dueling a skilled opponent. There is no honor in it. The shooter is but an opportunist. Your duel with Gretsky was a good fight. You deserve the credit,” Count Gerasimov, the other hand, added.