The Grace's War

PROLOGUE

BLACKVINE

We need to kill the ones who refuse Heaven. At least until we can reinforce the caravans enough that they no longer present a threat, regret tinged Major Rohm’s voice.

Colonel Heine nodded and swept a hand across his pitted face, scratching an insect bite beneath his long mustache. His brown eyes looked sad, but then, they always looked sad.

Yes, he agreed. Or at least driven to the edges of the valley until we can secure the farms. Are the saplings through the tunnel yet?

Major Rohm shook his head. We haven’t gotten any word yet. It shouldn’t be long, now.

It had been easier than Colonel Heine dared hope. In fact, he’d expected disaster to come at any moment, but it seemed the traitor General Albertus Mann had indeed broken these people when he’d come to this valley over three years ago. There’d been no resistance when Heine had led his paltry force of marines and farmers down the ropes, still dangling abandoned from Mann’s incursion. He wondered why the people here hadn’t just left after a way out had been presented to them. If he could ever get one of these barbarians to speak N’naradin, that was the first thing he would ask them.

He looked up at the grotto. A messenger had begun his descent, over-cautious, clutching at cracks in the obsidian cliff as he edged down the old rope. It had supported the fifty-five men who’d already come down; he didn’t know why this lone, scrawny man was so worried about it breaking now. Idiot. He chewed on the end of his mustache.

Their journey across the Yellow Desert had been easy too. The desert tribes had either seen their debt with the N’naradin Empire settled or not viewed Heine’s little gathering of marines and farmers a threat worth their time. Either way was fine with Heine, and Rohm had shown visible relief when they’d arrived in the foothills un-harassed. Mann’s mistake had been bringing his army all at once. In groups of fifty here, a hundred there, the former General would have been able to cross with the regular caravans just as he had. If Mann had bothered asking for his advice last time, he would have told him as much.

Once within the valley, there’d only been one lone skirmish, in which the Grace’s forces had driven off their attackers of teenagers and elderly with ease. Rohm said they’d killed all the able-bodied adults their first foray here, thanks to the wisdom of Cardinal Vimr, whom General Mann had murdered with a knife in the back. Coward. Rohm had shown his spine by reporting that blasphemy to the Grace Herself after they’d returned. It had earned him a promotion. Whispers were he’d become the Grace’s General after they returned home from the Black Wall and Heine joined the clergy. It was a shame Mann had escaped the Pit with the help of a few pirates. Heine hoped the old man was rotting now, wherever he was.

After what seemed like hours, the messenger finished his descent and trotted over to Colonel Heine and Major Rohm. Behind him, more farmers had begun their long descent, with, Heine noted, more courage and speed than the messenger had displayed.

Colonel, the young man wheezed as he stopped in front of them with a flaccid salute. The plants are through the tunnel, and the caravan is prepping them for their return to Fom. Commander N’fallis says the safest route will be to follow the foothills north, then skirt the Dry Mountains all the way to The Piers, rather than risk crossing the desert again. Not because of the nomads, she says. Nobody knows how those brambles would fare in the heat, but she says since they grow way up here, they probably won’t do well in—

Yes, yes, Heine cut in, annoyed. I suppose there’s wisdom in that. It will add a month or more to her trip back to Fom, but it can’t be helped. Tell her I approve any action she sees necessary. I will do my best to rendezvous with her in Great Spring once I am confident things are settled here. But make it clear she is not to wait more than a week. Who knows how long the Grace will be able to keep the Upper Great Road secure if Tyrsh makes another go at it? The added security will mean nothing if we’re under siege the whole way through the wastes.

He turned to Rohm, who’d been watching the exchange with a poorly concealed smirk, guessing Heine’s thoughts. Major, I’m sorry to reward your service with such a miserable task, but you’re the only one I trust to oversee our settlement here. Besides which, you’ve had some dealings with these people before. Limited, I know, but it’s still more than anyone else can say. I trust you have no complaints at staying behind. If Mann had allowed me to accompany you into the valley last time, I’d do it myself.

Rohm saluted and bowed. None at all, Colonel. This climate suits me.

Good. Start with that first farm. The one a few hours from here, due south. Don’t worry about the others until we know if all this will be worth it.

The Grace thinks it is, Colonel.

Indeed, she does, and she’s rarely wrong. We’ve supposedly learned how to shape these miserable brambles. Now we just need to see if it actually works. He watched the continued descent of the farmers and soldiers before turning back to Rohm. With a little of Heaven’s luck, these bushes will both survive the trip back to Fom and grow once they get there. Then we can leave this Heaven-forgotten chasm to whatever wretched barbarians remain.

Yes sir. May I be dismissed, sir? I’d like to begin defensive preparations at the first farm as soon as possible, in case the defenders find their spines.

Of course, Major. May Heaven guide you.

Colonel Heine watched the departing back of Rohm, mind on N’fallis’s task of getting the bushes back to Fom alive. He pulled out the smooth, black, wooden knife the Grace had given him before he’d departed and examined it again. Taken from some vagabond a patrol had found in the mountains east of Fom, filed away and forgotten by idiots who didn’t recognize its significance. That vagabond had been from this valley; one of the last defenders pursuing Mann across the continent to get back whatever the traitor had taken. He’d been thrown in the Pit, only to escape with none other than Mann himself before anyone realized who he was. Heine wondered where that man was now, and whether he’d ended up killing the general after they’d escaped. He hoped they’d ended up killing each other.

Still, through the mercy of the Heavens and the wisdom of the Grace it had worked out in the end. When the Grace had taken Myrion’s Revenge, the occupying forces had come across detailed notes in the ruins of the government house describing this substance—this blackvine. How they worked it into knives and roof tiles and everything else they used here in this forsaken valley. Wood that could cut through bronze as if it were a hard cheese.

The civil war had become a bloody stalemate. The Arch Bishop had suffered a major blow with the destruction of Eheene and the loss of the never confirmed but long suspected aid of the High Merchant’s Syndicate, but he still had far greater numbers than the Grace of Fom. Neither side had gained advantage since that explosion had reduced the Skalkaad capital to ashes and an ever-burning naphtha fire.

Maybe, if they could master the use of this blackvine, Fom would find the upper hand the Grace needed.

1

PIRATES

I said starboard old man! You got crabs in your ears? You’d better—

A wave forty hands high crashed over the deck and drowned out whatever else Ves was yelling, but Mann got the gist. He banked the wheel one last time hard to the right and tied it with the dripping rope dangling from a hook on the ceiling, flapping in the gale despite its sodden weight. He dove out of the open wheelhouse door across the copper deck, wrapping his arms around the cowl vent as the Heaven’s Compromise tipped into the next trough. A few shards of glass from the shattered bridge windows skittered past him and disappeared into the churning waters of the Sea of N’narad.

There was a crack, almost unheard over the driving rain, and a second later, the rail and a chunk of the aft deck blew apart. The ship shuddered.

Below, the engine growled and sprang to life, and the Compromise heaved itself up the next swell.

Ves charged, skid, fell, and slid into the door, which was opening and slamming closed again with a life of its own on the last unbroken hinge. He untied the wheel and spun it madly to the left. The Heaven’s Compromise groaned and plunged into the next trough. Through the squall, Mann glimpsed the third N’naradin ship banking, trying to line up its deck cannons for another volley, before the swells hid it again.

There was another cluster of cracks. Six geysers exploded in the boiling waves to the starboard, but none found their mark as the Heaven’s Compromise gained speed.

Mann regained his footing in time to see the other two N’naradin warships falling behind on either side, banking away from each other to avoid collision, the Compromise momentarily forgotten. Anger swelled in his gut and he groped his way back to the bridge where Ves still clung to the wheel. The pirate was laughing.

You idiot, Mann wheezed as he slammed the door behind him. It bounced open again and continued its mad, flapping dance. "You went between them?"

Goddamn straight, I did. Ves glanced over at Mann and saw the anger on his face. What?

We’re faster. We could have run. Mann had regained some of his composure and moved to stand next to Ves, following his gaze out the broken window, squinting against the rain driving into his eyes. He wiped at his face uselessly. The Compromise pitched and rolled, but she’d evened out enough that the threat of capsizing had passed.

Maybe. In this weather, who knows? They might have had a fourth ship creeping up behind, assuming they knew that’s what we’d try.

You ran us towards three ships that wanted us at the bottom of the sea. We couldn’t even see where they were until we were between them.

Goddamn straight, Ves said again. And they couldn’t see us either. I knew where they were. More or less. We weren’t going to hit them, if that’s what’s got your dick in a knot. Worst would have been if they’d hit us with their broadsides as we were going through. That would have been the end, for sure. Best would have been if they’d blown each other apart when they tried. He clapped Mann on the back. We got somewhere in between.

They did hit us, Mann said, voice weak. The need to argue the point had fled him.

Ves glanced over at the old man, grinning. Just once. And a graze at that. We’ll get it patched up, no problem. What you might call ‘cosmetic damage.’ As long as Saphi can keep the engine going until we can get to a port somewhere, we’ll be fine. That is, if we can find our way out of this fucking storm and figure out where we are.

Mann sighed, defeated. I’ll go check on her. He turned to the ladder in the back of the room that led to the aft hold and the engine room below it.

You forgot to call me Captain, old man!

Fuck you. Mann closed the hatch behind him, cutting off the sound of Ves’ laughter.

Three years ago, as he’d stood on the deck of a naphtha tanker and watched a pillar of white fire two thousand hands high consume the city of Eheene, the former General of N’narad Albertus Mann had considered swimming back to the Foreigner’s District, walking into those flames, and falling to ash. But Vesmalimali had taken him by the arm and led him away.

The N’naradin tanker had taken the refugees it had gathered from the flames to Pom, but only the ones who could either prove their citizenship or swear fealty to Heaven and the Arch Bishop. Even then, only those prepared to pay a thousand Three-Sides in Salvation Taxes had been allowed to disembark. Mann had stayed below with Ves, afraid someone would recognize him and turn him in as the traitor who’d murdered Cardinal Vimr and escaped the Pit of Fom. The Arch Bishop would be even less forgiving than the Grace for stabbing his advisor, and she’d thrown him in the Pit to die.

Funny, Mann thought later, how fast his desire to sacrifice himself for his failures had turned into a fierce will to live so he could try to make up for a fraction of them.

The tanker had turned back and deposited the rest of them along the Upper Peninsula, where most had made their way to Maresg. For months in the tree city, Mann and Ves spent their days wandering from bar to bar, drinking to forget and failing.

Ves eventually turned his business sense and reputation again to the delezine trade. The drug wasn’t illegal in Maresg—almost nothing was illegal in Maresg—but shipping it to Fom and Tyrsh was frowned on and therefore profitable. Mann helped, the last of his moral convictions hammered into him by seventy years in the Church burned away by the fires of Eheene. He realized that somewhere between the Pit and the Foreigner’s District he and Ves had become friends, but with that thought came memories of Pasha and his sister, and the need for another drink.

In just under two years from when the sky fell over Skalkaad, they’d saved enough for a steamship. A real fucking ship as Ves called it, even if it was small by steamship standards. The former Corsair scraped up a crew of nineteen in less than a week, and when he offered Mann the position of first mate, the old general didn’t see any reason not to take it.

And they’d been at sea ever since.

Five years, Mann thought. It took five years to fall from General Mann, servant of the Church, his soul bound for the Heaven of Flowers, to the infamous pirate Whitehook’s ancient first mate.

Mann found Saphi cursing and kicking at the overflow valve in the back of the engine room. She glanced at him as he climbed down the ladder, gave one more vicious kick, picked up a bronze wrench as long as her arm, and whacked it one more time with an overhand swing before tossing the wrench back on the floor and giving Mann a little wave.

Hi old man.

Hello Saphi. He dropped down, skipping the last two rungs, gave a grunt of regret when his hip almost gave out, and wobbled as the Compromise lurched over another swell. Problems?

Saphi insisted she was twenty, but didn’t look over fifteen. Ves said she’d been one of the best mechanics in Maresg before he’d scooped her up from the shop she’d apprenticed at. She was swarthy under the layers of grease, with a thick wedge of a nose, skeletal cheekbones, and a small mouth. The girl claimed to be next in line for chief in one of the karakh tribes, but had run away because, as she put it, she couldn’t imagine a life trapped on the Upper Peninsula, telling a bunch of goat riders what to do. She had a knack for machines, and Ves made sure they put it to good use. Better use than lubing pulleys, which is how she’d described her job before she’d joined Ves’ crew. Mann didn’t know if she was being metaphorical when she’d said that, and he’d always been afraid to ask.

Not anymore, she answered. Overflow valve got stuck again. That’s why we stalled. Bad timing. I heard the deck get hit. Is it bad?

Mann shook his head. No, not bad, I don’t think. Nothing that Ves can’t fix, anyway.

We’re gonna need fuel soon.

Ves knows. He says we’re almost to a Ristroan smuggling route, as long as we can make our way out of the storm. Shouldn’t be long before we find an easier target than a trio of N’naradin warships. After that, we can find port somewhere for a week or two and get things fixed up.

Three of them? How’d we get away?

Ves ran between them.

Saphi laughed. "Between them? That asshole. No wonder the deck got hit. Wish I was up top to see it."

A bell sounded from above.

You were saying? Saphi smirked as she turned to cut the engines. It figures as soon as I get her going, I’ve got to shut her down again.

See you soon, Mann said as he started up the ladder back to the wheelhouse, where he could hear Ves shouting something over the sound of the crashing sea. His hip growled in pain. I’m too old for this.

Kaleb and Edge had done a commendable job flooding the lowest three port compartments. The Heaven’s Compromise leaned at a dangerous angle, precarious on the diminishing waves from the squall now churning to the west. A few glints of the morning sun peeked through the grey in the east.

Ristro had grown cautious since the Grace’s rebellion. Smaller, faster boats, almost always alone and hard to notice. They’d turned to smuggling supplies to both sides of the war. Since the destruction of Eheene and the Merchant’s Syndicate, the naphtha shortage had made raiding N’naradin freighters less worthwhile, and the use of the firepacks had become almost nonexistent as fuel shortages spread. With the rise in demand for Ristro goods—tarfuel engine and dirigible parts, mostly—their smuggling lanes had grown busy, but they’d grown careless too. Neither Fom nor Tyrsh attacked Ristro vessels these days, unless they knew for certain the Corsairs were bound for the other side. Even then, neither the Grace nor the Arch Bishop seemed too eager to burn their own bridges with the last reliable smugglers on Eris.

Ves hadn’t been a Corsair in over twenty years, but he still knew their old routes and how they operated. They wouldn’t be able to resist a ship foundering near their lanes, though after the third time the Heaven’s Compromise sprung their trap, Mann suspected the trick would wear thin, if it hadn’t already.

The sky had cleared to a few streaks of clouds streaming after the black shadow hanging in the west before a Ristro cruiser came into view. Ves called Mann over, smiling.

See? He said. I told you it would work. One more time, at least. Corsair captains are always competing. Can’t resist easy prey. Not until the Astrologers pass it down that the prey might not be easy as it looks. Best we’re careful after this one.

Mann frowned, but didn’t press. With Ves, there was no point. He took his place at the wheel, while Ves went below to prep with Kaleb and Edge.

He didn’t need to feign fear when the Ristroan grapples clanked onto the deck, caught the rail, and grew taut. One of these times they’d be boarded by pirates who’d call Ves’ bluff, or worse, have firepacks of their own that really had fuel. Three times was already too lucky in Mann’s opinion.

Five grapples found home. A few seconds later, five Corsairs appeared at the edge of the deck, cautious but confident. They wore the long-faced masks of the firethrower crews, but as had been the case before, their backs were empty of the bulky fuel packs. Ves had told them after the first time that the Corsairs only continued to wear them for intimidation. If there was so little naphtha that Tyrsh had resorted to buying tarfuel engines from Ristro to convert its navy, there was little fear of the Corsairs having enough to fill their weapons. Mann wasn’t fond of the thought that the big pirate was betting their lives on that guess every time they lured another Ristro ship, but he’d been right so far.

Ves, with the timing of a dancer, erupted from the hold just as the fifth Corsair set her feet onto the deck. Kaleb and Edge flowed after him. None wore masks, but all three brandished salvaged firepacks. Ves had bought them on the black market in Maresg. Of those, only one functioned at all, and Ves had only found enough fuel for it to fill a N’naradin naphtha lantern. So far, they hadn’t needed more, but once they used up what they had, they’d need to change their tactics. Ves reasoned if the other two stayed in the back, nobody would pay too much attention to them after Ves showed off the one that worked. So far, he’d been right about that too.

Stand down, you wretched assholes! Ves shouted at the stunned Corsairs in Ristroan. You know who I am. I can tell by the looks on your sniveling faces. Relax, have a seat on the deck, and you might just live long enough to fuck your mothers again! He punctuated his speech with a short blast from his firethrower, off the deck and to the side, where the thin, thirty-hand stream of blue flame cascaded into the still-rolling sea like a snake of blue magma, where it continued to burn.

The Corsairs sat. Kaleb and Edge tied them, while Ves lowered himself down onto their smaller ship.

Mann stood at the wheel, watching through the shattered window. Nobody noticed him, and he was fine with that.

Later, Mann sat with Ves in his Office, as Ves called it, which was just a small cabin next to the captain’s quarters where Ves had put a Brobdingnagian desk he’d spent the last of his delezine tin on. Important people have big fucking desks, he’d declared to Mann, who’d watched with some amusement as the four dock men struggled to get the hideous thing down the gangway and through the door. And I’ll be the most important goddamn person on the Sea of N’narad.

Ves refilled their glasses with clear, slightly salty rum and leaned back. Not much more than one, maybe two demonstrations left in the firepack, he announced. Maybe just as well. I don’t expect we’ll get away with doing that more than once or twice more anyway. Four times in five months is a good haul though. After next time, we should get enough to settle down for a spell. Long enough to come up with a different strategy.

Mann sipped his drink. Is that your way of telling me I was right when I said this couldn’t last?

Hah! Hell, I never said it would last. You need to think like a pirate instead of a general.

Mann frowned into his glass, but managed to make the expression friendly. He took another drink. What does that mean?

"Think about now. Then think about tomorrow, maybe the day after. And don’t give a shit about