Hell Hath No Fury: Chapter Two

    Company-Captain Balkar chan Tesh pushed back his canvas chair and stood. The morning officers' conference had run later than usual, thanks to the message chan Baskay and Arthag had Flicked to him, and that, in turn, had both delayed his breakfast and reduced his appetite. Now he left his mess kit on the folding field table for his orderly to deal with and stepped back out of his tent into the morning light.

    It was an hour earlier in the day on this side of the portal, and he squinted his eyes as he gazed through it at the mist hanging above the hot, humid swamp on the other side. The autumn weather was growing steadily cooler on this side, especially under the towering trees, but the far side of the portal was much nearer to the equator. At the moment, chan Tesh was grateful to be spared the swamp's miserable climate, but if his people were still living under canvas once winter got here, that was going to change, he thought wryly.

    Of course, by then we should have someone senior to me in here to take over, he told himself. And we may have enough manpower to let me divert enough working parties to actually finish those winter quarters Frai's working on.

    He snorted at the thought, although his amusement was less than total. Master-Armsman Frai chan Kormai had been making pretty good progress on throwing together split-log barracks which would at least be weathertight, if not precisely luxurious. Until, of course, the Arcanan "diplomats" had arrived on the scene. Up to that point, it had appeared the mysterious enemy was intent on avoiding any further contact, which had suited chan Tesh just fine. The longer Sharona had to get its own reinforcements forward before they were needed, the better.

    But the Arcanans' reappearance, and the transportation capabilities their magic-powered boats had revealed, had forcibly reminded chan Tesh of just how vulnerable his position out here really was. He had been dividing his efforts between improving his troops' fighting positions and trying to provide them with at least rudimentary housing . . . until the arrival of Rithmar Skirvon and Uthik Dastiri refocused his priorities. Followingtheir appearance, he'dpulled his work parties off the barracks-building details to concentrate on strengthening his troop emplacements . . . and reduced his work parties'size to make certain those emplacementswere adequately manned at all times.

    Of course, "adequately" was an often slippery word, and chan Tesh wished he could be more confident that it applied in this instance. Unfortunately, while it was decidedly on the small side as the inter-universal gates went, the swamp portal was still four miles wide, and there'd never been much point in pretending the forces under his command could hold its entire frontage against a determined attack—especially not given that the actual frontage to be covered amounted to eight miles, not just four. Although the rest of chan Tesh's command had finally caught up with the three platoons he'd taken ahead in response to the Arcanans' original attack on the Chalgyn Consortium survey party, that still left him with less than eight hundred men. Instead of spreading them out and dissipating his combat power, he'd chosen to divide the command in two. Platoon-Captain chan Dersal, the senior of his two Marine platoon COs, was in command of the positions covering the southern face of the portal, while chan Tesh commanded the ones to the north.

    In the face of such a broad frontage, he'd had to settle for attempting to dominate it by fire. Luckily, the rest of his mortars and half a dozen three-point-four-inch field guns had come up with the remainder of the relief column. He'd dug the mortars in in central positions on both Hell's Gate sides of the portal, with the field guns positioned on their flanks, prepared to sweep the approaches to the mortar pits with canister. Also luckily, the ground sloped generally upward on this side of the portal, in both directions. That gave him pretty fair lines of fire into, across, and along the portal's Hell's Gate aspects. He'd taken advantage of that and located the rest of his firepower to protect and support the mortars, because only they had the reach to cover the full width of the portal's faces from their gun pits. He'd positioned his machine guns with the best supporting fields of fire he could arrange, and his men had spent a great deal of time clearing fire zones of scrub saplings, which had further improved upon his basic elevation advantage.

    The fact that the water table was further from the surface on this side of the portal—although the ground immediately surrounding the portal was heavily saturated with swamp water—was another factor in his decision to defend it from Hell's Gate. He'd been able to go down more than two feet on this side without striking water, and he'd taken advantage of that to dig his men and weapons in as deeply as he could. And after he'd gotten them dug in, he'd gone right on digging. The mortar pits had to be open if he was going to fire the weapons at all, and the field guns' were equally open in order to give the quick-firing guns the best command possible. Despite their lack of overhead cover, the artillery should be relatively safe, given the Arcanans' apparent lack of any sort of indirect-fire artillery.

    His other positions, however, were as heavily bunkered as he could contrive. They were the protective barrier between the portal and his gunners, and he'd ordered them dug in below ground level. The aboveground bunker walls were over four feet thick, with log retaining walls filled with tamped-down earth, while the roofs consisted of at least four layers of crisscrossed logs covered by multiple layers of sandbags, as well. He was confident that they would have stood up well even against Sharonian-style field or medium artillery, and judging from the Arcanan fireball spells' apparent lack of penetration, they ought to resist even direct hits almost indefinitely.

    He'd also arranged a few other things he hoped would come as nasty surprises to any potential attackers, but he'd always been aware that he'd be hard-pressed to stop any attack in force.

    Many of his men (and at least some of his junior officers), on the other hand, thought he was being alarmist. He knew that. Despite his best efforts, they remained supremely confident—even overconfident—of their ability to deal with anything the other side might produce. Yet as chan Tesh had pointed out at this morning's conference, people always learned more from failure than from success, and what Sharona actually knew about Arcana's military capabilities remained pitifully inadequate. At least some of the Arcanan troops his command had defeated two months ago had managed to escape, however—that had been obvious from the moment Skirvon mentioned the confirmed death of that Arcanan civilian, Halathyn, in the attack—which meant the other side had probably learned more than he would have liked about Sharonian capabilities. But even if that weren't true, the natural response would be for Arcana to be bringing up the equivalent of its big guns (whatever the hells that might be) just as quickly as it could, and that could turn very ugly very quickly. Especially if those damned boats of theirs were any indication of their general mobility.

    Chan Tesh himself was painfully well aware that much of his earlier victory owed its success to the Arcanans' complete lack of familiarity with modern firearms and mortars. The peerless stupidity of their commanding officer hadn't hurt, either, and that advantage, in particular, was something he couldn't count on the second time around. Just as—as he'd reminded his subordinates this morning—they couldn't afford to assume for a single instant that what they'd seen so far out of Arcana was, in fact, the best Arcana had.

    There's a hell of a lot of difference between a four-and-a-half-inch mortar and an eleven-inch howitzer, he thought, and the other side hasn't seen that yet, either, has it?

    At least chan Baskay's dispatch had helped him ginger up his platoon commanders. Which was remarkably little comfort compared to the way it had underscored chan Tesh's existing concerns.

    He snorted again, this time without any humor at all. Chan Baskay's message had at least seen to it that chan Tesh's entire command was at a higher state of readiness. He hoped to all the gods that those among his subordinates whothought he was jumping at shadows turned out to be right. He was confident he and his men were as ready as they could be, but he was also more aware than ever of just how exposed, vulnerable, and—above all—unsupported they actually were.

    Commander of Fifty Tharian Narshu had been carefully chosen for his present duty.

    Despite his junior rank, Narshu had seen more than his fair share of combat against everything from brigands to cattle rustlers to claim-jumpers to landowners using "guest workers" as virtual slave labor. More to the point, perhaps, he wasn't the Regular Army officer he appeared to be. He'd been trained in the far harder, tougher school of the Union of Arcana's Special Operations Force, as had half of the men under his command. Two Thousand mul Gurthak had grabbed Narshu and the single squad of his platoon he'd had with him, snatched them (and the transport dragon which had been moving them to join the rest of his platoon in Jylaros) out of the regular transport queue, and hurried them forward to Two Thousand Harshu. Harshu had been delighted to see them . . . and he'd used them to provide the core of Master Skirvon's "honor guard."

    The honor guard's other twelve men were primarily windowdressing, along solely to make up the numbers, who had no idea their commanding officer and fellow troopers weren't, in fact, Regular Army at all. Narshu wished fervently that all of them could have been Special Operations, but there were never enough SpecOps available. Two Thousand mul Gurthak had been unreasonably fortunate to to have even one of Narshu's squads available this far out into the boondocks when it had all hit the fan. Besides, a dozen SpecOps troopers ought to be more than sufficient, especially with Sword Seltym Laresk to run the squad. Narshu and Laresk had served together for almost two years now, and the fifty had total confidence in the noncom.

    He was glad he did, too, because Tharian Narshu, unlike the late, unlamented Hadrign Thalmayr, wasn't about to underestimate his opposition. This Platoon-Captain Arthag, for example, was as tough and competent as anyone Narshu had ever seen. But competence didn't matter, he reminded himself, when it was offset by complete ignorance and total surprise, and these people knew nothing about even the simplest magic.

    If there'd been any doubt about that, it had been dispelled several days ago when Narshu and his men first started bringing their daggerstones with them.

    Narshu had been in two minds about the wisdom of issuing the daggerstones that soon. He'd been afraid that, despite Five Hundred Neshok's and Master Skirvon's assurances to the contrary, the other side might have some way of detecting them. It wasn't as if they were particularly hard to spot, after all—that was why they were so seldom used by the Spec Ops teams, despite their firepower—and their maximum effective range was barely ten yards. The possibility of getting the ridculously short-ranged weapons close enough to do any good was minimal in the face of even the most rudimentary security spells.

    Two Thousand Harshu had insisted, however, and Narshu couldn't really fault the two thousand for it. Unlike these Sharonians and their "Voices," there was no way for Narshu to report the success or failure of his current mission in time for the two thousand to modify his own plans. That was the entire reason Narshu was out here—to level the communications playing field, as it were—and if his mission had been likely to fail simply because the Sharonians could, indeed, recognize a daggerstone for what it was, finding out at the very last moment would be disastrous.

    No one on the other side had noticed a thing, though. Nor did any of them seem aware of the real reason for all of the last few weeks' "incidents."

    And, he thought, glancing idly at his chronometer, it's about time the game began.

    Rithmar Skirvon kept his attention focused on Viscount Simrath, and not on Fifty Narshu, just as he'd been very careful to avoid any casual glance at his own chronometer. Despite that, he was almost agonizingly aware of Narshu's presence behind him, and despite the coolness of the dry northern air, he felt sweat gathering along his scalp as the tension coiled tighter and tighter inside him.

    It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his air of concentration, to respond to Simrath's statements with the proper degree of normality. He'd expected some of that, but he hadn't anticipated just how difficult it might prove, and he found himself unexpectedly grateful for Simrath's earlier abrasiveness. The Sharonian diplomat had introduced a confrontational atmosphere which, in turn, offered an acceptable pretext for any sharpness on Skirvon's part, especially in the wake of all of the unfortunate outbursts of temper over the past couple of weeks. As a matter of fact, those "outbursts" had been carefully designed for the specific purpose of covering any last-minute tension on the Arcanans' part if the Sharonians happened to notice it.

    None of which made the diplomat feel one bit calmer as the last few moments trickled past.

    Tharian Narshu's right thumb hooked into his broad, stiff sword belt.

    It was a completely natural-looking mannerism, if not precisely the most militarily correct posture in the world. In fact, he'd taken considerable pains to display that particular"sloppy habit" to the Sharonians for the last couple of weeks. It was about as unthreatening as it could be—his hand was on the opposite side from his sword's hilt, after all—but he'd wanted that sharp-eyed bastard Arthag to be accustomed to it. The last thing Narshu needed was for the Sharonian officer to notice anything out of the ordinary on the day when it finally mattered.

    The fifty's own eyes never strayed from their slightly bored, incurious focus on Viscount Simrath, but his carefully trained peripheral vision made one last sweep to confirm that the rest of his men were in position. Only his SpecOps squad had a clue about what was going to happen. The rest of his "honor guard" detachment were all tough, capable vets, but they weren't SpecOps. They lacked the specialized training and experience of Narshu's own squad, and he'd decided against briefing them in ahead of time on the theory that what they didn't know was coming they couldn't inadvertently give away.

    I'm going to have to apologize to them when this is all over, he thought. They're good troops, and they're going to have a right to be pissed off when they find out what's really been going on.

    But he'd take care of that later; at the moment, he had other things to think about.

    He completed his methodical check of his troopers' positions. Everyone was exactly where he was supposed to be. That was good. In fact, the only flaw in Narshu's satisfaction was that Arthag was outside his field of view.

    It was just like the bastard to be uncooperative, the fifty thought sourly. He knew where Arthag was, of course, but he wasn't about to turn his head and look for the man—not at a moment like this. Besides, Arthag wasn't Narshu's target. Seltym Laresk was responsible for dealing with him, and the sword was perfectly positioned to Narshu's left rear.

    Yes, he is, the fifty told himself. So why don't you stop worrying about Seltym, and get on with it?

    It was, he decided, an excellent question, and his right hand flexed.

    Hulmok Arthag's expression never even twitched—he was an Arpathian septman, after all—but he'd felt the tension coiling tighter inside his Arcanan counterpart for the last twenty minutes. The man was good; Arthag had to give him that. Looking at Narshu from the outside, there was absolutely nothing to indicate his spring-steel tension. But Hulmok Arthag was watching the Arcanan from the inside.

    He wished, not for the first time, that his Talent had been more amenable to direction. He knew, beyond any doubt, that Narshu was totally focused on some action, some mission, but he had no way of knowing precisely what that mission was until the Arcanan actually acted. Which meant Arthag couldn't act until then, either. Whatever the Arpathian might "know," there was absolutely no supporting evidence. The other man's hands weren't even close to his sword, and his body language was relaxed, almost casual. Whatever Arthag wanted to do, he had to wait. Wait until Narshu gave him something more concrete than the warning of his Talent. Despite his and chan Baskay's suspicions, Narshu—like Skirvon and Dastiri—was part of a diplomatic mission. As such, their persons were inviolable, protected by their diplomat status until and unless their actions, not their intentions, changed that status.

    Which hadn't prevented Arthag from briefing his own people about his suspicions. Or from leaving the retaining strap of his holster unbuttoned this morning.

    The daggerstone slid cleanly out of the concealing compartment in Narshu's belt.

    It didn't look particularly threatening to the naked eye. Aside from the peculiar, glassy sheen of sarkolis, it could have been a quarter-inch thick oval of natural quartz just under two inches across at its widest point. Only someone with at least a trace of a Gift could have used it, and anyone else with a trace of a Gift would have seen something quite different from a hunk of stone. Those were, of course, two of the reasons at least some Gift was required for anyone to qualify for SpecOp duty in the first place. Any Gifted observerwould have seen exactly what Narshu saw—the nimbus of energy glowing around it, reaching out to envelop his hand and forearm—and, if his Gift had been properly trained (like Narshu's), he would have been able to sense the lethality of that energy, as well.

    But no Sharonian had that Gift, or that training.

    Narshu's hand rose smoothly, without haste, as his thumb nestled into the slight hollow in the daggerstone's upper surface. It rose just high enough to bear on Petty-Captain Rokam Traygan, and Narshu released the first spell charge.

    Brilliant, stunning light flashed across the conference table in a solid bar of lightning. The lightning spell was almost silent, compared to the thunderclap a fireball spell would have produced, but it hammered into Traygan with brutal force, and the Voice flew backward, outlined in a dazzling corona of energy, until he slammed into the trunk of a tree ten feet behind him. He hit with bone-shattering force, but it scarcely mattered; he was dead before he smashed into it.

    Two more of Arthag's troopers were caught in the fringes of the spell, and both of them were just as dead as Traygan before they hit the ground. Chan Baskay was just far enough away to be unharmed, but the near-silent concussion of arcane energy sweeping out from the spell's impact point was like being hit with a club.

    Rithmar Skirvon was almost as stunned as chan Baskay. Unlike the Ternathian, he'd known what was coming, but the actual moment had managed to surprise him, as well. He jerked back from the conference table as the spell's violence hit him in the face like fist. Although the plan had been at least partly his own, it was the first time he'd ever even seen a combat spell used, far less been this close to its point of impact. He'd tried to prepare himself ahead of time for what it would be like, but he'd failed.

    Had his brain been up to the task, he would have been astounded by how quiet it was. Surely nothing that violent, that powerful, could make so little noise! "Quiet" wasn't the same thing as "gentle," however—not by a long shot—and his ears rang, his eyes watered, and he felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Yet even so, he knew the most critical part of the mission had succeeded perfectly. They'd managed to identify Simrath's "Voice," and Neshok's eavesdropping recon crystals had overheard enough conversations at the swamp portal to know that the dark-skinned Traygan was the only Voice Simrath and chan Tesh had between them. Which meant there was no way now for chan Tesh—or Simrath—to warn anyone else of what was about to happen.

    Tharian Narshu felt an intense satisfaction as his target went down. Later, he knew, it might be different. The only difference between this and an act of murder, after all, was that he'd been ordered to do it by his superiors. But any regrets were going to have to wait unti—

    Hulmok Arthag's right hand had started to move one thin fraction of a second after Narshu's. The H&W single-action revolver came out of its holster while the daggerstone was rising into position. The hammer came back as the muzzle rose, and the pistol's bellow was the thunderclap of the daggerstone's lightning.

    Tharian Narshu's head exploded under the sledgehammer impact of the hollow-nosed .46 caliber bullet, and pulverized bone, blood, and tissue sprayed over Rithmar Skirvon as a stunning cascade of violence swept the clearing.

    Narshu's Special Operations troopers had been fully briefed. They were primed, waiting only for their commander's attack on the Sharonians' Voice as the signal for their own attacks. Like Narshu himself, they had recognized the tough professionalism of their Sharonian counterparts. But, also like Narshu, they'd known the Sharonians had no way of detecting a daggerstone, no way of guessing what was coming.

    Unfortunately, they'd had no way of recognizing Hulmok Arthag's Talent.

    Sword Laresk and his men had been focused on Narshu, watching him, waiting for his attack, but Hulmok Arthag's men had been watching him. The instant his gunhand began to move, theirs did the same.

    Skirvon was just beginning to realize Narshu had succeeded in his primary mission when the entire world went mad about him. The sibilant hiss of daggerstone bolts was abruptly punctuated by the thunder of Sharonian revolvers. Men shouted in terrified surprise, others screamed in sudden agony, and Skirvon's head snapped around just in time to see the undischarged daggerstone fly from Sword Seltym Laresk's hand as Chief-Armsman Rayl chan Hathas' revolver bullet struck him just below the left armpit from a range of fifty-two inches. The heavy lead projectile, as big around as chan Hathas' little finger even before expansion, disintegrated a two-inch section of rib, drove straight through the Arcanan sword's heart and lungs, and blew a fist-sized hole out of his right side.

    Three of Narshu's twelve Special Operations troopers managed to activate their daggerstones, but none of them got off more than a single spell. They'd ordered themselves to take their time, to avoid rushing those first, critical shots in order to make sure of their initial targets, because they'd expected to be the ones with the advantage of surprise, only to discover that their intended victims had been waiting for them all along. Thanks to Arthag's warning, his men were actually quicker off the mark, and the sudden, stunning reversal of advantage knocked even the highly trained and motivated SpecOp troopers back on their heels. Thirteen more Sharonians died in the short, cataclysmic exchange, but then every man of Laresk's squad was down and dead . . . along with nine of the other twelve Arcanan troopers who'd never had a hint of what was coming.

    Skirvon started to lurch up from the conference table as he realized just how terribly wrong the plan had gone. He didn't know where he thought he was going to go, and it didn't matter. Even as he gripped the edge of the table to lever himself out of his chair, a pistol materialized in "Viscount Simrath's" hand from the shoulder holster Skirvon had never suspected was hidden under his civilian jacket. It was a much smaller weapon than the ones every single one of Hulmok Arthag's men had drawn, but the hollow eye of its muzzle gaped like a cavern as Skirvon abruptly found himself staring straight down it.

    The Arcanan froze, mouth gaping open, and the gray eyes watching him over the revolver's sights were colder than sea ice.

    "Sit back down."

    Dorzon chan Baskay's voice was even icier than his eyes, and the .35 caliber Polshana in his hand was rock-steady. Skirvon stared at him for just an instant, then half-fell back into his seat.

    The senior Arcanan diplomat's face was the color of cold, congealed gravy. His eyes were sick, stunned—not by the carnage, but by who the victims had turned out to be. At that, he looked better than Uthik Dastiri. The younger diplomat simply sat there, jaw hanging, as if his brain flatly refused to accept what his eyes were reporting to him.

    "If you move so much as an eyelash without my permission," chan Baskay continued in that same icicle of a voice, "I will shoot you squarely in the head. Is that understood?"

    Skirvon only stared at him, and chan Baskay's thumb cocked the revolver's hammer. It wasn't necessary—the Polshana was a double-action weapon—but it had the desired punctuating effect.

    "I asked if that was understood," he said in a very soft voice that sounded bizarrely quiet and calm even to him in the wake of the unexpected thunder. He had no idea where that self-control—if that was what it was—was coming from, but whatever his voice sounded like, something in his expression had Skirvon nodding with sudden, spastic speed.

    Chan Baskay gave him one more glance, then looked up as Chief-Armsman chan Hathas stepped up beside him.

    "I've got these bastards, Platoon-Captain," the chief-armsman grated, covering the Arcanans with his heavier, longer-barreled H&W.

    "Thank you, Chief."

    Chan Baskay slid his pistol back into its holster and stood. He turned his back on the two Arcanan diplomats . . . and on the almost overwhelming temptation to simply shoot them out of hand. Everything around him was absolutely crystal-clear, yet all of it also seemed to be much further away than he knew it actually was. He glanced down at his hands and discovered that they were completely steady, despite the quivering tingles running through them. Then he drew a deep, cleansing breath before he looked at Arthag.

    "How bad?" he asked.

    "About as bad as it could have been," Arthag replied, sounding preposterously matter-of-fact to chan Baskay. Then the Arpathian gave his head a little twitch. "Actually, that's not really true. We could all be dead. Short of that, however, I don't see how it could be much worse."

    Chan Baskay looked past him to Rokam Traygan's contorted, broken body. The dead Voice's face was twisted in a final grimace of agony, and chan Baskay swallowed the foulest curse he could think of as he saw Chief-Armsman chan Treskin's body ten yards from Traygan's.

    "How did they know?" the Ternathian officer demanded in a crushed-gravel voice. "How could they know to kill both of them?"

    "I don't know. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure they did know," Arthag said.

    "They must have. They went for Rokam first. That means he was their primary target all along. And that means they must have realized not only that he was a Voice, but what a Voice could do, in the first place."

    "Maybe. No," Arthag shook his head, "not 'maybe.' You're right about him, at least. But chan Treskin wasn't even the intended target of the . . . whatever the hells it was they used. He just caught the very fringe of one of those blasts, and the bastard who killed him was already going down when he fired. I think it was simply a wild shot that just happened to take him out."

    Chan Baskay gazed at the Arpathian for a moment, then shook his own head. Not in disagreement, but to clear it. They still didn't know how long Shaylar had lived after she was wounded, but obviously it had been long enough for the Arcanans to have learned at least a little about Talents and how they worked. It was the only way they could have realized just how vital the Voices were, and they obviously had. On the other hand, if Arthag was right about what had happened to chan Treskin, then the Arcanans hadn't realized how important the Flicker was. It was only sheer, incredibly bad luck that they'd gotten him, too.

    Not that it mattered.

    "We can't tell Company-Captain chan Tesh or Company-Captain Halifu about this." Chan Baskay knew he was stating the obvious. "So, the question is, what do we do?"

    "They didn't just do this on the spur of the moment," Arthag replied. "And you're right, they obviously hit us first because we were the communications link between Company-Captain chan Tesh and New Uromath. I'm guessing they were pretty confident they could get us all, but I doubt they would have bet everything they had on that, however confident they felt."

    "Which means they're going to be hitting chan Tesh anytime now, assuming they haven't already," chan Baskay agreed harshly. He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead as if to clear away the last lingering cobwebs of shock while he thought furiously. Then he looked at Arthag once more.

    "If they've planned this as carefully as I think they have, they probably allowed for the possibility that at least some of us might get away. From where I stand, that means they probably figure they can get here before any of us could reach Halifu."

    "How?" Arthag's question was genuine, not a challenge, and chan Baskay shrugged.

    "I don't have the least damned idea," he admitted. "Given what we've seen of their boats, and what they just did here, though," he waved one arm at the carnage sprawled about them, "I'm not going to assume they can't do it. Gods, man! If they can make conference tables float, maybe they can conjure up flying carpets for their people, too! Until I know different, I'm certainly not going to say they can't, at any rate."

    "Me neither." Arthag tapped two fingers on his chin for a moment. Then it was his turn to shrug.

    "I'll get the troops saddled up," he said.

    "Good. And while you're doing that," chan Baskay's smile was razor-thin and cruel, "I'll just have a little chat with our guests."

    Skirvon wrenched his eyes away from the revolver in Chief-Armsman chan Hathas' hand as Viscount Simrath waded back across the clearing through the deep leaves. The Ternathian's expression was no more comforting than the gaping bore of Hathas' revolver.

    "So, Master Skirvon," he said in a voice fit to freeze the very air about him, "this is Arcana's idea of talking instead of shooting."

    Skirvon kept his mouth shut. His belly was a frozen knot, and he swallowed convulsively, again and again. Somehow, despite everything, he'd never imagined anything like this. He'd been far too focused on what was going to happen to the Sharonians to consider what would happen if the carefully orchestrated plan failed.

    "Not so talkative now, I see," Viscount Simrath observed. "I think, however, that you might want to reconsider that, Master Skirvon. In fact, I think what you really want to do is tell me exactly what's happening."

    "I don't know what you're talking about," Skirvon managed to get out. "I had no idea Narshu was going to do anything like this!"

    "Trekar?" Simrath glanced at the other apparent civilian standing beside him, and Trekar chan Rothag shook his head.

    "That was a lie," the viscount said flatly, turning back to Skirvon. "Not that I really needed Trekar to confirm that. However, perhaps I should warn you that Trekar is what we call a 'Sifter'. You obviously know more than you wanted us to realize you do about our Talents. Well, Trekar's Talent is that he can always tell when someone is lying. I would strongly advise you not to lie again."

    "Or what?" Uthik Dastiri asked. The Manisthuan had apparently recovered the ability to speak, although Skirvon wasn't at all certain that that was a good thing. He might be speaking again, but his eyes were still only half-focused and his expression was belligerent, and Skirvon recognized his associate's anger with a sudden, sinking sensation. Dastiri's temper had always been too close to the surface for a professional diplomat. Now his sense of shocked disbelief had transformed itself into unreasoning rage, and his hands twitched at his sides as he glared at Simrath.

    The viscount seemed singularly impervious to his anger.

    "You've systematically lied to us," the Ternathian said, and his eyes were far colder—and far more lethal—than Dastiri's. "You've violated the truce between us and killed our soldiers. No doubt, you intended to kill or capture Trekar and myself, as well. In short, you're guilty of premeditated murder, and the penalty for that is death."

    "You wouldn't dare!" Dastiri shot back.

    "I wouldn't?" Simrath repeated in a deadly calm voice.

    "We're diplomats," Dastiri said. "Even barbarians like you ought to understand what that means! Besides, it's only a matter of time until our soldiers get here."

    "Barbarians, are we?" Simrath's voice was very soft. "The sort of barbarians who massacre civilians, perhaps? Or who systematically lie when they claim to want a negotiated end to the violence? Or who commit murder under cover of their diplomatic status?"

    "Uthik, shut up!" Skirvon said harshly.

    "I won't!" Dastiri shot back. "This bastard thinks he can threaten us? Well, he's wrong!" He turned his glare on the Ternathian. "Go ahead," he sneered. "Tell us what you're going to do to us! Just remember, our soldiers are coming!"

    "Really?" Something about the Ternathian's smile tightened Skirvon's belly muscles even further.

    "I'm afraid you've been operating under a bit of a misapprehension, Master Dastiri," Simrath continued, reaching back into his jacket and withdrawing his revolver once more. "I really am Viscount Simrath, and I really am Emperor Zindel's accredited representative to these negotiations. But I'm also Platoon-Captain chan Baskay, Imperial Ternathian Army, on assignment to the Portal Authority Armed Forces. And I'm afraid that at the moment, I'm feeling much more like Platoon-Captain chan Baskay and very little like a diplomat."

    Skirvon swallowed again, harder, and chan Baskay smiled icily.

    "Under Ternathian military law, Master Dastiri, I have full authority to conduct summary courts-martial in the field and to carry out their verdicts."

    "You can't bluff me," Dastiri sneered. "Not even you could be stupid enough to think you could get away with murdering an Arcanan diplomat!"

    "Perhaps not," chan Baskay conceded. "On the other hand, I am 'stupid enough' to execute a murdering piece of scum."

    He raised his pistol hand, and despite himself, Dastiri's eyes widened as the Polshana's muzzle aligned itself with the bridge of his nose. Chan Baskay's free hand waved two troopers standing behind Dastiri out of the line of fire, and the Manisthuan's nerve seemed to waver for a moment as the cavalrymen stepped aside. But then his mouth tightened once again, and he glared back at chan Baskay, as if his momentary weakness had only made him even angrier.

    "I would most earnestly advise you to give me a reason not to kill you," chan Baskay said.

    "Fuck you!" Dastiri spat.

    "Wrong answer," chan Baskay said, and squeezed the trigger.

    The black hole which appeared in Dastiri's forehead wasn't all that big, actually, a corner of Skirvon's brain reflected. But the entire back of the younger man's skull disintegrated in an explosion of red, gray, and splintered white bone. The body was flung backward. It thudded to the ground, quivering slightly, and chan Baskay brought that deadly muzzle to bear on Skirvon's forehead.

    "You have five minutes to convince me not to kill you," chan Baskay told him. "I'm sure you know the sorts of things I'd be interested in hearing. And, just as a reminder, don't forget that Trekar will know the first time you lie to me. And if you ever lie to me again, Master Skirvon, I'll be very, very unhappy with you. Is that clear?"