Nanya. Left alone in the Redvers’ townhouse, with the magistrate’s guards, probably a force from the City Companies too. If the Speaker decided Redvers was too dangerous to live, they’d make a sweep of his household as well—
Esmond turned on his heel, clattering down the staircase and out through the service wing. His men were barracked in what had been spare housemaid’s quarters; they looked up as he burst in, most of them sacked out on their straw pallets. Hands froze as they worked on gear, sharpened a sword blade, clattered dice ready to throw.
“Jusha!” he roared. “Full kit, get your mounts, I want first company ready to move in fifteen minutes with one led remount per man. Full satchels of grenades, and five packhorses with spares. Canteens, but no food or bedding—we’re going straight into the fight from a fast route march. Move!”
He’d had the training of these men for four months now. The long room dissolved into chaos, a chaos from which order grew. He walked to his own room, a boarded-off cubby, and hauled down what he needed; a bucket of javelins slung over his shoulder, his helmet, war gloves with brass and lead covers over the knuckles. And a map of Vanbert; they might have to take an indirect route out.
“Ready, sir.”
“Then let’s ride,” he said, striding out to the entrance and vaulting into the saddle with a hand on the pommel, ignoring the weight of weapons and leather hauberk. His hand rose and chopped forward. “Follow me!”
* * *
“No, no, no!”
Adrian Gellert turned and slammed the flat of his palm into the wall of the shed. The slaves looked up from pouring powder into small bronze kegs, then whipped their heads back to their work. The last four months had taught the survivors that handling powder was not something to do with half a mind. The sharp peppery-sulfur smell of the explosive filled the air inside the barn.
“No, no, tell me my brother’s not as stupid as the hero of a street-epic!”
Adrian stopped, controlled his breathing and pressing his hands to his face. Suicide, he thought. He can’t possibly cut his way into Vanbert—riots, chaos, street fighting—and get out with Nanya.
probability of success 35%, ±7, Center said.
Surprise flashed through Adrian’s mind. Raj’s mental voice cut in: If you’re going to stage a raid into a major city, riot and insurrection make it a lot easier.
A vision floated through Adrian’s consciousness: East Residence, the capital of Raj’s native land on Bellevue. Blue-uniformed troops fought from behind a barricade against rioters, volley-firing in silent puffs of off-white smoke. Men screamed and writhed and lay and bled before the improvised breastwork . . . and behind the soldiers a gang of thieves calmly loaded furniture and bolts of cloth and tableware from a mansion into a waiting cart.
“I’ve got to help him,” Adrian said. “He’s being an idiot, but he’s my brother . . . how much does that improve the chances?”
There was a long silence in his head; he was conscious, somehow, of Raj and Center speaking at a level and speed beyond his comprehension.
Tell him, Raj said at last.
probability of successful rescue attempt increases to 53%, ±5, with your participation and full support from raj whitehall and myself, Center said. however, this is an unnecessary risk to you, our operative, and does not advance the prime objective to any significant degree.
That was a long speech, from Center. Raj’s voice held a flash of amusement: Center’s learned to trust me when it comes to judging men. You’re going to do it, son—I would, if I were you and I were alive—and we might as well give you all the help we can.
Adrian nodded, startling the slave with the funnel again, and walked out into the bright morning light. “Fered,” he said. “Gather the slingers. I need their help.”
THREE
There was an eerie familiarity to the streets of Vanbert, full of mobs and the bitter smell of smoke from things not meant to burn. Like the visions, he thought.
scenarios, Center corrected. multisensory holographic neural-input simulations of probable outcomes calculated by stochastic analysis.