“Whatever you can do,” Omar said. He gave her a pointed look. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Wren. You’re a very big girl, with very strange ears, and you just defeated a very old witch at her own game. You don’t need me to hold your hand anymore. The things you know, the things you can do… my God, you’re one of the most capable people I’ve ever met. There aren’t any more rules to learn or tricks to figure out, not for you. It’s high time you realized that for yourself. Just go to the sea wall where you can see the ships and do whatever you can to help them. The more lives saved, the better.”
Wren frowned. “I won’t be much help. The sun is rising and the aether is thinning, and I’m tired. And I probably won’t be able to see much with the sun glaring off the water.”
“Hm.” He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Do you know why I let you go see Yaga alone? Yes, it’s true that I didn’t want to see her myself, but I did trust you to deal with her, even though she’s five hundred years old and you’re, what, nineteen?”
“Why?”
He grinned. “Because you’re smarter now than she ever was. And that’s all that matters. Life is less about knowing the answer than figuring out the answer. Look around this room.”
Wren looked, and saw nervous old men talking to anxious young soldiers, and exhausted clerks carrying armloads of papers.
“Look at them,” Omar said. “Now tell me. Do you honestly think anyone here has any idea how to save this city from the Turks’ airships and ironclads? Did any of them know how to stop Yaga, or the undead armies at the gates? Did they figure it out? Did they even try?”
Wren smiled and blushed. “I guess not.”
“Say again?” He lifted her chin so she had to look him in the eye.
Wren blinked. “No, they didn’t. I did.”
“That’s exactly right. You did.” Omar stepped back and gently arranged her scarf over her head and straightened the lapels of her black jacket. “Now I want you to go out there and be smart. Figure it out. Do anything and everything in your power to save some lives today. That, and come back in one piece, please.”
She smiled a little. “I will. You too.”
As the flood of bodies pouring out the door died down, Wren stepped away from the wall and headed out into the hallway.
“Wren?” Tycho caught her hand and pulled her aside in the corridor. “Where are you going? You should head for the cellars, or the cisterns. Someplace underground where you’ll be safe. Or maybe…” He glanced over his shoulder. “I could put you on a horse with an armed escort and get you out of the city. If you want.” His eyes pleaded in silence for her to say yes.
Wren squeezed his hand. “No, thank you. Where are you going?”
“To the watch tower overlooking the channel,” he said gloomily. “I can’t help my marines, and recent events have proven I’m little enough help aboard a ship in the middle of a battle.”
“The wall? Good. I’ll come with you.”
“But the bombs! It won’t be safe for you.”
“I know.” Wren looked left and right down the crowded, busy corridor. “Which way?”
Tycho gave her a pained look, but instead of arguing further he shook his head and led her down the hall to the left. When they finally emerged from the building, the major summoned a page, who fetched them a pony. Tycho glanced uncomfortably from the high saddle to her and back.
“Here.” Wren leapt lightly into the saddle and held out her hand to him. He smiled, and climbed up in front of her.
They rode across the park, a wide open expanse of dark green grass and gray gravel paths dusted with snow and frost. They passed between squads and companies of Hellan soldiers and Vlachian archers and even a few Rus freebooters. As they approached the high watch tower, their view of the Strait and the Eranian warships disappeared behind the sea wall, and the noise of the men echoed chaotically across the park, bouncing off the ancient stone walls.
Wren followed Tycho into the tower and up the narrow iron stair, and at the top they stepped out onto a wide platform under a conical roof from which they could see the Furies to the east, the Galata Bridge to the west, and the silvery path of the Bosporus winding away between the shores of Constantia and Stamballa to the north. And then she turned and squinted up to the southern sky and saw the three airships in the distance, small droning dots that looked like fat wingless flies against the bone-gray clouds. She set her blue glasses in front of her eyes and the glare of the winter sun was blunted, and the pain behind her eyes dulled.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
Tycho pulled a tube from the shelf on the wall and went over to the window. As he walked, she saw that the tube had glass lenses on each end.
A spyglass! I wonder if there’s another one here somewhere that I can… hm, no, of course there isn’t. Maybe later.
“Now, I watch and pray.” Tycho stood on his toes to peer over the lip of the window down at the beach below the wall.
Wren looked and saw the marines in their drab tunics carrying their little boats down to the water and making ready to push off. There was a knot of men farther up the strand and she thought she could see Omar among them, but she couldn’t be certain.
Woden, watch over them. Be their shield today.
“What’s your god called?” she asked absently as she watched.
When he didn’t answer, she looked over at him and saw the conflicted confusion on his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Omar told me about this. You call him God, don’t you? He doesn’t have another name, right?”
“Sort of.” Tycho frowned as he raised the spyglass back to his eye. “What do you call God in your country?”
“There are lots of gods, of course,” she said. Her vulpine ears twitched under her black scarf as the sea breeze tickled the long red hairs around them. “But Woden is the only one I pay any mind to. He’s the king, the Allfather, so I suppose he’s the best to have on your side. But really, all valas talk to Woden. He knows the most about magic and souls and death. Anything else you can learn for yourself, can’t you?” She smiled.
“I guess so,” he said quietly.
I don’t think he likes talking about the gods, or maybe it’s death that bothers him?
“They’re leaving.” Tycho nodded down at the water.
Wren saw the little boats rowing out into the Strait. Farther out, a group of Hellan warships were steaming and paddling their way down from the Galata Bridge with dozens of armed sailors on each of their decks. “What about the Turks?”
Omar turned his spyglass to the Furies. “It’s hard to tell. There are men on deck. They’re working. Their engines don’t seem to be running. There isn’t much steam coming out of the stacks. It looks they’re still waking up out there. Vlad may get his miracle after all.”
Wren watched the Hellan steamers chugging down the river and the marines rowing out from the beaches. It was all very quiet. There were no trumpets or horns, no battle cries or war songs. Just the soft slapping of oars and the sloshing of the waves and the rhythmic churning of the engines.
A single rifle fired, the sound echoing like a dull thud across the water. And then a second rifle fired, and a third. She could see the figures on the decks of the Furies moving along the railings, and she tried to guess which ones were shooting at the marines.
“If that’s the best they can do, this might actually go according to plan,” Tycho muttered. “Damn it. Row faster. Row! Lycus…”
“Don’t worry about your men,” Wren said. “Worrying won’t help them now.”
“Then what should I do?” he asked sharply, nearly snapping at her.
Wren shrugged. “When there’s nothing to do, then do nothing. Wait and see.”
He nodded. “Sorry. I guess you’ve done this before? Omar goes off to fight and you have to wait and watch?”
“Oh no,” Wren said softly. “I’m a vala of Ysland. I fight, too, usually.”
“But not this time?”
Wren felt the bracelets clinking softly on her wrists as she leaned on the window sill. “Especially this time. But I’m going to need your eyes. It’s too bright for me to see very far or clearly. Are the marines doing well? Are they nearly to the ships?”