Veiled Empire (24 page)

Paen cleared his throat. “What about Mecrithos?”

Gilshamed laughed. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but we are nowhere near ready to take on the heart of mierothi power.” He pointed at the top part of the map table. “There, in Namerrun, we have allies, the source of our logistical support, and a populace ready to join our cause. I suggest we make for the plain and establish a base of operations. From there, we can gather our strength, renew our focus on training and recruitment, and systematically plan how to dismantle the Imperial war machine. Perhaps, in a few years’ time, we may actually be ready to strike at the capital. But not yet.”

“You’re talking an extended campaign?” said Yandumar. “Fighting from a position of strength instead of all this sneaking around?”

“Indeed.”

Yandumar ran his fingers through his beard. “Well, I do prefer a straight fight. Most of the time . . .”

Gilshamed sighed, fixing Yandumar with an impatient stare.

Yandumar grumbled. “But it seems like we’re heading the wrong direction.”

“I see,” said Gilshamed. He looked around the room. “Any other opinions about my plan?”

“I have no issues,” Jasside said. “Careful planning will grant us a greater chance of success, I think.”

“I dunno,” Orbrahn said. “I think I’m with Yandumar on this one. Seems like north is the wrong way to go.”

“Agreed,” Paen said. “Those I represent would, I’m sure, wish to remain a
distant
source of support.”

Gilshamed sighed, and Mevon thought he saw a flicker of irritation in the valynkar’s eyes though it was over in a beat. “Very well. We can shelve the northern approach until we’ve considered other suggestions. I suppose our options, then, are to finish cleansing the eastern territory or head to the western territory. Now, our raids in this area have been highly effective. Imperial supply lines are stifled, their command structure is in disarray, and their strength in numbers has been cut to a manageable size.

“Yet despite our efforts, and the distractions in every last prefecture in the empire, reinforcements are still heading our way. Staying put and finishing our work here will be greatly rewarding for both morale and momentum, but it will take time and comes with significant risk.

“The western territory has been untouched by our machinations. A surprise attack—”

“No.”

All eyes turned to Mevon. They were the first words he had spoken since the debate began, and even he was surprised by the firmness of that single word. As Gilshamed had been talking through his plan, Mevon’s mind had worked through its thoughts. He knew now what he needed to do. What they
all
needed to do.

Gilshamed cast a sour gaze his way. “You have a problem with some part of my plan?”

“We cannot go west,” Mevon said.

“Well, it does not have to be west. It could be—”

“Not west,” said Mevon, ignoring the fury bubbling behind Gilshamed’s eyes at being interrupted again. “Not east either. And certainly not north. We are overlooking some crucial facts. Facts that must dictate our path.”

“Very well,” said Gilshamed, lifting his chin in the air. “Enlighten us.”

“First of all, Imperial military strength is far beyond your reckoning. They’ve been surprised on many occasions, but they’ve also been biding their time. Once spring hits, so will they. Hard. We won’t be able to stand against a full assault by a major force.

“Secondly, these distractions you seem so confident of will soon be wiped out. The Hardohl alone will see to it. Since you saw fit to implant casters into each group, they will be easy to track down and annihilate.”

“Have you no faith in our allies then?” said Gilshamed.

“Faith?” Mevon paused. “I’m not much familiar with the word. But I know the empire, and I know what it will do. And I know that every last man and woman involved in these small-scale uprisings is likely doomed.”

“Maybe not,” Jasside said.

Mevon turned to her. “What do you mean?”

“Before she left, I had a . . . talk. With Ilyem.”

“And?” said Gilshamed.

“She said she would consider speaking to the other Hardohl. That she might try to convince them to sit this conflict out.”

“Sit it out?” Yandumar said, wonder evident in his voice. “And you thought of this yourself?”

Jasside blushed. “Yes.”

“Will she do it?” asked Orbrahn. “And, more importantly, will any of them listen to her?”

“I don’t know. But she was definitely scared enough to give it serious thought. Perhaps others will as well.”

“Hardohl don’t . . .” Mevon stopped himself. He had almost added “
fear anything”
but then he remembered when Jasside had first disabled him. He cringed at the memory yet couldn’t help but smile. “We don’t change our minds easily. But if anyone can make us see reason, Jasside can.”

He locked eyes with her, and something passed between them that he could only describe as a spark. Emotions and thoughts all jumbled and twirling. A sudden intake of breath. Right now, Mevon couldn’t even remember quite what he’d said to her, but apparently it had been the right thing.

Yandumar cleared his throat and turned to Paen. “Your family has ears everywhere. They heard anything about the Hardohl and their Elite?”

“I can confirm nothing, of course, but I
can
tell you that my father’s guards have recently seen a huge influx of highly skilled applicants. Some of them have
very
impressive resumes.”

Mevon eyed Jasside again, nodding to her with respect. And gratitude. Facing his peers once had been hard enough. He did not relish the thought of having to do it again. “That was good thinking,” he said. “Thank you.”

She cast her eyes down, obviously embarrassed by the attention everyone was giving her.

“But as good as this news seems to be,” continued Mevon, “that only alleviates one of our problems. There is another, more serious issue that no one has mentioned yet.”

“And what is that?” said Gilshamed.

“Lightfall Square.”

Everyone in the tent seemed to stop breathing as each was suddenly reminded of the emperor’s mass execution.

“What was the final death toll?” Mevon asked. “How many slaughtered in response to our actions?”

Gilshamed, to his credit, had the decency to look abashed. “Conservative reports estimate thirty thousand. Some say much more.”

“And hundreds more every day face public execution,” Yandumar added.

“That’s just in Mecrithos,” said Mevon. “Who knows how many more are questioned by the adjudicators and disposed of quietly?”

“I won’t contest the tragic nature of our situation,” said Gilshamed. “But we knew there would be casualties. Sacrifices even. What would you have us do to put a stop to it?”

Mevon glanced at Paen. “As much as I hate to admit it, the boy is right.

“We should march on Mecrithos.

“We
must
.”

Mevon looked around. His father seemed troubled, but after a glance at Paen and Orbrahn—who wore identical half smiles—appeared to accept the idea. Jasside’s visage beamed at Mevon in what he took as pride. Gilshamed’s eyes were downcast.

Slowly, Gilshamed said, “We are not ready.”

“Perhaps not,” Mevon said. “But we cannot wait any longer. If we drag this conflict out for too long, this empire will become an empty husk filled with nothing but ashes and bones. This may not be your land, valynkar—and it may not even be mine—but it is for the millions of men and women who toil under the emperor’s yoke. If there’s a chance for it to be saved—for true justice to be had for all—then we have to act now.”

“He’s right, Gil,” Yandumar said. “Scorch me, he’s right.”

Jasside nodded. “It may well be the last thing they expect. Wasn’t surprise the most important criterion for our plans?”

“We carve out the corrupt heart of the empire,” Orbrahn said, “and the rest will fall.”

Mevon, as the rest, peered upon Gilshamed. He stood, arms on his hips, brow pinched in contemplation. And for one beat, one infinite sliver of a moment, the man who called himself their leader had upon his face a look that Mevon was not expecting.

It was the look of a man who thinks he has made a terrible mistake. A man ready to turn his back on everything, everyone.

And then it was gone.

Gilshamed inhaled deeply, then finally returned everyone’s gazes. “Mecrithos it is.”

Mevon inclined his head, wondering if Gilshamed was aware of how much he had just given away. “Let’s get started on the plan.”

G
ILSHAMED
REMAINED
IN
the tent long after everyone had left. The details had been worked out, more or less, to everyone’s satisfaction.

He thought about what waited for him at the end of this journey. About
who
. He fantasized about the look on the traitor’s face as he read his letter and despaired.

Soon, Voren. Sooner than either of us expected. Your time will come, and my vengeance will be complete.

V
OREN
SWIRLED
THE
wine around in his glass, thinking how blood-like it appeared. The notion turned his stomach, and he found he could not drink another sip. Not that he much cared for mulled wine, even in cold weather, but it was all that was offered here in the emperor’s personal viewing platform. Voren only held on to the glass as a gesture of respect to his host.

Rekaj was well into his cups already, and the “competition” had not yet reached the midpoint. Voren glanced sideways at the emperor, who cheered along with the crowd. Voren noted the difference in their shouts and jeers. Whereas Rekaj’s vocalizations were full of malice and glee for each new victim, the rest seemed almost a sigh, as if they were saying,
Your pain is at an end. It is time to rest.

Voren peered down into the pit of the stadium. There, the Ropes.

A hundred-pace square filled with bubbling tar, deep enough for four men to stand on each other’s shoulders and still not peer over the surface. A dozen taut lines stretched across. Half a score dangling ropes on every line, each intermittently energized with surges of lightning by sorcerous constructs. Those competing were forced to cross, this after days without food, water, or sleep.

Two were left on the current heat. Voren watched one, about halfway through, incorrectly time a swing. A jolt ran through him and his sizzling body flew into the pit. The last man made it to within two ropes of the ending platform before his grip failed him, and he slipped away into sticky oblivion.

The Ropes were typically reserved for the worst of the empire’s criminals, with freedom the prize for any who survived not one bout, but three. Too often, none even made it through one. The names of those who surpassed the trial were practically legendary, for only one man in a thousand made that list.

Another dozen people—men, women, even a child this time—mounted the starting platforms at the urging of sword points. The only thing the victims had in common was their crime: suspected sympathy for the rebellion. This was the ninth round, with eleven more promised before the day was out. No one yet had made it to the far platform.

Voren sat quietly, trying to ignore the looks of desperation, of hopelessness, flush on every set of faces, and swirled wine around in his glass.

“What’s the matter, Voren?” Rekaj asked. “Not enjoying yourself?”

Voren tensed. They were the first words spoken to him. He had wondered ever since the invitation—the summons—had come, what the purpose of this outing would be, all the while dreading to know the answer. Now, it seemed, the wait was over.

He gave a perfunctory smile. “After a while, anything can lose its charm. It is surprising what one can become used to.”

He’d hoped to be as vague as possible with his answer but knew he had failed when the emperor scowled.

“Once again, my generosity is lost on you,” said Rekaj, his face showing an alarming amount of color. “After all this time, you still make me question if it was worth it to keep you around.”

Voren was tired. So
very
tired. The revolution was to be his ticket out of bondage. Instead, it had become just another reminder of the complete failure that was his life.

He had questioned Kael. Though he denied any knowledge, Voren could tell that the man knew the truth. Knew, and was trying to keep Voren ignorant.

Gilshamed was their leader. Voren, for his part, could think of no one worse.

He sighed, casting his gaze at Rekaj with something halfway between apathy and defiance. “Without me, it seems, you would have no one to talk to these days.”

A laugh dripping with bitterness sounded from Rekaj. “Leave us,” he ordered.

The darkwatch guards, four in all, bowed and departed to the rear. Kael patted Voren on the shoulder before following. Voren flinched at his touch.

After the Hardohl had shut the door behind him, Rekaj turned in his seat to face Voren. “Do you tire of me so quickly? Is it so exhausting being in my presence?”

Yes.
It had been a long winter, full of conversations with Rekaj. Talks that, on the surface, seemed to be about faith, of all things. Yet the unspoken threats never failed to seep through. Voren knew that arousing Rekaj’s displeasure would bring about his death.

Voren couldn’t seem to stop teetering on that ledge.

He shook his head.
When the truth condemns, a lie will do.
“It is the winter. Too long without seeing the sun. We valynkar are creatures of light and do not cope well with its absence.”

“You are a terrible liar, Voren.”

“I know.”

Rekaj laughed. Almost, there was real humor in it. “Is it Kael? You two have seemed at odds for months. I can have him replaced if you wish?”

Kael was not the problem.
Better the enemy you know . . .
He shook his head. “That will not be necessary.”

Rekaj drank deeply from his glass. “Come, then. I can’t have one of my loyal subjects moping about.”

Voren sighed. Rekaj, of course, was part of the problem. Yet not even the biggest part of it. No, that title belonged to Gilshamed. Voren felt himself going mad, stuck as he was between the two sides of the conflict. He knew Gilshamed wanted him dead. Knew the man would stop at nothing to see it done. And Rekaj?