Veiled Empire (31 page)

Oh? And what is the criterion for my continued existence?

“To start, you can tell me your name.”

She cleared her throat.

~snap~

And time resolved itself. No longer a bouncing ball but once more a straight line.

“Jasside,” she said. “Jasside Anglasco.”

“Anglasco?’ asked the robed figure, the voice that of a girl just shy of her teen years. “Anglasco?”

Jasside furrowed her brow. The girl had said it wrong the second time, emphasizing the first syllable rather than the second, pronouncing the “s” like a “z”, and saying the last two letters as if they were a separate word. “I . . . yes. That is my name. Why?”

“Your father was a daeloth.” Not a question.

“Yes.”

“He killed your mother by the order of one of my kin.”

“Yes. How do you . . . ?”

“What did you do next?”

Jasside gritted her teeth. “I talked my way into his chambers one night, posing as a bit of entertainment. Young and innocent, just like he preferred. When he was . . . sufficiently distracted . . . I stabbed him in the neck with a poisoned hairpin.”

“He never recognized you?”

Jasside shook her head. “He never . . . never
saw
me. I was a stranger in his eyes.”

The girl stood. “Good. It is important that you remain completely honest with me. I cannot have my new apprentice keeping secrets.”

“New . . . apprentice?”

“It’s been ages. So few these days ever prove themselves worthy. And I do not have it in me to help those who are not capable of helping themselves.” She flipped back the hood of her robe, revealing a young, pasty face framed by scales.

Jasside sat up. “If you want me to be your apprentice, I have some conditions.”

“Really, now? I
could
just kill you.”

“You could. But you could have done that awhile ago, too. My demands are not harsh, but I would rather die than fail to secure them.”

The young mierothi girl smiled. “Very well. Let us hear what the child has to say.”

Jasside stood. “First, my friends. You will not harm them or ask me to do anything against them. Second, you will take me back to them and let me finish what we have begun.”

“Done and done. Is there anything else?”

“One last thing. Tell me what your name is?”

Jasside felt a pulse of dark energy shoot out from the young mierothi who was not young at all. The walls vanished into mists, and she became blinded by the sudden influx of sunlight. She blinked away the glare and found herself amidst a strand of trees in the middle of a vast, grassy plain. The two Hardohl moved away and began loading up a pair of oversized rucksacks.

“Vashodia,” her new mistress said. “As if you didn’t already know.”

G
ILSHAMED
STE
PPED
THROUGH
the doors of the Silk Path, inhaling deeply of a rich, floral scent. White-marble floors met walls adorned with priceless works of art. Women entertained their male guests—albeit tamely—on furniture fit for kings, sipping Taditali private reserve from caster-spun diamond glasses. The opulence was almost blinding, particularly after years spent traveling the wilderness.

Looks like I have found the right place.

He stepped towards the concierge, expecting to find at least a handful of guards at a place like this. Instead, only a single old woman stood between him and the rest of the establishment. Gilshamed gave her a smile.

The old woman looked him over stoically, seemingly unperturbed by both his imposing figure and disheveled appearance. “Any weapons?” she asked.

Gilshamed had left his pack, which held several daggers and a hatchet, outside the city. He had been able to fly over the walls easily—almost too easily—hiding his incursion with a spell of light bending, but would not have been able to do so weighed down.

He unclasped his sword belt and handed it over. As the old woman’s fingers brushed against him, he understood why no other guards were necessary.

“No casting,” said the Hardohl, who obviously felt what he was when they had touched. “There are wards in every room. Won’t harm you, just knock you out before you can blink.”

“Thank you for the warning.” Gilshamed struggled to refrain from laughing. He could see the wards affixed to the ceiling of the lobby. They were attuned for casters of dark energy only. Against him, they would be useless.

Gilshamed stepped past, presenting a purse to the concierge. Gold glittered as it fell open on the woman’s podium. “A room, please. One with an unobstructed view to the south.”

Unlike the rest of the women he could see, nearly every bit of her skin was covered, all the way up to her neck and down to her toes. “Very good, ser. You’ll be wanting a bath, I presume?”

“Yes. And there should be enough there to get me new clothes.” He quickly explained his requirements, which she must have memorized, for she wrote nothing down.

“Would you like to peruse our fine display of nubile—”

“No. Any will do.”

The concierge clapped her hands, and a sultry-faced, curvy woman, wearing nothing but a few scraps of silk, came to take his arm. She led him to a lift, a sorcerous construct that raised them to the seventh level of the building. They passed several soundproofed rooms before stepping through an open door.

Here, red reigned supreme, suffusing every surface in a gaudy and unsubtle motif. Gilshamed ignored it all, heading for the balcony.

He was stopped by a tug on his arm. “This way, ser.”

Sighing, Gilshamed let her shuffle him into the bathing chamber. A silver tub, already filled with steaming water, awaited them. The view could definitely wait—he had been looking forward to this for days. He quickly stripped out of his dusty traveling clothes and sank into the tub, gasping in near ecstasy as the hot liquid encased his skin.

The woman began scrubbing him immediately with a soapy sponge. He let her, failing to respond even in the slightest when her hands lingered in suggestive locations.

“You should relax,” she said, squeezing his shoulders. “It will be better for both of us.” One of her hands slid down to his chest, his stomach . . .

He grabbed her wrist. “No.”

She stood back, and he let her go. “Very well, sir. Tell me what you
would
like, then.”

To sit here . . . forever . . . and let my troubles dissolve into mist.
“A bathrobe,” he said. “And some quiet, if you do not mind.”

He stood, letting the water slough off his body into a tub now browned by weeks of his filth. She held out a robe, and he shrugged into it, securing it about his body with a silken belt, and stepped out to the balcony.

Merely half a klick distant, separated by only a single wall and several low buildings, sat the Imperial palace.

So, this is where you have spent the last nineteen hundred years, old friend. I am afraid it does not look like much.

Gilshamed could tell, from the outside, that very little thought had gone into making the structure aesthetically pleasing. “Imposing,” rather, was the word that came to mind. Built to menace and intimidate, not welcome or dazzle. The empire had no need to play host to foreign dignitaries, no need to impress. The only message sent to those that came here was this:
Look upon your rulers and quiver in fear
.

He peeled his eyes away, turning his head halfway around. “This is the finest establishment in the city?”

“Our rivals would argue that assertion, sir,” she said with a smile. “But they would be wrong.”

“Then may I assume your members are often called upon to serve in the palace?”

“Only the best for the masters of our land.”

“You personally?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He turned to her fully, giving her his warmest smile. Inside, though, he felt nothing. “I mean to visit an old friend who lives there. However, I have no idea where his chambers are. I was wondering if you could help me?”

A surge of alarm streaked through her features. “Perhaps, if you could describe your . . . friend . . . I might be able to help.”

“He is nearly as tall as me, with midnight-blue eyes and hair to match. Last time I saw him—”

“He has a statue of you in his room, you know.”

A stab of shock raced through him. “What?”

“Yes. And three others. The names carved into their bases were Analethis, Murathrius, and Heshrigan.”

Gilshamed shuttered his eyes, feeling a blow of almost physical pain as she said each name. The three greatest failures in the history of his people . . . and himself. The association made his stomach twist.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I do not suppose you could tell me where it was you saw this?”

She tilted her head. “Is he really an old friend of yours?” Her lips were pressed together, drained of blood. So slightly that a lesser man would have missed it, he saw her entire body shaking.

“No,” said Gilshamed. “Quite the opposite.”

She nodded, gesturing towards the palace. “South side, above the gardens. There is a giant glass bubble sticking out from his chamber. You can’t miss it.”

One knot of tension unclenched but another took its place immediately. He knew everything he needed to in order to carry out his plan. Now, all he had to do was . . . execute.

Justice. Revenge. He could no longer differentiate between the two. He no longer cared. His love had been taken from him. First by zeal, then by recklessness, then, finally, by betrayal. It mattered not how, though . . . only whom. Voren had to be punished for his crimes, and circumstances had dictated that it be Gilshamed himself who carried out the sentence.

And who would blame me for taking what pleasure I can from that?

“Will you be needing anything else from me, ser?”

Gilshamed blinked. He had nearly forgotten the woman was still there. “You may sleep on the bed, I will not need it. You have been a great help to me. I think you deserve a night off.”

An appreciative smile decorated her lips. “Thank you, ser. You are too kind.”

“Kind?” Gilshamed rubbed his chin. “No. I am not kind.

“I never have been.”

Y
ANDUMAR
SOOTHED
Q
UAKE
into a trot as the outlying buildings of the village came into view. He saw movement ahead through the trees—probably a runner gone to report the approach of strangers.
Good. Maybe this won’t take all day.

He pointed his chin over his shoulder, eying the four men—his “honor guard”—riding behind him. Idrus had insisted on them. He and Arozir had wanted to come, which was understandable given his purpose here, but he’d convinced them that the army needed them more.

Yandumar faced forward. “Let me do all the talking.”

Maybe they nodded, but none responded in any way that he could tell.

“Good,” he said. “Just like that.”

They continued for a few marks, passing longhouses that appeared devoid of life. Yandumar knew better, though, and could feel the hidden eyes on his back as they rode. It didn’t take much longer until their mounts were stamping hooves onto the village square.

It was empty. Still. Quiet. A breeze blowing a few crinkling leaves was the greatest sign of life he could see.

They rushed out from everywhere at once. Yandumar didn’t even hear the signal. A solid ring of flesh, armed to the teeth, sprang up around them in beats. Men and a nearly equal number of women, the latter by far the more ferocious, stared grimly up at him. For every pitchfork, woodsman’s axe, and makeshift cudgel there were as many spears, pikes, swords, and shields. Youths on the rooftops had arrows nocked to bows, pulls steady.

And in the center stood a big man who was obviously in charge, hunkered beneath the low thatch roof of a stable. Yandumar leveled his gaze at him. “I take it you got problems with bandits in these parts?”

The big man rubbed his beard, burnt-orange flecked with grey. Sunlight glinted off his smooth pate. “Not bandits so much these days. Soldiers. Little squads breaking off from all the armies, thinking their uniforms grant them immunity. Thinking a backwoods village is the kind of place they can have any kind of fun they want. Thinking they can get away with it.”

“Thinking wrong,” Yandumar said.

“Dead wrong,” the man said.

Yandumar raised an eyebrow.

The man mirrored him.

“Ha!” said Yandumar. “Ain’t no other way to deal with ’em, is there Abe?”

Abendrol Torn stepped out from beneath the shadow of the stable roof. He had to duck under its lip to allow the handle of his greatsword, which was strapped to his back, enough room to clear through. “No, Yan, there is not.”

Yandumar looked around. No one had yet moved to stand down. If anything, they looked even more ready to pounce. “So, what’s it gonna be then? We getting the same treatment?”

“That depends,” Torn said. “Why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Or have our people taken to burying their heads in the sand?”

“We are well aware of the goings-on in the empire. But we’ve heard . . . disturbing rumors . . . about your loyalties.”

Yandumar sighed.
Maybe I should have brought you, Arozir. Maybe you’d be able to talk some sense into your uncle.
“We’ve all taken vows. Perhaps I have taken more than one, but that doesn’t mean they conflict with each other. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten my people, or value my oaths to them any less.”

“So . . . what? You think you can come back here after all this time and simply decide our fates for us?”

“Of course not. Our people’s vow was not meant to force anyone to do anything. I came only to sound the call. Let all men and women decide for themselves if they wish to answer.”

“And you honestly thought this . . . this revolution . . . was enough cause to invoke it? Last I heard, you were on the brink of disaster.”

Yandumar gritted his teeth.
Lying will do no good . . .
“Yes. We were. Are. We went up against the mierothi. Not everything went quite the way we planned.”

“And you expect us to risk everything on an already failing cause?”