Veiled Empire (6 page)

Voren presented a nonplussed smile. “Merely being polite, of course. I assure you, no disrespect was intended.”

“Yes, well, we all know what they say about intentions, good or otherwise.”

Voren opened his mouth to reply but closed it again when Rekaj turned away and strode deeper into his chambers. He silently thanked Elos for the reprieve. It gave him a few moments to reformulate his strategy, which, so far, had been failing miserably.

He waited with patience honed from over nineteen hundred years of practice, as the emperor moved about Voren’s receiving chamber, passing a contemptuous gaze at everything his eyes fell upon. A bare hand, scale-backed and clawed, waved at the four statues grouped in pairs between the central pillars.

“Such . . . craftsmanship,” Rekaj said. “It’s almost as if, with a touch of color, they could come to life . . . stand among us once more.”

Voren bowed his head slightly. “By your own grace were the finest stone artists in all the lands commissioned for the work.”

“ ‘Lands’ indeed. I had almost forgotten that this continent once consisted of over a dozen nations. And all of them protected by these, your people’s greatest ‘heroes.’ ”

Not the word I would use to describe them.
They may have all
began
as paragons of virtue, but how they ended . . .

Voren’s memories awakened, of their own accord, as Rekaj stepped up to peruse each statue.

Analethis, the Champion. He faced a hundred tyrants and felled each one with naught but his blade and the light of freedom in his soul. Until, that is, he ended up replacing one of them, carving out his own kingdom of blood and fire, which sent a third of the civilized world into turmoil.

Murathrius, the Mediator. He had a tongue of quicksilver, which bridged many a conflict with a lasting peace. But in response to a perceived slight, he whispered false tales of the queen’s infidelity to the king of Panisalhdron. The king slew her and her entire house, plunging the nation into a civil war that lasted a hundred years.

Heshrigan, the Arbiter. She founded the League of Justice, who traveled the world over, providing unbiased judgment in disputes great and small. And quickly wore out their welcome. Eventually they began forcing their own, perverse brand of justice on any and all, falling out of grace with even the Valynkar High Council. Heshrigan herself was accused, at the end, of more than a thousand murders, deaths she claimed as righteous executions.

Rekaj fixed his gaze on the last statue. He pressed his face so close that his breath brushed cloudy residue across the polished surface. He brought a hand up, almost as if he intended to caress the chiseled face. “Well,” said the emperor. “I don’t think either of us can ever forget such a figure as this.”

Ah, yes. Him.

Voren gulped, struggling in vain to repress this memory hardest of all.

Gilshamed, the Bold. He gathered together the nations of this land and led them in battle against the rising tide of the mierothi hordes.

But in the end, he failed. The entire mierothi population, cut down to just under a thousand by a century of war, chained their sorcery in ritual sacrifice. The resulting conflagration, which later became known as the Cataclysm, pushed the very soil half a league into the air and erected the Shroud. Through it, none could enter, and none could leave.

“There was much turmoil during their lives,” Voren said carefully. “I, for one, am thankful that such times are long past us.”

“Are they now?” Rekaj said. Then, shoulders slumping, he added in a whisper, “Will they ever be?”

Voren, though careful to let nothing show on his face, let a smile loose in his mind.

Details would come, but now, at least, he could surmise the shape of the change taking place. Some new conflict in the empire. And if it put the mierothi into such states of fretting, it must be serious indeed.

Upheaval meant opportunity for renegotiation. Great upheaval? Change he dared not speak and scarce hoped to dream flicked across Voren’s thoughts, like smooth, round stones skipping over the surface of a still pond. He had to clamp down hard on a rising bubble of longing and—dare he even think it?—ambition.

Voren sensed malevolent regard and glanced once more at the emperor. Their eyes met. Voren shivered as if struck by winter’s wind, the full weight of the malice behind Rekaj’s gaze now focused on him alone.

“Is there . . . is there anything else . . . any other way I can be of assistance to you?” said Voren.

“Oh, indeed you can.”

The emperor stepped lightly towards the door.

“A new Hardohl recruit was discovered recently. One of our phyzari out in the western territory found and birthed the infant though she was unable to save the poor mother, of course.”

Voren shivered again. “Of course.”

Rekaj pulled open the door. “The girl will be here in a week. Your escort comes the day before.”

“The blessing will be . . . prepared, as usual. In this, as always, I am your faithful servant.”

The emperor smirked but said nothing. Then, he left.

Voren sank to his knees, then toppled forward to press his hands into the slick floor. Salty tears smacked the tiles between his shaking fingers.

“Abyss take you, Rekaj.”

Now, at least, he knew why the emperor had insisted on dredging up history. Not merely to stoke the memory but to remind him of failure.

Voren’s failure.

And . . . his choice.

For soon, Voren would come face-to-face with their haunting echoes.

Chapter 3

“M
AKE
WAY
,
YA
’ flea-ridden gutter scum! Get outta the road! Can’t y’all see we got a scorchin’ Fist coming through?”

The sergeant in charge of the gate watch continued shouting as Mevon cantered towards him. Six soldiers with crossbows patrolled the gatehouse wall, and an equal number were on the ground, pushing with the shafts of their halberds at those citizens deemed too slow in evacuating the roadway. Their full-bodied chain mail jingled beneath orange-and yellow-striped tabards, which bore the oak-tree crest of the Thorull city guard. Mevon whistled once; Quake lifted his bridle-free head and drew to a halt alongside the sergeant.

“Evenin’, Hardohl.” The sergeant raised his right fist to eye level. Mevon returned the salute. “What can I do for ya’?”

Mevon spared a glance to ensure his Fist had begun filing under the archway. “You can start, sergeant, by telling me where the rest of your watch is.”

The sergeant huffed, then threw his arms out in a helpless gesture. “With, uh, respect ’n’ all that, where the bloody abyss have you been?”

“Doing my job. Now answer the question.”

“You mean you ain’t heard?”

“Obviously not.”

The sergeant exhaled, whistling in the process. “Well, no official word’s come down, mind ya’, but we heard of some scuffle out in the east. Got all the scale-backs red-cheeked ’n’ cranky, if you know what I mean. Four outta every five got shipped off to lock the situation down, and the rest of us are left here pulling double duty at half strength.”

Mevon rubbed his chin. Four out of every five—over two and a half thousand troops—was serious indeed. Had someone finally cornered those abyss-taken bandit lords? The three hundred he’d wiped out had belonged to them, surely, but represented only a fraction of the rogues, thieves, and highwaymen capable of being called upon by the self-proclaimed rulers of the Rashunem Hills. Mevon smiled, thinking of the clash that would unfold if, indeed, the bastard pair had finally stirred too great a bee’s nest with their schemes. How he wished he could be there to see them fall.

Green flash in his peripheral vision, and he turned towards the gate to see Jasside passing by, her eyes searching in his direction. She had been within earshot of Mevon’s conversation with the sergeant. She jerked her head away, but not before Mevon glimpsed her upturned lips.

“If I was you,” continued the sergeant, “I’d be gettin’ on to the fortress, quick-like.”

“I intend to.”

Two whistles urged Quake into motion. Mevon threaded his way into the cavalcade and passed under the gatehouse archway. After five beats trotting through the tunnel, he emerged into the northern quadrant of Thorull.

The smell hit him first, the stench of a hundred thousand souls, squeezed together like grapes in a winepress. A wall of noise next struck his ears like a thunderclap, displacing a half month of silence save the clip-clop of hooves and the solitude of his own thoughts.

Mevon patted Quake on his right shoulder, and the horse accelerated, passing several rows of Elite and sending one basket-laden citizen scampering to vacate his path. He soon came abreast of Jasside. Arozir and Tolvar rode at her flanks, and they inclined their heads to Mevon, a gesture he returned.

He addressed his captains. “You saw the gate?”

“Aye,” said Arozir. “Idrus already raced ahead to find out what’s happening.”

“Good.” He had expected no less. “Until we know more, keep the men on a short leash.”

Tolvar sighed dramatically. “If we must.” He raised his voice so that those around could hear. “So . . . maximum of, say, ten pints?”

“Right,” Arozir said. “And four whores.”

“And two tavern brawls . . . but only if they win!”

A dozen of the closest Elite chuckled and let loose a mock victory cry. Mevon could not bring himself to join in the merriment. Jasside, her face wholly unreadable, had fixed her gaze on him. He stared back.

“Give us some room,” Mevon said. “I’d like a last chat with our prisoner before she’s taken out of our hands.”

“Aye.” Tolvar turned his head around as both he and Arozir pulled back on their reins. “You heard the man, slow your asses down!”

“They’re horses, not asses!” someone called.

“Horses, too, then!”

“And I’ll throw saddles on your back and let your mounts take a ride if you don’t hurry up!” added Arozir.

“Don’t you mean
slow
up?” yelled a different voice.

“Who said that? Why don’t you . . .”

Their banter continued, but Mevon left them to it, their voices fading into background noise. He and Jasside now had space enough to talk in peace.

She smirked at him. “Back for more?” she asked.

“So it seems.”

Their last conversation had ended with Mevon’s wandering away, lost in thought. He had not spoken to her again in the days since.

“Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think that you planned on washing your hands of me.”

“I . . .” Mevon had thought to do just that. He shook his head. “We shall see.”

She let out a
hmph
and turned away, a perfect image of apathy. It was a sham, though, and they both knew it.

“What game are you playing at, sorceress?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Some conflict is unfolding to the east of here. Why should that please you?”

She shrugged. “I’m on the way to my own execution, aren’t I? The empire’s woes are among the few things that can still bring me pleasure.”

“So that’s it then? Are you just like every other criminal I’ve known, throwing empty defiance in the face of the justice when it finally catches up to you?”

“Don’t talk to me of justice!” The words left her mouth like fire, and her eyes blazed, belying the charade. She took a deep breath before continuing. “You claim to serve its cause, but you don’t. You, Mevon Daere, know
nothing about it
!”

Mevon had to stop himself from growling at her. “I’ll not have such words spoken to me. I know nothing, do I? My earliest memories involve lessons in the ways of justice. My devotion to it is unequaled among my peers. Ruul’s light, I named my scorching weapon after it!”

She lowered her voice to a pitch Mevon almost considered dangerous. “Please. You kill because you enjoy it and enforce a cruel mockery of the term based on the whims and fears of your masters. You know not devotion, only blind obedience.”

Mevon, his composure shattered, felt his jaw hanging wide.
Nobody
talked to him like this. And with such words as to drive even a gentle soul to violence, he truly, for one brief moment, lost control.

Scores of heads turned to him, eyes wide, as he began laughing.

It was not a gentle thing, nor was it devoid of hysteria. Perhaps two dozen beats it persisted, until finally he was able to bring himself, in increments, back under control. Jasside’s visage held to a mask of horror for its duration. Only as he wiped away moisture from the corner of his eyes did she also make an effort to compose herself. It didn’t matter. The deed was done, and Mevon now knew everything he needed to know about her.

He looked into her eyes, holding them trapped. He searched her soul, and felt . . . nothing. “A few days ago, such words might have incited me to a regrettable reaction. Now? Just be glad I no longer feel the constant urge to snap your neck.”

She made a sound very close to choking, then nodded—a gesture too meek to be part of her act.

They rode together, a cloud of silence hanging between them. Their procession turned once to skirt the edge of the northern quadrant’s market square. Two more turns would bring them to their destination. Two more turns until he was free of her forever.

Midway through the row, Jasside surprised him by speaking once more. In a whisper, she said, “Mevon, why do you fight?”

He lifted an eyebrow as he studied her. She faced forward, eyes downcast, chin pressing towards her chest. What angle was she trying now? “You know why: justice.”

“Yes, but
why
?”

“I . . .” Mevon shook his head. “It’s what I’ve always done, what I was born to do.”

“To what end? What purpose does your justice serve?”

“Isn’t that self-evident? Justice is its own end.” He swept his arm in an arc. “Look around you. Would civilization be possible without men like me standing between it and chaos?”

“No. But, is it the order that you protect or the people within it?”

“What difference is there?”

She sighed. “Oh, Mevon, all the difference in the world.”

Mevon shrugged.

“You asked me to look around,” Jasside said. “Well, now I ask—no, I
challenge
you to do the same. There.” She pointed. “Look, and tell me what you see.”

Mevon tilted his head in the direction indicated. “What? It’s just a few musicians playing to the crowd.”

She forced a smile. “Is that all?”

“Want me to write you an essay? What more is there to tell?”

“I’ll tell you what I see. I see three men playing fiddle, skin-drum, and wood-flute. The song is lively. The fiddler is singing the melody. It’s about a shy, pretty farm girl, unable to choose between lovers and causing all sort of trouble for it. The crowd is full of people just off from their day’s labors, eager to ease their tired backs with an ale in hand and a song in the air. I see the tears in their eyes, unshed yet brimming, for the song tells of innocence, of peace, and allows them, for a few brief moments, to forget that they live in a land that has all but forgotten these things.

“
That
is the difference. You don’t see it because you’re not one of us. I don’t blame you, though. I guess it’s not your fault. Not really. They’ve had their claws in you since birth.”

Her words sank into him, each a lance of ice to his soul. He rubbed his chin.
Is she right? Am I truly so set apart from the very people I risk my life to protect?

More importantly:
Does it matter?

The thought gnawed at him as the two of them followed the front half of the Fist into the first turn. Too soon, they made the second.

The fortress at the heart of Thorull loomed before them. Its blackened stone walls soared nearly twice as high as the city’s outer perimeter. The tips of crossbow bolts peeked out of half a hundred murder holes, and halberdiers by the scores stood at attention along the gated entrance.

Idrus waited just inside. As the Fist moved off to the stables and began dismounting, Mevon grabbed Jasside’s reins and whistled once, which brought them both to a halt two paces from his ranger captain. “Report.”

“It’s bad,” Idrus said.

“I gathered that. The watch sergeant told me they stripped four out of every five soldiers stationed in the city. Any more word? Have the country garrisons been affected as well?”

“It’s worse than that. The general is in there with the prefect, and it sounds like they may be mobilizing the entire Host.”

“The prefect? You mean this isn’t just a military matter?”

“Afraid not.”

Mevon turned as his other two captains rode up alongside them. “You heard?”

“Enough of it,” said Tolvar. “Scorch me, looks like it’ll be a short leash indeed.”

“Very,” Mevon said.

“I feel for the elegant ladies of the Feathered Dollhouse.” Arozir sighed. “They may have to wait a bit longer for our most dubious presence, I’m afraid.”

“Right.” Mevon turned to Idrus again. “Anything else I should know before I head in?”

“Well . . . there is one thing, but it might be nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s about the other Hardohl. They seem to be . . . missing.”

“What? Both of them?”

Idrus raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “That’s all I know. It might be I heard wrong.”

“Not likely.” Mevon dismounted. He reached to lift Jasside out of her saddle, a mere featherweight bound at the hands and ankles by coarse ropes. She had an oddly thoughtful look on her face as he reached with a knife to undo her lower bindings.

“You’re taking her with you?” Idrus asked.

“I might as well. The sooner she’s out of our hands, the better.”

All three captains gave each other pointed looks, as if they were concerned parents deciding whether to let their child out for the evening. Mevon did his best to ignore their “affections,” since such instincts served so well on the battlefield. After a few moments of that eerie silent communication they seemed to cherish, they nodded to each other.

“Very well,” Arozir said.

“Be careful in there,” added Tolvar.

Idrus guided a hand to Quake’s neck and guided the horse away. Tolvar and Arozir followed, leading their own mounts. Mevon grabbed Jasside by the upper arm and marched her up the onyx steps to the prefect’s receiving chamber.

He came to the thick door and cast a glance at the two daeloth guards. Three purple lines, like ragged claw marks, adorned their black tabards, marking them as members of the prefect’s own darkwatch. One quickly turned to grasp the handle, saying, “You’re expected.”

Mevon marched in without hesitation.

“ . . . simply don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

The words came from a familiar figure: General Masri Genrasco, the daeloth commander of all forty thousand troops stationed in the prefecture. She was dressed in the typical armor of her kind: thick steel, jagged, meant to appear imposing in stark shades of black and red. Blond hair curled toward her jawline, looking odd, as ever, against the mahogany skin all daeloth possessed. On the back of her neck and hands, scales glittered in azure globelight.

Prefect Hezraas stared her down. A feat, considering how short he was, even for a mierothi. Whatever retort he had planned died on his lips as he swung his gaze towards Mevon. “About time you got here.”

“Honored one.” Mevon bowed his head, then forced Jasside to her knees and stepped in front of her—a formality indicating that she was unimportant and could wait until more pressing matters were discussed. “I hear there’s some trouble?”

The prefect barely glanced at Jasside. “Your penchant for understatement is ever amusing, Daere.”