The Ember Blade

by Chris Wooding

‘Mine’s Princess Sorrel!’ Lisi insisted.

  ‘No, mine’s Princess Sorrel!’ Juna said crossly.

  ‘They can both be Princess Sorrel,’ said Klyssen, though neither looked anything like her if her portraits were true. This, according to the unique logic of children, was an acceptable solution. ‘What do you say when you receive a gift?’

  ‘Thank you, Daddy!’ they yelled in discordant chorus.

  The sight of his wife at the end of the corridor brought him to his feet. She’d been watching him with their daughters. Now their eyes met, and she smiled. Klyssen felt himself go momentarily weak, his will lost in the glare of admiration.

  Vanya was a tall woman, taller than him, with grey-blue eyes, a lion’s mane of blonde curls and a face so beautiful and unflawed that it seemed she’d been cut from some other material than fallible flesh, forged without corruption by the Primus himself. He didn’t have an artistic bone in his body, but she made him believe in poetry.

  ‘Marius,’ she said. ‘Husband.’

  He went to her, and they kissed, a brief press of the lips, too quick to account for the months they’d been apart. She left him elated and frustrated, but that was how her kisses were. He always wanted more.

  ‘I have a gift for you, too,’ he said. He reached into his bag again, adjusting his spectacles with one hand as he rummaged inside with the other. Finally he drew out a small leather-bound box and offered it to her. Her eyes betrayed a flicker of hungry interest as she saw the filigreed emblem there: Axus and Thrane, her favourite jewellers.

  ‘Marius, how thoughtful,’ she said, with the slightly wary tone of someone who wasn’t entirely sure she’d like what she found inside. She opened the box with elegant and perfectly manicured fingers. Klyssen watched her face in the grip of an excitement that was more than half fear. When he saw her light up with genuine, unfeigned pleasure, he felt a little cascade of joy tumble through him.

  ‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’ She sighed as she lifted the necklace from the box.

  He could hardly stop himself from grinning. ‘The diamonds are from—’

  ‘Helica, yes, I see that,’ she murmured appreciatively. He marvelled at her near-supernatural ability to identify the provenance of gemstones at a glance. He’d have picked the sapphires, which glittered more brightly, complemented her eyes and were signific­antly cheaper. This necklace looked rather simple and plain by comparison, barely distinguishable from others one-tenth its price. But he’d learned not to trust his own judgement in matters of fashion, so he’d wisely asked the jeweller’s wife for advice.

  ‘Breathtaking, my love,’ he said, after he’d put it round her neck.

  She kissed him. This time he felt passion in it, and flushed.

  ‘Ewwww!’ cried Lisi. They broke apart to find the girls giggling at them, their dolls forgotten in their hands.

  ‘What are you giggling about?’ Klyssen demanded playfully. He lunged at them with his hands made into claws. ‘Come here, you scamps!’

  The girls squealed in delighted fright, and their father chased them from the room, snarling like a monster as he went.

  They dined together after he saw the children to bed with kisses and a story. Marla, the housekeeper, served them platters of good Krodan fare: pork brisket in sour apple sauce, butterflied potatoes, steamed cabbage and roasted turnip, washed down with rich, heavy red wine from the homeland. Candlelight glittered on cut-crystal glasses, sparkled from silver knives and Vanya’s new necklace.

  A portrait of the Emperor and his only son overlooked the table. Kelssing IV, bald, bejacketed and sporting a bushy beard, had his hand on Prince Ottico’s shoulder. Ottico was fourteen or thereabouts, his short, curly hair black as his father’s beard, pale eyes gazing out with all the arrogance and hauteur of a young man born to rule. Above the portrait, rendered in iron, was the symbol of the Sanctorum: a blade laid point downwards across an open book.

  The Emperor and the Sanctorum, the twin pillars of modern Krodan society. Klyssen had put them there as a reminder of what he was fighting for, what they were all fighting for. The Ossians dreamed of the past, but Krodans rejected it, for these were their days of glory.

  Kroda was an ailing country once, beset by barbarians and menaced by its neighbours. Its ancestral territories in Ozak and Brunland had been lost to independence movements they were too weak to oppose. Then came Tomas and Toven, one a charismatic and radical preacher, the other a young war hero. They brought word of the Primus, and the people listened, for the Aspects of old hadn’t served them well. At last they were brought before the Emperor, Steppen III. He was convinced by them, and declared them heralds of the true god. He outlawed all other religions and gave his support to the nascent Sanctorum, the followers of Tomas and Toven, so they might spread their credo of discipline and martial order throughout the land.

  Kroda had never looked back. In the two centuries since, they’d reclaimed their lost lands, annexed Estria and invaded Ossia. Even mighty Harrow would rather make alliance with them than oppose them, and Klyssen was confident that they’d one day become part of the Empire in their turn. If they were not conquered by force of arms, they’d collapse from within. Ossified by tradition and heritage, they were a culture incapable of change. They’d crumble like the ruins of the Second Empire, or be crushed in the fullness of time beneath the wheel of Krodan progress.

  Kroda was the chosen land, meant to rule its weaker neighbours by divine mandate. Anyone who didn’t believe that was a fool.

  ‘How goes your search for the fugitive?’ Vanya asked. She kept to small portions, mindful of her figure.

  ‘He is shy prey, but I will catch him in the end,’ said Klyssen. ‘He has eluded me twice, but only by good fortune, and luck is a poor ally, apt to desert you when you need it most. I am ahead of him again. He will not escape a third time.’

  ‘It is suspicious that such a dangerous criminal should be headed to Morgenholme so close to the prince’s wedding,’ she observed.

  ‘I thought the same thing. No doubt he has some mischief in mind, though I have little confidence in his ability to execute it. The men we caught at Salt Fork revealed the truth about these “rebels”. They’re a ragtag band, no more than opportunistic bandits. Ossians are incapable of cooperating for long enough to organise themselves.’ He pushed his spectacles back up his nose. ‘Still, one zealous renegade can do a lot of damage if given the chance. I will have him before the wedding bells ring, do not fear.’

  ‘Unless Harte sabotages your endeavour,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘He has been quiet since Wracken Bay, when I put him in his place.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, with a firm nod of approval. She liked it when he was assertive and commanding.

  He chewed thoughtfully on his brisket. ‘In truth, I’m no longer sure he is trying to sabotage me. At first I was certain he was sent by Commander Gossen, but of late I’ve begun to believe the truth is simpler. I think he’s no more than an odious man who enjoys dispensing brutality in the guise of justice.’

  There was a clatter as Vanya put down her knife and fork. ‘Do not be fooled!’ she told him sternly. ‘The Commander is jealous of you; they all are. If it were up to them, all positions of authority would be filled with men like Harte. Oh, they may project an image of Krodan superiority to impress the world, but they possess none of the intelligence which made us superior in the first place! They are arrogant, dull, entitled men who will weaken the Empire with their feeblemindedness. It frightens them to see a man of ability, who has climbed the ranks by virtue of hard work and a keen mind. They will do all they can to stop you. Be vigilant, Marius; be ruthless. The Commander’s post is yours by right.’

  ‘Take care, Vanya. Guard your words. I am an overwatchman of the Iron Hand, after all,’ he said; but he smiled to show he was joking. Her words pleased him, even though he knew she was only echoing his own complaints, which she’d heard many times before. It didn’t matter. He had her support, and it made him feel strong.<
br />
  ‘An overwatchman now, but a Commander soon. And then …’

  ‘Then, back to Kroda,’ he said, because all conversations with his wife led that way eventually. ‘Back to Falconsreach as soon as we can, my love. I have no more affection for this land than you do.’

  She sighed and took up her cutlery again. ‘I do so long for home,’ she said, cutting a tiny slice of turnip. ‘The balls, the theatre, the fashions, the food. This place is a decade behind in every way. A cultural wasteland. And the society! The same faces, over and over! If I have to attend one more gathering at the Daner’s …’

  ‘There are opportunities here,’ he reminded her. ‘I am working towards our return with all haste, but—’

  ‘I can’t even invite my friends over any more! Marius, you don’t know how lonely I am when you’re away.’

  ‘You can’t? Why not?’ he asked, and immediately regretted it.

  ‘Because our parlour is so detestably shabby! Nobody has pale blue walls any more! The seats are all but worn through—’

  ‘I don’t think they’re quite that bad—’

  ‘They are, Marius. And the settees and curtains are so out of date. I tell you, our guests would laugh at us! The whole room needs updating before I would dare let anyone see it.’

  ‘When I’m Commander—’

  ‘That could be months away! What am I to do while you are off seeking the enemies of the Empire? I cannot go to balls without my husband. Am I to be a prisoner here?’

  He wanted to say that there were plenty of diversions she could occupy herself with, plenty of people to visit, plenty of places to go. He wanted to say that she scarcely seemed to be at home even when he was there; she was always off to this or that social occasion, sporting a new hat, new shoes or a new dress. But he said nothing. He knew the futility of such arguments.

  He was only likely to be home for a week at most, and he wanted it to be a pleasant week. Granting her this would see her compliant, attentive and energetic in bed. Refusing it would damn him to cold wrath until his departure. He could hardly afford it, but it didn’t seem like he had much choice.

  ‘Kerin will have to design it!’ she warned, pressing the advantage as she saw him falter. ‘I’ll trust no other! No one has his taste.’

  ‘Kerin? Again?’ Klyssen protested feebly.

  ‘He’s the best,’ she said.

  And the most expensive. The Nemesis take that popinjay! It feels like half my wealth has gone into his pockets over the years.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, mentally counting the damage. ‘Kerin it shall be.’ He was beginning to sulk, but she broke into a smile and came round the table to kiss him.

  ‘Thank you, Marius. You’re so generous, so kind to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You make me so happy.’

  ‘To see you happy is my heart’s desire,’ he told her, and meant it. She kissed him again, and after that the money didn’t seem to matter so much.

  After dinner, Klyssen went to his study on the top floor of the townhouse. From there, shutters opened onto a cramped balcony with wrought-iron railings. There was a single chair at one end and a brass telescope on a tripod at the other.

  He sat with a sigh, a Caraguan cigar smoking between his fingers. He look a long draw, savouring the hot, herbal smoke, and blew out a luxuriant cloud from his nostrils. He’d pay for it with a bellyache in the morning – cigars irritated his delicate stomach – but he felt reckless tonight.

  The city spread out beneath him. His home was in South Heights, and from his vantage he could see all the way down the hill to the river, where Sovereign’s Isle was a lacework of lights in the void. There were no moons in the sky, but the tangled city illuminated the night with a soft yellow glow. To the east, the Catsclaw Mountains were dark waves in the distance.

  Morgenholme had none of the ordered beauty of Falconsreach, the Imperial City, with its magnificent boulevards stretching long and straight beneath triumphal arches. Yet if a man looked hard enough, he might find order in the most bewildering chaos. Their cultures were worlds apart, but Ossians and Krodans had the same needs, the same capacity for love and hate, jealousy, kindness and greed. Once you understood a person’s needs and fears, you could bend them to your will. These people would learn discipline in the end, and so lift themselves out of the mire of decadence and criminality. With the Emperor’s guiding hand, they’d be great again, part of the most powerful Empire the world had ever known.

  Baron Pickles ambled onto the balcony. Spotting a likely-looking­ lap, he hopped up and settled himself there. Klyssen absently scratched the cat’s ears, took another draw on his cigar and looked at the stars overhead. There was the Hangman, there the Crayfish, there the Path of Jewels, the bright smear in the night that the Ossians called Joha’s River. The locals claimed that every star was a glittering shard of an unknowable creator god who shattered into a million pieces to give light and life to the empty void, with nine facets of his being set to watch over creation: the Nine Aspects. Klyssen knew better. His father had shown him the hand of the Primus in the sky, the clockwork dance of the universe, impossibly complex but perfectly ordered. Night after night they went out into his parents’ tiny garden to look up at the stars through the very same telescope he shared the balcony with. Klyssen was a man without imagination, but he found wonder in those cold, distant lights.

  Would that you could see me now, Father. Would that you had lived to know what beautiful granddaughters you have, what a wife your son has caught. Ugly little Marius, whom the girls laughed at and the boys bullied. Nobody is laughing now.

  In truth, he’d had little interest in women before Vanya found him, having long considered them unobtainable. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the ladies began to pay him more attention as his rank increased, but by then he’d learned to do without them and paid them little mind. It was only when he was passed over for a promotion he surely deserved that they became suddenly important.

  ‘The Empire likes a married man,’ a colleague told him. ‘You look a little strange, and you ignore women. It’s suspicious, that’s all.’

  Klyssen didn’t want to be suspicious. Suspicion was a dangerous thing in the Krodan Empire. So he badgered his colleague until he agreed to invite him to a ball, and let it be known – subtly, of course – that he was available.

  His memories of the early hours of the dance were excruciatingly awkward. He wasn’t adept at small talk and he didn’t know how to dance. As he stood against the wall, drinking too much to cover his nerves, he was approached by a woman more captivating than any he’d ever seen. She talked to him as if he were a normal person, an equal, not some piteous wretch far beneath her notice. He made a hesitant joke and she laughed. They talked all night, and he left the ball feeling dizzy. Six months later, they were married.

  Before Vanya, nothing meant anything. He treasured nobody and had no lust for luxury. He only cared for his position and the satisfaction of serving the Empire. Afterwards, it was different. Vanya became his obsession, and in time she bore him two daughters whom he’d lay down his life for.

  The things we value make us weak, he thought.

  Keel’s wife needed little persuasion to betray him. Her love for her son far outweighed her frayed and lamentable devotion to her wayward husband, and she was desperate to spare him any suffering. Klyssen assured her they wouldn’t be punished if she was open and honest.

  In her terror, she was eager to help. Though Keel had kept much from her, she told what she knew of his companions and their movements. She gave him the name of an inn, the Burned Bear, where Keel had begged her to send him a letter.

  ‘Send the letter,’ Klyssen told her.

  ‘What should I put in it?’ she asked.

  ‘The truth,’ he said.

  She couldn’t read or write, so she dictated her letter to a scribe. Even now it waited at the Burned Bear for Keel, and a dozen Iron Guardsmen waited with it. The jaws of the trap were set. All that was left for
Keel to walk in.

  ‘Husband?’

  Vanya was at the door, a silk nightgown clinging to her curves. ‘Will you come to bed?’ she asked softly.

  Baron Pickles jumped off as Klyssen levered himself up and went into his study, grinding out his cigar in an ashtray on the desk as he passed.

  ‘You’ll bathe and clean your teeth first, though,’ she told him. ‘I can smell the smoke all over you.’

  The things we value make us weak, he thought. But a man who values nothing is hardly alive at all.

  67

  The next morning, Mara had a class to teach and Garric had some unspecified business in the city. He’d go to the ghetto after nightfall, he told the others. They were to stay inside and lie low.

  No sooner had he left than Aren and Cade began lacing up their boots.

  ‘Didn’t Garric tell us to stay here?’ asked Fen.

  ‘Pffft,’ said Aren. ‘He’s no liege of mine.’

  ‘We’re in Morgenholme!’ Cade said, alive with excitement. ‘Ain’t no chance I’m missing this! You coming?’

  ‘Grub is!’ cried the Skarl, bounding in from the other room with flecks of his breakfast still stuck to his face.

  Fen wavered, inexplicably nervous. Cade couldn’t understand why someone so brave and capable would hesitate at adventure, but then he didn’t understand a lot about women. They operated by some mysterious logic that was incomprehensible to him, their moods swept here and there by secret currents of meaning and implication he wasn’t capable of detecting. It was annoying in those he didn’t like, alluring in those he did.

  ‘I’ll come,’ she said at last. Cade favoured her with his widest grin, which for some reason always made her look perturbed.

  In the end, Harod came with them, too. Since the Krodans had cleared the ghetto, it was too dangerous for Orica to be outside, but they’d left almost everything behind when they fled Wracken Bay and there were several things she needed, not least new strings for her lute. Against his will, Harod was forced to leave her side to seek them.