Hollow Empire

by Sam Hawke

  “You people?” It was my turn to be prickly. “Aren’t we past that, Hadrea?”

  She shifted, scowling further still. “You want to be past that because it is convenient for you to be. We are years into the new Compact and you are tired of the effort? You want to be able to say, well, I stood up against your enemies once, is that not enough?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” I said, flustered. The conversation was spiraling out of my control, and I wrestled to get it back. “I’m on your side here.”

  Hadrea didn’t answer. I realized my left hand was crushing the fingers of my right and couldn’t make the grip relax. My knuckles felt like they were going to break. Our relationship had arisen out of a time of great tension and stress and I had never really expected we would be a long-term romantic pairing like Marjeta and Budua, or Eliska and Dara; such things were unusual beasts in Silasta. Still, I thought our friendship would endure even if her attraction to me faded over time. Instead, the physical side of our relationship had continued—more intensely than ever in the last few months—but she kept things from me, and I realized, staring at her tense profile, that I was no longer sure she trusted me.

  “Hadrea,” I said, beseeching. Honor-down, though, I wanted to make it right.

  Kalina, wordless, leaned over and took both my hands in hers. I caught my breath and relaxed, slowly, under her even pressure. But we had gone so far, and I had one more highly uncomfortable thing to bring up. “All right, you’re right, it must have just been a sham. But there’s one more thing I meant to ask you. An-Ostada said something to me yesterday.” Hadrea’s eyebrows drew down at the mention of her teacher’s name. “Did something happen in your classes recently, or while you were out touring the villages? She seemed a bit … worked up.”

  Hadrea read the implied understatement, because she made a scornful noise and suppressed what looked like the beginnings of a rude hand gesture. “She is always worked up about something. She wishes to teach us like we are toddlers, learning to walk and talk, and she does not trust or respect her students. Already she has lost several, and—” She stopped, pressing her lips together.

  “She’s lost students?” Kalina asked reluctantly into the silence. “How many? Does the Council know?”

  It didn’t—I didn’t. Anger was churning in me, but I couldn’t tell whether it was directed at An-Ostada or Hadrea, or both.

  “She would not have wanted to tell you people had left. Then she would have to admit to her failings as a teacher. She is too proud.” Instead of snapping at me, Hadrea reached over suddenly and pushed hair from my forehead, her touch gentle and her gaze honest and direct. “It is difficult for everyone, I think. Always, she talks of old ways, even in the face of new challenges, for that is what she learned. But we are not children and we have all seen our people powerless and abused with the old ways not there to protect us. If she only teaches us the old ways, if we are not prepared, there will be no new defenses to come to our rescue next time.” She gestured to the piles of papers, the empty teacups, the evidence of our long afternoon of researching and thinking, and sighed. “Sometimes it feels like we are the only handful of people in this city who remember your Warrior-Guilder was not this country’s only enemy. We must be ready to protect ourselves again.”

  “I agree,” I said, relieved. “Last time that enemy didn’t restrict themselves to working within the boundaries of the city, so why would we expect them to do it again? We need to understand what’s going on in those villages, with the missing spirits. Maybe there’s a connection.”

  Hadrea frowned. “Yes. I told you that I did not believe this was mere neglect; the people there were no more careless or disrespectful than anywhere else. There is no good reason for the spirits to be gone in those places. It feels like something is happening out there, something we do not understand yet.”

  We all looked at one another, but no one voiced the worry we felt. Our enemy had used tensions among our own people to raise a rebellion two years ago, and though good changes had come out of the Compact, we’d be fools to pretend there weren’t still exploitable cracks in our society. I knew our enemy would come for us again; this time, we had to hope, they would not be able to use us against one another.

  “We only have to get through a few more days and some of the pressure will be off,” Kalina said with bracing optimism. “We can all lie low together till karodee is over, at least.”

  “As long as we get through karodee,” I muttered.

  * * *

  It took almost a full day for Tuhash’s absence to be noticed by the Talafan delegation; evidently he had not been scheduled to work on masquerade evening and another soldier had covered for him for the morning shift, assuming he had overindulged. It was not until late in the day that Tuhash’s failure to return to the guesthouse had been noticed. The Talafan alerted the diplomatic office, who had passed it on to the Order Guards, and only then did anyone on the Silastian side—other than us—link the unidentified dead man in the hospital and the missing Imperial guest.

  To compound the disaster, it transpired Tuhash had not only been a soldier, but also a minor noble. Unlike in Sjona, where at least until recently the Warrior Guild was made up almost entirely of people with less fortunate backgrounds since the wealthiest and most powerful families did not encourage their children to pursue a martial career, according to Kalina the Imperial soldiers of Talafar were prestigious, full of young noble boys trying to distinguish themselves and retired army officials who had earned a well-respected post closer to home. Tuhash came from a noble family and, worse still, his mother—a direct, albeit distant, relative of the Emperor—was here in Sjona as part of the Princesses’ entourage. Kalina had even met her. Tain had gone around in the evening to offer formal condolences in person, and had reported back that the Foreign Minister had revealed little of how the family might be taking the news. “He didn’t even ask questions,” Tain had told us, somewhat bewildered. “Maybe it was the language barrier, but I was expecting him to really press me for details on what happened and what we were doing about investigating, and I had all these careful answers prepared, but he just looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.”

  I suspected the Talafan were assessing their response and waiting to see what we would do. It was certainly too much to expect that they would simply allow us to conduct the investigation without their involvement. One more thing to plague and worry me.

  Sjease went early to the market and the rest of the family, even Kalina, left soon after to attend the puppetry at the open theater, leaving the house blessedly silent, and my thoughts unpleasantly loud. No further revelations had emerged from my review of papers and half-formed theories. I would have liked to take a break myself, to walk the city and think clearly out in the open to the tune of familiar steps, but that was neither practical nor wise in my current state.

  So instead I continued to trace lines and circle potential connections and wonder, and speculate. Bits and pieces of the night’s events were coming back to me, fragmented and confusing, but there were clues to be found there when combined with what Dee had witnessed. The assassin might have lured me purposefully to where the Hands were doing business, but he hadn’t told them to expect me, and they hadn’t known who I was at first. Dee confirmed they’d stopped their assault once they noticed my tattoos and realized who I was. According to her, one of them had gone to seek orders from someone else, someone above the Wraith, perhaps someone with an interest in me personally. Someone who had not only directed the Hands to place me at that party but had also supplied the victim. The boss suggested it, the Wraith had said when she produced the Talafan man. Could the assassin and the Hands both be working for the same employer?

  And what had been happening with the woman in the alcove? I had dreamed of it last night, in terrifying flashes reliving the feelings, the fear. I had been drugged, disoriented, confused; likely I’d mistaken the sensation in that state, but it had felt like magic, like being swe
pt up in something not of my understanding. Hadrea had dismissed that idea easily enough, and of course she was likely right, because what Darfri woman would use their sacred arts for the entertainment of others? But in my dreams logic and reason made no difference. It was all too real in my head.

  I started at the sound of the door, imagining the Order Guards returning, perhaps, or some other bad news, but it was only Sjease returning from the market, laden with purchases. I raised a weary hand in greeting, relieved.

  “How’s the ankle feeling, Credo?”

  “About the same.” I watched them walk past, avoiding my gaze. “What is it?”

  Sjease set the basket of market goods down and regarded me seriously. “There’s talk already,” they said bluntly, and I didn’t need to ask about what. My heart sank. “I heard the cook’s assistant from the Brooks and two maids from the Reeds talking while I was getting these.” They brandished two hanging bindies before laying them down beside the basket.

  “Talk?” I asked, pulse quickening, blood rushing to my face. Javesto had warned me word might leak out through the Order Guards, and I lived on the same street as the Brooks and the Reeds; anyone could have seen Chen and her Guards visiting in the early hours of the morning. Or someone else could easily have seen me at the party. I suspected, from the gaps in my memory and the Wraith’s mocking comments, that I had not been simply sitting in a stupor the whole time but had interacted with at least some other guests. Again, I remembered with a chill the press of a man’s body on one side of me, the touch of a woman’s unbound hair on the other. You weren’t so stuck-up an hour ago, darling. Everyone may have been intoxicated, but it was a lot to hope that no one had recognized me. I swallowed. I was in more trouble than I’d realized. Chen might believe one “witness” was lying or mistaken, but she’d have a much harder time buying my alibi in the face of multiple accusations, if it came to that.

  “They stopped talking when they saw me,” Sjease said. Businesslike, they unpacked the eggs and refilled jars of spices from the basket, then began rinsing the harpeas with the jug of water, still avoiding looking directly at me. “But I overheard a fair bit before they noticed.”

  “And?” I cleared my throat. “Sjease. What were they saying?”

  “Largely what the Captain reported this morning,” Sjease said reluctantly. “That you were high on something at a private party, went to a bedroom with a man who ended up dead.” They cleared their throat, giving the harpeas rather more attention than they needed. “Then they were sharing rumors about your … uh … preferences, I suppose. Not the kind of nonsense that’d bear repeating in the normal circumstances, but I thought you might want to know in this particular case.”

  There had always been some talk about my lack of regular participation in the Silastian social scene, including my avoidance of romantic relationships with my peers; a product of both the secrecy of my role and the inconvenient workings of my brain. It hadn’t bothered me for a long time. But it had, of course, left me vulnerable to rumors speculating more sinister reasons for my privacy. I supposed a penchant for violence in intimate settings fit the narrative of me as a skulking assassin for the Chancellor far better than the truth. “Did you hear where it came from? The rumor, I mean.”

  “Not straight out, but if I had to guess, it seemed like one of the maids had heard it from someone from her own household who was at the party.” They unpacked the last item from the basket—a pungent cloth-wrapped cheese. My stomach, which had been unable to tolerate any food all day, grumbled, and my mouth started to water. “For the sousuk tonight, not for you,” Sjease warned, shifting the cheese out of my reach. I grinned. Sousuk, a baked egg-and-herb dish, was one of my childhood favorites, and though they wouldn’t say so I knew Sjease was making it to try to bring some cheer to the household. I appreciated the gesture even though it was a futile one.

  “That’ll be round all the Families by nightfall, then,” I muttered.

  “Not all servants are gossips.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Sjease sighed. “It’ll be round all the Families by nightfall if it isn’t already.” They hung the basket on its hook on the wall. “But I don’t know if it’ll go further. The way they were talking about the party I had the impression it was the kind the Families wouldn’t admit to attending, at least not officially.”

  True, there was a difference between talk and formal reports. Whenever I’d brought up Void in Council, the Families had maintained a pretense that none of their households contained users. Maybe they’d be reluctant to make an official complaint. Something about my housekeeper’s tone made me ask, “Do you know anything about these parties, Sjease?”

  They shrugged. “They’re not the kind of parties servants get invited to, and not the type Guilded servants work, but you hear things.” They set out the bowl to make the sousuk mix and began cracking eggs while I chopped the carrots. “This is all off-books stuff. Not in official businesses. People’s houses, certain parks, places the Order Guards don’t go near. Everything’s by invitation, you pay to get in.” They twitched, clearly uncomfortable. “People say Silasta’s changing. After the siege, the city opened up, you changed the game table. Lots of wealthy people here suddenly find things very different to what they’re used to.”

  There was an openness about the way Sjease spoke to me now that drew attention to its previous absence. A trusted and respected member of the household they were, but they had never volunteered a critique of society before; we’d never had a conversation like this in two years of living and working together. I kept my eyes on my carrots and listened. There were different cities within my city I knew little about, even those inhabited by my closest peers. Perhaps especially those.

  After a pause, Sjease continued hesitantly, as if unsure of the reception this would receive. “See, the problem with Silasta is you had a whole lot of people used to living an exclusive life, elevated above the rest, then suddenly they’re being told they have to share it without complaint. Seems to me there are a lot of younger daughters and excess sons around the upper city and they’ve spent their lives being told about honor and contribution to their family, but now they’re not sure what their family means in the scheme of things. And now there are people in their ears, telling them it doesn’t have to be that way. They don’t have to slide into mediocrity the way they fear. They still have money, and they can still have things other people don’t have.”

  “And they want … what?” Nothing about that party had been appealing to me. It had been the worst aspects of every social situation compressed into one hideous room.

  “It doesn’t matter what it is,” Sjease told me seriously. “That’s not the point, Jovan. The point is it is a secret and you have to be rich to get into it. They can’t call someone an earther in their favorite teahouse anymore without social repercussions, so they find a way to make new rules.”

  “And there are people ready and willing to step up and give them what they want,” I said slowly. “The gangs. That’s how they’re getting the upper city. Selling the same drugs to the rich as to the poor but in a different package.”

  It fit. The woman running the party had known the Wraith and her henchman, and acted like a subordinate. If the Hands were running parties like this, within walking distance of the Manor and the homes of the city’s richest and most powerful, supplying drugs to the elite, there must be a way of finding out who their leader was. Someone among my peers had the connections. The Hands had targeted me for a reason, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that the assassin had led me right into their clutches.

  “Thank you,” I said, and Sjease took my finished carrots without comment. I went back to my table and started writing, on a separate new list, names of people I knew who might be the type to be involved in that sort of scene. Not actual Councilors—there was still a certain level of propriety—but more remote family members, children of wealthy merchant and artisan families, especially ones who weren’t in Guild
s and had more leisure time than sense. It could, I thought, be quite a long list.

  “Credo?”

  “Mm?” I glanced up from my work. Sjease stood there, one hand clutching a bunch of fresh-picked herbs for the meal, the other balled into a fist by their side.

  “Can you come to the garden?” There was a very strange look on their usually composed face, something unsettled; perhaps not afraid, but at least worried. Enough that I put aside the paper I was scribbling on and rose immediately, wincing on my sore leg.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just … come out.”

  I followed them into the small garden at the back and side of our apartment, where I grew a variety of herbs and edible plants, and where our uncle was buried. It was a peaceful walled space, protected from the wind, and the path between the greenery was well trodden with the tracks of years of my pacing passage. There was no one out there, no sign of a disturbance. “What’s the matter?” I asked again, but Sjease was already leading me to a leafy corner and pushing aside a heavy branch laden with flowers still drooping from morning condensation.

  My question died in my throat. Something was hanging there, slung over the wall on a string, mostly concealed by leaves. Sjease, careful not to touch it, pulled back the foliage and stepped aside to give me a proper view. “I only saw it because I was bending over the parsley.”

  We both leaned in. It was a lumpy brown thing, stained in ways I found repulsive without fully understanding why; rather like a small, misshapen sack. What looked like wet, clumped feathers protruded from the top, as if someone had killed a bird and stuffed it in a bag without dressing it. Yet there was also something disturbingly deliberate about it, a precision in the binding, and, looking closer, tiny stitching down the side of the seam that resembled writing, though not in any language I recognized. I took the knife Sjease had been using to cut herbs and carefully sawed through the string from which it was hanging. We both stared at in silence as I straightened, dangling it from its string, and shared a look of uncomfortable revulsion.