Stormtide

by Den Patrick

  ‘We’re here. The captain says we should be in port within the hour.’

  Silverdust drifted up from the hold, where he had waited in the gloom. It had comforted him to do so, a reminder of the darkness of the forges on Vladibogdan. ‘This is the longest journey I’ve ever taken,’ said Streig, joining Silverdust on deck. ‘And now I find myself at the heart of the Empire, about to set foot in the capital city.’ Silverdust sensed the young soldier’s veneration and an undercurrent of excitement.

  Your need to romanticise the city is misplaced. The people here care only for money and their own skins. The Vigilants are more ruthless than anyone you will meet, loyal only to their own advancement.

  ‘But this is Khlystburg,’ protested Streig. ‘Even you can admit that it invokes a measure of awe.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You may not love the Empire, or the Emperor that rules it, but the city …’

  The word ‘khlyst’ is an old dialect term for whip. That’s what the Holy Synod are, the Emperor’s whips, the ones that purge through the application of pain. Those who speak out are brought here and disappear below ground to be questioned. No one survives such a thing.

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Streig. ‘Khlystburg isn’t a prison.’

  What does not make sense is that the capital city is many days’ travel from the rest of the Empire. This was a place where the Emperor could work in secret and do as he wished without interference. Khlystburg only became the capital once the Emperor had consolidated his position.

  As the ship drew closer they could see the graceful towers. The buildings were painted in gaudy colours, as if trying to fend off the sombre clouds that hung over the city. Many of the towers featured bulbous domes that tapered at the top, shining weakly in silver or gold. Other buildings were dressed in red stone, while others stood resplendent in ivory or cream.

  ‘The city of whips,’ said Streig. His expression became subdued and he leaned against the side of the ship. ‘We’ll be lucky to leave this place with our lives.’ Streig cast a glance over his shoulder at the other soldiers. Father Orlov and the Envoy conversed together at the stern. ‘What befalls you here will find a way to my door too, I suspect.’

  You will be fine. Just tell them you were following the Envoy’s orders to stand guard over me. Silverdust couldn’t truly say he believed what he’d told the young soldier, but it was all he could do.

  The antechamber to the Imperial Court was a dimly lit room that could have easily homed five peasant families. Candles flickered from six wrought-iron stands, each the height of a man and twice as heavy. Two elderly men polished the intricately tiled floor on their hands and knees. The menials looked up from their labour every so often to tut at the Envoy’s soldiers.

  The Envoy had taken to pacing like a Novgoruske tiger. Father Orlov by contrast barely moved, as still as one of the many memorial statues outside in the Imperial Gardens. After a full hour had passed, the doors creaked open suddenly and Envoy de Vries turned to Silverdust and smiled sweetly.

  ‘Shall we?’ She turned before Silverdust could answer, striding into the hall as if it were no more than her local tavern. Her carefree entrance was interrupted by the Semyonovsky Guard, who crossed their spears, blocking further passage. Black cords decorated their armour, crossing their chest before looping at one side and ending in a tassel. The red star on their helm, the symbol of the Solmindre Empire, had been dyed black upon entry to the Emperor’s elite bodyguard.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ said Father Orlov, who remained trapped in the antechamber with the soldiers.

  ‘The only armed persons who may enter this room are high-ranking members of the Holy Synod and courtiers with appointments.’ The man stepped closer to Father Orlov. ‘Which you would know had you been here before, Ordinary.’

  ‘I am Father Orlov from Vladibogdan and I am escorting Envoy de Vries.’

  ‘That would make sense,’ said the Semyonovsky guard. ‘She never could follow the rules. Arrogant bitch.’ Then the guard grabbed Father Orlov by the scruff of the neck and slung him through the doorway, before turning his gaze back to the soldiers. ‘I suggest the rest of you return to barracks.’ The guard paused as he caught sight of Silverdust. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to come in as well.’ Silverdust nodded and the Envoy’s soldiers drew back to let him pass, muttering as they did so.

  ‘What shall I do?’ whispered Streig. Silverdust directed the words to Streig’s mind alone, so no one else could know his intent.

  There is a viewing gallery. At least there was last time I was here. Bribe the menials, have them show you the way. And put your helm on. If a lowly soldier like you appears before the Emperor with an uncovered head he will likely remove it.

  Silverdust glided forward, past the towering double doors and the Semyonovsky Guard, into the cavernous splendour of the Imperial Court. The vast hall was awash with tiles the colour of palest sand and bluest ocean, while the wood-panelled walls were intricately carved, painted white and decorated with gold leaf. Candles were suspended in chandeliers like constellations of stars. Silverdust’s mind drifted to the starving children in Kulyagesh and he felt a surge of irritation. The throne was at the opposite end of the chamber, some two hundred feet from the doors.

  Envoy de Vries had taken her place in the loose semicircle of courtiers surrounding the throne. She stood very straight, eyes bright and alert, with a contented smile. Father Orlov stood close to her, casting a glance at Silverdust as the Exarch joined the courtiers. Four Semyonovsky guards stood near the throne clutching heavy spears, each one a veteran of the Emperor’s armies, exuding a palpable aura of menace, and yet they were not the most dangerous people in the room.

  The Emperor was a dark-haired man, with pale eyes and a high forehead. More slender than the soldiers of his court, he had a wiry strength and a stillness that hinted at years of discipline. He wore knee-length riding boots of deepest black, with britches and a jacket in a matching hue. All manner of medals and black braid covered his chest, while a sash of crimson circled his waist, almost concealing the sheathed dagger on his hip.

  The Emperor stepped down from the throne with a brow furrowed in annoyance. A young noble knelt before him with his head bowed, hands clasped together yet visibly shaking.

  ‘I swear to you that I did not take the taxes that are rightfully yours, Your Imperial Highness.’ The young man’s clothes, silks and velvets in a supposedly fashionable motley indicated he was a person of some means. Silverdust guessed he was a Boyar from one of the provinces, or the son of a Boyar – judging by his age.

  ‘Stand up,’ said the Emperor. His voice still had the whispery quality to it that Silverdust remembered, yet there was steel in that whisper that compelled and commanded. It had been many years since Silverdust had stood before the Emperor. He’d had a different name back then, a lower rank, worn a different mask. So much had changed in the decades since then.

  The young nobleman stood warily. Sweat shone at his temples and stained the fabric of his velvet coat at the armpits.

  ‘I should cut out your tongue,’ said the Emperor with a terrible quietness. ‘So you can tell no more lies. What will your father think when he learns that you insulted me here, in my own court?’

  ‘I swear to you.’ The young man held out his shaking hands in supplication. ‘The money was taken from me two nights ago by thieves in the Voronin District. I would never lie to you, Your Imperial Highness.’ The Emperor nodded as if considering the young man’s words then circled around behind him, his pale eyes fixed on the floor in deep contemplation. His hand drew the dagger and regarded it for moment as if it were a recently received gift. The metal did not reflect even a glimmer of the many candles in the room, and grey ashes flaked from the dull surface like dismal snow. A sneer had quirked the Emperor’s thin lips and something in his pale eyes had hardened.

  The young nobleman chose this moment to snatch a glance over his shoulder. His eyes widened in alarm as he cau
ght sight of the blade in the Emperor’s hand. He cringed but remained rooted to the spot, blind obedience outweighing his instinct for survival.

  The Emperor released a long sigh and paused to look at his audience. He nodded to Envoy de Vries and then turned to Silverdust. For a second the Exarch felt an immense pressure on his mind, like the tension in the air heralding a thunderstorm. The feeling passed suddenly and Silverdust remained content the Emperor had not breached his mental defences.

  ‘I was not always the man you see now,’ the Emperor said in his whispering voice. He gestured with the dark knife as if it were no more than a crust of bread, and he a peasant farmer slightly the worse for drink. The semicircle of courtiers edged backwards, all eyes fixed on the blade and the ashes that fell from it. The Emperor approached the throne and took a long draught from a golden goblet on a small table. He turned back to his audience of Vigilants, Envoys, and high-ranking soldiers with a wry smile. ‘You might even say I was the Holy Synod’s first member.’ His expression darkened in a heartbeat. ‘I invented the fucking synod!’ he shouted with such force that the young nobleman flinched. Piss pooled by Sokolov’s boots in the moments that followed. Silverdust heard a collective intake of breath from the courtiers, felt their unease, their dread.

  The Emperor huffed a breath and shook his head, as if trying to shake off his fury. When he spoke again his voice had returned to its customary whisper. ‘Some Vigilants can know the hearts of men, know their minds. One who is very skilled might even know a man’s memories. I too have this power, and I see you, Dimitri Sokolov. I see you deeply.’ The Emperor smiled at the young man and held out his arms as if to embrace the nobleman. ‘Dimitri! Of course you would never steal your father’s taxes!’

  Sokolov. Silverdust knew the name, they were one of the Great Families, with a long and storied past that reached back to the Age of Tears. This must be the son of Boyar Sokolov, who ruled Vend Province. Dimitri shook with nerves, confusion written across his pale face. Did the Emperor intend to embrace him?

  ‘After everything your family has done for me across generations! Of course you would not steal those taxes.’ The Emperor stepped forward and swept his arms around the young man, then kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘Y-your Imperial Highness, I—’ But Dimitri said nothing more. The dull blade entered his back and several of the courtiers winced or looked away. Dimitri Sokolov shuddered in the Emperor’s arms, eyes wide and mouth gasping in shock. Crow’s feet appeared at the corners of the young man’s eyes and his sandy hair became shot through with grey, before turning white. His hands wrinkled and the knuckles became like knots under the skin. Dimitri Sokolov managed a wheezing breath before he died as an old man. The Emperor stood back from the husk before him and the corpse collapsed to the tiled floor. No blood stained the dull blade the Emperor clutched, and grey flecks of ash floated to the floor, alighting in blood and urine.

  The Emperor closed his pale eyes and took a deep and rapturous breath. He swayed on his feet, shivering with pleasure, then sighed with contentment. For a moment the Emperor forgot his mental defences and Silverdust had a brief glimmer of the incandescent rage that lay at the heart of the man, and also the heady intoxication. In one thrust the Emperor had siphoned the life from the nobleman and made himself younger.

  ‘He did not steal from me,’ said the Emperor in a calm voice to the courtiers around him. He flashed a warm and gentle smile quite at odds with the corpse at his feet. ‘He gave most of the money to peasants who would rise up against me. The rest he spent on whores and wine.’ The Emperor mounted the steps to the throne and lifted his goblet to the courtiers in a parody of a toast, then drank deeply. The Semyonovsky Guard dragged the elderly corpse from the room as the courtiers spoke among themselves in whispers.

  ‘Your Imperial Highness,’ said Envoy de Vries, stepping forward from the semicircle. She performed a deep bow to the Emperor and smiled. ‘I bring two Vigilants from far Vladibogdan. I know you have been awaiting them with great anticipation.’

  The Emperor’s gaze settled on Silverdust and he breathed deeply, but his stare was glassy and unseeing, attention elsewhere.

  ‘Your Highness?’ said de Vries, her smile slipping.

  ‘Not today,’ said the Emperor, as if the fate of the Empire’s sole training academy were of no consequence. ‘I think we have all had enough drama, de Vries. I must write to Boyar Sokolov. I will tell him what a worthless dog his son was. I’ll ask him how Vend Province will make reparations for this gross insult.’

  ‘It will be as you say, Your Imperial Highness.’ Envoy de Vries bowed again and retreated from the Emperor, her face carefully blank of expression, her eyes lowered. Silverdust could feel her fury, her frustration. The Emperor left from a door at the back of the room and the courtiers began to drift away. Silverdust felt the tension ebb as each commander, Vigilant, Boyar and Envoy turned to leave. Streig was waiting when the Exarch reached the antechamber. Silverdust could tell the young soldier was sick to his stomach.

  You saw all of that, I take it?

  Streig nodded, gesturing they should leave through a side door. Silverdust led them from the palace and Streig removed his helm once they were in the gardens outside. He was pale and covered in sweat, eyes darting nervously from side to side.

  ‘What was that dagger?’

  The Ashen Blade. It takes life from one and bestows it on the wielder.

  ‘And he does that to his own people?’ There was a wildness in Streig’s eyes that Silverdust had not seen before. Perhaps it had been a mistake to suggest that he watch from the gallery.

  Keep your voice down. We are still in the palace grounds. The Semyonovsky will execute you in a moment for speaking of such a thing.

  ‘What do we do now?’ said Streig as they walked towards the inner gatehouse.

  We find quarters. We should rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.

  ‘The Boyar’s son …’ Streig shook his head. ‘Do you think such an uprising could occur in Vend? They could barely afford knives, let alone swords.’

  The boy was innocent. He was indeed robbed in the Voronin District, just as he said he was.

  ‘But the Emperor said he could read minds—’

  And that is undoubtedly true, but the Emperor lied about Dimitri’s guilt. I too read the young master’s mind. I know Dimitri’s truth.

  ‘Then why him?’ whispered Streig, leaning close. ‘Why kill a Boyar’s son?’

  Because the Emperor lies. He lies for sport and he lies to manipulate. Imagine the wave of fear that will spread across the continent now. Every Boyar will do their utmost to appear absolutely loyal. They will seek out unrest and put down any rebels in the most public way possible.

  ‘And you?’ said Streig, as they passed through the dim tunnel of the gatehouse. ‘How will you fare tomorrow, given the Emperor can reach into your mind?’

  My mind is not an open book.

  ‘But Envoy de Vries and Father Orlov—’

  I simply wish for the Emperor to hold me close, just as he did to Dimitri. That is all I require, nothing more.

  ‘So you mean to die.’

  Only if such a death gives me what I need.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Steiner

  Steiner couldn’t sleep that night, knowing the Vigilant was so close at hand. Kristofine lay in the crook of his arm lost to the deep silence of sleep, yet Steiner could get no rest. Long hours he remained awake until the boredom was almost as bad as the tiredness. He took a moment to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs, dressed quietly, and slipped downstairs. The sun had yet to rise but someone else was awake despite the hour. She wore her dark hair in two long braids and hummed to herself as she worked, stacking and cleaning various mugs and cups behind the bar.

  ‘Morning,’ said Steiner, wincing as he pronounced the word in Solska.

  ‘We can talk in Nordspråk if you prefer,’ said the innkeeper. She had a way of smiling on one side of her mouth. Faint
crow’s feet lined the corners of her eyes and a few strands of her dark hair had turned silver. Steiner reckoned her to be in her early thirties.

  ‘How did you know?’ replied Steiner in his own tongue.

  ‘My husband overheard you last night. He doesn’t understand much of it, but he knows Nordspråk when he hears it.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Vannerånd, but that was a long time ago. Twenty years or more. You know, the locals here still distrust me because I’m not a Solmindre girl.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Water, please.’ The innkeeper took a moment to pour water from a jug and set it on the bar.

  ‘Come, sit.’

  ‘What is this town?’ asked Steiner after he’d slaked his thirst.

  ‘You don’t know where you are?’

  ‘We’ve been travelling a long time, and without a map.’

  ‘You’re in Vostochnyye Lisy,’ she replied. ‘There was a longer version of the name, but that’s what it’s called now. Something about “the home of the eastern foxes”.’

  ‘You get lot of foxes around here?’

  ‘No, but the locals here often have red hair and there are some strange old myths.’

  ‘I can’t imagine the Exarch is too keen on old myths about foxes,’ replied Steiner.

  ‘No,’ admitted the innkeeper. ‘I daresay he’s quite opposed to them. Still, that’s one problem I don’t need to worry about. He left about a half hour before you appeared. It seems to be the morning for early risers.’

  ‘I’m Steiner.’ He quickly regretted not using a false name, but something about the woman made him feel safe. ‘I’m from Nordvlast.’

  ‘And you’re wanted by the Empire,’ replied the innkeeper, though there was no judgment in her voice and her expression spoke only of compassion or pity.