Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  The grim sergeant shook his head. “I think Dr. Razael would know the difference.”

  “But Razael’s dead.” The man announced this with a soft croak, his eyes filling with tears. “Her body was found near the orchards. Murdered.”

  The sergeant frowned. “What’s tonight’s password?”

  “Ambergris,” replied the newcomer. “What? Did the imposter know it?”

  Sergeant Beecher cursed softly and lowered his weapon.

  The visitor looked appalled. “Sergeant, did you neglect to ask for the password?”

  Beecher flushed. “The gentleman had the nautilus. He knew the spells—”

  Marcus went numb as a low rumbling sounded behind them. Once again, bright light streamed into the hall as the vault began to open. Raising his weapon, Sergeant Beecher turned about to face the sliding door. His voice was eerily calm and professional.

  “Private Finch, imposters have infiltrated the Lirlander Vault. Escort Lord Faeregine to safety and raise the alarm.”

  Marcus hesitated.

  “Now, Finch!”

  Beecher’s shout propelled Marcus into action. Dashing forward, he seized Lord Faeregine by the wrist and made for the distant exit. Their footsteps rang on the marble as the room brightened. Lord Faeregine stumbled along as though in a state of shock.

  Crack!

  A bullet’s sharp report echoed in the hall. Two more came in quick succession, followed by a scream.

  Lord Faeregine gave a cry and tangled his feet. Marcus nearly tumbled with him but kept his balance and pulled his lordship up. The pair staggered on.

  Marcus heard sounds of pursuit. He glimpsed a shadow on the wall: a wolfish shape bounding on all fours and closing rapidly. Escape was out of the question. Thrusting Lord Faeregine ahead, Marcus whirled about to confront their pursuers.

  He saw nothing but the vault’s blinding light. An instant later, something slammed into his chest, huge and snarling, heavy as a sledge. The impact sent Marcus flying. As he fell, a thought flashed in his mind, a thought so absurd that he almost laughed.

  Do not slouch.

  When his skull struck the floor the world went black.

  CHAPTER 1

  HAZEL

  Everyone sees what you appear to be,

  few really know what you are.

  —Niccolò Machiavelli, Pre-Cataclysm philosopher

  (544–486 P.C.)

  On New Year’s Day, some people spring out of bed determined to be kinder, thinner, more industrious, more outgoing. No matter the resolution, they all share something in common: they believe this year will be better than the last.

  Hazel Faeregine was not one of those people.

  Despite the hour, she lay abed with two magical tomes, an ancient fairy tale, a stuffed giraffe, and a sense of impending invasion. Below, bells were clanging in Rowan’s Old College. Evidently it was not enough to chime nine o’clock—the ringer needed to add whimsical flourishes lest anyone fail to realize it was New Year’s Day. Hazel sighed. Those bells were as ancient as the empire. They should be played with dignity, not enthusiasm.

  An invader arrived. As usual, it was Isabel. Picking the lock, she burst into the room, assessed the situation, and advanced. Hazel flung a bolster, which her sister ducked.

  “You’re not squirming out of this,” said Isabel. “If I have to go, then so do you.”

  When Isabel reached the footboard, Hazel launched her last pillow with a cry. She tried to sound ferocious, like some beast from the Grislands. What came out was a squawk.

  Isabel merely caught the cushion and used it to bat Hazel about the head.

  Left, right. Left, right . . .

  “Why do you make me do this?” Isabel moaned, actually sounding bored as Hazel retreated beneath the covers. Thumping her one last time, Isabel dropped the pillow and sat carefully on the bed. Her bustle crinkled. A maid gasped in the doorway.

  “The dress, Your Highness! The embroidery—”

  “Is lovely,” said Isabel brightly. “Olo, pick out some different shoes while I gab with Hazel. These ones pinch.”

  “But the Red Branch is here to escort you,” Olo whispered. “One’s waiting in the vestibule!”

  “I don’t care if the Spider’s in the vestibule,” said Isabel. Hazel admired her sister’s cheek, but knew she’d never say such things if their grandmother were really lurking about.

  Olo made a face but withdrew. Isabel set her lockpick—a bejeweled hairpin—artfully among her black braids before fixing Hazel with a pair of dark, doe-like eyes. They were set unusually far apart and gave Isabel what was commonly known as the “Faeregine look.” Similar pairs graced family portraits dating back to Mina I. Indeed, with her olive skin, aquiline nose, and dancer’s carriage, Isabel was a shining example of the breed.

  “Do we need to have the Talk?” she asked.

  Hazel hugged her knees. “Which talk? The horrid one about our changing bodies? Or the one where you remind me who I am and why I can’t do as I like?”

  “The second,” said Isabel, adjusting her corset. “You know we have to go.”

  “Not me,” said Hazel. “I’m the youngest.”

  This made Isabel laugh—a fine, fetching laugh that boys tended to notice. “By seventeen minutes. No, you’re going even if I have to drag you. I’m surprised Rascha hasn’t already. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hazel. She’d been pleased that her tutor, Dàme Rascha, was uncharacteristically late. But now her absence was puzzling—almost as puzzling as the presence of a Red Branch in the triplets’ sitting room. The Red Branch did many things but babysitting was not among them. Where was the regular guard?

  Again, the door opened.

  Violet and Isabel Faeregine were identical, but people never confused the two. Violet never rushed or raised her voice. Her posture was always perfect and her expression seldom stirred from one of serene composure. If Isabel was fire, Violet was ice. Even her dress was pale blue. She surveyed the room with detached disapproval.

  “Are we ready?” she inquired.

  “Do we look ready?” said Isabel.

  Violet gave a prim smile. “No. We don’t.”

  “Say ‘we’ one more time and I’m going to throttle you,” said Isabel. Hazel crossed her fingers.

  Violet tutted. “Are we forgetting I’m the eldest?”

  Technically, this was true. Violet had been born nine minutes before Isabel, a fact she often cited. She never bothered telling anyone that she was twenty-six minutes older than Hazel. That gulf was self-evident.

  Isabel snorted. “As though nine minutes matter.”

  Violet’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll find that they matter very much. See you down there.”

  She left in a soft rustle of silk. Isabel turned to Hazel.

  “You don’t think the Spider’s going to announce anything, do you?”

  “About her successor?” said Hazel. “No idea.”

  Scooting off the bed, Isabel smoothed her dress—crimson silk embroidered with rubies. Hazel’s was green silk dotted with emeralds. It lay on the velvet chaise, still wrapped in muslin.

  “Hurry up and get ready,” Isabel muttered. “I’m going to catch up with Violet.”

  Before Hazel could reply, Dàme Rascha swept through the door.

  “My apologies, Your Highness. This morning has been—”

  The vye paused. Wolfish blue eyes swept over the mess before settling on her charge—a charge still abed in her nightclothes and whose fine white hair was sticking up like dandelion wisps. Isabel seized the chance to escape. Ducking past Hazel’s tutor, she scampered out to the common room and shut the door behind her. Dàme Rascha glanced down at a bolster. Her voice was hoarse, its accent tinged from years living in the Witchpeaks.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I was . . . redecorating?” said Hazel. “Bad idea. I’ll fix it.”

  With a flick of her wrist, Hazel sent the scattered pillows flying to their
places. They obeyed marvelously, landing with soft, simultaneous thuds. Hazel could not quite suppress a grin; she was getting good at these little cantrips. She offered a hopeful glance at her tutor.

  As vyes went, Dàme Rascha was not particularly imposing. The mystic stood no more than seven feet and her fur, once an inky black, had faded to muted gray. Her teeth were worn, and her clawed hands trembled when she took her afternoon tea. But that glare was dark as thunder. She did not speak so much as growl.

  “Casual magic is vulgar. Get up.”

  The command cracked like a whip. Hazel slid sheepishly out from under her covers and fidgeted with her nightgown. Dàme Rascha marched her to a full-length mirror.

  “Raise your arms,” she ordered.

  When Hazel did so, Dàme Rascha whisked off her nightgown as though changing a toddler. Hazel swallowed her indignation. There was no arguing with Rascha when she was in a mood. While the vye fetched hot water, Hazel stared at her reflection.

  You do not have the “Faeregine look.”

  Isabel and Violet were tall. Hazel stood a foot shorter. Her sisters were developing curves. Cubes had more curves than she did. Every summer, Isabel and Violet ripened into bronze, but Hazel’s skin was the color of bleached ivory, so pale she stayed indoors on sunny days. When she did go outside, Rascha swaddled her in so much linen she resembled a skittish beekeeper. Even her eyes stood out, and not in the distinctive Faeregine way. They were tapering and reddish, more suited to a rabbit than a girl.

  Hazel’s appearance was a popular topic in Impyrium. Folklore held that twins were unlucky and triplets even more so. That Elana Faeregine had died birthing three girls on All Hallows’ Eve was fine fuel for gossip, particularly as Hazel was albino. The average commoner, and even many among the nobility, believed Hazel’s mother must have practiced necromancy or consorted with nefarious spirits. What else could explain this white-faced changeling?

  Dàme Rascha returned with a basin of warm water, a cake of creamsoap, and a rough sea sponge. Kneeling, the vye began scrubbing Hazel as she had a thousand times before. Unlike Isabel’s and Violet’s tutors, Rascha did far more than simply teach her charge the magical arts. Ever since Hazel could remember, the vye had been her primary caretaker and companion. Whether this was because Hazel required closer supervision (she had been a sickly child) or the vye assumed the role from maternal instinct, Dàme Rascha took her duties seriously. Being raised by an overprotective vye had its advantages—no one teased Hazel if Rascha was near—but it came at a price. Hazel winced as her shins were scoured raw.

  “A bath would be more comfortable,” she observed.

  Dàme Rascha was unmoved. “Turn.”

  Hazel complied, happy to look away from the mirror. Squeezing out the sponge, Rascha resumed her work, grunting now and again lest her ungrateful pupil forget she had rheumatism.

  “Ouch!” said Hazel. “You might have said ‘Happy New Year’ before flaying me.”

  “Happy New Year.”

  “You’re only saying that because I brought it up.”

  The vye shrugged.

  “Well, it’s very inconsiderate,” said Hazel, flicking a bubble. “You might think of others.”

  Rascha scoffed. “Says the girl who lounges in bed.”

  “I wasn’t lounging,” said Hazel. “In fact, I think I’m coming down with a cold.” She gave an unconvincing cough. “Anyway, what does my lying about matter when you showed up late?”

  Water streamed down her back as Rascha rinsed away the soap. She draped a towel over Hazel’s shoulders.

  “I do apologize,” she muttered. “The morning has been . . . difficult.”

  To Hazel’s dismay, there were tears in her tutor’s eyes. Hazel had never seen such a thing, had not even known that vyes could shed tears.

  “Oh, Rascha!” she cried. “I was only teasing.”

  The vye gave an affectionate growl and lifted her from the basin. “No, child. It’s not that. Something has happened.”

  “What’s wrong?” said Hazel softly. “What has happened?”

  The vye handed her a chemise. “It is not for me to say.”

  Hazel studied her tutor before beginning the tedious process of dressing. So many layers before one even put on the gown: smallclothes, a chemise, stockings. She could call Olo in to help, but that would be the end of the conversation; Rascha would never talk freely in front of a maid.

  Fetching Hazel’s corset from the wardrobe, her tutor fastened it about her waist. Hazel never understood why her twiggy form required a corset but she obliged and sucked in her tummy.

  “Does it have anything to do with the Red Branch?” she asked.

  Silence as the vye tightened the corset. Once it was torturously snug, Rascha tied the laces. Hazel exhaled slowly.

  “Olo said one was in the vestibule,” she continued. “Did you see him?”

  “The Red Branch took your sisters down to the throne room. She will return for us.”

  Hazel’s ears pricked up. She will return for us. The agent was a woman! There was only one person that could be, and Hazel longed to meet her. Still, it was strange that the Red Branch should handle such mundane duties.

  “Why isn’t the regular guard escorting us? What’s wrong?”

  The vye did not answer as she unwrapped the dress. Smoothing the silk, she lowered it carefully over Hazel and began arranging the bustle.

  “Please tell me, Rascha,” said Hazel. “I’m not a baby.”

  A pause. “There may be enemies in the palace. Last night, criminals broke into the Lirlander Vault.”

  Hazel turned. The Lirlander Seals were her family’s prized assets. The Sacred Isle had been teeming with visitors from all over the world who came for the sole purpose of acquiring one. The auction had been last night, but Hazel had gone to bed before it started.

  “You’re joking,” she said.

  The vye gathered Hazel’s fine white hair in a barrette. “No. And that is not the worst of it. There were two murders.”

  Hazel’s arms turned to gooseflesh.

  “Who?” she whispered.

  The vye cleared her throat. “Sergeant Beecher of the Impyrial Guard and . . . Dr. Razael.”

  Hazel stared. “Uncle Basil’s old tutor?”

  Dàme Rascha nodded and dabbed a bit of rouge on Hazel’s pallid cheeks. “Dr. Razael was my cousin. That is why I was late.”

  Hazel did not know what to say. She studied the vye’s grieving face. More tears would be shed, but later and in private. “I’m so sorry,” Hazel said quietly. Her thoughts turned to her uncle, who was rarely seen without the company of his beloved tutor. “What about—?”

  The vye patted her cheek. “Lord Faeregine was also attacked, child. No—let me finish—your uncle is fine. His injuries were minor, thank the gods. And nothing was taken from the vault. The imposters were discovered before they could complete their crime.”

  “So, they were caught,” said Hazel.

  The vye shook her head grimly. “No. Which is why we wait for the Red Branch. You will be safer in their care.”

  “But they’re assassins.”

  “The best,” said Dàme Rascha. “Who better to protect you from killers?”

  Hazel hugged her giraffe. “Why would I be in danger? I don’t have any enemies.”

  The vye bared her teeth in a sudden grimace. “You are Hazel Faeregine, granddaughter of the Divine Empress. You’ve had enemies before you were born!”

  Hazel backed up a step. “Rascha, you’re frightening me.”

  “Good,” Rascha snapped. “I’ve kept you too sheltered. You are the most talented mystic I’ve ever taught, yet you waste your gifts making pillows fly. It’s time you woke up!”

  Snatching the stuffed giraffe from Hazel, Dàme Rascha flung it on the bed. Hazel flushed an angry pink, but could not help lingering on what her tutor had said.

  “You really think I’m talented?” she said hesitantly. Rascha was notoriously spare with praise.
>
  The vye sighed and cupped Hazel’s chin. “Your Highness, you have more magic than both your sisters put together. I can see it. Why can’t you?”

  Before Hazel could reply, there was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” said Dàme Rascha.

  The answer was curt. “Sigga.”

  Hazel felt a rush of nervous excitement. She had never seen Sigga Fenn in the flesh, but the agent was already famous. Even her origins were interesting. The newspapers said she was a native Grislander. Few humans dared set foot in the Grislands, much less grew up in those barren wastes.

  And this Grislander was not only the youngest member of the Red Branch but the order’s only female. In ancient times, the Red Branch had been revered as mystic-knights, champions of the realm. But that was long ago. Nowadays, the order did not inspire reverence so much as a respectful dread. They were the Spider’s prized soldiers, lethal shadows she deployed like chess pieces throughout her empire.

  Hazel tried not to gape as Dàme Rascha opened the door.

  Her first impression was that Sigga Fenn looked nothing like the Impyrial Guardsmen. The Red Branch did not stand at attention or dress in a starched uniform. She wore no gloves and her black boots were scuffed beyond polishing. Guardsmen carried pistols and carabines, but they were just regular humans, muir in the old tongue. Magical humans, or mehrùn, did not use firearms. Indeed, such weapons were considered so far beneath their station one would have been ridiculed, or even shunned, for doing so. Mehrùn were expected to possess more sophisticated means of defense. Blades were another matter, however, for there was honor in them. Sigga Fenn carried two black daggers, one sheathed at each hip.

  Sigga was very lean and tall—six feet at least—with brown hair shorn very close to a narrow skull. She wore no makeup or jewelry but her aspect was not masculine. The Grislander looked functional, as though she had no use for anything decorative or extraneous. Her only distinguishing mark was a tattoo of a crimson, upraised hand on her inner right wrist: the symbol of the Red Branch. Only twelve people bore that tattoo, and they were the deadliest killers in the world.

  Sigga Fenn glanced at Dàme Rascha with eyes so green and catlike Hazel wondered if there were demons in her ancestry. Such things were not unknown.