Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  With each stroke, the boatman rowed them faster and farther from shore than Hob would have thought possible. Once they passed the seawall, whitecaps dotted the open channel, but no water sloshed into the boat or even sprayed his face. Hob gripped the sides tightly. Witchcraft was at work here, some devilry that smoothed the waves and sped them toward the Sacred Isle. Was it the skiff or the boatman? Hob glanced at the hooded figure pulling smoothly on his oars. Its face remained downcast, perpetually shadowed.

  “How long will the trip take?” asked Hob.

  No answer.

  “We’re going so fast,” he remarked. “Are you a mystic?”

  Silence.

  The man certainly wasn’t talkative. But as they rowed farther from land, Hob could not shake the suspicion that the boatman was not a man at all.

  He glanced up at the sky. Clouds were scattering to reveal peeps of winter sun. Surely a fiend could not move about so in daylight. Evil spirits abhorred the sun and running water, would not cross a stream at sunset, much less brave an ocean channel in early afternoon. Every Dusk child knew that. Even Mole knew that!

  Yet with every minute, Hob’s misgivings intensified. He sat in the skiff, huddled in his greatcoat, eyes trained on the silvery mist that enveloped the island.

  Where is this Faeregine devil taking you? To the palace or the underworld?

  He wondered if there was a difference.

  The boatman had been rowing for some time when Hob glimpsed the maze. Its true scale was not apparent until they slipped within the mist.

  In his Fellowship classes, Hob had been taught that the Faeregines relied on propaganda to perpetuate their mystique. On Wyrm’s Way, their legends seemed like amusing stories to dupe the gullible. But there was nothing amusing about the chalk-white cliffs towering hundreds of feet above them. The maze’s walls looked like they were tilting forward, poised to topple and crush them like insects. Hob craned his neck, utterly speechless. No mortals—not even mehrùn—could have built such things. What if Mr. Burke and Ms. Marlowe were wrong? What if the Faeregines really were gods?

  The skiff began spinning like a broken compass needle. The boatman pulled mightily on one oar, driving them toward a wall. Hob gave an involuntary cry, braced himself to be dashed to pieces, only to exhale as they shot through a narrow opening hidden by some trick of engineering. More walls, some straight others curving. They continued spinning. Hob could not keep his bearings as the boatman allowed the skiff to hurtle past wider passages only to row down others so narrow that Hob was certain they’d be crushed. The boatman never looked up, but seemed to steer by some unholy instinct. With a retch, Hob bid farewell to that morning’s dumplings.

  And then, all at once, the spinning stopped.

  Relaxing his death grip, Hob cracked an eye to behold a placid harbor filled with ships of every size and description. Straight ahead, high upon its promontory, stood the Impyrial palace. Its architecture was almost organic and unlike anything Hob had ever seen. It looked like a crimson, many-spined sea creature sheltering patches of white barnacles clinging to the cliffs below. Except those weren’t barnacles. They were mansions.

  To its left, a gleaming white spire rose higher than anything else on the Sacred Isle. Hob knew it at once: Tùr an Ghrian, Tower of the Rising Sun. Beyond that monument of sorcery was Rowan itself, the ancient school of magic whose graduates dominated the world.

  Hob’s awe dwindled, replaced by a sense of purpose.

  Someday, we’ll tear all this down. Someday, it won’t matter if a kid’s born muir or mehrùn. They’ll all go to schools where they can learn the truth instead of Faeregine lies.

  Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, Hob checked to make sure he hadn’t gotten sick on his coat. Someone would be meeting him at the pier and he wanted to look his best. Squaring his suitcase, he sat up straight and tried not to gape at the ships docked or anchored about the harbor. One black and gold galleon must have been four hundred feet long. Tiny figures moved about decks high above the waterline. Hob wondered how the maze could accommodate such a gargantuan vessel, much less its escort of warships. Were there different paths through the maze?

  A flash caught his eye. A beacon was burning on the galleon’s prow, so bright it looked like a tiny star. It must have been a Lirlander Seal, one of those passkeys to cross demon waters. Hob had read about them aboard the Transcontinental.

  When Hob had asked why someone would steal them, Mr. Burke explained that many parties wished to do away with the Lirlander Seals. They were one of the main props supporting the Divine Empress. Snatch them away and the royal family would no longer be gatekeepers to the sea. Any of the Great Houses could be responsible—all stood to benefit if the Faeregines lost control over trade. As for the Lirlanders, they’d hated the Seals ever since Mina I created them. Accounts of the crime had interested Hob greatly. Gazing back at that galleon, he wondered if the authorities would ever catch the culprits.

  Just do your job, a little voice reminded him.

  Lirlander Seals were not his concern. His priority was Hazel Faeregine. His first report was due later that week. Turning back to the palace, he scanned hundreds of windows among the spiraling towers. Which one belonged to Her Highness?

  The boatman made for a smaller dock. Hob saw identical skiffs rising and falling on the swell, their occupants hunched against the February gales. Bells pealed from inland, chiming a faint melody before tolling one o’clock. Could that be right? Hob glanced at the cloaked figure across from him. Whatever it was, it had rowed him across fifteen miles of windswept chop in less than an hour. Sorcery indeed.

  A robust, elderly man with thick gray hair and a dark suit was waiting at the pier. As the skiff bumped the dock, he extended a hand down to take Hob’s suitcase.

  “I’m Oliveiro, seventh underbutler. And you must be Mr. Smythe. Welcome to Rowan.”

  “Thank you,” said Hob. He reached in his pocket. “Do I tip the boatman?”

  The man laughed. “No. Just get out before it rows you back.”

  The earthy welcome comforted Hob, who took the man’s hand and stepped up onto the pier. The warm feeling died when he glanced back at the departing skiff.

  The boatman was looking up at them. Beneath its hood, Hob beheld an almost featureless face of gray, puckered skin. No nose or mouth, just two wide-set eyes whose lids were sewn shut with heavy black thread. The creature resembled an old doll left outside to rot.

  You’re a stranger in a strange land.

  Oliveiro waved it away. “Begone you! Back with the others.”

  Lowering its head, the boatman slowly backed its oars.

  “What are they?” asked Hob.

  Oliveiro hefted his suitcase. “Never you mind. First rule of life on the Sacred Isle: don’t ask too many questions. You’ll see lots of things you’ve never come across in— Where are you from?”

  “Dusk.”

  “I’m sorry to say I’ve never heard of it,” he said genially. “Don’t be too offended. I don’t know much of the Muirlands. My family’s served the Faeregines for twelve generations.”

  “Are you mehrùn?”

  Oliveiro shook his head. “Muir as beer. Come on.”

  The man led Hob over a frozen beach to a guardhouse built into the cliff base. A pair of Impyrial Guardsman flanked a doorway whose braziers blazed with witchfire. Inside, a mystic in navy robes was playing arcadia with a domovoi. With a cackle, the gnomish creature jumped his wyvern two levels to capture a marble witch. The mystic groaned.

  “Looks like we’ve arrived just in time,” said Oliveiro.

  The mystic sighed. “I’m down six lunes. Twelve if I don’t reclaim my gate.”

  “Well,” said Oliveiro, “forestall poverty a moment to scan our young friend. Dàme Rascha just poached him.”

  The woman looked up from the game to assess Hob. Like many mystics, her pupils were different colors: one an inhuman orange, the other a silvery splash of mercury. Holding his gaze, she rose from t
he table.

  “You haven’t spent much time consorting with mehrùn,” she observed. “Repeat that for me.”

  “I . . . haven’t spent much time with mehrùn.”

  “Consorting with mehrùn,” she corrected.

  Hob repeated the phrase exactly as she wished.

  She nodded and turned her attention to the paperwork Oliveiro handed her. “So tell me, Mr. Smythe, do you intend harm to any member of the royal family?”

  “No,” said Hob. It was no lie; his duties were simply to observe Hazel Faeregine and report on her activities.

  The mystic asked several more questions with a cool, detached air that belied their seriousness. Hob’s answers tumbled forth as though plucked by nimble fingers.

  “Are you in league with another noble house, the Atropos, the Fellowship, the Grislands Confederates, any Zenuvian interests, or Lirlanders?”

  “No,” said Hob.

  To his surprise and relief, the mystic appeared satisfied. “Very well. Open your bag and step within that circle.”

  She gestured to a silver pentagram etched in the floor. Hob stared at it with deep mistrust. Mehrùn used such inscriptions to summon beings from spirit realms. If he stepped inside, would it banish him to another world? The mystic laughed.

  “You’re on the Sacred Isle. Gods help you if you balk at basic scrying circles.”

  Hob stepped carefully within the diagram, tensing as its inscriptions gleamed. Meanwhile, the mystic was sorting through his suitcase. She picked up his Impyrial handbook and flipped through several pages. Surely those strange eyes would detect the spypaper. But she merely set it aside and glanced at the pentagram whose sigils were pulsing green.

  “You’re free to go, muir.”

  I guess the Fellowship knows what it’s doing, thought Hob gratefully. He followed Oliveiro through a tunnel leading into the cliffs.

  “Please, sir. You don’t have to carry my suitcase.”

  The underbutler laughed. “I carry everyone’s bag their first day. Savor it, Mr. Smythe. You’ll curse my name soon enough. While we make our way up, let me familiarize you with our rules. The Sylvas are a fine family, but you serve the Faeregines now. This is the House of God.”

  There was no irony in the man’s tone, only a sincere, almost endearing reverence. Did Oliveiro really believe the Divine Empresses were deities? Maybe he did. His family had served the Faeregines for twelve generations.

  Palace life might be all Oliveiro knew, but he certainly knew a lot and shared his knowledge with Hob as they ascended a series of tunnels and ramps. His first love seemed to be the dos and don’ts of service etiquette.

  “An exemplary page anticipates needs. He is honest, forthright, and obeys his superiors at all times. Do not maintain eye contact with royal persons. Do not address mehrùn by their first names unless given permission. I take it you’ve memorized your handbook?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many siblings does the Divine Empress have?”

  “Seven, although six are deceased.”

  “Who remains?”

  “Lady Herra. The grand duchess resides in South Tracey.”

  Oliveiro grunted. “What’s the sigil of House Hyde?”

  “A red sword on a black field.”

  “Who commissioned the palace expansion of 1788?”

  “Mina the Twenty-third.”

  “Hmph,” said Oliveiro. “Wipe that smirk off your face. It’s unbecoming.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, young man, who is our head butler?”

  “Mr. Oswald Dunn. Mrs. Bhargava is the housekeeper.”

  “What about the sous-chef?”

  Hob searched his mind. “I . . . have no idea. Was that in the handbook?”

  Oliveiro looked pleased. “The handbook covers basic information, but over two thousand merry souls serve in the palace. And that doesn’t include the Impyrial Guard or Rowan’s faculty and staff. I expect you to know each in due time. But first we must get you sniffed.”

  Hob glanced at Oliveiro as they paused at a pair of swinging doors. Did the man just say sniffed? “I don’t understand, sir. Are there dogs?”

  Thrusting the doors inward, Oliveiro ushered Hob through a cloud of fragrant steam into an enormous, low-ceilinged kitchen.

  “Not dogs, Mr. Smythe. Hags.”

  Hob found himself staring at dozens of squat, burly figures dicing vegetables and tenderizing meats. The nearest gave a sniff, and raised a vaguely female head to peer at Hob with a pair of piggish eyes. Dropping her cleaver, she hurried over to pinch and knead his arm.

  “Nicely marbled,” she muttered. “Good work, Olly. He’ll go down smooth.”

  “Now, now,” said the underbutler uneasily. “You know perfectly well he’s a new employee and not a meal.”

  The hag ignored him and started flinging seasonings at Hob from nearby bowls. She scented the air as they settled upon him. “Sage,” she decided. “Maybe some parsley . . .”

  By now the other hags had noticed—or smelled—the new arrival. Abandoning their stations, they swarmed down the aisles, swatting aside the hanging hams and cheeses.

  Oliveiro took a firm hold of Hob’s wrist as the mob enveloped him. “Ladies! Ladies, control yourselves,” he cried. “Where’s Bombasta?”

  “Present,” grunted the brute who had Hob in a headlock.

  Oliveiro gasped. “Madam, you have forgotten yourself. Perhaps Gorgo should run the kitchens.”

  The hag instantly released Hob and wheeled on the others. “Line up!”

  Cursing and muttering, the hags shuffled off to arrange themselves by height before a row of gleaming ovens. Bombasta swaggered after them, cuffing those who dragged their clogs. A minute later, thirty-seven hags stood at surly, drooling attention.

  Oliveiro brushed flour and crushed bay leaves from Hob’s coat. “I’m terribly sorry. They can get a trifle enthusiastic.”

  Lights swam before Hob’s eyes. He massaged his throat, trying to fathom why the Faeregines would even keep hags. They were infamous creatures: cunning, cruel, and ravenous. Dusk drove them off the instant any were seen prowling about the palisades. Hob couldn’t possibly stay here; he’d be eaten within the week.

  Oliveiro explained that kitchen hags were a Rowan tradition predating even Mina I. Beastly but gifted in the culinary line, and manageable if proper precautions were taken.

  “They were not in the handbook,” Hob croaked.

  “Naturally,” said Oliveiro. “But once you’ve been sniffed you needn’t worry.”

  He led Hob to the head of the line where Bombasta was adjusting her wimple. It was hard to reconcile the flowery apron and frock with the glowering enormity that wore them. That face! The only explanation was some primordial romance between a crocodile and a pig.

  “Whatchoo starin’ at?” she growled.

  “Nothing,” Hob blurted. “I’ve never met a hag before.”

  “You ain’t meeting a hag. You is meeting the hag. Bombasta Shrope at your service.”

  “You ain’t no Shrope!” hissed her neighbor, a pasty horror with sparse, carroty hair.

  Bombasta ignored her. “I’m head chef,” she continued proudly. “You need anything down here, I’m the gal to see. Let’s have a look at that arm, eh?”

  At Oliveiro’s prodding (and against all natural instinct) Hob removed his greatcoat and jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Seizing it without ceremony, Bombasta pressed her wet nostrils to his wrist. A guttural moan escaped her lips as she dragged her snout up to his elbow. If this was not horrifying enough (and it was fairly horrifying), the hag provided running commentary.

  “Rustic flavors. Nice with horseradish. No . . . too bold. Stew ’im with sage. Done!”

  With a shriek, the hag flung his arm away as though it suddenly repelled her. Her snarky neighbor snatched it and offered the toothiest, most petrifying grin Hob had ever encountered.

  “I’m Gorgo, dearie. First sous and—unlike some I could mentio
n—direct spawn of the Shropes.”

  Oliveiro groaned. “Now is not the time for feuds.”

  The hag scowled at him before pressing her nose to the slimy trail Bombasta had left behind. She gave a derisive snort.

  “This boy ain’t no stew! He’s a pastry! Peasant pie with a side o’ greens. You only said stew ’cause you bake like a ninny. Done!”

  Once again Hob’s arm was flung aside and snatched by the next hag. More sniffings ensued, some sufficiently vigorous that Oliveiro intervened. Hob endured the ordeal with as much stoicism as he could muster. By his count, nineteen hags proclaimed him a perfectly obvious stew, while seventeen insisted he was a pie. A saucier remained undecided.

  When they finally left the kitchens, Hob needed a moment to recover. The underbutler had intended to show him the palace laundry and mail room but changed tack when he noticed that Hob had sweated through his suit.

  “Boatmen and hags are enough for one afternoon,” he said kindly. “Let’s get you settled. I’ll have your things laundered and you can start fresh tomorrow.”

  An infinitely grateful Hob followed him down a corridor and up a broad staircase past a bevy of busy maids and pages. Hob gave a start as a blip of golden light whooshed over his head and rounded a corner, nimble as a hummingbird.

  “What was that?”

  “Zephyss,” said Oliveiro, holding a door. “Messenger orbs. Someone probably wants his shoes polished. Come along. Two more flights and we’re almost home.”

  Hob followed, taking in aromas of tweed, wood polish, and old stone. The Sylva manor had been saturated with the smell of candles and perfume. They were still below ground, but Hob could already sense a profound difference. The Sylvas had money and ambition; the Faeregines had taste and tradition. One wanted power; the other had it.

  That tradition was even more evident as they reached the servant quarters where portraits of past head butlers and housekeepers were hung in neat rows: ladies adorning the left-hand corridor, the men on the right. A pretty maid of about fourteen brushed past them carrying a silver tray. Glancing at Hob, she flashed a smile, which he was happy to return. Oliveiro promptly ushered Hob down the page’s hallway and resumed his earlier lecture.