Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  Mr. Bailey kept pace with them. “No worries, Your Highness, no worries. Just dish on this nugget. Are you sweet on a page named Hobson Smythe?”

  Hazel walked swiftly ahead, her face burning in the cold. Isabel had stopped, but all she wanted to do was get inside, to shut out the laughter and catcalls that followed her. She was used to pushy journalists and impertinent questions, but this struck a different kind of nerve. Of course she wasn’t “sweet” on Hob—the notion was ridiculous—but it was just the kind of story that would make life impossible. Who would spread such a rumor?

  She knew the instant she spied Imogene Hyde chatting with Tatiana Castile, Rika Yamato, and a few other court brats in the cavernous entry hall. They were standing by the bar, a sinuous stretch of redwood beneath floating glass sculptures. Several feet away, Lord Willem Hyde was holding court with the Castile and Yamato patriarchs. Imogene’s mother was absent, but Dante stood at his father’s elbow, a youthful version of his balding sire. Catching sight of Hazel, Imogene beamed and beckoned for her to join them.

  Hazel ignored the invitation and allowed a servant to take her coat. Isabel stormed in a moment later.

  “Idiots,” she seethed, shaking off her coat. “At least Matthias flung that reporter’s notebook into the harbor. Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” said Hazel. “I think Imogene started the rumor.”

  Isabel glared at the girls by the bar. “Of course she did.”

  Someone called Hazel’s name. She turned to see Uncle Basil approaching with an entourage of ministers. He looked slimmer and more cheerful than when Hazel saw him last. Sending his guests ahead, he stopped to embrace his nieces.

  “You look beautiful, both of you. I know I have to say these things, but it’s true.”

  “You look dashing yourself,” said Isabel.

  Their uncle appraised them again, this time with a wistful air. “Only yesterday you were gummy, hairless creatures and now you’re attending your first phantasia.”

  Before he could leave, Hazel tugged his elbow and lowered her voice. “A reporter said you were stepping down from the bank. Can that be true?”

  His face darkened. “Who said that? Was it that man from the Bee?”

  Hazel nodded.

  “I’ve had enough of him,” he muttered before glancing at Hazel and softening his tone. “Don’t let such rumors upset you. I’m not going anywhere. Our family still controls the bank. Our family will always control the bank.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Good,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll see you two in the box. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about my mermaid, you thief. I want her back.”

  Isabel watched him go. “What was that about? What mermaid?”

  “The Little Mermaid. I borrowed-slash-stole it.”

  Isabel linked her arm with Hazel’s as they made their way through the glitterati. “I never liked that story. What’s so charming about an amphibious stalker? If you ask me, she was creepy . . .”

  The pair debated this all the way to the royal box. It was the largest and centermost suite on the grand tier with a commanding view of the stage, orchestra pits, and (most important) the audience. The box was already half-full, mostly with minor Faeregines from the mainland. Every relation—no matter how tenuous or distant—got to sit in the royal box once during his or her lifetime. They promptly stood when Hazel and Isabel entered.

  The girls offered polite smiles, but made straight for Dàme Rascha and Archemnos, who had taken seats in the second row. Hob and the other servants stood at attention along an aisle.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, coming up to him. “I thought this would be, you know, fun. But it looks more like work.”

  Hob smiled. “Not at all, Your Highness. Do you remember Mr. Grayson?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Hazel, glancing at the page who had been with Hob at the duel. “How nice to see you again.”

  He bowed.

  Isabel beckoned from the pair of seats she’d claimed in the first row. “Come on!”

  Hazel’s sister was eager to begin spying on other patrons, a favorite pastime going back to their first recitals. Already, she and Pamplemousse were scanning the hall for interesting subjects. Sitting next to her, Hazel let Merlin dangle his tiny legs over the railing. He craned his neck to observe his fellow domanocti settling like starlings on a special perch near the ceiling.

  “Scandal sighted,” Isabel whispered. “By the woodwinds. I believe—yes, there he goes again—that Lord Martin is squeezing that woman’s bottom.”

  The girls snickered. Isabel scanned the boxes on their tier belonging to other Great Houses. She raised her glasses. “Duke Eluvan is really letting himself go.”

  Pamplemousse took a peek. “That’s not a duke; it’s a monument.”

  Meanwhile, the orchestras were warming up. A bassoon’s warbling note rose above the fray. Isabel swiveled about.

  “I didn’t know Montague was here.”

  The girls doubled over with laughter, but Pamplemousse was not amused. “I’ll ask you not to disparage my maker.”

  “How does that work?” asked Hazel, recovering herself. “I mean, you’re only a few weeks old and you already know so much.”

  “Alchemy,” replied the homunculus. “We all get drops of this or that. I fear your Merlin received too much antimony.”

  Merlin said nothing, but scratched his ear with a wingtip.

  “When do I get to see through your eyes?” asked Isabel.

  Pamplemousse patted her arm. “Soon, my dear. The bonding process takes time. No self-respecting familiar hands over powers on the first date.”

  Lights dimmed as chimes signaled the performance would begin. Below, patrons streamed through the doors as ushers guided them to their seats.

  “Did you get a program?” asked Hazel.

  “There are none,” replied Isabel. “Only the performers know what’s in store. Dr. Phoebus composes each Grotesque while he’s in a trance.”

  The lights dimmed further as musicians ceased their warm-up. Most of the seats were now filled, including the Lirlanders’ box. Hazel saw Lord Kraavh, his eyes three luminous slits. A feeling of tense expectation settled over the vast hall. Hazel peeked at Hob, but he was watching the door.

  The royal chamberlain’s tenor called out, “Her Radiance, the Divine Empress Mina the Forty-second.”

  Hazel and thousands of others stood as the Spider, accompanied by Violet and two bodyguards, made her way down the aisle. As usual, her grandmother eschewed elaborate costumery for a simple outfit in Faeregine red. She wore no makeup or jewelry save the Impyrial crown perched atop her balding head. In the stage spotlight’s glare, her face looked like a death mask. Her expression was drawn and rigid with thin lips set in a widow’s grimace. She might have been a corpse but for her eyes. They were very much alive—sharp and black, shrewd as a jeweler’s. No one in the royal box was spared their attention as she shuffled down the steps. Her gaze lingered longest on Hazel.

  Everyone remained standing until the empress was situated. Laying a translucent hand on Uncle Basil, the Spider gave her son a loveless kiss as he eased her into her seat.

  Isabel leaned close. “She looks so frail.”

  Hazel nodded as they sat. She had been thinking the same. It was one thing to view a goddess upon a golden throne, but quite another to watch an arthritic crone inch down some stairs. Everyone would be speculating how much time the Spider had left. A year? A month? Hazel pitied Violet. She would be empress soon.

  There was a brilliant flash before the hall plunged into darkness. Several people in the audience cried out. Hazel gripped Isabel’s hand.

  “Is this part of the performance?”

  Isabel’s response was strangely muted. “I—I don’t know.”

  Hazel felt blindly for Merlin, but he seemed to have disappeared. Waving a hand before her eyes, she saw nothing, felt nothing—not even the chair beneath her. She might have been suspended in
ink. Even the sound of her breathing had vanished. Something was systematically smothering her senses.

  A subsonic humming began, deep and slow. Its vibrations crept up Hazel’s body. Gradually, her heart adjusted to its slow, primitive beat.

  Thump-thump . . . thump-thump . . . thump-thump.

  Another vibration set Hazel’s molars tingling. She had not let go of Isabel’s hand, but she could not feel her sister’s warmth. There was only the Sound, and it seemed infinite.

  Her mind was floating. How long had she been sitting here. Hours? Days? How many heartbeats? Everything had gone numb.

  Suddenly, she smelled lilac. Just a hint, but it brought a flood of memories. She was playing in a garden under the summer sun. A woman sat nearby, staring out at the sea. She was not yet forty, pretty but careworn with thick black hair that whipped in the breeze. Hazel noticed a signet ring on her finger. A plump little boy brought over a beetle he’d found. The woman gave an obligatory smile before looking at Hazel.

  “Cover up, Arianna, you’re starting to burn.”

  Boom!

  Hazel cried out as a jolt shook the hall. Kettledrums were roaring, accompanied by thunder sheets and discordant bells. Hazel writhed in her seat, disoriented and frightened.

  The drumming subsided as lights appeared before her eyes, blossoms of purest color that gamboled about, marvelously alive and tragically ephemeral. They left an aching void when they faded. Would Hazel ever see anything so beautiful again? Why had she ever taken such wonders for granted?

  Drums returned: louder, faster, predatory. They reminded her of the Direwood. Did singing accompany them? Hazel thought she heard a chorus of faint ethereal voices.

  Boom!

  Another jolt and the concert hall returned. The dim stage was crawling with grossly elongated figures. The silhouetted forms squirmed and intertwined, swaying up like serpents poised to battle or mate. The spectacle was revolting yet spellbinding.

  Isabel tapped her shoulder and pointed up. Hazel’s jaw dropped. Onstage, the dancers’ movements appeared abstract. Upon the ceiling their shadows were pantomiming a story.

  Hazel tried to fathom how such chaotic movements could project such precise and complex shadows. Was it magic or sheer artistry?

  More instruments joined the fray. One orchestra played melodies, the other jarring cacophonies. Often, it seemed they were trying to shout over one another. But every so often the sounds converged, creating harmonic nodes of such beauty that Hazel could hardly breathe.

  The dance was building toward something. The music took on a nightmarish quality. Roving spotlights shone on the nemone dancers, illuminating their bizarre, fantastic forms.

  Nemones were technically human but it was hard to believe. For thousands of years they had been bred to create extremes of balletic line and form. The result was hairless, androgynous beings who moved with uncanny, almost jointless fluidity. Some stood eight or nine feet tall, with three-foot necks and sleekly muscled limbs. They spent their entire lives on the Île des Rêves, cared for by servants. Dr. Phoebus might compose and conduct the phantasias, but the nemones were the star attraction.

  Hazel turned to see how Hob was enjoying the performance. To her dismay, he stood perfectly rigid with an expression of contained revulsion. Her heart sank. She’d wanted to dazzle him, show him something of royal life the way he’d been sharing his experiences in the Muirlands. Maybe phantasias and nemones were an acquired taste.

  The orchestras fell silent so that only a single musician remained playing. Applause sounded and Hazel turned from Hob to see a spotlight shining on a kitsune in flowered robes plucking a red belyaël. Reisu was the most famous musician in Impyrium, a being whose gifts (two extra arms and sixteen extra fingers) gave her a unique ability to manipulate the instrument’s many strings and slide beads.

  But extra fingers were not needed for the piece she was now playing. Its simple notes were discordant and menacing. Onstage, the nemones backed away as something rose through the floor.

  The huge figure was vaguely anthropomorphic. Was it a beast? A bird? Hazel could not say, but it must have required several nemones working together beneath some kind of feathered pelt. Its form looked unsettlingly familiar. The creature was pulsing, shaking, straining against its chains. Strange shadows now danced upon the walls. Hazel rested her chin on the railing. What was that thing?

  A child-size figure flitted onstage wearing what looked like the Faeregine crown. It circled the mountain of feathers, soothing and stroking it. The other nemones were growing wild and agitated. The crowned figure tried to order them about, to conduct their patterns, but the leaping dancers knocked it to the floor. The figure retreated to center stage where the quaking black mound was tethered. Isabel whispered in Hazel’s ear.

  “I think the feathered thing’s supposed to be the Reaper.”

  Hazel nodded. She suspected as much when the crowned figure had appeared. Mina III had been a weak ruler, which might explain why she was portrayed as a child.

  When the tiny dancer placed its crown atop the hulking figure, there was an explosion of light and sound. Bursting its chains, the Reaper drew herself up and up, dwarfing even the tallest nemones. They retreated as bright green flames radiated from her, spilling over the stage and racing up the walls. The audience applauded the first-rate illusion.

  But not Hazel. She watched in dry-mouthed horror as the monstrosity prowled about the stage. Periodically, it would rush at one of the nemones and engulf it in a frenzied shaking of black feathers. When the Reaper moved on, its victim had disappeared and it had grown larger.

  The music grew wilder. Below, Dr. Phoebus was slashing left and right with his batons. Were his works really based on visions? The Reaper reigned over two thousand years ago. Why was she the subject of this Grotesque? Had the Reaper’s Direwood whisperings somehow reached or influenced Dr. Phoebus?

  Onstage, the nemones formed two rings that rotated in opposite directions around the monster. With their long, undulating movements, they appeared to glide rather than step.

  Their beguiling patterns had a purpose. A sword was being passed among them, its presence visible to the audience but not to the bloodthirsty goddess. Whenever she appeared close to discovering the blade, its holder would flip it to another dancer with astounding skill and dexterity.

  Flickering green flames were turning gold. The Reaper’s search became frantic. The nemones scattered before her, darting just out of reach, passing the sword so quickly Hazel often lost track of it. The Reaper spun about. It lunged at a dancer, only to find it empty-handed . . .

  I’ve been waiting for you.

  The stage vanished as the ghostly whisper sounded in Hazel’s mind. She was no longer sitting in a concert hall, but dozing in a hammock. Someone was shaking her and none too gently. Hazel cracked an eye open. A teenaged boy stood over her holding a half-shuttered lantern.

  “Cap’n wants coffee.”

  Hazel was shocked to hear herself make a reply. “Make it yerself, Ratter. I just turned in.”

  “Ya turned in three hours ago. Up, or I cut ya down, Danny.”

  Why was he calling her Danny? When Hazel didn’t move, Ratter held a small blade to one of the taut ropes suspending the hammock. Hazel scrambled out to find she was already dressed in canvas clothes and cheap, sturdy shoes. Steadying herself against the ship’s roll, she staggered to a little washbasin. The bleary face blinking in the mirror was not her own.

  She was a boy!

  There was no mistaking it. Hazel Faeregine was a disheveled, drowsy boy no older than eight who looked like all he wanted was to crawl back in his hammock. Yawning, he snatched a cap with Polestar stitched on its wool in white thread. Snugging it down over his mousy brown hair, he glared up at Ratter before making his way to a tiny kitchen where he proceeded to grind little brown beans and heat a kettle of water.

  Another whisper: The world has been waiting for us.

  A sudden jolt shook the ship. Hazel crashed into
a bulkhead, knocking the kettle off the stove as cooking utensils rained down. Boiling water scalded her hand; she fumbled for a dish towel. Panic set her heart fluttering. She gazed about, frightened and confused. What was happening? She gave a cry as the ship ground to a shuddering halt.

  Cries sounded from on deck, followed by a scream that froze her marrow. Dropping the dish towel, she huddled in the corner, a mouse too frightened to move. Heavy footsteps raced past. A hoarse shout aft—the captain calling for all hands.

  A cannon fired, its roar rattling the galley. Others followed, seemingly at random. The din was enormous. There were more screams. Hazel clamped her blistered hands over her ears. Someone burst in—the older boy from earlier. Ratter was deathly pale. He clutched a carpenter’s mallet and hissed at Hazel to get below, to hide anywhere she could—

  Timbers exploded as something swept through the galley, obliterating its upper half like matchsticks. Ratter was gone; he might never have existed. Hazel remained huddled in her spot. Icy rain pelted down upon her. She looked up to see a roiling black sky. Something had sheared the roof clean away.

  You see what we are facing.

  Something sinuous rose up to fill Hazel’s view, a thorny tentacle lit from beneath by a phosphorescent shimmer. It was huge beyond imagining, even bigger than the masts. It swayed up toward the clouds, curling back like a great whip. When it began to descend, Hazel shut her eyes and recited a prayer she’d never heard before.

  It is time to let me in.

  Hazel gave a violent start. She was back in the concert hall, clutching Isabel’s hand. Kettledrums were thundering, shaking the very seats. Onstage, the Reaper had its back turned to a nemone, who suddenly revealed the sword it was hiding. The blade flashed like fire as the nemone brandished it once . . . twice. . . . The Reaper whirled about just as the stroke fell. The blade plunged deep into its heart.

  Whoosh!

  The Reaper burst into hundreds of live ravens, screaming and cawing, wings flapping as they wheeled about the concert hall and soared out slender skylights. The flames chased them out, vanishing with a mad crash of cymbals.