Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

At Rascha’s signal, Hob produced the four foil-stamped tickets. Hazel blinked at them.

  “I don’t understand . . .” She turned to Rascha with delighted shock. “You tricked me!”

  The vye’s old eyes twinkled. “You may thank Agent Fenn. The tickets are her gift.”

  Sigga shrugged off Hazel’s thanks. “You need a holiday. Besides, Ferropolis is my team. Come on, or we’ll miss kickoff.”

  The four walked briskly through the gardens, joining thousands on their way to the match. Hazel gazed about at the flags and colorful outfits, covering her ears when they passed by drummers and fife players.

  The coliseum loomed ahead, an enormous structure of limestone and red marble ringed by halos of witchfire. Roaring chants could be heard within, accompanied by horns and the rhythmic stamping of countless feet. Hazel looked both thrilled by the pageantry and overwhelmed by all the noise and activity.

  By the time they reached their seats, she could scarcely breathe. Far below on the emerald pitch, the team captains were shaking hands. Hob and Sigga sat on the outside with Hazel and Dàme Rascha in the middle. Her Highness turned to Hob.

  “So, what’s happening? How does this the game work?”

  “Pretty straightforward,” said Hob. “The team that scores the most goals wins.”

  He was practically yelling as the teams took the field and the crowd worked itself into a frenzy. “What’s a goal?” she screamed. Hazel listened intently as he explained the basics.

  “They can’t touch the ball with their hands?” she asked.

  “No, mostly they use their feet.”

  “But that’s silly.”

  “It’s the rules.”

  “So many rules,” she groaned, before becoming thoroughly flummoxed by the concept of offsides. Hob tried to explain, but not even shouting sufficed when Ferropolis kicked off.

  He fell silent as the incandescent ball blazed a fiery arc over the field. Players from both sides tried to position themselves under it. As it plunged to earth, however, great waves suddenly rippled across the field, as though an invisible giant was shaking out a carpet.

  Some players toppled like tenpins, others kept their feet, battling one another to take control of the ball as the enchanted field heaved and churned. Hazel shrieked and laughed, seizing Hob’s wrist in her excitement. She let go abruptly, cheering as Impyria’s midfielder took control of the ball and raced downfield. He feinted left, tangling a defender’s foot as he spun right to close upon the goalie and—

  The stadium groaned as a wave of turf broadsided him like a rhino. He went somersaulting over the grass to land in a crumpled heap. Leaping over the submerging wave, the goalie cleared the ball to a defender. It was all too much for Merlin, who retreated inside Hazel’s coat.

  Hob watched the match with fierce attention, marveling at the players’ athleticism and dexterity. It wasn’t natural, of course (each player was a mystic skilled at amplifying their physical capabilities), but it was breathtaking to watch human beings run faster than Cheshirewulfs or leap fifty feet over rippling walls of turf. Players passed and shot with such power, the glowing ball was often a blur.

  Ferropolis scored first, a fifty-yard bullet whose phosphorescent trail showed its curving path. Hazel cheered wildly. Minutes later, Impyria answered on a header from a player thirty feet in the air. Hazel clapped and tried to imitate the ear-piercing whistle of a nearby fan.

  “You can’t cheer both teams,” Hob shouted as Impyria’s supporters broke into song.

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve got to pick a side,” Hob insisted. “You stick with your team.”

  “Poo on that!” she cried, and joined the Impyrian fight song. Merlin hooted.

  The two were still hooting and singing when the match ended ninety minutes later. Impyria had defeated Ferropolis 5–4. Sigga was unhappy, but the stadium shook with a celebratory fervor as they filed down the ramps and past the colonnades.

  “That was marvelous,” Hazel croaked, her voice quite gone.

  Dàme Rascha agreed, looking up at the sky, a blaze of orange and pink. “I’ll get a carriage,” she said. “We meet Spritely at six thirty.”

  “We’ve still got time yet,” said Hazel. She walked over to a cart where a vendor was stamping medallions with the match’s date and outcome. “We’ll take four,” she said eagerly.

  She watched with delight as the man placed the copper disks on the press and pulled a lever. She chose four distinct ribbons and proudly paid the man with a banknote. The vendor thought it was his lucky day until Sigga insisted on change.

  “Yes, I forgot they have different numbers,” said Hazel, thrusting the bills in her purse. “No matter. I’ve never had such fun.”

  She gave each of her companions a medallion, selecting the blue ribbon for Hob and the green for herself. Sigga placed the red one around her neck. She looked strangely moved.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Hazel. “I just hope I still have enough for that painting.”

  Dàme Rascha sighed and steered the princess through the gradually thinning crowds. Hazel, not remotely ready to go home, stopped to buy some fried dough dipped in honey and brown sugar. She promptly declared they were the best things she’d eaten in all her life.

  “Why don’t we have these?” she asked Rascha earnestly. “They’re much better than those fruit tarts. I’m going to make inquiries.”

  Streetlamps changed from green to red as they reentered the Magistrate District. The avenues were broad, the buildings huge with marble statues flanking their entries. Rascha pointed to the behemoth ahead on their right.

  “The Bank of Rowan.”

  “What are all those people doing?” said Hazel.

  She pointed to a crowd gathering at its steps, standing behind a line of Impyrial Guardsmen holding carabines across their chests. A few held signs, some were shouting.

  “Protesters,” said Sigga. “I think people want answers about that ship.”

  “What ship?” asked Hazel.

  “A trade galleon disappeared off Malakos late last night,” said Sigga. “From the reports, it sounds like Lirlanders might have attacked it.”

  Hazel blinked slowly, as though the news was not merely upsetting but had shaken something deeper. “What’s the ship’s name?” she asked softly.

  “Polestar,” said Sigga, surveying the growing crowd. “We should get going.”

  The Grislander led them across the street, past the stock exchange. They’d reached the Workshop museum when Dàme Rascha noticed something was wrong with Hazel.

  Her Highness was crying.

  She stood in the middle of the sidewalk in her camel hair coat, clutching her souvenir medal, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Rascha quickly ushered her to the side, in front of the museum’s plate glass window displaying a silver motorcar.

  Hob was baffled why the princess was so upset. He tried to come over but the vye, who had practically enveloped Hazel, waved him away. Hob glanced to see if Sigga would yield any clues as to what was wrong, but the agent was busy watching the crowd and those hurrying past them to join it.

  The number of protesters was growing quickly. Dozens were now hundreds. Isolated shouts were becoming angry chants. There was a tension in the air, an electric charge that the crowd seemed to both generate and feed upon.

  Hob climbed onto a streetlamp’s pedestal for a better view. From this perspective, the protesters looked like a hive of agitated bees. Their swelling ranks were a sea of surging, jittering motion. By contrast, the guardsmen were a motionless red wall, stoic and unblinking. The nearest protesters were just feet away, separated by low barricades.

  This won’t end well.

  He scanned the crowd to see if any protesters were carrying anything resembling a weapon. His eyes fell upon someone he knew.

  Badu Gabriel, his friend from Fellowship orientation, was brandishing a sign and shouting himself hoarse. Other familiar faces emerged, spaced
at remarkably even intervals throughout the crowd. Some had been in Hob’s own cohort; others he recognized from the hallways and dining halls. The Fellowship was here in force, and its members appeared to be the primary agitators.

  The spectacle excited Hob, who felt a little envious. This was what he thought he would be doing when he signed up for the Fellowship—confronting authority and making his voice heard. Badu and the others were making a visible, tangible difference while Hob was tutoring a sweet and harmless princess about the Muirlands.

  Hob hopped off the pedestal, worried that someone might recognize him and say something. His fears were unfounded, however. A glance at the museum window reminded him that he was still disguised by Sigga’s illusion. Dàme Rascha was still kneeling by Hazel, who clung to her tutor like a child stirred from a nightmare.

  Hob turned as the protesters erupted in a frenzied chorus of angry shouts. Files of Impyrial Guardsmen emerged from the bank’s great doors to escort some men down the steps. Even at a distance, Hob recognized Lord Faeregine. Hazel’s uncle was accompanied by a dour Lord Hyde, Lord Yamato, and another man—a civilian—who wore a brimmed hat and topcoat.

  Lord Faeregine waved genially to the crowd as though they were staunch supporters and not a mob calling for his head. Hazel had realized her uncle was there. Leaving Rascha’s side, she went to stand by Sigga and watched him try to make a statement. It was no use: the crowd’s shouting drowned out what he was trying to say. He gave up after the second try.

  Meanwhile, the guardsmen by the barricades were moving the protesters back, clearing the way for an enormous black carriage to pull in front of the bank. A handful of protesters refused to move until they discovered the carriage was pulled by a team of stallianas.

  There was a stampede as protesters rushed to get away from the creatures, which tossed their manes and bared their teeth. Once the lords and the civilian were safely inside, the carriage’s driver cracked his whip and they raced ahead, heedless of the people in their path.

  Sigga pulled Hazel back from the curb. The stallianas raced past with wild eyes, cinders sparking from their hooves. Hob stood fast, his eyes first on the monstrous horses and then on the carriage window. A man was looking out. He and Hob locked eyes before he drew the curtain across. The carriage disappeared down the avenue as Hob’s companions hurried over.

  “Are you crazy?” snapped Sigga. “You could have been killed.”

  “Sorry,” said Hob. “I . . .”

  Gunfire sounded behind them, followed by screams. Hob tried to turn, but Sigga already had a firm grip on his collar as she herded them all into an alley. From there, the Grislander led them on a brisk flight down a number of backstreets until they were in a quieter, residential neighborhood. She hailed a passing carriage and ordered the driver to take them to Dragon Pier.

  No one spoke as the carriage made its way steadily down toward the water. Hob was almost numb. He avoided looking at Rascha, who was glowering at him from the opposite seat. She had been against the trip from the start, and threatened to hold him personally responsible if anything went wrong. Hob imagined that dragging a weeping princess away from riots and gunfire probably qualified. The vye looked like she wanted to murder him.

  He prayed that neither Badu nor anyone else had been hurt, and listened in vain for the sounds of additional gunfire. Above all, Hob tried not to think about the man who peered out the carriage window, the man whose gaze lingered on him. Despite Sigga’s illusion, he had known who Hob was. His eyes had flashed with surprise and recognition the instant they caught sight of him. The man had not been Basil Faeregine or one of the other lords. It had been the civilian, the gentleman in the hat and topcoat. It had been Mr. Burke.

  CHAPTER 15

  ECHOES

  A wise man asks where he comes from;

  a wiser man tries to forget.

  —Muirlands proverb

  It was past ten o’clock when Hob returned to his room. Thankfully, Viktor was working a night shift. Hob liked his roommate, but he rarely shut up and Hob needed quiet to process all that had happened.

  He laid his jacket over his chair and kicked off his shoes. Removing the medallion, he studied it a moment, touched by Hazel’s joy when she’d given it to him. He was still baffled by what could have caused such an abrupt and dramatic change in her spirits. It was not merely the sight of some protesters—Her Highness’s tears started well before things turned ugly. Was she simply reacting to news of a missing ship? If so, the intensity of her distress was puzzling. Hazel merely wasn’t upset, she was traumatized.

  For his own part, Hob was shaken by his conversation with Sigga aboard the Spritely as well as his glimpse of Mr. Burke in Lord Faeregine’s carriage. Hob intended to write his mother about Whitebarrow that very night, but he suspected a Fellowship message would be waiting for him in his handbook. He was not disappointed.

  Fancy seeing you there.

  A chill settled over Hob as he stared at the page. The message left no doubt that Mr. Burke had recognized him. Hob had no idea how the man had seen through Sigga’s illusion. Had he also identified the others?

  But Hob’s biggest questions centered on Mr. Burke’s companions. What had he been doing with Lord Faeregine and the other lords? Ever since his duel with Dante Hyde, Hob had wondered if the Fellowship was involved in grander schemes involving other Great Houses. Today’s sighting appeared to confirm those suspicions. Hob knew he was a pawn on someone else’s board. He did not mind so long as he understood the game and believed in its objective. But the board was turning out to be far larger than he had supposed. Today, he realized he didn’t know who all the players were. He was not even certain what game he was playing.

  This frightened him. It also made him feel like a fool, no better than those conned by lutins outside the weavers’ guild. It was clear that Sigga was manipulating him for her own ends. Was the Fellowship playing him too? All his life, Hob had been the smartest person in the room. Not anymore.

  But what to do?

  He wasn’t sure he should tell anyone about Sigga’s cat-and-mouse game. If the Fellowship thought she was onto him, would they come to his aid or cut him loose for fear he’d lead her to them?

  Before he could answer Mr. Burke, a second note appeared:

  I’m surprised you did not tell us you would be visiting the capital with Her Highness. Are you committed to what we’re doing? Do you believe in a free Impyrium? In equal rights for muir?

  “Of course I do,” Hob muttered angrily. He scribbled a hasty reply:

  I believe in the cause. But I don’t like being in the dark. I’m not the only one keeping secrets.

  He flipped back to the other page, feeling anxious and defiant. Several minutes passed before a reply appeared.

  A conversation is overdue. Tomorrow you will receive a zephyss requiring you to visit Old College. Behind the Rose Chapel there is an empty caretaker cottage. The door will be unlocked. Go down to the cellar.

  Mr. Burke’s offer was more than Hob had expected, or even wanted. At present, the idea of venturing down into a cellar with Mr. Burke was a little frightening. For all the Fellowship’s talk of brotherhood and camaraderie, they would not permit a compromised operative to damage the organization. In the Sentries, you didn’t let frostbite spread—you amputated.

  He wrote back, insisting on a more public setting.

  The reply read:

  Impossible. I must come to you and the cottage is our only option. We are not upset with you. On the contrary, it’s time we shared more about our initiatives. I would also like to talk about your father. Will you come?

  Hob read the message again, digesting it slowly. Refusal would effectively sever his ties with the Fellowship and mean he’d forego whatever chance he might have to learn what really happened to his father. At best, he would be alone and friendless; at worst they would seek to silence him. Hob was frustrated, but he still believed in the Fellowship’s core mission. He even suspected that taking Hazel
Faeregine to Impyria might have helped the cause.

  Her Highness had a good heart and was, by nature, inclined toward justice. The protest had frightened her, but it also showed that people were serious about change, that Scrag’s End and those four-pointed stars were not merely unpleasantries on a tour. These were real issues that needed to be addressed. Hob was confident that the visit would continue to make an impression.

  The Spider would be dead soon, and the triplets represented the dynasty’s future. If Hob could win Hazel over, perhaps she could influence her sisters and push for change. There was an opportunity here. Hob could not turn his back on the Fellowship now—he needed more time, not more enemies. Besides, if Mr. Burke or the Fellowship intended to harm him, they would find a way, cellar or no.

  He stared at the page a full minute before scrawling a reply that said he’d be there. Once that was done, he composed a long letter to his mother and set it aside with Sigga’s green vial. Viktor had friends in the mailroom. Hob would have him send it express.

  The zephyss arrived shortly before ten the next morning. Hob was already at his post in the palace reception hall where he spent most mornings. Since dawn, bankers and emissaries had been arriving to discuss recent setbacks to trade. Things were getting worse.

  Another galleon had sunk. Unlike Polestar, there were no witnesses to Stormprow’s fate, but her splintered figurehead and several crates had washed ashore in a fishing village near the port where she was overdue. The news spread like wildfire. All across Impyrium, galleons were turning back or refusing to leave port. If more followed suit, trade would sputter to a halt and the empire would be facing a full-blown catastrophe. Incidents like yesterday’s riot would become commonplace. Throughout the busy morning dignitaries were whispering and muttering, forming little cliques as they waited for an audience with the Lord of This or Minister of That.

  From what Hob could overhear, people fell into two camps: those who favored war with the Lirlanders, and those advocating alternative trade measures. One gentleman wondered why they should bother braving demon-infested seas when zeppelins and flying machines could transport cargo through the skies. The Workshop possessed the requisite technology and materials. If only the empress would ease some restrictions . . .