Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  “Not today,” he whispered. “Not tomorrow. Not for all the gold in Impyrium.”

  A ghost of a smile. Then Hazel’s face relaxed, going blank and oblivious. Her lips parted and the fitful breathing returned. Hob placed her hand gently over Merlin.

  “I need air,” he said quietly. “Can I go outside?”

  Sigga nodded. “If you feel well enough.”

  Slipping out of the tent’s entry, Hob saw Cygnet’s stars twinkling in the night. They’d set up Her Highness’s pavilion a little inland, on a bluff well away from others, but he could hear the surf and see the lights from a dozen campfires. Six guardsmen were stationed outside. Hob nodded to them, recognized the captain from the Lirlander Vault. To his surprise, the man bowed. Viktor sat on a stump just beyond the torchlight, whittling a piece of driftwood. When he saw Hob, he tossed it aside. He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Is that Hob the Dragonslayer?” he said.

  Hob mustered a grin. “More like Hob the Hapless. What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to know you were okay.” Viktor gave him a searching look. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I am. Talysin’s overrated.”

  His friend’s smiled wavered. “Not on your life. I nearly pulled a Dante when I heard that roar. They say you ran right at it.”

  “I have no idea what I did,” said Hob. “It’s all a blur.”

  Viktor peeked at his pocket watch. He swore softly.

  “What’s the matter?” said Hob.

  “Oliveiro sent me to fetch firewood an hour ago. Don’t suppose you could lend a hand.”

  A walk in the cool night air sounded good to Hob. “Lead on.”

  The two went down to the beach, skirting a virtual village of tents. Most people were sleeping, although a group of soldiers and sailors were making a fair bit of noise by one of the larger fires. A full moon shimmered on the tranquil sea. Viktor pointed to a stand of dark trees jutting from a bluff down the beach.

  “There’s an old campsite with some fir wood. We can load up the tarp and drag it down that goat path.”

  Hob grunted. If anyone could figure out the least strenuous way to accomplish a task, it would be Viktor. He was a master of energy conservation.

  Leaving the beach, they clambered up the goat path and into the resin-scented shadows. They went deeper into the wood, their path lighted by Viktor’s lantern. Ahead, Hob saw a clearing with tree trunks arrayed in a circle. Several figures were seated on them. The moonlight illuminated a familiar face.

  “Happy Midsummer,” said Mr. Burke.

  Hob stopped dead before shooting a disbelieving glance at his roommate.

  “You’re a part of this?”

  Viktor looked almost sheepish. “Please don’t be mad. It was better you didn’t know.”

  Overcoming his shock, Hob turned to Mr. Burke. “What are you doing here?”

  “Come and sit, Hob. Viktor, keep a lookout.”

  As Hob walked over, he made out the others sitting by Mr. Burke. The first was Ms. Marlowe. She wore black robes and sat perfectly straight, forever rigid and proper. She might have been making tea in her Fellowship office rather than sitting in a moonlit clearing across the ocean. The third figure was a stranger. He was a big man, middle-aged and solidly built with heavy black brows. Something about him was familiar. Where had Hob seen him?

  Mr. Burke rose to embrace him. “Looking more like Ulrich every day. He’d be proud of what you’ve done. Of what you’re about to do.”

  Hob was still in a state of shock. “And what am I about to do?”

  The twinkle left Mr. Burke’s eyes. His face became deadly serious. “You’re going to rescue mankind from another Reaper.”

  “But you said she wasn’t the Reaper,” said Hob urgently. “You said we could help her, that she could be useful to the Fellowship.”

  “I am sorry,” said Mr. Burke. “Our scholar was mistaken. Hazel Faeregine has to die, and she has to die tonight.”

  Hob glanced at the big man sitting behind him. “And this is the assassin?” The man chuckled as though Hob had something unexpectedly funny or even pitiable. Hob suddenly recalled Dante’s taunts the night of the May Ball: The assassin that’s going to murder your girlfriend. I hear he’s already in position.

  Closing his eyes, Hob merely shook his head. He’d been such a fool. It was the most obvious play in the world. A second later, his fears were confirmed.

  “It has to be you,” said Mr. Burke softly. “You’re the one who’s earned their trust. You’re the one who can get inside that tent without being searched.”

  Hob glared at him. “Has this been the plan all along?”

  Mr. Burke did not answer. He did not need to.

  The big man spoke up. “You said the boy was dependable.”

  “Patience,” said Ms. Marlowe. “Her Highness is his friend. We must respect that. Give him a moment, and Hob will see the necessity. This is our chance to take action while the princess is in a weakened state. If we fail, a second Reaper will be loosed upon the world.”

  “She’s not the Reaper,” Hob said firmly.

  Mr. Burke’s jaw tightened. “You saw how Talysin responded to her. When Her Highness stood before the Sidh Gate, the High King himself came to receive the gifts. As we speak, the princess is burning up from the dragonspell. So did Arianna Faeregine. And when she finally woke, the girl was gone and a terror was born. The Hazel you know is already dead.”

  “Her magic is gone,” said Hob stubbornly. “I heard her say so.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Burke. “She’s changing. Metamorphosing. Her magic isn’t gone; it’s growing stronger. We’re in the eye of the hurricane. The true storm is coming.”

  Hob pictured Hazel lying in the tent: feverish and hyperventilating, her eyes swimming beneath their painted lids. Something was happening to her. He could not pretend otherwise.

  “You know what I’m saying is true,” said Mr. Burke more gently. “We will never have this opportunity again. We must strike now.”

  “Damn right,” the big man growled.

  Hob glanced at him again. The mustache was gone, which had thrown him off, but now he recognized that face and those mournful, mastiff eyes. Hob had seen the man’s photograph many times for it sat on Marcus’s nightstand in the healing ward. It was the photo of a hero, the photo of a man who’d died trying to buy Private Finch and Lord Faeregine a few extra seconds.

  “You’re Beecher,” said Hob.

  The sergeant cracked a smile, and Hob saw instantly how that big, unassuming face could take in a person like Marcus Finch. The guardsman exuded a comforting solidity. But those eyes and that smile weren’t fooling Hob. Beecher was a killer, and not just out of necessity. This man enjoyed it.

  “Call me Butcher,” he replied. “Burke’s our Baker and Ms. Marlowe’s our Candlestick Maker. And you’re our Jack.”

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” said Hob.

  Beecher leaned forward. “But I’m here, lad. And so are you. So let’s make a night of it.”

  Hob wheeled on Mr. Burke. “You’re the one behind the Lirlander Vault. You planted that creature that sabotaged the Seals.”

  “Not personally,” said Mr. Burke. “I was in the Sentries, if you recall. But, yes, that was one of our initiatives. It just fell short, but this is the bigger prize. We’ve spent years setting up all the pieces. Now you’re going to win the game.”

  “What game?” cried Hob. “Thousands of people are dead because of those Seals you sabotaged. I saw their bodies.” He glared at Beecher. “Have you seen what’s left of Finch’s face? He still thinks you’re a hero.”

  Mr. Burke sighed. “Every war has innocent casualties. Mehrùn started this, not us. That blood’s on their hands. You once told me you wanted to make a difference. Here’s your chance.”

  Hob’s hands were trembling. “I’m not shooting my friend.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Ms. Marlowe. “If a b
ullet could slay Hazel Faeregine, she’d already be dead. She’s far too powerful for ordinary measures. This job requires someone who can get very close without being searched. All they need is a weapon equal to the task.”

  From beneath her shawl, Ms. Marlowe produced a bundle wrapped in cloth. Before she even unwrapped it, Hob knew what it would be.

  Bragha Rùn.

  He stared at the gladius whose forgery he had wielded during his duel with Dante Hyde. Hob had no doubt this was the real thing. Every detail was already familiar, from its dragon’s head pommel to its razor-sharp tip. In the moonlight, its bloodred blade looked black.

  “A special blade for a special occasion,” said Ms. Marlowe.

  Mr. Burke gave his chest a firm tap. “Through the heart, lad. She won’t suffer; she won’t even know what happened. You’re not just saving Impyrium from a tyrant, you’re sparing her a terrible fate. Your friend would never want to become the monster she’s destined to be.”

  The word monster had a peculiar resonance. It caused a ripple in Hob’s mind that stirred a vague memory. He’d had some conversation before leaving on the pilgrimage, something about monsters . . .

  Hob blinked and shook his head as though trying to clear his ears. He looked about the group. They were insane. Not only were they rationalizing the murder of a child, their plan appeared to overlook a significant obstacle.

  “Have you forgotten about Sigga Fenn?” he said.

  “Of course not,” said Ms. Marlowe. “When you are back in the tent, there will be an explosion near the standing stones. The Red Branch’s first duty is to the Divine Empress. This is not merely protocol—they are chained by magical oaths they cannot violate. The empress’s safety takes precedence. Once the explosion occurs, Sigga Fenn will be compelled to ensure the Spider is safe. You will have a window. Not a large one, but sufficient if you are quick and quiet. Once the job is complete, head west along the beach. No one will notice you in the chaos. In a mile you will come upon some caves in the cliffs. We will await you there.”

  Mr. Burke rested a hand on Hob’s shoulder. “By dawn we’ll be in Malakos. By next week, Hobson Smythe will no longer exist. You’ll have a new identity, a new life. Most important, your fellow muir will have a brighter future. When things settle, we’ll begin the next phase of operations.”

  Hob shook his head. “Dàme Rascha will tear my throat out the instant she sees me draw a blade. And there are guardsmen.”

  “Sergeant Beecher will deal with them,” said Mr. Burke. “You just need to return to the tent, wait for the diversion, and do your job.”

  “Stop calling it that,” Hob snapped. “It’s not a ‘job.’ It’s murder.”

  “Call it what you like, so long as it’s done,” said Mr. Burke.

  Hob looked round at them. “I’m not killing anyone, much less my friend. I’m for muir rights, but not like this. This is sick. You’re all sick.”

  The sergeant grunted. “Sounds like his daddy.”

  Hob spun on him. “What do you know about him?”

  Beecher smirked. “Capable man, Ulrich, but too righteous. Thought he’d get clever and go his own way, not do what he was told. Didn’t look so clever tumbling down Hound’s Trench.”

  “You’re not helping,” said Mr. Burke pointedly.

  The sergeant shrugged. “We’re wasting time. Speak the trigger and be done with it.”

  “Not if there’s another way,” Burke insisted. “Once the trigger’s spoken, psychnosis begins to erode and we no longer have Jakob to perform again. The boy would be useless to us later.”

  “He’s useless to us now,” Beecher retorted.

  Mr. Burke did not agree. “I have bigger plans for him.” He looked to Hob in appeal. “Listen, lad. You’re going to do this. Don’t make me force you.”

  Hob barely heard him. The name Jakob sent another wave rippling across his subconscious. Memories were rising slowly like those bodies from the deep. Hob had heard of this Jakob, had met the man. An image flashed in his mind—Ms. Marlowe’s office. There had been a man in brown robes sitting on the couch. . . .

  “What’s the matter with him?” said Beecher.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Burke. He snapped his fingers. “Hob?”

  Hob gazed dazedly at the man. What had the Fellowship done to him? Somehow he knew he couldn’t run away or shout for help. The best he could do was resist.

  “I won’t do it,” he murmured.

  Mr. Burke snatched a folder from Ms. Marlowe. Lifting a lantern’s shutter, he shined its light upon the contents.

  Glancing down, Hob saw a photograph of himself standing near the golem’s headless body. There were others of him in the dig site, some in Fellowship headquarters, and one where he and Badu were laughing together. There were copies, in his own handwriting, of every report he’d made to the Fellowship. The final piece of blackmail was another photograph. When Hob saw it, he nearly whimpered.

  The image showed Hob’s mother and Anja fishing a little stream just beyond the palisade wall. Hob knew the spot well. Anja was sitting on their mother’s knee, holding Hob’s fishing pole and scanning the water expectantly. His mother’s expression was distant, preoccupied. The corners of her mouth curved up slightly, but her eyes were careworn. Hob never realized how much she resembled her father. She and the shaman each held their heads with a proud, almost defiant attitude. Hob supposed he did too.

  It was not this glimpse of his family that distressed him. It was the picture’s date. Anja had grown since he’d last seen her, her hair was longer. And the stream they were fishing was swollen with snowmelt. The photograph could not be more than a few weeks old.

  “I don’t want to have you arrested or have to hurt your family,” said Mr. Burke. “But I will. And when you’re plunging down Hound’s Trench, rest assured you’ll be having an easier death than they are. You’re not saving anyone by making a useless and misguided stand. You’re just ensuring more people suffer.”

  A twig snapped beyond the clearing. Hob heard Viktor pleading anxiously with someone. “Honestly, Olly. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Lies,” said the underbutler. “A cook saw you walking together. Some kind of mischief is going on and I want to . . .”

  He fell off as the two entered the clearing. Oliveiro gave a start. His eyes darted from face to face, finally settling on Hob. “What are you doing? Who are these people?”

  Beecher turned casually with the rifle.

  Pft-pft.

  The rounds made almost no sound as they struck the underbutler’s chest. Oliveiro staggered back, clutching Viktor’s arm, as two stains bloomed like dark flowers on his shirtfront. Sinking slowly to the ground, the underbutler rolled onto his side and lay still.

  Viktor gave a disbelieving cry. “What did you do?”

  Beecher blew smoke from the rifle’s chamber. “My job. If you’d have done yours, he’d still be alive.” He looked at Mr. Burke. “We’re on the clock.”

  Mr. Burke gave a disgusted nod of agreement, as though Viktor’s incompetence had forced his hand. “This is one sacrifice I didn’t want to make.”

  Sacrifice . . . Whitebarrow . . . Necromancers.

  The words triggered a chain reaction that burst a dam somewhere in Hob’s mind. Memories came flooding back, vivid and horrifying. He stared at Mr. Burke.

  “I know what you are.”

  “Not for long, my boy. Good luck.”

  Stepping forward, Mr. Burke spoke in a soft, melodic voice.

  “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick.”

  The rhyme didn’t prompt any bells or faerie lights, but Hob felt a subtle humming near the base of his skull, as if an internal switch had been flipped. Shock and fear melted away, replaced by a calm sense of purpose. Hazel was his friend and he cared a great deal about her, but this was bigger than his personal feelings. By taking one life, he’d be saving millions.

  Hob looked at Bragha Rùn. “How am I supposed to concea
l it?”

  Ms. Marlowe smiled and took a log of fir wood from the stack at her feet. When she gave one end a twist, it opened to reveal a hollow compartment.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE ASSASSIN

  The best assassins are never strangers.

  —Charon, first disciple of the Atropos

  Hazel’s body felt weightless, but she had a sensation of movement, of being adrift on a lazy river of mist. The experience would have been pleasantly ethereal if not for the pain. That was all pervading and ever present. Thumbscrews cracked her bones; her heart did not pump blood but boiling ichor that cooked her from within. She’d realized her magic was gone the instant she’d regained a semblance of consciousness. There was a void, an emptiness that felt like her soul had been ripped away. The loss was far worse than the physical pain. Who was Hazel Faeregine without her magic? She did not know.

  The only glimmer of it she felt came from Merlin. The homunculus lay atop her. Instead of feeding off her magic, he was sharing what little he possessed. If Hazel could have moved, she would have laughed. Now, she was the parasite.

  But not all losses were heartbreaking. Hazel’s magic had gone, but so seemingly had the Reaper. When the Ard Rí came striding toward the gate, the Reaper tried to flee deep within Hazel’s being. The Reaper had not expected the High King to come himself, and Hazel could sense her terror. But the Ard Rí was not deceived.

  The shadow could not hide from him, and he would have drawn it forth—had extended his hand to do so—when his wound opened. It was a famous wound made by an evil knife when the Ard Rí was a mortal hero.

  It was in this guise that he appeared to her, and Hazel knew it was no accident. The Hound was tall but surprisingly young, with dark hair and and a thin white scar on his cheek. He carried a black spear and had a warrior’s bearing, but his aspect was surprisingly gentle given the deeds attributed to him.

  When the wound opened and the blood ran down his side, he drew swiftly back. His expression was not one of pain but surprise, for in his desire to help her, the Ard Rí had nearly forgotten the decision he’d made long ago. But he did speak to Hazel before the gate closed. Five words that resonated even to this moment.