by Emerson, Ru
“Oh. Anything else?”
“No, not yet. Maybe there will be when you awaken again.”
“You’re bullying me,” Jennifer murmured. “Of course. Rest now.” She got to her feet, moved away. Jennifer heard her talking to Sil but couldn’t make out the words. The willow was helping just a little, she thought, and fell asleep.
THUKAR TO EMPEROR: PALACE SECURED, VUHLEM TAKEN, ENGLISH SHIP SORCERER WILL DELIVER HIM TO YOU. OUR CASUALTIES UNDER FIFTY, WITH ANOTHER HUNDRED WOUNDED, THEIRS HIGH, NUMBER OF DESERTERS ALSO QUITE HIGH. LEAVING WEST ARMY OUTSIDE CITY TO MAINTAIN ORDER WHILE DUCHESS VERIA NEEDS, ALSO FIND ANY STRAY HOLMADDI SOLDIERS. SELF, DUKE ALETTO, AND REST OF FORCE RETURNING SOUTH AT ONCE.
Afronsan crumpled the wire. After a moment, he smoothed it out against the small table where he and Aleyza still took their meals, reread it. The messenger who’d brought it was waiting. “No answer just now,” he said. “I’ll send later, perhaps.”
“Sire.” The boy bobbed his head and went out. The Emperor’s fingers drummed the tabletop. Tell Shesseran—yes, he’d have to, unfortunately. His brother would be terribly unhappy, probably over the loss of life as much as the Duke. No way to make that right.
Wires to all the Duchies, of course: Sikkre would already know, because of the caravaners, and so would Cornekka and Zelharri. Wire anyway.
He set the message to one side, read the one under it that had come only a short while earlier—this one via Fahlia.
CRAY TO EMPEROR: DUPRET DEAD. HAVE SWORN STATEMENTS BY TWO MORE WITNESSES, LINKING HIM TO INCAN EMPIRE AND SOURCE OF ZERO. MER KHANI CLAIM TO HAVE PROOF AGAINST NEW HOLLAND, SPECIFICALLY PERRY, WHO’S DISAPPEARED. STILL TOO MUCH ZERO LOOSE IN THIS END OF THE WORLD; SUGGEST PERMANENT WATCH ON RHADAZI COASTLINES.
MESSAGES SENT TO GALLIC STATES, INITIATING TALKS ON TRAINS, SAME TO NEW DUC D’ORLEAN ABOUT STEAMSHIPS. WILL BRING PAPERWORK, ARRIVE PODHRU APPROXIMATELY TWO WEEKS.
Final link, Afronsan smiled grimly, folded the message. With the two Mer Khani and their steel firm effectively out of business, with the man Dupret finished and now Vuhlem no longer in a position to deal the substance to his own countrymen—it might not be the end of Zero in Rhadaz, but it would certainly cut the traffic sharply. The boy was right, though: this was no time to think the drug vanished because a few of its main traffickers were dead or taken. A permanent watch on the coastline—yes; as much for the drug as for other smuggled goods. There would surely be outsiders—and some Rhadazi—who sought to make easy profits by going around the Emperor and his trade laws.
Use of the drug had surged in Bezjeriad earlier in the year; there was little sign of it now, and his household guard had brought him local market rumor about the stuff: par-Duchess Lizelle dead of it, Duke Aletto nearly killed by it; others made dreadfully ill by a mere taste. More to the point: commoners down by the docks, one left a little giddy by his experience, his friend dead. Eight boys partying at one of the cheap inns—of all of them, three were horribly ill, one was as unconscious as the Duke had been but less likely to ever awaken again, one was dead.
It kills those who can use magic. Perhaps in the islands where it was so prevalent, fewer worked magic, or it might be that the stuff reacted differently on those who did. Here, where the gift had been inbred over five hundred years, where it ran strong in so many, and was present to some degree in nearly everyone—here, his guards said, there were fewer and fewer willing to risk dying.
Get word out, now Shesseran no longer controls things. He was wrong; everyone surely knows by now what Zero is. Tell them it is dangerous, even deadly, and why. There will be hardly anyone foolish enough to tempt fate. There was no keeping the stuff secret; that being so, there was no point to keeping anything about it secret. Wire the Dukes, have bulletins placed in all the villages and cities; have cryers out in the smaller hamlets to tell what it is, what it does.
He got to his feet, smothered a yawn with the back of his hand. Long, hard days—too many of them with too little sleep, since the ships had gone north and the armies north and west. On balance, worth the time spent in planning and executing. But he’d need to catch up on some of that lost sleep the next few days. There was not much of a pressing nature on his desk just now; he had plenty of men and women around him, he could delegate, the way a sensible Emperor must. “A sensible Emperor would want to be properly awake and fully aware when Vuhlem is brought to trial.” If he was brought to trial.
That would make Shesseran terribly unhappy. “Not something to factor into the equation if all Rhadaz is at stake and there is no alternative, of course.” Still, it could not hurt to spare his brother that particular sorrow. Especially if—Afronsan smiled, then chuckled softly. “Yes. That might answer all. We’ll have to examine the question of law.” There would be time for that, however. Four days at least, likely more, considering the season and that the English Sorcerer was one of the older, heavier, and therefore slower vessels.
Complex issues of law—Afronsan strode to the door, leaned into the hall. “Messenger!” One of the boys came running up—a street boy until very recently, this one, Afronsan remembered. Until he had become Emperor, and Aleyza had gone from their apartments to find boys like—like Berdyas, I remembered a name, this once—had them instructed in what etiquette the civil service utilized, and turned them into court runners. He smiled; the boy colored, smiled back. “Berdyas, go down to the main clerks’ room, ask that Emilid come at once to see me.”
“Mmm—sire.” The boy bobbed his head, carefully holding to what he’d been taught. “Emilid, main clerks, at once, here.”
“Good. Go.” The boy turned and sped off down the hall. Afronsan watched him until he was out of sight, then went back into his apartments. This one last thing for the evening; he’d keep his promise to Aleyza then, and spend a quiet, pleasant hour or so with her before retiring.
Jennifer sat on the edge of her desk, feet on the thin chair cushion where she usually sat, a pile of telegraph paper on either side, within easy reach. The curtains were drawn aside, her pseudo-Japanese garden brilliant with white, raked gravel and dark erratics under a pale blue sky and early-morning sun; she had the room all to herself at this hour, the usual cork-stoppered pot of coffee at her back, a steaming mug of it on the corner of the desk, where it wouldn’t ruin half a dozen documents if it somehow spilled.
Blessed quiet; she didn’t usually get this. Separate office, for the times you need it, girlfriend. There’s room here, you find it.
She eyed the garden wistfully, returned her gaze sternly to the handmade, pressed gray paper she held. “The midwife promised you could walk tomorrow and run again in another day or so,” she reminded herself—not too resentfully. “She’s let you out of bed as soon as you wanted to get up today, isn’t that something?” Better than all that, the messages from the north were all good: Vuhlem taken, Triad somehow destroyed, and according to this one, Dahven on his way south. Probably, she thought judiciously, he’d arrive just after noon. Order something he likes for midday.
She set the Gray Fishers’ note aside, atop the other messages from Dro Pent and Hushar; picked up the first of the telegrams. Chris, on his way north and reasonably intact. She’d have to pump him, hard, once he got here, find out what she had to keep from Robyn this time. “More than I care to hide, I’ll bet,” she grumbled. Trains, though: and track the Mer Khani couldn’t use. “Clever of Afronsan; I wouldn’t have thought of that, but he and Chris both did, bet you.”
Another: wire begun between Podhru and Fahlia, and between the Gallic States and Fahlia. “Now, that’s practical. Especially if Chris plans on spending half his life down there, waltzing around with the rough boys.” Maybe he wouldn’t; something about that last wire from him, short as it was… Keeping things hidden, as usual. “Still, sounds like he’s growing up.” She considered this, set the Emperor’s message aside, and shuddered, elaborately. “Brrr, what a thought, Chris a grown-up!” She laughed aloud. “Give him a hard time about that.”
“About what?” Dahven’s voice, just behind her; she caught her breath, whirled around, and the mug went flying to shatter on the tile floor. She ignored it; Dahven leaned against the edge of her desk, his hands and clothing mud splattered, his hat a ruin, and his face sagging with exhaustion—still, Dahven, here and in one piece.
“I—nothing important. You look like you rode straight from the north.”
He laughed faintly. “Well—as nearly as the horses would permit. Once we crossed the border, Vey and I came on ahead, changed horses at the mail points and Hushar.”
Hushar. “Oh? Well.” Jennifer shook herself mentally, gripped his hands. “Which do you want first, hot water or food? Because—”
“Mmmm—I’ve dreamed more of hot water than of you, the past two nights.”
“More than your wretched bowl of hot oats?” He didn’t know what she’d done; he couldn’t, and keep it from her. Thank you, Vey; and all Dahven’s little brown sand gods, too.
He sighed. “Inevitable bowl, isn’t it? We ate—bread and something, forget what—just out of Hushar. I think I ache everywhere, I see now what you mean about horses.”
“It isn’t the animal, it’s the smell,” Jennifer replied tartly. She slid off the desk, came around, and leaned against the front of it; he turned, settled one hip on the cleaned-off wooden surface, rested his head against her shoulder. She ruffled his hair. “Speak of which, sir, hot water first for you; you reek.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dahven said.
“Yah. You sound as meek as you did the first time I seduced you.”
“You—seduced me?” He sat up. “I will have you know—”
Jennifer chuckled, low in her throat, silencing him. “Yes, and didn’t you do it well? ‘They’re going to cut off my head at sunrise, grant me one final wish!’” She touched her finger to her lips, then to his. “You can’t think how much I look forward to a long, boring life with you.”
“Boring?” Dahven laughed suddenly, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and drew her into the hall. “Is this dull, like your ‘safe sex,’ or another trick question?”
Jennifer laughed. “Is that a trick question? How dull has it been so far?”
Five days after the fall of Holmaddan and the arrest of its Duke: rumor was wild in the Podhru markets, and a fair number of people had gathered along the main docks when the English Sorcerer came into port. To their disappointment, there was little to be seen: The grand English vessel with its two-tiered gun ports, the massive sails on four impressive masts—but of the Holmaddi Duke, only a glimpse of a bear of a man in prisoners’ fetters being escorted by armed guards into a longboat, the boat lowered to the water and rowed the short distance from ship to dock. An enclosed carrage waited at the end of the dock; the prisoner was hustled into it and the horses moving almost before the doors were closed.
The streets leading to the clerical offices had been kept clear; the carriage drew up before the main steps within minutes, and red-and-gold-clad guards were there to lead the prisoner into the building and up to the second floor.
Vuhlem’s eyes held the same smoldering anger they had when he was taken; after so many days in a ship’s hold, he was less willing to push the guard over minor details, and when one of them took his elbow to guide him left, he let the hand be, and went quietly. Not tamely, he reminded himself. Never tamely. A man could await his moment, and be ready for it.
A closed double door blocked their passage; one of the guards went forward to tap on polished wood and after a moment, one door opened. Red carpeting here, fine draperies above and along the windows, sun and too much heat everywhere. Another closed doorway near the end of the corridor; the guard pulled the door open, followed Vuhlem and the other guard inside, and closed it after them.
After so much light in the hallway, he couldn’t see much in here: the room was faintly illuminated, two blue lights, one glassed taper on a small, square table set beside a high-backed chair. A low-burning lamp on the wall, near another door. Silence. The second door opened and a man in black robes came in, pulled the door closed behind him, set two thick books and a stack of paper on the table, then settled on the low bench behind it. Plain, ordinary, common-looking man, but for the robes, Vuhlem thought dismissively; he caught his breath sharply as one of the guards turned up the lamp; light glinted on gold linked rings crossing a pale brow. Emperor’s crown. Which meant this—
Afronsan smiled coldly. “Yes. The paper-pusher.”
Vuhlem found his voice with an effort. “What—will you try me here, and in secret? You don’t dare!”
“I? Dare?” Afronsan replied. His voice remained mild. “But this is no trial; this is a meeting. I have something to tell you, and then something to offer. You will listen to all of this without presuming to interrupt your Emperor.” Vuhlem’s eyes were furious; Afronsan folded his hands and waited. After a moment, the once-Duke nodded. “Good. I have here”—one hand lay on the pile of paper—“a variety of sworn documents.” He lifted one, then another. “The statement of sin-Duchess Lialla, who overheard men under your command ordered to ascertain a shipment of Zero was the correct amount, and then to turn it over to those who would transport it. Another, from a messenger in that company, that he took a bottle of liquor from crates bearing your name—” He paused as Vuhlem made a remark under his breath. Silence. Afronsan set the sheet aside, picked up another. “Your name. From an apothecary in Sikkre, confirming the seal untouched, the bottle filled with brandy and heavily tainted with Zero. From a woman of your coastal village, Gray Haven, that such bottles in such marked crates were brought ashore from a wrecked Lasanachi ship, and that your guard later retrieved those crates and executed two of the headman’s sons in reprisal.” He set this sheet aside, folded his hands over the top of them. “I have traced the drug from the Incan Empire to French Jamaica, to the Mer Khani firm New Holland Mining, to the Lasanachi who loaded boxes of yellow rope rings and an English sailor who helped load crates of brandies distilled by one Henri Dupret. The proof against you for the import of Zero and for using it against your people, the Dro Penti and your fellow—your once-fellow nobles—is that deep, and very complete. This does not even touch the matter of Dro Pent, or your alliance with the prior Thukar’s twin sons, and your complicity in their attempted coup.”
“I was never—” Vuhlem shut his mouth with an audible Click of teeth. Afronsan smiled very briefly.
“All the rest, but not that? But I have custody of two men who say otherwise: The once merchant Casimaffi, and the present Thukar’s remaining brother, Deehar. He’s come more to his senses, the past few days; he’s said things—but you’ll see what he says.” He paused; Vuhlem appeared beyond words. “You will be given copies of each of these statements; that is your right. If you insist upon it, there will be a trial, three judges, an open chamber, an impartial panel of nobles, ten days from now—everything exactly according to law. But I warn you, Vuhlem: If you have that trial, you’ll be named traitor, and you’ll face public execution.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” He didn’t sound so certain, this time.
“I would, though for my brother’s sake, I’d greatly prefer not to. But you doubted me before this, Vuhlem. Don’t make that mistake now, it will see you in a head-foreshortened coffin. You might bluster to my brother; I am not he. We both know who and what you are, and what you’ve done. There is an alternative for you. Swear here and now you’ll claim guilt for all crimes you’ve committed, and you’ll face only exile.”
“Exile!”
“You’ll be given a full purse, passage to the Gallic Lake. What you do, where you go from there—that is your concern, no longer mine.”
Vuhlem’s teeth flashed, briefly. “It’s death at a safe remove from you. I’ve made enough enemies these past years; I won’t last a full moon-season out there!”
“No? Possibly not.” Afronsan squared the comers of his stack of papers. “Understand, I make this offer only to spare my brother. Personally—it
would cause me no grief at all to hear you’d gone missing from your ship halfway to that lake.” He looked at one of the guards, nodded, then got to his feet and picked up his documents. “Your copies of these are in your cell; you have nine days to decide. If the ninth goes by and I haven’t heard, I’ll have the trial room prepared—and also the ax.” He turned and left the room. The guards pulled a dazed-looking Vuhlem to his feet and led him out the other way.
Epilogue
It had rained overnight in Sikkre; a spring shower, just enough to dampen the roads and streets, and deal with the dust, though by second hour from sunrise the sky was a deep blue, the sun warm and the air dry. Trees bloomed, lining both sides of the main boulevard that ran to the Thukar’s palace. Sikkreni stood several deep, cheering as their new Emperor and his Empress rode by in the shining royal carriage, followed by the honor guard in their bright red and gold, and the Sikkreni household guard. Their own Thukar, who rode side by side with the Duke of Zelharri. Others followed: the blonde outlander Duchess Robyn in an open coach, a small, excited child on either side of her; the Ducal family and an honor guard from Bezjeriad. The procession passed under the arch, into the palace grounds; some people stayed where they were, to see the last horse disappear, but more scattered at once. There were celebrations throughout the market, music, food, good drink—a gift of the Emperor and the Thukar.
Jennifer sat at one end of the formal ballroom, several pillows at her back, a cushion under her feet. Siohan ran the long-toothed comb through her hair one last time, adjusted the pale blue silk around her feet. She stepped back, nodded. “You look—”
“I’m not the center of attention, you know.” She smiled, let one hand drift into the basket at her side; tiny fingers gripped her thumb. “Either of us.”
Siohan shook a finger at her. “Well, madam, you remember why the Emperor chose Sikkre for the royal reception. Because you couldn’t ride, and why.”
