Empire of Shadows

by Miriam Forster

  Emil tensed. Rajo the Black and his mercenary band had earned their reputations in the wild places of the Empire, battling animals and bandits for paying villagers. They were said to be the best. They were also said to be very expensive.

  “So I am,” Rajo said. He sheathed his sword and bowed, hands pressed together against his chest. It was a strange gesture from him, like a tunic that didn’t quite fit. “And I have come to honor fellow fighters. Your son stood against that noble’s cruelty, and your other one protected him well. You should be honoring these boys, not scolding them like an old farmwife.”

  A small smile crossed Stefan’s face.

  “There is no honor in endangering others for the sake of hurt pride,” their father said. “A true Kildi”—here he glared at Stefan, whose smile disappeared—“a true Kildi cares about what is good for his clan, and fighting is rarely good for anyone.”

  “That depends on who wins,” Rajo countered. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Spoken like a mercenary,” Emil’s father said dismissively. “Battle for the sake of battle, thinking only of your purses and your bellies.”

  Emil saw the other mercenaries stiffen at the insult. He stepped forward to stop his father’s words before another fight broke out, but Rajo spoke first.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Rajo said. “We fight to live, just like you. I have battled men worse than any monsters from your tales. And animals from the Eastern Forests that can kill a man with one swipe. The Emperor sends his soldiers to control the cities and patrol the roads, but what about the rest of us? Who do you think holds the predators off the villages, protects those no one else cares about?”

  “For money,” Emil’s father repeated. His face was still flushed with anger. “You don’t protect those villagers for free.”

  One of the other mercenaries stepped forward. He was a slim man with an open face only partly hidden by his neat beard. And he was the least armed of the group, carrying a knife at his hip and a soft skin bag over one shoulder.

  “We never take more than a village can afford,” he said in a quiet, crisp voice, startlingly different from Rajo’s bellow. “We have even worked for free when the need was great. But every man must eat, and unlike you, we have no talent for goat herding.”

  Rajo gestured at the other man. “This is Karoti, my second in command.”

  “Second in command?” Emil’s father said. “Never heard of you.”

  “Father!” Stefan said.

  Karoti seemed amused rather than offended. “A mercenary band runs on its accounts, but accountants make bad figureheads. I prefer to stay in the background. But I can assure you that we charge a fair price and do not resort to violence or coercion to collect what is owed us. Not all mercenary bands can say the same.”

  “And who are you working for now?” The words escaped Emil’s lips before he thought. Every head in the group swiveled to him.

  “What makes you think we’re working for someone now?” Karoti asked. His voice was casual, but his bright brown eyes were sharp.

  Emil swallowed, but plowed forward. “Like you said, you work in the wild places, the mountains and the great forests of the East. You’d have no reason to come this close to civilization unless there was work for you here.”

  “Clever reasoning.” Again the accountant-mercenary seemed amused. “Very clever. But we’re on a restocking trip. New weapons, replacing worn-out gear. Harmless.” He winked at Emil, who frowned.

  “You could at least pretend not to be lying,” he said.

  Rajo burst into another round of laughter. “Truly you should be proud of your boys,” he said to Emil’s father. “Strong, loyal, and smart.”

  “I’m glad someone thinks so,” Stefan muttered.

  “Don’t get too cocky, youngster,” Karoti said. “If I hadn’t shoved that noble in the back when he went to draw his sword, you would have been gutted like a fish. You should learn to court death a bit more carefully.”

  Stefan looked down. Emil noted with interest that his brother actually looked chastised for once.

  “Never mind, boy,” Rajo said. “It was foolhardy, but we all make mistakes.” He turned and bowed to Besnik Yanora. “I would like to salute you as well. I was told a daughter of your clan was responsible for one of my men’s rather . . . unusual color.”

  Besnik bowed back. “We are proud of all the Yanora children,” he said. “And if your men wish to avoid unusual colors, perhaps they should not brawl near our dye booths.”

  Rajo raised his eyebrows. “Karoti, make a note of that,” he said. “The Yanora dye booths and all other dye makers are to be left alone if at all possible. I won’t be able to frighten people if my men are colored like court peacocks.”

  “So noted,” Karoti said. “I will add it to the bylaws.”

  Besnik nodded graciously. “I thank you.”

  “Enough of this,” Emil’s father said. He folded his arms. “My son’s behavior is for me to deal with, mercenary. If you have stated your business, then be gone.”

  “Father!” Stefan said.

  “I do have one more thing to say,” Rajo said. He turned to face Emil and Stefan. “Change is coming to the Empire. I need strong men at my side, and I’d be honored to have the two of you join us.”

  “Absolutely not,” Emil’s father said. He pushed himself between Rajo and Stefan. His voice was low and savage, a tone that Emil had never heard from his father before. “Try to take my sons and I will carve your heart from your chest myself.”

  Raj held his hands up. “I meant no harm. It was simply an invitation.” He bowed to Besnik Yanora and then to Emil’s father. “Forgive me for disturbing your peace. Should you change your mind”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of the forest—“we’ll be in a clearing to the south of here until dawn tomorrow. Then we have business in Kamal.” He smiled, wide and hungry, like a wolf. “For restocking, of course.”

  “Get out of my camp,” Emil’s father said. “And stay away from my children.”

  “As you choose,” Rajo said. He nodded to Emil and Stefan. “It was an honor to watch you fight.”

  Karoti bowed to the group. “Good travels to you and your clans.” Then he turned and followed Rajo, the other mercenaries falling behind them like silent shadows.

  No one spoke for a moment, and then Besnik broke the silence. “Well, it sounds like things will become very interesting around here, very shortly.” He sighed heavily. “How inconvenient.”

  “You don’t like interesting things?” Emil said, trying to dispel the tension in the air.

  Besnik smiled. “I prefer my life and the lives of my people to be as boring as possible,” he said. “Interesting times upset my routine. And it’s bad for the dyes.” He bowed to Emil, Stefan, and their father. “I think we’ll head to the edge of the Eastern Forests. It’s a little late for cinnamon alder cuttings, but the bark and shoots should still be harvestable.”

  “Perhaps we’ll follow you,” Emil’s father said. “Anything that gets us away from those cursed mercenaries. And we do have business to discuss.”

  “We do,” Besnik said. “Until next time then, Mihai. Emil, Stefan.”

  When Besnik had walked away, Stefan turned to his father. “What business?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” the Kys said. “And since we’re moving out, I’m lifting your punishment. For now. Go pack and tell Lel and Meri that we’re leaving. I want to be gone by first light tomorrow.”

  Stefan hesitated. “Father . . .”

  “Be silent!”

  Stefan took a step back, and even Emil recoiled a little at the anger in his father’s voice. Then the Kys dropped his head and Emil saw the telltale signs, the eyebrows high and drawn together, the strain around the mouth.

  His father was afraid.

  “You’ve done enough damage for one day,” their father said, and his words were tired. “And we will be discussing your punishment. But right now, I don’t wish to see you. Go pack
up your tent.”

  “Very well, Father,” Stefan said, and his voice was soft. “As you wish.”

  Emil moved to go as well, but their father held out his hand.

  “Emil, I would speak to you in my wagon.”

  “Me?” Emil said. “Why?”

  “Just . . .” His father pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just come with me. I need to talk to you about something.”

  Emil watched the back of Stefan’s head disappear around the corner of the caravan. “Of course, Father,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

  MARA’S FIRST GLIMPSE of the capital city of Kamal left her breathless. One moment she was jogging down the packed dirt road behind the swishing black tail of Revathi’s horse, teak trees towering on either side, then the road took a sharp right, the trees stopped, and there it was. Situated on a wide, jutting piece of land where two of the Five Sacred Rivers met, the city was surrounded on two sides by swiftly flowing dark water. It was built on a low hill, each section set a little higher than the last, the flat roofs of noble houses and the decorated roof of the palace visible above the rest. A thick wall of worn brown stone looped the city’s base.

  “Is this the first time you’ve seen Kamal?” Revathi asked, looking over at Mara.

  The back of Mara’s neck turned warm as she realized she was staring. “It’s . . . large.”

  “It was rebuilt after the Barrier went up,” Revathi said. “It was the biggest city in the Empire then, and it still is, though Deshe is a close second. That’s where most of the noble families go during the hot season, in fact, to Deshe, and the farms in the west. It’s a little cooler near the mountains, and those nobles who own land there can check on the growing crops.”

  “So most of the nobles are gone?” Mara asked, disappointed. If the court was mostly empty, it would make it harder for her to find someone to pledge to.

  “I’m afraid so,” Revathi said. “I prefer the quiet, but it will probably be very boring for you.” When Mara didn’t answer, she turned the head of her mare toward the gate. “I’ll get you some new clothes with my house colors on them and show you around.” She paused. “I suppose you’ll want to sleep in my room.”

  “In your room or close by,” Mara said. “At least that’s how it would work if you were my charge.”

  “Sounds horribly suffocating,” Revathi said. “Like a built-in chaperone . . .” A sly, considering smile crossed her face, then she laughed. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she said. “I’ll just keep you with me as much as possible. Tamas won’t be able to get me alone, and if I’m lucky, he’ll get so frustrated that he’ll give up this bodyguard idea entirely.”

  Mara kept her face blank, masking the small stab of hurt she felt at Revathi’s crisp words. She supposed she was going to have to get used to difficult clients, at least as long as she was working for her keep. When she pledged, it would be different. Her charge would want her help, need it even. They would be a team.

  The main gates of the city were huge, heavy and dark with age, and even though they were open, Mara felt as if they wanted to shut her out. The sight of those gates, and the thickness of the walls, made Mara’s neck tight and her stomach hurt. She had a sudden wild longing for the tangled shadows of the forest. But she squared her shoulders and followed Revathi forward.

  To one side of the gate was a long table. Two soldiers in the silk and copper of infantrymen stood on either side of it, spears held at attention. The table held piles of paper and parchment and scattered writing implements. A small, fat man was engaged in sorting them out. He wore a dark-green tunic embroidered with silver, and there was a spot of green dye the size of a thumb pressed into his forehead.

  A Jade scribe, Mara thought, remembering the variety of caste marks she’d learned in the Order. A keeper of records.

  Revathi pulled up her mare. “Good day, Camus.”

  “Lady Revathi,” he said, pressing his hands together and bowing from his seat. “Good day to you. And who is this?”

  Revathi waved a delicate hand back at Mara. “This is Mara, my new guard. She needs a work permit.”

  “A guard?” one of the soldiers spoke up. His leather wristbands were studded with gold, the mark of a captain’s rank. “Are you in some sort of danger, Lady Revathi?”

  “Of course not,” Revathi said. “Tamas is overly concerned for my safety, is all.” Her voice dropped. “Honestly, I think he was just tired of carrying my parcels.”

  The other soldier snickered, but the captain frowned. He stared at Mara, as if trying to see under her skin. Mara raised her chin a little and stared back.

  “She’s a bold one,” the man said, disapproval showing in his folded arms. “And she’s very wild looking.” Mara flushed, torn between anger and embarrassment. “That won’t do at court, Lady Revathi, you know it won’t. Her manners . . .”

  “Are my concern,” Revathi finished for him. Her voice had taken on a decided chill. “I’ll deal with it. Can you enter her on the rolls, Camus?”

  “Certainly.” The scribe looked at Mara, his gaze sharp and analytical. “Pledged?” he asked.

  Mara shook her head. “Work for hire,” she muttered, feeling awkward. The man nodded briskly.

  “Still t’Riala then.” He made a note on one of the parchments, then handed it to Mara. “Here is your work permit,” he said. “Keep it with you at all times. It allows you to stay in the Inner City and the outer portion of the palace. You’ll have to see someone in the Imperial Palace Guard about going behind the Lotus Wall. I’m not cleared to authorize that.”

  Mara wasn’t sure what he meant by Lotus Wall, but she took the thin piece of parchment anyway, tucking it into her tunic. The soldiers waved them through the gate. And as soon as she saw the inside of the city, Mara couldn’t register anything else.

  It was chaos. Every piece of space was thick with human bodies, clogging the air with their voices, overwhelming her with their smells. For the first time in three years, Mara was grateful for her human-dulled senses.

  She was standing on a strip of land bounded on one side by the wall and on the other by a canal full of sluggish gray water. The far side of the canal rose steeply, placing the next level of the city on a higher plane, and a wide, wooden bridge connected the two levels. The area at the foot of the bridge was packed full of sleeping pallets and rumpled travelers. Some of them sat up at the sight of Revathi’s horse. They stretched out their arms, their voices desperate.

  “Work, miss?”

  “Do you have any work?”

  Revathi shook her head at them and guided her horse into a clearer area just near the main gate. “Sorry,” she said to Mara. “I should have warned you. This is the transients’ area. Once they enter the city, Wind caste people have three days and two nights to get a work permit. If they succeed, they’re allowed to move into the Wind Circle.”

  Revathi nodded to where the sleeping pallets gave way to rows of tiny cobbled-together houses with beaten paths of hard dirt running between them. “They can move into an empty house if one is available, or build one. The builders and masons sell their broken or inferior materials to the Wind Circle, and there’s a small market where Bamboo merchants and artisans sell the cast-off clothing and tools they can’t sell elsewhere. If these people don’t find jobs by the time the three days are up, they have to leave Kamal.”

  A fight broke out between two men in the crowd, a brief, violent tussle. The loser picked up his bedroll and moved away to the edge of the crowd.

  “They do that all the time.” Mara turned to see that the captain had followed them inside the gate. The man folded his arms. “Fight over the best spots, that is. The farther away they are from the gate and the Hearth Bridge, the less likely they are to catch the eye of an employer.” He paused. “Watch for yourself. Here comes one now.”

  A man in embroidered gray silk was walking over the bridge, his steps brisk. Mara assessed him, trying to remember her training. Gray meant he was a house servant, but the rich m
aterial meant he was of a higher level, probably the manager of a household.

  The eyes of everyone in the area swiveled toward him, heads turning as if pulled on strings. The man stopped at the foot of the bridge and crossed his arms. “No moving, and no speaking,” he shouted, in a deep voice that carried over the suddenly silent crowd. “Raised hands only. Who among you can sew a straight seam?”

  About twenty hands went up. The man made a palms-down gesture. “Come forward, just you lot.”

  Murmurs of disappointment followed the owners of the hands as they picked their way to the foot of the bridge. They were a ragged-looking bunch, men and women, young and old. The man in gray walked among them.

  “What’s he looking for?” Mara asked.

  “He’s looking at their clothing, examining the mended parts,” Revathi said. “Someone with good sewing skills will repair his own clothing whenever possible. Buying thread is cheaper than buying new clothes.”

  Finally the man in gray stopped and put his hand on the shoulder of a stooped older man. “You. Come with me.” He turned and headed back across the bridge, the old man following. The ones who hadn’t been chosen made their way back to their pallets, their shoulders slumped and their steps heavy.

  “So that’s how it’s done?” Mara said.

  “For the most part,” the captain said. “That man is lucky. He’ll be part of a noble household, well fed and well clothed. If he’d been hired by a Bamboo merchant, he’d draw a wage, but probably still have to live in the Wind Circle.”

  “Are you ready, Mara?” Revathi was looking up at the gray sky. “It’s starting to get dark.”

  The captain bowed to both girls. “Yes, you don’t want to be late, Lady Revathi. I know your father gets . . . concerned when you are late.”

  Revathi stiffened. “As my father is in Deshe right now with my mother and brother, he won’t be worrying much at all, will he?” She urged her horse forward through the crowd, and Mara followed, ignoring the outstretched hands all around her, the pleading for work.