“Good! Perhaps you’ll start instituting them.” Arbuckle clenched his teeth to avoid saying something he would later regret. “I won’t argue about this. You’re dismissed, Chief Magistrate Graving.”
“You can’t dismiss me!” Graving sputtered. “Only the emperor can appoint or dismiss magistrates!”
“I didn’t mean permanently.” Arbuckle smiled with an utter lack of amity. “Not yet, anyway. I meant that I have much to do, so you may leave now.”
Quivering with rage, the chief magistrate whirled and stalked out of the audience chamber. The crown prince ignored the insult; no commoner would dare present their back to a monarch. No matter. I’m not emperor yet. As the tension of the encounter waned, Arbuckle longed to close his eyes and lay his head to the table. He had spent half the night poring through tomes of law and history, rooting out precedents for the changes he wanted to make. Unfortunately, there was still work to be done.
“What next, Tennison?”
“Your missive to the provincial dukes, Milord Prince.” The secretary handed over another sheet of parchment.
“Good. I’d like this to get out right away. Please summon Archmage Duveau while I read it through.”
“Yes, Milord Prince.”
Arbuckle had drafted the missive that morning, then given it to Tennison to be copied fair and embellished with the requisite official flourishes. It laid out the essence of his edicts and instructed the dukes to review all judgments levied by their magistrates to ensure evenhanded justice. It also required them to submit to Arbuckle reports enumerating the number of cases, the judgements, and sentences. His orders wouldn’t be popular, but they were necessary. He read it through twice and was approving it with his signet ring when Tennison returned.
“Milord Prince, Archmage Duveau.”
Arbuckle looked up from the page into the red-rimmed eyes and sallow features of his archmage. “Gods of Light, man, are you ill?”
“I am fatigued, Milord Prince.” Duveau nodded respectfully, his lips a thin white line. “Do you not recall commanding me to re-cast the magical wards upon the palace with no delay?”
“I recall ordering the dungeons be protected along with the rest of the palace. I had no idea it would be so taxing…or take so long.”
Archmage Duveau sniffed. “The wards are complicated and intricate, milord. To protect the lower levels, the entire lattice had to be replaced. I have only just completed the final spell. The barrier is impenetrable and seamless. No one may use magic to enter or leave the palace grounds.”
“And that includes the dungeons?”
Though the mage’s face seemed set in stone, he fairly radiated indignation. “Of course, Milord Prince.”
“Thank you. I’ll sleep better knowing that I’m protected by your skill.”
The mage bowed, though not deeply. “I’m at your service, Milord Prince. Now I must rest before—”
“Just one more thing.” Arbuckle held out the parchment. “I need you to send this to all the provincial dukes by magical messaging.”
Duveau’s bushy eyebrows raised even as the corners of his mouth turned down. “Now?”
“Immediately, Archmage.” Arbuckle could brook no delay on this. The longer the missive took to reach the dukes, the more commoners would be unfairly beaten or killed.
Plucking the missive from Arbuckle’s hand and holding it with his fingertips, Duveau scrutinized the page. “The entire message, milord?”
“Yes. Word for word.” Arbuckle wondered at the mage’s reticence.
“To every provincial duke?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“It is…labor intensive, Milord Prince, and I’m the only one of the Imperial Retinue of Wizards privy to the secret of the messaging device.”
Arbuckle flushed with irritation, his lack of sleep undoubtedly curtailing his patience. He strove to calm himself before continuing. “I’m sorry, but there’s really no way around it unless you want to teach one of the other members of the retinue to use the device. The new edicts must be implemented immediately.”
“Of course, Milord Prince.” Duveau bowed again, his face clouded in a mask of discontent. “Anything else?”
“Nothing right now. Thank you.”
When the door closed behind the archmage, Arbuckle slumped back in his seat. “Why does it feel like scaling a battlement just to get anyone to do anything around here?”
“They’re testing you, Milord Prince,” Tennison explained. “The chief magistrate and archmage served your father without question for decades. Through his favor, they rose to high offices and became accustomed to doing as they pleased. That privilege has ended.”
Arbuckle shook his head. “They better get used to it. What’s next?”
“Commander…ah, Captain Ithross and Chief Constable Dreyfus await an audience, Milord Prince. They arrived just as Archmage Duveau did, and are eager to speak with you.”
“Very good. Show them in.” Arbuckle’s heart beat a bit faster, sweeping away his drowsiness. Perhaps they have news about the unrest in the city.
The two officers stepped through the door with a broad-shouldered man leaning heavily on a cane between them. Despite the drastic change in the man’s appearance—his resplendent uniform replaced by simple rough-spun clothing, his healthy complexion now sallow—Arbuckle recognized the man instantly.
“Captain Norwood!” The crown prince stood. A curious thought popped into his head: If this is the man who murdered my father, should I kill him or thank him? “Chief Dreyfus, where did you find him?”
“At the Temple of the Earth Mother, Milord Prince.” Dreyfus bowed low. “I brought him immediately to Captain Ithross.”
“Milord Prince.” Ithross bowed. “I tried to question the captain, but he refused to answer, insisting that he speak with you personally. I was suspicious, but…this situation is unusual. I thought it best if we—”
A knock at the door interrupted Ithross, and Tennison admitted Master Keyfur, member of the Imperial Retinue and second only to the archmage. His flamboyant dress—a wild mix of lavender, yellow, and green that highlight his ebony skin—seemed to brighten the entire room.
The mage bowed low, the peacock feather stuck behind his ear sweeping nearly to the floor. “Milord Prince.”
“I sent for Master Keyfur, Milord Prince, to determine the truth of the captain’s statements,” Ithross explained.
Arbuckle noticed that Norwood was shaking, leaning heavily on his cane. “Guards.” He waved his blademasters forward. “Bring the captain—”
Captain Norwood’s cane clattered to the floor. He stumbled back and collapsed to his knees, his face blanched white and his eyes wide. “Please, Milord! I had no part in the emperor’s death! I beg you! Don’t—”
“What?” Arbuckle held out a hand to forestall his guards, dumbfounded by the captain’s distress.
What could have turned such a strong man into this quivering wreck? Looking closely, he spied pin-point bruises on the captain’s hands and face, saw how he flinched as Ithross and Dreyfus reached down to grasp his arms. Dear Gods of Light… He remembered Norwood’s arrival, how the emperor had ordered Arbuckle, Tennison, and the scribe from the room. No witnesses… Then he recalled blood-tipped spikes in an iron cage.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You were held in the dungeon. Tortured by my father.”
“Yes, Milord Prince.” Norwood struggled to his feet with the officers’ help, still trembling, his eyes darting to the blademasters at Arbuckle’s sides. “I was…taken, and Sergeant Tamir was… murdered by the emperor’s bodyguards.”
“Murdered…” Arbuckle glanced at his contingent of stone-faced blademasters. They would follow any order he gave them, oath-bound to obey. No wonder he’s so frightened of them. “Blademasters, take position behind me. You will only intervene to protect me. Tennison, fetch some chairs, and cancel the rest of my appointments for this afternoon. I’m going to have a chat with Captain Norwood, and I do
n’t want any interruptions.”
Norwood seemed to relax a trifle as the guards and secretary obeyed.
Ithross, however, looked distinctly nervous. “Milord Prince, before we relax our guard, may I establish that this man is no danger to you?” He gestured to Keyfur
“Of course, Captain. Chief Constable Dreyfus, I’ll let you get back to your duties. Good work finding Captain Norwood here. Oh, and please see Tennison later for a copy of the edicts I just authorized. They’ll affect the way your constables conduct their duties.”
“Milord.” Dreyfus bowed and left the room, for once looking disappointed at being dismissed.
“Captain Norwood, Master Keyfur here is going to cast a spell to ensure that what you say is accurate.”
“I would have insisted upon it myself, Milord Prince.” Norwood’s voice sounded firmer now, and some color had returned to his face. “What I have to say may be difficult for you to believe, and I want no doubt that I’m telling the truth.”
“Very good. Master Keyfur, please proceed.”
The wizard plucked the feather from behind his ear and waved it in a circle before the captain’s face. “Captain Norwood, do you intend any harm to Crown Prince Arbuckle?” The mage’s voice rumbled low and melodious, almost hypnotic.
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Did you have anything to do with the death of Emperor Tynean Tsing II?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Do you know who killed my father?” Arbuckle interrupted, catching Norwood’s eyes in his gaze. The captain stared back without flinching.
“No, Milord Prince, I don’t.”
“He speaks the truth,” confirmed Keyfur.
Tennison returned then, along with several servants carrying chairs, and two more bearing a full blackbrew and tea service and platters of neatly prepared sandwiches.
“Ah, Tennison, you read my mind. Perhaps something stronger than tea would be welcome as well.” Arbuckle motioned toward a sideboard by the window. “Captains, Master Keyfur, please sit down and help yourselves. I’m sure getting the entire truth laid out is going to be a long, difficult process. Verul, make sure you don’t miss anything.”
“Yes, Milord Prince.”
“Now, Captain Norwood, what brought you halfway across the kingdom to warn my father of a threat to his life?”
“An investigation into a noble’s death in Twailin led me to believe that there was a spy in the palace.” Norwood swallowed audibly. “I was wrong, milord.”
“What do you mean? There was no spy?”
“Not exactly, milord. When I told the emperor of my suspicions, he…told me that he was the master of the Assassins Guild.”
“What?” Arbuckle lowered his cup, the porcelain clacking against the saucer as his hand shook. He looked to Keyfur for confirmation.
The mage nodded, his eyes wide. “He speaks the truth, milord.”
Arbuckle had thought that no revelation about his father could be worse than what he had already learned, but this…the emperor of Tsing as master of a guild of murderers?
“It seems impossible.” Arbuckle motioned Tennison forward, and his secretary dutifully topped up his and Norwood’s cups with fine single-malt whiskey. Arbuckle sipped, taking strength from the heady concoction. “Go on, Captain Norwood. Please start at the beginning and spare no detail.”
Two hours later, Arbuckle knew the truth, or at least, as much as Captain Norwood could provide. The crown prince didn’t know what sickened him more, hearing what the captain had endured, or what his father had revealed to his captive about his empire-wide syndicate of organized assassination and terror. Norwood had obviously not been meant to leave the dungeons alive. What was more, the priest Hoseph had been transformed from suspect to full-blown accomplice as the emperor’s right-hand man in this society of death. But still unanswered was the question: who killed Tynean Tsing and his five blademasters?
Norwood rubbed his eyes and shook his head, downing the last of his cup of whisky-laced blackbrew. “I wish I could tell you more, Milord Prince, but I can’t. I passed out, and woke in the care of the priests.”
Arbuckle glanced once more to Keyfur, and received a nod in reply. The captain was telling the truth.
“Well, that’s it then. Tennison, provide Captain Norwood with a room in the palace and see that he has every comfort. Also, post a guard at his door for his protection. Master Keyfur, if you would be so good as to tell Archmage Duveau to send a fast message to Duke Mir in Twailin informing him that his Royal Guard Captain is here.” Turning to Norwood, he asked, “Will you need transportation home?”
“I came in a carriage, and…there was a dog inside, a mastiff that I’m quite fond of.” Norwood looked beseechingly at the crown prince. “I’d like to know if he’s all right.”
Ithross surprised them all with a wry laugh. “The dog’s quite well, Captain, but I’m glad you’ve shown up to claim him. He nearly bit off the stableman’s hand when they tried to remove him from the carriage, so they decided to let him stay inside. They’ve been feeding him from the kitchens. I’m afraid the carriage is a bit of a mess.”
“There you are, Captain, everything safe and sound. Why don’t you go down to the stables and see to your dog while a room is readied for you.”
“Thank you, milord. Thank you!”
“My pleasure, Captain.” Arbuckle stood and extended a hand. “I’m sorry for what you endured at my father’s hand. Anything I can provide to make your rest here easier, just ask.”
“Milord, I…” Norwood took his hand tentatively and shook it. “You’ve already done more than enough. I’m sorry for…what happened.”
“No more than I, Captain. No more than I.”
Chapter VII
Lad was right. It’ll take years to learn this city! Mya paused at yet another corner and checked the street name on the lamp post. Archer Street, which means I’m back in Midtown, I think. Checking the map in the guidebook, she frowned. Midtown, yes, but not where she had thought she was. Looking around, she noted several distinctive landmarks—Landstead’s Fabric Warehouse, Redeye Tavern, Teeny Weenie Sausages—and committed them to memory. She had spent most of yesterday, after her meeting with Lady T, exploring the Heights District, and had continued her rambles this morning. Though it was tedious, she was making progress.
She was having better luck assessing the mood of the citizens. Mya stopped at blackbrew cafés and pubs every hour or so. It surprised her how many were open, since most of the larger businesses had boarded their doors and windows against looters. Sustenance aside, the cafés and pubs served her well. They buzzed with all kinds of conversation and rumors.
Observations of other pedestrians also offered perspective. There were few nobles about, and those who were out surrounded themselves with well-armed muscle. She hoped Lady T took note. Hiring out Enforcers as bodyguards would be lucrative.
As for the commoners out and about, she had grouped them into three broad categories: troublemakers, quiet hopefuls, and nutters. The first were the most dangerous. They wandered the streets in gangs, sometimes drinking, loud and scornful, inciting revenge or even random violence against the nobility, constabulary, and military. She’d even seen them accosting those who merely looked affluent.
Most abundant were the quiet hopefuls. They crowded the cafés, sipping tea and blackbrew and discussing the future. They seemed to be as frightened of the troublemakers as they were of the nobility and constables. They knew that violence only led to more violence, and they’d already seen enough. They spoke of rights and justice. Mya didn’t know whether to laugh at them or cheer them on.
The nutters were a small but vocal minority, throwing out cockeyed theories as to who killed the emperor and what was to come. Some preached pathetically alone on street corners, while others gathered with their oddball peers at corner tables in cafés and pubs, eyeing other patrons suspiciously and whispering their convoluted conspiracies. Mya just smiled and shook her head.
Even the most farfetched seemed saner than the truth.
Turning onto Archer Street and starting down the hill, Mya spotted yet another imminent confrontation between a gang of troublemakers and a squad of constables. This was the fifth she’d witnessed this morning. She stopped and leaned against a building to watch.
“On your way!” said the middle-aged corporal in charge. His people wielded truncheons, but wore swords at the ready. “We don’t want any trouble from you lot.”
“Trouble from us?” A motley young man in the fore of the throng stabbed a finger at the closed shoe factory behind the constables. His other hand held a stout stick. “What about the trouble we had from that son-of-a-bitch Count Renley who owns this place. He hires young-uns and beats ’em when they don’t work fast enough!”
“An’ he’s sold others into slavery!” shouted a girl in a ragged skirt. “My little sister just disappeared outta there, an’ I never heard from her again!”
“There’ll soon be legal ways of dealing with these problems,” the corporal promised. “If you’ve got a charge to make, you need to—”
“Legal this!” A cobblestone flew from the midst of the troublemakers and shattered a second-story window.
That’s it, Mya thought.
The troublemakers surged forward, met with shields and truncheons. Four went down in a flash, but one constable fell when a stone met with his nose. The corporal blew a shrill note on a whistle. Mya had heard many of those the past two days, and knew it meant more constables would arrive soon.
Most of the troublemakers scattered, but others fought on. Still, the constables hadn’t drawn swords. During previous altercations, Mya had seen constables holding back on lethal force, but making a lot of arrests. She had overheard more than one assertion of detainees being released with only a warning.
Either this is the new justice, or they don’t have enough jail cells enough to hold them all.
Judging it time to leave, Mya turned down a side street and hurried down the hill. She was in no danger, but didn’t want to be detained as a witness. She tried to look inconspicuous as another squad of constables rounded the corner ahead and trotted toward the conflict, but they barely spared her a glance.
Weapon of Fear (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy II Book 1) Page 11
