by Will Wight
A hand slipped into Shera’s pocket, and she caught a quick glimpse of it.
Kerian’s hand.
Subtly, Shera reached into her pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. It said, “The Candle Bay Playhouse does a rendition of Heart Like a Churning Sea every summer.”
“You know,” Shera said, “they still perform that play.”
“Really? Huh. Most of them don’t stick around so long.”
“Every summer. It’s a classic.”
“You don’t say? We should go sometime. I could tell you what parts they made up.”
The Rose Tower was seven stories tall, identical to five others around the edge of the Palace. It stood against the wall separating the Imperial Palace from the mundane Capital, the tower a rectangle of white with several tiers of red tiles on the roof.
There was an arrow-slit on every floor and more on the roof, all now manned by a mix of Guards and knights. A slim, nimble climber could slip in through one of those openings.
As a girl in the Garden, Shera had been trained to infiltrate one of these towers without being spotted, though in the light of the morning sun doing so unseen would be impossible.
The crowd lining the streets was noisier here, but still not cheering. It was the restless cry of a bunch of bored people, though here and there she heard voices raised in anger.
The Independent Guilds were not loved here, in the heart of the Empire.
No surprise.
When they arrived, Estyr directed the Guilds to fan out to either side of the entrance. Not only would this let them spread out to take advantage of their display of force, but it would mean that the Imperialists would have to arrive and request permission to enter their own tower.
It wasn’t long before the enemy arrived.
Not the enemy, Shera reminded herself. Potential allies.
“An enemy is always a potential ally,” Ayana had taught her. “And the other way around.”
Calder Marten walked at their head, and she was somewhat surprised to see that he hadn’t come in a carriage or a litter. His red hair was neat and combed, his short beard trimmed, and he had adopted an appearance of poise and confidence.
He had chosen not to dress like the Emperor, which she respected. He wore much the same thing she had seen him in before: a long, brown coat over a white shirt and blue pants. The clothing of a Navigator captain.
Instead of a hat, though, he wore a crown. And not the fake silver crown that his body double had worn at the fake coronation the Imperialists had hosted a week or two before. The crown, the symbol of the Emperor’s rule, the one he had used to warp the minds of dozens of Consultants on the Gray Island.
She had to wonder if that was a deliberate threat directed toward her. If it was, he would find that she was more than capable of answering threats today, even unarmed.
The dizziness from the potion had started to recede.
To one side of him stood Jarelys Teach, and it didn’t seem that the years had touched the Head of the Imperial Guard in any noticeable way. Maybe that was one of the benefits of having the heart of a Bonereaver.
Her blue eyes were hard as iron as she regarded Shera, her short hair like a helmet against her skull, and the red-and-black armor she always wore had been well polished.
Shera knew that Teach held a grudge. She could see it in the woman’s eyes.
It made her feel…complicated. She felt guilty for the personal impact that the Emperor’s sudden death had made on Teach, who had never been anything but kind and helpful to Shera.
On the other hand, she felt no guilt for her actions.
She had needed to move swiftly, so she had moved swiftly. In the face of the Emperor’s life or death, her promise to Jarelys Teach had meant nothing.
The Head of the Champion’s Guild stood on Calder’s other side, though Shera only recognized him from his description. He was a bear of a man, slightly shorter than Calder but twice as broad, his limbs thickly packed with slabs of muscle. Silver winged his black hair, and he wore a set of armor himself.
Unlike Teach’s armor, his was neither colored nor polished, a utilitarian slate-gray metal that looked like it had seen its share of beatings.
In one hand, he carried a leather satchel, which Shera was sure contained his Soulbound Vessel—reputed to be the helmet of his armor, which allowed him to enter a powerful, berserk state—and his trademark pair of maces.
If anyone could protect an unarmored Calder from Estyr Six, it would be these two. At least as long as no one had their Vessel handy.
The three delegates stood in front of a column of the Imperialist Guilds. Seeing them head-on, Shera couldn’t spot every Guild in whole, but she saw the dark-coated Blackwatch standing in regiments, glimpsed a few Navigators craning their necks to see around their fellows, and caught a Magister leaning on his staff and staring at her.
Glaring at her, really. She couldn’t blame the man. She’d killed their Guild head.
The Imperial Guard were impossible to miss, being both the most numerous and spread everywhere. Women with the eyes of eagles stood next to men with clawed hands, and all of them looked over the Independents with wary caution.
As the Imperialists arrived, a cheer followed them from the crowd, who threw confetti and flowers into the paths of their heroes.
Shera was suddenly overcome by the desire to see the Imperialists marching into a city hostile to them. The Gray Island, maybe, if it was back under Consultant control.
Though that didn’t really work. Consultants didn’t shout.
Estyr Six stepped out in front of Shera and Bareius, who flanked her on either side. Instantly, every eye at the base of the Rose Tower turned to regard the Regent.
She jerked her chin at Calder, who straightened like a schoolboy hoping for praise from his instructor. “You sure you want to wear that? You’ll have a hard time hearing anything we say.”
It took Shera a moment to realize that Estyr was talking about the Emperor’s crown. She could see how a Reader might have trouble concentrating on any conversation in the present with centuries of the Emperor’s Intent pressing down on his awareness.
“Thank you for your concern,” Calder said easily. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
That was a flippant tone to take with a Regent, and Shera half-hoped to see Estyr throw him over a building for it, but she didn’t seem to care. “Fine with me, just don’t pass out.”
Dismissing Calder, Estyr turned to General Teach. “Teach, I heard you gave Jorin a beating with his own sword.”
The way Shera had heard it, the two swords had clashed and everyone had been lucky to escape with their lives, but she respected Estyr giving face to the Guild Head.
Although Teach had paled, and her voice trembled. “No, I didn’t…I mean, it was hard-fought. I had lots of…help.”
Shera thought she heard a gulp.
What had happened to Teach? She had vanished in an instant, replaced by this impostor. Shera had only seen Teach shaken on the day of the Emperor’s death and on the rare occasion when he had to reprimand her in front of the Gardeners.
Teach wasn’t a coward. She wouldn’t be shaking like a leaf out of fear for herself. Did Estyr have a hostage? Was she speaking in code?
The truth finally dawned on Shera: this was reverence. Teach had come face-to-face with a girlhood hero and she hadn’t been prepared for it.
Estyr pretended not to notice, turning to Baldezar Kern. She bowed her head to him. “Champion.”
He returned the greeting. “Champion.”
After the greeting of mutual respect, they took a moment to size each other up. She couldn’t know if they were using Reader senses to evaluate each other’s Intent—she wasn’t even sure if Kern was a Reader, though he was certainly a Soulbound—but before they’d finished, Bareius thrust himself into the moment.
“Baldezar! Jarelys! How long has it been?” He gestured behind him, as though to a servant. “Furman, tell me…ah, rig
ht, he’s not here. That’s annoying.”
Nathanael Bareius had built up hundreds of business contacts all over the world. He had to be better in negotiations than this, but he seemed to beg for a knife between the ribs with every word.
Teach’s expression told Shera she agreed. “Don’t push me, Bareius. I don’t want to break peace between the Guilds just to kill you.”
It was a shame that the alchemists were the richest and best-connected Guild in the world, or Shera would have served up Bareius on a platter and continued negotiating from there.
It might put them on better footing.
“It’s just business, Jarelys!” he assured her. “Don’t let it get too personal. If it has to be personal, then let it be for the right reasons! Remember the good times.”
It was Baldezar Kern’s turn, and he managed to fit an unnatural amount of menace in a perfectly bland expression. “The night after the Emperor’s death, eight out of ten of the alchemists supporting my Guild canceled their contracts. I know why.”
Shera and Estyr both turned to look at their supposed ally, and while she couldn’t speak for Estyr, her gaze was no friendlier than Kern’s or Teach’s.
Shera had no doubt that the Consultants had known about Bareius pulling his alchemists away from the Champions, but Shera hadn’t known. She hadn’t been Guild Head long enough to be briefed on everything the Guild had done for the last five years.
But someone had let their responsibilities slip, because this she should have known.
If she had realized that every single member of the opposition had a personal grudge against Bareius, she would never have agreed to stand next to him.
In fact, she took a step away, just to demonstrate her lack of support.
Even Bareius’ self-confidence couldn’t stand up to them, because he withered under their gazes. “That was…bad business, I admit, but everything’s on the table now, isn’t it?”
Shera wasn’t sure what that meant.
“These are all discussions we can have once the ink dries between us,” he finished, and Shera thought she heard a note of pleading.
Calder held up a hand, and Shera remembered that at least Bareius hadn’t offended every Imperialist leader. “There’s bad blood all around. For now, we should set it aside and work together, or it will lead to a worse end for all of us.”
As though by chance, he ended the statement looking into Shera’s eyes.
To her surprise, she respected what she saw there. She sometimes thought of him as an impetuous narcissist too irresponsible for his age. A reckless child playing with forces he didn’t understand.
In the moment, she was reminded that he had faced down the Handmaiden on the Gray Island just as she had. He had seen the Great Elders. He knew what was really at stake here.
Meeting his gaze, she nodded.
If he could work together for peace, so could she.
Bareius applauded the sentiment. “Well said! Now, shall we? Furman!”
This time, the man was actually calling his assistant. Furman stepped forward from the alchemists, adjusted his glasses, and gave a signal.
Shera didn’t recognize the signal and didn’t have any idea what it meant, but apparently everyone else did, because the Independent Guilds split right down the middle and left a land clear for the Imperialists to approach. If they wanted to enter their own tower, they would do so with the leave of the Independents.
It was a powerful demonstration, but Shera had to wonder when they’d had the time to memorize signals or practice coordinated movements. She was glad she hadn’t been a part of it.
Teach clearly didn’t like it. She would see this as a trap, though there was no way Shera or the others could pull the trigger first in this scenario. If a fight broke out, it would be just as devastating for the Independents as the Imperialists.
The Head of the Imperial Guard gestured, and her people rushed forward, lining the way into the tower.
To Calder’s credit, he started walking without waiting for the Guards to get into place, golden crown gleaming in the morning light and coat billowing beside him.
She had always intended to kill Calder Marten after the peace, whenever it would be convenient to replace him with a more qualified Emperor. But her brief impression of him here led her to reconsider.
This was her chance to figure out whether she could work with him.
The man whose wife had killed Lucan.
Though Estyr was supposed to lead Shera and Bareius in, Shera took the lead, falling in step with Calder. He looked to her with surprise.
“When this is over,” Shera said, “we need to talk.”
“Yes, I’d say we do.” There was an ironic tone to his words that she appreciated. “I’d like us to find a way to work together. Ideally without you holding a knife to my back.”
So he had recognized the implied threat of having the Consultants on his side. Well, at least he wasn’t an idiot.
She tried a classic Gardener joke. “Would you prefer a knife to your front?”
“It’s better where I can see it,” he responded.
Shera hadn’t found that to be so. People seemed happier when they died unexpectedly than when they saw the threat coming.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Maybe not,” he allowed in a wry tone. “But if you have to kill me, I want it to be because I deserve it, and not just because you don’t like me.”
She gave him a weary smile to show she understood, but dropped it when she remembered he wouldn’t see it beneath her hood and veil. An expression wouldn’t do; she had to say something.
“We might be able to work together after all.” At least, she might not be so quick to draw shears at the first opportunity.
In the end, he hadn’t been the one to kill Lucan.
She had blamed him at first, but Meia had slowly convinced them that he wasn’t directly responsible. He had still caused her more than enough headaches that she could easily justify slitting his throat…but maybe she didn’t have to.
As they spoke, they passed beneath the arch of the doorway into the Rose Tower. A strange welcome party awaited them on the bottom floor.
A series of blue-white stone boxes had been arranged on the floor in a variety of shapes and sizes, lids sitting neatly next to them. They had been carved with images of armored soldiers with shields raised.
Behind the boxes was a Magister attendant a little younger than Shera, her short staff decorated with blue jewels that caught the light, her robes cut in a modern style that would have been filed in the Mason costume archive as belonging to a well-to-do Heartlander woman.
The attendant spoke a little too sweetly, as though to children. “We created these sealing boxes especially for this occasion in conjunction with the Luminian Order. You will place your weapons or Vessels inside a box of your choosing, which will then be labeled and kept in the care of our non-partisan guardians.”
Which, of course, brought Shera’s attention to the guardians.
The first to grab her eyes was the massive Stonefang, a scarlet-striped dog Kameira the size of a prowling lion. It eyed the boxes hungrily, as though it couldn’t wait to feast on the contents, though Shera knew the truth was the opposite.
Stonefangs were highly protective of their nests and almost impossible to kill, so they could be easily trained into relentless guardians of treasure. There were a handful of specific ways to overcome such guard dogs, but any untrained or ignorant intruder would be torn to pieces.
Two pairs of Witnesses waited against the far wall. Witnesses always worked in pairs, one a Chronicler responsible for memorizing and transcribing information, and one a Silent One responsible for the Chronicler’s protection.
Chroniclers always carried a row of candles on their belt, the wax alchemically treated to store Intent more efficiently. Simply by burning the candles, the Chronicler could relive their own memories for almost infallible recollection.
Finally, a Champion stood at
the end of the row of boxes. She was built like a guard tower, with a huge two-handed sword on her back and the Golden Crown of the Champions in gold over her heart. The Consultant’s Guild had tried to bribe this Champion as soon as she was hired for the job, only to find that she was truly dedicated to her neutrality.
She wore a blindfold that was so similar to Jorin’s disguise that Shera wondered if he had gotten his inspiration from her.
The attendant spoke again. “Your weapons will be released when the Head Witnesses certify that the negotiations have concluded. If this is acceptable, the first pair of you may select your boxes now.”
In this process, Estyr had agreed to go last. She hadn’t shown any fear about giving up her Vessels that Shera had seen, but everyone else on their side had all suggested that the Regent should stay armed as long as possible.
So Shera moved forward and Calder joined her again.
He gestured behind him. A moment later, a young man hurried forward with a long wooden box in his arms. No doubt it contained Calder’s Awakened sword, and Shera almost rolled her eyes beneath her hood.
There was the self-important Calder she had expected.
Carry your own sword.
The attendant looked to her. When she unbuckled her belt and placed it inside a relatively small box, along with Bastion, she felt a brief pang of alarm.
She would be more than disarmed. She had already lost a piece of herself in Syphren, and now she was willingly parting with another.
Be calm, Bastion sent to her.
The Magister attendant gestured, and the stone lids floated up and scraped into place. The Chroniclers placed a hand to their candles, either committing to memory which box was which or pretending to do so.
Teach and Bareius walked up next. Teach acted like she was severing her own arm as she unbuckled the sheathed Tyrfang and lowered it into a long box, keeping physical contact with the weapon as long as she could.
The Head alchemist showed empty hands. “I apologize, everyone, but I have come unarmed. Search me, if you doubt me.”
Unarmed. Shera almost laughed.
He had a dose of the Champion augmentation for himself, she knew. She was starting to feel a trickle of energy in her limbs, and if he had taken his before she had, then his potion would already be in full effect. As long as it worked as well as he claimed, he would be able to pull the pair of Witnesses apart limb from limb.
