by David Bishop
The red-haired nobleman had endured endless delays, biting back his temper. For two days he was kept waiting on the ground in St Petersburg, denied a place in the authorised airships that made their hourly visits to the great palace, hovering above the city. Twice he had made it to the front of the queue, but was turned away in favour of others with more urgent calls upon the Tsar's time. Finally, when he had almost despaired of being allowed an audience, Zhukov was summoned to a private landing dock on the edge of the city. Jena Makarov was waiting for him there with a small flyer, a welcoming smile and words full of apology.
"Lord Zhukov, my father wishes me to convey his sincerest regrets that you have been kept waiting so long. He says it was necessary to maintain the deception of your noble house being out of favour, while suspected dissidents were rounded up for interrogation. You understand, of course."
"Of course," he said, allowing a small smile. Just as well I didn't try to throw my weight around and demand an earlier appointment he thought. That would not have gone well with the Tsar. Vladimir Makarov was many things, but a forgiving soul could not be counted among the many facets of his character.
Jena led Zhukov into her private flyer, motioning for him to take the co-pilot's seat. "Don't worry, I'm fully qualified," she said, laughing at the concern on his face. "When the Tsar needs a special envoy to deliver messages personally, diplomatic immunity ensures the least problems."
Zhukov nodded. Wait until the Tsar hears all I have achieved, his rewards should be beyond imagining.
Within the hour Jena led Zhukov into the Chamber of Judgement. He never failed to be intimidated by the vast space, despite it being all but empty. His footsteps echoed up into the high ceiling as he walked to the centre circle where so many had heard their fate pronounced. On either side was a precipitous drop. Nobody knew what lurked in the darkness, as the palace staff were not permitted to speak about it, on pain of death. A handful of Raven Corps soldiers guarded the platform's edges, with long pikes clasped in their gauntlets. Behind them was no railing, just a yawning gap between the platform and the public galleries round the sides of the chamber.
The Tsar floated above the platform in a grand throne, silent thrusters maintaining its magisterial position. He was clad in the Imperial robes of office, a rich mixture of purple and gold fabrics draped round his powerful frame. Zhukov reached the centre circle and dropped to one knee, displaying his obedience. But the Tsar gave no word or signal for the nobleman to rise, so Zhukov was forced to stay on a bended knee.
Jena produced a scroll of vellum and read aloud the text printed in blood red ink. "The court of Vladimir the Conqueror, Tsar of all the Russias, is now in session. Prisoners, do not weep or beg. Undignified signs of weakness or repentance will result only in harsher punishment. Zachariah Zhukov! Prepare to face the judgement of the Tsar."
The nobleman listened to her recitation with growing incredulity. When the Tsarina finished speaking, he could not help but reply. "There must have been some terrible mistake," he protested. "Tsar Vladimir, I came here to-"
"Silence!" the Tsar thundered. "You may speak only when given permission to do so, traitor. Lady Jena, please read the charges against this individual."
She nodded, resuming her recitation from the scroll. "Zachariah Zhukov, you are guilty of conspiring to topple the rightful ruler of the Empire, a treasonable offence. You are similarly charged with promoting anti-Empire ideals, duping others into following your misguided and dangerous notions, and of fomenting insurrection among a dozen noble houses."
"What say you to these charges?" the Tsar demanded.
"Sir, I must confess my confusion at being accused of such crimes," Zhukov began. "I freely admit I am guilty of everything charge as stated-"
"Then there is little more to be said," the Tsar snapped.
"But I committed these acts at your behest!" Zhukov said, trying and failing to hide the panic rising in his voice. "I proposed the Parliament of Shadows as a way of luring dissidents out from the protection of their noble houses. You gave me full permission and every assistance to make this covert mission possible."
"Can you prove that?"
"Can I prove it?" Zhukov spluttered.
"Yes."
"I... I have no documents, nothing official to verify these facts."
The Tsar folded his arms. "Then there seems little hope for you."
"But sir, you agreed to let me pretend I was guilty of treason to establish my credibility with the dissidents. Lady Jena was present at the meeting, she is my witness."
"My daughter, do you recall this meeting the prisoner alleges took place?"
Jena shook her head. "I am sorry, father, I do not. You have so many meetings, I must confess they all blur into one after a while."
"No!" Zhukov cried out, standing up. A cluster of Raven Corps troops surrounded him, pointing their pikes at his torso. "Please, Tsar Vladimir, I do not understand why you are doing this to me." Tears of frustration filled his eyes, the nobleman's emotions overwhelming him.
"Consider it a test of your resolve," the Tsar replied. He motioned to the Raven Corps and they returned to their original positions. Jena smiled at Zhukov, her face showing some compassion again.
"You mean... I'm not on trial?" the bewildered Zhukov asked.
"These charges are a formality," the Tsar replied. "Although the Parliament of Shadows' other members are all dead, some may have told friends or relatives about your involvement before the trap was sprung. So you must be seen to stand trial, just as they have been, otherwise your noble house might suffer reprisals from anti-Imperialists."
"I'm not to be punished?"
The Tsar laughed, a rare sound in the Chamber of Judgement. "Zhukov, if what I hear of your exploits is true, you deserve all our congratulations. Come, give me your report and then we shall deal with these charges against you. I'm sure an amicable resolution can be found."
The nobleman let himself breathe again, the tension slowly melting from his shoulders. It had all been a hoax, so the Tsar could maintain culpable deniability. He was merely toying with him, as a cat plays with a mouse it has captured. Zhukov gave a sigh of relief and then outlined his activities of the past week.
The Tsar listened politely until the name Nikolai Dante was mentioned. "What? You had him in your grasp and you let him escape?"
"I didn't let him escape, sir. I sent him on a collision course with your mission into the Himalayas," Zhukov explained, perplexed by the Tsar's sudden, almost volcanic reaction. "One of the other cabal members, Lady Nikita Zabriski, suggested it. She had heard about you sending a contingent to search for the Forbidden Citadel."
The Tsar's eyes narrowed. "How had she heard this? From you?"
Zhukov shrugged. "I had no knowledge of the mission before she brought the matter up. It was her idea we use Dante's Crest to help locate the citadel."
"And why should his Crest be of any use?"
"Forgive me, sir, I thought you knew all this. Lady Zabriski told us anyone bearing a Romanov Weapons Crest could see the Forbidden Citadel. She even provided an electronic means of tracking Dante via his Crest."
"Do you still have these tracking devices?"
"Err, no," Zhukov admitted.
The Tsar looked across at his daughter. "Did you know anything of this?"
Jena shook her head. "We always suspected the House of Zabriski had close links with the Romanovs. One of our spies suggested Lady Nikita shared intelligence with Dmitri Romanov, that the two might even be lovers. But our operative disappeared shortly before the war."
"We've already purged the Zabriski dynasty, thanks to the efforts of Lord Zhukov," the Tsar growled angrily. "Now we may never know what Lady Nikita could have told us and what secrets she took to her grave."
"Sir, I didn't know," Zhukov said weakly. "I couldn't know."
The Tsar ignored the interjection. "Jena, I want you to make contact with Ivanov's expedition. Warn them about Dante's presence in the mountains an
d make sure the general knows I want the Romanov bastard captured alive." She departed the Chamber of Judgement, leaving Lord Zhukov to face her father's wrath.
The Mukari was meditating, both legs folded into the lotus position beneath her gold and crimson gown, hands held outwards in supplication. The girl's eyelids fluttered as she communed with the mountains, becoming one with the mighty peaks that were worshipped like herself. She could feel every drop of moisture that fell upon them, sense every breeze and zephyr that caressed their sides, touch every soul upon their surface. But already there were those on the mountains whose presence spoke of the darkness to come.
The girl's nose wrinkled in disgust as she smelled the soldiers, their hatred, their cruel spirits and their harsh, guttural laughter. She did not like these men. That would make what was to come easier, but it offered no comfort. The Mukari was moving her mind's eye elsewhere when a sensation like a squall of daggers invaded her thoughts. Dozens of words and images battered her consciousness, seeking a way past, seeking the soldiers. Somebody was trying to communicate with them, warn of approaching danger.
I cannot allow that, the Mukari resolved. What must be will be, but I cannot allow anyone else on to the mountains - in person or as a message. She brought her hands together in prayer, fingertips almost touching her nose. I will hold back the daggers. Let them fall upon deaf ears.
The Tsar glared down at his double agent. "Well, what do you have to say in your defence, Zhukov?"
"Wh... When the Zabriski woman suggested sending Dante into the Himalayas, I... I thought it was a fool's quest, a doomed errand. The renegade has no knowledge or experience of that terrain. It would be remarkable if he survived more than a day in such a hazardous environment."
"Unfortunately, Nikolai Dante seems capable of surviving almost anything anywhere, despite my best efforts to have him exterminated," Vladimir sneered. "He went alone into the mountains, yes?"
"Not exactly. He had two accomplices with him, vile creatures I doubt could be of much use to him. There was also a woman, a native of the mountains. She was the one who found and captured Dante. Curiously, she was able to read his thoughts. She could even hear what the Crest was saying to him."
The Tsar's brow furrowed. "How did she come by this useful talent?"
"I don't know," Zhukov admitted.
"So, not only did you have the notorious renegade in your grasp and let him go, you also had control of an operative able to read the mind of anyone bearing a Romanov Weapons Crest?"
"Well... yes."
"And you didn't think her ability might be of use to your Tsar?"
"I..." Zhukov looked down at his feet. "It never occurred to me." He could see a vein on the Tsar's forehead was throbbing and his face was a glowering shade of crimson.
"Lord Zhukov, you may be the greatest fool I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. From all you have told me, it is plain Lady Nikita had access to secret information about the deployment and dispersal of my Imperial forces. She also possessed key facts about the Romanovs and even handed you a means of hunting down the survivors of that accursed family. But you have thrown all of this away in a crude grasp for glory and kudos. What did you call this mission taking Dante into the mountains?"
"A... doomed errand, sir. A fool's quest."
"Precisely. But you were the fool, Lord Zhukov, and now the doom shall also be yours." The Tsar snapped his fingers. The Raven Corps on one side of the platform divided, creating a gap in their number. Those on the opposite side advanced on Zhukov, their pikes herding him slowly towards the edge.
"Please, sir, I made a mistake," the terrified nobleman cried out. "Give me a chance to correct that error! I will travel to the Himalayas myself, make amends for my folly."
"The folly was mine, for entertaining your suggestions in the first place. I should have known better," the Tsar snarled. He nodded to the Raven Corps. The scarlet-clad soldiers edged Zhukov ever closer to the precipice.
"Sir, don't do this! I beg of you!" he screamed.
"Never beg," the Tsar replied. At his signal the soldiers sent the still protesting nobleman over the edge of the platform. "If there's one thing I can't abide, it's men who beg."
Zhukov's scream was still audible when Jena re-entered the Chamber of Judgement. The Raven Corps were returning to their positions around the edge of the platform. "Well?" the Tsar demanded.
"I'm sorry, father, but we are unable to get a message to Ivanov's mission. The mountains block out most conventional forms of communication, but there is something else at work. A deliberate jamming signal has been established, blocking all our attempts to bypass it." Jena smiled. "I imagine the general and Dante will get quite a surprise when they find each other searching for the Forbidden Citadel."
"You sound almost pleased as such a prospect, Jena. Perhaps you are happy Dante still lives?"
"His survival means nothing to me," she replied quickly.
"Rest assured, his survival will not continue much longer," the Tsar promised. "Ivanov will take the greatest of pleasure in murdering the Romanov renegade. They have an old score to settle, and it is written in blood."
EIGHT
"You cannot hide dishonour in your beard."
- Russian proverb
"The Tibetan Plateau is beautiful and bleak. Shielded by the Himalayas from the rains of monsoon season, the plateau's surface is akin to that of a desert - without the sand. Brown and bare, the vast horizon is littered with glacial rubble from millennia gone by. The forces of nature that created this landscape have, thus far, held back the encroachment of Imperial civilisation. In the most unexpected of places you can still discover ancient scraps of fabric, tattered banners that speak of a religion systematically destroyed in lower regions by outside oppression. Ropes are secured between cairns and nearby crags. From these, the faithful hung their prayers to the gods, written on coloured flags. The effect is a multi-coloured kaleidoscope of hope and faith, both cheering and mournful. Cheering because these bright colours lift the spirits in an otherwise barren landscape, and mournful because those who wrote these messages have long since fallen victim to the latest invaders of this noble world, close to the clouds.
Despite the best efforts of the Imperials, small communities survive high on the slopes of the Himalayas, eking out an existence on the roof of the world. They lead a simple life, but one that many would envy. Should you ever have the chance to venture into this remote territory, you can expect to be entranced by the ways of these people and envious of their secret happiness."
- Extract from Secret Destinations of the Empire,
by Mikhail Palinski
"Bojemoi!" Dante cursed, his teeth chattering a staccato rhythm, while sub-zero blasts of air pushed tears from the corners of his eyes. "How can anyone live in this hellhole?"
Mai glared at him angrily before turning back into the wind, her heels digging into the sides of her yak, urging it onwards.
The four travellers had been left on the Tibetan Plateau the previous morning, their flyer wasting little time before it disappeared over the horizon. Four yaks were waiting for them. Saddling the beasts had proven difficult enough in the finger-numbing cold: riding the creatures was another matter entirely. Dante and Flintlock had come off at least a dozen times, as their bruised buttocks could testify. Mai had whispered to her yak for several minutes before climbing on its back, the beast offering no resistance to her. Most surprising was Spatchcock's steed. The longhaired mountain ox was constantly trying to nuzzle against his legs and trotted along happily with its malodorous master in the saddle.
"I think my yak likes me," he had said with a smile.
"I think she loves you," Mai replied. "And that's a dri, not a yak. Yak is the male of the species. Your mount has udders."
"Must be the aroma of animal dung and dried urine that does it," Flintlock muttered while trying to climb back on to his transportation. "That creature plainly admires anything that smells as bad as it does."
&nbs
p; "Are you talking about the dri or Spatchcock?" Dante asked.
"Take your pick."
More than twenty-four hours later and all conversation between the travellers had long since lapsed. Mai hadn't spoken to Dante since they left the Romanov Necropolis, while Spatchcock was more interested in his new best friend than communicating with Flintlock. They continued their slow progress towards the mighty peaks in the distance. At first, the slopes had appeared deceptively close, waiting for them just beyond the next rise. But the brow of each hill always brought another valley beyond it, and then a further rise to climb.
Dante was beginning to wonder if they would ever reach the Himalayas. "Why didn't the flyer take us closer in?" he shouted at Mai, who was ahead of him.
She didn't look back. "When the Imperials couldn't conquer the mountains, they decided to cut this region off from the rest of the Empire." She dug into her pockets and pulled out a smooth, round pebble. "Watch!" She threw the stone into the air. A flash of blue lightning engulfed the pebble. Once it had been vapourised, a fine dust in the air was all that remained of the stone.
"Sonic disruptors," Dante realised.
This area is seeded with them, the Crest added. Anything moving more than three metres above the ground is targeted and destroyed.
"That explains why we haven't seen any birds," Flintlock said. "This place is deader than any battlefield I've been on."
"We should reach the foot of the Himalayas tomorrow," Mai announced. "Another hour's ride tonight, then we can rest. In the morning we release the yaks. They will find their own way home."
"Can't we take them with us?" Spatchcock asked sadly. "I've gotten quite attached to my friend here."
