Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  ‘Don’t even start,’ Larik grumbled. ‘Come on, Gryff, we’ve got some folks to see.’

  Basia was looking tired and drawn; the concentrated gnosis-use was clearly taking it out of her. Ril got some char-roasted fish fillets wrapped in thin bread and a tankard of cider from one of the dozens of tiny trolley-stalls lining the dock.

  ‘Ghastly place,’ he muttered, feeling very alien here. Magi seldom used the riverboats, generally preferring windships. Kenside might be only a couple of miles from where he slept, but it was a whole different world, a desperate scrabble for coin and security. ‘It’s a den of thieves,’ he added under his breath.

  Basia laughed. ‘That’s what they say about the Bastion.’

  ‘They think we’re thieves?’

  ‘Land-owning, tax-collecting, toll-extracting, debt-foreclosing thieves. They may even have a point, darling.’

  Gryff and Larik returned; they’d found food and beer, but no fresh information, so Basia tuned another periapt and they made their way along the docks to the Fisheart end, where she swerved and walked out along a pier. Halfway along, the trail ended with a turn to the right so sharp that Basia almost stepped off into the river before Ril grabbed her. That broke her concentration, and the periapt crumbled in her fingers.

  She cursed, then looked around. ‘Kenside docks—!’

  ‘Aye,’ big Gryfflon said, patting her shoulder. ‘Well done, lass!’

  Ril gave her an admiring grin. ‘You’re pretty special, Fantoche. But now what?’

  Basia was staring out across the waters of the Aerflus. ‘There are ferries and private vessels that could go anywhere local – Emtori, Southside, up the Siber and down the Lowater.’ She licked her lips, then sighed. ‘I’m not sure I can do this on water. The traces don’t linger so long, and they’re almost gone as it is.’

  ‘Then this is where I take over,’ Larik said. He pulled out the tiny splinters he’d scraped from the wall. ‘Same game, different rules. See, I’m mostly a sylvan-mage; you know, plant matter and the like. Splinters of wood can be used to find the rest of the same timber – they were all one tree once, right? There’s a “sympathy” – like Basia’s work with the periapts, only it works different – you’ll see.’

  He drew them into the shelter of a chandler’s to shield the shards from the stiff river winds, then he set one splinter hovering in the air, cradled in a web of green light. It spun slowly, jabbed a few inches northwest, towards the warehouses, then flared and burned up. Larik murmured in satisfaction. ‘We’ve got two more shots,’ he announced. ‘Come on!’

  Larik took them along the docks to a road leading up to Fisheart and tried again in the lee of a tavern. People peered at them until Gryff discouraged their attention, but Ril was fairly sure some of those watching from a distance had been following them for some time, probably since Kenside, but there was little he could do about it.

  I just hope none of them are going to run ahead of us and warn anyone.

  The next splinter led them along the riverside, past the giant marble statues sunk into the Bruin; the sixty-foot-tall representations of past emperors stood on fluted pillars some fifty yards off shore. From a distance they looked spotless, but closer up, Ril could see they were thickly coated in bird-shit and river-slime. He hoped it would be a long time before a statue of Lyra was erected. If it ever is . . .

  Finally, the last splinter led them to the transporting business of Lans Yensson, who ran both land- and water-based freight and passenger services from a large stables and yard near the base of Delta Pier, a small but well-preserved dock east of Pilum Hill. In the yard stood a rank of green carriages and they shared a satisfied grin.

  Yensson was Hollenian, with blond hair and a reddish stubble, a genial smile and furtive eyes. He quickly recognised who he was welcoming and dropped to one knee before Ril. ‘I saw you joust, your Grace, four days prior. So near, yes?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Ril replied, not welcoming the memory. Pearl was on the mend, but he wasn’t sure the pegasus would ever fully recover. He let Larik describe the carriage, horses and driver, then asked, ‘Was this your carriage?’

  They watched the man’s inner debate, which quickly resolved in favour of not antagonising four Bastion magi, one the Prince-Consort. ‘It was: I can show it to you.’ Yensson took them to a stable where a carriage was being repaired. ‘The panels were damaged,’ he said, pointing to the grazed side. ‘Good thing I take a bond payment; these lacquer panels don’t come cheap.’ He cuffed the young man sanding down the timbers and sent him away. ‘What else can I tell you, your Grace?’

  ‘Who hired it?’

  ‘A man calling himself Shel Thibou. Big man, plump, soft hands with three gold rings. Brown hair but a grey goatee. Hazel eyes and a cinnamon scent. Gold buckle.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory,’ Ril remarked.

  ‘You need one in this job. I’ve not met him before, but he spoke like a Pallacian from Gravenhurst. He said he needed the carriage on a one-night hire, to pick up and deliver a passenger from Highgrange to the docks.’

  ‘When did this Thibou return it?’ Basia asked.

  ‘The morning after the tourney,’ Yensson responded. ‘We argued: he’d damaged the carriage, but he disputed the amount of the bond I withheld.’ He scowled. ‘I don’t wish ill of folk, but we didn’t part as friends. He struck me as having the Reek.’

  Ril frowned. ‘We understand he took the carriage to the last pier on Kenside docks. Why wouldn’t he use Delta pier – it’s right here?’

  ‘That morning we were loading a grain barge for the Lowater – took all morning, so the ferries all left from Kenside that day. But he purchased his passage with us.’ Yensson wavered. ‘Normally it ain’t right to give information on a man’s passage, your Grace.’ He saw Larik reach for his purse and added, ‘Nay, it’s not the money.’

  ‘We suspect Master Thibou of involvement in child-kidnapping,’ Basia said.

  ‘Ah . . .’ Yensson looked skywards. ‘Well, he did have two children on the ferry with him. They took passage to Aerside Docks, in Emtori.’

  Ril and his companions glanced across to the distant western shore of the confluence, where Emtori Heights brooded under grey skies. ‘Thank you, Master Yensson,’ Ril said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Emtori, he mused. The day was almost gone by now, but finally, this felt like progress. There was real money in Emtori Heights, and connections to many of the Great Houses. Argundian and Hollenian refugees had settled it originally, people who’d sided with the empire against their own people in the many border wars that had raged for centuries between Rondelmar and her vassal-states.

  Emtori Heights is where Cordan is being held. We’ll find him in the morning.

  27

  Riverreek

  Disease

  Where humans gather, disease thrives. Our cities are cesspits, breeding grounds for every sickness and lurgy to plague our benighted lives. Yet still we flock together.

  JOVAN TYR, HEALER, 783

  Dupenium, Rondelmar, Yuros

  Junesse 935

  Garod Sacrecour settled into the Sacrecour family throne – not the Gnostic Throne of Pallas, but the real throne: that of the patriarch of the Sacrecours in Dupenium. For centuries, whoever ruled Dupenium also ruled Pallas and the empire.

  He was the first Duke of Dupenium who wasn’t also Emperor of Rondelmar, and that destroyed all pleasure he took from either the throne or the ducal title. I am the rightful ruler of Rondelmar – I should be emperor. He’d already chosen his ruling name, close enough to his own that there could be no mistaking who it was who had arisen to rule the known world: Emperor Garodius Dupeni I, first of a new ruling Sacrecour dynasty.

  But the paths that would lead to that moment were still murky, as treacherous and shadowy as the swirling darkness creeping into this room. Though he knew to expect this, it still turned his mouth dry as suddenly the shadows surged and changed.

  The four chairs facing his across
the table in his private chamber were filled – well, not really filled, of course, for these weren’t actual people but their projected souls, thanks to the affinity known as spiritualism. The semi-transparent images were each cloaked and wearing a Lantric mask. He wished again that he didn’t need them.

  ‘Greetings, Lord Garod,’ Tear said, her mask dripping ruby droplets from her eyes.

  Her voice resonated in his mind, not his ears; any other person present wouldn’t have heard anything. But he could see them, and sense their impatience. Greetings were exchanged, then Twoface asked, ‘Do you agree to march when we tell you?’

  Garod sat taller, wanting to assert himself. ‘I’ll march when I have guarantees that you really do have Cordan and Coramore, and that you’ll release them into my hands at the gates of Pallas as promised.’

  ‘You have our promise,’ Angelstar intoned.

  ‘Perhaps you feel that isn’t sufficient?’ Jest added, the leering, jovial mask sinister in the shadows.

  ‘No, it’s not sufficient! I don’t even know that you really have the children. I don’t know that they’re alive. You tell me that Canossi and Klief will support me, but I have no word from them. You tell me there’ll be a new grand prelate, but I hear nothing to support this.’ He pointed at Jest. ‘Give me something that’s solid, damn you!’

  ‘Perhaps this will convince you.’ They all spoke together as a pair of rings clanked dully on the table surface. He gasped – spirits couldn’t cause objects to simply appear. Then he followed the lines of force and understood: these spirits had flown the rings from Pallas – or wherever the children were being held – to this room, three hundred miles away. It was simple kinesis – except it wasn’t simple, if they’d done it in an evening, nor easy. It would have taken great power and precision.

  He examined the rings: they were either the genuine royal signets or extremely good copies. He touched them, and got a vision of Cordan and Coramore, asleep in different cells. It wasn’t conclusive proof, but he could detect no illusion . . .

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Assuming I agree, what do you ask of me?’

  ‘That every mounted fighting man you command set out for Pallas towards the end of Junesse,’ Tear answered.

  ‘Have them arrive on the second day of Darkmoon, the day after the Synod begins at the Celestium,’ Angelstar clarified.

  ‘But riders can’t storm the city gates,’ Garod protested.

  ‘They won’t need to,’ Jest smirked. ‘You’ll arrive to find the Bastion and Celestium in our hands already.’

  ‘And the city gates will be flung open for you,’ Twoface concluded.

  Garod leaned back on his ancestral throne, considering their words. The Bastion and Celestium captured? The gates of Pallas open? Could it be? ‘What about the other dukes?’ he asked.

  ‘Klief have promised they won’t interfere,’ Jest replied.

  ‘Canossi and Aquillea also,’ said Angelstar.

  ‘And the Dukes of Midrea, Andressea and Brevia likewise,’ said Two-face.

  ‘Garod,’ Tear said quietly, ‘all you need to do is ride into the city and restore order. It’ll be 909 all over again.’

  He clenched his fists as visions of a triumphant return swelled behind his eyes. ‘And the children?’

  ‘Will be delivered to you at the city gates,’ the four masked figures replied. ‘You have our promise.’

  He stared at the phantoms, wondering if their promises were as substantial as their current forms. But they’d delivered so much already: the names of Setallius’ agents in Dupenium; the allegiance of the men commanding the legions blocking the road to Pallas, and access through their people to Lyra Vereinen’s inner court. He fingered the rings they’d brought him: solid, real . . . gold.

  Mater-Imperia Lucia always said that some risk was inevitable when great decisions had to be made, and though he’d hated the bitch with a vengeance, she was usually right. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there.’

  *

  Pallas, Rondelmar, Yuros

  Junesse 935

  When the tides were right, dozens of ferries could be found on the Aerflus, navigating the treacherous swirl of water that poured in from the Bruin and the Siber respectively. The Bruin’s headwaters were in the mountains of Brevia and the forests of Andressea and Schlessen and the river was often filled with logs and storm wreckage from weeks-old weather. But the Siber came tumbling down from the higher lands to the south around Lac Siberne, flowing clearer and cleaner and faster, striking the confluence in a white tumult and causing the powerful surges and whirlpools that made being an Aerflus ferryman as much a calling as a job.

  It was also a good place to dump bodies: catch the right whirlpool and they might never resurface. Ril learned that morsel of local knowledge from the ferryman taking them across, the morning after their discoveries in the docklands of Kenside.

  The ferryman, a rangy man with a long forked beard, constantly fingered an amulet of Shaermuth, the pagan god of the Aerflus: a green-skinned giant with the head of a squid who supposedly lurked beneath the largest whirlpools, sucking the unwary under the waves then rending them with his tentacles and devouring them. The ferrymen drizzled frequent libations of alcohol to appease him.

  ‘When He’s drunk, Shaermuth dun’t feel hungry,’ the ferryman explained. ‘He’ll vomit ye back up if ye fall in!’ He poured another mouthful of wine over the side, ignoring Larik and Gryff, who clearly thought it a shocking waste.

  Basia, sitting beside Ril on the narrow wooden bench, was still drained from the complex trace-spells she’d been using the previous day. Ril had an arm around her to keep her steady as he admired the skill of the ferryman taking them confidently between the whirlpools and waves.

  All river commerce in Pallas operated in the two-to-three-hour windows between low and high tides, and the river was crowded this morning with all the vessels that had been waiting patiently upstream.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ he muttered to Basia.

  ‘Dirklan’s meeting us over there – he’s bringing a skiff. I’ve got two more scrying attempts with Cordan’s broken periapts,’ she said, as their ferry swooped through the debris, scraping against a submerged log and knocking aside a drowned cow before catching the edge of a whirlpool and being pushed on their way. Inside another quarter of an hour they were clambering onto the solid wooden docks at Aerside below the eastern slopes of Emtori Heights. The docks were anchored by massive tree-trunk piles and sylvan, Water- and Earth-gnosis, to bind the wood and stone and repel the damp. Waves were hitting the sea-walls hard and the rest of the city – Pallas-Nord on one side and Southside on the other – was hidden by the spray.

  Setallius was waiting for them on the pier, his silver hair blowing in the wind. Behind him was a burly man, bald, but with a thick beard, twin throwing axes scabarded across his back: Mort Singolo, his bodyguard. He patted Basia fondly on the arm before bowing, the minimum degree, to Ril. ‘What have you got, Basia?’ he asked.

  She repeated Yensson’s description: ‘Shel Thibou; plump, with soft hands and three gold rings. Brown hair and a grey goatee, hazel eyes. He had the children with him, and possibly had a ginger-bearded driver. I think they came here.’

  Singolo nodded. ‘I grew up in Emtori. All the passenger ferries come here, to Pier Seven – the other piers take the river-trade.’

  ‘It’s the rich who use the ferries and they were all at the tourney,’ Setallius mused. ‘The water-traffic would have been light. Hopefully they’ll have stood out.’

  Singolo took the Joyce brothers with him, to ask questions of the wharfmen, while Ril and Basia sat on the pier and brought Setallius up to date, watching the tide change on the Aerflus and the confluence emptying of shipping as the risks increased. The spray from the waves striking the docks obscured the far shores, but it was still sunny above. The sixth day-bell chimed: midday.

  ‘Why would the kidnappers come here?’ Basia wondered. ‘If I were them, I’d have gone st
raight to Dupenium.’

  ‘They might have feared I’d intercept them if they risked the journey to Dupenium,’ Setallius said. ‘We started watching the skies and roads between here and the northeast from the moment the children vanished. And I have men inside Garod’s household; his spymaster will know that.’

  ‘If it’s not the Sacrecours, who is it?’ Ril asked. ‘Opportunists, as Wurther suggested the other day?’

  ‘Someone who feels that they can control the Sacrecours?’ Basia suggested. ‘People who see Cordan as means to an end, rather than the rightful ruler?’

  ‘Using him to displace Lyra, while setting up a second coup afterwards leaving them in control?’ Setallius pondered, then admitted, ‘We don’t know enough.’

  A soft swish behind them heralded Singolo, who rumbled, ‘We have something. The name “Shel Thibou” meant nothing, but one of the ferrymen remembers the fare: it was unusual, because it diverted to the old docks in Surrid – that’s in southern Emtori, a poor area. A party of five, including two children.’

  ‘Then that’s where we should go,’ Ril said.

  ‘Aye,’ Singolo said, ‘but the reason the fare was unusual was that it went straight into the new quarantine area in Surrid: the one set up for the riverreek outbreak. People are dying in there, so no one goes there by choice.’

  ‘Unless they have no fear of the riverreek,’ Setallius said. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  The closer to the quarantine zone, the deader the streets of Surrid became. The air stank: the horrible wood-and-roasted-meat stench of mass cremation. When they reached the enclosure they found hurriedly constructed walls blocking the street, though the barricade was solid, bolstered with Earth-gnosis. The moans of the ill carried from within. They found a vantage point upslope where they could look down into the square: it was full of debris, but no one was sitting in the sunshine; the only people moving were a dozen monks of Kore, who were burning corpses in one corner of the enclave.

  When they went down to the northern entrance, the only way to reach the Surrid docks without going by boat or windskiff, they found a full cohort of Kirkegarde. As they stepped into view, the twenty Church soldiers stopped and stared at them in exactly the same way; it was uncanny and unnerving, the way they all moved at once – and it convinced them all they were in the right place, for it was very wrong.