by Jon Sprunk
She bit back tears as a wave of images crashed over her. The rough grasp of strange hands. Markus's face in the dim firelight, sweat dripping from his nose as he took her. Josey folded her hands over her stomach. She wanted to curl up into a ball and die.
No.
She pulled her hands away and stood up straight. With a sniff, she drew back the tears. To hell with them all. She wouldn't succumb to the terror. Father hadn't yielded when they took his post away. He was an old man, far past his prime, but he'd continued to fight unto his last breath, and so would she.
Angry voices interrupted her thoughts. Josey turned toward the center of the chamber. The Grand Hall of the Luccian Palace, named after the famous architect and composer Luccio Fernari, who had spent the last years of his remarkable life involved in its construction, was a masterpiece of traditional Mitric architecture. Once, vibrant frescos depicting significant events and persons of the empire's history had covered the domed ceiling, but they had been replaced by scenes of inferior quality showcasing the Church's rise to power. She recognized them from her catechism: the Hanging and Decapitation of Phebus, Conquest of the Nimites, and, finally, Revolution Day. Each picture was bordered in ornate molding of curling vines and leaves chased with gold. Enormous, hand-woven tapestries hung on the walls, separated by brass lanterns with frosted glass panes that bathed the chamber in stark, ghostly light.
On the floor, a dais of marble steps dominated the eastern wall. A semicircle of massive thrones, fashioned of deep-stained redwood and upholstered in purple silk, crowded the highest tier. The seats of the prelate and Elector Council, they represented the highest powers in both the spiritual and temporal worlds. On the wall above the dais, a giant sunburst was emblazoned in a mosaic of tiny white-and-gold tiles. Once, that august symbol of the Church's authority would have instilled a sense of awe within her. Now, knowing what she did about the Council and their murderous deeds, she felt only a touch of melancholy, as if for a treasured thing lost beyond recovery.
Thirteen wooden boxes rested on the bottom step of the dais. She had no idea what they were meant for, but it could be for nothing good. She harbored no illusions about why she was here. The Sacred Brotherhood had taken control of the palace, apparently under the command of the man who stood at the foot of the dais, and she was his captive as surely as if she wasted away in some dark dungeon cell. She shook her head at the uncomfortable image. There would be rats and lice, all manner of crawling things…
Caim will come for me.
That hope huddled close to her heart, and yet reminders of her dire predicament were all around. She had cried as they dragged her, naked as a babe, from Kas's cabin and tied her over a saddle. Then, she began to hate. Jarred and battered, she fantasized about Caim killing the men who had abused her, cutting them into pieces for the carrion birds to devour. Hatred sustained her on the long ride back to Othir. By the time they reached the city she was a teary, sodden mess, bruised from thigh to collarbone. More soldiers met them at the gates and provided an escort to Celestial Hill. She had been appalled to see the state of her beloved city. People rioted in the streets, destroying property, burning and looting. Bodies lay in the gutters, both commoners and soldiers alike. She wished she could put a stop to it somehow, but trussed over her steed like a sack of parsnips, all she could do was watch the carnage.
Up the Processional they rode, each clop of the horse's hooves on the hard cobblestones driving the saddle horn deeper into her ribs, until they reached the palace. There she was taken down from her humiliating position and hustled through a number of gates to a small chamber where an old silent woman in a black shawl washed her with stubborn disregard for her comfort and shoved her into new clothes.
Josey looked down at the garment she had been forced to wear. Layers of white silk brocade trailed on the floor. Rows of tiny seed pearls were sewn to the low-cut bodice and down the puffy sleeves that encased her arms, but left the shoulders bare. She felt scandalous in the gown. It reminded her of a wedding dress for a virgin bride, something she would never be. That part of her had been stripped away. Just thinking about it made her feel sick.
The only other people in the hall were Markus and Ral, who was also an assassin, according to Caim. A dangerous man, supposedly, but he hardly looked the part. He wore a fine suit of black with starched white cuffs and collar. A slender blade with a silver guard hung at his side. Josey couldn't imagine Caim wearing such an extravagant weapon. Then, she spotted the assortment of blades hidden about the man's person, tucked into the tops of his boots and under his sleeves, and reconsidered her opinion of him. Maybe he wasn't such a dandy.
“I don't care.” Ral's words rang across the hall. “Drive them away. Kill them, if need be. Just get them away from the gates.”
Markus saluted and stalked out of the hall. When Ral looked over, Josey met his gaze without backing down.
“A vast improvement.” He treated her to a slick smile as his gaze wandered up and down. “Now you look the part of a princess.”
“I'd throw this dress in your face if I had anything else to wear.”
“Tsk, tsk. No need for hostility, Josephine. We need each other.”
“I don't need anything from you. You're the one who killed my father. Don't try to deny it. I know everything now.”
“Everything? Do you know that without the Council to control the people, the city is tearing itself apart?” He stepped closer, until the scent of his oiled hair clogged her nose. “Do you know that you're completely alone, a young girl in a perilous place surrounded by perilous people?”
“Caim will—”
He cut her off with a laugh. “Caim is dead in some gutter, or soon will be. Look around you, Princess. I hold the palace, and with it, the city. Perhaps someday the entire country will bow to me. Forget Caim and whatever romantic notions have been bouncing around inside that little skull of yours. Think of the big picture. An alliance with me would benefit us both. You would enjoy my protection, and I would gain a measure of legitimacy.”
Josey could have been slapped across the face for all the shock she felt.
“You mean marriage. Us? You're insane. I would never—”
“It's not so far-fetched, my dear.” Ral sauntered toward the dais. “Worse unions have been forged for the sake of politics. Our marriage will cement my hold on the throne. You will be an empress with all the wealth and splendor a woman could ever want.”
Josey resisted the impulse to lift a hand to her temple, where the beginnings of a frightful headache throbbed. Her bodice was too tight, making every breath more difficult to inhale.
“You might hold the palace for now,” she said. “But the Church won't sit idle. Once the riots are quelled, they'll put you…”
Her words died away as Ral opened the wooden boxes on the dais, one by one lowering the front sides to reveal their gruesome contents. Thirteen pairs of glassy eyes stared at her in various states of shock. She recognized their pale features. From their wooden prisons, the heads of the prelate and the Elector Council confronted her.
“As you can see, the Church is no longer a concern. With the Brotherhood firmly under my command, thanks to the largess of my benefactor, none remain in the city who can challenge me.” He laid a hand on the box holding the prelate's head. “Call it a wedding gift from your betrothed. After all, these are the men who killed your real father.”
Josey shook her head. Tears wet her lashes and gathered in the corners of her eyes. She wouldn't give in to this fiend, wouldn't allow him to twist her thoughts. She drew herself up straight. “The people of Othir will never stand for it.”
“The people will do whatever their lord governor demands of them.”
“And what of the mob gathered outside your gate?”
A grimace broke the hard planes of Ral's face for a moment. She had scored a hit, but then the calm returned as if nothing had happened. “Those who refuse to obey will be dealt with harshly and permanently.”
Sh
e scoffed. “There aren't enough Sacred Dogs in Othir to subdue the entire city. Even recalling the nearest garrison—”
“I have,” he said with a mocking grin, and waved a hand, “other resources at my disposal, my dear.”
Josey started as a shadow detached itself from the darkness draping the wall behind the throne. The shadow resolved into the shape of a man, tall and lean, garbed in a monk's robe of purest black. There was something eerie about his movements; the intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Everything about him suggested barely restrained violence, a dangerous animal coiled to spring at the least provocation. An image flashed through Josey's mind, of the ebon serpent uncoiling from the ceiling in Caim's apartment, and she knew what this creature was at once.
Sorcerer. Trafficker of the black arts. Agent of the Dark Ones.
“What have you leagued yourself with?” she whispered.
“A power from beyond this world.” Ral nodded to the newcomer. “Enough to rule a nation and rebuild an empire. You should thank me, Princess. I intend to restore your birthright.”
Whatever Ral intended to say next was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance. Sacred Brothers ushered a throng of men and women into the hall. She recognized one face in the group: Anastasia's father, Lord Farthington. She started to lift her hand to catch his attention, but hesitated when she got a better look at him. Lord Farthington looked drawn and haggard, his face more deeply lined than she remembered. His mouth quivered as he was herded inside with the others. He's terrified. A tiny shudder fluttered her belly. If such a powerful lord was afraid, what chance did she have?
“My lords and esteemed ladies.” Ral lifted his voice. “Forgive this disturbance of your persons at such a late hour, but there are matters of great importance at hand which require your attention.”
Josey chewed on her bottom lip. The words sounded rehearsed. Ral was playing some sort of game, and she wanted nothing to do with it. She cast her gaze about the chamber. The robed man had vanished when the aristocrats arrived, as silently as a phantom, but she got the feeling he was nearby. She sidled over to a side wall, pretending to admire the tapestries while she checked the exits. She didn't know the layout of the palace very well, but if she could get away from the hall she might be able to find a way out. Getting away was all she could think about.
Behind her, Ral climbed the dais as he addressed the nobles. He kicked over one of the wooden boxes on his way up the steps, sending its contents tumbling to the floor. Gasps rose from the crowd.
“Good people, don't be alarmed,” he said. “This is a glorious moment. This is the day you shall long remember as the beginning of a new era of prosperity and majesty.”
As Ral sat in the center throne, an old nobleman staggered forward as if to admonish him, but a hulking soldier shoved him back into the crowd.
“Nobles of Othir,” Ral said. A pair of golden ravens rested atop the throne's tall back, as if perched upon his shoulders. “I proclaim myself your sovereign. As a merciful man, I am granting you the opportunity to be the first to bow to me and swear your allegiance.”
He gestured to the wooden boxes. “Or be declared traitors and face immediate execution.”
While the gentry sputtered and clamored in indignation, Josey picked up her skirt and tiptoed to a narrow archway tucked between two arrays. She was almost there when a large frame filled the opening. Her silk slippers slid to a halt as Markus loomed before her. His scarred cheeks twitched into a mockery of a smile as he stared at her with cruel intensity.
Ral's voice called from behind her. “Ah, it is time for your most excellent personages to meet my betrothed. Allow me to present Princess Josephine of the House Corrinada. My bride-to-be.”
Tears formed in Josey's eyes as she turned to the crowd. They watched her with various degrees of astonishment.
Ral extended a hand from the throne. “Come, my dear. Stand beside me so we can address our subjects together.”
As Markus took her arm in a painful grip, Josey moved her feet to keep from being dragged across the tiles. With every step the turmoil of dread grew within her bosom. She cast her gaze about the hall, hands bunched into the folds of her skirt.
Caim, where are you?
Nightfall greeted Caim on his return to Othir. He didn't need to use the Ereptos tomb tunnel; the soldiers had abandoned the gates, and for good reason. The city was destroying itself in a tumult of blood and fire.
He slipped in through the Black Gate and stalked down streets scarred by fighting and mayhem. A smoky miasma hung over the city. The Processional was in shambles, with sodden furniture, broken streetlamps, and heaps of trash, some draped with dead bodies. A team of slaughtered draft horses lay in Dawnbringer Square, still in their traces. Makeshift barriers showed where the city's forces had tried to contain the violence and failed. Above the carnage, Celestial Hill loomed over the rooftops, its pristine walls gleaming like ivory in the moonlight.
“This place is a mess,” Kit said as she floated over his head. “Are you sure you're going to be able to find him?”
Caim turned down a narrow lane. “I'm going to try.”
A light rain filled the cracks in the street and collected in shallow pools. With knives drawn, Caim watched the dark nooks and doorways on either side of his path. His father's sword hung between his shoulder blades with strange familiarity. He wasn't sure why he had taken it. His knives had served him well enough these many years, but he was running on instinct now, and taking it had felt like the right thing to do. From time to time he found himself reaching up to touch the shagreen-wrapped hilt, and a shiver would run through his arm. After this night was over, he'd be happy to bury the thing again.
As he entered the Gutters, Caim almost ran into the backs of a gang of citizens. They marched down the center of the street, truncheons in hand. With soot and bloodstains on their clothing, they looked like they had already seen some fighting. He waited until they passed. As he crossed the street, his gaze was drawn to the hulking specter of the workhouse, resolute against the city skyline, walls glistening in the rain, affecting everything in its vicinity like a bloated spider in the center of a tattered web. Caim's fingers tightened around his knives as he went on his way.
He dipped into a crooked side street. It was so dark he had to navigate mostly by feel, following its meandering length for two blocks to the mouth of a constricted intersection. Water dripped down onto him from the eaves above as he stood in the safety of the alley's shadows. By its looks, Ale Street had escaped the worst of the rioting so far. A man's body in the uniform of the night watch was sprawled in the gutter outside the Blue Vine beside an overturned cart. Blood clotted in the reddish hair where half his head had been caved in.
“I'll check around back.” Kit darted away.
Caim stared across the street. Slivers of light leaked from gaps around the wineshop's shuttered windows. A soft clack on cobblestones drifted through the rain. A horse, its chestnut coat rain-soaked and soiled with grime, nosed through piles of garbage. The ends of leather reins trailed in the puddles.
Caim opened and closed his fists. What was he waiting for? Josey needed him, and yet he hesitated. He had fought for her, killed for her, sacrificed everything. Was he prepared to die for her, too? He could run. Start over. Kit would be ecstatic. All he had to do was leave Josey to her fate. Just walk away.
Caim caressed the ice-cold amulet that hung from his wrist. He couldn't do it. He couldn't leave her to Ral's tender mercies. And though he was loath to admit it, he had become fond of this tired old tramp of a city. If he ever left, it would be on his terms.
Having decided, he crossed the swampy street and nudged open the door. Faces looked up as he stepped into the common room. Half a dozen men and one woman sat around the hearth. Several hands stole inside clothing to reach for hidden surprises, but one look from him was enough to stop them cold. Mother stood behind the bar. A heavy mallet rested on the counter beside her, the kind used for breaking open cask bungs.
Or caving in the skulls of young soldiers.
Caim scanned the room for a specific face, but didn't find it. “I'm looking for Hubert.”
“He ain't here,” Mistress Henninger replied in a terser tone than her usual. “Haven't seen him.”
“Since when?”
She shrugged, one sleeve of her heavy blouse slipping off the shoulder. She reached up to put it back. “Earlier. Before sunset.”
“Any idea where he is now?”
A bearded man stood up clutching a stick of firewood in his fist. “You'll get out of here if you know what's good, young buck.”
Caim stared at the speaker. After half a dozen heartbeats, the bearded man settled back in his seat.
Mother came around the bar. “Don't mind him, Caim. You're a welcome sight. Hubert came by a few hours ago when the fighting took a turn for bad, and he grabbed up all the men to go with him.” She shot a scornful look at the group huddled around the hearth. “At least, all the real men. Anyways, no telling when he'll be back.”
“I'll wait.” His voice, though hardly above a whisper, carried across the room. No one objected.
“Drink?” Mother asked.
With a nod, Caim took a seat. He tucked his knives away, but kept them loose in their sheaths. Kit floated down from the ceiling and alighted beside him.
“Nothing out there,” she reported. “There's some skirmishing over in the next block, but it seems to be moving away from this part of town. The worst is down by the docks. I think someone set fire to the city granaries.”
“That should keep the tinmen busy,” he murmured under his breath.
“I don't know. The harbor is out of control. I didn't see any soldiers. Not any live ones, at least.”
Mother brought over his drink and set it on the table. “Don't know if you'll want to be finding Hubert just now, Caim. He wasn't in his right mind when he left, if you take my meaning.”
“No, I don't. What happened?”
She rubbed a hand over her prominent bosom. “Well, ’tisn't for me to say, but you got a right to know what you're walking into.”
