Shadow's Son

by Jon Sprunk

  The front door banged open. All conversation ceased as three men entered. Caim almost didn't recognize the young man in their midst. Bloodstains marred Hubert's once-fine clothes, and his hat was missing. By the gore slimed on its hilt, the rapier strapped to his hip had seen some use this night. The young nobleman's gaze had a strange cast as it swept through the taproom. When it settled on Caim, a vicious smile twisted Hubert's bruised lips.

  “Mother,” he said, “we have a hero among us. Set this man up with another drink on me.”

  Hubert's words were slurred, but there was an unmistakable air of menace behind them as he came over to Caim's table, followed by a pair of thick-shouldered goons.

  “I'm not here to drink, Hubert. I came looking for your help.”

  Hubert plopped down in a chair. His bodyguards, or whatever they were, watched the room.

  “My help? I'm a little busy right now, Caim. Tonight is the moment of our grand coup. We've got the Reds on the run, but you already know that, don't you? You paved the way, so to speak.”

  “What are you talking about, Hubert?”

  Hubert laughed, a dry sound devoid of humor. “Playing the innocent, Caim? There's no need, I assure you. You can take full credit for my father. He was, after all, a tyrant at heart.”

  Caim had a sinking suspicion he knew the answer, but asked anyway. “What about him?”

  “He's dead, Caim. Someone entered his rooms at the palace last night and killed him. Then they took his head. A bit macabre of you, but it was a nice touch.”

  Caim remembered Mathias lying in his bed with his heart cut out. What had Ral said at the Golden Wheel? Something about taking matters into his own hands. Vassili must have been Ral's secret patron. It made sense. With the backing of a Council member, Ral would have felt untouchable. But at some point, he'd decided he didn't need the archpriest. So he'd devised his own plans, which somehow involved Josey. It might already be too late. She could be dead. The thought ricocheted inside Caim's head, dashing all his thoughts to pieces. He took a deep breath. He had to remain in control. That was the only way to save her.

  “And you think I had something to with it?”

  Hubert leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. The reek of whiskey hit Caim like a punch to the jaw.

  “You're Caim the Knife, slayer of the corrupt and powerful. But my father wasn't some goddamned monster. He did this city a lot of good.”

  “So good his own son was out to unseat him?”

  “You don't know anything about it!” Hubert slammed his fists on the tabletop.

  The other patrons huddled closer around the hearth while Hubert's bodyguards inched forward.

  Kit materialized behind the bravos. “You better do something, Caim. These guys are carrying a lot of hardware.”

  Caim slouched back in his seat. He had never seen Hubert like this. The young man seemed on the verge of a maniacal rage.

  “Listen to me, Hubert. I didn't kill your father, or any of the other Elector Councilors. That was Ral. He's working with someone, a foreigner. They're plotting to take over the government. They killed the archpriest.”

  Hubert sneered across the table. “A pretty tale, but there's no need to deny it. You've done us all a great service.”

  “I was out of the city taking Josey somewhere safe, or that I thought was safe.”

  “Ah, yes. The conspirator's daughter and her faithful knight in shining armor.”

  Hubert reached for the cup on the table, and Caim caught the young man's wrist in a hard grip. “That's enough.”

  Hubert's reddened eyes stabbed at Caim. Then his features crumbled into a ruin of misery. “Why did they have to butcher him like that? I know he could be a hard man, even cruel sometimes, but they had no right…”

  Caim released Hubert. He sympathized, but his insides were ice. “The people responsible are the same ones I'm after. They took Josey and now they're holed up in the palace with a battalion of tinmen.”

  Hubert wiped his face with a coat sleeve. “What are you going to do?”

  “Storm the palace and get her back.”

  “Really?” Kit blurted. “That's your plan?”

  Caim clamped his jaws together to keep from yelling for her to keep quiet. “What about you?” he asked Hubert.

  “I've been rousing the people. We already control most of Low Town.

  We could use your help, but it sounds like you've got enough on your plate.”

  “We could work together.”

  Hubert looked more like his old self now. He sat up straighter in the chair and even managed a backhanded brush down each of his coat sleeves.

  “How?”

  “You might control Low Town, but the Brotherhood still holds everything above the Processional. You'll never take High Town with a rabble of shopkeeps and stevedores, so don't even try. Go straight to Celestial Hill.”

  “What will that accomplish?”

  “We'll cut off the head of the beast. With Ral and his lieutenants out of the way, there'll be no one to coordinate their soldiers. Once we control the palace, the city will fall to us by default.”

  “That's a big risk. My father died taking a chance like that.”

  Caim drew his knives and set them on the table. The bodyguards shifted, but kept their distance.

  “You're not your father, Hubert. Prove it tonight. Help me save Josey and put down this menace for good. She's the heir to the old emperor. We found the documents to prove it. She's royalty.”

  “Royalty, eh? Well, she certainly acted the part. But why should my people risk their lives just to trade one tyrant for another?”

  “Because she's not her father either. She's what this country needs to knit itself back together. You always talk about a return to the old ways. This is your chance to prove it. This could either be Nimea's last night as a unified realm, or the beginning of a better life for us all.”

  Hubert eyed the blades, and then nodded. “I'm in. What do you want me to do?”

  Caim smiled across the table. “I've got a plan.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rain pelted Caim as he crouched in the half-finished bell tower of the new cathedral. The wind howled in his ears. Rain pounded on the stone roof. No stars shined this night, and no moon, only a screen of tumultuous storm clouds stretched across the city.

  A good night for killing.

  High Town spread below him in a carpet of gray and black. Celestial Hill rose against the sky like a great wave. Lightning flashed, and the bleached shoals of white rooftops appeared before the night washed back over the city. Flames flickered along the Celestial's broad avenues, where a thousand plebeians struggled against the city militias. True to his word, young Vassili had assembled an army: milliners and bakers, porters and servants armed with all manner of weapons, from torches and lengths of raw timber to pikes stolen from slain tinmen.

  Their goal was the Luccian Palace, sprawled atop Celestial like a crowning jewel, surrounded by concentric walls with watchtowers and massive barbicans. Hubert's spies reported Ral had withdrawn all of his pet soldiers inside in anticipation of a siege. Exactly what Caim wanted him to do.

  “They're almost in position,” Kit said. “Hubert says he doesn't expect much resistance.”

  The rain was freezing cold, but Caim paid it no mind. “They'll fight back. They don't have any choice.”

  “It's really burning out of control.”

  Caim turned his head. Billows of ugly black smoke shrouded the boroughs of Low Town. Fire had claimed entire blocks, devouring homes, storefronts, and public buildings in its wrath. The rain was the only thing keeping the blazes contained, but many would die before morning. More would die if his plan didn't succeed.

  Hubert's people had finally reached the palace gates. The young nobleman was a tiny figure striding at their head, his sword flashing in the torchlight. His assault got a reaction. Like a kicked anthill, masses of soldiers rushed to defend the walls. Arrows filled the air and
men spilled their lives into the overflowing gutters.

  Caim descended from the tower. He had seen enough. Hubert was buying him the window of opportunity he needed. Kit floated beside him as he dropped to the cathedral's marshy grounds and started up the winding boulevards to Celestial Hill. Within minutes they reached the outer wall of the palace at a spot well away from the fighting. Caim had already scouted his entry point. The stone of this section of wall was riddled with cracks and creeping vegetation that created convenient handholds. He took his time and made sure each hold was firm before trusting his weight to it. At the top, he crawled over the smooth apex and dropped down the other side.

  Caim paused at the foot of the wall. A manicured lawn extended toward his next obstacle, the forty-foot interior wall of the palace. Beautiful gardens filled the space between, adorned with delicate flower trees and swollen streams. The sweet fragrances of lilac and oleander lingered in the damp air. Caim passed through the luxurious grounds without a second glance.

  Kit spotted the first sentry under the branches of a redbud tree. Caim squatted behind a hedge of flowery bushes and watched. The soldier was looking toward the palace gatehouse, possibly waiting for his relief. Every few moments he blew into his hands and rubbed them together, his spear propped against the tree trunk.

  While he watched, Caim thought about Kas, lying dead in his cabin, blood seeping from gouges in his torso. The old man hadn't asked for trouble, but it had come to his door nonetheless, garbed in the Church's flimsy excuse for the law. Caim imagined Josey as she was stripped naked and dragged away, cursing him for leaving her alone. An image of a corpse-strewn courtyard formed in his mind.

  Moments dripped by like the falling rain, and all the while Caim's anger burned hotter, a smoldering coal in the pit of his stomach fueled by recrimination. He had been fooling himself. He'd only ever been good at one thing his entire life. It was time he went back to it and forgot about being the hero.

  With images of Josey gnawing at his mind, he got up and started toward the tree. He kept low and worked his way around behind the sentry. He could pass by, unseen, but tonight wasn't a time for taking chances.

  As he moved into position, Caim found not a knife in his hands, but the leather cord from Josey's necklace, wrapped around his palms with a foot of length stretched between. He clenched the key amulet in his fist as he stole up behind the sentry. His heart beat harder. He had never strangled anyone before; some stray dogs, years ago when he had been living on the streets and it had been kill or starve to death, but never a man. He supposed it was all the same.

  Then, the moment was upon him. Caim slipped the cord around the guard's neck and pulled tight. His arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets as the man lurched forward. The guard kicked and grunted like a wild animal. Caim slammed a knee into his back and hung on. If not for the key, which Caim gripped like a garrote handle, the cord would have been ripped from him. As it was, the loops of leather sawed into his left hand until he started to fear he might lose the fingers.

  The sentry stumbled to the wet grass and Caim kept up his hold, and it was a lucky thing because his victim fought for a good long time. Minutes passed before the guard was still. Caim stood up, a little shaky. His hands and wrists ached like he'd been wrestling a bear. As he unwound the cord from his stiff fingers, a flicker of lightning lit up the gardens and he got a glimpse of his victim's face. It was a sight he could have done without. The man's features had turned an ugly shade of purple. His tongue lolled from his mouth like a swollen red worm, his eyes open wide. Worse, he was a kid, maybe seventeen at most.

  Caim's gaze fell to the crimson surcoat covering the youth's armor. Not a kid. A soldier. An enemy. Older than I was when I chose my path. He wrapped the cord around his wrist again.

  After hiding the body in a clump of tall fronds, Caim continued onward. Another fifty paces brought him to the foot of the inner wall. No sign of additional sentries. He ran a hand across the granite facing, too smooth to climb and too hard for pitons. From around his waist he uncoiled ten fathoms of braided silk cord, a gift from one of Hubert's contacts.

  “Are you sure you can manage this?” Kit asked.

  “I'll meet you on the other side. You remember the plan?”

  She gave him a withering look. “I'll be there. Just don't take too long.” Then she was gone.

  He attached his grapnel to the line and measured out seven times his own height. Fortune favored him. The sharp prongs caught on the first try. Caim pulled the line taut and listened for signs of movement above. After sixty heartbeats of silence, he began his ascent. Foot by foot he climbed. It was difficult to find purchase on the slick stone. Several times his feet slipped and nearly wrenched the cord from his grip, but he held on. At the top he grabbed hold and hoisted himself onto the curved capstone.

  He lay there, heart pounding against the stone as he peeked over the side. Several large buildings crowded the inner bailey, which was floored with rectangular blocks of pale gray stone. The old imperial residence, where the Elector Council now held its sessions, dominated the center. Flying buttresses radiated out from the main structure like the legs of a colossal insect. Lofty towers surrounded the great central dome, painted in gold leaf.

  Lesser buildings abutted along the inside of the wall: a barracks and stables for the Palace Guard on the bailey's east end; on the west side, the Thurim House. The Thurim had been the body of state elders responsible for advising the emperors of old. Of course, as one of its first acts after gaining power the Church abolished the assembly. For many Nimeans, it remained the singular most heinous misuse of power and was the spark for rebellious elements like the Azure Hawks. A few cloaked sentries patrolled the courtyard in pairs, but the majority, it seemed, had taken Hubert's bait and rushed to the outer walls. Caim prayed they would remain there. He didn't fancy the idea of running into a patrol of angry soldiers as he wandered the citadel.

  Kit appeared on the wall beside him, her legs dangling over the side. Not a drop of rain touched her. “Is this as far as you've gotten? You need to get moving or we'll be here till midsummer.”

  He stifled an acrid reply. “I count eight down below.”

  “And four in a guard shack.”

  “No one up top?”

  She shook her head, sending her silver tresses swinging. “I guess they're afraid of a little rain.”

  “That's good for us.”

  Caim unhooked the grapnel and let the line fall to the ground. Pulling with his arms and pushing with his toes, he slithered along the top of the wall while the rain beat a tattoo on his back, until he reached the near corner of the Thurim House.

  Caim got to his feet. While Kit levitated beside him, he tried to dry his hands on his sodden tunic. The Thurim House was an older style of building, with tall lancet windows, deep ledges, and elaborate fluting; ideal for climbing, but the edifice rose more than a hundred feet above the bailey. One slip would mean a quick end to his career.

  “Get on with it, will you?” Kit said. “Before daybreak.”

  Caim shot her a nasty glare as he found his first handholds and started up. He put his mind on other matters while he climbed. His next problem was how to find Josey within the confines of the palace. He was counting on the belief that Ral wouldn't harm her until the last of the riots were put down and he had firm control of the city. A cold shiver of dread that had nothing to do with the rain passed through Caim's body as he considered the idea she might be dead already. In that case, Ral would pay.

  Chilled by his thoughts, Caim didn't realize he had climbed so far until he reached the ornamental cornice jutting from the edge of the roof. Teetering on a narrow shelf, he leaned out to grasp the overhang. Then, with a deep breath and a prayer, he let go with his feet. The palace grounds spun beneath Caim as he swung out over empty space. The guards’ torches were tiny sparks far below. His side burned like a hot coal shoved under his skin. With a grunt, he pulled himself over the lip.

  He rested on
the rooftop to catch his breath. The rain felt good on his skin.

  “Come on, Caim,” Kit called.

  He groaned and rolled to his feet. With the wind whipping past his head, Caim crossed the slippery roof. Scaling down the building's eastern façade was easier. Halfway down the wall, he stopped and inched along a narrow ledge. A tapered buttress arched out like a slender bridge from a corbel set in the side of the building to support the towering walls of the imperial residence. Caim didn't stop to think. He just stepped onto the slick stone blocks and walked, arms held out to either side like a tightrope acrobat. He only tottered once. Halfway across a gust of wind swirled from below to disrupt his balance. He froze as his feet began to slip out from under him, but he clenched his toes and forced himself to stand rigid until the gust died down. With a racing pulse, he continued on and reached the other side without further delay.

  As he touched down on the roof of the residence, Caim took a moment to gain his bearings. Battlements studded the top of the building like rows of teeth. Minarets rose at each of the four corners. Once, fires had burned atop each slender tower, a symbol of imperial rule, but those braziers had lain cold these past seventeen years.

  Caim leaned over an embrasure between two stone merlons. The soldiers below marched in the same pattern as before. No one had seen him. Satisfied, he jogged over to where Kit hovered above a massive chimney stack. He jumped to catch the top and pulled himself up. Balanced over the black abyss of the flue, he unlimbered the bundles from his back and tied them to his belt.

  “I hate this part.”

  Kit twirled a piece of her hair. “I'm sure it won't be so bad. Just think happy thoughts.”

  With a sigh he lowered himself into the chimney. The space was not as tight as he'd feared. With his back braced against one side, he could use his knees and hands to control his descent. Fifteen feet down he came to the first branch shaft. The top floor. He levered himself inside the chute and crawled down its dark, narrow passage, dragging the bundles behind him. He encountered a low-hanging projection with his head and, after rubbing his bruised brow with a sooty hand, he dropped to his belly to wriggle underneath. A wave of claustrophobia hit him midway through the process. The walls suddenly seemed to press in on him, crushing him from all directions. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. Then, he pulled himself through the aperture.