The Unbound Empire

by Melissa Caruso

  For me, this year, it was a night of waiting for something terrible to happen.

  It was also a security nightmare. The Council of Nine had tripled the usual presence of watch officers in the city, as well as circulating disguised agents through the festivities to watch for any signs of Ruven’s plans moving into action, but we still had no real clues as to what those plans might be. The city had to be on guard against everything, everywhere, all the time; and that simply wasn’t possible.

  Given how tense my back felt after just a couple of hours of bracing for assassination, poison, or mayhem to shatter the night like stained glass, my muscles were trying to make up for every relaxed and oblivious reveler in the Serene City.

  Zaira and Terika, however, appeared to be having no such difficulties.

  “I’m glad we moved on to this party,” Terika pronounced as the two of them swept up to the wine table in Lord Errardi’s ballroom, where I lingered to keep a watchful eye out for poisoners. They looked fantastic together, with complementary masks—Zaira’s a more tastefully restrained sun mask than the one I’d tried on with Kathe, and Terika’s the moon; Zaira’s gown was all in layers of fiery gold, and Terika’s in waves of silver.

  Zaira grunted agreement. “The last one was full of boring old bankers. This one is much better.”

  “But the food was best at the first one, before that,” Terika added.

  Lord Errardi’s fashionable grandchildren had taken over arranging the elderly Council member’s annual Night of Masks festivities, and it was rather evident in the age of many of the attendees; the clutches of older aristocrats shook their heads in the corners at the boisterous antics of the young on the dance floor. I scanned young and old alike, searching for the pale hair common in southern Vaskandar, my attempts to identify people frustrated by the masks that transformed them to twisted gargoyles or flower princes or creepily expressionless dolls.

  “They’re all equally dangerous,” I muttered.

  Zaira rolled her eyes. “Come on, Cornaro. It’s the Night of Masks. Unclench your arse and have some fun.”

  “We can’t have fun,” I said. “Ruven could be getting away with something horrible as we speak. We have to keep moving from party to party until we figure out what Ignazio was trying to warn us about and stop him.”

  “You’re as bad as Dett,” Zaira said, waving disgustedly at where Terika’s new Falconer, a gangly Callamornish man with hair like straw, sat reading a book against the far wall. Terika had picked him because he didn’t mind her frequent trips to their shared homeland to visit her grandmother; he was an affable, quiet man, generally content to trail along wherever Terika wished to go so long as she let him read. “He wouldn’t know a good time if it bit him on the privates, either.”

  “Besides,” Terika said, “we don’t even know for certain that Ruven’s plan goes into action tonight. And your mother’s already doing everything that can be done.”

  The gnawing unease in my belly wouldn’t let go so easily. I couldn’t forget Ignazio’s voice, floating from the shadows that shrouded his face, telling me the Serene City was in danger. I’d be a fool to ignore a warning that had come at such a high price.

  “You know Ruven as well as anyone, Terika,” I said. “And you’re an alchemist. If you were him, looking to attack the Empire with that potion on the Night of Masks, what would you do?”

  Terika pursed her lips a moment, thinking. “I’d try to slip my command potion to people at parties, of course.” She lifted a finger. “But I wouldn’t try for the Council or the colonel of the Falcons or anyone so high up as that. I’d go to parties in the middle-class districts and look for clerks, house servants, cooks, oarsmen, and the like. Not the people in power, but the ones who lock their doors and make their food and lay out their clothing.” She grinned with unnerving cheer. “Then it would be simplicity itself to wait until everyone’s guard was down after the festival and spread some poison around to kill or control all my real targets!”

  Zaira whistled. “We’re damned lucky Ruven doesn’t have you working for him anymore. You’re twisty as a weasel.”

  “Are you calling me a weasel, my love?” Terika put her hands on her hips, but she was laughing.

  Zaira gestured grandly with her wineglass. “Cunning of a weasel, grace of a swan, heart of a lion, breasts of a—”

  “Thank you,” I interrupted, grateful for the mask that hid at least some of the scarlet I knew was warming my face. “That’s an excellent point, if a terrifying one. We’ll have to dispatch alchemists to test anyone with any sort of access to key people and places tomorrow morning. There’s no way we can watch over every single party in the city.”

  Zaira shrugged. “Then we talk to everyone who looks interesting about the parties they’ve been to. Never underestimate gossip as a source of information.” She nudged Terika. “Come on, you’re the charming one.”

  Terika slipped her arm through Zaira’s. “Very well, then. For Raverra!” she cried dramatically, and they moved off through the crowd, skirts swirling together in waves of silver and gold.

  I watched them go with a strange, soft, dropping feeling. I recalled with vivid clarity sitting with my cousin Roland and commiserating together over the ease with which his sister Bree flung herself into the midst of a crowd and made immediate friends with everyone in it. I could almost feel him at my side, shaking his head and smiling, a bittersweet yearning on his face.

  “I don’t know how they do it either, Roland,” I whispered.

  My eyes stung, and I lifted my mask to wipe them. Not here. Of all the places for his memory to haunt me, not here, with a hundred people watching.

  “Are you all right, Amalia?”

  It was Marcello, his simple domino mask doing nothing to hide the concern in his eyes. I’d rarely seen him out of uniform, but his well-cut forest-green coat over a burnished gold brocade waistcoat flattered his figure and looked quite fine on him. I could have mistaken him for the idle young patrician gentleman his father’s rank entitled him to be, if not for the straight-backed attentiveness he couldn’t shed with his uniform. I settled my mask in place and managed a smile.

  “I’m fine.”

  Marcello simply waited, face serious, as the crowd moved past us in all its color and laughter and excitement. My throat ached. He was the one person, I reminded myself, with whom I never had to pretend.

  “You caught me at a melancholy moment, that’s all,” I added. “Thinking of Roland.”

  “Ah.” The single syllable held a world of understanding. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” I drew myself up, gathering my resolve. “No, I want to dance with you.”

  Beneath his mask, his mouth formed the wistful smile I knew so well. The smile, I realized at last, of a man who knew he could never have what he wanted, but enjoyed dreaming about it anyway.

  He held out his hand, and I took it, his sword calluses forming a pattern of firm spots in his otherwise gentle grasp.

  “Let’s dance, then,” he said softly.

  We danced without words, letting the music enfold us, swirling apart and then together. It was a complex Loreician dance I didn’t know well, but when my steps faltered, he guided me by the tilt of his head and the pressure of his hand, always patient, always graceful. Our eyes stayed locked together, at first with a bittersweet intensity that threatened to bring back my tears; but then a grin started to creep onto his face, and mine, too, and as the pace of the music picked up soon we were both laughing. Once, I stumbled as I twirled, but he caught me with a steady hand on my waist.

  We left the floor at the end of the dance arm in arm, and I felt giddy and light as if the past several months had never happened, and we’d just danced together for the first time.

  “Thank you,” I told him, and his eyes crinkled through the holes in his domino mask.

  “We’re both always on duty,” he murmured. “Even when we’re technically not. But you make me forget it, sometimes.”
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  “Oh? That’s ironic, because you make me remember why I’m doing all this in the first place.” Grace of Love, I wished I could touch his face. “What it is I’m trying to protect.”

  “You’re trying to protect me?” he chuckled. “It’s supposed to be the other way around, you realize.”

  “Not at all. My job is to protect the whole Empire—or it will be someday, at any rate, in the unlikely event my mother ever takes it into her head to retire.” I poked him gently in the chest. “You’re part of the Empire.”

  “Your logic is flawless, as always.” His voice softened. “Besides, that’s what people do when they care about each other, isn’t it? They protect each other. From sorrow and pain, however they can.”

  “And make each other happy, too. Don’t forget that.” We stopped by one of the tall windows that lined the outer wall of the salon, looking out over the Imperial Canal. Hundreds of colored festival lanterns reflected in scattered motes upon the water, and luminaries turned the elaborate façades flanking the canal into shining palaces of light and shadow against the velvet-black sky.

  “What gives you joy, Marcello?” I asked, watching the festival lights reflected in his eyes as he stared out at the evening’s magic.

  He let out a gentle breath, closer to a wordless prayer than a sigh. “Istrella,” he said, without hesitation. “Always, with every brilliant discovery and odd little habit. Also, teaching the children at the Mews—seeing their faces light up with understanding. And the feeling of mastering a new skill, when something that never made sense before suddenly falls into place.” His eyes flicked to mine then, the reflected light still shining in them. “And you. The way your thoughts play out across your face. The turnings of your mind, like one of Istrella’s devices, complicated and unexpected.”

  Time seemed to slow until it flowed like molten glass, precious and glowing, too bright to touch. A silent understanding connected us, as if I could see into the clear depths of his soul.

  “The light in your eyes gives me joy,” I said softly. “And the way you frown when you’re thinking. You’re the one honest, true man in this city of illusion, Marcello. I can’t see the future, but I want you in mine, one way or another, always.” The strains of dance music ended, and the eddying crowd burst into applause. For a moment, we’d been alone, as if the frame of the window created a private room around us; now the party, with all its noise and splendor, came rushing back, flooding my senses. I swallowed. “Because I’ll always be your friend.”

  I couldn’t say more. Not when it could well be a decade or more before I knew whether I’d have to make a political marriage in service to the Empire. I’d already decided it would be cruel to string Marcello along until then; every endearment I uttered could only hurt both of us.

  “Amalia…” Marcello hesitated, then shook his head, smiling. “Never mind.”

  I took his hand and squeezed it. “Come on,” I said. “Ruven’s people are out there somewhere, and like you said, we’re both always on duty. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  We followed the flow of the evening from masquerade to masquerade, walking mazy streets bright with festival lanterns, the chill air around us warmed by crowds of merrymakers in outlandish masks and accompanying finery. We glided down canals shivering with a thousand reflected lights like multicolored balefire dancing on the water, the city full of fanciful strangers, faces woven of golden wire or black lace or artfully sculpted papier-mâché. Laughter floated on the air like a haze of smoke, and the night was alive and breathing, watching us, ready to speak a secret through the teeth of its vanishing smile. Far above, the moon kept her sails trim, cold and distant, aloof from all the lesser lights that crowded below.

  I couldn’t help but think how much Kathe would have loved this night. And how much I would have loved to show it to him, and see the delight kindling in his eyes.

  The watch was out in force, and I recognized my mother’s agents and imperial guards at every party, alert and ready for trouble. But nothing disrupted the wild swirl of celebration pulsing through the Serene City. Clock bells chimed later and later hours, from mantelpieces and towers alike, as we followed a wandering course through a city entirely undisturbed by calamity. But I couldn’t relax. If I hadn’t seen Ruven’s plan unfolding, that only meant he was getting away with it undetected.

  By two hours past midnight, several locks of my hair straggled down from the jeweled pins with which my maid Rica had tried to tame it, the gold-embroidered hem of my sea-colored gown had a rip from being stepped on, and my lip paint was long gone. Zaira and Terika had gone back to the Mews, to spend time with their Falcon friends at the festivities there, but I didn’t dare go home to rest. Not with Ruven’s intent still coiled and waiting, hidden somewhere in the color and music of the celebration like a serpent in a field of flowers.

  I checked the secret pocket sewn into a fold of my extravagantly full skirts to make sure my one-dose elixir bottle was still in place as Marcello handed me out of my boat at the entrance to Lady Hortensia’s palace; I’d taken my evening dose long ago, but at this rate there was a good chance I’d need my morning one before I made it home. A sleepy-looking crow regarded me from Lady Hortensia’s roof, its hooded eyes seeming doubtful of our sanity for being awake at this hour.

  “You look exhausted,” Marcello murmured, as servants wearing leaf masks bowed us in through Lady Hortensia’s vine-carved doors. She had a great passion for gardening, and while the air held too much winter chill for her masquerade to be held outdoors in her famous walled gardens, she had decorated her ballroom in an exuberant horticultural theme. Silk flowers and vines draped everywhere, and hothouse plants graced every available surface where one might otherwise hope to put down a drink. More leaf-masked servants circulated with trays, and stood alertly by the doors leading deeper into the palace; by the discreet pistols at their hips and the deceptively decorative staves some of them held, they doubled as security, which was not unusual for the Night of Masks, even without the Council watching for trouble from Vaskandar. No one wanted an assassination or robbery to ruin their party and spoil the year’s luck.

  “Thanks,” I replied dryly, tucking a dangling strand of hair back behind my ear. “You look unspeakably handsome.”

  He did, but I shouldn’t have said it; all the wine I’d accepted at one party after another had loosened my tongue.

  Marcello bit his lip. “I didn’t mean it that way. You’re beautiful, as always. Only I hope you manage to get some rest soon. You’ve been working so hard.”

  “You too,” I said softly. The preparations for war had been wearing at him. Even through the mask, I could glimpse the shadows under his eyes.

  Before I could say something tender that I might regret, Lady Hortensia herself greeted me, resplendent in a gown and mask covered with spring-green silk leaves and exquisite pink silk flowers. I soon found myself towed around the room and introduced to dozens of Lady Hortensia’s friends, half of whom I already knew; Marcello trailed along at first, but eventually I lost him. I spotted him across the room, talking to a fellow Falcon and Falconer by the dessert table, and stared longingly after them as Lady Hortensia sent me off to the dance floor with her nephew, an influential banker who insisted on talking about nothing but finance. I made appropriate noises and kept my eye out for trouble, but all seemed as peaceful and orderly as one could reasonably expect this late into a night when nearly everyone had been drinking.

  Three dances later, I headed for the wine table, hoping for something watered down to soothe a throat dry from uttering the same phrases over and over. I had lost sight of Marcello and his friends; after a quick drink, I should find him and move on to the next party. Nothing seemed amiss here.

  I had almost reached the wine when a gentle tap on my shoulder requested my attention.

  I turned to find not Marcello, as I’d half expected, but a stranger in an elaborate silver mask. Patterns like frost crystals climbed up the face of it, turning in
to reaching winter branches and forming a spiky crown at his brow. His matching silver and white coat sparkled with thick embroidery and thousands of crystals, mirroring the wintry theme to striking effect. Two companions by his side wore the black hooded cloaks and long bird skull masks of the Demon of Death.

  “Yes?” I asked politely. “Is there something…” My voice trailed off as I met his eyes through the mask.

  Violet circles ringed his dead black pupils.

  Hell of Nightmares. It was Ruven.

  Chapter Seven

  I drew in a breath sharp with sudden fear. But before I could release it, Ruven lifted a cautionary finger to my lips.

  “Shh,” he said, and my voice was gone.

  Hells have mercy. I’d let him touch me.

  I reached in desperation for my flare locket, but Ruven clasped my bare arm, a benign smile spreading beneath his mask. His power crawled under my skin, and my fingertips froze before they reached my locket. Every inch of me itched to tear away from him, to scramble back from the venomous cloud of his presence as if he were some loathsome insect, but I couldn’t move.

  “Let’s have a private conversation, you and I,” he murmured. “That’s all I want; just a little talk, out in the garden.”

  The crowd flowed around us: women in elaborate gowns swirling past on their way to the dance floor, men with laughing mouths stretched wide beneath their masks, a leaf-masked servant balancing a tray of full wineglasses. No one cast us a second glance; we were just having a private conversation, and nothing about our postures conveyed any hint that something was wrong. I’d made a mistake, one terrible mistake, and dropped my guard, and now I was trapped in a nightmare.