The Empire's Ghost

by Isabelle Steiger

  “Oh, she had quirks aplenty,” Deinol said, his words starting to come faster. “She could never answer a question straight, or even smile normally. She swore she wasn’t an assassin, but she acted more like one than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  “I don’t think she was,” Seth said, and Deinol looked at him sharply.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t think she liked to lie,” Seth said, “or else she wasn’t very good at it. If there was a question she didn’t want to answer, she just wouldn’t answer it, rather than make something up. Even the bargain she struck with us—it was as if she arranged it like that so she’d have been telling the truth, in a way.”

  Roger slapped him on the back. “Looks like the boy’s doing my job for me, eh, Deinol? Go on, Seth—what else about the way she spoke?”

  Seth considered it. “I don’t think she was highborn herself—from some of the things she talked about, it sounded like she didn’t have much as a child—but she spoke well. Among lords, but not of them, perhaps.”

  Deinol frowned. “I don’t know about that—she hardly spoke better than Lucius, and I doubt if he’s ever gotten close enough to a lord to spit in his whole life.”

  “All right,” Seth agreed, “but you think I’m right about the rest, Roger?”

  “Aye, I do,” Roger said. “I’m just not sure what I can make of it, that’s all. I’m still thinking.”

  Deinol slumped. “Well, we knew it wasn’t likely.”

  “Wait,” Seth said, “there’s one thing more.” As soon as they looked at him, he felt embarrassed to mention it, but still he pressed on. “It’s probably not important, but … she brought her own food. It was mostly hardtack, but she had this apple.… It was so tart, like no apple I’ve ever tasted. It was all I could do not to spit it out.”

  Roger’s eyes narrowed, and he jerked to his feet, planting his hands on the table. “But it was red? As if it ought to have been sweet?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Seth said, taken aback. “Why, do you know it?”

  Roger struck the table with his fist; the noise he caught in his teeth could have been excitement or exasperation. “Know it? I’m surprised you idiots don’t know it. If Gran told me one story about them, she told me a hundred. Red and ripe enough to make your mouth water, but so sour at the first bite you might well imagine it’s not meant to be eaten—those are blood apples, and they’ve baffled history’s finest thieves for generations.” He grinned. “Of course, any thief worth his pick might steal an apple from a tree, no matter how high the wall. But a single blood apple is worthless—it’s the orchard that’s beyond price. And how do you steal an orchard?” He sat back down again, idly tapping the table with two fingers. “I might not know where your assassin comes from, or where she’s going. But if you think something’s better than nothing, I can tell you where she got that apple.”

  * * *

  The throne of Esthrades was seven feet high from foot to tip, and more than half as wide. It was built so large, it was said, so that even the fattest man might occupy it comfortably, if it was his right to sit in it.

  Caius Margraine had not been a fat man, but he was six and a half feet tall himself, broad-shouldered and burly—Gravis could not have said how much he weighed when fully armored, but it had taken half a dozen men to lift him into his coffin. He had filled out the throne well, reaching both armrests with only a bit of a stretch. It had always seemed shrunken without him, somehow lacking, as if it were missing a piece.

  His daughter was not a short woman, but the throne still swallowed her up, towering above the top of her head. It could have fit three of her abreast, and she did not even try to use both armrests at the same time. Even so many years after her injury, Gravis still caught her sitting with self-conscious stiffness at times, but in that seat she was always at her ease. When she was especially bored, she would sometimes slip sideways, slinging her legs over one of the arms and propping her elbow up on the other; today, thankfully, she only leaned slightly to one side, the better to be comfortable. But no matter her posture, she had never dozed, as the lords of old were said to have done (including her own grandfather). And despite her most ardent protestations of boredom, even Gravis would have been hard-pressed to catch her at inattention.

  Even before Esthrades broke away from the empire, it had been the custom of its lord to sit in judgment six out of every seven days, with the last set aside. Primacy was given to any members of the guard or militia who brought forth criminals or other reports of lawbreaking. But then the hall was opened to the common folk, that they might air any grievance they pleased in their lord’s hearing.

  Lord Caius had never dozed either, though sometimes his attention had drifted during some long and mundane complaint; Gravis, he was ashamed to admit, had often done the same. But unless she had some cause to cut a complainant off entirely, the marquise merely leaned her cheek upon her hand, that faint, cold smile always playing about her lips, and listened.

  The man before her was skinny and small, a wisp of a thing, his hair going gray and wrinkles lining his face. He held his hat in one hand as he gestured, his eyes wide and beseeching. It irked Gravis, as it always did, to see such earnestness answered only with insolence, but he knew better than to tell Lady Margraine that. She would only laugh.

  “So he showed me a paper, milady, though he knows I can’t read, and he said the paper explained everything. But I said it had always been six, never eight, and to change it all of a sudden—”

  “Did he offer to read it to you?” the marquise asked.

  “The paper? No, milady, not that I recall.”

  “I see. And did he explain himself through any other methods?”

  The man looked at her helplessly. “He said when you took how much land there was, and the crops you could hope to get from one plot, and how many people usually lived on one plot, and you … did something to the numbers, eight per was the right number, not six. But that’s not … That’s not right. That’s not how it was.”

  Lady Margraine tapped the fingers of her free hand against the edge of her seat. “If I had this paper, I could check the numbers myself, but as I do not…” Her eye fell on Gravis, and he straightened up, tensing under her gaze. “Gravis, are there two members of our esteemed guard whom you trust to pass judgment in our stead, and who can also read and do basic arithmetic?”

  “There are, my lady.”

  She smirked at him. “I should certainly hope so. Choose whichever two you like, and send them back to Woodhearth with this gentleman. If his rentholder is, as he claims, cheating him, remove the rentholder’s head. If this gentleman is lying, remove his head. It may also be that everyone is telling the truth, and this rentholder is simply hopeless at arithmetic and too proud to allow his tenants to correct him. If it should come to that, remove no heads, but fine the rentholder five pieces of silver for making me send my guards all that way just to help him with his sums. That will be all.”

  The next man was red-faced and somewhat portly, and claimed to be a messenger. “I come from Renfred Dutton,” he said, “who sends the following proclamation through me, if it please milady.”

  The marquise sighed. “If I know Dutton, it will not, but go ahead.”

  The messenger cleared his throat, then launched into his prepared speech. “The Honorable Renfred Dutton, Grand Rentholder of the East, declares through me—”

  Lady Margraine laughed, and he shut his mouth uncertainly. “I beg your pardon; it appears I spoke too hastily. Grand Rentholder of the East—that’s marvelous. Grandiose enough to sate his hunger for a title, but just on the proper side of legal. How it must have taxed his poor intellect to come up with it.” When the messenger still hesitated, she waved a hand at him. “Well, continue.”

  The man cleared his throat again. “—declares through me that all proper gentlemen of the east are resolved to have satisfaction for the great and grievous wrongs done them by House Margraine and its present marqui
se. As of this writing, we have compiled a list of twenty-two offenses, all carried out by her ladyship against the merchant’s guild of Esthrades—”

  Several people gasped, though most looked as perplexed as the messenger, who stopped and looked around him. Gravis did not gasp, but he felt himself wince, and looked to the throne.

  Into the silence, Lady Margraine’s voice came very clear. “Against the what?”

  The messenger swallowed hard. “The … the merchants’ guild of Esthrades, milady. That’s … that’s what I was told.”

  “Were you also told, sir, that any man who refers to a merchant’s guild in any part of this country will have his tongue cut out?” The man paled, but she continued on, unperturbed. “No such thing exists, you see, nor ever shall so long as I sit this throne. To suggest otherwise is … well, it’s treasonous, I suppose, though I hate to sound so melodramatic.”

  The messenger’s hands were clenched, his knuckles white. “I … milady, I did not—I never—”

  “Yes, I expect you did not know—the common folk either know no such thing exists or cannot imagine why they should ever wish to talk about it. Dutton and his ilk are the only ones who fussed over it, because they yearn for any influence beyond their grasp.” She smiled at him. “Tell me, how much did he pay you to deliver such a grievous message? Grievous in more ways than one, I should say: his composition is atrocious.”

  “Milady, please, I—”

  The marquise did not raise her voice or straighten her posture in the slightest; her words came as smoothly as if she were savoring them. “Are you aware I asked you a question, sir?”

  “Y-yes—yes, milady—your pardons—it was t-ten. Ten silver.”

  Lady Margraine’s eyebrows rose with supreme delicacy. “Ten silver for your tongue? That doesn’t seem like a very fair price, does it?” She shrugged. “And he fancies himself part of a merchants’ guild.”

  “Milady, I wasn’t s-selling my tongue—I mean, I was, just not in such a l-literal—”

  “Yes, I follow you,” Lady Margraine said. “The Honorable Rentholder Dutton sent you to speak with his voice, because he is too lazy or cowardly to come himself.” She tilted her head, considering—or, more likely, pretending to. “I am certainly not afraid of Renfred Dutton, but that pile of three moss-covered bricks he calls a castle smells like pig shit, and I am loath to leave my other duties to attend to him. But perhaps you might consent to speak with my voice instead?” She smiled. “You will find I am not half so miserly as our friend Dutton.”

  The messenger straightened up, his eyes fever-bright. “Say—milady, I’ll say anything, anything, I—”

  “And not only to him, I think,” the marquise said. “I’m sure you’ll agree that everyone in the area should hear my reply—that’ll make it much less likely that Dutton will have you killed and claim you never arrived, after all.” When the man only kept nodding, she continued, “Very well. Go back to that shack of his—what does he call it? Sweet Sow? Hogsmother?”

  “S-Skyhaven, milady.”

  The marquise frowned. “Hmm. Not the name I would’ve chosen—he must be referring to the holes in the roof. Anyway, go back to the Leaky Roof and inform Grand Rentholder Dutton that he owes me one tongue, and I expect him to come here in person to render it. If he defies my ruling, either by fleeing or through armed resistance, I shall kill him, as I abhor loose ends.”

  It was unlikely Dutton would resist, Gravis thought—what few men he’d bought would no doubt turn on him before they’d commit suicide by treason. He might flee, but he must know he would not get far—he was hardly beloved among the populace, and no one would shelter him for fear of meeting a similar fate. He had no doubt Lady Margraine hoped Dutton would run, however; then she would get to kill him, and she did, as she said, mislike loose ends.

  The messenger bowed so low his forehead nearly scraped the floor. “Everyone I meet from here to Skyhaven will hear of it, milady, I promise you.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Lady Margraine said, but her smile was for the empty air; perhaps she was already picturing Renfred Dutton’s face when he heard of his punishment. “For this you will be paid twenty silver—oh, make it twenty-five. That awful smell alone is worth five silver at least.”

  The next man to step up was old and stooped, stroking the few white whiskers he had left. Gravis could almost hear his bones creak as he bowed. He had come to offer a gift, a rectangular object meticulously wrapped in sackcloth. But he halted before the throne, wincing at the steps leading up to it. Gravis moved forward instead and took the parcel, nodding at the man’s murmured thanks.

  He could not say he was surprised when the marquise unwrapped it to reveal an old and heavy book, the once-bright colors on its cover faded to various shades of brown. The title still appeared legible, though Gravis couldn’t make it out from this distance. Lady Margraine opened it carefully, turning the first several pages and scanning their contents. Gravis hardly knew why the hall was so quiet, except that she was.

  Her ladyship’s love of books was well known—her first few weeks on the throne had made sure of that. She had been used to keeping a book beside her while she sat in judgment and taking it up between one grievance and the next. However, before too long she became so absorbed in her reading that she failed to notice the next complainant had arrived. They all stood there helplessly for nearly twenty minutes as she read, each one afraid to interrupt her. Finally Gravis had cleared his throat about as loudly as he could, and she had looked up only reluctantly. “What, Gravis, can’t you see that I’m—” Then she had finally noticed the man before her, the long line stretching out behind him, and blinked, more at a loss than Gravis had ever seen her. “Ah,” she finally said, as if that explained everything. After that, whenever her ladyship sat in judgment, her books remained in her study.

  She did not repeat that performance now; she looked up from the old man’s book soon enough, shutting it gently. “This is a treasure,” she said. “What is it you hope to gain in return?”

  The old man released a heavy breath. “I leave no children behind me, my lady, and I have given my farm to my neighbor’s second son because I am too old to work it. I do not wish to stay there and become a burden to them. So I would ask … I would ask for a quiet place, where I might sit in the sun without being disturbed.”

  The marquise shrugged. “Not what I would’ve chosen, but it’s up to you, I suppose. I do know of a seminary two days outside of Stonespire full of scholars older than you; House Margraine ensures they live reasonably well, in return for whatever meager illuminations they can provide. You could rest easily enough there, if you like.”

  The man bowed again, just as creakily as before. “I should be heartily grateful, my lady.”

  While the marquise drew up the parchment detailing the old man’s right to remain at the seminary as long as he wished, Gravis drew nearer to the book on the pretense of stretching his legs. The title became slightly clearer; he could make out Traditions of … something, a word that was probably Before, and the something Empire. The Elesthenian Empire, perhaps?

  Lady Margraine rearranged herself in her seat in preparation for the next complainant, and Gravis straightened up again, casting his gaze down the hall. Before the man at the head of the line could speak, however, someone started yelling at the back of the hall, her voice floating up to the high vaulted ceiling and crashing back down. “I’ll not be silenced!” she cried. “Do what you will, I’ll not be silenced!”

  The marquise turned to Gravis, her usual smile untouched. “Well, she appears to be right about that at least, doesn’t she?”

  Gravis knew Dent was one of the guards on the door today, so he stayed where he was, waiting to see how Dent would handle the disruption. Sure enough, he heard his friend’s voice rising above the agitated woman’s: “Madam, there will be no time to see to you! I told you, the line ends here for today!”

  “Do you think my children can wait another day? I’ll stand
here all night, but the witch will hear me!”

  The marquise looked at Gravis again. “She certainly sounds serious. This should be interesting.” Then she raised her voice. “That won’t be necessary,” she called. “The witch can already hear you, much as she might wish it otherwise. Dent, bring whoever that is up here—at the very least, we’ll spare everyone’s ears.”

  Dent came reluctantly, dragging along a woman all in black. Though she seemed to have aged prematurely, as if life had ground her down, she displayed none of the weariness Gravis often saw in complainants. Dent let her stand before the marquise, but he didn’t let go of her arm. “She came at the back of the line,” he said.

  “Yes, I know, but I didn’t fancy listening to that all night, did you?” The marquise shrugged. “I suppose we could always just kill her. Would you prefer that?”

  Dent bit his lip. “Not especially, my lady.”

  “Well, I’ve already demanded one tongue today, and repeating oneself is so dull. If she wants me to have her tongue out too, she’s going to have to work a bit harder to earn it.” She turned to the woman. “Go on, expostulate and so forth.”

  The woman took a deep breath. “I come here on account of my—”

  Lady Margraine put a hand to her ear. “Gods’ sakes, I’m sitting right in front of you. There’s no need to shriek like that.”

  The woman scowled but controlled her voice more carefully. “I come here on account of my children, who’re starving. I come to get back what you took from me.”

  Lady Margraine looked her over skeptically. “Well, I for one cannot imagine anything of yours I could possibly want.”

  “My husband’s life,” the woman snapped.

  Lady Margraine sighed, as if disappointed. “I presume you mean that in some sort of metaphorical sense, as I don’t require a husband myself and certainly have no use for yours.”

  “You had your use of him, all right,” the woman said. “He died at the border, nearly a month ago now. He was killed in the fighting.”