by Jon Sprunk
She approached an intersection between two large drawing rooms and froze as heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Her first thought was that she had been caught during the changing of the guard, but the chime hadn't rung yet. Then she realized the sounds were coming from behind her.
She threw herself into a shallow niche and hid behind the marble bust of King Ubinhezzard. She held her breath and pressed herself deeper into the niche as someone passed by. She waited for several frantic heartbeats before peeking out. A black cloak fluttered behind a tall man as he strode down the corridor. It was Lord Astaptah, one of the queen's chief viziers. As he disappeared around a corner, Alyra knew she should turn around and head in the opposite direction, but instead she kicked off her slippers. Holding the satchel with care to keep its contents from clanking together, she stole after the vizier on quiet footsteps.
This is crazy. This is crazy. This is…
The words ran through her head as she peeked around the corner. This was crazy. She didn't want to even think about the ramifications if she was discovered, but this was also a golden opportunity. Lord Astaptah was the most mysterious man in the city. No one knew where he came from, although rumors were rife, but within a few months of his arrival he had risen to the top of the social ladder to become the queen's highest servant. Rarely seen at court functions, he dwelled in the catacombs beneath the palace. Alyra had long wondered what he did down there and why the queen favored him, but opportunities to find out were so rare that when faced with one—like now—she had to take it.
Alyra hurried down the corridor, deeper into the interior of the palace. Small lamps glowed high up on the walls. She avoided their pools of light as best she could while following Lord Astaptah into a part of the palace she had never seen before. They were far from the slave quarters and ever farther from the kitchens. If she were caught here, she'd have very few excuses as to why she had wandered so far from her assigned duties. Biting her bottom lip, she pressed on.
The vizier turned down a dark corridor. After a dozen steps Alyra lost sight of him. She kept close to the left-hand wall, trailing her fingers along its stones to keep her sense of direction as she followed Lord Astaptah's heavy strides. Then the strides drifted off to her right, and Alyra barely stopped in time to keep from walking face-first into a wall. She felt the corner and turned with it. A thought struck her as she trailed after the footsteps. How was Lord Astaptah finding his way without a light?
He must have the route memorized.
But why not carry a candle? Why the secrecy? That's what she wanted to find out. So she continued onward through the dark. The satchel was getting heavy, but leaving it behind was out of the question. Lost in her thoughts, Alyra halted in mid-stride as a cold shiver ran through her body. The footsteps had stopped.
She held her breath, straining to hear the slightest sounds, but there was nothing louder than her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Where was he? Had she been discovered? She cursed herself for not paying more attention. Then a sound traveled down the corridor, like two boulders grinding together. Vibrations ran up through Alyra's bare soles. She remained perfectly still, afraid to move.
The grinding noise stopped. Footsteps echoed somewhere in front of her or perhaps to the left. She was becoming disoriented. Then the noise began again. Not sure what she was doing, she inched forward with one hand extended in front of her, and barely stifled a yelp of surprise as her fingers touched a moving surface. It was stone and very large. Running her hands up and down, she determined that it was a door, and it was closing before her. She hurried to reach the opening, but it was narrow and shutting quickly. She had only a moment to decide. Should she wait for another time when she was better prepared? What if there wasn't another time?
The grating noise stopped as the door settled into its frame. She had missed it.
Alyra rested her forehead against the stone. What had she done? As she berated herself, she noticed that the surface was warm. She put down her satchel and ran both hands across the door's smooth face. It was definitely warmer than the surrounding stone. Almost hot, in fact. What was behind it? There was no handle or latch in the expected place. Alyra was searching for an opening mechanism when footsteps echoed behind her.
An icy dread filled her chest as she heard voices. Alyra started to dart back up the corridor to the last intersection but then remembered her satchel and ran back to it, searching along the floor until her hands bumped into the coarse burlap. Clutching the bag, she sprinted down the corridor, her feet slapping on the marble. She stopped at the intersection and listened above her own breathing. Yes, there was no doubt. She had run into Xantu and Gilgar. The twin brothers were two of the most notorious members of the court. Many referred to them in private as the Queen's Hounds. They served as Her Majesty's enforcers, and their penchant for cruelty was legendary. There was a saying in Erugash: better to risk the fire than let the Hounds sink their fangs into you. It sounded like they were coming from her right, but she couldn't be sure. If she guessed wrong, she would run directly into them, and that was trouble she didn't need. She slipped into the left-hand corridor, ran a few steps, and then pressed her back against a wall. A spot of orange light appeared in the darkness. It bobbed like a hot coal on the end of a fishing line but showed enough for her to see their approaching faces.
Alyra retreated deeper into the darkness. There was nowhere to hide and no way that she could escape from magicians of their caliber if she was discovered. She let out a soft sigh of relief as the twins turned the corner in another direction. Now she could go back to searching for a way to open the stone door. She hurried back toward the intersection, but she hadn't gotten halfway there when a deep, rolling chime rang above her head.
I'm late!
She turned and ran, cursing herself the entire way. The second bell faded away before she got back to the lighted corridors. The appearance of daylight ahead made her breathe easier. She passed by a trio of slaves scrubbing the floor and had to tread carefully for a few yards to avoid spilling onto her backside. Following a corridor reserved for slaves, she almost stepped into the Grand Atrium before she realized she was still holding the satchel. It was too late to get it to her hiding spot. Looking around, she found a service closet and tucked it onto the highest shelf behind a pair of buckets. With a prayer that the sack and its contents would remain hidden until she could return to fetch them, she smoothed her hair and brushed the front of her tunic for stray dust, doing the best she could without a mirror. Then she went out to face the consequences of her tardiness.
Head bowed, she crossed the atrium's golden flagstones at a quick walk. The chamber was a marvel of engineering. Twelve pillars—each so thick that five men could not reach around them with their hands linked—held up a ceiling seventy paces above the floor. Brilliant sunlight poured through the round crystal windows in the ceiling. Gigantic frescoes covered the walls, depicting the history of Erugash from its humble origin as a trading village to the sprawling city-state it had become.
She took a side door and started up the long series of zigzagging staircases. It was several minutes more before she arrived at the queen's residence on the top tier of the palace. The royal suite had its own foyer, bedecked with fine furniture and a collection of erotic sculpture. A squad of brawny bodyguards stood at attention, their tulwars held in perpetual readiness. Alyra slipped through the inner doorway, hoping—praying!—that she would arrive unnoticed. A strong contralto voice dashed her hopes.
“Ah, my errant handmaiden arrives at last.”
Alyra froze on the threshold of the main parlor. The voice came from the doorway to her right, accompanied by a slosh of water.
How does she always know?
Alyra curled her fingers into tight fists at her sides. Of course the queen knew. She was zoanii, descended from an ancient line of powerful sorcerers.
“Alyra, come. I'm getting a chill.”
She obeyed at once. The queen's bathing chamber was as large
as the house Alyra and her mother had shared in Nemedia. Every surface was faced in pink marble, including the floor and arched ceiling. The bathing tub set into the floor could have held a dozen people, and Alyra had seen it filled to capacity on more than one occasion. Her Majesty's parties were notorious affairs throughout the empire.
The queen stood at the edge of the tub. Rivulets of soapy water ran down her exquisite body. Tall with long, firm legs and a thin waist, she looked like a dancer. Her long, black hair hung in wet ropes about her slim shoulders. Alyra kept her head down as she took a towel from a nearby bench and attended the queen, drying her gently before wrapping the towel around Her Majesty's body. She used a smaller towel to cover the royal hair.
“Thank you, child,” the queen said. “Now come.”
Alyra followed her through the sitting room and into one of the suite's three lounge chambers. This one was decorated in shades of red and pink with white accents. Plush couches piled with pillows were arranged around the room. This was where the queen often entertained her male guests. Alyra stopped short when she saw who was chained against the far wall. “Hetta,” she whispered.
“I don't know how many times I've told you, Alyra.”
The queen walked up to Hetta. The girl was only ten years old, and as skinny as an alley cat, but beautiful with her olive skin. The queen believed in surrounding herself with lovely things. Alyra's stomach twisted into knots.
The queen ran her fingers down the girl's bare back. “You must be on time when I have my morning bath.”
Alyra rushed forward and fell to her knees. “Yes, Majesty. Please forgive me. The blame is all mine. Please! Do not—”
“Shhhh.” The queen patted Alyra's head like she was a lapdog. “You know that I must punish you. How else will you learn?”
“Yes, Majesty! Please let Hetta go and punish me. I take full responsibility for my lateness.”
The queen laughed. It was such a lovely sound, but it filled Alyra with dread. “Silly child.” Her hand caressed Alyra's face and then dipped down across the upper slope of her chest. “This is how you learn.”
A tiny shudder ran through Alyra as the clipped staccato of high-heeled boots entered the room. Hetta whimpered, and Alyra didn't need to look to see who it was. The queen's personal torturer brought a case of whips and canes that she set at Her Majesty's feet.
“The red one,” the queen said as she pulled Alyra over to the nearest couch. “To begin with.”
As the blows began to fall, and Hetta's cries resounded through the room, the queen held Alyra close and forced her to watch the spectacle. With each crack of the switch, Alyra focused on the importance of her mission, even as a woeful refrain ran through her mind.
I'm so sorry. So sorry. So sorry.
Horace lounged in the tub with his eyes closed, enjoying the warm water as it lapped against his chest and leached the aches from his tired muscles.
This is surely heaven. And if it's not, let me die now.
After climbing aboard the mysterious sedan, he had been carried out of the plaza and down a broad avenue where he got a better view of the city. Everything was built in tiers, the buildings and ramps rising like stone hills all around him. There were green spots, too, with gardens growing on rooftops and balconied terraces. Many of the buildings were painted, the most popular shades being ochre red and a pale orange that reminded Horace of a summer sunset. The avenue crossed several bridges under which flowed narrow channels of water. After about a quarter of a mile, the sedan turned into a courtyard surrounded by high walls that blocked out most of the sky. A squad of soldiers in indigo uniforms met Horace as he stepped out and ushered him inside a huge manor house. He had flashbacks of his cell in Lord Isiratu's town, but the soldiers took him upward instead, climbing several flights of steps and one long spiral staircase to a well-appointed room. They left him there.
Exploring this cell hadn't taken him long—the room was a circle. Two windows showed views of the city below. Several larger buildings stood out, many of them topped with broad domes. He'd stood at those windows as the twilight deepened, watching the moon rise to take its place among the stars. Finally, too tired to stand any longer, he collapsed into the bed.
Waking up on the fluffy mattress instead of a hard space of ground had been so luxurious that he didn't rush to get up, even as dawn's rays stretched across the floor. He might have stayed in bed all day but for the clatter of the door being unbarred and the entrance of four serving men. Their collars advertised them as slaves, but they wore clothing of fine linen and supple leather sandals like men of means. Though they did not speak his language, they made their wishes clear, and within an hour Horace had been shaved, barbered, and set to soak in a copper bathtub. He had no idea what it all meant—the slave coffle, the culling, the sedan chair, and now this treatment. It was all so confusing. He almost wished his captors would just cut off his head and be done with it.
Careful what you wish for. There are worse things than being confined in a nice room with a bed and bath.
The door opened again, but instead of slaves, three soldiers stepped inside. Each man held a sword with a curved blade, like a scimitar but with a more pronounced arc. Their blades looked sharp enough to shave with. Horace sat up, dropping one hand to cover his privates and feeling quite defenseless. A moment later the slaves reentered. They laid out an outfit on the bed as a stooped figure appeared in the doorway.
Lord Mulcibar looked older in the light of day. His skin was jaundiced with a crinkled texture like ancient parchment. A mass of scar tissue like melted candle wax covered the right side of his face. His limp was more pronounced as he entered.
Horace didn't know what to do. The tub, which had seemed like a haven only moments ago, was now his prison. Standing and bowing from his current position wouldn't be wise, and waving seemed too flippant, so he remained in place. Then Lord Mulcibar surprised him by speaking in passable Nimean. “I wanted to formally make your acquaintance.”
Horace shifted, sloshing some water on the floor. “Uh. That's very nice of you, my lord.”
“I am Mulcibar Pharitoun et'Alulu.”
“Horace Delrosa at your service.”
“Have you been made comfortable?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for your hospitality. It's a far cry from running across the desert.”
“I suppose it must be. I would ask your indulgence for Lord Isiratu, but I am of the opinion that the man is a slug.”
That took Horace aback. In Arnos, it wasn't often that one aristocrat was heard criticizing another. Perhaps things were different here.
What am I thinking? Everything is different here.
“So this is your house?” Horace asked.
“Yes. It was originally the royal palace of Erugash, but it was bequeathed to my grandfather.”
“Does that make you royalty?”
“Yes. Although some have said that the bloodline has thinned in recent generations.”
Horace had no idea how to respond to that. Thankfully, Lord Mulcibar filled the silence.
“Please put on this attire. I will send for you within the hour.”
As the nobleman turned to leave, Horace raised a hand to forestall him. The soldiers shifted to place themselves more firmly between him and old man. “Send for me for what, my lord?” Horace asked. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes. You have been summoned to the palace. The queen wishes to examine you.”
Horace slumped back in the tub. The cooling bathwater sloshed about him.
The chains clinked as Horace lifted a hand to scratch his nose. Each wrist was encircled by a wide cuff of silvery metal, joined together by a twelve-inch chain of the same material.
Well, at least they're pretty.
He rode in the palanquin, this time sitting across from Lord Mulcibar. The hunched nobleman looked like he was about to be swallowed by the cushioned seat. Before they left his mansion, Lord Mulcibar had apologized while his soldiers placed the mana
cles on Horace, explaining that it had to be done. The metal was too heavy to be silver, weighing his arms down like lead. He'd asked his captor about the chains as they climbed into the litter.
“They're made from zoahadin,” Lord Mulcibar said. “It translates to ‘star metal.’”
When Mulcibar explained that the metal was very rare, coming from stones that fell from the sky, Horace had asked, “Why use it for chains?”
“Zoahadin restricts the flow of ethereal energies.”
Horace looked at the shackles. They didn't seem very special, except for their bright gleam. Yet, now that the old man mentioned it, he felt a little different. Rundown, of course, but that was expected after the long march to the city.
No, there's something else. Like a piece of me is missing inside. Odd that I never even knew that part existed until now.
“All rogue magicians are chained thus when they are brought before a tribunal,” Lord Mulcibar said. “Or, in this case, the queen's court.”
Though Horace didn't like being called a “rogue magician,” he accepted that he was completely in the power of his captors.
Besides the chains, he wore a fine suit of dark gray linen, softer than anything he'd ever worn before. The embroidery stitched into the collar of the short jacket and down the sides of the calf-length skirt in a pattern of interconnecting squares looked like real gold thread. In an odd turn, the sandals he'd worn since the fishing village had been replaced with a pair of black leather boots. They were a little small for him but were polished and good-looking. Wearing them almost made him feel normal. Except for the chains and the rolling motion of the sedan chair. He didn't like knowing that underneath him were people being used as beasts of burden.
