Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Amilia blinked.

  “Despite all my efforts, word is getting out that the empress is not well. Since the public has never seen her, there is a growing rumor that she doesn’t exist. We need to calm the people’s fear. To this end, it will be your task to prepare Modina to give a speech upon the Grand Balcony in three days’ time.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s only three sentences.” He picked up the parchment he had been reading and held it out to her. “It should be a simple task. You got her to say one word. Now get her to say a few more. Have her memorize the speech and train her to deliver it—like an empress.”

  “But I—”

  “Remember what I said about excuses. You are part of the nobility now, a person of privilege and power. I’ve given you means and with that comes responsibility. Now out with you. I’ve more work to do.”

  Taking the parchments, she turned and walked toward the door.

  “And, Lady Amilia, don’t forget that there were five imperial secretaries before you, and all of them were noble as well.”

  “Well, if that don’t put a stiff wind in your main,” Ibis declared, looking at the patent of nobility Amilia showed him. Most of the kitchen staff gathered around the cook as he held the parchment up, grinning.

  “It’s awfully pretty,” Cora pointed out. “I love all the fancy writing.”

  “Never had a desire to read before,” Ibis said. “But I sure wish I could now.”

  “May I?” Nimbus asked. He carefully wiped his hands on his handkerchief and, reaching out, gently took the parchment. “It reads ‘I, Modina, who am right wise empress, appointed to this task by the mercy of our lord Maribor, through my imperial regents, Maurice Saldur and Lanis Ethelred, decree that in recognition of faithful service and commission of charges found to our favor, Amilia of Tarin Vale, daughter of Bartholomew the carriage maker, be raised from her current station and shall belong to the unquestionable nobles of the Novronian Empire and will henceforth and forever be known as Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale.’” Nimbus looked up. “There is a good deal more, concerning the limitations of familial inheritance and nobility rights, but that is the essence of the writ.”

  They all stared at the cornstalk of a man.

  “This is Nimbus,” Amilia said, introducing him. “He’s in need of a meal, and I was hoping you could give him a little something.”

  Ibis grinned and made a modest bow.

  “Yer a lady now, Amilia. There isn’t a person in this room who can say no to you. You hear that, Edith?” he shouted at the head maid as she entered. “Our little Amilia is a noble lady now.”

  Edith stood where she was. “Says who?”

  “The empress and Regent Saldur, that’s who. Says so right on this here parchment. Care to read it?”

  Edith scowled.

  “Oh, that’s right. You can’t read any more than I can. Would you like Lady Amilia to read it to you? Or how about her personal steward? He has an excellent reading voice.”

  Edith grabbed up a pile of linens from the bin and headed for the laundry, causing the cook to burst into laughter. “She’s never given up spouting how you’d be back scrubbing dishes—or worse.” Clapping his big hands, he turned his attention to Nimbus. “So, what would you like?”

  “Anything, actually,” Nimbus replied, his hands quivering, shaking the parchment he still held. “After several days, even shoe leather looks quite appetizing.”

  “Well, I’ll get right on that, then.”

  “Can we clear a place for Nimbus to sit?” Amilia asked, and immediately Cora and Nipper were cleaning off the baker’s table and setting it just as they had before.

  “Thank you,” Amilia said. “You don’t need to go to this much trouble—but thank you, everyone.”

  “Pardon me, my lady,” Nimbus addressed her. “If I may be so bold, it is not entirely proper for a lady of nobility to convey appreciation for services rendered by subordinates.”

  Amilia sat down beside him and sighed. She dropped her chin into her hands and grimaced. “I don’t know how to be noble. I don’t know anything, but I’m expected to teach Modina how to be an empress?” The contrast of fortune and pending disaster left her perplexed. “His Grace might as well kill me now.” She took the parchment from Nimbus and shook it in her hand. “At least now that I’m noble, I might get a quick beheading.”

  Leif delivered a plate of stew. Nimbus looked down at the bowl and the scattering of utensils arrayed around him. “The kitchen staff is not very experienced in setting a table, are they?” He picked up a small two-prong fork and shook his head. “This is a shellfish fork, and it should be on the left of my plate … assuming I was eating shellfish. What I do not have is a spoon.”

  Amilia felt stupid. “I don’t think anyone here knows what a fork is.” She looked down incredulously at the twisted spindle of wire. “Even the nobility don’t use them. At least, I’ve never washed one before.”

  “That would depend on where you are. They are popular farther south.”

  “I’ll get you a spoon.” She started to get up when she felt his hand on hers.

  “Again,” he said, “forgive my forwardness, but a lady does not fetch flatware from the pantry. And you are now in the nobility. You there!” He shouted at Nipper as the boy flew by with a bucket. “Fetch a spoon for Her Ladyship.”

  “Right away,” the boy replied, setting the bucket down and running to the pantry.

  “See?” he said. “It is not difficult, and takes just a bit of confidence and the right tone of voice.”

  Nipper returned with the spoon. It never touched the table. Nimbus took it right from his hand and began to eat. Despite his ravenous state, he ate slowly, occasionally using one of the napkins that he placed neatly on his lap to dab the corners of his mouth. He sat straight, in much the same way Lady Constance had—his chin up, his shoulders squared, his fingers placed precisely on the spoon. She had never seen anyone eat so … perfectly.

  “You need not stay here,” he told her. “While I appreciate the company, I am certain you have more important things to attend to. I can find my way out when I am finished, but I do wish to thank you for this meal. You saved my life.”

  “I want you to work for me,” she blurted out. “To help me teach Modina to act like an empress.”

  Nimbus paused with a spoonful halfway to his mouth.

  “You know all about being noble. You even said you were a courtier. You know all the rules and stuff.”

  “Protocol and etiquette.”

  “Yeah, those too. I don’t know if I can arrange for you to be paid, but I might. The regent said I could take whatever steps necessary. Even if I can’t, I can find you a place to sleep and see that you get meals.”

  “At the moment, my lady, that is a fortune, and I would consider it an honor if I could assist Her Eminence in any way.”

  “Then it’s settled. You are officially the …”

  “Imperial Tutor to Her Eminence, the Empress Modina?” Nimbus supplied.

  “Right. And our first job is to teach her to give a speech on the Grand Balcony in three days.”

  “That does not sound too difficult. Has she done much public speaking?”

  Amilia forced a smile. “A week ago she said the word no.”

  CHAPTER 11

  RATIBOR

  Entering the city of Ratibor at night, Arista thought it the most filthy, wretched place she could ever imagine. Streets lay in random, confusing lines, crisscrossing at intersections as they ran off at various odd angles. Refuse was piled next to every building, and narrow dirt thoroughfares were appalling mires of mud and manure. Wooden planks created a network of haphazard paths and bridges over the muck, forcing people to parade in lines like tightrope walkers. The houses and shops were as miserable as the roads. Constructed to fit in the spaces left by the street’s odd, acute corners, buildings were shaped like wedges of cheese, giving the city a strange, splintered appearance. The windows, shut
tight against the city’s stench, were opaque with thick grime repeatedly splashed by passing wagons.

  Ratibor reveled in its filth like a poor man who is proud of the calluses on his hands. Arista had heard of its reputation, but until experiencing it firsthand, she had not truly understood. This was a workingman’s town, a struggling city where no quarter was expected or given. Here men bore poverty and misfortune as badges of honor, deriving dubious prestige from contests of woe over tankards of ale.

  Idlers and vagabonds, hawkers and thieves moved along the plank ways, appearing and disappearing again into the shadows. There were children on the street—orphans, by the look—ragged and pitiful waifs covered in filth, crouching under porches. Small families also moved among the crowds. Tradesmen with their wives and children carried bundles or wheeled overfilled carts loaded with all their worldly possessions. All looked exhausted and destitute as they trudged through the city’s maze.

  The rain had started not long after they had left Amberton Lee, and poured the entire trip. She was soaked through. Her hair lay matted to her face, her fingers were pruned, and her hood collapsed about her head. Arista followed Royce as he led them through the labyrinth of muddy streets. The cool night wind blew the downpour in sheets, making her shiver. During the trip, she had looked forward to reaching the city. Although it was not what she had expected, anything indoors would be welcomed.

  “Care for a raincoat, mum?” a hawker asked, holding up a garment for Arista to see. “Only five silver!” he continued as she showed no sign of slowing her horse. “How about a new hat?”

  “Either of you gentlemen looking for companionship for the night?” called a destitute woman standing on a plank beneath the awning of a closed dry-goods shop. She flipped back her hair and smiled alluringly, revealing missing teeth.

  “How about a nice bit of poultry for an evening meal?” another man asked, holding up a dead bird so thin and scraggly it was hardly recognizable as a chicken.

  Arista shook her head, saying nothing except words to urge her horse forward.

  Signs were everywhere—nailed to porch beams or attached to tall stakes driven into the mud. They advertised things like ALE, CIDER, MEAD, WINE, NO CREDIT! and THREE-DAY-OLD PORK—CHEAP! But some were more ominous, such as BEGGARS WILL BE JAILED! and ALL ELVES ENTERING THE CITY MUST REGISTER AT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE. This last poster’s paint was still bright.

  Royce stopped at a public house with a signboard of a grotesque cackling face and a scripted epitaph that read THE LAUGHING GNOME. The tavern stood three stories, a good size even by Colnora’s standards, yet people still struggled to squeeze in the front door. Inside, the place smelled of damp clothes and wood smoke. A large crowd filled the common room such that Hadrian had to push his way through.

  “We’re looking for the proprietor,” Royce told a young man carrying a tray.

  “That would be Ayers. He’s the gray-haired gent behind the bar.”

  “It’s true, I tell you!” a young man with fiery red hair was saying loudly as he stood in the center of the common room. To whom he was speaking, Arista was not certain. It appeared to be everyone. “My father was a Praleon Guard. He served on His Majesty’s personal retinue for twenty years.”

  “What does that prove? Urith and the rest of them died in the fire. No one knows how it started.”

  “The fire was set by Androus!” shouted the red-haired youth with great conviction. Abruptly, the room quieted. The young man was not content with this, however, and he took the stunned pause to press his point. “He betrayed the king, killed the royal family, and took the crown so he could hand the kingdom over to the empress. Good King Urith would never have accepted annexation into the New Empire, and those loyal to his name shouldn’t either.”

  The crowd burst into an uproar of angry shouts.

  In the midst of this outburst, the three of them reached the bar, where a handful of men stood watching the excitement with empty mugs in hand.

  “Mr. Ayers?” Royce asked of a man and a boy as they struggled to hoist a fresh keg onto the rear dock.

  “Who wants to know?” asked the man in a stained apron. A drop of sweat dangled from the tip of his red nose, his face flushed from exertion.

  “We’re looking to rent a pair of rooms.”

  “Not much luck of that. We’re full up,” Ayers replied, not pausing from his work. “Jimmy, jump up and shim it.” The young lad, filthy with sweat and dirt, leapt up on the dock and pushed a wooden wedge under the keg, tilting it forward slightly.

  “Do you know of availability elsewhere in the city?” Hadrian asked.

  “Gonna be the same all over, friend. Every boardinghouse is full—refugees been coming in from the countryside for weeks.”

  “Refugees?”

  “Yeah, the Nationalists have been marching up from the coast sacking towns. People been running ahead of them and most come here. Not that I mind—been great for business.”

  Ayers pulled a tap out of the old keg and hammered it into the face of the new barrel with a wooden mallet. He turned the spigot and drained a pint or two to clear the sediment. Wiping his hands on his apron, he began filling the demands of his customers.

  “Is there no place to find lodging for the night?”

  “I can’t say that, just no place I know of,” Ayers replied, and finally took a moment to wipe a sleeve over his face and clear the drop from his nose. “Maybe some folks will rent a room in their houses, but all the inns and taverns are packed. I’ve even started to rent floor space.”

  “Is there any left?” Hadrian asked hopefully.

  “Any what?”

  “Floor space. It’s raining pretty hard out there.”

  Ayers lifted his head up and glanced around his tavern. “I’ve got space under the stairs that no one’s taken yet. If you don’t mind the people walking on top of you all night.”

  “It’s better than the gutter,” Hadrian said, shrugging at Royce and Arista. “Maybe tomorrow there will be a vacancy.”

  Ayers’s face showed he doubted this. “If you want to stay, it’ll be forty-five silver.”

  “Forty-five?” Hadrian exclaimed, stunned. “For space under the stairs? No wonder no one has taken it. A room at The Regal Fox in Colnora is only twenty!”

  “Go there, then, but if you want to stay here, it’ll cost you forty-five silver—in tenents. I don’t take those imperial notes they’re passing now. It’s your choice.”

  Hadrian scowled at Ayers but counted out the money just the same. “I hope that includes dinner.”

  Ayers shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

  “We also have three horses.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “No room at the stable either? Is it okay to leave them out front?”

  “Sure … for another … five silver a horse.”

  They pushed and prodded their way through the crowd with their bags until they came to the wooden staircase. Beneath it, several people had discarded their wet cloaks on nail heads or on the empty kegs and crates stored there. Royce and Hadrian stacked the containers to make a cubby and threw the coats and cloaks on them. A few people shot them harsh looks—the owners of the cloaks, no doubt—but no one said anything, as it appeared most understood the situation. Looking around, Arista saw others squatting in corners and along the edge of the big room. Some were families with children trying to sleep, their little heads resting on damp clothes. Mothers rubbed their backs and sang lullabies over the racket of loud voices, shifting wooden chairs, and the banging of pewter mugs. These were the lucky ones. She wondered about the families who could not afford floor space.

  How many are cowering outside under a boardwalk or in a muddy alley somewhere in the rain?

  As they settled, Arista noticed the noise of the inn was not simply the confusing sounds of forty unrelated conversations, but rather one discussion voiced by several people with various opinions. From time to time one speaker would rise above the others to make a point, and the
n drown in the response from the crowd. The most vocal was the red-haired young man.

  “No, he’s not!” he shouted once more. “He’s not a blood relative of Urith. He’s the brother of Urith’s second wife.”

  “And I suppose you think his first wife was murdered so he could be pushed into marrying Amiter, just so Androus could become duke?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying!” the youth declared. “Don’t you see? They planned this for years, and not just here either. They did it in Alburn, Warric … They even tried it in Melengar, but they failed there. Did anyone see that play last year? You know, The Crown Conspiracy. It was based on real events. Amrath’s children outsmarted the conspirators. That’s why Melengar hasn’t fallen to the New Empire. Don’t you see? We’re all the victims of a conspiracy. I’ve even heard that the empress might not exist. The whole story of the Heir of Novron is a sham, invented to placate the masses. Do you really think a farm girl could kill a great beast? It is men like Androus who control us—evil, corrupt murderous men without an ounce of royal blood in their veins, or honor in their hearts!”

  “So what?” a fat man in a checked vest asked defiantly. “What do we care who rules us? Our lot is always the same. You speak of matters between blue bloods. It doesn’t affect us.”

  “You’re wrong! How many men in this city were pressed into the army? How many are off to die for the empress? How many sons have gone to fight Melengar, who has never been our enemy? Now the Nationalists are coming. They’re only a few miles south. They will sack this city, just as they did Vernes, and why? Because we are now joined to the empire. Do you think your sons, brothers, and fathers would be off dying if Urith were still alive? Do you want to see Ratibor destroyed?”