The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire

by Collings, Michaelbrent

  Wind and Cloud looked at one another. Again they seemed to share a communication that none but them could hear. Wind mimed throwing something.

  "No," said Brother Scieran. "You don't have to just sit here giving candy to children. Though they do love that you do that," he added. Cloud smiled ever-so-slightly, and Wind actually blushed.

  So they do have emotions.

  Brother Scieran turned serious. "Father Akiro told me something before we left him with his fold." He looked at Sword. "He told me our newest member held something locked inside her, and though he did not know exactly what it was, he thought if we searched out her past we might well find something that would change the course of our small war."

  He walked to her. "Father Akiro believes that you were born to end the Empire. Or perhaps to restore it to what it once was.

  "Either way, Father Akiro told me this: 'Find out who she is. She will be the warrior who will lead us to victory.'"

  13

  There was only one place in the palace that no one wanted to go to. The great hall, the ballroom, the king's chambers – these were all coveted locations that nobles, sycophants, and social climbers hoped to enter. The barracks and guardhouses were sought by those who wished to rise in the Imperial Army. Even the headquarters of the Blessed Ones was the source of much speculation, and most people would have loved to get a glimpse inside, even a tour.

  But one place… one deep place… one dark place….

  No one wanted to be in the dungeons.

  Of course the prisoners there wished to be somewhere else: that was the point of the place. But even the guards were desperate to leave. So much so that guards stationed in the netherworld below the palace only served there a few months at a time.

  Those who stayed longer had a disturbingly high mortality rate. Either because they were killed by prisoners during moments of careless inattention or because they simply took took their own lives.

  The Chancellor huffed and puffed his way down the stairs, and wished he could use his Gift to get down faster. But of course that would have been unwise.

  The nature of his Gift was at its strongest when it was least known. And he was waiting for a time when he could unveil it and take his rightful place at the head of the Empire. Not as an Emperor, but as a God.

  Until then, though, he would climb up and down the stairs as a mere mortal, and none would know what he planned, or how he planned to do it.

  He was met at the bottom by Varar. The warden of the place was filthy and unkempt as always, and as always the Chancellor did his best to ignore the man's appearance. Varar didn't want to be down here any more than anyone else… but at least he hadn't killed himself. He alone seemed immune to the gloom that pervaded the walls of this place. That fact alone gave him a value beyond his meager talents as a glorified prison guard.

  The screams of the prisoners – some screams of men and women being tortured and in pain, others the shrieks of those driven insane by months and sometimes even years in this pit – nearly drowned out the warden's voice. "My Lord Chancellor," he said, and bowed so low it was a wonder he didn't fall over his own belly. "It is as always an honor to have you present."

  Not wrinkling his nose was an effort of will for the Chancellor. Not only was the man's attitude disgusting, but he stank. A mix of sweat, blood, and the man's last meal – it smelled like rancid chick-fowl.

  "Where is he?" asked the Chancellor.

  Varar somehow managed to bow even lower. And this time he did pitch forward. His hand spiked out, and he came dangerously close to grabbing the Chancellor's cloak. Which would have meant a very painful death for him, given that the cloak was worth more than the warden would make in wages during his entire life.

  Varar managed to swing wide at the last second, though. Steadied himself against the wall and then stood with a sickly grin. "This way, Lord Chancellor," he said. He backed away a few steps, then realized he couldn't go backwards all the way to where he needed to go. His confusion was obvious.

  "Gods save me from fools and soldiers," said the Chancellor under his breath. Then, louder, he said, "Please, dispense with the formalities, my good Varar. Just take me to the prisoner."

  Varar looked like he might take flight with pride. The Chancellor could imagine the picture later that night: the warden bragging to his friends and perhaps even whatever ugly woman had consented to be his wife, "He called me 'my good Varar.' Like we was friends!"

  Varar turned and led the Chancellor through the dungeon. The outer area was dedicated to simple cells: places for prisoners who had at least a theoretical chance at release. A few of them cried for mercy as he passed, but after the first ones were clubbed to unconsciousness by the guards stationed in the hall, the rest quieted.

  The hall sloped down as they went, as though to signify a descent below Center, below the mountain itself, into the Netherworlds.

  True enough, in a sense.

  After the first cells it grew dimmer. Glo-globes were replaced by torches in iron sconces. Then even the flickering light waned as the torches grew fewer and farther between.

  These cells were for the worst criminals: the murderers of nobles, the rapers of their daughters, the robbers of the public purse.

  And beyond them… the place that could be heard even at the entrance to the dungeons. The place where the enemies of the Empire were sent. The smallest cells – barely big enough for a man to lay inside, curled in a small ball, and with no room to stand at all – which were arranged in a circle around the wide room that served as a torture chamber in this grim doorway to annihilation.

  All of the objects in this room held awful purpose – pincers, pliers. Iron pokers and rusted spears. Racks, tubs full of maggots and honey. Hot tar and burning brands.

  And things which had no name, beyond this: pain.

  There were people throughout the room, each being attended to by a masked Inquisitor. Some screamed, others cried. A few simply wheezed last breaths, gone to the beyond in final moments of agony.

  The Chancellor thought it was all quite beautiful.

  He focused on the farthest, darkest part of the room. There, two Special Inquisitors – marked by hoods dyed red instead of the normal black – stood over a man who lay on a table. The man wore the shredded remnants of the uniform of a lieutenant in the Imperial Army.

  Unlike the others in the room, he was not bound with rope or chain. He seemed to lay of his own accord on a table made of a single slab of rock.

  But his screams… his screams were the longest. The loudest.

  The most exquisite.

  He lay on the table without being bound because of the two Special Inquisitors. One had a thin blue stripe at the bottom of his hood – marking him as a Push. He had enchanted the prisoner's body so that it constantly pressed downward, which had the effect of both pinning him to the stone table and crushing his internal organs under the now-increased weight of his own body.

  The Chancellor had also sent orders for the Push to enchant the man's organs themselves. The disgraced lieutenant should now be enjoying the feeling of a stomach that had switched places with his spleen, a pair of lungs twisted so tightly together that they barely allowed him to breathe.

  Beautiful.

  The other Special Inquisitor had a black stripe on the bottom of his hood. This marked him as the most terrible of the Emperor's torturers. Only the most special cases received his ministrations.

  This one was a Patch. He would stand by as the worst men and women were tortured… and would constantly heal their wounds. He would ensure that their torture lasted well beyond human endurance. And only when the prisoners had been driven mad by pain and helpless desperation would they be allowed to die.

  The Chancellor waved at Varar. "Leave me," he said.

  "You… you can find your way back?" said the man, obviously torn between his desire to get away from this place and his wish to get a bit further into the Chancellor's good graces.

  As if this slovenly pi
g could ever be in my good graces.

  The Chancellor forced a smile. "What I must do is not for you to see, good Warden."

  Varar looked like he might fly down the corridor as he left. The Chancellor heard him talking to one of the guards stationed at the door to the chamber: "Did you hear what he called me? Me? 'Good Warden! That's my personal friend the Chancellor, and he…."

  His voice disappeared down the hall.

  The Chancellor walked to the table and the two Special Inquisitors.

  "Has he spoken?"

  The Push nodded. "Yes. It took a while because his throat had to be healed first." He pointed at the prisoner's throat, where a long scar curved from ear to ear. "It was a miracle he was found by a Patch on the street, or he would have bled to death. Even so, he wasn't completely healed when brought here." The Push nodded at his fellow. "He's been working so hard keeping this man alive it's a wonder he hasn't started screaming himself."

  The prisoner started shrieking suddenly, and the Chancellor had to wait on his main question – the only question – until the sound quieted.

  "What has he said? What did he reveal?"

  "As you instructed, Lord Chancellor, we asked if he had told anyone about Minister Ambek's travel routes."

  The Chancellor leaned close over the man. He was gasping. Seemed about to expire, then suddenly color returned in some measure to his cheeks, and he took a painful breath. The Patch was working hard, indeed.

  The man's eyes seemed to focus on him for a moment. "Why?" he gasped. The sound was barely a whisper, the hint of a word more than its actuality.

  The Chancellor smiled. It was a thin smile, and carried with it no warmth. "You were the only person I could find who knew of Ambek's travel routes who wasn't actually on the chariot with him. Everyone else died, which left you as the only person who could have betrayed him."

  "Ne… nev… never," managed the lieutenant. Then he began screaming again.

  "The Gods hate a liar," said the Push, and the Chancellor enjoyed the image of the lieutenant's innards rearranging themselves under the Special Inquisitor's ministrations. Then the Push looked at the Chancellor. "He confessed that he did tell someone: a girl in one of the brothels."

  "Which brothel? Did he say what she looked like?"

  The Push grinned. His smile could be seen even through the mask in the twinkle of his eyes. The Chancellor appreciated that – this was a man who enjoyed his work.

  "Yes, he did. He said it was in a place called The Dancing Darks. A girl with the brand of the House of Fives on her shoulder plied him with wine, then he woke up here." The Push grimaced. "He claimed not to remember anything at first, but eventually admitted he 'might have talked a bit about Minister Ambek.'"

  "What did the girl look like? Did you get a description, other than her brand?"

  "We did." The Push waited until the lieutenant stopped screaming again, then provided a very detailed description of the prostitute.

  "You've done well, Inquisitor," said the Chancellor. He bowed. "Both of you." Then he sighed. "That makes this so hard, in a way."

  "My Lord?" said the Push. Then he gagged as the dagger hidden in the Chancellor's right hand swiped across his throat. The dagger in his left snaked out as well and the Patch – who had never spoken a word – died just as fast as his friend.

  On the table, with the help of the Patch suddenly gone, the lieutenant took a last hitching gasp, then exhaled and died.

  The Chancellor looked at the dead Special Inquisitors. "So sorry. State secrets, you know."

  He left the torture chamber. No one else even looked up as walked away from the three new corpses. Death was a part of this place, and if it eventually came to the Inquisitors as well as to the prisoners, well… no one could really claim surprise.

  Varar was waiting at the front of the dungeons, still bragging to anyone in earshot about "his friend, the Chancellor." Though he quieted when the actual Chancellor approached, and appeared worried that he might have been overheard.

  The Chancellor sighed. "There are a few bodies that need disposal in the interrogation room," he said.

  "Certainly, Lord Chancellor," said Varar. He performed another one of his gravity-defying bows. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No," said the Chancellor. He started up the steps that led out of this place. A part of him was sad to go. The smell was excruciating, but the screams were lovely.

  "No," he repeated quietly. Then added, "The next move is one I take myself."

  14

  Sword suddenly felt more uncomfortable than she had at any time since her first Dogfight. It was one thing to kill or die for herself, another to do so for the Empire – either as a Blessed One or a rebel – and quite another thing to hear that the entirety of a cause depended on you.

  Wind and Cloud looked – for them – positively apoplectic. Which meant they actually bordered on having expressions. Rune was shaking her head as though she didn't believe what Brother Scieran had just said.

  Arrow looked angry. "Her?" he said. "How could she matter that much?"

  "He's right," said Sword. "I'm just –"

  "You're just what?" said Brother Scieran. He shook his head. "We don't know what you are. Not even you know what you are. But Father Akiro sensed something inside you. Something deep within, locked away." He clasped his hands, then pulled them apart. "But if we can open it…." He shook his head. "Father Akiro, though irritating and abrasive, is the wisest man I've ever known. If he says you hold the key, then I've no doubt you do."

  Sword looked around the tent. The others were all staring at her. Wind and Cloud with vague confusion, Rune with a smile of amused disbelief.

  Arrow shook his head. She did, too.

  None of this makes sense.

  Brother Scieran spoke. "Sword, do you remember anything of your childhood? Who you were before the kennels? Who sold you?"

  She shook her head. "I don't remember anything until a few years before I became a Dog. I learned reading and writing in the education kennels, I learned some basic knowledge that would help me with conversation in case I was sold as a child. But I barely remember that, and nothing at all of who sold me at the first."

  "Do you at least remember when you were sold? Did any of your kennelmasters tell you?" She shook her head. Brother Scieran deflated. "Then there's no way of telling who sold you to the kennels in the first place."

  Cloud gestured for attention. He shrugged. Rune shimmered, and apparently saw what he was trying to ask in the future, because when she came back she said, "Would there have been a way if she had remembered when she was sold?"

  "Certainly," said Brother Scieran. "Records of the child auctions are kept at the Imperial Archives. If she could tell when she was sold we might have been able to hunt down her buyer via her description or her name or… something."

  He threw up his hands, visibly frustrated. Sword was surprised to see how much this obviously mattered to him.

  Wind gestured for attention, then drew her finger from her eye to the corner of her mouth. Brother Scieran stared at her for a moment, then turned back to Sword. He pointed at her. "Your scar," he said. "Did you get it in the arena?"

  She thought. "I don't know. "

  Brother Scieran thought. "So you might have gotten it before you were sold."

  She shrugged. "I guess. Maybe."

  The hint of a smile began to play across his face. "Then there's something. Do you know how long you were a slave?"

  "Not exactly," she said. "At least ten Turns, I'd guess. Maybe more. Like I said, I don't remember much of anything before I was a Dog."

  "And that's interesting, too," said Brother Scieran. "As though your mind blocked something. Perhaps something too painful to bear?"

  "Being sold probably stinks," said Rune.

  "You are correct in that," said Brother Scieran. "But human beings are incredibly resilient creatures. They can survive – and even thrive in – almost any conditions." He was quiet for a lo
ng time. No one moved, and Sword's discomfort grew the longer the older man stared at her. "I wonder," he murmured at one point. Then he said, "Very well, there's only one way to find out."

  "How?" said Arrow.

  "We go to the Imperial Archives. We have an approximate time our new friend was sold – and I have a suspicion that might narrow the time frame even further. So we look through the records until we find her bill of sale, and go from there."

  "Sure, no problem," said Rune.

  "That's madness," said Arrow. "The archives are in the bazaar, spitting distance from the palace. You want us to go straight into the den of the enemy – ill-prepared, and with an objective that is so broad it will require time while we're actually in there? Why don't we just all swallow poison and save the Emperor some effort?"

  Brother Scieran shrugged. "Father Akiro thinks she is the key. If he thinks this, then I believe it worth the risk. Besides," he added with a grin, "do you have anything better to do?"

  15

  The Dancing Darks was the kind of place that scum frequented and officers of the Imperial Army came for one-off visits.

  The scum came regularly because it had everything they liked: wine, women, food, and the occasional job offered in near-silence with cash passed below a filthy table – in that order.

  The officers came because it was a good place to find comforting arms – but it was far enough from the high-class brothels that they would not risk the embarrassment of running into the most powerful (and married) officers in the Army, a mistake which had caused more than one soldier to be sent to man a garrison in the farthest reaches of Fear.

  Besides, the place charged for rooms by the hour. And that meant a soldier wouldn't have to spend more coin than was necessary.

  Smoke watched the comings and goings, the doings and dealings of The Dancing Darks, from a corner far away from both the firepit and the bar. Both were "high-traffic areas" – places where people were constantly on the move, constantly asking for the next drink or job or meal or bartering for the pleasure of a willing woman. He didn't want to be in the thick of things. Not yet.