by Jon Sprunk
Hubert stepped to the foot of the dais and made a deep bow. “Majesty,” he said, loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. “Have we your leave to begin this day’s proceedings?”
When she assumed the throne, Josey hadn’t much of an idea what an empress actually did. Presented with a host of questions, from whom to appoint to various administrative posts left vacant when the Church officials who had been running the country were removed, to how to raise a new police force to enforce her laws now that the Sacred Brotherhood was disbanded, Josey had turned over much of the daily operations to Hubert, her new lord chancellor, so that she was free to consider larger matters of state. Or so she had told herself.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said. “In one moment.”
Hubert had started to turn away, but halted in midstep. Josey flicked a glance toward the offensive ceiling paintings and tried not to meet the mournful eyes of the Prophet hanging on his noose.
“When will the ceiling be restored?”
Hubert cleared his throat. “We have not yet acquired an artist, Your Majesty.”
“Why not?”
Hubert turned to the long desk he shared with the new Keeper of the Imperial Treasury. Ozmond Parmian cut a fine figure in his fashionable white suit.
“It is a matter of funds,” Ozmond said, “which are somewhat lacking at the moment, Majesty. Revenues from the outlying provinces have been late in arriving, while the cost of raising, training, and barracking the City Watch, combined with the new measures put in place to assist the poor—”
Josey lifted a hand. “I see. Your Grace, you may proceed.”
With a nod, Hubert faced the ministers, and Josey settled back in her seat. At first, she had looked forward to these meetings, anticipating the chance to enact policies that would improve the lives of her subjects, but it had become apparent after just a few days that only her presence was required, not her voice. While she sat in the excruciating chair, her ministers heard from petitioners and judged their cases. After a short recess, she would be paraded through a series of smaller meetings where she was also encouraged to smile and say little. In short, she was treated like a painted doll.
While Hubert intoned the day’s agenda, Josey played with the heavy ring on her fourth finger. Her father’s signet. The large carbuncle had been reset onto a new band sized for her hand. She ran her fingertip over the smooth facets. How many emperors have worn this before me? What would they think if they saw me sitting here now?
Hubert talked about the unrest across the empire. It seemed that in the absence of the Church’s authority, some of the nobility took the opportunity to revisit old grudges upon their neighbors. This had escalated into a handful of tiny wars. Every day the Thurim debated options to suppress the violence, but so far they hadn’t actually done anything. Then something Hubert said caught her attention.
“What was that?” she asked.
He looked up from the scroll he was reading. “The western territories, Majesty. Lord Ulbrecht of Cantross writes with news of banditry along the border and asks for assistance in quelling the problem.”
“Any news from the soldiers I sent north?”
“Ah, not as yet, Majesty.”
“Lord Ulbrecht commands a fortress in the town, does he not?”
“Yes, Majesty. I believe so, but he says in his letter he does not possess sufficient soldiers to impose order beyond the town walls.”
“This makes how many reports of brigandry along the western border?”
“This is the fourth this month, Majesty.”
Josey tapped the arms of the throne with her fingernails. Cantross was near the border in a lawless stretch of land where her writ meant very little. Still, the people living in that territory were her subjects. She had a duty to them. “We will send a company of troops to his aid.”
“Majesty, we have a shortage of—”
“Draw up a list of those lords who have made war within the empire’s borders without Our consent. Demand from each a levy of soldiers, armed and equipped for a campaign.” A warm glow heated Josey’s cheeks as she spoke. “If we deprive the fractious nobles of their weapons, they will have nothing with which to harass each other.”
The corners of Hubert’s mouth quivered as if he wanted to smile, but did not dare. “That is one idea, Majesty. But might I ask what we shall do if they refuse?”
“Any who refuse will be stripped of their lands and titles, and branded an enemy of the crown.”
That got the ministers talking. Someone tsked at her pronouncement, but nobody protested outright. A few actually nodded, possibly because their lands were the ones under attack. Josey smiled to herself. “What’s next?” she asked.
Hubert hesitated, and then reached for another scroll. “There is the Akeshian problem. The war in the east continues without respite, now going into its seventh year. The enemy has made advances into the southern continent. That, along with their seizure of imperial trading colonies in Altaia and Sulene, has given them firm control over the eastern Midland Sea.”
All pleasant feelings left Josey. The war in the east was something she had inherited from the previous regime. Although there had been tensions between the two empires for as long as anyone could remember, it had never flared into war until the Church came to power with its persecution toward all who would not bow to the True Faith. She had seen the reports from the Treasury, read about the battles, the investitures, the list of towns won and lost. Sixty thousand men dead and countless more maimed at a cost of more than two million gold soldats, leaving Nimea on the brink of bankruptcy. All for nothing, as far as she could see. It was something she had argued with Hubert about in private. Although he shared her view of the war, he argued it was popular with the people and the nobles. Josey caught her fingers twisting her signet ring and forced them to stop.
“Ministers of the Thurim, in the name of peace and mercy I put before you a call to end this senseless conflict.”
There was silence. Then someone coughed, and that broke the floodgates. Voices rose throughout the hall, some of them violently. Josey squirmed on the throne.
“Good lords and ladies.” She tried to be heard above the noise. “For too long this war has clouded the empire’s conscience! It has destroyed families and sown discord throughout—”
No one was listening. Josey looked to Hubert, but he was too busy watching the arguments to notice. One of the people’s ministers, Lord Du’Quendel, stood up on his chair and clapped for her over the crowd of wizened heads. Josey gave him a small smile, hoping his enthusiasm would spread, but that did not seem likely. After a few minutes, a loud bang got the attention of enough people to quiet the din, and a petite woman in a long hunter-green dress made herself heard. The ministers quieted as Hubert announced her.
“The Lady Philomena shall address the court.”
The only woman on the Thurim, Lady Philomena looked a fragile figure among the ministers, but as she strode to the center of the hall she assumed a stance more like a battlefield commander than a wilting flower. Her dress was designed for austerity and plainness, and did nothing to accentuate her shape. She was older than Josey by several years, but was not an unhandsome woman; she had classic features and bright golden hair wrapped up in a bun at the back of her head. She might have been stunning if not for the pinched firmness of her mouth and the way her eyes bulged as if she had bitten into something sour. Josey didn’t know much about the lady—something about a wealthy husband who had died this past year, bequeathing to her his title and an enormous fortune. And Josey recalled something else as she glimpsed the golden circle brooch pinned to her breast. Lady Philomena was an ardent supporter of the Church.
Philomena got right to the point. “It would be a grave error to send envoys to the empire of Akeshia with terms of surrender.”
“Terms of peace, my lady,” Hubert interjected.
“One and the same to those savages. To show weakness would only encourage further aggression.”
“But we will not know that,” Josey said, “unless we try to make an accord with them.”
The lady lifted a delicate, plucked eyebrow. “It is a holy war ordained by God, received by His Holiness the prelate, and executed by the will of the Faithful.” After a moment, she added, “Majesty.”
Josey ground her teeth together. The Church had been willing to bleed the empire dry when it held power, and now this woman wanted her to continue the same insane policy. It was beyond ludicrous. She started to speak, but Hubert jumped in before her.
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but the continuation of the war in the east is no longer viable, things in the realm being as they are.”
“All things”—Lady Philomena looked directly at Josey—“are possible through the Light.”
Josey tried to bite her tongue and failed. “What does the Light say about the thousands of young men who have died overseas and will never see their homeland again?”
“Sacrifices made in the name of the True Faith are never in vain. As the Holy Writs say, those souls now dwell in glory at the right hand of the Prophet.”
Josey grabbed handfuls of her skirt to keep herself under control. Fortunately, Hubert stepped in just in time to prevent another eruption.
“Thank you, milady,” he said. “The empress will take your words under advisement.”
Josey glared at Lady Philomena’s back as the woman returned to her seat.
“Anything else, Lord Chancellor?” she asked, dreading the answer. She just wanted to get out of this hall.
“Duke Mormaer has asked for an audience.”
Josey stifled a sigh. Her forehead had begun to throb. “Very well. Send him in.”
At Hubert’s command, the guards admitted the next petitioner. Mormaer was an ample-sized man, bordering on stoutness. His wealth was displayed with many jewel-encrusted rings and a heavy gold chain around his neck from which hung seven huge emeralds. A footman in black livery marched a pace behind him. The duke stopped at the first step of the dais and presented a shallow bow that seemed to say, You may stand above me, but only a trifle.
“Duke Mormaer of Wistros, Margrave of Ebencross,” the footman announced.
Mormaer turned so as to face both the ministers and the throne. His dark eyes were half hidden under untamed, black brows that came together over a spongy nose. His lips were pressed together like battle lines.
“Majesty,” his deep voice rumbled through the hall, “and councilors of the Thurim. Twice I have come before this court to present my petition, and twice been sent away without an answer.” He held up a roll of papers clenched in a hairy fist. “I come this third time to be heard, or to return to my lands with the message that our empress cares nothing for the welfare of those who live beyond these walls.”
Josey didn’t know what this was about. This was the first she’d heard of any petition. But she didn’t intend to allow any man to barge into her palace and make demands.
“Duke—”
“Duke Mormaer,” Hubert interjected. “We have reviewed your petition most carefully, but feel it might be premature to raise that particular subject.”
Josey looked at Hubert, wishing he would turn around and see the look of shock that must be written on her face, but all his attention was focused on the petitioner.
Duke Mormaer shook the papers again. “It is the will of the nobles of this realm. What matter could be more important?”
Josey wanted to know, too. As Hubert reached for the papers, she stood up. Everyone rose from their seats, even Lady Philomena, although she did so with a languor that suggested she was only acting under duress. Trying to hide the stiffness in her posterior, Josey descended the steps of the dais.
“Your Majesty—” Hubert started to say.
She cut him off with a firm shake of her head and took the papers from Mormaer’s hand. She opened to the first page. Her stomach tightened as she read the scrawling script. The sensation worsened as she flipped to the next page and read the list of signatures attached. They went on for six more pages and included the names of significant families from every province of the empire.
Willing her insides to settle, she read the top of the first page again.
In the interest of the continued peace and prosperity of the realm, we, the signed, call for Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Josephine Corrinada I, to be wed before the turn of midsummer and begin the production of a line of heirs in a timely fashion, so as to ensure …
It went on to suggest a list of eligible suitors, starting with three names she recognized by their surname. The sons of Duke Mormaer.
Josey couldn’t believe what she was reading. Who are they to demand …? How dare they? Begin the production of a line of heirs in a timely fashion!
“Duke Mormaer.” She struggled to control her voice. Hubert watched with concern, but she charged ahead. “You will explain yourself and”—she thrust the papers at him—“this!”
Mormaer regarded her with a bland expression, as if he couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge her ire. The duke appeared about to say something, but Josey turned away.
“This audience is finished. Lord Chancellor, attend me.”
Without waiting for Hubert, she crossed to the exit. Everyone bowed as she and her bodyguards left the hall. As the chamber doors closed, Josey leaned against the wall. The ache in her head throbbed so that she could hardly see straight. Composing herself, she walked down the hallway to a small parlor room decorated with lace curtains and dainty furniture. She slammed the door behind her and started to pace across the thin woven carpet. By the time a soft knock sounded, her anger had worked itself into a blistering fury.
“You!” she shouted as Hubert stepped into the room.
He quickly shut the door and stood with his arms at his sides.
Josey wanted to kick him. Instead, she resumed pacing. “First, you push me into a corner like a holy icon while you and the other ministers make decisions about my realm. Then you allow me to be ambushed by that … that man who proposes to breed me like a prize cow!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Yes?” She stopped pacing. “Yes, what?’”
“Mormaer has a valid point, Your Majesty.”
“You can call me Josey in private, Hubert.”
“Your Maj—”
She propped her fists on her hips. “Josey.”
“All right. Josey. Duke Mormaer is many things, but he is no fool. He is within his rights to raise this issue.”
“Then you had better explain it before I have you tossed in the moat.”
“The palace doesn’t have a—”
“Get on with it!”
He cleared his throat. “You must marry, and you must do it soon.”
She snatched a peach from a basket by the window, took a bite, and then thought better of it. Not seeing a place to put it, she placed the fruit back in the basket.
“Oh really? I thought I was empress. I didn’t know I had to contort my life to suit the desires of my advisors.”
“Cinattus the Younger wrote that to rule a nation is to be the servant of the people.”
“Then Cinattus can damned well marry one of Mormaer’s sons!”
She huffed while Hubert admired the floor. Finally, she relented with a nod. “I understand, but I won’t take advice from the likes of Mormaer.”
“He is very powerful, Majesty.”
“He’s a great, bloated hog!”
“That, too.” Hubert cleared his throat. “And there is another matter.”
He opened his hand. In the center of his palm sat a small ivory cameo carved in the likeness of a woman. “Lord Du’Quendel sends this with a request for a private audience.”
Josey took the plaque. “Du’Quendel. From Belastire? What does he want?”
She knew of the Du’Quendel family, though only by reputation. They were a very old noble dynasty. Not so wealthy or powerful as they once were, but still respected.
“I believe h
e wants a more meaningful position here at court.”
She saw the problem. Lord Du’Quendel wanted a higher rank, but had done nothing to distinguish himself for such an honor. However, the throne could not afford to insult his family. Josey ran her fingertips over the face on the token. The edges were darkened and the face marred by tiny cracks, as if the piece had been kept in a dirty niche for years or burned in a fire …
The fire.
The cellar in the earl’s house came back to her, and a row of thirteen ivory plaques, one for each member of her foster father’s secret society. This was either an exact replica, or …
“Empress, is something wrong?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just—”
Josey handed back the cameo and turned to the window. Outside, dark clouds gathered in a steely gray sky. The first snows of winter were expected any day. Expectations. They were a tricky thing. You have to face the fact that he may never come back.
“I’m tired of waiting, Hubert. Tired of the court and the problems.” She sighed. “Give Lord Du’Quendel what he wants. Take care of the details, but I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see anyone.”
“I shall inform the court. But what of the ball? Shall I postpone it?”
Josey rubbed her forehead. She had forgotten about the ball in honor of her coronation. It had sounded like a good idea when it was presented to her a month ago, but now with all the problems in the realm it felt callous and wasteful.
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow evening, Majesty. After your meeting with the Arnossi delegation.”
“I suppose it’s too late to call it off. Very well. Please send up a report of the day’s judgments and whatever else you need me to sign.”
“Very good, Majesty.”
She thanked him as she walked to the door. Flanked by her guards, she trod the lonely corridors up to her apartments.
