The emerald storm
( The Riyria revelations - 4 )
Michael J. Sullivan
Michael J. Sullivan
The emerald storm
Chapter 1
Assassin Merrick Marius fitted a bolt into the small crossbow before slipping the weapon beneath the folds of his cloak. Smoke-thin clouds drifted across the sliver of moon leaving him and Central Square, shrouded in darkness. He searched the filthy streets lined with ramshackle buildings looking for movement but found none. At this hour, the city was deserted.
Ratibor may be a pit, he thought, but at least it is easy to work in.
Conditions had improved with the recent Nationalists' victory. The imperial guards were gone, and with them went the regular patrols. The town lacked even an experienced sheriff as the new mayor refused to hire seasoned men or members of the military to administer so-called "law and order." She opted instead to make do with grocery clerks, shoemakers, and dairy farmers. Merrick found her actions ill-advised but expected such mistakes from an inexperienced noble. Not that he was complaining-he appreciated the help.
Despite this shortcoming, he admired Arista Essendon's accomplishments. In Melengar, her brother, King Alric, reigned and as an unwed princess she possessed no real power. Then she came here, masterminded a revolt, and the surviving peasants rewarded her with the keys to the city. She was a foreigner and a royal, yet they thanked her for taking rule over them. Brilliant. He could not have done better himself.
A slight smile formed at the edge of Merrick's lips as he watched her from the street below her window. A candle still burned on the second floor of City Hall, even at this late hour. Her figure moved hazily behind the heavy curtains as she left her desk.
It will not be long now, he thought.
Merrick shifted his grip on the weapon. Only a foot-and-a-half long, with a bow span even shorter, it delivered none of the stopping power of a traditional crossbow. Still, it would be enough. His target wore no armor, and he was not relying on the force of the bolt. Venden pox coated the serrated metal tip. A deplorable poison for assassination; it neither killed quickly nor paralyzed the victim. The concoction would certainly kill, but only after what he considered an unprofessional span of time. He had never used it before and only recently learned of its most important trait-venden pox was invulnerable to magic. Merrick had it on good authority that the most powerful spells and incantations were useless against its venom. Given his target, this would prove essential.
Another figure entered Arista's room, and she sat abruptly. Merrick imagined she had just received some interesting news, and he was about to cross the street to listen at the window when the tavern door opened behind him. A pair of patrons exited, and by the sway of their steps and the volume of their voices they had obviously drained more than one mug that night.
"Nestor, who's that leaning against the post?" one said, pointing in Merrick's direction. A plump man with a strawberry nose whose shape matched its color squinted in the dim light and staggered forward.
"How should I know?" said the other. The thin man's mustache still glistened with beer foam.
"What's he doing here at this time 'a night?"
"Again, how should I know, you wanker?"
"Well, ask him."
The tall man stepped forward. "Whatcha doin', mister? Holding up the post so the porch doesn't fall down?" Nestor snorted a laugh and doubled over with his hands on his knees.
"Actually," Merrick told them, his tone so serious it was almost grave, "I'm waiting to appoint the position of Town Fool to the person who asks me the stupidest question. Congratulations. You win."
The thin man slapped his friend on the shoulder. "See, I've been telling you all night how funny I am, and you haven't laughed once. Now I'm getting a new job…probably pays better than yours."
"Oh, yeah, you're quite the entertainer," his friend assured him as they staggered off into the night. "You should audition at the theater. They're gonna be doing The Crown Conspiracy for the mayor. The day I see you on a stage, now that will be funny."
Merrick's mood turned sour. He had seen that play several years ago, and while the two thieves depicted in it used different names he knew they portrayed the exploits of Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. Duster, as Royce was known when Merrick and him were assassins for the Diamond, used to be best friends.
Their friendship ended seventeen years ago, that warm summer night when Duster murdered Jade. Although he was not present, Merrick had imagined the scene countless times. That was before Duster had his white dagger, back when he used a pair of curved black-handled kharolls. Merrick knew Duster's technique well enough to picture him silently slicing through Jade with both blades at once. The blood would have run down her body, slicking her dark night-work tunic and pooling at her feet as she slowly crumpled. Merrick did not care that someone else set up Duster or that he did not know his victim's identity when it happened. All Merrick knew was that the woman he loved was dead and his best friend had killed her.
Decades had passed, and still Jade and Duster haunted him. He could not think of one without the other and he could not bear to forget. Love and hate welded together forever, intertwined in a knot too tight to untie.
Loud noises and shouts from Arista's room brought Merrick back to the present. He checked his weapon then crossed the street.
***
"Your Highness?" the soldier asked, entering the mayoral office. Princess Arista looked up from her cluttered desk, her hair a tangled mess and her eyes wreathed in shadow. She took a moment to assess her visitor. The man in mismatched armor displayed an expression of unabated annoyance.
This is not going to go well, she thought.
"You sent for me?" he asked with only partially restrained irritation.
"Yes, Renquist," she said, her mind catching up with his face. She had hardly slept in two days and had difficulty concentrating. "I asked you here to-"
"Princess, you can't be summoning me like this. I have an army to run and a war to win. I don't have time to chat."
"Chat? I wouldn't call you here if it wasn't important."
Renquist rolled his eyes.
"I need you to remove rmy from the city."
"What?"
"It can't be helped. Your men are causing trouble. I'm getting daily reports of soldiers bullying merchants and destroying property. There has even been an accusation of rape. You must take your men and bivouac them outside the city, where they can be controlled."
"The men only want what is rightfully theirs. They risked their lives against the Imperialists; the least this lousy city can do is feed them. Now you want me to take away their beds and the roof over their heads as well?"
"The merchants and farmers refuse to feed them because they can't," Arista explained. "The empire confiscated the city's reserves when the Imperialists took control. The rains and the war destroyed most of this year's crops. The city doesn't have enough to feed its citizens, much less an army. Fall is here, and cold weather is on its way. These people don't know how they will survive the winter. They can't take care of themselves with a thousand soldiers raiding their shops and farms. We're thankful for your contribution in taking the city, but your continued presence threatens to destroy what you risked your lives to liberate. You must leave."
"If I force them back into camps with inadequate food and leaky canvas shelters, half will desert. As it is, many are talking of going home for the harvest season. I shouldn't have to tell you that if this army disappears, the empire will take this city back."
Arista shook her head. "When Degan Gaunt was in charge the Nationalist Army lived under similar conditions for months without it being a problem. The soldier
s are becoming complacent here in Ratibor. Perhaps it is time you pressed on to Aquesta."
Renquist stiffened at the suggestion. "Gaunt's capture makes taking Aquesta all the more difficult. I need time to gather information and I'm waiting for reinforcements and supplies from Delgos. Attacking the capital won't be like taking Vernes or Ratibor. Aquesta is a Warric city and the seat of the empire. The Imperialists will fight to the last man to defend their empress. No. We need to stay here until I'm fully prepared."
"Wait if you must, but not here," she replied firmly.
"What if I refuse?" His eyes narrowed.
Arista put the parchments she was holding on the desk but said nothing.
"My army conquered this city," he told her pointedly. "You hold authority only because I allow it. I needn't take orders from you. You are not a princess here, and I am not your serf. My responsibility is to my men, not to this city and certainly not to you."
Arista slowly rose.
"I am the mayor pro tem of this city," she said, her voice growing in authority, "appointed by the people. Furthermore, I am steward and acting administrator of all of Rhenydd, again by the consent of the people. You and your army are here by my leave."
"You are a princess of Melengar and a foreigner! At least I was born in Rhenydd."
"Regardless of your personal feelings toward me, you will respect the authority of this office and do as I say."
"And if I don't?" he asked coldly.
Renquist's reaction did not surprise Arista. He was a career soldier who served with King Urith, as well as the Imperial Army, before joining the rebel Nationalists when Kilnar fell. When Gaunt disappeared, Hadrian appointed him commander in chief, a position far higher in rank than Renquist could ever have hoped for. Renquist was finally realizing the power he possessed and starting to assert himself. She had hoped he would demonstrate the same spirit Emery had shown but Renquist was not a commoner with the heart of a nobleman. If she did not take action now, Arista would face a military overthrow.
"This city just liberated itself from one tyrant, and I won't allow it to fall under the heel of another. If you refuse to obey me, I'll replace you as commander."
"And howo d you do that?"
Arista revealed a faint smile. "Think hard…I'm sure you can figure it out."
Renquist continued to stare at her, then his eyes widened in realization and fear flashed across his face.
"Yes," she told him, "the rumors about me are true. Now take your army out of the city before I feel a need to prove it. You have just one day to remove them. Scouts found a suitable valley to the north. I suggest you camp where the river crosses the road. It is far enough away to prevent further trouble. There is plenty of water, fish, and wood for fires. By heading north, your men will feel they are progressing toward the goal of Aquesta, thus helping morale."
"Don't tell me how to run my army," he snapped, although not as loudly, nor as confidently as before.
"My apologies," she said, with a bow of her head. "It was only a suggestion. The order to leave the city, however, is not. Good evening to you, sir."
Renquist hesitated, his breath labored, his hands balled into fists.
"I said good evening, sir."
He muttered a curse and left, slamming the door behind him.
Exhausted, Arista slumped in her chair.
Why does everything have to be so hard?
Everyone wanted something from her now: food, shelter, assurances that everything would be all right. The citizens looked at her and saw hope, but Arista could see little herself. Plagued by endless problems and surrounded by people, she felt oddly alone.
There was not a single person in Ratibor whom she had known for longer than a month, and she longed for a familiar face. Arista missed Hilfred. After suffering burns in her service over two years ago, her once ever-present bodyguard had left without a word. She also missed her brother, Alric, and hoped he could forgive her for disobeying him. Perhaps her success in taking Ratibor would lessen his anger. Most of all, Arista missed Royce and Hadrian, a common thief and a rogue swordsman. To them, she was nothing more than a wealthy patron, but to her, they were nothing less than her closest friends.
Arista laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes.
Just a few minutes catnap, she told herself. Then I will get up and figure out how to deal with the shortage of grain and look into the reports of the mistreatment of prisoners.
Since her appointment, a hundred issues demanded her attention such as who was entitled to harvest the fields of the farmers lost in battle. With food in short supply and harsh autumn weather threatening, she needed a quick solution. At least these problems saved her from thinking about her own loss. Like everyone in town, Arista remained haunted by the Battle of Ratibor. She bore no visible injury-her pain came from a memory, a face seen at night when her heart ached as if pierced. It would never fully heal. There would always be a wound, a deformity, a noticeable scare for the rest of her life.
When she finally fell asleep, thoughts of Emery, held at bay during her waking hours, invaded her dreams. He appeared, as always, sitting at the foot of the bed, bathed in moonlight. Her breath shortened in anticipation of the kiss as he leaned forward, a smile across his lips. Abruptly he stiffened, and a drop of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth-a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. She tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The dream had always been the same, but this time Emery spoke. "There's no time left," he told her, his face intent and urgent. "It's up to you now."
She struggled to ask what he meant, when- "Your Highness." She felt a gentle hand jostle her shoulder.
Opening her eyes, Arista saw Orrin Flatly. The city scribe, who once kept track of the punishment of rebels in the Central Square, had volunteered to be her secretary. His cold efficiency had given her pause but she relented, realizing there was no crime in doing one's job well. Her decsion proved sound and he had turned out to be a loyal, diligent worker. Still, waking to his expressionless face disturbed her.
"What is it?" she asked, wiping her eyes and feeling for tears that should have been there.
"Someone is here to see you. I explained you were occupied, but he insists. He is very…" Orrin shifted uncomfortably, "hard to ignore."
"Who is he?"
"He refused to give his name, but said you knew him, and claims his business is of utmost importance and he must speak to you immediately."
"Okay." Arista nodded drowsily. "Give me a moment and then send him in."
Orrin left, and in his absence she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress to ensure her appearance was at least marginally presentable. Having lived the life of a commoner for so long, what Arista deemed acceptable had reached an appallingly low level.
To replace her bloodstained gown she borrowed a frock from Mrs. Dunlap. Despite a seamstress's attempt to alter it, the garment remained a poor fit. Designed for an elderly matron, with a tall, stiff collar and heavy stays, the dress was not at all flattering. Checking her hair in a mirror, she wondered where the Princess of Melengar had gone and if she would ever return.
While she inspected herself the door opened. "How may I help-"
Esrahaddon stood in the doorway, wearing the same flowing robe whose color Arista could never determine. His arms, as always, were lost in its shimmering folds. His beard was longer and gray streaked his hair, making him appear older than she remembered. She had not seen the wizard since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River, when he admitted to orchestrating her father's death.
"What are you doing here?" she asked her warm tone icing over.
"I am pleased to see you as well, Your Highness."
After admitting the wizard, Orrin had left the doors open. With a glance from Esrahaddon, they swung shut.
"I see you're getting along better without hands these days," Arista said.
"One adapts to one's needs," he replied, sitting opposite her.
"I didn't extend an invitat
ion for you to sit."
"I didn't ask for one."
Arista's own chair slammed into the back of her legs causing her to fall into it.
"How are you doing that with no hands or sound?" she asked, disarmed by her own curiosity.
"The lessons are over, or don't you remember declaring that at our last meeting?"
Arista hardened her composure once more. "I remember. I also thought I made it clear I never wanted to see you again."
"Yes, yes, that's all well and good, but I need your help to locate the heir."
"Lost him again have you?"
Esrahaddon ignored her. "We can find him with the basic location spell I taught you."
"I'm not interested in your games. I have a city to run."
"We need to perform the spell immediately. We can do it right here. Right now. I have a good idea where he is, but time is short and I can't afford to run off in the wrong direction. So, clear your desk and we can get started."
"I have no intention of doing anything of the sort."
"Arista, you know I can't do this alone. I need your help."
The princess glared at him. "You should have thought of that before you arranged my father's murder. What I should do is order your execution."
"You don't understand. This is important. Thousands of lives are at stake. You can't allow childish notions of personal feelings to stand in the way. This is larger than your loss. It is larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. Do you think I enjoyed it? Any of it? You forget-I lost my life as well. I had parents of my own, friends, and-" he caught himself and continued. "All of them are gone now. Do you think I enjoyed rotting in a prison for a thousand years? Yes, I used you and your father escape. I did so out of necessity-because what I protect is more important than any single person. It's why I haven't sought revenge for the destruction of the Old Empire, for the murder of my emperor, or even the loss of my hands.
"Arista, as a wizard, you must understand personal vengeance and gain are barred to you. We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune. A wizard must work for the betterment of all-and sacrifices are always necessary. Now stop this foolishness…we are running out of time."
The emerald storm trr-4 Page 1
