The Road to Hell - eARC

by David Weber

  Emperor Chava, called the greatest Busar to hold the name by his scions in the Court of the Uromathian Empire, possessed the combination of attributes necessary to hold together a disparate empire through personal charisma and fear. Unfortunately, he clearly saw no reason to acquire any other attributes…or create a regime which could be held together by someone who lacked his own “gifts.” Indeed, he’d dismantled—or allowed to atrophy—any tools or institutions which stood in the way of his preferred governing technique…and none of his sons and nephews possessed those skills. Nor were any of them a Calirath to hold the loyalty of an empire through the sort of personal courage and devotion to country that inspired so much patriotism in Ternathia’s subjects. In part that was Chava’s own fault for executing a few consorts who’d shown signs of excess independence, but the end result was ominous to consider. The possible heirs to the Uromathian Empire were all cruel enough to match their father, but none inspired the loyal following the current emperor did, and King Junni’s assessment was that none of them would be able to do so, even if Emperor Chava eventually selected just one as heir and set to training him properly.

  Not that Chava gave any signs of doing any such thing. The brood currently ran wild between periods of banishment or genteel confinement, seemingly arbitrarily applied. The view from Eniath provided Howan Fai with plenty of details about their various excesses, and he knew only too well how they’d modeled their behavior on their father’s example. That would have been bad enough under nay circumstances, but it was even worse because none of them seemed to recognize their father’s internal discipline. Chava Busar was a ruthless, unscrupulous, vile, utterly amoral human being, without a trace of pity or compassion and much given to personal excess—the sort of man who never forgot an injury and would wait decades, until the time was ripe, to avenge himself. But, give Kraisan his due, he would wait. He understood the need to work, plan, and discipline even his own inner furies. His sons did not.

  And that was the true reason Chava’s example of adopting any strategy or using any tool—no matter how hideous—had made this current Unification Treaty all but impossible. Even Chava hadn’t planned it that way, and some of the daughters were reasonably rational. He’d seen a use for them and ensured they were raised to be both deeply loyal and reasonably attractive to allied powers (which meant being at least a few strides short of outright insanity), and Howan Fai suspected Prince Janaki would have been more than up to the task of managing his own household. The sons were a very different matter, unfortunately. It was they who were contenders for the throne of Uromathia, so it was they who were encouraged in excess and feral appetites by their father’s example and the nature of the court he’d built.

  Somehow the new Empire of Sharona would need to find a way to stabilize and restore the Uromathian Empire even as Chava continued to rule it. It would be too late to restore it after his death, but finding some way to accomplish that impossible task with Andrin married to one of Chava’s sociopathic sons…

  Howan Fai shuddered at the thought. She’d need guards to protect her from her husband as well as from her enemies.

  Or from her other enemies, at any rate. And once an heir was born…

  One small signet ring seemed such a paltry tool to begin a campaign to save an empire. He hoped it would be enough.

  Crack!

  Finena, talons grasping the edge of the still open window, flapped strong, broad wings to stay a moment on the sill. Then the imperial falcon gave a great push with those same wings and lifted away.

  The ring lay on the tile floor just inside the window, jade fractured clean through. What did it mean? Was the cracked stone a sign from the crown princess? Or had it broken only when the ring dropped from the window to the floor?

  King Junni twitched his overrobe quickly to settle in a flare over the ring, but it was too late.

  Both the footman and the youngest maid stared at that corner of the king’s robe and silence hovered for a long, still moment. But then banged fists on the doors startled everyone, turning them quickly towards the palace hall. Munn Lii flung open the door with Rokel Lii ready to shoot or skewer anyone who threatened to enter unwelcome.

  A pair of Imperial Ternathian Guardsmen stood there, and other similar knocks echoed down the hallway.

  “Your pardon Your Majesty. And yours, Your Highness.” The guard bowed to both of them. “Some miscreant has attempted to injure an imperial falcon. If you’ll allow a speedy check of the premises, we’d like to ensure the troublemaker didn’t use this apartment.”

  Rokel Lii stepped back and translated quickly for King Junni’s benefit.

  The footman and maid exchanged quick glances.

  “There weren’t no birds here, guardi.” The maid offered a quick curtsy with her lie.

  The second guard flinched. Probably a Sifter, Howan Fai guessed.

  “Quite. Exactly as she says, guardis. We didn’t see any falcons here.” The footman volunteered, making a small bow of his own.

  Howan Fai thought the second guard’s left eye was beginning to water. It was either that or the man had developed a sudden and unexplained eye twitch.

  King Junni gestured for the guards to enter and spoke Uromathian flatly to Rokel Lii.

  “Tell them I offer any bird that comes to me the remains of a fine meal, as is custom in Eniath for good luck. No harm has ever been intended.”

  Rokel Lii didn’t have a chance to speak before one of the guards replied in the same language.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, then cast a glance back down the hallway as the sounds of angry shouting drew closer.

  Both Guardsmen stepped quickly inside and two others appeared, bracketing a florid-faced Uromathian in heavily jeweled cloth-of-gold festival dress. The man looked more ready for a coronation than a Conclave.

  “Prince Weeva of the Busars.”

  He introduced himself, and rudely poked a fat finger at the ribs of the closest Imperial Guard.

  One of Chava’s special police did trail the little party, as well, dressed in the brilliant crimson imperial uniform with father-of-pearl hilted pistols on each hip. But the specialist showed no interest in restraining his emperor’s son.

  Prince Weeva was the fourth acknowledged son of the Uromathian emperor, child of a now deceased courtesan, and Howan Fai examined him critically. Weeva—they all adopted a “va” suffix to honor their father—was considered the most attractive of the emperor’s boys. Which, in Howan Fai’s opinion, wasn’t saying much. True, the black hair almost matched Andrin’s but it lacked the fine gold strands. And the sneer was most definitely unattractive.

  “Dogs.” Weeva spat the pejorative Uromathian term for police and snapped his fingers. “I told you I saw the cutcha’s bird being lured down here.” He pointed a finger at Howan Fai. “That one. The Eniath princeling did it. The coat sleeve was colored just like that.”

  The staff held complete silence about the recent change in King Junni’s overrobe, and Howan Fai saw the maid slip farther back into the apartment out of line of sight from Prince Weeva. Reputations had been earned in the Grand Palace already, he noted.

  “That hasn’t been established, Your Highness.” The Guardsman behind Weeva tried to soothe him, while the ones who’d arrived first all but locked shoulders to prevent the Uromathian prince’s entry.

  “Understandable. You’re just a dog who doesn’t speak the Tongue of Emperors.” Weeva lifted an eyebrow at King Junni. “Even if your version is horridly bastardized. I can almost smell the rotting fish guts every time I hear an Eniathian speak.”

  “What do you want, Prince Weeva?” Howan Fai asked.

  “You.” He wiggled a finger like a hooked worm. “Since you can call that bird, I want you to attend on me after the Conclave. If the cutcha picks me, I’m going to have her kill that bird. If she doesn’t, I’m going to have you kill it.”

  The special policeman just closed his eyes and shook his head with the air of a long-suffering att
endant.

  Prince Weeva snorted laughter, turned to his own guard, and threw an arm around the Uromathian man.

  “Did you see their faces? I want game bird recipes! Have the staff begin looking for them immediately. I want a good selection to review as soon as this dull ceremony’s over. Maybe something can be done with stewed redberry, or currants, but whatever it is has to be delicious so the cutcha’ll eat it before she recognizes what it was.”

  The four Imperial Guardsmen still stood at the Eniath apartment. Indeed, they’d solidified somehow, drawing together in some invisible fashion, as Weeva laughed. Their stony faces were too well trained to reveal what they might be thinking, however, and one with senior armsman stripes bowed deeply to King Junni and issued an invitation.

  “Your Royal Majesty, I’d prefer to escort your party to the Conclave, if you’re prepared to go.” Rokel Lii translated at the king’s ear.

  Prince Weeva grimaced pettishly, but he nodded with brusque contempt and allowed himself to be escorted away.

  “No one’ll be touching any imperial falcons,” one of the remaining Ternathians muttered, not far enough under his breath for politeness. He was the one with the Sifter Talent, and his expression staring after Prince Weeva indicated entirely too much confidence that the Uromathian prince intended every word of his threats.

  King Junni responded to the Imperial Guardsman’s tone without bothering to wait for a second translation.

  “Rokel Lii, we will go. Assure them no harm will befall White Fire at our hands. And have someone tell the maid the threat has passed at least as far as down the hall.”

  * * *

  The enormous Emperor Garim Chancellery was packed with bodies—some even as resplendently dressed as Prince Weeva. King Junni pressed right past their usual seats near the middle, halfway back from the places of high honor, and strode straight for the front.

  Weeva caught their eyes and laughed, then huddled in close to Emperor Chava and began a wildly gesticulated story with arms mimicking an imperial falcon’s flapping, and Howan Fai watched the emperor’s face. Chava looked at them and frowned, not seeming to enjoy his son’s latest antics. Whatever his other faults, Chava had finesse, and the hijinks Prince Weeva planned both lacked that and needlessly complicated Uromathia’s push for greater power in the new Sharonan Empire.

  Only when Chava’s eyes suddenly narrowed did Howan Fai realize he and his father reached the very front of the room…and that the Imperial Guard had let them without the smallest word of restraint.

  He turned away from Chava and bowed to the Ternathian Emperor. Zindel looked at him with an odd light in his eyes, and none of the astonishment Howan Fai had expected to see as the result of their effrontery. He almost faltered in surprise, but a quick touch of King Junni’s elbow encouraged to him to speak.

  “Your Imperial Majesty, may I have the honor of a word with the Imperial Crown Princess?”

  “Yes!” Delight filled Emperor Zindel’s face. “Why, yes, you may.”

  Then the princess was there. Andrin, face tilted down towards him with a hopeful lift on her mouth, reached out and took his hands. He started to speak, still not sure exactly what he meant to say, but she overrode him before he could open his mouth.

  “I need to marry you,” she whispered urgently. “Will you do it?”

  Howan Fai was a prince. Of a small kingdom, perhaps, but still a prince, born and bred to the job and well trained in its responsibilities. That was the only reason his eyes didn’t flare wide and his mouth didn’t drop open in astonishment and disbelief. Instead, he dipped his head in a courteous nod, as if that was exactly what he’d expected to hear, although he suspected the light blazing in his own eyes gave that notion the lie for anyone who could see it.

  “Of course!” he replied in the same whisper and kissed her hand. “I can imagine no greater honor. When?”

  “Now.” She squeezed his hands tightly. “Father will see to it. But we marry now, in front of the Conclave, where no one can challenge the validity. Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He released her hands to press a fist to his heart, bowing as if they’d exchanged the merest pleasantry, then stepped back beside his father as Andrin and Zindel continued to their places on the dais at the heart of the Conclave chamber. Shamir Taje accompanied them and waited while they took their seats before continuing himself to the podium at the lip of the dais and reaching for his gavel.

  That gavel rapped once, twice, three times, the sharp sound cutting through the muted burr of conversation. Stillness fell—a taut, singing stillness—and he cleared his throat.

  “The Conclave will come to order,” he said calmly into the silent tension.

  The first councilor’s smooth, unruffled control of the packed Conclave’s members and their invited guests soothed Howan Fai’s jangled nerves. But he also knew that in the next few moments he’d pass beyond the level where enmity from fools like Prince Weeva mattered and attain in its place a personal enemy in the ruling emperor of the Uromathian Empire.

  The rest of the opening ceremonies, unavoidable even here, on this day, flowed past him in a blur. He tried to concentrate enough to pay attention—he truly did—but Andrin’s whispered words replayed themselves in his head again and again, drowning out everything else while he grappled with his astonishment and tried to sort out the wild mix of surprise, joy, determination, and fear. He hadn’t made a great deal of progress by the time the inevitable ceremonial was completed. And then—

  “Lords, Ladies, please stand for the commencement of the Conclave. I present the Imperial Crown Princess Andrin Calirath, Heir to the Winged Crown and the Empire of Sharona.”

  Taje’s words snapped Howan Fai’s whirling brain into sudden, razor sharp focus, as if he’d just hurled a bucket of icy water into the prince’s face. The young Eniathian stiffened and the huge chamber went deathly silent. A quarter of the room turned towards the knot of Uromathian imperials, but Emperor Chava said not a word.

  Andrin stepped up beside the First Councilor and called out in a loud, clear voice:

  “I am here to complete the unification of the Empire of Sharona, to meet the requirement of the Articles of the Unification, and to marry a Prince of Uromathia. I present to you my choice of consort: Prince Howan Fai Goutin of Eniath.”

  She held out her hand, and Howan Fai rose, the sound of his feet loud in the deafening stillness as he crossed to the dais. He made himself walk slowly, calmly, and mounted the steps, bowing to Emperor Zindel as he reached the top, still wrapped in the electric cocoon of the Conclave’s astonished stillness. Then he bowed again, even more deeply, to Andrin, stepped up beside her, and took her hand in his.

  They turned to face the Conclave together, and its silence shattered. The sudden, surging thunder of cheers as the Conclave’s members came to their feet was deafening, rolling up like the sea, pressing against Howan Fai’s face, and Andrin’s, like a powerful wind. It was a storm, a tempest whose like he’d never imagined in his wildest dreams, and Finena on Andrin’s shoulder added her own piecing war cries to the tumultuous cheering.

  The response from Emperor Chava was absolute silence.

  * * *

  Andrin looked across at Howan Fai, her prince—about to become her husband—and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The secret had held!

  Chava Busar, three rows back, and cosseted all around by his Uromathian courtiers, had earlier taken a seat with his sons rather than at the higher place his imperial precedence ranked. Now those other, unchosen princes stood frozen in the tumult of the cheering nobles. Rage and envy marked some of their faces, but the dominant emotion was fear, perhaps even terror, and every one of their sidelong glances tracked towards their father.

  The Emperor of Uromathia, however, wore a calm, pleasant expression. He simply waited while the wild cheering spent its strength, the Conclave members seated themselves once more, and something like silence returned, then rose from his own chair, standing to
seek recognition from the Conclave’s Speaker.

  Shamir Taje stepped back to the podium and tapped his gavel once, sharply.

  “The Chair recognizes the Emperor of Uromathia,” he said calmly, and a fresh, even tauter tension gripped the great hall.

  Andrin more than half expected a screaming rant to disrupt the Conclave—expected him to denounce her choice, demand she wed one of his sons, whatever the exact language of the treaty—but he simply nodded courteously at Taje’s response, and his voice was as calm as his expression when he spoke.

  “I crave the Conclave’s indulgence,” he said then, “but I would seek a point of clarification.” His smile was just a bit tighter, showed just a bit more tooth, than the rest of his expression, but he had himself well in hand and his control was formidable. “No one disputes Her Imperial Highness’ right to choose any husband she wishes from the list of appropriate candidates, yet it was my understanding that the treaty provided that this wedding was to be between the royal houses of Ternathia and Uromathia.”

  He raised his eyebrows calmly and politely, and Taje nodded gravely.

  “The House of Fai is a royal house of Uromathia, Your Majesty,” he replied. “If you will review the actual language of the treaty, you will find it specifies a marriage between the heir to the Winged Crown and a princess—or, in this case, a prince—of Uromathia. Her Imperial Highness was presented with a list of all royal princes of Uromathia and, after much thought and serious reflection, made her choice.”

  “I see.”

  Andrin braced herself afresh for the inevitable denunciation, but Chava only stood for a moment, head slightly cocked, like a man considering a new, unexpected, and mildly interesting insight. Then he nodded to Taje.

  “I see, indeed,” he repeated. “Clearly”—despite his calm voice, his brief smile was colder than a dagger’s blade—“I was operating under a misapprehension, and I thank the Speaker for the clarification.”