Imperial Spy

by Mark Robson

  ‘Oh, I didn’t break the Creed, Femke. Both kills were paid for. I’m always careful to obey the Creed to the letter. Besides – war is good for business. Why else?’ Shalidar said, his whispery voice thick with repressed laughter. ‘There are always people on both sides who want rid of key figures from the opposing force. Assassinations are far more popular during wartime. I’m simply making provision for my livelihood. After you destroyed my previous plan I had to devise something to keep me comfortable in my old age. Being able to gain my revenge on you at the same time added sweetening to the cake, of course, but was incidental to the plan.’

  ‘So now I know,’ Femke sighed. Her mind raced, battling with more than how to escape. Who had paid Shalidar to kill the exact people he wanted at just the right times? That was too convenient for words. ‘What now?’ she asked, stalling for time. ‘Are you planning to kill me, or hand me over to the Royal Guards? I appreciate the chat, naturally. When you fall into a whole pile of dung, it’s always nice to find out who pushed you. It puts everything in perspective and allows the hope that in time the tables will turn again.’

  Shalidar laughed and his knife-point jiggled at Femke’s throat as he gave voice to his amusement. A trickle of blood ran slowly down her neck from the tiniest of cuts, tickling as it went. Yet another injury to add to the tally, even if this one’s only a scratch, Femke seethed silently. There has to be a way out of this – there has to be.

  ‘What am I going to do with you now? Why, let you go, of course!’ Shalidar replied, still laughing, as he told Femke the last thing she expected to hear. ‘Oh, you’ll no doubt avoid the Royal Guards for a while, but you’ll get caught in the end. You’ve got nowhere else to go, so I’m sure you’ll do your best to prove your innocence. I’d be terribly disappointed if you didn’t at least try. Nobody will believe you, of course, even if you do manage to tell the King or his close aides what is happening. The weight of evidence against you is overwhelming. Now, I suggest that as I take away this knife you remain very still. If you don’t then I will be forced to kill you, which would be most disappointing after the effort I’ve spent setting up this little game. Stay where you are long enough for me to get clear of the house. Move too soon and I’ll kill you as you leave. Move too slowly and you’ll be swamped in Royal Guards. They’re going to pick up your trail again within the next few minutes. Have fun, Femke.’

  The knife was removed from her throat and Femke got the sense that Shalidar was moving, though she could hear nothing. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead. How long should she wait? Was he really gone? Shalidar was too good at moving silently for Femke to tell. Seconds ticked by, but Femke was determined not to give in to the fear that the assassin had instilled in her. If he were still there, then she was determined to make him earn his kill. If not, then she was not going to let him get a long head start.

  Mind made up and heart pumping with anticipation, Femke threw her body sideways off the chair into a rolling dive.

  ‘Phagen! Phagen! Have you heard?’ Kalheen gasped, bursting into their room, his face red with excitement.

  Phagen sighed at the intrusion. Kalheen did not appear to understand the meaning of peace and quiet. The big man was the most irritating roommate he had ever known. Phagen put aside the tunic he had been repairing and looked up at Kalheen, the patient expression on his face hiding the exasperation he felt. It was nearly lunchtime. He had hoped to finish the tunic by then, but that now looked unlikely.

  ‘Ambassador Femke has been accused of murder!’ Kalheen continued. ‘Murder, Phagen! She’s fled the Palace and is on the run in the city. I would have come and told you earlier, but the guards held me for questioning after I delayed them getting into the Ambassador’s rooms.’

  ‘Is she OK?’ Phagen asked, his voice displaying quiet concern.

  ‘I think so. I saw her escape over the wall. You should have seen it, Phagen. She was amazing! She jumped into a tree from the ledge outside her window. I swear I thought she would never make it . . .’

  Kalheen rattled out a description of Femke’s escape that was clearly exaggerated, but Phagen waited patiently until his story was complete.

  ‘This murder happened last night, you say?’ he asked when the big man finally paused for breath.

  ‘Yes. Late last night.’

  ‘You were out late last night. Did you see anything unusual?’

  ‘No, nothing. I was . . . er . . . chatting with Neema, the maid we met in the servants’ common room yesterday. We met again after dinner. She’s a lovely girl,’ Kalheen replied, his round face reddening further.

  ‘Well, I think we should start our own investigation,’ Phagen said thoughtfully. ‘If we can help Ambassador Femke, we should.’

  ‘Absolutely, Phagen. I totally agree. I’ll go and get Sidis and Reynik. I’m sure they’ll help.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  After attempting to follow several sets of directions, Reynik had finally found the secluded weapons training area at the rear of the Palace. It had not been easy to find his way through the maze of corridors in the Palace, but now he knew where it was, Reynik decided he would walk around the buildings rather than through them on his next visit.

  Several of the Royal Guards were engaged in sparring with blades. They all looked accomplished swordsmen. On hearing Reynik’s polite enquiry, the nearest pair of soldiers paused their mock fight and saluted one another. They both eyed the young Shandese soldier with suspicion.

  ‘Shandese?’ asked one of the men quizzically.

  ‘That’s right. I’m here with the Ambassador on a diplomatic visit. My travelling companions, however, have not been very enthusiastic about sparring and I’d like to get some practice. Would you mind if I joined you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the taller of the two guards with a wicked looking grin. ‘I didn’t get a chance to cross swords with any of your countrymen at Kortag, so it’ll be a pleasure to see if you Legionnaires are as good as the rumour-mongers whispered. I assume swords are OK, or do you have a preferred weapon?’

  For a moment, Reynik’s mind flashed back to his recent exploits with a staff, but he dismissed the thought. ‘I don’t really mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll appreciate the workout whatever the weapon.’

  The Royal Guard looked at him sharply, trying to determine whether the young Shandese soldier was being cocky, or whether he really was adept with all weapons. He looked too young to have been trained to any level with more than one, but there was something about him that belied his youth.

  ‘Can I borrow a blade to practise with? I had to hand in my weapons when we arrived at the Palace. They’ve not been returned to me yet.’

  ‘Here. Borrow mine,’ said the shorter guard, passing his weapon to Reynik.

  ‘Thanks.’ Reynik took a couple of moments to swing the blade experimentally, feeling the weight and unfamiliar balance. It was different from his sword, but Reynik had fought with enough practice blades in the past that it would not make a significant difference in a sparring session. Lifting the sword in salute, Shandese style, Reynik settled into a defensive stance.

  ‘Just like that? No warming up? Are you sure you’re ready?’ Reynik’s opponent asked with a frown.

  ‘I’ll warm up as I go,’ he answered with a grin.

  The Royal Guard shrugged, gave a quick salute, and took up a similar pose to Reynik’s. Without further warning, the Thrandorian attacked. His blade flashed at Reynik’s body in a fierce slashing cut. Reynik deflected it easily, ignoring the instant opening for a counterattack. He swung again and Reynik blocked the blade a second time, slightly taken aback by the ferocity of the guard’s blows. The metal ringing on metal was far louder than that of the other sparring pairs around the training area. The sudden vigorous clashing of blades drew attention to the pair. Many stopped to watch.

  The guard launched into a rapid sequence of strokes, all dealt with far more force than was customary in a sparring contest. Any one of his strokes could easily
have maimed, or even killed if they had landed. For a moment, Reynik wondered if coming here had been such a good idea after all.

  It was obvious from the outset that the guard was looking to impress. Reynik, however, was up to the challenge. He blocked and parried the guard’s strokes with a grace that could not be denied.

  The guard lunged and Reynik deflected the blade so that it passed harmlessly to one side, drawing a slight gasp from the watching guards. The Thrandorian was quick, but not enough to worry Reynik unduly. He did begin to wish he had not been quite so casual about a lack of warm-up, though.

  There were plenty of opportunities for counterattack, but Reynik ignored them all. Instead he concentrated totally on defence. He had no intentions of hurting anyone. He had come to build bridges, not destroy them. In his own way, he considered this his ambassadorial role for Shandar. He did not taunt. He did not rise to the baiting of the other soldiers. He did nothing provocative. He simply blocked and parried the guardsman’s attacks, whilst making certain that those around could see that he was doing so deliberately. After a few minutes of fierce swordplay, his tactic paid dividends.

  ‘Enough, Espen! He could have killed you a dozen times, or more.’ The shorter of the two Royal Guards stepped forward between the two combatants, forcing them to part or risk hurting the unarmed guard.

  ‘You are skilled indeed, Legionnaire. I am Faslen. What’s your name?’

  ‘Reynik,’ he replied, shaking Faslen’s proffered hand with a firm grip.

  ‘Welcome, Reynik. I apologise for my companion’s lack of friendliness in his sparring. You handled it well and your skill does your Legion credit. Tell me, how many weapons are you proficient with?’

  ‘I’m good with a staff, reasonable with longbow and crossbow, and can use pike, axe and mace adequately. I’m told my best skills lie in my unarmed combat, though,’ Reynik added modestly.

  ‘Unless you’re a lot older than you look, your instructors have done an amazing job. I’m sure we could learn a lot from you. Come, let’s do some more friendly sparring, shall we?’ he asked, giving Espen a pointed look.

  ‘Sorry, Reynik, I got carried away,’ Espen apologised.

  ‘No harm done, Espen. I’m sure that a Thrandorian visiting the Legions would have received a similar test. Why don’t we try again before I take on Faslen? I’ve warmed up a bit now,’ Reynik suggested with a grin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Enter,’ the voice of Emperor Surabar ordered brusquely.

  Lord Danar took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped smartly inside. There was something in the Emperor’s voice that required one to stand straight and look smart, as if anyone entering the door was on parade. Long years of military leadership had honed Surabar’s voice so that it instilled an instant feeling of inferiority in anyone listening. Danar appreciated this was a useful asset for an Emperor. The Emperor’s voice had him on edge before he had even entered the room.

  Stepping through the door did little to relieve the feelings of smallness and scrutiny. The room had minimalist furnishing and décor. The single large desk, behind which Emperor Surabar was sitting, faced the door across the room. The only adornments on the walls were some crossed weapons and a few depressing battle-scene paintings and wall-hangings There was nowhere for Danar to sit so he closed the door behind him and walked forward to stand before the desk.

  The Emperor was studying some parchments intently as Danar approached the desk. The young Lord came to a silent standstill, feeling uncomfortably like a schoolboy called into his headmaster’s office, not knowing if he is there to receive praise or a reprimand.

  ‘So, Lord Danar, what can I do for you?’ Surabar asked bluntly. ‘I trust this is not a social call, as I’m led to believe you move in specific social circles.’

  Danar clasped his hands behind his back to prevent them from betraying his nervousness any more than he knew his voice would. His palms were already slick with sweat and he knew he would fiddle with his fingers unconsciously if he did not do something positive to prevent it.

  ‘Well, no, your Imperial Majesty, not social exactly,’ he said quickly. ‘I come seeking information actually – information about Lady Alyssa. Lord Kempten advised me to speak to you, as he indicated you might know where Alyssa is.’

  Surabar looked up into Danar’s eyes with a gaze that would have pierced rock.

  ‘Lord Kempten said that, did he? And did Lord Kempten say anything else about Lady Alyssa, or why I might know anything of her whereabouts?’ the Emperor asked, his voice pointed and his eyes flashing dangerously.

  The young Lord had felt awkward to begin with, but now he felt that he was about to be grilled alive. Listening to Lord Kempten had not been such a good idea, he thought, as he struggled to give tongue to a coherent answer.

  ‘No, your Majesty. Lord Kempten alluded to Alyssa as something of a mystery woman at Court. This was hardly new information to me. He refused to expand on this, but he did tell me he owed her a debt, the background of which he did not choose to reveal. In fact he said little about Alyssa at all, except to tell me you could help me find her, if you were so minded.’

  ‘A debt? Kempten said he owed her a debt? Now that is interesting,’ the Emperor said thoughtfully. ‘You’re sure those were his words?’

  ‘Yes, your Majesty. Lord Kempten was clear about that. He indicated his intent to offer her his thanks when he next sees her in Court,’ Danar replied, puzzled at the Emperor’s interest in what he had considered a minor point in his conversation with the old Lord. It had obviously been of more significance than he had realised.

  ‘And why exactly do you wish to find Lady Alyssa?’ Emperor Surabar asked, and then shook his head as he finished the question. ‘Forget I asked that. It’s patently obvious why you seek her. Why else would Lord Danar seek any attractive young Lady of the Court?’

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty, I assure you this is no passing infatuation. I respect and honour Lady Alyssa and wish to explore the possibility of a serious relationship with her,’ Danar protested, his indignation making him bolder.

  ‘A relationship between you and Lady Alyssa would be impossible on many grounds. I suggest you desist in your search for her and concentrate instead on the more serious aspects of Court life. Your father is no fan of mine, and I can empathise with his viewpoint. I’m an impostor on the throne in his eyes – a commoner who should never have taken the Mantle of Emperor. But he is treading dangerously with some of his liaisons. I suggest you take notice of his meetings and his plotting. Don’t let him do anything stupid, or you may find yourself rising to lead your House earlier than you expected. I will not tolerate treason. Those guilty will be punished in the traditional fashion. Don’t let your father be among those I make examples of, or you’ll find your days of dallying with the ladies a thing of the past.’

  Emperor Surabar lowered his eyes back to the sheets of parchment in front of him and Danar knew this was his dismissal. Anger rose in him like a well of fire brimming to the peak of a volcano.

  ‘That’s it?’ he asked, his voice rising slightly as he failed to completely maintain his cool. ‘Politics are important, your Majesty, I’ll not deny that. I promise I’ll do my utmost to convince my father to stop any traitorous activities, but please, I beg you, tell me something of Alyssa. Do you know where she is?’

  The Emperor raised his eyes and there was a cool, calculating calm behind his gaze that chilled the heat in Danar’s heart to ice.

  ‘Yes, I know where Alyssa is. No, I will not tell you where. I’ll watch carefully to see if you keep your promise and then, if I am impressed by your efforts, I might reconsider that decision. Now, go and do something worthwhile with your life.’

  There was no denying that tone. It commanded with an absolute authority that Danar doubted anyone would dare gainsay. He could hardly believe he had found the gall to make his final plea to the Emperor, but was pleased that he had. At least this way Surabar would not consider him a complete wor
m. Danar had demonstrated spirit, even if Surabar felt it was misguided.

  Danar bowed low, but if Surabar noted the formality he did not acknowledge it. The Emperor was already deep in his paperwork again. Danar left the room silently. Lost in thought, he considered Surabar’s command as he trudged through the corridors of the Palace to the nearest exit. There appeared nothing for it but to do as the Emperor wished.

  Danar’s father was getting involved in schemes that could see him hanged. As the Emperor was clearly aware of this involvement and had supplied a timely warning, Danar could not ignore it. All of a sudden the responsibilities of age and family position crashed in on him. He needed to act quickly to save his family’s reputation, but he was far from giving up on finding Lady Alyssa. If this was what it took to get the Emperor to help him find her, then so be it, he decided.

  King Malo was awash with emotion. He found his mind swinging wildly between anger and grief, and was finding it hard to think rationally about anything.

  ‘Why would the Emperor of Shandar send an assassin to kill Anton?’ he asked the empty room again as he paced up and down. ‘The Ambassador’s disguise was so effective she could have struck me down with as much ease as Anton, so why him?’

  The situation was confusing enough without the grief that had kept his eyes full of tears all day long. Killing Anton simply made no sense when the assassin could have struck at the King and thrown the country into new chaos. It was possible that the Emperor saw Anton as the real driving force behind Thrandor’s recent military victories, but surely that was not enough to place him higher on an enemy’s target list than the King.

  Now there was the added confusion of Count Dreban’s death. Was this killing another assassination, or was Dreban simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? There were no obvious links between Dreban’s interests and those of Anton, and it was hard to think of two men at further extremes of the political and social spectrums. Malo would not mourn the death of the Count, but he would protest his murder in the strongest terms to the Shandese Emperor. Whatever the reason behind these killings, Ambassador Femke had a lot of questions to answer. King Malo was determined to have her found and brought to him so he could pose those questions personally.