Nyphron Rising

by Michael J. Sullivan

  The door lay open and Regent Saldur stood before an arched window built from three of the largest pieces of glass she had ever seen. Bird song drifted in from the ward below as the regent read a parchment he held in the sunlight.

  "You're late," he said without looking up.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know how to get here."

  "Something you should understand, I am not interested in excuses or explanations. I am only interested in results. When I tell you to do something, I expect it will be done exactly as I dictate, not sooner, not later, not differently, but exactly how I specify, do you understand?"

  "Yes, your grace." She felt considerably warmer than a moment ago.

  The regent walked to his desk and laid the parchment on it. He placed his fingertips together, tapping them against one another while studying her. "What is your name again?"

  "Amilia of Tarin Vale."

  "Amilia—pretty name at least. Amilia, you impressed me. That is not easy to do. I appointed five separate women to the task of Imperial Secretary. Ladies of breeding, ladies of pedigree—you are the first to show an improvement in her eminence. You have also presented me with a unique problem. I can't have a common scullery maid working as the personal assistant to the empress. How will that look?" He took a seat behind his desk, brushing out the folds of his robe. "It is conceivable that the empress could have died if not for whatever magic you preformed. For this, you deserve a reward. I am bestowing on you the diplomatic rank equal to a baroness. From this moment on, you are to be known as Lady Amilia."

  He dipped a quill into ink and scribbled his name. "Present this to the clerk downstairs and he will arrange for you to obtain the necessary material for a better—well, for a dress."

  Amilia stared at him unable to move, taking shallow breaths not wanting to disturb anything. She was riding a wave of good fortune and feared the slightest movement could throw her into an unforgiving sea. He was not punishing her after all. The rest she could think about later.

  "Have you nothing to say?"

  Amilia hesitated. "Could the empress get a new dress as well?"

  "You are now Lady Amilia, Imperial Secretary to Empress Modina Novronian. You can take whatever measures you feel are necessary to ensure the well-being of the empress."

  "Can I take her outside for walks?"

  "No," he said curtly. He then softened his tone and added, "As we both know, Modina is not well. I personally feel she may never be. But it is imperative that her subjects believe they have a strong ruler. Through her name, Ethelred and I are doing great things for the people out there." He pointed at the window. "But we can't hope to succeed if they discover their beloved empress does not have her wits about her. It is a difficult task that Novron has laid before us, to build a better world while concealing the empress' incapacitation, which brings me to your first assignment."

  Amilia blinked.

  "Despite all my efforts, word is getting out that the empress is not well. Since the public has never seen her, there is a growing rumor that she doesn't exist. We need to calm the people's fear. To this end, it will be your task to prepare Modina to give a speech upon the Grand Balcony in three days' time."

  "What?"

  "Don't worry, it's only three sentences." He picked up the parchment he had been reading and held it out to her. "It should be a simple task. You got her to say one word now get her to say a few more. Have her memorize the speech and train her to deliver it—like an empress."

  "But I—"

  "Remember what I said about excuses. You are part of the nobility now, a person of privilege and power. I've given you means and with that comes responsibility. Now out with you. I have more work to do."

  Taking the parchments, she turned and walked toward the door.

  "And Lady Amilia, remember, there were five Imperial Secretaries before you, and all of them were noble as well."

  ***

  "Well, if that don't put a stiff wind in your main," Ibis declared, looking at the patent of nobility Amilia showed him. Most of the kitchen staff gathered around the cook as he held the parchment up, grinning.

  "It's awfully pretty." Cora pointed out. "I love all the fancy writing."

  "Never had a desire to read before," Ibis said. "But I sure wish I could now."

  "May I?" Nimbus asked. He carefully wiped his hands on his handkerchief and reaching out, gently took the parchment. "It reads: We, Modina, who is right wise empress, appointed to this task by the mercy of our Lord Maribor, through our Imperial Regents, Maurice Saldur and Lanis Ethelred decree that in recognition of faithful service and commission of charges found to our favor, that Amilia of Tarin Vale, daughter of Bartholomew the carriage maker, be raised from her current station and shall belong to the unquestionable nobles of the Novronian Empire and henceforth and forever be known as Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale." Nimbus looked up. "There is a good deal more concerning the limitations of familial inheritance and nobility rights, but that is the essence of the writ."

  They all stared at the cornstalk of a man.

  "This is Nimbus," Amilia introduced. "He's in need of a meal, and I was hoping you could give him a little something."

  Ibis grinned and made a modest bow.

  "Yer a lady now, Amilia. There isn't a person in this room who can say no to you. You hear that Edith?" he shouted at the head maid as she entered. "Our little Amilia is a noble lady now."

  Edith stood where she was. "Says who?"

  "The empress and Regent Saldur that's who. Says so right on this here parchment. Care to read it?"

  Edith scowled.

  "Oh, that's right. You can't read any more than I can. Would you like Lady Amilia to read it to you? Or how about her personal steward here. He has a real nice reading voice."

  Edith grabbed up a pile of linens from the bin and headed for the laundry, causing the cook to burst into laughter. "She's never given up spouting how you'd be back scrubbing dishes—or worse." Clapping his big hands he turned his attention to Nimbus. "So what would you like?"

  "Anything actually," Nimbus replied, his hands quivering, shaking the parchment he still held. "After several days—shoe leather looks quite appetizing."

  "Well, I'll get right on that then."

  "Can we clear a place for Nimbus to sit?" Amilia asked, and immediately Cora and Nipper were cleaning off the baker's table and setting it just as they had before.

  "Thank you," Amilia said. "You don't need to go to this much—but thank you everyone."

  "Pardon me, milady," Nimbus addressed her. "If I may be so bold, it is not entirely proper for a lady of nobility to convey appreciation for services rendered by subordinates."

  Amilia sat down beside him and sighed. She dropped her chin into her hands and grimaced. "I don't know how to be noble. I don't know anything, but I'm expected to teach Modina how to be an empress?" The contrast of fortune and pending disaster left her perplexed. "His grace might as well kill me now." She took the parchment from Nimbus and shook it in her hand. "At least now that I am noble I might get a quick beheading."

  Leif delivered a plate of stew. Nimbus looked down at the bowl and the scattering of utensils arrayed around him. "The kitchen staff isn't very experienced in setting a table are they? He picked up a small, two-prong fork and shook his head. "This is a shellfish fork, and it should be on the left of my plate…assuming I was eating shellfish. What I don't have is a spoon."

  Amilia felt stupid. "I don't think anyone here knows what a fork is." She looked down incredulously at the twisted spindle of wire. "Even the nobility don't use them. At least I've never washed one before."

  "Depends on where you are. They are popular farther south."

  "I'll get you a spoon." She started to get up when she felt his hand on hers.

  "Again," he said, "forgive my forwardness, but a lady doesn't fetch flatware from the pantry. And you are the nobility. You there!" he shouted at Nipper as he flew by with a bucket. "Fetch a spoon for her ladyship."

  "Right aw
ay," the boy replied, setting the bucket down and running to the pantry.

  "See," he said, "it's not that hard. It just takes a bit of confidence and the right tone of voice."

  Nipper returned with the spoon. It never touched the table. Nimbus took it right from his hand and began to eat. Despite his ravenous state he ate slowly, occasionally using one of the napkins that he placed neatly on his lap to dab the corners of his mouth. He sat straight in much the same way Lady Constance had—his chin up, his shoulders squared, his fingers placed precisely on the spoon. She had never seen anyone eat so…perfectly.

  "You needn't stay here," he told her. "While I appreciate the company, I am certain you have more important things to attend to. I can find my way out when I am finished, but I do wish to thank you for this meal. You saved my life."

  "I want you to work for me," she blurted out. "To help me teach Modina to act like an empress."

  Nimbus paused with a spoonful halfway to his mouth.

  "You know all about being noble. You even said you were a courtier. You know all the rules and stuff."

  "Protocol and etiquette."

  "Yeah, those, too. I don't know if I can arrange for you to be paid, but I might. The regent said I could take whatever steps necessary. Even if I can't, I can find you a place to sleep and see you get meals."

  "At the moment, milady, that is a fortune and I would consider it an honor if I could assist her eminence in any way."

  "Then it's settled. You are officially the…"

  "Imperial Tutor to Her Eminence, the Empress Modina?" Nimbus supplied.

  "Right. And our first job is to teach her to give a speech on the Grand Balcony in three days."

  "That doesn't sound too hard. Has she done much public speaking?"

  Amilia forced a smile. "A week ago she said the word, 'no.'"

  Chapter 11

  Ratibor

  Entering the city of Ratibor at night, Arista thought it the most filthy, wretched place she could ever imagine. Streets lay in random, confusing lines crisscrossing intersections as they ran off at various odd angles. Refuse was piled next to every building and narrow dirt thoroughfares were appalling mires of mud and manure. Wooden planks created a network of haphazard paths and bridges over the muck, forcing people to parade in lines like tightrope walkers. The houses and shops were as miserable as the roads. Constructed to fit in the spaces left by the street's odd, acute corners, buildings were shaped like wedges of cheese, giving the city a strange splintered appearance. The windows, shut tight against the reeking smell, were opaque with thick grime, repeatedly splashed by passing wagons.

  Ratibor reveled in its filth like a poor man was proud of calluses on his hands. She had heard of its reputation, but until experiencing it firsthand she didn't truly understand. It was a workingman's city, a struggling city, where no quarter was expected or given. Here, men bore poverty and misfortune as badges of honor, deriving dubious prestige from contests of woe over tankards of ale.

  Idlers and vagabonds, hawkers and thieves moved along the plank ways, appearing and disappearing again into the shadows. There were children on the street—orphans by the look—ragged and pitiful waifs covered in filth, crouching under porches. Small families also moved amongst the crowds. Tradesmen with their wives and children carried bundles or wheeled over-filled carts, loaded with all of their worldly possessions. Each looked exhausted and destitute as they trudged through the city's maze.

  The rain started not long after they left Amberton Lee and poured the entire trip. She was soaked through. Her hair lay matted to her face, her fingers pruned, and her hood collapsed about her head. Arista followed Royce as he led them through the labyrinth of muddy streets. The cool night wind blew the downpour in sheets, making her shiver. During the trip she looked forward to reaching the city. Although it was not what she expected, anything indoors would be welcomed.

  "Care for a raincoat, mum?" A hawker asked, holding a garment up for Arista to see. "Only five silver!" he continued, as she showed no sign of slowing her horse. "How about a new hat?"

  "Either of you gentlemen looking for companionship for the night?" called a destitute woman standing on a plank beneath the awing of a closed dry-goods shop. She flipped back her hair and smiled alluringly, revealing missing teeth.

  "How about a nice bit of poultry for an evening meal?" another man asked, holding up a dead bird so thin and scraggly it was hardly recognizable as a chicken.

  Arista shook her head, saying nothing but urging her horse forward.

  Signs were everywhere—nailed to porch beams or attached to tall stakes driven into the mud, they advertised things like: "Ale, Cider, Mead, Wine, No Credit!" and "Three-day-old pork-cheap!" But some were more ominous such as, "Beggars will be jailed!" and "All elves entering the city must register at the sheriff's office." This last poster's paint was still bright.

  Royce stopped at a public house with a signboard of a grotesque cackling face and the scripted epitaph, which read: The Laughing Gnome. The tavern stood three stories, a good-size even by Colnora's standards, yet people still struggled to squeeze in the front door. Inside the place smelled of damp clothes and wood smoke. A large crowd filled the common room such that Hadrian had to push his way through.

  "We're looking for the proprietor," Royce told a young man carrying a tray.

  "That would be Ayers. He's the gray-haired gent behind the bar."

  "It's true I tell you!" A young man with fiery red hair was saying loudly as he stood in the center of the common room. To whom he was speaking, Arista was not certain. It appeared to be everyone. "My father was a Praleon Guard. He served on His Majesty's personal retinue for twenty years."

  "What does that prove? Urith and the rest of them died in the fire. No one knows how it started."

  "The fire was set by Androus!" shouted the red-haired youth with great conviction. Abruptly the room quieted. The young man was not content with this, however, and he took the stunned paused to press his point. "He betrayed the king, killed the royal family, and took the crown so he could hand the kingdom over to the empress. Good King Urith would never have accepted annexation into the Empire, and those loyal to his name shouldn't either."

  The crowd burst into an uproar of angry shouts.

  In the midst of this outburst, they reached the bar, where a handful of men stood watching the excitement with empty mugs in hand.

  "Mr. Ayers?" Royce asked of a man and a boy as they struggled to hoist a fresh keg onto the rear dock.

  "Who wants to know?" the man in a stained apron asked. A drop of sweat dangled from the tip of his red nose, his face flushed from exertion.

  "We're looking to rent a pair of rooms."

  "Not much luck of that, we're full up," Ayers replied, not pausing from his work. "Jimmy, jump up and shim it." The young lad, filthy with sweat and dirt, leapt up on the dock and pushed a wooden wedge under the keg, tilting it forward slightly.

  "Do you know of availability elsewhere in the city?" Hadrian asked.

  "Gonna be the same all over, friend. Every boarding house is full—refugees been coming in from the countryside for weeks."

  "Refugees?"

  "Yeah, the Nationalists have been marching up from the coast sacking towns. People been running ahead of them and most come here. Not that I mind—been great for business."

  Ayers pulled a tap out of the old keg and hammered it into the face of the new barrel with a wooden mallet. He turned the spigot and drained a pint or two to clear the sediment, and then wiping his hands on his apron began filling the demands of his customers.

  "Is there no place to find lodging for the night?"

  "I can't say that, just no place I know of," Ayers replied, and finally took a moment to wipe a sleeve over his face and clear the drop from his nose. "Maybe some folks will rent a room in their houses, but all the inns and taverns are packed. I've even started to rent floor space."

  "Is there any left?" Hadrian asked, hopefully.

  "Any
what?"

  "Floor space? It's raining pretty hard out there."

  Ayers lifted his head up and glanced around his tavern. "I've got space under the stairs that no one's taken yet. If you don't mind the people walking on top of you all night."

  "It's better than the gutter," Hadrian said, shrugging at Royce and Arista. "Maybe tomorrow there will be a vacancy."

  Ayers' face showed he doubted this. "If you want to stay it'll be forty-five silver."

  "Forty-five?" Hadrian exclaimed stunned. "For space under the stairs? No wonder no one has taken it. A room at the Regal Fox in Colnora is only twenty!"

  "Go there then, but if you want to stay here it will cost you forty-five silver—in tenents. I don't take those imperial notes they're passing now. It's your choice."

  Hadrian scowled at Ayers but counted out the money just the same. "I hope that includes dinner."

  Ayers' shook his head. "It doesn't."

  They pushed and prodded their way through the crowd with their bags until they came to the wooden staircase. Beneath it, several people had discarded their wet cloaks on nail heads or on the empty kegs and crates stored there. They stacked the containers to make a cubby and threw the coats and cloaks on them. A few people shot them harsh looks—the owners of the cloaks no doubt—but no one said anything, as it appeared most understood the situation. Looking around, Arista saw others squatting in corners and along the edge of the big room. Some were families with children trying to sleep, their little heads resting on damp clothes. Mothers rubbed their backs and sung lullabies over the racket of loud voices, shifting wooden chairs, and the banging of pewter mugs. These were the lucky ones. She wondered about the families who could not afford floor space.