Insurgency (Tales of the Empire Book 4)

by S. J. A. Turney

  By the time he reached the weathered stone and threw his hands against its welcome surface, he felt hollow and broken inside. He disappeared from view, sliding round behind the rock, then moved through the shadows from one gnarled shape to another.

  Then he stopped and looked back.

  And his heart broke all over again.

  The figures were too distant now for him to make out too much detail, but Asander was on his knees with Ganbaatar behind him, gripping an arm. The tiniest gleam of moonlight from between the obscuring ribbons of black cloud happened to filter through at that moment to gleam on something in the huge warrior’s hand.

  Oh gods, make it quick.

  ‘Prince of Velutio, hear me!’ called out the sonorous voice of Ganbaatar in good, clear tones.

  Quintillian swallowed nervously. The big champion was scanning the rocks and clearly didn’t see precisely where the prince was.

  ‘I offer you one chance. Come back and submit to my father, and I will spare your friend the delicious agonies I have planned and grant him a clean death.’

  There was a pause. In his soul, Quintillian cried out his acquiescence a hundred times. His mouth, along with the rest of his body, belonged to the empire and remained closed.

  ‘Then it will take two days for your friend to die. We depart for your empire in two days. Any hour between now and then you can return and put him out of his misery.’

  There was the merest of pauses and then a blood-curdling howl from Asander. Quintillian closed his eyes and lowered his gaze.

  ‘Bastard,’ he whispered to himself.

  ‘D…argh!’ Asander shrieked. ‘Don’t do it, my prince. Run!’

  His words were given horrendous punctuation by another spine-tingling scream.

  Quintillian stood slowly, purposefully, his hands clenched, his eyes closed. Still in the shadows, hidden among the rocks, he took a deep breath and called out in a steady voice.

  ‘Prepare yourself, Ganbaatar Khan’s-son. In my family we believe strongly in retribution. Your downfall will be hard and terrible, and I will be the man who brings it to pass.’

  His only answer was another dreadful scream from the two figures down in the bowl, which split the night. Quintillian’s jaw hardened. It went against his principles to leave the poor bastard back down there to the tender mercies of the Khan’s son, but Asander had known what was at stake. That was what had driven him to tell Quintillian to run, not some personal desire to see his prince free. They were both soldiers, and they both knew what was required of them. Duty and sacrifice.

  Wishing his friend a quick death, Quintillian turned and ran from rock formation to rock formation, heading around to the southeast, where he would finally make a true run for it. He felt comfortable that at least until dawn he would be safe. He would hear any horsemen in pursuit long before they would see him, and the grass of the steppe was long and tufted. At the first sound of pursuit, he would just have to drop to the dirt and he would disappear in the mile upon mile of identical grass. By dawn he would be far away, in a direction he didn’t think they would search, at least at first.

  That was it. He was free. Now all he had to do was run hundreds of miles through barren, enemy-held territory and convince the soldiers of the Third Army near the imperial border that he was their commander-in-chief so that he could ride swiftly back to Velutio and warn them of the coming storm.

  What could be easier?

  Part Two

  The South

  ‘Family is the heart of all life. It is also the cause of most sadness.’

  Germallan dramatist Haulius

  Chapter IX

  Of Ripples and Consequences

  Titus Tythianus, Marshal of the First Army, commander of the emperor’s guard, Lord of Munda, tromped along the corridor with a sense of resigned irritation. For weeks now, since the disappearance of Prince Quintillian, his first duty each day had been to visit the emperor and keep him apprised of progress. And each day the summary had been the same as the day before.

  There was no progress.

  They had traced the prince’s movements as far as his exit from the palace with ease. And he had taken a horse through the city’s Forest Gate, which was his wont on his less busy days, since the prince loved to ride along the shoreline to the north of the city. His trail ended there, though there had been one established sighting after that and half a dozen odd unconfirmed reports that had thus far turned up nothing. The prince had been recognized by an off-duty guard in the great trade fair below the city, though it had been only a glance in the middle of a crowd, so the man could state nothing for certain other than that Quintillian had been there early in the morning.

  There had been conflicting sightings after that. Serfium. Munda. Some hole by the Tyras River. Quite apart from the fact that those three locations were in entirely opposite directions, the prince had been variously described as travelling in a dark cloak with the hood cowled low – one wonders how the man could know it was the prince thusly attired, also attending a travelling theatre, which seemed unlikely given Quintillian’s contempt for the theatrical art, and dressed as a mercenary with a trade caravan. None of them seemed likely, though the other three sightings were even less credible. Scouts had been sent out to all locations and had yet to pick up the threads of a trail. Parties of scouts and soldiers scoured the countryside seeking word of the prince or sign of his passing.

  Nothing.

  Weeks of this, now. The emperor, usually so ordered, careful and in control of events, was starting to fray around the edges. He was holding things together remarkably well, really, given the closeness he shared with his brother. But the strain was showing to those who knew him well. He held court. He attended to the business of rule. And then, as soon as the public eye shifted from him, he paced and tapped, paced and tapped, sought out Titus for updates, advice and questions. Then paced and tapped, paced and tapped, paced and tapped.

  They had attempted to keep the news of the prince’s disappearance quiet, but the investigation the day or two following his vanishing had been too difficult to keep under wraps, and word had inevitably leaked out. A thousand rumours now circulated in Velutio and beyond, few of them good, none of them likely to even approach the truth.

  The one thing they had managed to keep secret thus far was the fact that his absence was a deliberate flight. That first night when he failed to return, the emperor and empress had been concerned, and questions had been asked. The prince’s room had been searched with the emperor’s assistance, and what had been found to be taken confirmed the prince’s deliberate flight and lack of intent to return.

  ‘Another shitty day,’ the marshal muttered to himself as he rounded a corner and made for the emperor’s rooms.

  The attack came so quickly that he barely had time to register his assailant’s existence before he was on the floor and rolling. Only instinct – an instinct mostly inherited from his father – had prevented the top half of his head from leaving the rest of him. He’d felt the presence of the man in the split second the blow came and had thrown himself down and forward.

  As he came out of the roll, noting idly that his knees and elbows hurt more than usual and that it was likely to be a wet day, he turned to see his attacker desperately trying to wrench the axe blade out of the wall, where it had bitten deep into the painted plaster and brick where Titus’s head should have been.

  Titus hit the man in the midriff, barrelling him to the floor, his hands sliding from the haft of the axe which was still wedged into the wall. For the first time in living memory the marshal wished he’d travelled the corridors of the palace armed. But quite apart from the fact that that would be utterly ridiculous, it was inviolable sacred law that no man brought a weapon into the emperor’s rooms.

  This man was armed, though.

  Quite apart from the axe, there was a short dagger sheathed at the man’s side. Even as the assailant struggled to regain his breath, pinned on the marble floor underneath Titus
, he was already reaching down for the dagger. Titus caught sight of his searching hand. Adjusting his position slightly, he jammed an elbow into the man’s neck, keeping him down, while he reached with his other arm and grabbed the man’s questing wrist. The man was strong. The hand pulled the knife most of the way from the sheath. Titus noted with interest the unusual northern nature of the dagger, carved with some sort of boar design. Then he was struggling to control the blade. The knife came free from the scabbard and the two men fought for control.

  Titus was no weakling. He may be plagued by joints that creaked in cold, damp weather. He might be scarred and missing a finger. But he was fit and strong despite that, with a daily training routine that matched the men of his army, and surpassed some. And yet the man beneath him, despite being pale and wiry, was stronger. Titus could feel the man’s hand even now beginning to gain control of the knife. The marshal was losing. If the assassin managed to gain the blade, Titus would die.

  There were times when those who cared for Titus Tythianus made their concern known over his drinking and gambling habits. They had cost him three promising relationships in his time. But whatever they all said, gambling was inevitable. Life was a gamble. He was going to have to gamble now – on his speed against the attacker’s.

  For just a moment, he released his pressure on the man, lifting his weight, struggling still to control the knife. The change of balance gave the assassin the advantage he needed and the man’s grip won out, the knife slipping away from Titus’s hand. The assailant brought the dagger back for a blow into the marshal’s side. But he never finished the swing.

  Instead, Titus dropped back into position, putting every pound of his weight into that one point – his elbow that now descended back to its former position on the man’s neck. However, last time it had been lowered into place to pin the man. This time it smashed into the man’s throat apple, crushing it, the windpipe and the cartilage in the man’s neck. The dagger fell from his assailant’s hand and as Titus rose again and stepped back, the man began to die. His neck was not broken, and in bone and muscle he was generally intact, but no air was reaching his lungs. Titus had utterly crushed his throat with the elbow and nothing could save him now. The pale man struggled, clawing at his neck and mouth, his eyes bulging in terror as he thrashed, unable to breathe, not a squeak emerging from his ruined voice box.

  Titus watched the man die with quiet dispassion. It irked him. He would have liked to question him. Assassins in the palace were unheard of. Such things had not happened since the days of the interregnum – maybe even the reign of Quintus the Mad before that. But this man would tell no secrets, except to the lord of the dead.

  Finally the man, his face a blue-grey colour, stopped thrashing about and lay still, his limbs giving a last few involuntary twitches.

  His face grave, Titus bent and lifted the body – he may have been strong but he was surprisingly light – and threw him over aching shoulders. As an afterthought he reached up and with some difficulty yanked the axe from the wall. He lifted the weapon to the lamplight from the wall niche and examined it. Again, a northern weapon. One of the tribes of the northland mountains. The very tribes that had supplied the blood that ran in the emperor’s veins, in fact.

  Grunting with the effort, he traipsed through the corridors, ignoring the various gasps of horror from the odd servant he passed. Finally, he arrived at the imperial quarters. The last wide vestibule, lined with delicate statuary and lit by the morning sun that poured through high leaded windows, ended in a T-junction. Left lay the emperor’s apartment – a suite of rooms with a bathhouse attached. Right lay the mirror image that belonged to the empress. While the two often stayed in the emperor’s rooms, it was only fitting that the empress have her own suite, especially bearing in mind that she was not only the wife of an emperor, but was a Princess of Pelasia in her own right.

  The two men of the guard who stood at the junction to protect the imperial family stared in surprise as their commander approached with a corpse over his shoulder and an axe in his hand. They gave him a belated salute and Titus simply grunted, turning and heaving the body from his shoulder. The assassin thudded to the marble flags of the corridor at the guards’ feet.

  ‘Find out everything there is to know about this man. Either he works in the palace, in which case there will be records, or he doesn’t, in which case someone knows how he got in. I want to know everything down to the colour of his mother’s underwear by sundown. Got that?’

  The guards nodded, still in shock. One of them bent and lifted the man’s body, scurrying off with it. The other remained at attention until Titus thrust the axe at him and he took it gingerly.

  ‘The emperor’s in I take it?’

  The guard nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Today is shaping up to be a shitty day, soldier, and I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that it’s far from over.’

  Without waiting for a reply, the commander rounded the corner and strode along to the imperial apartment. Three raps on the door and a servant opened it wide.

  ‘Good morning, Marshal. The emperor is on his balcony.’

  Titus nodded and walked past the man, who was busy tidying up the main room. He emerged onto the colonnaded balcony a moment later to find the emperor in a simple tunic and breeches leaning on the railing and looking down over the lawns.

  ‘Good morning, Majesty.’

  The emperor gave him a tired smile. ‘Drop the honorifics when we’re in private, Titus. We’ve known each other since you were old enough to wound yourself on a spoon.’

  ‘Habit. A good habit too, I might say. Both our fathers would have approved.’

  ‘Morning report, Titus?’

  ‘Look, can we skip the part where you question me in detail on everything that we already know in preparation for asking me for news that we both know I don’t have? I’ve just nearly had my skull split in two by a mad northerner with an axe lurking in the palace corridors, so I’m not really in the mood for an inquisition.’

  Kiva turned wide eyes on him.

  ‘You jest?’

  ‘You know my jokes, Majesty. They’re funnier than that, and usually have more boobs.’

  ‘You were attacked in the palace?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got my men looking into it. Sadly, I was forced to kill the bastard so we won’t learn as much from him as we could. But I’d like your permission to double the guard in the palace, institute a lockdown of the doors and gates and put armed men in the parts where weapons are currently forbidden.’

  ‘Whatever you think is necessary, Titus. You know you have my full trust and authority.’

  ‘One more thing, Majesty,’ Titus said quietly. ‘You should start carrying your own blade even in the palace, unless you’ll consent to 24-hour protection?’

  ‘You know I can’t work like that. You think I am in enough danger to go armed in my own palace? The last emperor who had to do that was Quintus, and he was universally reviled.’

  Titus shrugged. ‘Until we know more I can’t say anything for certain, but there is always the possibility that I was not the man’s true target and I just happened to bump into him. He was not far from the imperial apartments. He may have been after you or the empress.’

  Kiva rubbed his neck and stretched. ‘Who could be behind such a thing? There are no revolts or usurpers out there at the moment, are there?’

  ‘There will always be those who are dissatisfied, Majesty. Even you, popular as you are, cannot please everyone. Remember how when you succeeded there were some who thought Quintillian would make a stronger emperor?’

  Kiva chuckled. ‘True. Very well, look into it and find out what you can. I cannot afford to divert my attention from the business of imperium, especially now that I am lacking Quintillian’s support. We should go and see the empress, tell her of these matters.’

  ‘She was my next port of call.’ Titus nodded.

  The two men passed back through the apartment and into the corr
idor. The servant busily mopped the floor behind them as the door clicked shut. Ahead, the soldier remained at attention at the junction. He saluted sharply, almost concussing himself with the axe, as the two most powerful men in the empire passed by. Moments later they reached the empress’s apartments and Kiva reached up and rapped smartly on the door.

  Only silence greeted them.

  Frowning, Kiva knocked again. No answer.

  ‘Perhaps she is bathing?’ Titus asked quietly.

  ‘Perhaps, but Nisha or Zari should answer if so.’

  The empress’s two personal maids were never far from her sight, and even if one were helping Jala bathe, the other would answer the door. Titus felt the hairs stand proud on the back of his neck. Something was wrong. ‘Wait a moment, sir.’ He turned and jogged back to the guard at the junction.

  ‘Give me your sword.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Just do it, man.’

  The soldier drew his blade and passed it to his commander in confusion.

  ‘Neither the empress nor her maids have passed you this morning?’

  ‘No, sir. And no one’s been in. But then I’ve only been on watch since dawn call.’

  Titus nodded and ran back to the emperor, his sword respectfully lowered. Kiva peered at the blade and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Just in case, Majesty. I’ve already been jumped once today.’

  The tension was building in the corridor as Kiva bent to the door handle and turned it. The door swung in easily on oiled hinges. The key remained on the inside. The apartment was eerily silent and Titus’s skin was rippling with nerves now. ‘This is not good.’

  The emperor moved into the room alongside his general, who raised his borrowed blade, anticipating danger.

  ‘She’s not here,’ Kiva murmured.

  ‘I’ll check everywhere to be sure, Majesty. You’re unarmed. You wait here.’