Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  He held out a slip of papyrus. “Go to this address and retrieve a series of letters. They're from various zoanii houses, pledging their support to the man listed if the queen should be deposed.”

  “A coup? What does that have to do with the rebellion?”

  “That's what we want to find out. We need to know who's involved and what they are planning.”

  “That's it? Just get these letters?”

  “That's it.”

  “You still haven't said what's in it for me.”

  Cipher's thin brows came together over the bridge of his nose. “Alyra, you were never a mercenary in the past.”

  “Things change. My life is different now. I'm going to need a few things from the network.”

  “Such as?”

  “I need someone inside the Civil Planning Office.”

  “City planning? Whatever for?”

  “That's my business. Second, I need to see everything the network knows about the killings at the Chapter House.”

  “Alyra, I can't—”

  “Don't argue, just get it.”

  “I have to check a few sources, but you'll have the information by the end of the week.”

  “Perfect. Oh, and one more thing. Find another place to meet. Somewhere outside the Dredge.”

  As she left, Alyra felt his eyes follow her down the stairs. The old woman had vanished, so she let herself out.

  Pulling the door shut behind her, Alyra let out a long breath. She released the hilt of her knife hidden under her cloak for the first time since she'd entered the house. The skin of her palm stuck to the handle for a moment before it came loose. What would have happened if she'd refused the offer? Would they have allowed her to leave alive? Somehow, despite Cipher's conciliatory tone, she doubted it.

  She took one last look at the white lily on the door. So delicate and lovely. She wondered who had painted it. She turned away, eager to put this place behind her. She still didn't understand why she had accepted the mission. Just as she was getting free of the network's machinations, they had succeeded in pulling her back in.

  She's fetching. Not exactly gorgeous, but she's striking to look at. And so tall! I wonder why she dresses so conservatively.

  Byleth cleared her throat and nodded as Lady Anshara spoke. They sat in one of the palace's smaller audience chambers, the queen on an ancient wooden throne and the lady on a settee a few feet away. Lady Anshara was twenty-five years of age, with her silky black hair wrapped into a long braid. She wore a dress of green silk with short sleeves and a divided skirt. Interesting tattoos covered both her exposed arms, of lotus blossoms and various animals along swirls of pale-blue water. Her eyes were a bit too small, her mouth a trifle too narrow, yet there was something about her that reminded Byleth of an old painting.

  “Thank you, Majesty, for inviting me. It is good to get out of my late uncle's home for a little while.”

  “That place is a maze,” Byleth said. “I spent many summers roaming its halls and alcoves. Lord Mulcibar, may his memory shine forever, was a great man and a great friend to the throne.”

  “That is most kind of you to say, Majesty.”

  “You were most recently living in Ceasa, were you not?”

  “Yes, Majesty. I've been studying under Mistress Udina for the past year.”

  Byleth glanced to the side where Xantu stood. Lady Udina of House Purimu had a reputation as one of the most demanding and sought-after teachers of the art in all the empire. She tutored only the most promising zoanii. Byleth herself had wanted to apply, once upon a time, but fate had intervened when her father was killed and she became queen.

  “Majesty, I was hoping to be allowed to join your court.”

  “Of course I would be delighted, my dear. Although I must say I'm surprised. I assumed you would be returning to the capital after you put your uncle's affairs in order.” She gave the woman a coy smile. “I'm sure nothing here could compare to the legendary entertainments of the imperial court.”

  Lady Anshara made a tiny, rigid shake of her head. “If it pleases Your Majesty, I am committed to remaining here in Erugash. For many generations, my family has served this city and its monarchs.”

  The lady slipped off her chair and went down on both knees. Xantu started to make a defensive warding, but Byleth stopped him from interfering with an upraised finger.

  “Majesty, my queen,” Lady Anshara said, “Forgive my presumption, but I seek to take up my late uncle's mantle. To advise you and serve you, if you will have me.”

  Byleth gazed deep into Anshara's eyes. They gave open invitation for a mind-sift, and Byleth was tempted, but she liked this young woman's poise and confidence. She placed a hand on her head. “I accept your service, Lady Anshara. You are hereby made a member of our personal guard, charged with protecting our person from all threats, with all the rights and privileges of that rank.”

  The lady's eyes held a faint glisten of moisture as she nodded. “Thank you, Majesty. It will be my sincerest honor and pleasure.”

  “All right then. Get off your knees. Lord Xantu will explain your duties.”

  Lady Anshara bowed low and backed away. “Yes, Majesty.”

  Then, without being told, she went to stand against the wall opposite from Xantu.

  Byleth exchanged glances with Xantu, both of them indicating surprise at this turn of events, and then she nodded to the nuncio by the chamber doors. The man left to fetch the next audience.

  Her day was packed with meetings as she tried to manage several crises from the palace at once. She needed to assure her loyal zoanii that all was well in the realm, and also confer with those nobles who had been reticent toward her since the fall of the Sun Temple, hoping to sway them to her cause. Lastly, as much as she detested it, she had to meet with members of the lesser castes—the merchants and bankers and guildsmen, those who dealt with the other cities on a regular basis—to convince them to invest their funds in Erugash's future.

  While she waited, Byleth daydreamed about escaping the palace for a walk in the gardens. It seemed impossible that she had only just returned from hiatus. Of course, that could be because someone tried to kill me, so it wasn't much of a vacation.

  She came back to reality as Hetta entered from the door hidden behind a tapestry and hurried over. Byleth allowed herself to ravage the girl with her eyes. Hetta was quickly maturing into a delicious morsel, so meek and demure and possessing an incredible threshold for pain, or pleasure.

  “Mistress,” the handmaiden whispered, holding out a tiny scroll. She looked ready to cry any moment. “From the Temple of the Moon.”

  Byleth frowned as she took the message. The seal had been broken and the message inspected by her guard before delivering it to her. Inside was a brief message from the Eldest Daughter, the second-ranking priestess at the temple. The contents stabbed at her heart, but Byleth kept the emotion from showing on her face. She gave the scroll back to Hetta and dismissed her.

  Just then, the main door opened to admit a portly man in a fine suit of silk and ermine.

  “Master Brukanar,” Byleth said with a forced smile. “Please enter and be welcome. We have much to discuss.”

  Nostalgia engulfed Horace as he stepped out of the carriage. He hadn't been back to Lord Mulcibar's estate since his visit, as a prisoner of the queen's court.

  The place looked the same from the outside, imposing in its hugeness, like a castle masquerading as a private home. Three footmen in uniform showed him to the door and ushered him inside with such deference it made him a little nervous. More servants waited inside the massive atrium. Within seconds Horace had been offered wine, fresh fruit, a hot bath, and a change of footwear. Refusing it all with as much good grace as he could summon, he asked to see the mistress of the house. He was shown into a parlor room large enough to hold the entire royal stables—only a slight exaggeration—and left alone.

  He strolled around the room, looking at the beautiful décor. Several of the paintings on the wa
lls were taller than him. Each showed what he assumed were famous moments in Akeshian history, though he didn't know enough to identify them. He mentally labeled them as “serious men sitting around a long table,” “gloomy men talking in an arbor,” and “angry men shouting and waving their fists at a stone monument.”

  There was a glass case containing tiny porcelain figurines that were incredibly lifelike. Another case displayed weapons. Mounted between two bronze busts was a large document in a handsome frame. Horace had just begun translating it, and probably butchering the intended meaning, when a door opened.

  He turned to see a tall woman enter. She wore a dress, but there was something militant about her. Perhaps it was the way she stood, or how she examined him, sizing him up from across the room. Oddly, he didn't notice any family resemblance to Mulcibar.

  “Lady Anshara? I'm Horace. I received your letter and wanted to pay my respects.”

  She crossed over to him and gestured to a pair of stiff couches. “Please sit. I will call for refreshment.”

  Horace took the seat closer to the window. He tried to hide a grimace as he sat down; the couch was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. When the lady raised her eyebrows, he touched his side. “My injury. It's still healing.”

  “Ai. The attack at the queen's winter palace. I've read your report. How fortunate that Her Majesty survived.”

  Horace forced a smile. “Indeed. It seems there is always some danger in the queen's vicinity.”

  “Until now, perhaps. I intend to change that. You see, I've just joined Her Majesty's personal guard.”

  A chill ran down Horace's back. He hadn't even considered that she would be a sorceress. That's stupid of me. Her uncle was one of the most respected zoanii in the city. Of course there was every chance she had inherited his talent.

  “Then I feel better knowing the queen is in such good hands.”

  He smiled again, but it faltered on his face. Her expression never changed. She was as stoic as an abbot, which made him think of Gilgar. “I, uh, knew the former occupant of that post. Lord Xantu's brother—”

  He hadn't finished his thought before she winced in disgust. “May his name never be spoken again. Of all the crimes of humanity, First Sword, betrayal of one's liege is the most heinous.”

  “I, uh…agree, my lady.”

  She clapped her hands together, almost making him jump. Two burly men entered carrying a large trunk between them.

  “My late uncle left this for your lordship. Per his final instructions, I am delivering it to you.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured as he studied the container. It was twice as big as a typical seaman's footlocker and made from a deep black wood with bronze fittings. Seals of red wax covered the three latches on the front face. What would Mulcibar leave him? Then he remembered he had something for her. “Oh, here.”

  Horace reached into a pocket and drew out Mulcibar's amulet, which he'd kept since the old man's disappearance. He didn't really want to give it away, but it belonged here with the old man's heir.

  Lady Anshara took the amulet and held it up. “I remember this. I saw my uncle wearing it on occasion.” She traced the sigils on the mirrored face. “Its purpose is to harness the power of the moon to ward off hostile influences. Sadly, it's been exposed to sunlight.”

  “What? Why is that bad?”

  “The sun and moon represent opposite forces in the mystical arts. Once the device was touched by sunlight, it became impotent.”

  A feeling of deep sorrow overtook Horace at the news. He felt as if he had soiled Mulcibar's memory by ruining the talisman. “I'm very sorry. I don't know much about the zoana yet. Your uncle was tutoring me for a time. Unfortunately, he passed too early to give me a proper education.”

  She held the amulet out to him. “Here. Keep it as a memento. I insist.”

  He took it back gingerly, as if it were a holy relic. “I'll treasure it.”

  Lady Anshara stood up without warning. “I have many new duties to attend to.”

  A little startled, he got to his feet. “Of course. As do I. Thank you again. If you need anything, please let me know.”

  “That is very kind. Good day, Lord Horace.”

  Still holding the amulet, he followed a servant out to the courtyard. He blinked against the bright sunlight before hastily tucking the amulet back into his pocket. Then he hurried to his carriage.

  A hundred paces. No more than a bowshot was all that separated the two shores of the Typhon at this point on the northern edge of the delta, fifty leagues from where it flowed into the sea. The lights of Sekhatun twinkled on the other side of the dark waters. The stars had only come out within the past hour, and the moon had yet to make an appearance this night. The only sounds were the lulling trill of the river, the faint buzz of insects, and the occasional call of a hunting reket.

  Jirom looked over his shoulder for the tenth time since they'd arrived. The southern shore of the river was overgrown with tall swamp grass and stunted mangrove trees. Fireflies swarmed over the water like tiny will-o'-the-wisps.

  Emanon stood beside him underneath the low canopy. Ramagesh, his two-handed mace slung over his shoulder, stood a few yards away with Neskarig and two other rebel captains who had accompanied them. Smerdis was a tall man with unusually thick arms and shoulders, as if he'd been a metalsmith before he joined the cause. Rurtimo Lom was a full head shorter but stockier in build; he wore a leather patch over his right eye. Both had been chosen because of their close ties to Ramagesh, which surprised no one.

  The only question Jirom had was why he and Emanon had been selected to join this party. Perhaps to keep eyes on us.

  From here, Sekhatun looked peaceful. No sign of the cruelty that went on inside its walls. The town was a hub for the slave trade in this province. Jirom had been glad to hear that its former lord, Isiratu, had been killed in the collapse of the temple of Amur in Erugash. He touched the brand on his cheek, a gift from the late nobleman.

  But it wasn't old memories that troubled him about this operation. Sekhatun was the seat of the queen's power in this part of the empire. The trade passing through its gates and docks had made Erugash wealthy. He feared the rebels weren't ready for an attack of this magnitude. So far, he and Emanon had been able to select targets where they had the advantage in numbers. This time, they would be rolling the bones and praying for fortune's favor. He disliked gambling, especially with men's lives.

  Emanon squeezed his arm. “I think they're here.”

  The morning after the council meeting, Ramagesh had announced that he and a select few captains would be meeting with a local sympathizer who had information about the target. Jirom had expected he and Emanon would be excluded, but he was surprised when Ramagesh personally invited them both. On the two-day journey through the marshy delta, Ramagesh had shown them every hospitality. He marched beside them during the day, regaling them with stories about his life. He had been born a slave in the house of a minor lord in Semira, on the eastern side of the empire. He had served as a bodyguard in his master's house, until he killed his master and his master's eldest son while on a trading trip in Ceasa. He escaped in the capital's vast populace, eventually meeting the nascent rebellion there and joining their ranks. He'd been fighting the empire from the shadows ever since.

  Both nights, Ramagesh had shared his fire with them as well, although Emanon hadn't been overly polite about it. Jirom understood his lover's frustration with being relegated to a subordinate status after being his own man for so long, but he hoped Emanon would come to realize they needed a stable command structure if the rebellion was ever going to pose a serious threat to the Akeshian military. For his part, he was accustomed to taking orders. Although he had enjoyed the months when Emanon's band roamed free, it was comforting to belong to a larger organization. It reminded him of the old days when he had been a squad leader, responsible only for the men directly under his care.

  Ramagesh and Neskarig moved out of the shadows of t
he trees, and Emanon followed with the other captains. Jirom remained a couple paces behind, watching Emanon's back. Before they'd left, Three Moons had told Jirom to be careful, but he didn't need to be told. Even if Jirom wasn't suspicious by nature, Ramagesh and the General behaved as if this entire operation were just for show. But who is the audience?

  The captains went down to the water's edge. Jirom was unsure what they were waiting for, until he saw the tiny light bobbing over the river. Then the prow of a boat appeared. Jirom dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword as the vessel landed. It was a river barge, one of the smaller types used by merchants to ferry their goods. Several men stood on the wide single deck. The light came from a shuttered lantern hanging by a hook from the vessel's aft, where a lone helmsman plied the sweep.

  The barge landed on the bank with a soft crunch, and the passengers got off. Three men wrapped in dark cloaks. As they stepped onto the shore, they lowered their hoods. All three were young, barely in their twenties. One stood ahead of the others. He was a handsome youth, with short-cropped black hair and a fair copper complexion. He spoke first. “Which of you is Ramagesh?”

  Ramagesh stepped forward. “Durlang.”

  The two gripped forearms, and then Ramagesh introduced the captains. Durlang greeted everyone cordially while his two companions remained where they stood, silent and observant.

  Once the introductions were done, the youth held out a leather satchel to Ramagesh. “I have the information you want. Garrison numbers, duty schedules, patrol sweeps. Even fortification assessments by the royal engineers. Everything you'll need to plan your attack.”

  “Very good.” Ramagesh handed the satchel to Neskarig. He took a bulging sack in return and passed it to the youth. “And here is your payment, as we agreed.”

  Durlang made the bag disappear under his cloak. “I also bring some news, which I'm happy to pass along for free. A new envoy from Erugash arrived yesterday.”

  Smerdis harrumphed. “A royal envoy could bring a fine ransom, if we get him alive.”