Storm and Steel

by Jon Sprunk

  Every so often Ismail glanced over at the arrow stuck in the tree.

  There were times when being a freewoman had its benefits, Alyra thought as she passed from the city center, with its fine estates and temples, into the Garden Quarter. Freewomen could come and go as they pleased without worrying about whether their absence would be noticed by a prying owner. However, freewomen in Akeshia were almost always noticed, especially when they were alone, whereas a slave could blend into her surroundings.

  She crossed the stone bridge over an artificial canal where the clay streets gave way to smooth cobbles made from river stones. Shade trees lined the boulevards here, blocking out the wan moonlight to create shadowy tunnels. This part of the city was home to older noble houses. Tall walls surrounded the palaces with their soaring minarets and marble domes. Lights occasionally moved behind the walls as armed guards walked the grounds.

  Her destination was in the oldest section of the neighborhood at the end of a winding avenue. Ancient cypresses loomed beyond the estate's stone walls, covered in patches of gray and white lichens. The heavy bronze gates, wide enough to admit two carriages side by side, were black with age. The estate belonged to a former general. Lord Qaphanum et'Porranu. Alyra had done a little digging on him. Although he had retired from his official post not long after Byleth assumed the throne, the lord-general still maintained many of his political ties, including a personal connection to the Order of the Crimson Flame. Two of his nephews were members of the Order, both stationed in other cities. The more she'd learned about him, the more Alyra suspected Cipher was right. This was precisely the sort of man who would support a coup. Now, if she could just find the evidence.

  She wasn't sure what game the network was playing here. She doubted the Nemedians wanted to aid Byleth—the fall of a major city-state could kick off a civil war that might conceivably expand to embroil the entire empire. That seemed like the best possible outcome for the spy ring. So what were they going to do with the information? It troubled her that she couldn't see their plan.

  Looking around to be sure she wasn't being watched, Alyra ran to the north end of the wall and dipped around the corner. Back off the road, the walled estate was enclosed with private woods.

  Moving among the trees, she approached the side gate where she was supposed to meet her contact. Alyra breathed easier when a small light gleamed through the bars. She darted toward it, her heart beating hard in her throat. “Katara?” she whispered.

  She said it so fast she wasn't sure the other had heard her until the reply came back. “Yes.”

  The woman inside opened the gate with a slight squeak of rubbing metal. She held a lamp in one hand and a key in the other. She was tall, easily a hand taller than Alyra. Her willowy frame was wrapped in a long shawl that hung down to her knees. Under the shawl, Alyra could see a fine gown of undyed linen and an iron collar. Narrower than most collars and tightly fit around the woman's slender neck, it reminded Alyra of the golden one she had worn for years. She ducked inside the gate. “Sorry I'm late. It couldn't be helped.”

  If her tone was brusque, Katara did not comment on it. “Come. The slaves’ entrance is this way.”

  The estate's main house sprawled across an acre of ground with many wings. The central portion reached up four stories including a pointed roof surrounded by eight minarets built in an antique style. The stonework was exquisite, even in the dark. Tall rows of hedges divided an intricate series of gardens. Like many homes of the wealthy, the manor had several entrances. The one for slaves was a small door hidden between two flowering bushes that rose almost of the height of the roof.

  The door led into a small kitchen. From there, Alyra followed Katara down a narrow hallway of plain, unadorned plaster. The hallway branched out in several directions, all of the passages unlit.

  Katara handed Alyra the lamp. The wick shook in the oil reservoir as it changed hands. “The master's study is the last door.” She pointed down a hall leading to the south end of the manor. “It is not locked, but take care not to disturb anything. He notices when his private things are out of place.”

  That will make searching for his secrets more difficult.

  “I must be back to bed before the master wakes,” Katara said.

  “Thank you. I know you're taking a risk.”

  The woman looked down her nose. “I'm the mistress of a wealthy lord who treats me kindly, which is a far cry from the midden where I grew up. I owed a debt, and now that debt is paid. Tell them I will not betray my master again.”

  Alyra was taken aback. Yet part of her understood what the woman was saying. “So you're happy?”

  “I'm content, and that is enough. The luck of the Silver Lady be with you.”

  Left alone, Alyra headed down the corridor. Colorful frescoes covered the walls with scenes of fine living—a family lounging beside a tranquil pool, two men practicing archery in a green meadow, an equestrian hunt. The ceiling was sky-blue.

  Guided by the lamp's feeble light, she strained her ears for any sounds. According to her information, the manor's owner tended to retire early. Alyra hoped he remained true to that habit tonight.

  She found the study where Katara had said it would be. The door was unlocked, which made things easier. As she lifted the brass latch, the door beside the study rattled. Alyra glanced back the way she had come, but there was nowhere to hide in the hallway. Holding her breath, she shoved open the study door, darted inside, and closed it quickly. As the latch clicked, she pressed her ear to the wooden panels and listened. Too late, she realized the lamplight could probably be seen through the crack beneath the door. She felt for her knife but didn't draw it. She didn't want to have to use it on the owner of the house or his family. Fortunately, the person outside didn't seem to have spotted her, as footsteps sounded down the hallway away from the study.

  Relieved, Alyra took a moment to look around. The room was large and square, about ten paces on a side. Heavy draperies covered the windows in the south wall, and a musty smell hung in the air. She expected a desk or table but instead saw only two chairs facing a hearth on the far side of the room. Three of the four walls were covered with wooden shelves from floor to ceiling. This might take longer than I expected.

  She started searching. Setting the lamp on the back of a chair, Alyra tried to determine if the shelves were filed with some kind of system. But, after finding things as varied as plans for the estate's landscaping kept alongside warehouses inventories, she wasn't sure the order was based on any logic at all. She was going through the papers as fast as she could when footsteps sounded outside the study again.

  She rushed over to the lamp and shielded its light with her cupped hands. Waiting in the dark, she tried to decide what to do if she was discovered. Fight or flee? She hadn't checked the covered window, but it was possible she could get out that way before an alarm was raised. A faint sound met her ears, and for a moment she thought the person outside was lifting the door's latch. A burst of anxiety set her heart to pounding. Then the sound of another door opening came from the hallway outside, and a couple seconds later it closed again.

  With perspiration breaking out under her arms, Alyra carried the lamp to the next row of niches. She went through the writings as quickly as possible, cursing under her breath as her exasperation grew. After nearly half an hour of looking, she found some interesting things. Among them were the last instructions to the local Order Chapter House. According to the document, which had no names attached, the captain-curate was ordered to stay and defend the house at all costs. The interesting part was a confirmation that Order reinforcements were imminent. If the occupants of the Chapter House had survived until help arrived, Alyra wondered how that would have changed the balances of power in Erugash. How far would the queen have gone in her defiance of the Sun Cult?

  She also found a copy of the captain-curate's final will. She skimmed through it but didn't see anything noteworthy. Clearly, the commander of the Chapter House had been prepare
d to meet his end. She put the document back in its place.

  Tucked behind a roll of blank papyrus was a stack of letters between the lord-general and one of his nephews in Hirak. A quick perusal discovered nothing unusual. The text of the letters was uninteresting—mainly a dry accounting of the life of a temple priest—but there was something about them that raised her suspicions. They were too boring, as if the writers had wanted these letters to be passed off as meaningless by unwanted eyes. Thinking they might contain coded messages, she stuffed them into her bag.

  Alyra glanced across the rows of shelves. She hadn't found any mention of a plan to attack the queen. In fact, it was just the opposite. The Order's last orders had clearly stated the captain-curate was not to provoke the queen in any way, to only defend themselves in extreme circumstances. She'd come up blank.

  She was about to leave when she noticed an odd detail. A piece of the paneling behind one of the shelves on the east wall was slightly askew, so it didn't join properly with its mate. Alyra went over and tapped that section, and it swung inward to reveal a secret nook. A roll of papers was hidden inside. She took them over to the lamp and went through them quickly, her heart beating faster with every sheet she unrolled.

  It was all here, just as Cipher had expected. Letters from noble families in other cities, including one from a prominent house with imperial blood ties, all promising their support for Lord Qaphanum if the queen were usurped. They were dissatisfied with Byleth's leadership and her friction with the Sun Cult. Alyra didn't see a response from Lord Qaphanum to any of these letters, but these were enough. She added them to her satchel. Then she blew out the lamp and went to the door.

  The hallway outside was quiet, but she waited for a slow count of fifty to be sure. Then she left the study and stole down the hallway. She left the manor by the slaves’ entrance, pausing only to be sure there were no guards in the area before she raced across the lawn. Slipping out the side gate, she closed it behind her as quietly as possible and then let out a long breath.

  It was done. She'd found what she came for, but what now? Could she trust the network with this evidence? That was the question.

  A cool wind picked up as she emerged from the tree cover and hurried down the street. Alyra pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She wasn't sure she wanted to go back to Horace's house tonight. She felt cut off from him, like she needed room to breathe and clear her head. She considered spending the night with Sefkahet, but that would just bring on a different set of problems.

  Trying to make herself small in the darkness, she headed back to the Cattle Quarter.

  The battle lines were drawn. Horace stared across the gleaming battlefield at his adversaries. Their cool glances returned nothing but mocking challenge. When he placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword, his enemies looked back and forth among themselves, yet none of them faltered in their resolve. The silence stretched out for minutes that seemed like hours. Finally, he lowered his gaze and let out a long sigh. He was beaten.

  Horace slumped back in his chair as the other ministers filed out of the council chamber, leaving him alone at the long polished table. A hot breeze played across the back of his neck from the open window behind him. Flames flickered in the half-dozen lamps hanging from the chamber ceiling, throwing shadows across the walls.

  For the last three hours he'd tried with every ounce of persuasion he possessed to convince the council to ratify new orders concerning his prosecution of the rebellion. Things he thought were commonsense to deescalate the conflict, which was quickly growing out of control across the queen's province. Yet they had defied him on every single one, not budging an inch no matter what he tried. In fact, their proposals would only exacerbate the tension. Angered that the council had rebuffed his solutions, Horace refused to agree to their remedies as well, and so both sides were stymied. The final hour of the meeting had been spent in a contest of wills, with the entire council arrayed against him. Tempers flew and harsh words exchanged. One minister had called him a filthy pukkarag, whatever that was.

  Horace reached for the cup in front of him, only to find it empty. He started to look for a pitcher to refill it but gave up. His head was already swimming with wine fumes, and his stomach threatened to rebel if he didn't eat something. He pushed himself to his feet and left. A pair of his personal guards joined him at the door.

  Thankfully, none of the council members were waiting to confront him in the hallway, as had happened before. Since the Tammuris he hadn't received any personal challenges, either, but his detractors hadn't ceased in their efforts to bring him down. They just took different tacks to undermine his authority, like these council sessions. Formerly, the First Sword could act unilaterally in the queen's name, but the council had called a secret session just a few days after the holy day while he was still convalescing from his injuries and passed a special law that required all his orders to be approved by them. Horace had taken the matter to the queen, but Byleth told him she wouldn't interfere. All the while, he knew various members of the court were trying to convince the queen to take a harsher course in regards to the rebellion, erasing all his efforts.

  Swaying a little, he made his way up a flight of marble stairs to his office on the second-highest tier of the palace. Mezim met him with a sheaf of scrolls.

  “Master, I've put together a list of witnesses to the self-immolation yesterday morning. And the Tanners’ Guild sent a request that they be allowed to increase the price of their wares.”

  Horace took the list of witnesses. “Why are they petitioning me? Isn't that something for the city minister to handle?”

  “For most guilds, yes, but the tanners and leatherworkers fall under the purview of the First Sword because their industry has been deemed of utmost value in times of war.

  “There's also a report from each legion detailing their current inventories and budgets for the rest of the year. Oh, and quotes from various grain suppliers for next season. Once you select one, I'll arrange for delivery of the first payment with the royal treasury.”

  Most of what Mezim said went over his head, but Horace nodded. “I don't have time to deal with that. Send the petitions to the High General's office. Is there any news from Lord Ubar's expedition?”

  “Not as yet. But I will check with the palace messenger service right away.”

  “What about the search for Jirom?”

  “I put a dispatch on your desk from an officer of the Third Legion who was at the battle of Omikur. He reports that almost all the dog soldiers were killed in action, either by the enemy or by the legionnaires themselves when the slaves tried to rebel. However he has no confirmation of your friend's demise. Apparently, the dog soldiers were buried in mass graves in the desert, and finding evidence of a single man is exceedingly difficult.”

  “Of course,” Horace muttered to himself. “Nothing can ever be easy, can it?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Go find out about Lord Ubar.”

  “At once. There's just one last thing. The protests continue in various places around the city.”

  “Ai, I noticed a couple on my way in.”

  “The royal chancellor has voiced some concern about safety….”

  “Of course. We can't have Master Unagon wetting himself. Order additional guards at the palace gates and on the queen's personal detail. Anything else?”

  “Neh, Belum.”

  As his secretary scurried away, Horace walked to his office at the back of the suite. The guards took up positions outside.

  His inner sanctum was bare, with the only furnishings being a desk and chair. The former was a gift from the queen. A handsome block of cedar, its front was carved with a relief image of the palace and the entire desk painted with the rich red varnish.

  A yawn escaped him as he sat down and opened the first field report. After a quick scan, he opened another, and then a third. They weren't good. Over the past two months more than six separate attacks had occurred, including the
one that so incensed the queen—the royal caravan sacked and its contents, listed only as “tribute from the northern estates,” stolen. Clearly, the rebellion was gaining momentum. And making my job nearly impossible with the same stroke.

  As he read more, a pattern emerged. The rebels seemed to attack at random, never hitting the same target twice and slipping away before reinforcements could arrive. Horace had sent the forces at his disposal to bolster important garrisons, but it was never enough. There were too many potential targets to cover them all.

  Also included among the dispatches were reports of zoanii cracking down in their own fiefs with harsh penalties for just about any infraction. One lord in a town east of Erugash had allegedly boiled eighteen of his field slaves alive because he suspected them of collaborating with the rebels. No proof of their guilt was found. Horace pounded his fist on the desk. These draconian methods were only making the problem worse. But, just like with the council, the noble caste refused to hear reason.

  Horace put down the scrolls and rubbed his eyes. He wasn't getting anywhere. His head hurt, and he was too tired to think straight. What he wanted more than anything was something to eat and a strong drink, and perhaps to look at the stars from his terrace until he fell asleep. He called for Mezim, but there was no answer. With a sigh, Horace pushed his chair away from the desk and got up. His guards stood outside the door. Beckoning them to follow, he left the suite.

  They passed a few people Horace knew from court on the way out, but he didn't stop to talk. Not that they seemed eager to see him either. He'd always assumed a powerful title would attract all sorts of people, those seeking favors and wanting to form alliances, but in his case the elevation to First Sword had made him less popular with the other zoanii, if that was possible.

  This entire country is insane. I must be mad to stay here with them. Or too damned stubborn to give up on a losing proposition. Only a few days back at the palace and I'm ready to slit my stomach. Let someone else deal with these headaches.