Page 33

Chapter 33

Over the centuries, the Apoths of the Empire had taught branch and root and vine to form nearly any structure one could imagine. A fretvine house could be planted and shaped within a week or two, for example; a large building, perhaps a month. Other innovations made more complex buildings simple as well: stonewood trees grew planks of unnaturally dense, tough wood, their trunks sloughing off the heavy slates like a lizard shedding scales; mosswalls could be grown to envelop nearly any building facade, giving them a soft skin of effective insulation; and so on and so forth.

While this made housing and construction easy enough, it also meant that the art of stonework quickly became the domain of the wealthy and the powerful; for while resources were plentiful in the Empire, labor was eternally expensive. Only the gentry could afford to hire teams to haul enormous blocks of stone over field and hill, and then construct the complex machinery needed to maneuver each chiseled piece into place, the proof of your wealth and power made manifest in the very bones of the earth.

This, perhaps, was why I was initially so awed at the sight of the High City. For all about me were towers of tall, shining white stone, pearly and opalescent in the late-afternoon sun. The gates and walls and bridges were all wrought of stone as well, and nearly every bit of it was carved to depict the faces of men, or looming figures bearing shield and sword, or great battles between huge forces. One stretch of wall seemed to hold no less than two thousand figures, all falling upon one another with their blades held high, all perfectly articulated with each stroke of the chisel. I’d never seen such an astonishing sight.

I struggled to describe it to Ana, but she seemed far less impressed. “Oh, yes,” she said sourly. “I wonder who built it.”

I wondered what she meant, and looked to Malo for explanation, but her face told me nothing.

The High City guard was no less impressive. With the exception of the Legion, imperial officers usually had the look of bureaucrats or clerks, and often went unarmed, or with naught but a dagger or short sword. Yet the guards who escorted our carriage to the king’s hall wore steel helmets with intricate, patterned face shields, and shining pauldrons, and thick coats of mail. They looked like soldiers from a myth, their blades wide and thick, their armor tinkling as they strutted.

Then our carriage turned a corner in the sprawling stone city, and I beheld the king’s hall ahead. If the towers had amazed me, the hall made them look like a child’s toys: huge and opulent, the hall made a broad, sloping, shark-tooth form in the center of the city, facing southwest. Its walls were riddled with small cubbies or shelves, and placed within these were totems wrought of stone or wood, each depicting a stern, bearded face with a circlet on their brow. Before each totem sat a lit candle floating in a pool of water, and their flickering luminescence gave the wooden visages the illusion of movement, scowling or grimacing in the shadows.

“What are those?” I asked.

“The faces of the many kings of Yarrow, long dead,” muttered Malo. “They watch all who enter here.”

I gazed at their blank eyes as we approached. Having never known a line of such antiquity—ancestors meant little to common Tala folk such as I—I found the idea awe-inspiring.

Perhaps that was what drove my astonishment: the sheer sense of age of this place. All the towers felt like they’d been here for centuries, and all the soldiers looked like warriors from some archaic saga. Though much of the Empire was indeed old, few of its structures were, for buildings were constantly being cut down and regrown whenever needed. And if a structure was old—like the sea walls, or the ring walls—then it was often an unsightly, forbidding spectacle.

This place, however, felt beautiful and eternal. A stunning sight to a person like me, from an improvised Empire that often felt so blandly bureaucratic.

—

We rumbled up to the stairs leading to the king’s hall. Soldiers stood on every other step, glowering down at us beneath their steel caps. Stationed just down the path from the stairs were three Treasury carriages, though none were reined to horses: the steeds had been removed, I guessed, after it became clear that the Treasury delegation would not be leaving anytime soon.

The three Yarrow riders dismounted and spoke to a little man whom I guessed to be a court messenger, arrayed in gray robes with green paints upon his eyes. He nodded coolly as he listened, then watched our carriage mistrustfully as we came to a stop.

I opened the door and climbed out, then made way for Malo and assisted Ana in exiting. The court messenger called out, asking us something in Pithian—“ Tusim hath arabada ho? ”—and Ana gestured to Malo, who responded in kind. “He asks if we are armed, and I have confirmed we are not,” Malo explained to us.

“What a pleasant greeting,” said Ana. “I presume we shall not be served cakes, then.”

The messenger gestured, and we followed him up the stairs and through the great doors awaiting us, flanked by armored guards on either side. Then, suddenly, fire was everywhere about us.

Torches blazed and hissed from every wall and corner. The remnants of a huge bonfire glowed in the center of the hall, despite it being late afternoon. At the far end sat a magnificent throne, also wrought of stone, and though it was empty, fireplaces had been built on either side of it, with a blaze crackling in each one.

And with fire came smoke. Though there were chimneys and open windows in the great hall, the air was still heavy with haze, so much so that my eyes and nose burned. It was quite a change from imperial lighting, which used no flame and produced no smoke.

I waved at the haze before my face and surveyed the room. The messenger was approaching the empty throne. I squinted to parse the smokes and spied a figure in white sitting on the steps before it, head bowed. The white figure sat up as the messenger whispered something to him, then rose. The instant he did so, the hall became a flurry of quiet activity, with many servants or officers or attendants rushing about, whispering to one another.

I quietly relayed the scene to Ana.

“Ahh, that would be the prince, I think,” Ana said. “For when the regent stands, the world responds, Din!”

I studied the prince through the veil of smoke. He did not speed over to us, as I’d expected of a man who’d pleaded for us to assist; rather, he appeared to be waiting.

Then two men came rushing into the hall, and these two I recognized instantly.

The first was Jari Pavitar, swaggering just like when I’d met him at the prison, his brow still stained dark indigo beneath his black cap, and his fur cape fluttering behind him. His eyes flashed at the sight of me: he remembered me, then, and not fondly.

After him came the green-faced Satrap Darhi. He swayed as he walked, a careful, controlled movement. His locks were still well-coiffed about his thin face, and his cheeks and chin were still lined with green inks, though today he favored soft yellow robes rather than green. His gaze also remained the same: as cold and sharp as a medikker’s blade, and the haze of the fires gave me no cover from his scrutiny.

The two men bowed to their prince, who diffidently raised a hand to them. Then they took up spaces behind him and followed in his wake as he began to approach us.

“They near us now, ma’am,” I whispered.

“Excellent,” said Ana. “Isn’t this terribly exciting, children?”

Malo shook her head, exasperated.

I watched Prince Camak as he rounded the bonfire. I’d expected someone tall and formidable, but I found him to be a bearded, plump, rather scuttling little man. A silver circlet shone on his brow, a silver necklace twinkled at his collar, and his face was painted in golds and silvers, yet rather than endow him with a commanding look, the paints only highlighted his weakness, for he glanced about the room with a dim, watery gaze.

He did not look at all like a king. I was reminded of a fretful young foal venturing from its paddock for the first time, ready to bolt at the barest flit of a bird’s wing. His expression grew only more alarmed as he neared us, his eyes fixed on Ana’s blindfold. I could’ve sworn I saw the color drain from behind his paints, and imagined his thoughts— This is the person who has come to help me? This is the imperial I’ve taken into my confidence?

The three Yarrow men came to a stop before us. There was a long, awkward silence, and we simply looked at one another. I glanced at Malo, who gave the tiniest shrug— I’ve no idea, either!

Finally, Darhi softly cleared his throat and said in careful, precise standard: “You are to bow, and introduce yourselves.”

Before I could speak, Ana bowed deeply and said, “Prince Camak! I am Immunis Ana Dolabra, of the Imperial Iudex. How sorrowful I am that we should meet you now! Know that my heart grieves for the loss of your father, whom all in the Empire considered a great king, and a true friend. Words cannot capture the depth of our sympathies, nor our torment, when we learned of these evil tidings this morn.”

I looked sidelong at Malo, utterly bewildered by Ana’s sudden courtliness. Malo only gaped in response.

“I am here solely to comprehend how such a thing has happened,” Ana continued, “for I must regretfully tell you that we are wholly ignorant of nearly every aspect of this tragedy. We do not know how it occurred, nor how Prificto Kardas might be implicated in it. Though we pledge to assist you in any way, at first, unfortunately, I can only offer questions.”

Before the prince could respond, Pavitar scoffed. “Oh? Yet why should we answer them?” he demanded. “When it is we who have been so terribly wronged! For you imperials to now burden us with such demands suggests you believe us to be either fools, or lia—”

Prince Camak turned to him. “I have not spoken,” he said softly.

Pavitar fell silent, abashed. A tiny, triumphant smile flickered across Darhi’s face.

The prince turned back to us. He cleared his throat lengthily—he seemed unaccustomed to stately speech—and said in thickly accented standard, “I appreciate your kind words, Immunis. I have long known that my circlet would one day shift from silver to gold, and my flesh would take up the throne. But I had not ever imagined that the day should arrive so ill-fated. I am thankful that the Empire has so speedily sent assistance.” He gestured feebly. “Though, ah, you may already know them, this is my satrap, Danduo Darhi, and my court jari, Thale Pavitar.”

The two men nodded to us, though Pavitar did so quite reluctantly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Ana, bowing. “Assisting me is my investigator, Signum Dinios Kol, and Tira Malo, an Apothetikal warden from Yarrowdale.”

“Yes…” said the prince, uncertainly. His gaze again lingered on Ana’s face. Then he frowned, turned, and whispered something to Darhi.

Darhi nodded, his expression the very picture of taciturn servitude. Then he said in his calm, cool voice, “We note you wear a blindfold, Immunis.”

“That I do,” said Ana.

“Thus, we must ask—are you blind?”

“I am sightless, true,” she said. “But my investigator and my warden here see for me. I assure you, we shall have no issue operating within your court, sir.”

She then grinned so widely that the prince flinched. Darhi’s eyebrows rose fractionally, and Pavitar gazed at her in disgust. I sighed inwardly; I supposed Ana could suppress every sign of madness for only so long.

“I…I see,” said the prince uncertainly. He made a face like the next words pained him greatly. “It would be best to begin by telling you that your people, though held until we can comprehend what happened, are all safe—to some degree.”

Ana cocked her head. “To…some degree, sir?”

“Yes.” Again, he hesitated. “For I must now tell you that Prificto Kardas has fallen unwell. Indeed, we believe he was stricken by the same poison that affected my father the king.”

There was a stony silence as we absorbed this.

“Prificto Kardas was… also poisoned, sir?” I asked slowly.

“But he lives,” said Darhi.

“And yet you still think he was the poisoner?”

The prince faltered, then gestured to Pavitar.

“We do,” said Pavitar indignantly. “For it was Kardas who gave the poisoned cup to the king! The king drank from it and was instantly stricken. Clearly Kardas handled the poison himself, and was afflicted by it, though much less so than our fallen king.” He sniffed. “But then, Kardas was never a competent man.”

“Before we delve into these matters, sir,” said Ana sharply, “my duty compels me to first visit the delegation and treat Prificto Kardas, if that is possible.”

The prince nodded, and now gestured to Darhi.

“That can be done, of course,” said Darhi smoothly. “We do not hold them in some pit or dungeon, but in the guest chambers in the southern wing of the hall. It is a most comfortable arrangement.”

“Sounds quite pleasant,” said Ana dryly. “Very kind of you.”

Darhi permitted a trim smile. “But, Immunis, I did wish to ask an unsightly bit of business. For though this tragedy has assuredly brought our negotiations to a standstill, it leaves us in an uncertain position…Who shall represent the Empire’s interests in this moment? Shall it be you?”

“No, no,” said Ana. “I cannot represent my state in any official negotiations. I am here only to understand, and enact justice.”

“Then who shall it be?”

“If Kardas proves innocent,” said Ana, “it shall be him. If he does not, it shall be someone else from his delegation, acting as his interim replacement.”

Another trim smile. “Thank you for the clarification, Immunis. I seek only stability in all things.”

Pavitar glowered at him; Darhi ignored his gaze entirely. Indeed, I realized he had yet to look at Pavitar once. It was then that I felt I grasped the nature of the situation: the prince was a young, spoiled man who’d likely never imagined he’d ascend to the throne, given that the Empire was to adopt the territory; yet now his father was murdered, and his two most powerful courtiers were at vicious odds on what to do next. Perhaps he’d reached out to us simply because he’d found his own people utterly unmanageable.

“And if his guilt is proven,” said Pavitar to Ana indignantly, “will you fight our application of justice? Shall you try and steal him away, though he killed our king?”

Ana shrugged. “If I deem he truly is the murderer of your king, then I see no reason why he cannot be killed here! A dead man cannot be greatly bothered by who owns the patch of earth he swings over—true?”

All three Yarrow men appeared utterly astonished. I opened my mouth to protest, then carefully shut it.

“Truly?” asked Pavitar. “If we execute your prificto, you would not protest?”

“I only ask that you hang him rather than behead him,” said Ana. “Beheading is considered a sacred death in some of the more ancient parts of the Empire, reserved for high folk. Under imperial common law, all criminals are considered of the same low stock, and thus suited only for hanging.” She grinned brightly. “Unless you wish to swing the axe yourself, Pavitar, as a bit of exercise?”

Pavitar gazed at her, torn between bewilderment and outrage.

The prince cleared his throat. “I…am glad we have come to an arrangement.” He paused, glanced at his advisers, and then gazed very hard at Ana. “Yet before you see to Kardas and his people, Immunis, I…I would ask a moment of your time.”

Ana bowed deeply. “You may ask for any or all of my time, Your Majesty.”

“I must be clearer,” said the prince. “I wish you to join me as I keep vigil with my father’s body. Alone.”

Darhi and Pavitar had obviously not anticipated this: Pavitar’s mouth fell open and his face turned a dull pink, while Darhi’s green-painted brow wrinkled ever so slightly.

“In the…the reliquary, Your Majesty?” said Pavitar.

“Indeed,” said the prince.

“But we have never let an imperial enter such a sacred space before. Not in all our—”

“Still, that is my wish,” said the prince. “For neither have we had a king fall to poison in this hall. These are strange times. I must have their honesty, and there are many ears at court. In the reliquary, I can have silence.”

The prince looked very hard at me. I nodded in response, signaling my comprehension.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Ana, bowing once more—though I noted that a tremendous grin split her face at the bottom. “I am honored that you would grace us with such intimacy.”

“Then come, Immunis,” said the prince. He offered Ana his arm. “I shall take you to the reliquary myself.” She took it, bowing once more, and he turned and led us across the great hall, leaving the two advisers behind.

Pavitar stormed off to angrily speak with a group of elderly-looking gentlemen in elegant, black coats and caps. Satrap Darhi I lost almost immediately, his movements obscured as the servants and nobles of the smoky hall stirred about us. I assumed he had vanished to join his own supporters, wherever they might be.

It was as I followed the prince through one set of doors that I felt a plucking at my arm, slowing me. I turned to find that Satrap Darhi had silently reappeared beside me, gliding along at a gentle, serene pace.

“How fare you this day, Signum Kol?” he asked softly.

“Ah—well, sir,” I said. “But I do recall, the prince did ask us to visit with him alone…”

“True,” said Darhi. “But it is a long walk to the reliquary, and I wished to inquire about you. These were treacherous times before and are even more treacherous now. Tell me—do you still carry the favor I gave you?”

I slid the oathcoin from my pocket, and his eyes lit up at the sight of it.

“Ah,” said Darhi. “Very wise of you to bring it! I shall do all the prince asks to aid you, of course, but…if there is any additional service I can provide, you need only ask.”

“What service might you suggest, sir?”

“Well, both I and the Empire want the same thing, of course—apeaceful transition, with no bloodshed or sorrow. What hazardous days we live in! Keep the coin, Signum. Remember it well. And call on me should you ever need anything.”

Then he bowed, and left me to catch up to Ana, Malo, and the prince. When I glanced back at the smoky passageway, he was gone.