Page 77

CHAPTER

Seventy-Seven

T HE EMPEROR STOOD on board his Leviathan, watching the sky. Seagulls mobbed the island, and carrion crows, drawn by the bodies yet to be retrieved and burned. He felt a stirring of pity, and sorrow, for the dead. He did not hate them, he wished them no ill. He never had. Only—they were in his path.

Havoc stood at his shoulder, waiting for his next order. The emperor would never say it, but he found the boy tiresome—his insatiable hunger for recognition, his misguided self-belief. His parents’ fault. Some people should not have children.

But he had his uses.

“I should like to speak with Fenn. Bring him up, would you? And clear the deck.”

Havoc bowed and left him.

Trails of smoke drifted across the island, from the dying remains of the Fox palace. He might add the image to his coronation speech—something about… yes, he would say he saw the shape of a wolf in the smoke, lit by the morning sun. There was no room for the Fox and its followers in Andren’s sunlit vision of Orrun Reborn. Too cunning, too rebellious, too unpredictable. With the Guardians caged, and his daughter ruling Helia, Andren could spin any tale he wished. He would tell the crowds in White Tiger Square that the Dragon—tired of the Fox’s endless treachery—had destroyed the First Guardian in a stream of fire. From the ashes, a new Guardian of the Eight had arisen: the Wolf. In time, there would be a Wolf Pack in every neighbourhood, watching and informing. It would take a few years, but the emperor was a patient man. A patient young man.

Havoc returned with Fenn, flanked by two guards.

Andren ordered the Hounds away. “Lord Fenn won’t be any trouble. He knows what will happen to his family if he misbehaves.”

Fenn was unshaven, still wearing the overalls he had on when he was arrested, his muddy boots. He squinted at the man he thought was Ruko, sizing him up. “You look different.”

“Do I?” Andren was fascinated. “How so?”

Fenn shrugged. “Just different.” You didn’t tell the most powerful man in the world that he looked unhinged.

The emperor laughed. His face shifted, his hair turned from black to grey.

Fenn gaped, refusing to comprehend what he was seeing. “What the fuck…”

Andren took a step forward, arms out in friendship.

Fenn stumbled back, until he tripped on a pile of ropes and sat down, heavily. He rubbed a hand over his scalp. Maybe that knock to the head had done more damage than he’d realised.

Andren sent Havoc to find some tobacco. “You’re not hallucinating, Fenn. It’s called a Chameleon Spell. It allows me to take on my son’s form.”

“You were Ruko, all along?”

“No, no.” Andren laughed again. He was enjoying himself. “For the past fifteen years…” His appearance shifted briefly a second time, back to the Old Bear. “I have been your emperor.”

“You…” Tears filled Fenn’s eyes. “What happened to Bersun? What did you do ?”

Andren shifted back into Ruko, the spell pulling him back to the soul he had most recently stolen from. “It was necessary, Fenn. You remember what he was like. So dour, so short-tempered. So inflexible. He wasn’t fit to rule.”

“Then why pretend to be him? If he was so terrible?”

“To save Orrun. To heal the empire.” Andren brought his hands together. “I could have ruled as Andren the Usurper. The Great Traitor. And the Bears would have gone to war against me. Probably whipped up every Commoner to their cause. Maybe the Oxes, too.”

Fenn waved his hand— stop. It was too much.

“I saved Orrun, Fenn. And now, finally, I can rule as myself. No one knows the real Ruko Valit. Maybe he’s exactly like his father. Who would know any different? After all—you knew Bersun, and I still fooled you.”

“You used me.”

“Well—as you always say, Fenn—that’s the curse of being useful. But I wouldn’t complain, if I were you. It’s what’s keeping you and your family alive.” And without further preamble, Andren embarked on his favourite topic—the restoration of Samra. “You’re going to bring it back to life for me. You’ll have all the resources you need. Imagine it—the Marble City, returned to its full splendour. New squares, new parks and theatres.” He spread his hands out, marvelling at the expanse of his own ambitions. “The greatest engineering project ever undertaken—and you’ll be in charge. Tell me that doesn’t excite you.”

“It doesn’t excite me.”

Andren clapped his hands. “Deadpan as always. But I know you, Fenn. Once you’re there, and settled into the work. Never known a man toil as hard as you…”

Havoc had returned with tobacco and paper, a tinderbox. And a trace of annoyance, to be acting as servant, dressed in his crisp gold and white uniform.

Fenn, watching them both, built a roll-up and lit it. As he breathed in the tobacco, he felt his heartbeat slow. He had to stay calm, stop asking questions. Take this all in later, when he was alone. Let them think he’d given in; use their arrogance against them.

Andren was still selling his grand project. “Twice a month, you will have a day off to spend with your family. As long as you cooperate, they will be treated well. You have my word.”

Fenn smoked. Oh, your word. That’s reassuring.

“These terms can improve. This doesn’t have to be unpleasant. You’ll have all the money and resources you need. All you have to do is work hard and behave.”

Fenn stubbed out his roll-up, and got to his feet. “Submit to the yoke.”

Andren laughed. “Very good. And yes—if you like. But I do hope in time it won’t feel that way, Fenn. Samra’s restoration means everything to me. I’m sure once you’re there, you will come to share my vision.” He turned to Havoc. “Take him back below would you? I need to speak to my son.”

Ruko was locked in the hold, chained to the floor, Gedrun’s iron mask clamped to his head.

“We’ll design something better for you when we reach Samra,” Andren promised.

Had anyone fallen so far or so fast as Ruko Valit? The night had dragged him down by the scruff of his neck from emperor to slave. Rivenna’s numbing poison had worn off, but the effects of the Chameleon Spell kept him knocked down, defeated. Perhaps he would understand better if he knew the spell’s true name. Soul Stealer. His immaculate body was intact. But something essential had been taken from him that could never be restored. A small sliver of himself, lost for ever.

Andren unlocked the mask and put it to one side, untied the gag. He smoothed his son’s hair down, and patted his cheek. He was wearing his own face down here. “Less unsettling for you,” he said, as if he were being compassionate. He stretched, and cracked his back, before pulling up a chair. Sat down with his legs apart, fingers laced together. “I know you’re disappointed.”

Ruko stared at his father, impassive. All he had left was his training. Give him nothing. No more than he has already taken.

“You have a choice to make, Ruko. Gedrun lived fifteen years. You’re young and healthy. You have Valit and Majan blood in your veins.” Andren reached out and gripped Ruko’s wrist. “You will live twice as long, I’m sure of it. You can resist, if you wish. You can go mad, as Gedrun did. I will still take what I need from you.” Andren’s grip tightened, his nails digging into Ruko’s skin, then let go. “Or you can accept your fate. If you do, you will be well treated. Comfortable quarters. A private square to exercise at night. Good food, good wine. We might arrange whores for you.”

Ruko did not react. Stillness. Patience. Dignity.

Andren had not come down here to provoke his son, but this annoyed him. Did he not realise his days playing a Tiger warrior were over? “You should know—Rivenna considered you an average student, at best. The only thing that set you apart was your singular focus on the throne. And even that, I gave to you.” Andren prodded his son in the chest. “You always were a lazy boy, Ruko. You lacked the discipline or resolve to make something of yourself.”

Ruko kept his eyes fixed upon a point on the floor, and concentrated on his breathing.

“Not like your sister. Yana…” Andren paused, overcome with sudden grief. It always surprised him. He cleared his throat, and continued. “Yanara was special. Your mother’s favourite, and mine.” A shrug—it was what it was. “You resented her for it. Given the right provocation, I knew you would betray her. In fact I’d counted on it.”

Andren rose to his feet. Above their heads, sailors ran back and forth, preparing to set sail. The boat pitched in a swell, forcing him to put out his hands, to steady himself. “What I did not anticipate,” he said, when the pitching stopped, “was your cruelty. Sending your own sister into exile. Wicked. Evil. But I must confess, it was the spur you needed.” Andren nodded to himself. “I suppose deep down you knew that. No way back. Every path destroyed but one. The path to the throne.” He spread his hands wide, and laughed. “Poor Ruko. You truly believed in yourself, didn’t you?”

“I won the Festival,” Ruko said. “Which is more than you did.”

Andren slapped him, hard. Then again.

Ruko spat the blood from his lips, and gave a mirthless smile. “Did I touch a nerve?”

Disappointed, Andren gagged his son again before fixing the iron mask back over his head. He was not gentle this time. “I do not like this brattish insolence,” he said, as he turned the key. “I have yet to decide whether we should cut out your tongue. You might reflect upon that, before we meet again.” He was halfway to the door before he remembered something. “I brought you a gift. Some company. Rather fitting, I thought.”

He swung a small cage into the hold, and placed it at Ruko’s feet. The cage was covered with a golden cloth. “It’s called Pink-Pink. Ridiculous name, don’t know where it came from. Feel free to change it.”

For a long time after his father had gone, Ruko did not move. He breathed, behind his mask. Thoughts came, dark thoughts. He heard the anchor, winched from the seabed. The blare of a trumpet. “To Samra!” Cheers from the crew. They were going home, with their emperor.

His father was mad, and would do terrible things in his name. Had already done terrible things in his name.

In his mind he saw a black space, where once a golden rope had stretched all the way to the marble throne. Now there was nothing but the void. If he took a step in any direction, it would consume him. He might want it to consume him. Yes, he might want that.

The Leviathan lifted and dropped on the waves, sending the cage sliding along the floor. Ruko stopped it, and removed the gold embroidered cloth.

A green and yellow chameleon sat on a narrow branch, tail wound in a spiral. Its eyes swivelled warily.

“Hello,” Ruko said, feeling foolish.

But this was no ordinary chameleon. This was a creature dragged unwilling from the Hidden Realm. And it needed a new home. Its colours changed to black, white, orange. Tiger stripes. A greeting of sorts.

Ruko opened the cage. At least one of them could be free. After an achingly long time, Pink-Pink crawled out of the cage door, and with a sudden snap, extended his tongue to catch a fly on the wing.

Ruko didn’t notice. Pink-Pink’s exit had disturbed the layer of branches at the bottom of the cage, revealing a flash of red fabric. Brushing aside the vegetation, Ruko reached deeper, and pulled out a scarlet ribbon.

Benna.

Smoothing the ribbon in both hands, he saw that she had written something on the other side. He turned it over.

TEAM RUKO!

He laughed, inside his iron mask, because it was so wonderful, and stupid. Because his father would not understand it, not in a thousand years. A nonsense phrase, scribbled on a scrap of ribbon. A tiny fragment of the Bear, sent to give him courage. He wound it around his fingers. And it did. It gave him courage.