by Alec Hutson
The Contessa massages her forehead with two fingers, wincing. “The parley. Another useless meeting to take me away from more important things . . .” Her silver eyes suddenly brighten, and she looks at me. “But this time we will see how Ezekal reacts to you.” She turns to address the castellan. “Find this man something suitable to wear. He’s about to meet the emperor of Zim.”
6
The Contessa is quiet for most of the carriage ride to the city gates. She has donned her white mask again, and although I can no longer see her eyes, I suspect that if I could they would be fixed on something far away. I hope she’s formulating a strategy to both deny the Prophet what he wants and also save the city, but I suppose she could also be considering whether she should truly trust me. Though the fact that she’s alone with me in her gilded carriage suggests that she believes I won’t reveal myself to be the man she claims I once was.
The sound of the cobbles beneath the wheels suddenly changes, and she slides open a panel so she can glance outside.
“We’re almost there,” she says. She takes out a small hand mirror and inspects herself carefully. “Things have changed in Ysala since you were last here,” she says distractedly as she adjusts the frilled collar of her dress. “After the Night of Bloody Shadows – that’s what they’re calling the Masquerade where the Marquis made his bid for kingship – most of the leadership of the Trusts was dead, killed by the Red Trillium’s shadowdancer assassins. The new heads of the Trust are young and inexperienced, except for the Baron, who was too sick to attend that ill-fated celebration.” She snaps shut the mirror’s case and slips it away. “They look to me for guidance, and so far my attempts to delay the emperor have proven successful.”
“How have you done that?”
“By claiming that we are trying to find the girl he desires. He doesn’t know that Valyra is actually at my manse. Zimani spies spotted her months ago when I foolishly let her out to explore the city, but they did not realize she was under my protection. We’ve tried to claim that she has since left the city, but the emperor insists that she’s still inside the walls, which makes me believe that Ezekal has some arcane way of knowing this.”
“Does the Prophet know who you are?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably in the tight damask shirt the castellan found for me.
“No,” the Contessa says, and I hear the gloating in her voice. “He has been staring at me for weeks at these parleys and is completely ignorant that we used to sit in council in the cloudspire of the Silver holdfast three hundred years ago.” She pauses for a moment, tilting her head to one side in thought. “I suppose we are lucky, in a sense, that Valyra was recognized so many months after arriving. It had been long enough that she could have traversed the breadth of Zim by natural means. If she’d been found earlier, the Prophet would have realized that she must have used the doorways to arrive in Ysala so quickly. And then he’d start wondering if I was involved.”
“Do you think he’ll be surprised to see me?”
The Contessa chuckles throatily. “Oh, most definitely. I can’t wait to see his face.”
A few moments after the carriage lurches to a stop, the door is swung open by a handsome young man in the red and black livery of the Gilded Lynx. He gracefully offers the Contessa his hand and she accepts, descending from the carriage with her back straight and head held imperiously high. I follow blinking into the harsh daylight. Above us, the late afternoon sun is just visible over the trebuchets perched atop the city gate.
A small crowd of elegantly dressed men and women is milling near the great doors. Half of them are wearing masks, and the others have swords at their sides. It seems like each of the Trust heads has been allowed a single bodyguard at this parley. As we approach, they stop their muttered conversations and turn to us.
A burly man in a black mask sporting two stubby tusks crosses his arms. “Who’s this one, Contessa? Has your weird little feral scampered back to the forest?”
The Contessa ignores his question, sweeping into the midst of the crowd. A few of the other Trust leaders nod respectfully, a gesture she does not return.
“You’re late again, Contessa,” the man with the tusked mask continues. “The emperor will be annoyed.”
“I care about the emperor’s annoyance almost as little as I care about yours, Baron,” she says dismissively, not turning to face the man.
I see his fists clench at her words, and I sidle closer to the Contessa. The sudden tension is obvious, and a few of the other Trust heads step quickly away. “Careful,” the Baron growls. “I’m not like these other young pups, Contessa. You don’t intimidate me.”
“Please, please,” a slender man in a gold filigreed mask entreats, stepping forward with his hands pressed together. “We must be united, yes? If the emperor senses fractures he will try and split us apart, yes? And if we are riven, Ysala is riven too, yes?”
“Yes, yes,” the Baron mimics. He raises his mask slightly and spits on the ground. “Let us follow the Contessa’s lead. She is our voice in these negotiations, as we agreed. Of course, her words haven’t seemed to dislodge the tens of thousands of swords pointed at our city.”
“As you say,” the Contessa snaps, interrupting him, “they are only pointed at us, and not hammering on our walls. Do you think your . . . guile could have kept the armies of Zim at bay for so long, Baron?”
The man in the boar mask steps back, grumbling something under his breath. The Contessa continues to stare a moment longer, and despite being a full head shorter she seems to loom over him. The other Trust heads must sense the same, as I can see them leaning towards her.
She may not have claimed the title of ruler, as Valans tried to do, but this is very clearly her city now.
“Enough banter,” the Contessa says loudly, addressing the crowd around her. “Open the door!”
At her shouted command, a pair of soldiers on the barbican above the gate begin straining to turn a massive windlass. Moments later, a grinding comes from the great doors as they slowly open.
Outside Ysala, the forest I remember infringing upon the walls has all been cut down to deny any cover to the invaders. The razed woodland extends all the way back to the hills rising in the distance, where the legions of Zim must be encamped. I can’t see any details, but the glint of metal and the faint splotches of color suggest that a vast army blankets the heights. Closer to us, a great pavilion the purple of imperial Zim has been erected beyond the range of Ysala’s archers. A regiment of soldiers in bronze armor are standing stiffly at attention outside the tent, their hands on the hilts of their swords.
The Contessa begins striding across the newly-cleared field, and the other Trust heads and their bodyguards follow. I quickly count the Zimani soldiers. Fifty, more than double our own number, and no doubt the very best in the empire. Slashes of white paint have been daubed on their cheeks and around their eyes. They exude discipline, and if they fall upon us I doubt very much we’ll be able to make it back to the safety of the city. Half the representatives from Ysala can’t be counted on to have any skill with the blade, or are well past their prime years. If the emperor wanted to cut off the head of the snake this would be the time.
The Contessa shows no fear, though, not slowing at all as she approaches the pavilion’s entrance. A fat albino in a flowing yellow robe draws back the flap, and she passes through into the darkened interior. I follow a few paces behind, surprised no one has tried to disarm us.
The reason becomes obvious as I step inside. Lining the walls are another score of white-painted Zimani soldiers, their polished cuirasses and plumed helms gleaming red from the flames dancing in four great braziers. The center of the pavilion is dominated by a long table of golden wood, behind which sit a dozen Zimani, both men and women, and one heavyset graybeard with silver eyes. I recognize the Prophet from my visit to the imperial court. Now that I know we have a history, I half expect memories to come tumbling back, but he still looks like a stranger to me. He is watching us placid
ly from the far end of the table, his hands folded on the wood and a slightly distracted expression on his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was on the very periphery of power in this room.
The old Zimani seated in the center of the table in a much larger and more elaborate chair rises, and all the others hurry to join him in a rustle of expensive cloth. The emperor looks the same as I remember from my brief time in court.
“Be seated,” he commands us, indicating the chairs on our side of the table, then sits again. His fluttering entourage does the same.
The Trust heads each claim a chair, with the Contessa taking the seat directly across from the emperor. I follow the lead of the other bodyguards and come to stand behind her, watching the Prophet carefully until his meandering gaze finally alights on me. Surprise shivers his face, and his eyes widen. I keep my own expression carefully blank.
“Welcome, honored men and women of Ysala,” the emperor intones solemnly, lacing his fingers together. “Let us hope the words we speak today prevent blood from flowing. May the gods bless our meeting.” Every head in the Zimani delegation turns towards the Prophet, who finally tears his gaze from me. I notice the emperor’s gaze flick from the Prophet to me, a slight frown curving his blue-painted lips.
The man the Contessa named Ezekal smiles and bows his head. “The hidden gods have turned towards this place, and I can feel their burning attention. They know the fate of the world rests on what path the free city of Ysala chooses to take today.”
“Ridiculous,” the Contessa snorts, breaking the solemn mood. “How has this fanaticism infected your once enlightened realm, Emperor? I thought of Zim as a bastion of reason and pragmatism, but now I find you wrapped around this zealot’s finger.”
Angry mutterings ripple among the Zimani high born. The emperor hears this and holds up his hand for silence. “The Prophet has shown me visions, and I in turn shared them with the patriarchs and matriarchs of Zim. As you can see, the Twilight Empire is united in this cause.”
These are the high nobles of Zim? I search them quickly for any familiar faces and find the arrogant young man who visited Auxilia in her manse, though he is not wearing his ornate obsidian armor. The other patrician at that meeting isn’t here, the fat woman with the mantis-man Sword. Nor is Auxilia herself. A coldness washes through me. Did something happen to her? She warned me that the Prophet was sending warriors to assault the Umbra and kidnap Valyra. Yes, she’d bought my life-debt and forced me to join her stable of Swords . . . but I’d liked her. And she is Xela’s mother. I have to know if she’s all right.
“The Twilight Empire is not united,” I say into the silence that has fallen after the emperor’s pronouncement.
Gasps up and down the table, from both sides. The Contessa stiffens in front of me, as if I’ve made a grievous error. Even the soldiers ringing us are showing signs of displeasure at my audacity, adjusting the grips on their spears. Only the Prophet and the Emperor do not seem outraged: Ezekal is trying to hide a smile with his hand, while the lord of Zim has merely raised his bushy white eyebrows, watching me.
I continue quickly before anyone can give the command to have me struck down. “Many of the matriarchs and patriarchs of Zim are not here. Where, for example, is Auxilia Orthonos?”
The emperor blinks slowly, as if surprised to hear the matriarch’s name. “Who are you, warrior, that you know so much about the great families of Zim?” His dark eyes study me carefully. I can feel the deepness in that gaze, the probing intelligence. This is not a pawn, I realize, no weak-minded puppet of the Prophet. The emperor has marched his legions over the Wall and besieged Ysala because he truly believes Valyra must be brought before Ezekal if a terrible fate is to be averted. This unnerves me.
“I was her Sword for a time,” I tell him. More mutterings and confused glances among the high nobles.
The emperor leans back in his chair, seeming to study me in a new light. “Auxilia proved recalcitrant when I demanded her loyalty and her support for this war, as did several other of the great Houses. I could not leave such traitors behind me in Zim while I am out on campaign. Who knows what trouble they might foment? So I had them taken prisoner.”
My mouth is dry. “And what will become of them?” I ask, and with this question I know my luck is close to breaking.
“She will be executed on the last day of the Blood Blossom festival, along with all the other traitors to the throne. As is tradition in Zim.” He says this without emotion, holding my gaze levelly. The coldness in me deepens. I remember Auxilia’s sly smile and the way she’d clung to me after our lovemaking, as if I was more to her than just an exotic diversion.
The dread in me is subsumed in a rising anger. I want to collect the heads of these sneering nobles. I imagine myself buried under an avalanche of steel as the guards rush forward, the satisfaction I would feel even as the life ebbed from me. The emperor must sense something of what is in my mind, as for the first time I see something like uncertainty in his face.
“She only wants to save Zim from making a terrible mistake,” I say softly.
“Quiet, dog,” snarls the young patriarch, Belav. His eyes are bulging and he looks like he’s ready to surge across the table.
The emperor seems to realize that the situation is close to deteriorating. “Enough!” he says sternly. “What happens in the Twilight Empire is of no concern to the defenders of Ysala. You all have far greater worries, I assure you.”
“And let us return to them,” interjects the Contessa. “My man will hold his tongue.” I can hear the remonstration directed at me in her tone.
The emperor draws in a deep breath and nods. “Very well. We shall forgive this impertinence, so long as this parley is not marred by any further outbursts.”
“It will not be,” the Contessa assures him quickly, as if to forestall me from saying anything more.
“Good,” the emperor says, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. “Then I will bring us to the most important matter of the day.” His gaze sharpens as he focuses on the Contessa. “Which is that your time is up. You have failed to bring me the girl I desire, and my legions are even now preparing for battle.”
“We cannot provide what we do not have,” the Contessa says. The conviction in her words is so strong even I want to believe her, but the emperor only shakes his head and chuckles.
“Ah. You lie as well as any matriarch of Zim – you would have been a great queen, I have no doubt.”
“I speak the truth, Your Grace.”
The emperor snorts, jarring in its lack of decorum. “There was always a sliver of doubt in my mind that my spies had glimpsed the wrong red-haired, copper-eyed girl in the market here in Ysala. But now fresh information has snuck out of the City of Masks and found its way to my ear. My councilors say this source is unimpeachable, no matter how incredible its claims.” The emperor pauses, as if letting the suspense in the room rise. Every eye in the tent is on him. “This claim is that you harbor the girl in the manse of the Gilded Lynx. You protect her even as your city is threatened with destruction!” The emperor rises half out of his seat so that he looms over the Contessa.
“A lie,” she says calmly, but her knuckles have gone white.
Now it is the other Trust heads who are murmuring amongst themselves, casting secret glances at the where the Contessa sits stiff-backed.
“It is a lie to justify your invasion,” she continues harshly, suddenly pushing back her seat and standing. I can see spears being lowered out of the corner of my eye, and I would be surprised if there weren’t a dozen hidden quarrels trained on her right now. But she does nothing more than meet the emperor’s gaze boldly.
“Take off your mask,” the emperor commands. “Let me look upon your face when you claim innocence. And if it is truth I see, my armies will march back over the mountains. Come, Contessa,” he says, reaching a hand out towards her. “A parley must have trust if war is to be avoided.”
The Contessa takes a quick step
back, nearly bumping into me. “You forget yourself, emperor,” she snarls. “You do not command me.” She whirls around, and in her posture I can sense her anger. She seems flustered, which I never thought I’d see. “Come,” she commands tersely, brushing past me as she strides towards the pavilion’s entrance. The fat albino holding the edge of the flap glances at the emperor nervously as she approaches, and the ruler of Zim must have given some signal, as he quickly draws the fabric aside.
I hurry after her, but before I follow her outside I turn around to see how the rest have taken the Contessa’s sudden exit. The Zimani nobles and the Trust heads look stunned: I see ashen complexions, widened eyes, and more than a few mouths hanging open. The emperor is smiling like he’s just played an unexpected yet brilliant move against a savvy opponent, while the Prophet is stroking his beard thoughtfully. His gaze drifts to meet mine, and he nods, his expression inscrutable.
I would give anything to drag him behind the tent and beat some answers out of him, but that’s an impossibility right now, so I plunge into the daylight after the Contessa.
I have to jog to catch up, though she slows slightly as I come up alongside her. “So that didn’t go well,” I say, and she glances daggers at me.
“You dared interrogate the emperor before the negotiations had even begun?” she says, and from her tone I’m glad her face is hidden from me.
“Well, you just stormed out of his pavilion without leave,” I reply.
“Because now it is a race against time,” she says. “And we need every second.”
“Why? The invasion will start soon?”
“Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head. “The emperor will give the other Trust heads the opportunity to bring him Valyra before he unleashes his legions. I’m sure that’s what he’s telling them right now.”