by Matthew Ward
Puzzlement yielded to earnest smile. Kaila’s finger stabbed towards a slightly lopsided loaf at one end of the stall. “That one.”
Melanna stood and addressed the stallholder. “How much?”
“Thirteen rialla.”
Too much. Probably the woman expected to barter, but that in itself presented a problem. Melanna suspected most folk didn’t recognise her without the jewels and gowns of state, but there was no guarantee. If she named a lower price and it was met only because she was the Empress, then that made a poor lesson for Kaila, and likely cheated the woman into the bargain. The realisation occasioned bitterness, a small pleasure stripped away. Perhaps that was why she’d avoided the market so long?
It didn’t help that Apara watched her deliberations with obvious amusement.
Admitting defeat, Melanna counted out the coins and pressed them into Kaila’s hand. “Pay the woman.”
Kaila handed over the coins with stolid solemnity. Melanna scooped the loaf into her basket, and set the basket in Kaila’s hands. “Guard it with your life, essavim.”
The girl stood to something approaching attention. “Yes, my Empress.”
The stallholder’s lip twitched. So she had known.
Taking Kaila’s hand, Melanna threaded her way through the crowd, stopping at one stall or another almost at random, buying goods merely for the pleasure of doing so. As she wandered, free of an Empress’ burdens, the character of the stalls altered, the foodstuffs and garments of the day giving way to the coloured lanterns and complicated pleasures of the night market.
Eventually Rasha, no longer willing to wait on the periphery, wended through the crowds to join her. “I think it would be best if you returned to the…” A weatherworn cheek twitched. “… returned home.”
He was probably right. The night market operated on the fringes of acceptability, and was no place for an Empress to be seen, much less her child. For all that others of rank partook its intoxicating joys, seemliness was all. But it would be a while yet before the commerce of the day yielded to the hedonism of night, and Melanna – lost in the rare joy of untetherment from an Empress’ duties, found herself in no hurry.
“I shall, in time.” She gazed across the marketplace to where an elderly trader struggled to load his wares onto a low-sided dray. The man’s arm was bindwork below the elbow, the artificial muscle fraying and poorly maintained. “Detail some of your Immortals to help that man.”
“My Immortals are present for the Empress’ protection,” Rasha replied stiffly.
Melanna’s eyes lingered on each visible Immortal in turn. “And I’m sure the Empress understands that if she can see four Immortals, there are as many again keeping vigil without armour to betray them.” Rasha twitched a scowl, but said nothing. “And she surely trusts the lunassera to keep her safe.”
“Very well.”
Rasha offered a stiff-necked bow and withdrew. Apara’s soft laughter chased him along. Soon after, the perplexed merchant found his burdens eased by a trio of Immortals.
A fourth appeared at Melanna’s shoulder. “Jasaldar Rasha says I am to remain at your side, savim.” A familiar voice, though her face lay hidden beneath the helm. Tesni Rhanaja.
“I’m sure he does.” Melanna noted also that the lunassera now stood closer than before.
Kaila frowned. “Do you know that man, Madda?”
“I do not,” replied Melanna.
“Then why do you want Shar Rasha to help him?”
Her use of the word shar – a corruption of the formal term for a respected citizen, used for kin that were not quite kin – provoked a smile. Another lesson beckoned. One Melanna herself had been too long in learning.
“He lost his arm fighting for the Empire, essavim. Defending all that we have and all that we are. It deserves honest service in return.” She hesitated, recognising that the explanation belonged to a younger, more arrogant woman than the one she’d become. “And because I can. That’s enough.”
Kaila’s expression knotted and unknotted as she wrestled with the concept. “Shar Apara says only a fool gives something away for free.”
Face flat, Melanna stared over her daughter’s head. “Oh, does she?”
“Not my words.” Apara held up her hands. “I suggested it’s wise to know what you’re getting out of the deal, even if it’s nothing at all.”
Melanna looked from one to the other. Both wore curiously similar expressions, wary of being rebuked for a lie. “Apara is a rogue, essavim, and a rogue would make a poor Empress.”
“Yes, Madda.”
Would she remember any of this? Melanna’s own recollections of childhood were so fleeting that she could hazard no guess. Maybe that was for the best, for there was truth even in Apara’s cynical counsel.
“Savim?”
Tesni nodded sharply towards the sun-shadowed palace. A mounted messenger forced a path through the crowds, provoking curious gazes and angry voices. Any passersby who’d remained ignorant of the Empress in their midst would no longer do so.
Melanna’s heart sank. A message, and an urgent one to provoke such commotion. The freedom of the marketplace faded as if it had never been, and the Empress went to receive it.
“So it has begun.”
Aeldran stared from the terrace across the garden, past the ring of Immortals that guaranteed semblance of privacy from wandering servants, towards the blackened remains of the old wood. He’d been distant ever since they’d returned to the palace, at least to Apara’s eye. Then again, she’d never had much of a knack for reading him. For all that she considered the Empress the closest of acquaintances, the royal consort remained a mystery that twin barriers of language and culture could not wholly explain.
Haldrane, a shadow in the dying sunlight, shrugged. “If Prince Edgir’s letter is to be believed, yes. He certainly spared no expense getting it here. There must be a trail of half-dead horses between here and Haldravord.”
“You speculate when you should know,” rumbled Aeldran. “Or should another assume your duties?”
Haldrane straightened. Ice crept into his tone. “The Empress may do as she believes best.”
He, at least, Apara understood. A broker in secrets and whispers, Haldrane’s anger was less at the accusation of dereliction and more at its truth. The icularis were failing too often of late. The sympathy didn’t last. She didn’t care for Haldrane, nor he for her. Each saw too much of their own duplicity in the other.
Melanna drew her cloak tighter. Her eyes too alighted on the fire-blasted trees, though Apara suspected for very different reasons. “The Empress believes that bickering solves nothing.”
Apara suppressed a shiver. For all that Melanna looked no different than she had in the marketplace, she seemed many years older – a woman in her prime, in full command of self and situation. Even her voice was different, sharp and clear. Apara had witnessed similar transformations several times since their visit to Mooncourt Temple – not least when putting Cardivan in his place. Whatever she’d sought beneath the sanctum mound, she’d found… at least in part.
Melanna’s lip twisted. Imperial hauteur fell away. “The past is the past. We deal with events as they are.”
Aeldran resumed contemplation of the gardens.
Haldrane sighed. “The attack on Terevosk itself is, of course, nothing. You’ll forgive me, but a rabble counts for little in the grand scheme, no matter how storied their leader.”
Their leader. Apara was trying hard not to think about that. Though they’d never spoken, she and Roslava Orova were sisters in law and tradition. She’d never had much family. Now it seemed she’d even less. She told herself what sorrow she experienced was for the idea of kin, not its truth. Sevaka’s wife would never have thought kindly of her. And yet… family was family, even if you didn’t choose it.
“But the symbolism?” Haldrane went on. “Edgir may not be convinced, but he suggests Faethran was receptive enough. It makes for a powerful tale. Ancestral enemies st
rike against the Gwyraya Hadar and the Empress blockades those who seek to act? It’ll play well with cynics and patriots alike.”
“You sound as though you approve.” Apara spoke more to drown uncertain feelings than to be heard. She wasn’t even part of this council – merely a sympathetic ear. If council it was. It had more the feel of conspiracy than governance.
Haldrane hooked an eyebrow, his tone taking on the same note of disapproval it always did around her. “I find it best not to let pride interfere with judgement. It leads to underestimation, and if you’ll forgive me, Empress, we are already guilty enough of underestimating the House of Tirane. I have warned you for many years that Silsaria was a boil to be lanced. Now it’s too late.”
“What would you have me do?” asked Melanna.
“Withdraw your blockade,” said Haldrane. “Let it be known that you’ve been swayed by Tressian treachery, and will permit Cardivan – and those who follow him – to defend Redsigor and take whatever reprisals deemed due.”
“You’d have the Empress be swayed by the actions of a rabble?” Apara wondered why she cared. After years away, she felt little kinship with her fellow Tressians, save one or two. “Your words, Haldrane.”
He glared at her. “I didn’t claim it a good option.”
“Then why suggest it?”
“Because poor choices are all that remain,” he snapped. “Almost any action now suggests weakness. Even peace with the Republic, if it could be arranged.”
Unlikely, given Lord Droshna’s unflinching manner. Apara preferred not to think of him if possible, nor how easily his shadow had once shackled her to his will. She’d sworn to die before letting that happen again.
Aeldran abandoned his vigil of the garden and folded his arms. “I know a part of what must be done. I should ride south, today, and take command of our forces at Mergadir.”
Melanna shook her head. “I need you here. Kaila needs you here.”
“One of us has to be with the army – especially if swords are drawn.”
“Then I’ll go. It’s my banner, and my responsibility.”
Aeldran exchanged a glance with Haldrane. Receiving the other’s minuscule shrug, he limped across the terrace and laid his hands on Melanna’s upper arms. “I’ve always admired your warrior’s heart, but it leads you false in this. If you leave Tregard, you will be vulnerable. Rasha cannot protect you on the road as he can here, and I fear our forces at Mergadir will be swarming with Cardivan’s agents. Ride south, and you invite death.”
“That holds as true for you as for me.”
He dipped his head, a wry smile playing about his lips. “Indeed. But I am not the Empress, merely her consort… and consorts are expendable.”
Melanna pursed her lips, swallowing vexed expression. “Not to me.”
His hands fell away. “I’m glad that is so, but it changes little. The Empress must be above such petty concerns, especially now. She must preside with dignity while curs snap at her heels. But more than that, she must live.” The smile faded. “I know inaction sits ill with you. But this is the way it must be.”
Worry, hurt and frustration chased across Melanna’s expression. One by one, they vanished. “Our daughter will expect your return. Do not disappoint her.”
“Our daughter alone?”
The crease of Melanna’s lips might have been a smile, though it vanished too soon for Apara to be certain. “As to the rest, if I am to be a caged Empress, I can still act to reaffirm the loyalty of wavering kingdoms. You will work with me on this, Haldrane?”
He bowed. “I live to serve, Empress.”
For all his deference, there was something peculiar in his manner. But then, so much of Haldrane’s manner was peculiar. Another oddity of culture, perhaps. For all that the Hadari were the same as Tressians, details of dissonance echoed strangely.
“Then leave us, both of you,” said Melanna. “Farewells deserve privacy.”
When Apara retreated from the terrace she found Haldrane waiting for her in the corridor.
“Might I steal a moment of your time?” He smiled, pleased with his small witticism.
Stranger and stranger. Apara could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions upon which Haldrane had initiated conversation. She drew back a step. An empty corridor invited the sharing of secrets, but the potential for so-called accidents around a man such as Haldrane was always to be respected. “Go on.”
He offered a lopsided smile. He’d recognised her wariness. But then, she’d meant him to. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.”
He’d never know how true that was. “You’re right.”
The smile soured. “We needn’t quarrel. Indeed, I offer a gift – a detail not present in Edgir’s letter, but confirmed through other means. Lady Orova lives, though I expect not for very long.”
“I should care?” The response was rote, a defence against the actions caring might demand. “Why didn’t you tell the Empress?”
“They share an… unfortunate history. Had I raised the matter, I’ve no doubt she’d have forbidden action.”
“It’s not for the Empress to forbid me anything.”
Another of those damnable, Raven-may-care shrugs. “Then I misunderstood. Good day.”
Apara watched him go, stomach sour with uncertainty.
The house was too small, too cramped, possessing only eleven rooms of modest size, and those filled to bursting by a moderately sized entourage. The furniture was worse. Not substandard, as such, but peasant’s fare – workmanlike and barely comfortable. The gardens – too modest to be worthy of the name – were neither here nor there, for stepping outside invited dire consequences. Even in Tregard’s Poor Quarter, far from the sight of city wardens and the Immortals of the palace guard, there were those who’d report that his regal majesty Cardivan Tirane had not been expelled from the city, as was commonly believed, but rather a decoy.
Cardivan consoled himself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be for ever, but still his temper slipped when his guest entered the drawing room. Haldrane had that effect on everyone. Temptation remained to cancel the meeting and offer the spymaster up to his champion’s unhappy delights. Brackar’s enthusiasm for pain was equalled only by his talent for inflicting it.
“Well?” he demanded.
Haldrane didn’t answer at first, his gaze fixed on the cracked plaster above a soot-clogged hearth. “Aeldran Andwar rides south to take command at Mergadir. The Empress is to remain in Tregard, where she is… safe.”
Cardivan leapt to his feet, the lumpen chaise rocking gently behind. “You promised an opening to exploit. Prince Aeldran’s departure buys me nothing!”
“Be mindful of your tone, majesty,” Haldrane replied icily. “I act as I do because the Empire can no longer afford indecision. If that means clearing your path to the throne, then so be it. But I’m not some lackey, bought and sold. Our goals align. Let that be enough. Or must I change my mind about our arrangement?”
Cardivan scowled. He reminded himself that Haldrane would surely have set contingencies against warranted aggression. “My apologies.”
Haldrane nodded. “You underestimate how much she relies on her consort. Their bond may not be love, but it is partnership all the same.”
“I need spears.” With an effort, Cardivan kept frustration from his voice. “Aeldran’s presence at Mergadir makes that harder. Aelia Andwaral might have been goaded to rashness. Her brother has the impatience of a stone.”
“Forget the south. You’ve drawn away Rhaled’s armies. Content yourself with that.”
“How can I? Tregard is not without defenders, and I haven’t enough men in the city to overcome them.” In truth, Cardivan had rather more warriors in Tregard than Haldrane suspected. “I need an army.”
Haldrane laughed under his breath. “You have one.”
“With Mergadir blockaded, I have a hundred men.” Cardivan cast an angry hand towards the unseen palace. “Not even enough to defend this squalid ma
nse, let alone contest the royal guard.”
Nor was that strictly true, but secrets had twice their value when kept from Haldrane.
Haldrane crossed to the cracked window. “Not so. An army is close enough, even if it is not the one you intended. You need only call for it. Redsigor was never the prize.”
Lost in possibility, Cardivan forgot the spymaster’s supercilious manner. “Thirava won’t like it.”
Haldrane snorted. “He doesn’t have to like it, only obey.”
Cardivan nodded absently, logistics now claiming his whole attention. It could be done, and swiftly. It carried risk, but all worthwhile endeavour carried risk. It was the mark of a great man that he forged on regardless, and bent history’s flow to his will. “Redsigor was never the prize.”
Twenty-Eight
Fingers brushed against the timbers of the boarded-up window. Not her fingers. How could they be when lacking any sensation save the sound? There was pressure, certainly. Instinctive acceptance of resistance against a piece of oneself, however distant.
Even sound, too, was lacking. Not just in the caress of fingertip against woodgrain or rough brick, but in what lay beyond. The bustle of streets steeped more in memory than present seeming. Dull, and yet not dull enough, just as the eyes beheld shape, but so little of colour. Here again, instinct inked detail, giving life to the drapes’ rich black and shards of golden sunlight. Not seen, but known. A muted world, familiar and yet not. So close to nightmare.
Perhaps nightmare might be preferable. One awoke from nightmare. In nightmare, one didn’t question the dearth of tell-tales that proved life’s illusion. The flutter of breath. The imperceptible tremor of coursing blood. A hundred tiny sensations that told the mind that the body lived, and breathed, and belonged. All lost. Stolen in a whirlwind of raven feathers and cold clay.
Recent memory was jumbled. Frantic. A storm of frustrated emotion, soothed by embraces scarcely felt and rumbled solace that had comforted even with meaning lost to madness. Little by little, she’d come to understand her misfortune. She’d held witness as that same fate had befallen another. A lifetime ago, then and now bridged by… what?