“Just remember that Tipsy Tigers Almost Always Sleep Late Into Morning.”
Hazel wrinkled her brow. Perhaps he was still rattled from the chimes. “Why would I want to remember that?”
He gave a cheerful, decidedly nonservant grin that she rather liked. “Afrique, Your Highness. The first letter of each word represents an archduchy: left to right, north to south. I was pressed for time when studying for Provinces so I devised little tricks to remember things.”
A simple device but rather useful. How many more did this page have?
Rising from her seat, Hazel buttoned her long coat. “I think we’ll try this again. Next Tuesday then.”
He bowed. “Next Tuesday, Your Highness.”
Hazel left Rattlerafters, descending the stairs briskly lest she give Rascha an opening to gloat. The vye and Sigga followed, neither speaking until they were outside. Dàme Rascha took a moment to warm her hands by a witchfire lamp.
“That went well,” she observed complacently.
“Tolerable,” said Hazel. “But it was beastly to ambush me like that.”
The old vye smoothed her pupil’s scarf. “If you’d known what was in store, you would not have gone.”
“Of course I would have. I yearn for knowledge! Now, about that painting . . .”
Even Sigga smiled at this. As the three crossed the darkening grounds, Hazel was practically buoyant. She had just taken a one-hour vacation from herself and it was liberating. Not once had she fretted over the Spider’s mandate, Mystics, or even Master Montague. She had been hunting caribou and Cheshirewulfs, fleeing Hauja across frozen lakes while vultures wheeled above.
“He ate a Cheshirewulf’s heart!” she exclaimed to herself. She glanced up at Sigga, who was walking beside her. “Where he’s from almost sounds like the Grislands.”
“Not quite, Your Highness. In the Grislands, humans are in the minority.”
“But both places are cold,” Hazel observed. “Not like this,” she said, brushing some snowflakes with her mitten. “But really cold. Freeze-your-blood cold.”
“That is true.”
Hazel turned her mind back to the boy. “We did well to poach him,” she said. “I didn’t know muir could be so interesting. How do you think he ended up all the way out here?”
Sigga smirked. “That’s what I’ve been wondering.”
“He’s been vetted,” said Rascha defensively. “By the Sylvas and our people. Security approved him.”
The agent grunted. “If security was any good, I wouldn’t be here.”
Hazel began to feel sick. “Please stop. Both of you. That was the first hour I’ve enjoyed in weeks and now you’re making me worry that the page is an assassin.”
Sigga nodded. “My apologies, Your Highness. It’s not your job to worry about your safety. It’s mine. Would you agree, Dàme Rascha?”
The vye bowed. “I did not mean to imply—”
“What’s going on?” said Hazel, looking ahead as they rounded some trees.
A celebration was under way in the palace’s rose gardens. Bright glowspheres hovered over several hundred guests clustered about braziers, laughing and clinking glasses. As they approached, Hazel spied a familiar face by a semiscandalous statue of Mina VII, whose beauty (and vanity) was legendary. Uncle Basil was awkwardly shifting a toddler from hip to hip. When she got closer, he caught sight of her and beckoned her over.
“Hazel! Come meet a cousin and say hello. You’ve been neglecting me terribly.”
“Sorry, Uncle Basil. I’ve been catching up on my classes.”
“Never let school get in the way of your education,” he said amiably. “Some wise fool said that. Anyway, this is your distant relation, Amelia. Her family’s visiting from Southaven.”
Hazel hated meeting young children for the simple fact that her appearance often frightened them. Nevertheless, she mustered a smile for the girl, who promptly recoiled.
“She’s so white, Cousin Basil!”
“And you’re rather chubby,” he replied, pinching her and setting her on the ground. The girl giggled and ran off to her mother. Lord Faeregine sighed. “Sorry about that—unpromising brat. Anyway, come in and raise a glass to Typhon.”
“What’s Typhon?”
“She’s a ship, my dear. The most glorious galleon Fenton’s shipyards ever built. She just came through the maze. Come have a look.”
“I’d love to, Uncle, but really I can’t. I’m just ducking inside for a bite and then it’s back to work.”
He looped an arm about her. “Nonsense. There’s plenty of food here, including those little artichokes I know you like. Make a plate, say hello to a few people, and then trudge back to your books. It’s a sad soul that never rejoices.”
There was no resisting him. Hazel followed him into the midst of humorless bankers, gossiping socialites, and a crowd of boisterous merchants (“important men in the city,” according to Uncle Basil), who were relieving a phlegmatic faun of his appetizers.
Sigga and Dàme Rascha followed as Lord Faeregine introduced Hazel to various lords and ladies. It was a game Hazel had been playing since birth. She said hello, smiled at insincere compliments, and politely clawed a path toward a table with chafing dishes.
“You must be starving,” said Lord Faeregine, chuckling as she piled artichokes and crab cakes on a tiny plate. “Let’s have someone fetch you a platter.”
“That’s okay,” said Hazel, wolfing down a crab cake. “I’ve only got a minute. Where’s Harkün?” Her uncle’s bodyguard frightened her so much that Hazel always made a point of looking for him.
Uncle Basil was distracted. “What? Oh, I don’t know. Harkün’s always wandering here or there. Red Branch are notoriously independent. Unless you’re the empress, it’s like trying to herd cats. Isn’t that right, Agent Fenn?”
Sigga inclined her head.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Lord Faeregine led Hazel to the nearest railing and pointed down at a vessel of such monstrous size it had to anchor in the middle of the harbor.
“Nine masts,” Uncle Basil crowed. “Two hundred cannon to fend off any pirates in the Bloodshallows or Hadesian Deeps. She’s a floating battery, Hazel. Look at Legionnaire. Compared to Typhon she’s practically a dinghy.”
This was true. Legionnaire was a magnificent ship, almost five hundred feet with a Lirlander Seal on her prow. But Typhon was twice that size. In the moonlight, her paintwork was practically luminous.
“She’s beautiful, Uncle Basil,” said Hazel. “Truly.”
He laughed with pleasure. “The bank’s sunk a mint of money into her, but I daresay the investment will pay off handsomely.” He lowered his voice. “And between you and me, a certain someone is going to clear a fortune on the silk she’s carrying. You wouldn’t believe how much that ship holds. Once she’s back from her voyage, I’ll buy you a racehorse.”
“What would I do with a racehorse?”
He clinked his glass against her plate. “You race it, my dear. Incidentally, where is my Little Mermaid? I read it every Yule and your theft made me break tradition.”
“I promise I’ll return it.”
A disbelieving look. “When?”
“When I get my racehorse.”
He groaned. “Perfectly criminal. Ah, there’s Harkün.” He nodded at the hollow-eyed giant slipping smoothly through the crowd. Brushing past Sigga, Harkün whispered something in Lord Faeregine’s ear. Uncle Basil made a face.
“But she promised she’d make an appearance.” He glanced anxiously at several photographers by a fountain. “Excuse me, Hazel. I have to have a word with the empress.”
Hazel shrugged and attacked her artichokes. If Uncle Basil thought the Spider would venture outdoors to coo over some ship, he didn’t know his mother.
“Shall we go?” said Dàme Rascha.
“Two minutes,” said Hazel, reloading her plate. There was something undeniably pleasant about eating hot food on a cold, clear night. She was
about to take another bite when Sigga suddenly pulled Hazel behind her.
“What are you—?”
Hazel’s exclamation died away. Guests were parting as the demon Lord Kraavh made his way toward them. The Lirlands ambassador towered over the humans, both terrifying and magnificent in robes of midnight silk. He must have been ten feet tall from the top of his curling horns down to his goatlike hooves. Three round green eyes were set in that tigerish face. Each was fixed on Hazel.
“That’s close enough,” Sigga warned.
The rakshasa halted, his imps and servants standing behind him. Heat radiated off his person, mephitic vapors that billowed and hissed as they wafted away on the breeze. Hazel had never been so close to such a being. The demon’s aura was so overpowering it was like a gravitational field. Hazel could barely move.
The ambassador appeared amused by Sigga’s caution. “I wish to make Her Highness’s acquaintance. I haven’t had the privilege.”
The rakshasa bowed low. Hazel managed to follow protocol: a curt nod accompanied by a minuscule bend at the waist. “Hazel Faeregine,” she said.
Lord Kraavh gazed over the overlook’s railing. He was so tall he could view the harbor from where he stood. “What do you think of the fleet’s latest addition?”
“Very impressive,” said Hazel.
“Indeed. But not as impressive as you, Your Highness.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
The demon glanced up at the night sky. “There’s a full moon tonight. There’s magic in such moons. They shine a surprising amount of light. On some more than others. You shine rather brightly, Your Highness.”
He gave a knowing leer before gazing about the grounds.
“Would you believe I stood on this very spot during the Siege of Rowan?” he remarked. “I saw the Hound turn a battlefield red. I heard Prusias’s roar when the first Faeregine shattered his crowns. It’s the blessing and curse of my kind. We live so long that both triumph and shame are inevitable. Dynasties are no different. I could tell you many stories of your ancestors, Your Highness. One in particular.”
He knows. The rakshasa was so ancient he would have been centuries old when Mina IV was still a girl. He had probably seen Arianna Faeregine in person, perhaps even met her. Hazel had no doubt that Kraavh recognized the likeness between them. “Perhaps some other time,” she said quickly. “Unfortunately, I have to go.”
“Pity,” said the ambassador. “The party is just begin—”
BOOM!
The explosion sent Hazel careening into Dàme Rascha. Clutching the vye’s robes, she turned her head as a gargantuan fireball rose in a crowning plume from the harbor.
There were sounds like falling hailstones. Rascha pulled Hazel to the ground, shielding her as splinters of burning wood rained from the sky. Lying on her stomach, Hazel gazed dazedly down at the harbor trying to process what had happened.
Typhon had exploded.
Yellow flames blazed where the galleon had been, an inferno vomiting torrents of black smoke. Other ships had also caught fire, including Legionnaire whose sails were burning. Empty skiffs bobbed on the flickering swells like matchsticks. Flashes erupted on Hazel’s right. Photographers lined the railing, snapping pictures as quickly as they could. One turned his camera on her. She hid her face in Rascha’s robes.
A voice rose above all others, an anguished cry that Hazel barely recognized. Peeking out, she saw her uncle nearly crash into a rosebush. He staggered to the railing and stared down at the harbor with an expression of wild, almost frenzied disbelief.
“No,” he gasped. “Dear gods, no! No!” Whirling about, he stabbed a finger at someone. “You did this!”
Peering around Rascha, Hazel saw Lord Kraavh standing motionless. Sigga stood between the demon and Hazel, a dagger in each hand.
“That is a very serious charge,” the ambassador remarked coldly. “The kind that leads to wars. I suggest you confer with the empress before making such accusations. In the meantime, call off your little dogs before I decide to get angry.”
The demon gazed coolly at the Red Branch agents positioned between him and the two Faeregines. Hazel saw that Harkün had also drawn a dagger with a wavy black blade.
Uncle Basil did not reply at once but turned back to the harbor as though this was all a nightmare from which he must wake. But Typhon did not rematerialize, and the brilliant fires kept burning. He dipped his head.
“Harkün, stand down. Sigga, get my niece inside. Lord Kraavh, return to your embassy and remain there until we determine what has happened. Someone is going to pay for this outrage.”
The demon turned and walked away. “Someone certainly will.”
CHAPTER 9
THE DIREWOOD
This is the forest primeval.
The murmuring pines and the hemlocks
Bearded with moss, and in garments green,
indistinct in the twilight . . .
—“Evangeline” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Pre-Cataclysm poet (206–131 P.C.)
Two weeks after the Typhon exploded in Rowan Harbor, Hob lay atop his cot, wondering if their room would be searched that morning. Guardsmen had swarmed the servant quarters three times, twice with dogs. They hadn’t found anything incriminating, but Hob knew they’d keep trying. He had the impression that the authorities wanted a servant to be responsible for the catastrophe. Far easier to deal with commoners than the Lirlanders or a rival house.
Across the way, Viktor was donning makeshift armor: a sock-padded hat, an apron lined with stale bread, and shin guards made from bundled newspapers.
“Last chance,” he said.
“Can’t,” said Hob. “I’ve got work.”
Viktor scoffed. “Allow me to observe it’s Saturday and I made a side bet on the assumption you’d be playing.”
Ordinarily, Hob would have been Viktor’s partner in the weekly match of hall thumper. The game involved two-man teams trying to plow through a gauntlet of defenders in the narrow hallway housing the linen closets. Each team got one chance to claim a tarnished ladle hung from a hook at the end of the hall. Matches were rowdy, violent, and incredibly fun. It was also a centuries-old tradition, which meant that the underbutlers (who despised the game) could do little about it.
“Come on,” Viktor pleaded. “If you don’t play, I’ll have to pair up with Zeke. We’ll come in last and then it’s good-bye, Viktor. Are you that desperate for another roommate?”
Hob chuckled but Viktor’s fears were not entirely unfounded. In hall thumper, the pair that claimed the ladle the quickest won a pie. The team in last place had to provide said pie by whisking one that night from the kitchens. The hags, who knew perfectly well that pages tried to steal a pie every Saturday, prepared their defenses accordingly. And thus, while every team wanted to win hall thumper, the more desperate objective was not to lose. Since Hob’s arrival, Viktor had enjoyed two victory pies and steered clear of fists, teeth, and booby traps.
Having donned his gear, Viktor cursed Hob for dooming him to death by hags and stormed out. Hob waited a minute before retrieving his handbook from his nightstand. Sitting up, he opened the back cover and wrote a message using a broken comb tooth as a stylus.
All well. Meeting twice per week with HF. Have not seen magic, but she and DR stay late in tower every night. No one else admitted but SF. Palace tense after Typhon. Multiple searches. Some think explosion was accident (spark in gunpowder room), but most blame Lirlanders. Ambassador confined to embassy.
Overheard following while on page duty:
Finance ministry considering tax increase on provinces.
Empress doubling troops in Eastern Blys in case of food riots.
Hydes blocking measure to strengthen Houses Minor.
SF had me followed first week but not since. Remain cautious.
DR invited me to attend HF class trip to Direwood today. Triplets will be there along with others from Great Houses. Will report.
For truth,
equality, and a free Impy-
The door flew open as Viktor rushed back in the room. Keeping his cool, Hob laid the handbook casually aside.
“That was fast.”
“I’m going back out, was just . . .” Viktor’s eyes fell on the handbook. “Why are you reading that?”
“Brushing up on my houses,” said Hob. “I’m working an outing with the fine young gentleman and the court brats.”
“Lucky you. Pop quiz: What’s the mascot for House Menlo?”
“An ulu.”
“And the Jains?”
Hob yawned. “An afrit. How’s Zeke?”
There was a split-second hesitation. “He’s fine.”
Hob glanced sideways at his roommate, who was now rummaging for something in his topmost drawer. Viktor’s response was odd. It almost seemed like he’d forgotten who Zeke was. The hairs on Hob’s neck prickled. He stared at Viktor a little closer.
“How ’bout a tune?” he said, nodding at the fiddle, which was Viktor’s dearest love.
“Maybe later.”
“Come on,” pressed Hob. “One verse of ‘Muirlander in July.’”
Snatching up a pair of socks, Viktor stowed them under his hat for extra padding. “Gotta run. Catch you later.”
“Take these too,” said Hob. He tossed another pair of socks well behind Viktor. Reaching back, his roommate snatched them without a glance.
When the door closed, Hob exhaled slowly. Viktor was all thumbs at everything but his fiddle. Whoever just came into the room, it was not Viktor Grayson.
Sigga Fenn has mastered arts so dark and insidious they’d turn your stomach. Never break character, not even when you think you’re alone . . .
The recollection of Mr. Burke’s warning made Hob queasy. His pulse pattered like a rabbit’s. Had Sigga been lurking outside, waiting for Viktor to leave so she could mimic his appearance and pretend to barge back in? And if she had, was this the first time?
Hob felt foolish for thinking he’d won over the Grislander. It wasn’t her nature to trust anyone, much less a newcomer to Her Highness’s circle. He had to convince her he was an ordinary page. If her suspicions continued, she’d eventually uncover something. Despite Mr. Burke’s assurances that he would pass any background checks, Hob still felt like he was hiding in plain sight. Closing his eyes, he massaged his temples.
Impyrium Page 17