Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  As they discussed this, Hob could not help but wonder if the Fellowship was misusing him. Hazel’s naïveté showed how Impyrium’s problems went much deeper than the individuals who comprised the royal family. Its laws existed to benefit a tiny sliver of the population. Perhaps things had been different under Mina I, but that was three thousand years ago. Impyrium was corrupt now, rotted and stinking to its core. It seemed a waste to spend so much time and energy trying to assess the princess’s magical capabilities. There was real work to do.

  Putting these reflections on hold, Hob continued the lesson and discussed further concepts like interest and risk versus reward. Mining provided plenty of the examples.

  “When I started to work,” he explained, “I had to borrow against future wages to buy my gear. The interest was high, so I wanted to pay off the debt as quickly as possible. To do that, I volunteered for jobs with hazard pay.”

  “What’s hazard pay?” said Hazel.

  “An example of risk and reward,” said Hob. “Some jobs are more dangerous than others, so the miners who do them demand more money. If I did blasting or worked near the Grislands, I could double my pay. But I had to be smart. Some jobs were worth the risk, others weren’t.”

  “How did you know which to take?”

  Hob shrugged. “Instinct. Talking to old-timers. If the foreman was too quick to sweeten the pot, I never volunteered. Those were sucker gigs.”

  “Er, what’s that?” Hazel asked.

  “Apologies, Your Highness. It’s slang for a job only a very foolish person would accept.”

  Hazel turned to Dàme Rascha. “We’re on a sucker gig.”

  The vye gave a series of barking growls that might have been her closest thing to a chuckle. Indeed it was, for she pinched the princess and scolded her for making an old lady laugh. It was touching to see the affection between them. Hob suddenly missed his mother and Anja.

  “Do you have any other questions, Your Highness?”

  The princess put away her notebook. “Your injuries. How are they healing?”

  Hob pulled up his gown sleeve to show her the neat stitches in his left shoulder. “Some aches and pains, but they’re mending.” He ran a finger over a large black tattoo. “This has seen better days. My mother will never forgive me.”

  “I meant to ask you about those,” said Hazel. “I hadn’t realized you had such markings. Do all muir have them?”

  “No. These are Hauja symbols. They’re my mother’s people. Hauja boys receive these if they survive séyu. The shaman refused to give me mine, so my mother inked them herself.”

  “What are they?” asked Hazel.

  Hob opened his gown, baring his torso. The princess blushed, but he pretended not to notice. “Hauja worship twelve spirits. Once a boy sits séyu, the shaman chooses three to guide him in life.” Hob pointed to each, starting at his right shoulder. “Fenmaruq is the Wolf, Vessuk the Salmon, and Kayüta the Fox.”

  Hazel peered closely. “I couldn’t see them clearly with all the patterns. They’re lovely. Why did your mother choose those spirits?”

  Hob looked down. “She believes the Wolf gives me strength, the Salmon my will, and the Fox my wits.”

  “And what about that?” she said, pointing at the gashed tattoo. “It looks like a bird.”

  “That’s Morrgu,” he answered. “Every boy gets her. When I die, the Raven will ferry my soul to its resting place. If I’ve honored my guardians, she’ll take me to my ancestors. If not, my soul goes into the Void.”

  “Do you believe that?” asked the princess.

  Hob gave an unconvincing smile. “I try not to. Breaking the Faeregine House Blade is probably a one-way ticket. I still can’t believe that happened.”

  Hazel turned to Dàme Rascha. “He needs to know the truth. This isn’t right.”

  “Your Highness,” the vye warned.

  Hazel turned defiantly back to Hob. “You did not break Bragha Rùn, Mr. Smythe. You’ve never even held it.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Hob. “You gave me a fake?”

  “No,” said Hazel quickly. “Well, yes. But I had no idea it was a forgery. I took the sword directly from Prime’s hand.”

  “So where’s the real one?” said Hob.

  The princess ignored her tutor’s growl. “We don’t know, which is the only reason my grandmother wasn’t harder on me and my sister. If it weren’t for us, the empress wouldn’t know it was missing. Unfortunately, it’s been ages since the real Bragha Rùn was used. The sword could have been stolen years ago.”

  The vye had heard enough. “Your Highness, we do not know the sword was stolen. We know only that it was not in Prime’s keeping. You would do well not to spread rumors.”

  “Come on,” said Hazel. “Of course it was stolen!”

  “Only a Faeregine can claim Bragha Rùn from its guardian,” the vye retorted. “You are accusing your own family of theft. I am sure there is another explanation.”

  Hob’s mind raced back to the moment he’d taken hold of the legendary blade. He hadn’t known what to expect, but he certainly hadn’t expected it to feel so ordinary. But it was not his own reaction to Bragha Rùn that puzzled Hob. It was his opponent’s.

  “I think he knew,” he said softly.

  “You think who knew what?” said Hazel.

  “Lord Hyde,” said Hob. “He knew the sword was a fake. That’s why he agreed to go through with the duel—he knew it wasn’t the real Bragha Rùn.”

  Sigga cocked her head. “What makes you believe that?”

  “I was watching him closely,” said Hob. “When he first saw Bragha Rùn, he was genuinely surprised. But then I caught something else. A sly look, like he knew it couldn’t help me. All that posturing of whether to go through with the duel was just to make himself look brave. Lord Hyde always meant to fight.”

  Hazel whirled to face Rascha. “I knew it! The Hydes are behind all of this—the vault, Typhon, and now Bragha Rùn. It all makes sense!”

  “It does not,” said the vye stiffly. “And you should not be discussing these things in front of outsiders.”

  Sigga Fenn laid a hand on the vye’s arm. “This outsider has valuable insights. I’d like to hear more of what Mr. Smythe has to say on these matters.”

  Hob hated the agent’s eyes. They were like a damned cat’s, inscrutable and mocking.

  Just tell the truth.

  He gave an apologetic shrug. “No insights, really. Just a hunch from reading Lord Hyde’s face. Looking back, I’d bet anything he knew that wasn’t Bragha Rùn.”

  “It’s more than a hunch,” said Hazel excitedly. “It’s proof. Which house spends the most on Lirlander Seals? The Hydes. Which house has been suing for control of the bank since Typhon blew up? The Hydes. If Bragha Rùn goes missing, who has the best House Blade? The Hydes!”

  The princess was delighted with her deductive powers. Dàme Rascha furrowed her craggy brow.

  “Your Highness, every one of the Great Houses would like to see your family lose control of the Lirlander Seals and the bank. And you forget that a Hyde could not have taken Bragha Rùn from Prime. Only a Faeregine could.”

  “There are hundreds of minor Faeregines,” said Hazel. “Maybe the Hydes bribed one and—”

  “Enough!” snapped Dàme Rascha. “I will not have you flinging about half-formed accusations. The Lirlanders are far likelier suspects in the vault and the Typhon. You assume Bragha Rùn is somehow related to these events, but there’s no evidence to support this. These conjectures are irresponsible.”

  The vye folded her arms. Hazel looked mutinous, but Sigga Fenn continued gazing at Hob. “Any theories, Mr. Smythe?”

  Hob glowered at her. “Why are you asking me?”

  The agent smiled. “I like to read faces too.”

  “Sigga,” said Hazel crossly, “you sound like you’re accusing him. But what do you think, Mr. Smythe? I would like to know.”

  “Honestly, I haven’t any idea if these events
are connected or who might be behind them. But my neighbor would agree with Dàme Rascha about the vault. He thinks it was the Lirlanders.”

  “Who’s your neighbor?” said Hazel.

  Hob scratched the bandage covering his left eye. The wound itched terribly. “Private Marcus Finch. He was on duty that night at the Lirlander Vault. He’s the guardsman who survived.”

  Hazel pointed at the ward. “And he’s right out there?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. In the far corner.”

  The princess stood at once. “I want to speak with him.”

  Dàme Rascha rose almost as quickly. “Your Highness, I cannot advise this. The empress and your uncle have people looking into these matters. It is not for you to play detective.”

  Hazel shoved her books into her bag. “It’s been months, Rascha. No one’s discovered anything. Talking to Private Finch can’t hurt. Anyway, I have my own reason for wanting to find out if the Hydes are responsible for any of this.”

  “And that is?” said Rascha.

  “Let’s just say I don’t want Dante Hyde for a brother-in-law,” said Hazel, before turning back to Hob. “Do you think Private Finch would speak to us?”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to,” said Hob. “He’s very dutiful. He’s crushed he can’t serve in the guard any longer.”

  “Why can’t he?” asked Hazel.

  Hob searched for a diplomatic answer. “The Impyrial Guard has strict physical requirements. Private Finch no longer meets them.”

  “Oh,” said Hazel, looking troubled. “Well, I’m sure he’s doing the best he can.”

  The soldier was dozing when the moomenhovens rolled Hob’s bed back into place. The ward was not crowded, but the nurses screened off their corner so Her Highness would have some privacy.

  “Marcus,” he hissed. “Wake up, eh?”

  The guardsman stirred, slid up to a sitting position against the headboard’s rails. “What’s up? Time for our game?”

  “Later,” said Hob. “Someone wants to meet you.”

  “Who?”

  “A noble.”

  “Which house?”

  “One of the nobles,” said Hob significantly.

  “Now?” hissed Marcus. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

  “Don’t think she’ll care. She just wants to ask you some questions. About New Year’s.”

  Marcus gripped his bed rails. “Not the empress!”

  Hob shook his head, which seemed to relieve his neighbor. The private sipped some water and tried to smooth what remained of his hair. Hob signaled Suusa to fetch the visitors.

  “Private Finch,” said Hob. “Allow me to present Her Highness Lady Hazel Faeregine, along with her tutor, Dàme Rascha, and Sigga Fenn of the Red Branch.”

  Marcus sat up as the three slipped between the screens. The former guardsman tried to salute but Hazel insisted it wasn’t necessary.

  “You’re very good to see us on short notice, Private Finch. I trust our people are looking after you,” said Hazel. Her words were perfectly courteous, but she did not look Marcus in the eye. The instant she glimpsed his almost fleshless, noseless face, she averted her gaze.

  He looks this way because he was guarding your family’s vault, thought Hob irritably. Don’t make him feel like a freak.

  “They take good care of me, Your Highness,” said Finch. “With luck, I’ll be discharged by summer and can return home.”

  “And where is home?” said Hazel pleasantly, still inspecting the floor. Hob simmered. This was not the Hazel at Hound’s Trench; this was a Faeregine princess visiting the troops for a photo op.

  “Thystle, Your Highness. A village west of New Halifax.”

  She nodded. “I imagine it’s very pretty there. I’m sorry to intrude, but I wonder if you could share what happened that horrid night.”

  “Of course, Your Highness. But I’ve already told everything I remember to the guard captain and Agent Harkün.”

  “I would be very grateful,” said Hazel.

  Private Finch spent the next twenty minutes rehashing what he remembered. He’d clearly done so many times, for he moved seamlessly from one event to the next. He began with his reassignment from harbor patrol, the appearance of the imposters, the arrival of Lord Faeregine, and their realization that a crime was under way. His account was dispassionate until the attack. Then his emotions began to fray and Marcus reached frequently for his water.

  “The vault door was opening,” he said quietly. “Sergeant Beecher ordered me to take Lord Faeregine to safety. We ran. The sergeant fired off a few shots and then there was a scream. Horrible scream, I’ll never forget it. There was so much light from the vault. A shadow was on the wall. The vye was chasing me. I turned to fire, but it was too late. I was knocked out cold and woke up here. Didn’t even get to attend Sergeant Beecher’s funeral.”

  “You admired him,” said Hazel.

  The private nodded. “He was a soldier’s soldier, Your Highness. If he hadn’t bought us a bit of time, I don’t think your uncle or I would be here. I owe him my life.”

  He pointed to a photograph on his nightstand. Hob had assumed the man was a relative. He hadn’t realized it was the murdered sergeant. The Impyrial Guard had few like him anymore; Beecher actually looked like he’d fought a campaign or two.

  “He has a kind face,” said Hazel. She picked up the one beside it showing a handsome young man. “And who is this?”

  Finch hesitated. “I—I’m afraid that’s me, Your Highness. It was taken the day I heard I’d made the Guard.”

  The princess set it down and exhaled slowly. “My deepest apologies, Private Finch. I should have recognized you at once.”

  Hazel finally looked upon Marcus and did not turn away. No patrician benevolence remained. There was only a girl whose eyes shone with compassion.

  “No apologies necessary, Your Highness,” said Marcus. “I hardly recognize myself either. Don’t feel bad. My face is gone, but my hands still work. My dad’s a cobbler. I can work in his shop.”

  The princess could only nod, for her eyes were rapidly filling with tears. Private Finch tried to lighten the mood with a laugh and what passed as a grin for one without lips.

  “This won’t do. You’ve come for answers, not a pity party. What else can I tell you?”

  Hazel recollected herself. “Are you certain it was a vye that attacked you? Some mehrùn are capable illusionists.”

  The soldier gestured at his face. “This wasn’t done by an illusion. No, Your Highness, it was either a vye or some other kind of shapeshifter. I’ve always heard demons can change their forms. Personally, I think the imposters were Lirlanders.”

  “It’s a popular theory,” Hazel acknowledged. “I’m curious why so much light was coming from the vault.”

  “The Lirlander Seals,” said Private Finch. “Each one’s very bright. There must be hundreds in the vault.”

  “Why aren’t they on actual ships?” asked Hazel.

  Dàme Rascha spoke up. “Every Seal in circulation has a twin that is kept in the vault. The two are magically tethered, Your Highness. Disabling one, disables the other.”

  “Clever,” said Hazel. “No one can just buy a Seal at auction and sail off forever. If they don’t return it, we can just turn it off by disabling its twin in the vault.”

  “Correct,” said Dàme Rascha.

  “So why didn’t the thieves take any?” said Hazel. “I mean, we were just talking about supply and demand. A set of paired Seals would fetch a fortune.”

  “There wasn’t time, Your Highness,” said Private Finch. “When the imposters opened the door, we were already raising the alarm. And the Seals are the size of shields. A person couldn’t just walk off with a few.”

  “Then how were they supposed to make off with any Seals to begin with?” said Hazel.

  This stumped the private. “I don’t know, Your Highness. The thieves didn’t bring anything with them. All I do know is that they looked just like Lord Faere
gine and Dr. Razael.”

  Hazel nodded, but she looked puzzled. Hob could relate. He got the impression there were far deeper currents swirling about these matters than he could even guess. Perhaps the attempted theft at the Lirlander Vault hadn’t been a theft at all; perhaps it had been a diversion . . .

  Bragha Rùn.

  Hob stifled an exclamation. The vault break-in could have been made to deflect attention from the real crime—the theft of Bragha Rùn. If the Hydes were behind recent events, their strategy was paying off handsomely. In the past few months, the Faeregines had been publicly embarrassed, suffered a significant blow to their finances, and learned that their House Blade was missing. Individually, each one benefited the Hydes; together they were an outright coup. Even better, the Lirlanders made ideal scapegoats for the vault break-in and the Typhon explosion.

  Despite his excitement, Hob recognized there were holes in his theory. If what Dàme Rascha said was true, only a Faeregine could have taken Bragha Rùn from Prime, which would mean that a Faeregine had betrayed the family. And why the murder of Dr. Razael? What would have been the point of killing her? More problematic was the break-in itself. It would only serve as a diversion if it was discovered, and it was only discovered because Lord Faeregine arrived while the imposters were inside the vault. Why was he even there? Was he involved somehow? Hob doubted it. No one had suffered more from recent events than Basil Faeregine. The vault break-in had damaged his reputation and, if Dante Hyde was to be believed, Typhon had sunk his fortune.

  By now, Hob’s head was spinning.

  Slow down. You can’t report conspiracy theories to the Fellowship.

  Hazel asked several more questions. A few concerned the vault, the rest had to do with Private Finch. She thanked Marcus for his loyalty to her family and the sacrifice he’d made on her uncle’s behalf. Hazel’s interest in his recovery and future plans appeared to be genuine. Before leaving, she promised to visit Private Finch again. Hob believed she would. So did Private Finch.

  “I used to think the princess was some kind of demon,” the soldier muttered once their visitors had gone. “The way she looks, all those rumors. Shows what I know. She’s the prize of the whole bunch. Her uncle’s never once looked in. Just sent a note and a bit of money.”