Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  “She’s a good person,” said Hob. His simple answer belied the complicated thoughts and feelings that were simmering underneath. The world wasn’t as black-and-white as he wanted it to be.

  “How do you know her?” said Finch.

  Hob looked up. “What? Oh, I wouldn’t say I know her. We talk now and again about life in the Muirlands. She studies them for school.”

  “Yeah? And how’d you get the job?”

  “Just lucky,” said Hob. “You up for a game?”

  Finch thumped his bed railing. “Yes, sir. It’s my turn for a bit of luck.”

  Once he’d set up the arcadia board, Hob proceeded to lose in steady fashion. He wanted Finch to win back his stamps, but Hob would have lost regardless. His mind was not focused on the game but on conspiracies and luck.

  His response to Finch’s question had been a joke, but it made Hob think. Luck had certainly played a role in putting him with Hazel Faeregine, but it was hardly the only factor. The Fellowship had been fortunate that Dàme Rascha poached Hob from Lady Sylva, but they had also made countless maneuvers to steer events toward that outcome. And they had done so with the cooperation—willing or not—of a Great House. It was conceivable the Fellowship could be working with other Great Houses on other schemes. Hob recalled his journey on the Transcontinental, and Burke’s great interest in newspaper stories concerning the Lirlander Vault. Was the Fellowship involved somehow? Could they be in league with the Hydes to topple the Faeregines?

  If so, what was each party hoping to gain? Surely, each had to realize the other would turn upon them after they’d defeated their common enemy. They were diametrically opposed. After all, the Fellowship did not want to replace the Faeregine dynasty with a Hyde dynasty—they wanted to shatter Impyrium’s very foundations. Hob’s instructors had been very clear: all mehrùn were the enemy, all mehrùn were responsible for muir oppression. The entire system had to go. The Great Houses were little better than the royal family. From what Hob had seen of the Hydes, they might well be worse when it came to muir rights. He couldn’t imagine Mr. Burke or Ms. Marlowe aligning themselves with such people.

  As Finch gloated over his winnings, Hob found himself hoping the Lirlanders were to blame. It would simplify things and dampen his misgivings that he was a bit player in a game he did not fully understand. The Fellowship was demanding more information, but Hob was reluctant to share anything until he’d thought this through more carefully. He wanted to know what he was working toward and with whom. The Fellowship’s last message disturbed him. It was unquestionably a threat: Behave and report or else.

  Why were they so eager to learn about Hazel Faeregine? She was a kid, after all, though not much younger than Hob himself. And the more Hob saw of the princess, the more she surprised him. He never imagined she would be the type of person to take risks for someone else, much less a servant. Twice she’d stood up for him when it would have been far easier to do nothing. And she’d just shown real empathy and compassion for Finch. Hob did not believe Hazel was anyone’s enemy. If he uncovered that she was powerfully magical, so what? Weren’t all Faeregines supposed to be? What did the Fellowship intend to do with that information? Hob felt a pit begin to grow in his stomach.

  Two moomenhovens came to prepare Hob for his nightly moonbath. Removing his bandages, they spread a glutinous salve on his wounds and face—even his chipped tooth. They then wheeled him to an adjoining room where a lift raised his bed until he was positioned beneath a runeglass dome. High above was a gibbous moon. When its light fell upon him, his skin began tingling as the salve’s tiny lunasects wriggled to life.

  He tried not to dwell on thousands of magical organisms leeching and chewing, burrowing and regurgitating as they repaired his flesh and even bone. Hob regretted his curiosity since his first night in the ward. Sometimes it was better not to know how something worked.

  Hours passed before he was returned, clean and drowsy, to the main ward. Finch was snoring softly, the arcadia board untouched to commemorate his victory.

  When the nurses had gone, Hob drew the curtain around his bed and reached for his handbook. Opening it to page 213, he found the Fellowship’s message had faded, replaced by the list of diplomats. Flipping to the inside back cover, he stared at the blank buckram before tracing a reply with his finger.

  Nothing to report.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE PHANTASIA GROTESQUE

  I was born a poem, became a song,

  and shall die as laws bound in calf.

  I wish I’d stayed a poem.

  —Mina I (9 P.C.–144 A.C.)

  March would not go easily. Its gales whipped about Tùr an Ghrian, making the tower creak and sway like a flagpole. Hazel stood at a window, watching whitecaps move in formation across the harbor. Not even the boatmen were out. Two trade galleons lay at anchor, bright Lirlander Seals on their prows.

  Hazel mopped her forehead with a sleeve. Her mouth was dry and her bones ached. Rascha had never pushed her so hard. No more progressions; the vye was dragging her from the sunny shallows into Mystics’ murkier waters. The feats Hazel had been attempting were not only challenging, they frightened her.

  The vye’s staff rapped the malachite floor.

  “Again, Your Highness.”

  “I can’t, Rascha. I’m too tired.”

  “Because you are resisting. Changing shape requires an open mind. Stop clinging to Hazel Faeregine.”

  “But I am Hazel Faeregine.”

  Rascha wanted her to let go, to open doors in her awareness, but Hazel was afraid of what might be lurking on the other side. She had not heard any whispers since the Direwood, but she was becoming obsessed with the Reaper’s portrait. Every night, she took the painting from its hiding place and stared at it by candlelight. The likeness both comforted and repelled her. She could no longer go to bed without completing her little ritual.

  “That is only a name,” her tutor insisted. “You are matter and energy, a spark of awareness. You can assume whatever form you wish.”

  Hazel turned to less existential concerns. “Then why do I have to become a pig?”

  From her seat by a hearth, Sigga chuckled and nudged a piece of tangerine at Merlin. Hazel’s homunculus accepted it gratefully, holding the segment with its wingtips.

  “Human and pig anatomy are similar,” Rascha answered. “It is the simplest transformation, and a useful one. I myself have had occasion to use it.”

  As she finished the sentence, Rascha’s wolfish figure sank toward the ground. Robes pooled about her feet as the vye became a bristly black hog.

  “I know you can do it,” said Hazel. “I’m the one who can’t. I don’t have enough power.”

  The hog shifted again, flesh rippling, robes rising as it became an aged vye once again. Bending slowly, Rascha retrieved her staff. “You have power in spades. What you lack is focus and a willingness to let go. Try again.”

  Trudging back within the ring of megaliths, Hazel balled her fists and shut her eyes. She pictured the pig she’d like to become: a cute pink ball with a curly tail.

  “I’na morphos soo’ar,” she whispered. “I’na morphos soo’ar . . .”

  “That’s it,” said Rascha. “You must see like a pig, hear like a pig, even smell like a pig . . .”

  Hazel giggled.

  “Focus!” Rascha barked.

  Hazel’s smile vanished. She listened dutifully as her tutor encouraged her piggy alter ego to shiver in the windstorm, tamp the earth with cloven feet, root in damp pine needles, scratch her side against rough tree bark.

  But other impressions were invading Hazel’s mind. It was no longer a pig she pictured, but something huge and dark, ragged and feathered. She did not smell damp pine but ash, blood, and boiling sap. The surrounding forest was ablaze, its heat and energy feeding the fires within her. But still she was ravenous.

  Hazel’s skin was growing uncomfortably snug. Her breath came in shuddering gasps, filling her lungs with air that tasted st
rangely metallic. Unlike Rascha’s pig transformation, she wasn’t shrinking down to four legs, but getting taller on two. Pain shot through her shins and feet as they began to lengthen. The ragged figure in her mind’s eye was coming closer. Firelight flickered on a face that was a patchwork of bone, beak, and flesh. It was coming for her, coming for all of them. With a supreme burst of will, Hazel wrenched her gaze away.

  Opening her eyes, she staggered and grabbed hold of a heavy brazier to regain her balance. For several seconds, she could do nothing but gasp for breath as the pains in her legs subsided.

  “I give up,” she croaked.

  “Give up?” scoffed Rascha. “You’re not even trying! Cease these theatrics and let go. Convince yourself that you are a pig!”

  “But I’m not a pig!” cried Hazel. “I’ve never spent time with pigs. I don’t know how they sniff or scratch or root or run. I’m using my imagination for everything and . . . other stuff creeps in. It would be easier if I had experiences to draw on, but I have no experiences. I’ve lived my entire life on this island.”

  A pause. “If you cannot change shape, you cannot pass the exams.”

  “I know,” said Hazel. “No one knows better than I do.”

  The vye stiffened. “The empress is depending on you. You owe her your best effort after that foolery with the House Blade. There are worse punishments than mucking out the stalliana stalls. She was lenient with you.”

  “She was,” Hazel admitted. “But will she be as forgiving with you?”

  Dàme Rascha sat heavily on a carven bench and motioned for Hazel to sit beside her. “Is that what this is about? You are afraid for me?”

  Hazel nodded. “You’re the one who suffers if I fail. It terrifies me.”

  Rascha tutted. “At my age, threats and punishment mean very little. They do not frighten me, so do not dwell upon them. All I care about is seeing you become what you could be.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The greatest sorceress since Mina the Fourth.”

  It was the last thing Hazel wanted to hear. “I don’t want to be anything like her,” she said quietly. “Besides, the Reaper was much more powerful than I am. She was a god.”

  Rascha leaned forward on her staff. “People thought that girl was muir most of her early life. Her power came later. And you doubt your own too much. Remember what Lord Kraavh said to you before the Typhon exploded.”

  Hazel recalled her conversation with the demon, his paralyzing and almost hypnotic aura. “He said I shone.”

  The vye nodded. “On some nights you shine brighter than any being I have seen. Brighter even than the gate dragons. Old Magic is in you, but you keep it locked away. That is where you and the Reaper differ. She reveled in her power.”

  Hazel had not told the vye about the whispers she’d heard in the Direwood, much less the monstrosity she’d just glimpsed while trying to transform. Rascha reported regularly to the Spider and Hazel did not want that information circulated. Not yet, when she herself didn’t know what to make of it. Who knew how it would be interpreted?

  “We end things here,” said Dàme Rascha. “You have time for a quick supper, but no more. The phantasia begins at nine.”

  Hazel was relieved. “How is Mr. Smythe getting there?”

  “He will come with me as my servant.”

  “But he’s supposed to be a guest,” said Hazel.

  The vye had enough arguing. “Your Highness, that is the best I can do. Your sisters will be there. Perhaps the empress. Is this really the battle you wish to fight?”

  Hazel knew her protests would be pointless, particularly if her grandmother was attending—she would never allow muir to sit in the royal box. But it did spoil her plans somewhat. She’d wanted to give Hob a special treat to celebrate his recovery and thank him for helping her ace Montague’s latest exam. The master particularly liked her essay comparing economic theory and practice, and even shared a portion of it with the class. Isabel had been impressed, Violet astonished, and Imogene Hyde looked like she wanted to vomit. Each reaction was deeply gratifying. And so, Hazel was a little disappointed with the evening’s arrangements. Only favored servants attended events like phantasias, but it still wasn’t the same as being a guest.

  Supper was brief, seared scallops and greens taken in the triplets’ common room. Violet had already left, intending to dine with Lady Sylva and some of her friends. Isabel was there, however, arguing with Olo about which dress to wear.

  “I like the turquoise,” she said.

  The maid disagreed. It was her opinion that the neckline plunged a bit too far. Her Highness was now a young lady . . . there were considerations. Hazel glanced down at her bony, tubular form. She wouldn’t mind some considerations.

  Isabel called to her homunculus on the ottoman. “What do you think, Pamplemousse?”

  Hazel thought it rather unkind to have named him “grapefruit,” but it was Isabel’s favorite word from an ancient language. And the homunculus did not seem to mind. He looked up from his dish of blueberries. For a newly spawned being, his manner was shockingly mature.

  “Is this really a question? The turquoise.”

  Olo hissed, tossing aside the conservative gray. The maid had not taken to Pamplemousse, who was not shy of voicing his views on matters of dress and decor—areas Olo considered her turf. She was more tolerant of Merlin, but only because Hazel’s homunculus said nothing whatsoever. Hazel nudged him off her gown, so she could hold it up to the light: yellow silk embroidered with mother-of-pearl. Pamplemousse glanced over.

  “You’ll never pull it off, my dear. Not with your coloring.”

  Hazel could not say whether she pulled off her dress, but she did like what Olo had done with her hair. She admired it as the coach rolled down to the inlet where the Faeregines moored their yachts. Her fine white tresses were parted at the side, smoothed with a bit of cream, and pinned with a gold barrette. She was sleek as a selkie, in sharp contrast to Isabel’s unruly mane. Isabel snatched Hazel’s mirror to fix the lipstick Olo had refused to apply.

  “I hate boats,” she murmured.

  “I think it’s called a clipper,” said Hazel.

  “It won’t care what it’s called if I’m sick all over it.”

  Pamplemousse’s head poked up from her furs. “Mind the shoes.”

  Isabel had dressed him in a purple velveteen suit that could accommodate his wings. Hazel thought it was ghastly. Merlin wore sensible tweeds.

  Sigga opened the door and Isabel’s bodyguard, a ruddy, side-whiskered Red Branch named Matthias Rey, helped them out. At the end of the ramp, Vesper bucked on the rough black sea. Clutching a railing (she’d never liked wearing heels), Hazel greeted the captain who escorted them into the cabin.

  Mercifully, the voyage would not be long. Vesper was over eighty feet long, but she was built for summer regattas, not skipping over harbor chop.

  “So, how does he look?” said Isabel, declining hors d’oeuvres from a crewman.

  “Who?” said Hazel, knowing perfectly well who she meant.

  “A certain page.”

  She affected surprise. “Him? Oh, he’s fine. Lunasects can work miracles on minor wounds. Even his tooth is fixed.”

  “I heard he might be there tonight,” said Isabel.

  “Is that so?”

  Isabel rolled her eyes. “Stop pretending. Archemnos heard Rascha making the arrangements. I think it’s nice you invited him.”

  A weight slid off Hazel’s shoulders. “I thought it was only right after everything that happened, but I know Violet won’t approve.”

  Isabel put up her feet. “Who cares? She still isn’t speaking to me for ‘embarrassing the family,’ but if it weren’t for us, no one would know the real sword was missing. I say we’re heroes!”

  Hazel grinned. She could march to the gallows so long as Isabel was with her. Cheery irreverence was a tonic. She set Merlin on the windowsill. Outside, the night was brilliantly clear, the wind having driv
en the clouds inland. High above, Draco lashed a sapphire sky.

  The voyage was only five miles, but it required them to navigate the harbor maze. Their destination was one of the many islands dotting the channel between the Sacred Isle and Impyria. Most housed naval bases, but the largest—the Île des Rêves—was dedicated to the arts.

  Sitting atop the island was a grand concert hall whose spiraling white curves resembled a nautilus. Hazel had always loved the building’s elegance and vast sculptural spaces. Of course, her previous visits were only for ordinary concerts. This would be her first phantasia.

  Three phantasias were staged each year, but the spring Grotesque was by far the most popular. Not only did it herald an end to winter’s doldrums, the Grotesque was reputedly stranger and more shocking than summer’s Pastorale or autumn’s Melancholia. The Spider forbade the triplets to attend any before their twelfth birthday. Dozens of yachts and several transport barges already surrounded the Île des Rêves. They belonged not only to Great Houses, but also to minor nobility, magistrates, and merchant princes. Phantasias were open to any with the means to afford a ticket, which was to say very few.

  The Faeregines had their own docks, and Captain Whelk did a splendid job of navigating Vesper to the port. Once the vessel was secured, Hazel and Isabel followed their bodyguards down the ramp where the press was waiting. The girls did their best to ignore their questions.

  “Isabel, is it true you want to be Divine Empress?”

  “Where’s Violet? Is there a rift in the family?”

  “Is Lord Faeregine really stepping down as bank director?”

  Hazel ignored Isabel’s tug and stopped. “What?”

  The man who’d shouted the question elbowed aside the competition. His beefy face broke into a snarky grin. “Evening, Your Highness—Gus Bailey from the Busy Bee—is it true your uncle’s been forced from his post? That your family is losing control of the bank?”

  Hazel recovered from her initial shock. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She and Isabel continued through the gauntlet of security as chamber music wafted from the hall.