Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  Lights came on for the first intermission. The audience applauded and began to file out. Isabel whooped.

  “That was amazing! What do you think, Pamplemousse?”

  “I’ve done better productions myself.”

  “Oh fie.” Isabel laughed. “You’re not even a month old—” She broke off as she caught sight of Hazel, who sat rigidly upright while sweat poured off her stricken face. “Hazel, you don’t look so good.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Hazel whispered.

  “Maybe you should get some air,” Isabel suggested.

  Hazel nodded and rose from her seat. But the instant she stood, her legs wobbled and the room began to spin. Hazel reached out to stop herself from falling into the aisle, when she suddenly felt someone’s hands on her waist setting her upright.

  “It’s all right. I’ve got you,” Hob whispered in her ear.

  Steadying her, he handed her off to Sigga, who sat Hazel against one of the pillars. Hob remained nearby, shielding her from view as Rascha and Sigga tended her. The anxious vye touched her wrist to Hazel’s forehead.

  “No fever. How is your stomach?”

  “Okay,” Hazel gasped. “I just got light-headed.”

  Dàme Rascha’s brow furrowed. “Phantasias can have strange effects on sensitive natures. You’ve had enough for one night.”

  Hazel nodded. Isabel’s face appeared.

  “How is she?”

  “Her Highness is going home,” said Rascha. “Do you wish to come with us?”

  Isabel did not—not once she’d been assured Hazel was fine. The Grotesque had three acts and she was not about to miss more pyrotechnics, stabbings, or shambling horrors made of live ravens. She would sail back on Hippocamp. Pecking Hazel on the cheek, she hurried out to socialize with their classmates.

  Hob and Sigga helped Hazel up. Her head was clearing, but she remained woozy. She glanced down at the empty stage. In the orchestra boxes musicians were changing reeds and talking quietly with one another. It might have been intermission at any symphony or opera. Hazel began to feel enormously foolish. Had anyone else seen what was happening aboard that ship? Were hallucinations just part of the phantasia?

  While Hob ran off to fetch their things, Hazel made her way slowly up the aisle. Half the box had emptied, but the Spider remained in her seat, surrounded by attendants. As Hazel passed, the Spider locked eyes with her before gesturing for Dàme Rascha to approach. The vye knelt so that the empress could speak softly into her ear. With a curt nod, Rascha returned to Hazel’s side.

  “What was that about?” said Hazel, blinking as they stepped into the bright entry hall.

  “Nothing, Your Highness. Your grandmother merely asked if Mr. Smythe was the young man who fought the duel against Lord Hyde.”

  Hazel frowned. “Why did she want to know that?”

  “I could not say, Your Highness.”

  They descended the staircase, Hazel holding the smooth glass railing as Sigga trailed behind them. Hob was already waiting below. As he helped Hazel into her coat, she heard someone call her name. Looking up, she saw Imogene and several court brats lining the balcony.

  “I guess the rumors are true,” Imogene called. “Have fun, you two!” She blew a kiss. The other girls howled with laughter.

  Hazel turned and walked out of the concert hall, past the paparazzi, and down to the dock where Vesper was waiting. Within five minutes, its crew had them sailing back toward the Sacred Isle.

  Hazel sat in the cabin, gazing out at Impyria’s distant lights. She couldn’t bear to look at anyone for fear she’d burst into tears. Those whispers; that scene aboard that ship. Hazel’s stomach was twisted into icy knots. When Captain Whelk came in to check on his passengers, Hazel asked if she could have a word. Ignoring Rascha’s quizzical look, she went to his cabin. Sigga followed, but remained just outside.

  “Did you want to steer the ship, Your Highness?” he asked. “It’s been a few years, but I daresay you remember how.”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing like that. I was curious if you know a ship called the Polestar?”

  His cheerful face brightened. “I do indeed. My wife’s brother serves aboard her. First mate. Beautiful vessel—one of the old Hadesians.”

  Hazel could barely find the words. “And . . . is she at sea?”

  The captain shook his head. “She’s refitting off Malakos, Your Highness. Won’t set sail for at least a week.”

  Hazel breathed for what seemed the first time since the phantasia had begun. Thanking the captain, she returned to the others and reclaimed her seat by the window. The evening had hardly gone as planned, but at least she hadn’t just witnessed an actual catastrophe. Dàme Rascha came to sit beside her.

  “What was that about?”

  “Nothing,” said Hazel. “I was curious about something.”

  “You’re upset,” the vye observed. “Is it the Hyde girl?”

  “No. Please drop it.” Hazel closed her eyes.

  Dàme Rascha was good at many things, but reading emotional cues was not one of them. Despite her good intentions, she could not truly empathize with Hazel’s feelings. Vyes didn’t get frightened or embarrassed, at least not in a human sense. Hazel wished she could be more like Hob. He’d faced lots of challenging, even brutal situations without fainting or going to pieces. Where did that kind of toughness come from? Were some people just born with it or was it something you could acquire?

  She saw his reflection in the window. He was sitting across the cabin near Sigga, fingers laced, his eyes on an antique globe bolted to the floor. Hazel spoke to his reflection.

  “You could have stayed, you know.”

  His eyes met hers in the glass. “Thank you, Your Highness. I had enough too.”

  “You didn’t like the Grotesque?”

  A pause. “It was an experience.”

  Turning away from the window, she leaned against Rascha’s shoulder. “That’s funny. I’m always telling Rascha I need more experiences—normal experiences, not like phantasias. Would you believe Île des Rêves is the farthest I’ve ever traveled?”

  Hob pointed across the channel. “The world’s greatest city is right over there. Why doesn’t Master Montague take your class? You’re studying the Muirlands after all.”

  Hazel laughed. “He probably hasn’t left the Sacred Isle for thirty years. Once masters make it to Rowan, they cling like barnacles.”

  “Why don’t you take a trip yourself?”

  Rascha stiffened. Hazel was about to say I’m not allowed, her automatic response to mainland invitations. It was the quickest way to stop the conversation. But this time something stopped her.

  Why couldn’t she visit Impyria?

  She was a princess, not a prisoner. For twelve years she’d stayed put on Rowan, chained partially by royal custom, but also because she often preferred to stay in her room with a good story or spell book. Her sisters had visited the mainland. Not often, but they’d both done it. Upon reflection Hazel felt like a rabbit that had spent its life in an unlocked cage, too timid to hop out into the meadow. The revelation was so startling, it distracted her from the deeply troubling things she’d seen and heard during the Grotesque. She turned to Rascha.

  “Could we?” she asked.

  “What? Visit Impyria?”

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely not. Far too dangerous at present. Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Fenn?”

  To Rascha’s annoyance, Sigga did not agree. “Her Highness would need to be disguised, but I don’t see any harm in a daytime visit. Perhaps she’ll stop sneaking out at night.”

  “That was one time!” said Hazel.

  But Dàme Rascha stood her ground. “After your birthday,” she said. “Until then, we need every minute and we’re losing a week to the May Ball and Midsummer. After your birthday, I promise we’ll take a vacation. Perhaps you’d like to visit the Witchpeaks.”

  “Oh come on, Rascha,” Hazel pleaded. “I can’t wait unt
il my birthday. I’m hitting a wall now. Maybe Impyria will inspire me, give me more experiences to draw on. Couldn’t that be useful?” she added significantly. She could not discuss her magical studies in front of Hob.

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Then we’ve wasted one day. Even if a visit doesn’t help our task, I’ll see lots that I can use for Montague’s class.”

  “Master Montague,” her tutor corrected.

  Whenever Rascha started nitpicking, Hazel knew victory was within reach. She snuggled up next to her tutor. “Please, Rascha? One tiny field trip.” She gently arranged the vye’s shawl.

  Rascha sighed and gazed down at her affectionately. “A child wants a toy.”

  Hazel grinned. “But a very sweet child. And a very educational toy.”

  “Very well,” said Rascha. “I will consult the empress. If she approves, you may go.” She turned to Hob. “You. Boy.”

  He looked startled. “Yes?”

  “You know the city?”

  “Some districts better than others.”

  “Good,” said Dàme Rascha. “This was your idea so you will come too. You can show Her Highness all the muirish things. And if anything goes amiss, you’ll be at hand so I can kill you.”

  Hob smiled.

  The vye did not.

  CHAPTER 14

  TOURISTS

  What strange phenomena we find in a great city,

  all we need to do is stroll about with our eyes open.

  Life swarms with innocent monsters.

  —Charles Baudelaire, Pre-Cataclysm poet (192–146 P.C.)

  Two weeks later, Hob ate buttered toast at a corner table in the servants’ dining room. Despite its underground location, sunlight filtered through mirrored light shafts, illuminating the windows and brightening the space. In the neighboring kitchens, hags could be heard singing (and swearing) as they went about their work.

  Given that it was eight thirty on a Sunday morning, the dining room was nearly empty. Those on duty had already eaten; those who were not elected to sleep. Thus Hob was able to scavenge almost an entire newspaper from remnants discarded by the early risers. The front page was missing but it was far better than the usual pickings. On most days, he was lucky to get the advertisements.

  And so he nibbled toast and luxuriated with almost all the empire’s news at his fingertips. As Hob turned the page, he heard a playful voice.

  “Well, Mr. Smythe, I see you’re taking your ease.”

  The voice belonged to Maeve Poole, a maid from the Skeiner Isles. The two worked many of the same shifts and had become friendly. Hob pushed out a chair for her to sit, but she held up a silver tray.

  “Can’t. Lady Ferrina likes her breakfast hot and prompt. You playing thumper later? Karina and I were thinking of coming. I hear you’re the one to watch.”

  “Not today. Working.”

  She glanced skeptically at his wool suit and cap. “Not in those clothes you’re not.”

  “Heading across the Channel.”

  Maeve’s freckled face clouded. “With a certain princess?”

  Hob finished his toast. “You know I can’t answer that. Faeregine business is private.”

  “Especially hers,” she chided. “Rumor’s true then?”

  “What rumor?”

  The maid batted her dark lashes. Hob set down his coffee.

  “You’ve been reading Gus Bailey,” he said. “You know better than to trust that smudger. He’s gutter trash.”

  “Well,” said Maeve, “someone agrees with you. That’s just where he turned up.”

  Hob cocked his head. “Come again?”

  She nodded at the ironed newspaper on her tray. “Gus Bailey’s dead. They found him last night behind the Bee.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone cut his throat for ’im.” Hob’s mouth fell open. Maeve laughed and tossed him the paper as she headed for the door. “Read all about it—Lady Ferrina never bothers.”

  Hob nodded good-bye, still processing the news. He had nothing but disdain for Gus Bailey, but he didn’t like hearing anyone had been murdered. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. The man made a living irritating the rich and powerful. Mosquitoes that buzzed too loud got swatted.

  He flipped the newspaper over, but it was not the Bailey headline that got his attention but the one in extra-large type splashed beneath the masthead:

  POLESTAR LOST AT SEA

  Galleon disappears off Malakos. Lirlanders suspected.

  Eyewitness accounts suggest that Polestar, flagship of Thaler & Company’s trading fleet, was lost with all hands in the early morning hours off Malakos. In addition to lost cargo, the Chronicle regrets to report that several notable persons were aboard . . .

  Hob’s jaw tightened as he read the list of mehrùn and minor nobles who had booked passage on the ill-fated ship. No mention whatsoever of the numerous crew who also lost their lives. Of course not; they were just muir. He returned to the article.

  Coastal fishermen report the ship sank within minutes of passing the warning buoys marking demon waters. Despite overnight storms, the galleon’s Lirlander Seal was clearly visible. She was sailing southwest when she came to an inexplicable halt. According to witnesses, the beacon shook violently before bobbing up and then disappearing into the sea. Experts speculate that the vessel possibly broke in two before sinking.

  Initial suspicion falls on the Lirlanders. Given the moderate seas, few natural hazards could sink a ship of Polestar’s size and refurbished condition. No icebergs have been sighted in the area and the waters contain no hidden rocks or shoals. If the Lirlanders are to blame, the incident would represent a blatant violation of the Red Winter Treaty, which guarantees safe passage to any ship bearing a Lirlander Seal. Ambassador Kraavh has issued a statement denying any wrongdoing by his people. Lord Kraavh, who has been confined to his embassy since the recent Typhon explosion, was unavailable for further comment. That incident remains under investigation . . .

  Hob scanned the rest and gave a low whistle. Wars broke out over things like this. He wondered what the Fellowship’s position would be on a conflict between Impyrium and the Lirlanders. It would undoubtedly weaken the Faeregines and Great Houses, but it would also cost thousands—if not millions—of muir lives. And that was assuming Impyrium was victorious. What if the Lirlanders triumphed? Life under the Faeregines might seem like paradise compared to a world ruled by demons.

  Taking his dishes, Hob headed into the kitchens, where the hags were busy mixing, mashing, slicing, and dicing under Bombasta’s watchful eye.

  During the past few months, he had grown strangely fond of the hags whose terrifying exteriors masked more endearing qualities. Yes, they were foul and brutish, but they could also be generous, funny, and fiercely loyal to those they deemed sufficiently haggish.

  Hob had earned haggish status not only for dueling Dante Hyde but also for having “the stones” (Gorgo’s delicate term) to court a Faeregine princess. Whenever he denied this, the creatures would simply brandish their beloved tabloids as if they constituted unimpeachable evidence. And while the hags openly wagered when Hob would be executed, they honored his temerity. He was a moron, but he was their moron.

  Dropping off his dishes, he headed to the beverage station, where Bombasta was waiting. “Well, well, it’s Mr. Smythe. Or should I say Lover Boy? How ya like your coffee?”

  “Black.”

  She filled a thermos. “And I like my money shiny. You bring it?”

  “How good are the seats?”

  The hag shrugged and screwed on the thermos cap. “No clue, but my produce feller hooked me up and he’s a big supporter. Never shuts up about it. Blah, blah, blah, GOAL!”

  “All right,” said Hob. Reaching in his pocket, he produced four demilunes.

  Bombasta shook her greasy head. “Six.”

  Hob closed his hand. “We said four.”

  The hag leaned as close as her belly would allow. “And I’m telling
ya six. Call it a service fee.”

  “Do you realize who you’re shaking down?”

  A greasy thumb and forefinger pinched his cheek. “A nice little page who’s gonna find two more silvers.”

  “Sigga Fenn.”

  The hag’s grin vanished. “You’re yanking my haunch.”

  “Nope. It’s her money.”

  “Fee’s waived.” When Hob opened his hand, the hag took only three coins. “So there’s no misunderstanding, eh? Good lad.”

  Handing Hob the thermos, Bombasta hunted for the tickets in her voluminous shirt. Her efforts yielded a moist and crinkled envelope that he accepted without comment.

  He left the kitchens, continuing down the many ramps and steps that led to Rowan Harbor. At the guard station, he was searched and his possessions cataloged. Since the discovery that Bragha Rùn was missing, everyone departing the Sacred Isle was searched. While a guardsman went through his pockets, Hob realized how eager he was to set foot on the mainland. He had not been back since taking up service in the palace. Many servants only made the trip once or twice a year. Some hadn’t left in decades. Satisfied, the guardsman stamped Hob’s papers and and he was authorized to leave the Sacred Isle.

  Authorized to leave.

  For a boy who’d grown up in the Sentries, this was a chilling concept. Aside from the occasional tax collector or census taker, Duskers had little contact with Impyrial officials. The Northwest was too wild and sparsely populated for the authorities to bother with them. But here it was different; almost everything required paperwork and permission. Even Hazel Faeregine—a direct descendant of Mina I—required official permission to leave her home. That Her Highness received it was irrelevant. A lenient jailer was still a jailer.

  Breathing deep, Hob emerged into the bright April morning. Spring had arrived. Its scent was in the salt breeze, its song in the gulls gliding on the currents, screeching and diving into briny pools. The beach’s sand was gray and damp, glinting with shells and strewn with kelp. His shoes squelched with every step, leaving soft impressions the tide would wash away that afternoon. The thought struck him as sad somehow, but Hob supposed they were all just beachcombers on a one-way stroll. Even the Faeregines.