Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  “Why?” said Hazel. “I mean, why don’t they live in the city? Or go someplace else?”

  Sigga shrugged. “If they could, they would. Some are sick, some have no money, some have lost their wits. Plenty are hiding. From the law, or something worse. Everyone in Scrag’s End has a story. Except the kids. They’re just unlucky.”

  “Have you been in there?” asked Hazel.

  “Twice.”

  “And did you stay long?”

  A pause. “No, I tracked down my targets and got out. Had to burn my clothes.” The Grislander narrowed her eyes and called back to the captain. “Larboard bow.”

  He called back. “Got ’em.”

  “What?” asked Hazel.

  “Pirates.”

  Sigga pointed to two galleys flying fanlike sails. They were several hundred yards away, but Hob saw they were packed with men, some lining the decks, others pulling on oars.

  Hazel laughed. “Pirates? We’re not in a story. There can’t be pirates in the capital’s harbor.”

  “No patrols come down here,” said Sigga. “Any boat off Scrag’s End will snap up something if opportunity presents. We’re small enough to look interesting.”

  Hazel’s expression suggested she still refused to believe such things could occur in broad daylight. “Are we in danger?” she asked. “Are they going to—what’s the term?—board us?”

  The Grislander looked amused. “No, Your Highness, we’re not the ones in danger. If they come too close, I’ll be boarding them.”

  Spritely changed course, sailing parallel to the shore. Pursuit lasted another ten minutes. When it was clear they would not catch her, the pirates ceased rowing and the galleys fell off, coasting along like reef sharks.

  They left Scrag’s End behind, passing several buoys before rounding a point that revealed Impyria proper. Hazel stood near the bow, Merlin perched on her shoulder as they passed ironworks and warehouses, shipping piers, and little cliffs dotted with homes belonging to merchants and sea captains. The ships moored or docked in this section of the harbor were huge—great galleons and barges, some flying Lirlander Seals, others outfitted for coastal work. Hazel pointed to the stern of a yellow xebec.

  “She’s based in Ana-Fehdra! It says so right there.”

  “That’s right,” said Hob. “If that’s home, what do you think she’d be carrying?”

  “Spices,” said Hazel at once. “They’re Ana-Fehdra’s chief export—particularly jinn pepper and sweetseed.”

  “And what might Ana-Fehdra want in return?” Hob prodded.

  The princess wrinkled her nose. “Grain?” she ventured. “Didn’t some kind of insect ruin the last two harvests?”

  Hob pointed to the where workers were stacking large sacks onto pallets.

  “Ha-ha!” she crowed. “I knew it! I’m practically a seer!”

  The princess’s enthusiasm was contagious. Hob could not help but smile as she gripped the rail, leaning this way and that to see each ship and guess what it might be carrying or what its next destination might be. She turned to Hob, her eyes aglow.

  “There must be thousands of them,” she said excitedly, “sailing all over the world this very minute. I had no idea. It’s all so enormous.”

  “Commerce powers the empire, and the empire is vast,” said Dàme Rascha. “You see why the Lirlander Seals are so important. None of this happens without them. You understand now?”

  Hazel nodded, then pointed at the highest cliffs. “That’s the Grand Temple!”

  “Yes,” said Dàme Rascha. “Rather larger than the palace’s. If we’d arrived earlier, we might have attended services.”

  “But we’re much too late,” said Hazel quickly. “What’s that?”

  Something hidden by the Grand Temple’s spires now appeared within view—a red zeppelin tethered by ropes to an inland building they could not yet see. Three white letters were stamped on the balloon’s side: IEC.

  Hazel sounded it out. “Yech? What does that mean?”

  Hob stifled a laugh. “Impyrian Euclidean Club. There’s a match this afternoon.”

  “Euclidean Football?” said Hazel. “Isabel is always going on about it. Rowan students play it.”

  “This is the professional league,” said Hob. “Best players in the world.”

  Hazel turned to Dàme Rascha. “Can we go?”

  The vye did not spoil the surprise. “Our schedule is full. We will be touring several districts before visiting the museums. There’s a porcelain exhibit I want to see.”

  Hazel gazed wistfully at the balloon. “Porcelain sounds most interesting.”

  But nothing could dampen her mood for long. There was too much to see, even from the harbor. Hazel stood in the bow as the captain sailed for a dock near the Dragon Pier, where the shrouded boatmen waited to ferry visitors to the Sacred Isle.

  She watched with delight the foul-mouthed banter between the young mate and a grizzled salt who caught the rope she’d tossed and tied Spritely to the pier. While Dàme Rascha paid the captain and made arrangements for their return, Hob, Sigga, and Hazel stepped onto the dock. No one paid them any notice. Hob reminded himself that they weren’t seeing a Faeregine princess but a pair of young clerks and a palace page on leave. Sigga led Hob behind a newspaper stand and murmured something before tapping his forehead with two fingers.

  “You’re no longer Hobson Smythe,” she muttered. “For the rest of the day, you’ll answer to Peter. I’m Isaac. Her Highness is Billy. Dàme Rascha is Mr. Yezdani. Got it?” She held up her folding mirror that showed a boy with tousled blond hair and brown eyes. When Hob blinked, so did the stranger in the glass. He shivered.

  They joined the others as Rascha handed Hazel some crisp Bank of Rowan notes.

  “Your allowance. Use it wisely.”

  Hazel beamed. “Oh, I will. I will!”

  They spent the next fifteen minutes trying to dissuade Her Highness from purchasing every trifle from the merchant stalls lining the piers. She was particularly set on a velvet painting of a pink unicorn leaping over the word Impyria in flowing script. It was perfect, she declared, absolutely perfect for a spot between her bedroom windows. Dàme Rascha quietly informed Her Highness that a priceless self-portrait by Mina VII currently occupied that space. The vye also pointed to a dozen identical paintings in nearby stalls. Hazel put away her money, but not without a rueful glance at the unicorn.

  They elected to walk up Wyrm’s Way, pausing now and again so Dàme Rascha could catch her breath and Hazel could take in their surroundings. Shading her eyes from the sun, she gawked at the snaking path that Ember had made long ago.

  “It must be a two hundred feet wide,” she remarked.

  Wheezing slightly, Rascha gave a cough and sat on a nearby bench. “No description can truly do dragons justice. The Lirlander Seals were made from Ember’s lesser scales and yet I’ve seen some that you could sleep upon. Talysin is smallest of the gate guardians, but even he is huge beyond reckoning. You will see for yourself come June.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Hazel, watching a colorful food cart trundle past.

  Hob mused on what he’d just heard as they climbed the rest of the way. Apparently, Her Highness was making a special trip in June to the Otherland Gates. Hob knew of them from tales his mother passed down from her shaman father. There were four of them, mystic doorways to other worlds that the Reaper—or Ankü as his mother called her—created at the height of her power.

  According to Hauja beliefs, only one doorway at a time could exist between two worlds. By creating permanent portals, Ankü prevented her enemies from opening others, for she feared they might seek the aid of some god or spirit to challenge her. Once her gates were complete, nothing could enter or leave the mortal realm without passing the dragons she had set to guard them. To the Hauja, the Otherland Gates were abominations—artificial dams that disrupted the natural flow between worlds.

  Once atop of Wyrm’s Way, the group craned their necks at the Grand Tem
ple, closed their ears to the Caterwauls, and headed toward the Market District. Twice, Sigga had to steer Hazel out of the path of a trolley or carriage. Her Highness was too busy grinning with idiot delight at the crowds and street performers to notice little things like traffic.

  They went as far south as the Artisan District, turning up the main avenue to walk past the city guilds—large brick buildings whose stained-glass windows depicted their trades: stonemasons, ironworkers, shipwrights, weavers, cartwrights, glassblowers, silversmiths, clockmakers, carpenters, shoemakers . . .

  Hazel stopped at a demonstration where a blind woman had set up a loom. A crowd had gathered, marveling as the woman selected different colored yarns, working with uncanny nimbleness and precision. She’d put out a hat to collect tips, leading some spectators to suspect a scam. Their hunch was correct; their focus was being misplaced.

  While these skeptics studied the woman’s face or waved their hands to see if she’d notice, the weaver’s accomplices—two boys no older than five—relieved the unwary of their purses. Hob quietly pointed this out to Hazel.

  “Pickpockets!” she exclaimed.

  Poof!

  There were three flashes of sulfurous smoke as the boys and weaver vanished. In their place were three red-capped lutins—elfin creatures with an insatiable love of gambling and mischief. They dashed through the crowd, cackling madly and clutching their eponymous hats. The victims gave chase, shouting for the guard as the tiny thieves darted down an alley.

  The excitement kept Hazel in a breathless chatter until they stopped for lunch. The vye chose an outdoor café where three districts intersected. It was like a confluence of rivers with merchants, officials, and mystics flowing from their respective districts to form an eclectic mix of muir, mehrùn, and nonhumans. A troupe of actors strolled past, their faces powdered for the matinees. Hazel watched them go before turning to Hob.

  “How can you stand it?” she asked.

  Hob swallowed the bread he’d been chewing and reminded himself she was a fellow clerk and not to address her as a princess. “How can I stand what?”

  She lowered her voice. “Serving on the Sacred Isle when you could live here.” She pointed to some balconies draped with flowervine. “You could rent an apartment. That one’s even over a bakery. There is so much life here, so much excitement. It’d be such fun!”

  Hob was tempted to inform Her Highness that the apartment’s monthly rent was probably five times a page’s annual salary. But he reflected that she’d spent her entire life on an island where servants looked after every need. Money was an abstract concept. When Dàme Rascha had given Hazel the banknotes, she had to confirm what they were. Her cluelessness about money was almost charming. Besides, he could make a more salient point.

  “That building’s mehrùn only,” he said.

  Hazel stared at it. “What? How do you know?”

  He pointed to a four-pointed star engraved on the doorway’s lintel. Hazel squinted at it.

  “Is that really what that means? It’s on lots of windows.”

  Dàme Rascha cut in. “An old law. Some businesses choose not to serve muir. It goes back to the Revolt of 1619.”

  Hazel frowned. “Why haven’t I learned about this in class?”

  The vye spread her hands. “The masters cannot address every edict and custom. They must focus on the important ones.”

  The princess set down her chopsticks. “Half a billion people live in Impyrium and most are muir. How is that law not important?”

  Dàme Rascha shot Hob an irritated look. “Most muir don’t live near mehrùn. I doubt many even know the law exists.”

  Hazel gave a disbelieving laugh. “An unjust law’s acceptable because lots of people don’t know about it? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We’re attracting attention,” Sigga muttered, taking a last bite of fish.

  It was true. More than a few of their fellow diners were looking with curious disapproval at the table with the outspoken clerk. One patron got up to speak with the manager.

  Wiping her mouth, Dàme Rascha leaned forward and spoke in a simmering undertone. “If the law is good enough for the Divine Empress, it is good enough for me. And for you. And for everyone else in the empire.”

  The vye left money on the table and motioned for them to get up before the manager approached. Once they had crossed the street, Dàme Rascha turned to Hazel.

  “You must be more discreet,” she cautioned. “You could be arrested for saying such things.”

  Hazel turned to Hob and pointed at the bakery. “What would happen if I walked in that shop?”

  “They would tell you to get out.”

  “And if I refused?” said Hazel.

  Hob did not like the look on the princess’s face. Her expression was growing eager and self-righteous, a dangerous combination when you had no idea what the consequences might be. He glanced at Dàme Rascha, who clearly wished him to provide a bland response.

  “The owners would be within their rights to call the guard,” he said mildly.

  Who would beat you bloody before dragging you in front of a magistrate, he thought privately. If you’re lucky, they’ll seize everything you own and deport you to the provinces. If they decide to make an example of you . . . Hob was glad Her Highness would finally recognize what those pervasive stars meant, but this did not need to go any further. Not today, anyway.

  “Not worth the trouble,” he added lightly. “Bad view and I hate the smell of fresh bread. Besides, the Mystics District is right this way.” It was a pathetic shift, but it was enough to make Hazel smile.

  Soon she was asking more questions and seemed to have forgotten all about the stars. Hob noticed the same tendency after they passed Scrag’s End. The squalor had truly appalled Her Highness, but her horror was put aside when more scenic delights came into view. Was she that shallow or simply overwhelmed by experiencing so many things for the first time? Things she hadn’t known existed or were even possible?

  As they walked through the Mystics District, broad avenues gave way to twisting lanes filled with little shops and apothecaries offering alchemical ingredients, minor spells, and enchanting services. Those at street level looked seedy—tourist traps as opposed to places where one might procure serious magic.

  Such places did exist. The Fellowship told of secret establishments where one could retain the services of powerful sorcerers or purchase items of singular provenance and potency. But these were not the kind of places that hung wind chimes by their doors. Apparently, one accessed them far above (or below) street level and only by special appointment.

  It was soon clear Hazel found the district disappointing. She stopped at a peddler’s stall and examined one of the many scarabs arrayed on blue silk. The proprietor resembled an old Hauja but for the tattoos beneath his eyes; only Hauja women inked their faces.

  “You’ve good taste,” he said approvingly. “Hang that charm over your bed and no evil spirits will trouble you.”

  Hazel peered at it. “This isn’t magical. It’s not even silver.”

  The man snatched it away, baring filed teeth and making wild hand gestures. Hazel laughed.

  “What are you doing? Are you trying to curse me?”

  “Begone before I set my ghoul upon you!”

  She peered at the brindle sausage snoring in his doorway. “Is the ghoul a pug?”

  More curses as the man scooped the dog into his arms. Startled from sleep, it gave him a fractious nip before baring its tiny teeth at Hazel.

  Dàme Rascha quickly hailed two rickshaws and told the satyrs pulling them to take them to the Garden District. Sigga accompanied Hazel. Dàme Rascha rode with Hob. The vye ignored the satyr’s complaint that they were heavier than they looked and would be charged accordingly. Once they were under way, she turned a stern gaze upon Hob.

  “Your task is to instruct my charge on the Muirlands, not fill her head with nonsense concerning muir rights.”

  “I simply exp
lained what the star meant.”

  “You knew perfectly well what you were doing,” said the vye. “Do you think me ignorant? You always manage to point out problems: banks keep muir in debt; muir cannot travel; muir innovations are constrained; important jobs are off-limits.”

  “With respect, do you wish me to lie?” said Hob. “How can she understand the Muirlands if she has no idea what life is actually like for most of its people?”

  A pause. “You will confine yourself to basic facts and techniques for memorizing them. You are not to discuss controversial subjects. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  The vye fell into an agitated silence. Hob looked out at the stately buildings they passed in the Magistrate District. Straight ahead, past the Impyrial museums and gardens, the giant red balloon hovered over the Coliseum Athletica. Crowds of people streamed toward the stadium, many wearing Ferropolis gray or Impyrial red.

  A large hand patted Hob’s knee. He turned to see Dàme Rascha’s wolfish face. “You are a good boy,” she said stiffly. “My charge has learned much from you. You make the lessons matter to her. And you improve her spirits. That pleases me. But you cannot interfere with her duties to the empire.”

  When they passed beneath the Garden District’s archway, Dàme Rascha told the rickshaw driver they would get out. She gave Hob a conspiratorial look. “Now, I will have my little joke.”

  As the vye paid the drivers, Hazel turned about, taking in the museums and reflecting pool, the flower gardens and parterre. Impyria’s gardens could not compete with the Sacred Isle’s for lushness or rarity, but their scale was unrivaled.

  Dàme Rascha steered Hazel toward the nearest museum, a colonnaded monstrosity. Its banners advertised several exhibits, including one on twelfth-century porcelain and glazing techniques. The vye pointed to it.

  “The tour is three hours long and then we go home.”

  Hazel eyed the red zeppelin above the stadium.

  Rascha followed her gaze. “What? You’d rather watch a frivolous game?”

  “It’s okay,” said Hazel. “Look at all those people. It’s probably sold out.”