Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  Hob was confused. Was the Spider not coming?

  He was not the only one to notice. A ripple of chatter was drowning out the orchestra. Hundreds of curious faces had turned toward the dais. Hob glanced at Hazel, who was having a hushed though heated conversation with Isabel. She shook her head until Isabel pointed at her crutches and hissed something. Evidently, she made her point. Slumping low, Hazel gave a resigned nod and glanced miserably back at Hob.

  “I have to dance,” she mouthed.

  Hob’s shrug assured her that it was a ball; everyone had to dance. Hazel shook her head.

  “In front of everybody . . .”

  Another you’ll-be-fine shrug.

  “. . . with Dante!”

  Hob sneezed to convey his disgust. Hazel tried to smile but merely looked nauseated.

  “Do you know how to dance?” said Hob.

  Her stare implied that she knew how to dance perfectly well, thank you very much. Palace life entailed many receptions and balls. She’d probably been pirouetting since she could walk.

  Their conversation ended as Faeregines from near and far descended en masse upon the nearby tables. Hob recognized many from his handbook. These extended members of the clan boasted many lofty titles but little responsibility. Several were mystics or held administrative positions; most spent their days in idle luxury on vast estates. Without the Spider’s imposing presence, the Faeregines looked soft.

  Hob felt he was seeing precisely what Mr. Burke had been talking about. Faeregine strength used to reside in their magic. Now the family depended on institutions they controlled. Break their hold on the bank and the Seals and you broke the dynasty. He studied Basil Faeregine sitting to Violet’s left. His lordship was reading a note a servant had just handed him. His face curdled.

  More bad news.

  A bell chimed. The room fell silent as Violet Faeregine rose to address them.

  Hob had to admire the princess’s composure. Despite her nerves a few minutes ago, she now stood tall and straight. Her voice rang throughout the ballroom.

  She spoke in Old Impyrian. Hob understood little, but he gathered it was a recitation. Periodically, she gestured at the crystal sphere far above them. Her audience was silent; not even the lutins or domanocti stirred. Hob surveyed the many tables and the ancient families surrounding them. How many schemes was this nest of vipers hatching? And how many involved the Fellowship?

  He spied Lady Sylva standing by her husband. If not for her, he wouldn’t be here. Hob wondered if her efforts to forge a friendship with Violet Faeregine were to further House Sylva’s ambitions or purely a Fellowship directive. Of course, the lady was a Yamato by birth. Maybe they were involved.

  Parsing these possibilities gave Hob a headache. There was something so exhausting and sordid about the way these families lived. They were the wealthiest, most powerful people in the world, yet they spent their days consumed with rivalries. What good was a palace if you never got a good night’s sleep?

  The princess was reaching the end of her address. She raised her hand at the crystal sphere, her voice clear as a trumpet.

  “Sol Invictus!”

  Unconquerable sun, Rowan’s motto going back to ancient times. As she spoke these words, the sphere erupted with light, a blinding brilliance that filled the hall before condensing into a ball of churning witchfire.

  “Sol Invictus,” replied the guests, raising their glasses as the orchestra began to play a slow, waltz-like number. The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on Hazel. Resigned to her fate, she walked with her chin up, shoulders back to the middle of the dance floor. Once there, she assumed a proper pose and awaited her partner.

  Heads turned to the Hydes. The flustered chamberlain beckoned for Dante to rise, but the young earl smiled modestly and declined. His sister was shaking with silent laughter. Their parents looked placidly on, neither amused nor displeased.

  Hazel remained in the spotlight, a small and solitary figure frozen in the ludicrous attitude of a lady awaiting her suitor. The orchestra continued playing; Dante Hyde remained in his chair. The audience began to squirm.

  Basil Faeregine abruptly popped to his feet and strode onto the floor. Despite his troubles, his lordship cut an elegant figure with his silver hair and tailored suit. Bowing low to his niece, he asked if he might have the privilege.

  Many applauded as the two began to dance; others cast stony looks at the Hydes and turned their backs to them. Family rivalries were acceptable; humiliating a young girl was not. Dante Hyde had overstepped the bounds. He watched with a scowl as Hazel danced a truly elegant waltz. Instead of looking foolish, she looked every bit a Faeregine princess.

  The piece wound to a close. Bowing once again to his partner, Lord Faeregine escorted a beaming Hazel back to her table. As the applause died down, the orchestra began playing a new number and pairs made their way to the dance floor.

  A breathless Hazel was aglow with excitement. Isabel thumped the floor with her crutch.

  “Well done!”

  “Indeed,” said Basil Faeregine. “I had no idea you were such a fine dancer, young lady. Very light on your feet.”

  Hazel leaned into him. “I had a good partner.”

  “Well,” he said, “let’s have a celebratory toast before your dance card fills up.”

  As Lord Faeregine left to fetch refreshments, Hazel sat back down with Isabel as people came over to pay their respects.

  “The Hydes were always tactless,” sniffed a matronly cousin. “You handled yourself very well, my dear. I wish your grandmother had been here to see it. Where is the empress?”

  Isabel cut in. “Taking a well-deserved rest. Her May Day duties began before dawn. I think my sister fills her seat admirably.”

  She gestured to Violet, who was sitting atop the empress’s dais looking more like an ornament than a hostess. Hob actually felt sorry for her.

  “She does indeed,” said the great aunt. “A lovely— Oh!”

  Lord Kraavh’s shadow fell over the table. The cousin mumbled an excuse and fled as Sigga seemed to materialize over Hazel’s shoulder. The rakshasa bowed. His deep voice had an unearthly resonance.

  “An elegant turn, Your Highness. I haven’t seen you since the Typhon mishap. You’re coming into bloom.”

  Hazel craned her neck at that fearsome face. “Thank you. You are well, I trust?”

  The rakshasa gazed about. “Merely grateful to escape the embassy. I’m not accustomed to being confined in my own home.”

  Basil Faeregine returned with a lemonade for Hazel. “You’re fortunate you’re not in prison,” he said angrily. “Another galleon went down off Ankura. This time, some of the crew survived. They’ve all sworn it was Lirlanders.”

  The ambassador spread his hands. “If intruders sail into our waters, we cannot guarantee their safety.”

  Lord Faeregine darkened. “Those ships are under Impyrial protection. They bore Seals.”

  “So you keep insisting.”

  “Of course they did. Why would a ship cross Lirlander waters without one?”

  “An excellent question, but one you should ask their captains.”

  Lord Faeregine’s face darkened. “Their captains are dead. Are your people so intent on war?”

  Three green eyes narrowed to glowing slits. “If the Faeregines desire war, then there will be war. But we will not be the ones to break the treaty.” The demon turned to the royal dais. “Where is the Divine Empress?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “Tell Her Radiance I desire a meeting.”

  Lord Faeregine straightened. “I’m not your errand boy. Send one of your imps.”

  The ambassador turned his attention once more upon Hazel. “A pleasure, Your Highness. You are not only the most intriguing member of your family you are also its most courteous. Good evening.”

  Hazel inclined her head. The demon continued on his rounds, stopping to speak with the Hydes. Lord Willem and his family stood at once to pay thei
r respects.

  “Of course they would,” muttered Lord Faeregine. Finishing his champagne, he glanced down at Isabel. “How’s the leg, O valiant horsewoman?”

  “Broken,” said Isabel. “Once I’ve sat here awhile looking chic, I’m off to take a moonbath with those revolting lunasects.” She turned to Hob. “What’s it like?”

  “Not too bad, Your Highness. More tingly than painful.”

  She groaned. Her uncle took notice of Hob.

  “You’re the young man who dueled with Dante Hyde.”

  Hob confessed that he was.

  Lord Faeregine chuckled. “I had no idea we employed such bruisers among the pages.” He clapped Hob’s shoulder. “You’ll get him next time, eh?”

  “I’m hoping to avoid future trips to the healing ward, sir. Incidentally, Private Finch is safely back home.”

  “Who?”

  “Marcus Finch, milord. From the Impyrial Guard.”

  Lord Faeregine offered the smile favored by well-bred persons when they had no clue what you were talking about. He promptly turned to greet a member of the foreign council, and the two stepped away for a private conversation. Meanwhile, a handsome boy approached to ask Hazel for a dance. Dàme Rascha promptly shooed him away.

  “Rascha,” said Hazel, once he’d gone. “That was rude.”

  The vye was in no mood to be contradicted. “He’s a Tallow,” she growled. “His family’s fortunate to attend, much less ask for a dance with the empress’s granddaughter.”

  Isabel gazed about the ballroom. “Oh, I don’t know. These boys from Houses Minor aren’t so bad. I’m tired of the FYGs. They’re such duds and they practically share a chin.” She turned to find a FYG standing by their table. “Oh, hello, Andros. I wasn’t talking about you. Your chin’s a land mass.”

  Andros Eluvan rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Isabel. Since you’ve managed to hobble yourself, I thought I’d ask Hazel for a dance.”

  “Ah,” said Isabel. “Better check with Rascha. She just turned away a Tallow and he was much better looking.”

  Ignoring the jab, Andros bowed to Hazel and held out his hand. When Dàme Rascha made no objection, Hazel accompanied him onto the dance floor. As they melted into the crowd, Hob silently wished Andros would trip and fall on his face.

  Are you jealous?

  Of course he wasn’t jealous! He was happy for Hazel. She was doing well in her classes, transforming into piglets, and now enjoying herself at a ball. These were not only good things, they made all the Reaper talk seem increasingly far-fetched. Jealous? The idea was ridiculous.

  Hob became aware that Isabel was watching him. She gave a knowing grin.

  “I knew it.”

  Dàme Rascha turned to her. “You knew what, child?”

  “Nothing,” she replied innocently. She held out her hand as Pamplemousse landed in a flap of membranous wings. The homunculus plucked irritably at his waistcoat.

  “I told you it was tight.”

  “You poor thing,” Isabel teased. “Perhaps Mr. Smythe will fetch us an ice while we abuse the dancers. I think he could use a diversion.”

  Hob made for one of the many bars situated about the vast ballroom. A crowd of servants was gathered around it, fetching various libations for their masters.

  A voice whispered in Hob’s ear.

  “Two months and you’re my property. You can’t imagine what I’m going to do with you.”

  Hob turned to see Dante leering down at him.

  “Good evening again, Lord Hyde. You don’t have to hang about the bar like a servant. Let me get you something.”

  Dante was not amused. “Did you hear what I said, muir?”

  “Yes. You want ‘to do things with me.’ I’m flattered, but surprised His Lordship wants to socialize with the help.”

  Dante leaned closer. “That tongue will be the first to go. Then your feet . . .”

  Hob feigned disappointment. “Where’s you imagination? Where I’m from there are folk that’ll stitch your eyes open.”

  The earl grinned. “There’s an idea. Perhaps I’ll—”

  “Can I be of service, Lord Hyde?”

  The boys turned to see Oliveiro standing by, the very image of the sober professional. Judging by his expression, it was clear he understood the nature of their discussion.

  “No need,” said Dante pleasantly. “I was just telling your boy here how I like my drink.”

  Oliveiro glanced at the half-empty glass in the earl’s hand. “Mr. Smythe will bring another to your table.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Once Dante withdrew, Oliveiro fixed Hob with a stern gaze. “What was that about?”

  “Nothing,” said Hob. “He just came over to say hello.”

  The underbutler frowned. “Once you deliver Lord Hyde’s beverage, you are excused for the evening.”

  “But Her Highness—”

  “I’ll explain to Dàme Rascha. There’s to be no more trouble with the Hydes.”

  Hob’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t start this.”

  Oliveiro clasped his hands behind his back. “No, Mr. Smythe, I don’t believe you did. But that is neither here nor there. Deliver his drink and take your leave.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Several minutes later, Hob had three ices, Pamplemousse’s juice, and Dante’s drink on a salver. He delivered Lord Hyde’s first, leaving a puzzled maid to set it before His Lordship. Hob glided away without comment and returned to the Faeregine table, where he served Isabel’s ice and Pamplemousse’s juice. Hazel was just returning from a dance and went straight for one of the ices.

  “Is this for me?” she asked.

  “One for you,” said Hob. “And one for Dàme Rascha.”

  Pamplemousse swatted Merlin away from his drink. “Took long enough. In my day—”

  “You’re only two months old,” moaned Isabel.

  The creature scowled and set upon his juice, lapping it up with a long, forked tongue. Hazel spooned her ice.

  “I’m so glad that first dance is over.”

  “You were great,” said Hob.

  “No thanks to Dante Hyde,” she muttered. “Leaving me to stand there like an idiot. I swear I’m going to get him. I just need to think of something sufficiently dreadful.”

  Hob pretended to give this some thought. “We could put something in his drink,” he said quietly. “Nothing dangerous—just something to ensure a highly public accident.”

  Hazel almost swooned. “That’s perfect! Let’s do it.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Okay,” she said eagerly. “When?”

  “How about five minutes ago?”

  She blinked. “Five minutes ago? I don’t . . .”

  Hob gave her a significant look and an expression of horrified delight blossomed on Her Highness’s pale features. She peered furtively at the table where Dante was busy flirting with Tatiana Castile. The glass was nearly empty.

  “Did you really?” she whispered.

  Hob nodded before addressing her in a formal tone. “Your Highness, Mr. Oliveiro has excused me for the evening. With your permission, I will take my leave.”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, of course. Good night, Mr. Smythe. And thank you!”

  With a bow, he made for the exit, avoiding eye contact with the Hyde table. Passing a gauntlet of guardsmen, he slipped from the ballroom and descended the double staircase.

  Hob knew he’d done something rash but it was worth it. He’d never hated anyone—not even his mother’s family—as much as he despised Dante Hyde. And he wasn’t just striking a blow for himself, he was striking one for Hazel. His real regret was that he wouldn’t get to see the proverbial fireworks in person.

  When Hob reached the servant quarters, he found the pages’ wing unusually quiet. Most were on duty; the rest had to sit about in their uniforms should they be needed. Several were playing cards in the little common area. Hob said hello but did not linger to chat. He
wanted a nap before the after-party game of hall thumper. He and Viktor were on a winning streak.

  Viktor wasn’t in. Opening the little window, Hob sat on his bed and pulled off his dress boots. Music wafted in from the ballroom far above. It reminded him that the Fellowship wanted a report as soon as possible. His attendance had been brief, but he’d seen plenty of interest. With Viktor out, he might as well report while the details were fresh. Lying on his cot, he opened the handbook and took up a blunt toothpick.

  Empress did not attend; VF presided. Looked nervous when told she would have to light crystal “sun” during ceremony. Believe archmage did it. Open hostility between BF and Kraavh. Ship sunk off Ankura. Some crew survived—insist Lirlanders attacked. Kraavh said ships trespassing. BF says demons have broken treaty. War seems imminent. Separate note—Dante Hyde threatened me. Says I will “belong” to him in two—

  There was a commotion in the hallway: running footsteps and a chorus of shouts. Did someone call his name? Hob slipped the handbook under his pillow just as someone hammered on his door.

  “What?” he called.

  The door shattered.

  Splinters pelted his hands and arms, some piercing the skin. No ordinary blow or kick could have done that. This was magic. Hob peered through the dust. Dante Hyde stood panting in the doorway.

  “You put something in my drink.”

  Hob rose slowly from his bed. He didn’t bother arguing; it wouldn’t have mattered if he were innocent. Dante’s skin had a waxy sheen. Beads of sweat trickled steadily down his forehead. Drawing his sword, he staggered into the room.

  “I’m going to kill you . . .”

  Yanking the blanket from his cot, Hob flung it at Dante’s face and bolted for the door.

  As he hoped, Dante swatted the blanket aside, providing a window for Hob to dart past him. But Dante recovered and shouldered Hob into the doorjamb with such force the two crashed to the floor. The saber’s point grazed Hob’s stomach as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled out of the room.

  A dozen pages were in the hallway, staring in speechless astonishment. Viktor was among them. Hob waved them away.