“Get out of here. Fetch the guard!” he yelled.
Dante staggered into the hallway, clutching his saber and looking murderous. “That’s right,” he rasped. “Fetch the guard with their guns. They’re little muir maggots just like you.”
All the boys ran except for Viktor. Hob’s roommate looked petrified but stood his ground. Dante looked amused.
“Are you going to be a hero?”
When Viktor didn’t answer, the earl pointed at his feet. “Ignis.”
Viktor’s shoes burst into bright flames. With a cry, he dropped to the floor and tried to remove them. Hob rushed over and pulled them off, singeing his hands in the process. The boy’s socks had already burned away; the skin beneath was smoking. Viktor gripped Hob’s shoulder.
“Run!”
Dante laughed. “That’s right, boy. Run.”
Hob tried, but his body had trouble obeying. Dante had cast some sort of hex that caused his muscles to feel horribly sluggish. Running was impossible; even walking was like wading through mud. The best Hob could do was back away, and even that took surprising effort.
Dante stepped over Viktor, clutching his saber with one hand and his belly with the other. He wasn’t well, but he wasn’t nearly as sick as Hob assumed he would be. Perhaps Gorgo’s potion only worked on hags. Dante’s face twisted into a leer.
“Still think you’re my equal?”
Hob continued backing away. He reached the junction of the boys’ and girls’ wings. If he could get to the stairs . . .
“You’re just some half-tamed savage,” said Dante hoarsely. “My family’s been ruling Impyrium for millennia.”
“You should tell the Faeregines,” said Hob.
“They’re finished. I’m going to butcher their servant in their own house and they won’t say a word. We own the Faeregines, which means I own you. . . .”
Fortunately, Dante was the sort who always had to have the last word, which was tremendously helpful when one was trying to stall. All Hob had to do was argue.
“You don’t own me,” he said.
“But I do! You’re going to be my puppet. I’m pulling the strings now.”
The earl jerked his hand and an invisible force yanked Hob off his feet. He dangled in the air like a marionette. When Dante released him, he fell in a heap. Gasping, Hob made for the nearby staircase.
“Crawling like a worm,” Dante observed. “Compared to you, I’m a god.”
It was an impressive statement. Unfortunately, it ended with a thunderous belch that left the speaker in dry heaves.
“Very godlike,” grunted Hob, seizing the railing.
Dante wiped spittle from his lips and pointed a finger. “Ignis!” he croaked.
A wave of heat billowed over Hob’s face, but it was no worse than opening an oven door. Perhaps the potion was taking effect, or perhaps Dante had tapped out his stores of magic. Hob didn’t really care so long as he still had a face.
Hob reached the landing and descended another flight. Despite his peril, he could not help but recognize the situation’s absurdity. This had to be the slowest chase in human history. He took another laborious step.
“Why can’t we just be friends,” he wheezed. “I think we have a lot in common.”
“We have nothing in common!” yelled Dante.
“You know that hurts my feelings.”
An enraged Dante redoubled his efforts. He staggered down several steps before coming to an abrupt halt. A warbling gurgle sounded from his stomach.
“Better find a privy,” said Hob. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait.”
Dante gave a convulsive shiver. “I swear I’m going to kill you. . . .”
At last, Hob reached the servants’ dining room. “Why aren’t you using Bragha Rùn? Everyone knows you stole it. Did you sell it already?”
Dante smirked. “No one’s selling that blade. Not ’til the assassin’s done his work.”
Hob’s smile vanished. “What are you talking about? What assassin?”
Dante lurched nearly within striking distance. His voice was a rasping hiss. “The assassin that’s going to murder your girlfriend. I hear he’s already in position.”
Keep him talking. “You’re making that up.”
Dante shook his head. “Overheard my father. The order could come any day. Too bad you won’t be able to warn her . . .”
The saber whistled past Hob’s nose. Stumbling backward, Hob crashed through the swinging doors to the kitchens. Dante rushed after him, grinning madly as he held the sword inches from Hob’s face.
“Any last words, muir?”
Hob propped himself on his elbows. “A question.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Have you ever been sniffed?”
Dante blinked. His uneasy gaze traveled about the kitchen, taking in the burly figures that stopped what they were doing to regard the stranger. Bombasta broke the eerie silence.
“Who the bloody hell is you?”
Dante straightened. He was so outraged at being questioned in such a manner that he failed to notice a hag sidling casually behind him. “I’m Lord Dante Hyde, you disgusting brute. Earl of Eastmarch, heir to House Hyde, and—”
“A roast!” squealed the hag.
Dante shrieked as she wrenched him off his feet. In a flash, the hag had pinned his arms and flung his saber in a nearby sink. While Dante flailed, other hags rushed forward with kitchen twine. They fell upon the earl in a frenzy of activity. He reappeared moments later trussed as neatly as a rib roast. His shrieks soared into falsetto range.
Sobbing and pleading, he offered gold and even houses to the many hags now rubbing him with butter. His entreaties fell upon deaf ears; hags did not listen to their food. They merely passed him down the line where others waited with herbs and spices. At the far end, Gorgo was tending the oven while Bombasta sharpened a cleaver.
Tempted though he was, Hob decided he could not actually let the hags devour Dante. Getting to his feet, he found his spell had been broken. He quickly made his way to Bombasta.
“Happy May Day, love,” she said. “Nice gesture to bring us supper. Was feeling peckish.”
“About that supper,” said Hob. “You can’t eat him.”
“Rubbish! He’s a strapping lad. Plenty of good meat there.”
“He’ll make you sick.”
Bombasta wrinkled her nose. “How’s that?”
“I spiked his drink.”
Gorgo slammed the oven shut. “You gave him Bombasta’s potion?” she cried.
Bombasta wheeled on her. “Whatchoo mean my potion?”
Gorgo fled into a nearby pantry. With a sigh, Bombasta dumped out her tankard and considered the well-seasoned earl now being transferred to a roasting pan. “Oi!” she shouted. “Hold up, girlies.”
The assembly line ceased. Thirty-five hags turned their beady eyes upon their chief.
“Let ’im go,” she grumbled. “Meat’s no good.”
The kitchen hags looked at Hob. They weren’t angry so much as disappointed. Two seized the roasting pan by its handles and dumped their quaking supper on the floor. Bombasta jabbed a finger in Hob’s chest.
“You owe us an earl.”
Before he could reply, Oliveiro burst into the kitchen with four guardsmen at his heels. The underbutler’s eyes found Hob before he noticed the hog-tied lord on the kitchen floor.
“Get away from him,” he ordered.
The hags gave their meal feisty, unrepentant looks as they shuffled off in their clogs. The soldiers helped Lord Hyde to his feet and Oliveiro cut away the twine. Dante was apoplectic.
“I’ll have all your heads!” he shouted. “Every last—!”
His eyes shot wide.
Gorgo’s potion had finally kicked in.
Moments later, Hob stood in quiet amazement. He had not realized a human stomach could expel its contents from so many places, and with such astonishing force. Even the hags were horrified. They had scattered to the far corners
as Bombasta bellowed for mops.
A nonplussed Oliveiro retrieved a hand towel and calmly wiped his face. He did not offer one to Lord Hyde, who remained in a crouched attitude, looking stunned and appalled.
“Well,” said Oliveiro. “I’m reasonably confident I will never forget this May Day. Mr. Smythe, return to your quarters.”
This snapped Dante from his trance.
“Your page poisoned me!”
“Do you have proof?” said Oliveiro.
Dante was incredulous. “It’s all over you!”
Oliveiro tutted. “Perhaps your lordship overindulged. Such strong drinks are a bit much for a young man. Even an earl.”
“How dare you! I want him arrested!”
“Do you indeed?” said Oliveiro. “Given your lordship’s literal and figurative position, I assumed you’d wish to handle this privately. From what I gather, you—a guest of Her Divine Radiance—trespassed into the servant quarters, destroyed property, assaulted one page with magic, tried to murder another, and emptied your bowels in her kitchens. Am I missing anything?”
“He offered me an estate!” cried a hag indignantly.
The underbutler frowned. “Attempted bribery.” He cocked his head inquiringly. “Shall we press the issue, milord, or would you prefer fresh clothes and discreet transportation?”
His lordship chose the latter option. Turning to Hob, Oliveiro ordered him back to his room before he and the guards escorted Dante out the kitchen’s back entrance.
Hob found Viktor in their room, tending to his feet while a pair of domovoi removed twisted hinges from the doorframe.
“How are they?” asked Hob.
Viktor rubbed salve into his toes. “Crispy, but I’ll live. You?”
“I’m fine,” said Hob, slipping his handbook into a towel. “I’m sorry you got involved. I’ll be right back—just going to clean up. I’m covered in Lord Hyde.”
He ran down the hallway to the pages’ bathroom and ducked into a stall. Once inside, he locked the door and scribbled a hasty note to the Fellowship.
DH just attacked me. Am all right. He boasted of an assassin—overheard his father. Said order’s been given for HF. Is that true?
He flipped to the page that would display incoming messages.
“Come on,” he whispered, tapping it impatiently. “Simple yes or no.”
What if they said yes? How was Hob going to warn Sigga? Should he tell her himself or leave an anonymous note?
A message arrived. The words surfaced one by one, overwriting the list of diplomats.
Boy is a fool who overheard outdated conversation. No order needed. Scholar does not believe HF is what we feared. Stay course. I will deal with Hydes.
Hob almost whooped aloud. It was the best possible answer he could have received. No assassination order had been given, and none was coming. Hazel was just Hazel, after all. If she was sick or plagued by some malignant spirit, they would find a way to help her. It might take time, but he knew she could become an invaluable ally and smooth the transition to a more just Impyrium.
Leaving the stall, he went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. He would not have wanted to be Dante Hyde at this moment, not for all the gold in Eastmarch.
Viktor and his glistening feet were lying atop his bed when Hob returned to their room. He had not bothered to pick up or sweep aside any of the broken wood, and simply lay among the splinters with a dazed look on his face.
“Are you all right?” said Hob.
Viktor nodded dully. “Yeah. But maybe you should think twice before tweaking someone like Dante Hyde. He could have killed you. Or me. Or any other page that got in his way.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hob. He’d been so eager to prank Dante he’d never stopped to consider it could endanger his friends.
“Please tell me it was worth it,” said Viktor, flicking a splinter off his pillow.
“I don’t know if it was worth it,” replied Hob thoughtfully. “But it was pretty good.”
While the domovoi hung a new door, Hob cleaned the room and shared what transpired with the hags and Dante’s digestive system. Viktor shook with laughter.
“I can’t even stay mad. They’ll send you packing, but no one can say you didn’t go out with a bang. Pages around the world will erect statues in your honor.”
Hob tried to laugh, but Viktor’s words tied his stomach in a knot. He had been so preoccupied with Dante and Hazel that he had not stopped to consider what was going to happen to him. Of course he would be fired. He gazed around the little room. He would miss it, and Sunday breakfasts in the dining room, and the rowdy games of hall thumper. Gods help him—he would even miss the hags.
And then of course, there was Her Highness. Teaching Hazel about the Muirlands had given Hob a chance to exercise part of his brain he never thought he’d use again. He looked forward to their sessions and, truth be told, he looked forward to seeing her.
Their friendship wasn’t like his friendships back in Dusk. And it wasn’t just because Hazel was a royal or even a girl. She understood and challenged Hob in a way his old friends never could. Hob knew what Mole would be in twenty years. Any given night a dozen Moles could be found in Mother Howell’s. But he had no idea what Hazel Faeregine would be someday. Neither did she. And that was exciting.
There was a knock. Oliveiro stood on the threshold, pretending not to notice the room’s state of destruction. “Mr. Smythe, I wondered if you would join me for a cup of tea.”
Hob said he would be very happy and steeled himself for the inevitable. He followed the underbutler down the hallway and up a flight of steps to the suites where the underbutlers lived. Unlocking a door, Oliveiro stood aside for Hob to enter.
Oliveiro’s rooms were small but very neat, with a window offering a view of the May Day fireworks over the lighthouse at Kirin Point. A cat was dozing on a chair. Scooping it up, Oliveiro resettled it on a cushion by the radiator and gestured for Hob to sit. While Oliveiro boiled water on a little stove, Hob studied the portraits and photographs arrayed upon the walls and bookcases. The nearest showed a mustachioed gentleman with dark skin and thick white hair. The man’s stern, almost fierce expression reminded Hob of the shaman.
“My great-great-grandfather,” said Oliveiro. “Head butler in his day. Devoted his life to the Faeregines. Never even left this island. He was, you might say, a natural servant.”
Handing Hob his tea, Oliveiro settled in an armchair.
“I realize you have special duties with Her Highness, but technically you fall under my authority. And I can say—without exaggeration—that no page in living memory has wreaked so much havoc in so little time. You are not a natural servant, Mr. Smythe. You are a natural catastrophe.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, sir.”
Oliveiro gave him a frank look. “Did you put something in Lord Hyde’s drink?”
Hob met his gaze. “I did, sir.”
The underbutler nodded. “I see. Well, it grieves me to say this, Mr. Smythe, but I must relieve you of your page duties. Your service is terminated.”
Hob began to rise, but Oliveiro held up a hand.
“Please sit, Mr. Smythe. I’m not quite finished with you.”
“What else is there to discuss, sir?”
“Your future.”
“Why should you care about my future, sir?”
“Because you’re an able lad who has repeatedly defended Her Highness’s honor.”
Setting down his tea, Oliveiro rose and gazed out the open window. “Like I said, you’re not a natural servant, Mr. Smythe. I’ve never met anyone less temperamentally suited for the job. But that doesn’t mean I think poorly of you. On the contrary, I’d like to help you find a more fitting profession.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. What did you have in mind?”
“Have you thought about being a soldier?” said Oliveiro. “I have some contacts. With some luck, and a few more inches, you’d make the guard someday. The pa
y isn’t terrible, and you have shown a certain aptitude, shall we say?”
Hob thought of his father’s patched and faded coat. Like father, like son.
“Would that appeal to you, Mr. Smythe?”
“I don’t know,” said Hob. “Are they hiring?”
Oliveiro beckoned Hob over to the window and pointed down at the fleet of warships crowding Rowan Harbor.
“I think they may be.”
CHAPTER 18
THE INTERVIEW
Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact.
Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.
—Marcus Aurelius, Pre-Cataclysm ruler (1892–1823 P.C.)
The distinctive crackle of gunfire filtered through Hazel’s window. The volleys began at dawn and came at regular intervals. Now and again, she could even hear the drill sergeant barking. The noise was irritating, but nothing compared to the roar of ship cannons. Those would begin at noon, as they had each and every day since the May Ball two weeks ago. A staggering six more galleons had disappeared since the celebration. By Impyrial decree no ships were to enter Lirlander waters. Those already at sea were ordered to the nearest port.
Hazel knew the Lirlanders were sinking those ships. It wasn’t an iceberg or reef she had glimpsed in that vision of the Polestar’s final moments, it was a tentacle the size of Old Tom’s clock tower. The image still haunted her, as did the ship boy’s terror. Many times she debated whether she should tell Rascha, her uncle, or even the empress what she’d seen. But she could not bring herself to do it. There were other witnesses now; no one doubted that the Lirlanders were responsible. Coming forward would only invite questions she was not prepared to answer.
Not quite yet.
Merlin stirred as Hazel glanced at the fireplace. The little homunculus could sense when his master’s will was weakening.
“Don’t worry,” said Hazel, scratching his wing. “I haven’t forgotten my promise.”
Still, Hazel eased out of bed and walked over to the fireplace. She crouched before it in her nightgown, staring at the hearth’s blackened stone. The itch to retrieve Arianna’s portrait had never been this strong during daylight. Merlin flapped about her like an injured starling.
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