Impyrium

by Henry H. Neff

  ’til they sparkled like fey from the Sidh . . .

  Footsteps came down the hall. Hob recognized one heavy tread, but also heard lighter steps and softer soles. The jailer had company.

  When a key rattled in his lock, Hob opened his eyes. The door was over six inches thick and steel plated, but it had no magical runes or wards. This cell was built for muir prisoners, and they could not change into spiders or mist or summon homunculi to their aid. Muir could only sit and hum and molder in the dark.

  The door groaned open; the jailer’s bulk nearly filled the opening.

  “On your feet.”

  Hob twisted up, using the wall for support as his ankle chains stretched taut. They no longer hurt. The skin had been chafed to leather. Hob was ordered to go stand by the restraints bolted to the wall.

  “No need for those,” said a female voice.

  The jailer was well suited for the monotony of his job. He was dim-witted and clung to routine as if it were a holy object. And so, these instructions—a deviation from said routine—caused him to frown before shuffling aside.

  Sigga Fenn walked into the cell, followed by Dàme Rascha and Hazel Faeregine. Her Highness no longer resembled the godly being Hob beheld at Hound’s Trench. She wore different robes, but she was the same, unassuming girl he’d tutored on the Muirlands. Hob had not seen any of them since Her Highness’s astonishing manifestation at his execution. He could not even say how many weeks ago that was. After a few days in prison, he’d stopped keeping track of time. Too depressing.

  He assessed the faces around him. Sigga’s expression was inscrutable; Dàme Rascha’s predictably hostile. Hazel seemed uncertain of what she was feeling. Her eyes met his for only a moment before they gazed about his cell. They lingered longest on his privy, a round hole cut into the floor, which lent the room its ammoniac reek. Hob hardly noticed it anymore.

  “I want his ankle chains removed,” she said to the jailer.

  Her tone was strangely wounding. Her Highness spoke like Hob wasn’t a person, but a dog whose kennel was unsatisfactory. Aside from that initial glance, she did not look at him.

  Dàme Rascha scowled. “He should remain chained, Your Highness. The boy is a spy. A spy who tried to murder you.”

  Hazel pursed her lips. “We’ve been over this, Rascha.”

  The vye glared down at Hob. “You are a spy, no?”

  He was capable of answering, for his psychnosis had almost faded completely. But he had not spoken aloud for days. His voice sounded like a stranger’s. “I was,” he croaked.

  The vye grunted as though this settled all. “Spies are executed.”

  Hazel stroked Merlin, who was clinging to her wrist. “So are traitors, Rascha. But my uncle’s still alive.” The princess’s expression was inward, distant. She did not look at Hob but at his sleeping pallet, a lumpy canvas filled with sawdust. “I’m sorry to say my uncle was involved in the crimes involving the Lirlander Seals, the theft of Bragha Rùn . . . everything. Apparently your Mr. Burke blackmailed him. Did you know anything about that, Mr. Smythe?”

  Hob shook his head. He’d known Lord Faeregine had debts, but he was stunned by the man’s crimes against his own family. Hazel had been deeply attached to her uncle. The betrayal must have been unspeakably painful.

  Betrayal.

  Hob had betrayed her too. Not her life, perhaps, but her trust and friendship. He’d mused on it many times since his arrest, but not with her standing a few feet away. Now, the ugly truth struck home.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Mr. Burke promised they wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Her Highness merely nodded. Dàme Rascha took her hand and turned to Sigga.

  “This was a mistake. She has been through enough.”

  “No,” said Hazel. “I want to hear what Mr. Smythe has to say about this Mr. Burke.” She turned impatiently to the jailer. “I said I wanted those chains removed.”

  The jailer reluctantly obliged. Once freed, Hob tried to stamp the life back into his prickling feet. He nearly lost his balance, but Sigga caught him.

  The Grislander eased him to a sitting position against the wall. With a flick of her fingers, she summoned a glowsphere that brightened the dim cell. Crouching beside him she removed a photograph from a dossier. It showed Mr. Burke standing on the Bank of Rowan steps.

  “You recognize this man,” she said.

  “Of course,” said Hob. “That’s Mr. Burke.”

  Sigga held up another photograph of an elderly black woman in a foreign bazaar. “What about this person?”

  “Never seen her.”

  The Grislander showed him more. Most were census photographs of men and women, young and old, even children of various races and ethnicities. All were strangers.

  “Who are they?” he asked.

  Sigga smiled grimly. “They’re all the same person. Your employer has used many aliases and identities over the centuries. He’s been Edmund Burke for the last thirty-one years.”

  Hob sat up. “So, who is he really?”

  The Grislander showed him another photograph, pointing to a young man with a high forehead and long dark hair sitting with a dozen other people in a stony hall. They wore no robes or mage chains, but there were strange inscriptions on the floor and a pair of domanocti in the rafters. His gaze returned to the man sitting nearest the fireplace.

  “That’s Mr. Burke?”

  “I believe so,” said Sigga. “His real name is Pietr Lanskova, a founding member of the Coven who were devoted to the Shibbolth. When the Red Branch stamped the cult out, I think Pietr and his sister, Yvanna, escaped. The two have been swapping out bodies for centuries. Mr. Burke and Ms. Marlowe were just their latest creations.”

  “How do you know this?” said Hob.

  The agent removed a bound stack of papers that looked to be copies of legal documents.

  “Look at the signatures,” she said.

  The names and dates varied greatly, but each signature was written in the same spidery hand.

  “They’re all made by the same person,” he said.

  “Correct,” said Sigga, packing up the documents. “For generations Pietr has passed down his wealth and possessions to various people he’s groomed as his replacement. Through necromancy, he transfers his mind and soul into the host’s body. They die; Pietr lives.”

  “So he’s like a vampire,” said Hob. There were many Hauja tales of vampires in the Northwest, disembodied heads that feasted on the unwary and streaked across the winter skies like shooting stars. On certain nights, the tribe painted lamb’s blood on their doors in the hope it would appease them.

  “Pietr’s not undead,” said Sigga. “Neither was Yvanna, which is why your bullet killed her. They’re mortals—but mortals who have been accumulating wealth and knowledge over many lifetimes. Pietr’s profoundly dangerous and must be caught. I think you can help me. In doing so, you’ll be avenging someone I think you care about.”

  Sigga’s next photograph left Hob numb. It seemed to be an official photograph of the ill-fated expedition to the Sentries in pursuit of ormeisen. The Grislander tapped one of the soldiers. “I think you know who that man is,” said Sigga.

  Hob’s jaw tightened. “That’s my father.” He glanced at Hazel. “Mr. Burke told me my father was there when you were born.”

  Hazel did not look at him. “So I understand. My grandmother told me the story.”

  He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. “Did she tell you she had him executed? Did she tell you she had him killed for saving your life?”

  “No,” said Sigga. “The empress promoted Anders Smythe to captain and named him to the Order of Orion. She had nothing to do with his execution. That came later, and was for desertion. Another member of his Sentries expedition had survived after all. The man accused your father of abandoning the regiment when they fell under attack. Here is the affidavit.”

  There was no mistaking the document’s spidery script. It had been Mr. Burke who betrayed
Hob’s father. As Hob read, he saw that another soldier—a Sergeant Beecher of the Impyrial Guard—had confirmed the accuser’s story. Beecher testified that he had heard an identical account from another member of the expedition who later died of his injuries.

  Hob laid the paper down. “Why?”

  “I think your father refused a direct order,” said Sigga. “Probably one involving the newborn princesses. With Lady Elana’s passing, the triplets represented the last of the dynastic Faeregines. And the Fellowship had a newly promoted captain in place, one trusted by the royal family . . .”

  “But my father refused to hurt them,” said Hob. “And so Burke had him killed.”

  “Reluctantly, I would think,” said Sigga. “As I told you, necromancers are very selective about their next body. The fact that Burke personally recruited you after knowing your father, leaves no doubt in my mind. Pietr had chosen your father to be his next host. When that was no longer a possibility, he turned his attention to you.”

  Hob trembled with horror and rage. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Unlikely. But you can assist me by answering some questions.”

  Hob leaned forward. “But I want to help you hunt him down.”

  “I work best alone,” said Sigga. “There’s also the pesky fact that you are in prison. And, by direct order of the Divine Empress, you are to remain here.”

  “But my mother and sister,” Hob pleaded. “Mr. Burke threatened them, they could be dead already—!”

  Sigga held up a hand. “They’re safe, Mr. Smythe. I had them moved to Cey-Atül.”

  Hob leaned back slowly. It was the best news he could have possibly hoped for. He took a deep breath. “What do you need from me?”

  “Every snake has its bolt-hole,” said Sigga. “I would be willing to bet that Pietr has fled to his. If we’re lucky, he’s given hints where it might be.”

  The Grislander questioned Hob about the time he’d spent with Mr. Burke. She listened closely to his account of Mr. Burke’s appearance in Dusk, their descent into the dig site, and their train trip to Impyria. Time and again, she pressed him to go into small, seemingly irrelevant details. Hob had nearly exhausted his memory when something occurred to him.

  “The wine,” he said slowly. “Aboard the Transcontinental, Mr. Burke asked for a Lansalian red. The concierge recommended something else, but Mr. Burke joked he wasn’t ordering bad wine; he was ordering good memories. The Lansalian coast was his favorite place on earth. He said he missed the taste of its soil.”

  Sigga raised an eyebrow and sorted through her files. Holding up a document, she studied it closely by the glowsphere. “He’s lived there twice. Once in the nineteenth century and again in the twenty-fifth. An estate outside Taraval . . .”

  Extinguishing the sphere, Sigga rose and tucked her files under her arm. Hob caught a predatory gleam in the Grislander’s eyes. “If this helps me find him, I’ll put a word in with the empress.”

  Dàme Rascha chuffed. “Put in a word for what? Better quarters? The boy should be turned into a boatman!”

  With a parting glare, the vye followed Sigga out of the cell. “Come along, Your Highness.”

  Hazel remained where she was. “In a minute.”

  A wolfish head instantly poked back into the cell. “Now.”

  The princess turned to her tutor. “Rascha, I love you, but please get out.”

  The vye’s brow furrowed but she withdrew. Her grumbling could be heard from the hallway. “To think I used to bathe her . . .”

  Hazel turned back to Hob. While she was no longer the radiant goddess from Hound’s Trench, it was nevertheless remarkable how much she’d changed. Her Highness was still petite and wore a barrette in her white hair. But she had seen something of the world, and that awareness—for both good and bad—had robbed those rabbit-red eyes of their innocence. Hob found it difficult to believe she was the same girl he’d first seen at Lady Sylva’s.

  He gestured at her robes, black silk with amber trim. “I knew you’d do it. Third Rank?”

  “Fourth.”

  “The empress must be pleased.”

  “Mainly with herself. My grandmother placed Sigga under orders to leave you in place and not to interfere in our friendship. She wanted me to care about you before she took you away. I . . . I wasn’t supposed to find out about the executions until they’d already happened.”

  “Why?” said Hob. “What was the point?”

  “Mina the Fourth lost her brother when she was young. I guess some scholars believe that her grief—and the hatred that came after—made her more powerful. My grandmother wanted to turn me into a weapon, to make people fear our family again. She wanted me to be another Reaper.”

  Hob hesitated before speaking. “Did she succeed?”

  Her Highness did not reply right away. Her expression turned inward. “The Reaper would have let you die,” she said quietly. “Then she would have burned the empress to ashes. No, Mr. Smythe. I am not the Reaper. I chose to be Hazel Faeregine.”

  A flicker of pain passed over the princess’s face, subtle but unmistakable. He realized she had been through some sort of trial—something far beyond anything to do with the Lirlander Vault, the Fellowship, or the Coven. And Hazel had won.

  “So what now, Your Highness?” said Hob.

  “Back to work. I’m going to make Fifth Rank. Not even the Reaper made Fifth Rank before she turned fourteen.”

  “No rest for the weary.”

  “I’m a Faeregine,” she said drily. “We don’t get to rest. If it’s not a Great House or revolutionaries that want us dead, it’s body-snatching necromancers.”

  Her Highness smiled but it was fleeting. Its departure left a surprising ache. Hob hadn’t realized how much he missed spending time with her. She gazed at him contemplatively.

  “Were you ever my friend?”

  There was no hurt or judgment in her tone. She simply sounded like a girl who was tired of guessing at a riddle. Hob did not answer right away.

  “Not at first,” he confessed. “At the beginning I thought you were stupid and spoiled. I couldn’t believe how little you knew or cared about the empire your family rules. It made me angry.”

  He fell off. A volatile mix of emotions was rising dangerously near the surface.

  “But I changed my mind,” he continued. “Not about equality or muir rights, but about you. I believe you’re going to do great things. Good things. And that makes me proud.” Hob looked at the stone floor and fought to keep his voice steady. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  A pause. “Even better than Mole?”

  Hob laughed and thumbed away a tear. “Yeah, I guess so. Poor Mole. He’ll be crushed.”

  Hazel cradled Merlin and stroked the homunculus’s wings. “Well”—she sighed—“thank you for answering my question. Unfortunately, I have to go. Impyria’s playing Tropique and I don’t want to be late for kickoff.”

  She turned in a soft swish of silk. Hob cleared his throat. “Don’t give up on me, Your Highness.”

  Hazel Faeregine paused in the doorway, an elfin silhouette against the torchlight.

  “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for all the gold in Impyrium.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I completed the Tapestry, I came to realize that I was not quite finished with the world I had created. The story of Max McDaniels felt complete, but I remained intrigued by what might unfold after the demons had been conquered and Rowan emerged as a global power. Would all that energy and optimism result in a better society, or might the passing centuries twist good intentions into something that bore little resemblance to David Menlo’s “Pax Rowana”? A curious writer and amateur historian wanted to know. With the signing of the Red Winter Treaty, Impyrium’s seeds had been planted.

  While I nurtured these seeds in their infancy, others played crucial roles in bringing them to harvest. Special thanks to my agent, Josh Adams, who placed Impyrium
with the peerless Antonia Markiet and her team at HarperCollins. A writer could not ask for better partners. I am deeply indebted to Toni and Abbe Goldberg for believing in my vision, and for lending their wit, warmth, and insight to the story’s characters and narrative. They are true professionals, as is Amy Ryan, who designed a beautiful book and made an inspired choice in Antonio Caparo, whose artwork graces its cover. Copy editor Martha Schwartz not only imposed order upon Impyrium’s complexity, she taught me that magnolia do not bloom in July. An invaluable lesson. As Dàme Rascha might say, little things make big differences.

  Of course, none of this would be possible without my dear friends and family. Without their support, Hob might still be arranging chairs in Mother Howell’s. And when it comes to Danielle, Charlie, and James—no words are adequate. Your love and patience have made all the difference. Thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Laura Rose

  HENRY H. NEFF grew up outside Chicago but now lives in Montclair, New Jersey, with his wife and two children. Impyrium is Henry’s second fantasy series. His first series, the Tapestry, is a five-book epic that follows the life and adventures of Max McDaniels. To learn more, please visit www.henryhneff.com.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  CREDITS

  Cover art © 2016 by Antonio Caparo

  Cover design by Amy Ryan and Michelle Gengaro-Kokmen

  COPYRIGHT

  IMPYRIUM. Copyright © 2016 by Henry H. Neff. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.