by Emerson, Ru
“He has done the thing Wudron says, unfortunately. I am sorry, brother; I know you are fond of Vuhlem. But—there is confirmation of the boy’s appearance in Holmaddan by a caravaner who is heir to Red Hawk’s grandmother. Also, a source known to and trusted by the Thukar of Sikkre says there are men in Vuhlem’s colors occupying Dro Pent city and Wudron’s palace.”
Shesseran frowned; his hands shook. “All—all that?”
Afronsan nodded. He patted his brother’s chill, trembling fingers gently. “Red Hawk clan sent the message south from Holmaddan City; the warning from Dro Pent is the Duke’s own word, his own writing, smuggled from the city by a man loyal to young Thukar Dahven.”
“Wudron fears—does he really fear we would attack Dro Pent?” The Emperor’s frown deepened. “But we would never do such a thing! Warfare by the Emperor against a Duke? It’s mad!”
More patience. Afronsan managed a smile. “I know this, sire. All Rhadaz knows it.” And upon that knowledge, Vuhlem has acted. “I have sent Dro Pent’s Duke a wire to that effect already—”
“Wire.” Shesseran shook his head. He was silent for some moments. “That—that wire. Useful, my brother, I admit it is of use. You have—a gift for such things which I do not, which of the foreigners’ innovations will serve the land and its people, which might encourage ease and sloth. But—the wire was not yet strung beyond Sikkre, or so you told me!”
“It still is not strung beyond Sikkre, or you would have known of it, my brother. Thukar Dahven will by now have the message I sent by wire; he will forward a horse messenger to Wudron, a man who knows how best to circumvent Vuhlem’s soldiers, a man who carries a message that tells Wudron you intend no action that might cause Vuhlem to harm the boy.”
“Harm. Ah, beloved gods! Who would dare harm a boy? And this child of Wudron’s—” Shesseran frowned. “I forget, Frons, how old is Wudron’s heir?”
Silly, ancient nickname. Afronsan smiled. “Four or five years, I fear I forget as well. He’s very young. Of an age to still be at his mother’s side, and to weep for her if he was taken away.”
“Taken—away… Oh, no; how dreadful. Vuhlem would surely not—” Shesseran shook his head again; this time, his mouth was set. Afronsan waited. “He would never—” He was silent again, finally sighed, very faintly. “Gods. I do not think he would harm a small child, anyone’s son. Or take one. Then—he has none of his own, you know; such a curse would weigh upon a man like Vuhlem; he’d care for the sons of others.” Hah, Afronsan thought sourly. Somehow, he kept the thought, and the anger, from his face. After a momentary silence, Shesseran went on. “But—but Vuhlem never cared for babes as you or I care, Frons. I remember that of him, when we were boys together: Vuhlem never understood why one might love a mere child, of whatever sex. Even—even a younger brother.” The Emperor’s fingers tightened on those of his Heir. “As I did, for all you might doubt it, Frons.”
Afronsan smiled back and, greatly daring, addressed his brother in the nickname he’d given the much older brother when he was unable to pronounce the true heir’s rightful name. “I never doubted your love, Sess.” Shesseran laughed breathily.
“Sess.” He sobered then. “A boy of such few years, how dreadful for the child. I—I remember being that small, Frons, how frightened I was when Mother was ill and they would not let me be with her. Poor—poor little babe. What does Wudron call him?”
Afronsan had to think about that, despite the recent messages; one of those minor details he so often forgot, the kind of thing Shesseran would remember. Poor ill brother. Something I could well learn from him, if I had the time for it. “Oloric? I think that’s it.”
“Good name.” Shesseran drew a shaky breath, let it out on a very long sigh. For a moment, Afronsan thought he might have fallen asleep—all those powders his healers gave him, any more, his age, the pain he clearly suffered when the powders failed—but Shesseran opened his eyes and used his elbows to lever himself a little higher on the pillows. “If—if, mind you!—my friend Vuhlem has gone mad and done such a dreadful thing, he would never admit it. And with Holmaddan’s palace so isolated, he might never be caught out.” The Emperor frowned, thought for a long moment. He laughed then; Afronsan’s eyebrows went up. “This wire of yours, Frons—where does it go? How many of the Duchies?”
“Directly? All save Dro Pent and Holmaddan, brother. Why?”
“And into Holmaddan—the caravaners still post their own messages to that dreadful slab of a building Vuhlem put them in still? The grandmothers’ own form of swift message?”
“Why—yes, they do.”
Shesseran laughed again, a deep boyish chuckle that erased years from his lean, pained visage. “Then send—wire—this message as soon as you can. I think the problem will be resolved for now.” Afronsan inclined his head formally and pulled a small cube of paper from his deep pocket, an English reservoir pen from his sleeve. Shesseran dictated; Afronsan wrote. After a moment, though, the Heir’s arm dropped from the cube, and he began to laugh. Shesseran gazed at him in sudden surprise, then began to laugh with him.
TO EACH OF OUR NINE DUCHIES, AND TO THE DUKES AND DUCHESSES THEREOF, THEIR EMPEROR SAYS UNTO THEM: A CHILD HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM ONE OF YOU BY ANOTHER OF YOU. WE ARE WELL AWARE WHICH CHILD AND BY WHICH DUCHY, THOUGH WE DO NOT YET KNOW WHERE THE CHILD IS PRESENTLY HELD. FOR THIS REASON, AND NO OTHER, SHOULD THE BABE BE RETURNED TO HIS MOTHER AT ONCE, THERE WILL BE NO ACTION TAKEN BY THE EMPEROR—AT THIS TIME. SEE IT BE DONE, AT ONCE, LEST DIRE CONSEQUENCE FALL UPON THE ONE WHO HOLDS THE CHILD UNWILLING FROM HIS PARENTS.
IT HAS ALSO COME TO THE EMPEROR’S ATTENTION THAT CERTAIN OF THE DUCHIES MAINTAIN MORE ARMSMEN THAN ARE PERMITTED BY OUR LAWS IN TIME OF PEACE. DESPITE PROBLEMS AMONG THE FOREIGN NATIONS AND ALONG OUR SEACOAST, THERE IS NO NEED FOR SUCH ARMED STRENGTH WITHIN OUR BORDERS, AND THEREFORE, WE ORDER THAT ANY SUCH ARMSMEN, SOLDIERS, OR TROOPS OF ANY KIND HELD BY WHATEVER DUCHY WILL BE IMMEDIATELY REDUCED TO THEIR PROPER NUMBERS AND LOCATIONS. IF THIS IS ACCOMPLISHED AT ONCE, THE EMPEROR WILL HAVE NO CAUSE TO CREATE AN INVESTIGATION FORCE—SUCH AS HIS MANY-TIMES GREAT-GRANDSIRE DID, WITH CONSEQUENCE AND COST REMEMBERED SURELY BY EACH OF THE DUKES AND DUCHESSES. RECALL WHEN HELL-LIGHT AND THE TRIADS POSED A THREAT TO THE LAND, AND HOW THAT MATTER WAS RESOLVED! BLESSINGS UPON YOU ALL, AND UPON THE LAND ITSELF: SHESSERAN XIV.
Vuhlem strode from the windowless chamber high in his north tower and yanked the door to behind him. The sound reverberated from chill stone, echoed down the winding flag stairway. He stood in the hallway for a long moment to catch his breath and gain control of a towering fury, but his color was still high when he turned back and shoved the door open once more, just enough to lean in and shout, “I want results! And I want them soon! I already know she is in the city somewhere! I want you to find her!” Silence; a flare of ruddy yellow-orange Light his only response. He swore furiously, drew back into the hall, pulled the door closed behind him with deceptive care, and clomped down the steep, narrow flight of steps to his personal apartments.
It was much warmer here, though not much brighter. The servants had drawn curtains across the windows against the chill of yet another north storm, and retreated through the small plain door close to the fireplace as they heard his entry. Vuhlem caught the faint click of the door latch, nodded his approval to the spacious, empty room. He wished no paid help hovering over him in here! The curtains: he didn’t particularly want them closed but it didn’t matter. It would be as dark outside as an hour after sundown, anyway, thanks to early winter storms and thick cloud cover. “Bah.” He scrubbed his hands together before the fire, then drew his favorite chair nearer the enormous stone fireplace, shoved his boots off with his toes and stretched heavily stockinged feet toward the blaze. “I must have been mad,” he snarled under his breath. “Fetching in a Triad. Worthless creatures, always wanting things that cost too much, and not paying me back with decent results, either.”
Actually, that wasn’t quite true; he had to admit (to himself; never to
the Triad) that even from their usual sanctuary in his distant hunting lodge, they had been able to use their particular skills to track pockets of discontent for him, often pinpointing the location so well the Duke’s city guard didn’t need to search very hard for traitors.
Forty-seven women and twelve men executed this past month, thanks to his Triad’s work—and that not counting those stupid coastal villagers who’d stolen so many crates of treated southern brandies.
“But they—it!—cannot locate one miserable sin-Duchess! And I know she is here, somewhere in the city, I know it! She simply must be!” Because how else had Shesseran learned about Wudron’s boy, and about his army?
But Shesseran! He’d done nothing direct, oh, no! No, he’d sent that revoltingly roundabout message to all the Dukes, how typical! “Anyone knowing of—whatever Duke or Duchess, bah!” He spat into the fire. “He knows damned well which of us has the wretched, whining brat! But who warned him the boy wasn’t in his own palace? It must be her! Aletto’s dratted sister! Because Wudron would never have ignored my warnings—he’s spineless, under the thumb of that woman of his. He knew I’d gut the boy if he even thought of begging aid.” The mother wouldn’t have dared, either; she might have no sense for her own head, but the heir—So, not Dro Pent. “Besides, none of the regular messengers left his palace, my men swore to that.” Such swearing was enough; Vuhlem knew the quality of the men he based in Dro Pent. They wouldn’t lie to him, any more than they’d dare let something slip by them—loyalty, of course, but bolstered by knowledge of his anger, and his Triad. He bent down, stripped the foreign machine-knit woolen socks from his feet, and held bare soles to the fire again.
That girl, then—that caravaner the guard had told him about, lurking about where she had no business to be. “Filthy caravaners! They’re behind this, somehow—in league with the sin-Duchess!” His eyes narrowed. “Wait—yes, it’s just possible. If she is with them, here in the city, encouraging them.” Not that he’d dare search the building for her; Shesseran would leap down his throat again, anything to protect his wretched nomads even against his good friend.
The caravaners were moderately useful in the outlying villages, but overall a pestilence: it didn’t balance out. Just the attitude of their women about men, obedience, all the things women should pay heed to: The damned caravaners gave Holmaddi women notions no sensible man would put up with.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense: Only a fool would have remained in Holmaddan once she escaped his prison. Lialla was such a fool, she had to be here with the caravaners. Should have broken her arrogant, snotty neck when I had the opportunity. What could Aletto have done to me? Women like that showed what came of a mother who used Thread, a spineless and physically weak brother, an uncle more concerned with being called Duke than with keeping his women in line.
How Lialla had escaped those dungeons—but he’d know, eventually. Men talked out there in the city and the market; his own men listened, and so did his Triad. Nothing escaped the palace, and eventually the Duke.
“Dare to put yourself within my reach again, arrogant bitch; you’ll have more than a bruised cheekbone to remember me by. If you live long enough to remember anything!”
Women getting above themselves. His fingers drummed against the hardwood armrest of his chair. There were signs all over the southern Duchies, result as much as anything of those outlanders coming into Rhadaz four years ago. Jadek would spin in his grave, seeing how his adopted son let his woman do as she chose, and it was just as well Dahmec hadn’t lived to see his son and That Woman in Sikkre. Vuhlem’s hands cramped, made claws. One chance at her, just one! But it didn’t seem likely Dahven would give him the chance—or the woman, either. Vuhlem kicked a thin branch into the fire, scowled as flames popped and snapped.
Everything had gone wrong when those three outlanders were pulled into Rhadaz; the boy was as bad as either of the women. Not surprisingly, since one was said to be his mother, the other his mother’s sister. Whose fault? Jadek’s, of course, for letting that old Wielder run free in Zelharri, letting her drag outlanders into Rhadaz. But the blame was equally selfish old Dahmec’s. He knew from the start what he had in those women, that boy—and he’d let them escape him alive.
A sensible Duke would have put monkshood in their soup. Dahmec was greedy, and paid for his greed. So, now I have snotty women cropping up all over my own Duchy, thanks to one doddering Wielder and all she inadvertently brought into our world, and a “brother” nobleman who hadn’t sense enough to kill what was clearly a danger to all of us.
There were petitions piled high in Vuhlem’s council chamber, women everywhere in Holmaddan seeking equality; seeking rights the gods never intended they have. In the villages, such things wouldn’t get very far; village men wouldn’t stand for such impudence, and neither would their Duke. In the city—I have that matter under control; my Triad does. It had better. And once he had sufficient women’s names, and household names: The Emperor might have banned public whippings and dunkings to death years earlier, but Shesseran wouldn’t live forever. Possibly not through the end of the year, if matters went according to plan. Afronsan wouldn’t hold the throne any time at all—if he lived to assume it.
Vuhlem smiled unpleasantly and drew a large crockery jug and cup from warm ash where they’d been buried against one side of the fire. Mulled fruit; but it would make Shesseran blink. Old fool; he thinks I’m as pure as he is. It had initially been something of a bother, creating a facade the Emperor would accept. No worse than wearing a mask all through those years of school together. My good fortune I saw at once what kind of person he was, what would please him. These days, there probably wasn’t much weak, aging Shesseran wouldn’t swallow, if it came from Vuhlem.
Well—except for the boy. I should have seen it; Shesseran has no son of his own—like me. Weak women, obviously, his and mine. But to think he’d care for the sons of other Dukes. That’s mad. Sanctimonious old pig. He wouldn’t blame himself for not following Shesseran’s thought processes to arrive at such a conclusion. All those religions, nothing else could explain it—and Shesseran had always shown a bent toward the kinds of gods that asked sacrifice and privation of their followers.
Too late to hope for change in the old man, Vuhlem would have to give in this time—or appear to. Bite on his blades, return the boy, pull his troops back from the borders of the three neighboring Duchies—apologize humbly to his Emperor for the “misunderstanding,” even crawl, if he must. Though the very thought made his blood boil. But if it took that to appease Shesseran and to keep the old man’s rein hand tight on his Heir—well, it wouldn’t draw Vuhlem’s blood, and in the long run would be only a small setback. Provided Afronsan’s spies were kept in check by the Emperor, there would be ways around Shesseran’s edict ordering that Vuhlem cut his army; plenty of places to hide the new companies and still have them ready to fight in short order. Once Shesseran is dead.
Afronsan claimed he maintained no spy network. Ridiculous. Does he think I’m so naive as that? All rulers had spies. Then, Afronsan was as blind in his own ways as Shesseran was in his. Weak blood in the ruling household; better to get a strongman on the throne, with such days ahead as Rhadaz would face. With such allies—and enemies—as she presently had. And who could say which of them would change sides, without warning? The Incan empire had already done so twice, according to old Casimaffi.
Allies like Casimaffi. Vuhlem wasn’t about to trust that one, the way Dahmec’s fool twin sons had. The aging Bezanti was too fond of coin and comfort, too smug over his large clutch of sons—too willing to sell himself and his ships to the highest bidder. They don’t learn from each other’s mistakes. If that young outlander and his half-French wife had been in my hands, I would not have let them escape—they’d never have left Podhru alive. The man Dupret might have been angry at first, he’d eventually have seen the sense of killing them immediately. Surely he sees it now.
At least, rumor from the
south, via the Lasanachi, told Vuhlem that the two had been caught once again—well, surely this time, Dupret wouldn’t let them go. Vuhlem scowled at the fire. He could almost wish for the foreign wire: still, he couldn’t be certain the Emperor and his people had no way to overhear messages, or he might have allowed it into Holmaddan. Most of the other noble houses knew what was going on much faster than he did.
Well, once matters were in his hands, he’d let the wire spread all across the land—and those Mer Khani steam machines on metal tracks, too. Render the caravans obsolete. Their new Emperor wouldn’t have any use for them anyway; such a remnant of the first years in exile could go the way of the Old Church and the Home Language. Only faster.
Vuhlem poured, drank deeply; mulled fruit brandy—fine, unzeroed French Jamaican fruit brandy—fired his stomach and heated his blood. This time a year forward, he’d have all of Dro Pent. And Cornekka and Sikkre, those three for certain. All Rhadaz, with any good fortune. “To fortune,” he murmured, laughed softly in his throat—and drank again.
Enardi came down the shallow steps from the civil service building and looked cautiously both ways before edging into the heavy late-afternoon foot traffic. A tall man in plain brown leathers eased into the flow right behind him, and fetched up at his left elbow. Enardi glanced at him, scrubbed his hands on a fresh white handkerchief, and shoved it into his vest pocket. He wasn’t supposed to acknowledge the man’s presence; the city guard had told him that. Nor talk to him. Don’t point him out to anyone watching you; don’t distract him from his job, which is keeping you alive.
His palms were still damp; he thrust both hands deep into his pants pockets. Too much had happened the past days, almost none of it within his control. He hadn’t slept in days, couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten that it hadn’t hurt his stomach. The pants that had been too tight mere days earlier needed a proper belt to keep them from sliding.