A Shattered Empire

by Mitchell Hogan

  “What are the charges against me?” he demanded. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Reveal yourself, so I know who I’m dealing with. I’ve a writ from the emperor himself, exempting me from laws that would apply to others.”

  Behind the woman, Anshul cel Rau stepped into the cell. He regarded Aidan with disdain, mouth twisted, and leaned against the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

  “Cel Rau!” said Aidan. “What’s going on?”

  The woman reached slender hands up. She grabbed her hood, fingers trembling, then pulled it back.

  Caitlyn.

  Aidan’s eyes widened in shock, and his legs went weak. He fell to his knees as his strength left them. The cell closed in on him, pressing from all sides.

  But she was dead. He’d seen her fall with a crossbow bolt through the chest. He’d been the one to do it. Her face was gaunt, almost emaciated, as if she’d fought off a nearly fatal illness and only just survived. Her eyes were bright with madness.

  “That won’t help you now, sweet Aidan,” purred Caitlyn with ill-concealed malice. “The writ was presented to me. I don’t have to tell you what happens to those who side with evil. You were corrupted, and I didn’t see it. I don’t know when it happened. But you’ll be judged by your actions.” She shook her head in sorrow. “Evil must be excised when it’s found. You know that. No matter the cost.”

  Aidan sobbed and covered his face with his hands. “I had to,” he croaked miserably. “I’m sorry.”

  Cel Rau had never forgiven him, and now that Caitlyn had returned, the swordsman sided with her.

  “Sorry now, are you? Once you’re caught and to be punished? Well, you’ll have some time to think about repenting. Then, when you meet the ancestors, you can explain to them where you fell from the path, and why.” Caitlyn tapped the end of her staff on the stone floor twice and cackled. “I won’t listen to excuses. You’re to be executed in a few days. Make peace with yourself.”

  “But Vasile here,” Aidan protested, “he’s innocent. He had nothing to do with—”

  “With my attempted murder? He’s guilty by association. And cel Rau’s told me how he showed Chalayan the way down the dark path of destruction. No, Vasile isn’t innocent.”

  Without another word, Caitlyn turned and limped away. Cel Rau backed out to let her pass. The guard followed, slamming the door shut. The lock snapped closed with a loud click, echoing around the cell with a chilling finality.

  CHAPTER 13

  Caldan shivered. It had nothing to do with the cold breeze blowing across the river and over his sweat-soaked body. Rowing was hard work, and he’d warmed up quickly; the chill he felt was not related to the air. He could die tonight. Either at Kristof’s hands, or Gazija’s, if the old man reacted as Caldan thought he was capable of.

  And so he searched for an opening, a chance to make Kristof see the folly of what he was doing. The problem was, an unsteady rowboat was no place to confront him. Caldan cursed himself for not doing something sooner, on the bank of the river. But then he cursed himself again, because what could he have done?

  For good measure, he cursed one more time.

  After some fiddling about and practice, he’d worked out how to row with barely a splash on the water’s surface. He maintained a slow but steady pace, telling Kristof he wanted to keep noise to a minimum, but the real reason was to give himself time to think and try to delay the inevitable.

  Caldan sighed softly.

  “It’ll be all right,” Kristof whispered. “You’ve been given a difficult first mission. That’s why I’m with you.”

  And to kill me if I refuse. Let’s not forget that part.

  “But,” Kristof continued, “once we’re done, Devenish will trust you. And you’ll truly be one of us.”

  “By murdering an old man?” Caldan blurted before he could stop himself.

  “It needs doing. Best not to dwell on the details.”

  “Is that how you live with yourself? You just don’t think about what you’ve become? Because I have to say: sticking a knife into someone is usually a last recourse.”

  Kristof was quiet for a time. The only noises were the oars dipping into the water and crickets from the nearby bank. Eventually he spoke. “Don’t presume to judge me. Sometimes the emperor needs hard men for hard tasks.” He leaned forward and poked a finger into Caldan’s chest. “It remains to be seen whether you’re fit for the Touched. But I’m hopeful. You’ve shown you’re a fighter. And if you can use sorcery . . . well, then . . . you’ll prove valuable in ways you can’t imagine. I think Devenish is looking to replace me soon, and now he’s found someone who’s both Touched and a sorcerer.”

  “Right—I am those two things. But what if I don’t want to be an assassin as well?”

  Kristof shrugged. “You’ll do whatever task the warlocks set you to. Either you can bitch and moan all the way, or you can accept your fate and come to terms with what you are. It’s easier if you acknowledge the best use of your talents, and leave your conscience behind. But don’t try to replace me, Caldan, I’m warning you.”

  Caldan could still feel where Kristof’s finger had touched him. It ached more than it should have, as if reminding him of both their similarity and their differences.

  “I’m not trying to replace you. I’m still not sure I want to be you.”

  Kristof said nothing, but by the expression on his face he seemed to accept Caldan’s answer. The boat moved closer.

  “Slow up a touch,” Kristof said softly. “There are lights ahead. Should be the ships moored at the docks.” He half crouched and peered into the night. “Yes, that’s them. Steer a bit to your right. We’ll come at them from farther into the river.”

  Caldan did as he was told, hunching his shoulders in despair. So this was the start. Do this, do that, kill this person. He gripped the oars until his hands hurt.

  Could he unship an oar and take Kristof unawares before they reached the ship? No—not with Kristof facing him. His options were becoming fewer and fewer, none of them good.

  Kristof began coiling the rope attached to the padded grappling hook. “Slow down. We don’t want to bump them and alert any guards.”

  Caldan glanced over his shoulder at Gazija’s ship. They were closer than he’d thought. A few lights flickered on deck, but he couldn’t see anyone on watch. Likely, there were guards at the gangplank but not patrolling the deck. No light came from the large window at the back—Gazija’s cabin, Kristof had said earlier. Maybe he wasn’t there, and they could give up for tonight . . .

  Wishful thinking.

  Without him rowing, they slowed considerably, until they were drifting. The current close to the wharves was slow but still noticeable. He’d have to move the boat nearer if they—

  Kristof flung the grappling hook upward, and it arced over the gunwale, landing on the deck with a muffled thump. He quickly reeled slack rope in until the hook stuck fast on the side, then used the taut rope to steady them. With deft movements, he wound it around a cleat on the front of their rowboat and held them fast.

  “You first,” he said.

  Caldan breathed deeply and nodded. His hands brushed his pockets to check that his craftings were still there, and he tugged his knife sheath, adjusting it so it wouldn’t jab him in the leg when he climbed.

  He gripped the rope and pulled himself up. In a few moments, he was outside Gazija’s window. It was open a few inches. Caldan steadied himself, reached out, and pulled it open farther, just enough to create a gap he could squeeze through.

  And then he was inside. The rope creaked, and a faint scuffing from outside told him Kristof was on his way.

  He had to do something. But what? It would only be moments before Kristof made it inside.

  Across the cabin, a shape in the bunk huddled under thick blankets. Caldan moved silently to the door and made sure it was latched. He rushed to the bunk and shook Gazija. “Wake up!” he whispered urgently. “You’re in danger!”

  The shape moa
ned and rolled over . . .

  . . . and Miranda peered at him with sleepy half-lidded eyes under tousled hair.

  “Mmmpf?” she murmured.

  Caldan stepped back in horror. No. She shouldn’t be here. Couldn’t be here . . .

  He turned to the window just as Kristof stepped down from it onto the floor.

  Miranda sat up, clutching her blanket to her chest. She looked at him with wide eyes.

  How did she get here? By the ancestors! Quiss had wanted to help her. Had he persuaded the physiker to release Miranda into his care? Or had he abducted her? Was there no limit to what the Five Oceans could do with their money?

  If they had kidnapped her, then any reservations he had about killing Gazija would quickly disappear.

  “Kristof,” Caldan said. “We can’t do this.”

  “What do you mean? We’re here. Devenish gave us our orders. Whoever this girl is, she needs to be silenced. No one can know we were here. Do it now!”

  “Oooh!” moaned Miranda. Clearly she hadn’t been cured yet, was still unable to articulate, but even in her state, she recognized her life was in danger.

  Caldan moved in between Miranda and Kristof. “I can’t let you hurt her.”

  Kristof took a step toward him. “Out of my way, Caldan. When we see this through, I won’t even tell Devenish you balked at the task.”

  “You think I care about Devenish? I care about killing an innocent girl!”

  Blankets rustled behind him, but Caldan couldn’t take his eyes off Kristof. He was hot, but not with the same heat that came to him when his Touched abilities awoke. He knew he couldn’t rely on them. What worried him, though, was if Kristof was in full control of his. Caldan didn’t know, and he wasn’t waiting to find out. His fingers reached for his shield crafting.

  Kristof’s eyes followed the movement. And one moment he was by the window, the next slamming into Caldan.

  Caldan’s feet lifted off the ground, and all the air was driven from his lungs. He flew across the cabin and crashed into the wall. His stomach and chest burned with agony as he slumped to the floor.

  “Stupid boy,” Kristof hissed. “Did you think you would be a match for me?”

  Caldan tried to groan but had no breath. He rolled onto his stomach and attempted to get up. Searing agony erupted in his side as Kristof’s boot thudded into his chest. Multiple cracks echoed around the cabin as ribs fractured.

  Through the pain, he heard Miranda draw breath to scream, only to be silenced as Kristof backhanded her across the face. She collapsed on the bunk, unmoving.

  Miranda!

  Kristof grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pressed his face into the floor.

  Caldan managed to draw a shallow breath, but his ribs hurt as if he’d been run over by a fully laden wagon. He gasped, and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

  A weight descended on him: Kristof’s knee in his back.

  The Touched brought his face close to Caldan’s. “You can’t defeat me, boy. I’ve years of experience and training on you. Give up. You’ll learn to follow the rules and do whatever I tell you. A little killing is part of protecting the empire.”

  Caldan tried to sneer at Kristof but only managed a wheeze. He sucked in a lungful of air. “You’re doing this . . . because Devenish . . . thinks he was slighted . . . in front of everyone . . . For no other reason . . . than that . . . he wants to kill Gazija . . . Even though . . . he brought mercenary companies . . . into the emperor’s service . . . and . . . is helping save Riversedge . . . from the jukari.”

  “Not a man. Gazija and his ilk are an abomination. I can see they are, as I know you can. They’re not natural.”

  “I’ll judge a man . . . by his actions . . . not his words . . . or what others . . . think of him.”

  Kristof bore down on Caldan’s throat, choking off his air. “Then you’re a fool. Last chance, boy. Are you with us? Nod if you are. If you aren’t . . . it’s the knife for you.”

  My knife.

  Caldan tried to reach it, but his arms were held tight by Kristof’s legs. He couldn’t activate his shield crafting without touching it, either. It was a flaw he hadn’t considered when crafting it. If he poured his well into his beetle and ruptured the anchor, it would destroy the whole cabin, him and Miranda with it.

  Caldan closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do.

  He opened his well anyway, desperate to try something. Anything. But without a useful crafting, what could he do? He needed to create sorcery without one. His mind fled back to Anasoma, when he escaped from Bells the first time. His paper crafting had burned to nothing when he’d been desperate, but still melted the metal frame, sealing the door behind him.

  Crafting when the paper was gone.

  His vision blurred, darkness closing in from all sides.

  There was a crash, and shards of pottery sprayed across the floor. Kristof bellowed, and the pressure on Caldan’s throat eased. He gulped a breath and twisted onto his back, to see Miranda standing above Kristof, the handle of a broken jug in her hand.

  Kristof leaped to his feet and punched Miranda in the jaw. She flew across the room, slamming into a wall above the bunk with a hard thump.

  Caldan reached for his shield crafting—too late. Kristof’s speed was incredible, and he was back astride Caldan in the blink of an eye.

  Kristof’s gleaming knife pressed against his neck, the blade cold and hard.

  “Decide now, Caldan. What’ll it be? Duty, or cowardice?”

  Miranda screamed from behind Kristof. Metal gleamed as she raised her arm and plunged a small knife into Kristof’s back. The Touched grimaced, and his grip slackened for an instant. Miranda staggered back and fell to the floor, eyes glazed.

  But it should be enough.

  She’d given Caldan time, a few more breaths, and he wasn’t going to waste them. He calmed himself and thought about what craftings really were—materials that could hold the runes and withstand the corrosive force of his well. But they were, in the end, just a medium. So . . . couldn’t his mind shape the runes? Act as the crafting itself?

  Caldan frantically tried to focus his thoughts.

  Acting intuitively, he began splitting strings and shaping them into runes around his well, linking, buffering, forming. A mishmash of coercive and destructive sorcery. A cobbled-together accident waiting to happen.

  Either this would work . . . or his brain would boil inside his skull.

  It was now or never. A trickle was all he needed.

  He flooded his makeshift crafting with the corrosive power of his well and directed his crude, destructive sorcery. A tendril of energy snaked out.

  Kristof grunted. Then coughed.

  A warm wetness splashed Caldan’s face and shirt.

  Kristof’s grip on Caldan’s neck went slack, and the Touched keeled over, thumping onto the floor.

  Caldan sucked in air, gasping. He wriggled and pushed Kristof’s legs off him, ignoring the knifing pain from his ribs. A warm trickle flowed from his nose and into his mouth. He spat the blood out before pinching his nostrils. As he tilted his head forward, he winced. His brain ached inside his skull, as if it were bruised.

  Kristof lay on the floor, eyes staring ahead, unseeing. A hole the size of a ducat in his throat bubbled with blood, and another through his chest smoked, charred around the edges.

  Caldan dragged himself to Miranda, fighting off nausea and the soreness of his mind. She was sprawled across a rug, limp and unmoving.

  “Miranda,” he pleaded, touching her face. His fingers felt for a pulse.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, which turned into a sob. She was alive.

  Boots pounded along the corridor outside the door. Fists hammered on the wood.

  “What’s going on? Open up!”

  “Out of the way. Let me through.” He knew that voice.

  Gazija.

  Caldan staggered to the door and lifted the latch. The door flew open. He stumbled backward, res
ting against the wall, and slid down to the floor.

  “She’s all right,” he said wearily. “She’s not dead.”

  Quiss rushed into the room and headed straight for Miranda.

  Gazija hobbled inside after him, eyes bright, concern on his face. “We felt the sorcery. You, I assume? Don’t you know how foolish that was? You could have boiled your mind to porridge.”

  Caldan nodded, then winced again. He hugged his arms to his chest. His whole body trembled, and he couldn’t stop it.

  “I might have done just that,” he said weakly. “I couldn’t think of anything else. I thought it would probably kill me, but the alternative”—he glanced at Miranda—“was worse.”

  Gazija frowned with concern. “I can guess what happened here.”

  “Caldan’s correct,” Quiss said with relief. “Miranda is relatively unhurt. She’ll wake with a sore head and bruised cheek. But she won’t feel them much, not in her state.” He turned to Caldan. “What’s going on?”

  “We all have questions for Caldan,” Gazija said, giving Caldan a hostile glare.

  Caldan held up a hand. “I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t going to go along with him. But . . . why is Miranda here?” Quiss’s words came to him, almost as if they were whispered into his ear: I’ll do what I can to help her, which is far more than these warlocks can do.

  But at what price? In Caldan’s experience, everyone wanted something in return.

  “Quiss came to me with your problem, and we decided to do what we could to help this poor lady. He thought she would be more comfortable in a bigger cabin, and I agreed. So who is this man?” Gazija tapped Kristof’s body with one of his canes. “I assume Devenish sent him? What is he, one of their sorcerers?” Gazija spat the word with contempt.

  “No,” Caldan replied. “Something else.”

  Gazija grunted, even as Quiss moved to get Miranda back in the bed.

  Clearly, Quiss had already decided to help Miranda. And for that, Caldan was more than grateful.

  Of course, that might be all he would get to be. Because how could he explain this in a way that they’d believe? Kristof’s body might help prove part of his innocence, but that could be explained away as protecting Miranda, not Gazija. No matter what, he had snuck into this cabin with a knife. He wouldn’t blame them if they reached their own conclusions. Thinking back on the vormag from last night—and the dead man before him now—they might not be so far off.