The Legion of Flame

by Anthony Ryan

  “Quite an effort they’ve made,” Lizanne observed to Director Thriftmor, nodding at the three thousand or more troops arrayed up on the wharf.

  “A demonstration of strength rather than welcome,” he said in an unusually subdued voice. Lizanne noted the grim set of his features, an expression shared by the rest of the delegation, save one who appeared to be absent.

  “Where is the Electress?” she asked.

  “A steward found her in her cabin this morning,” Thriftmor said. “The ship’s doctor identified the poison as arsenic mixed with laudanum, presumably to dull the pain.”

  I am as well as I will ever be . . . Lizanne’s hand went to the small box in her pocket. A parting gift, apparently. She clamped down on the upsurge of guilt and regret, choosing instead to regard the Electress’s death as a useful reminder. She had resumed the role of an Exceptional Initiatives agent, a role that had no place for sentiment. “Was there a note?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “There was ash on the port-hole in her cabin. It seemed she burned any papers in her possession.”

  Commanded to suicide either to silence her or at the whim of her mad Emperor? As yet, there was no way to tell which, but Lizanne fully intended to find out.

  “She told me something yesterday,” Lizanne said, seeing little point in concealing the information. “The Emperor is mad and this mission is a waste of time. I suggest you proceed with the formalities as quickly as possible then sail for home at the earliest opportunity.”

  He turned to her with a deep frown, his usual air of affable authority replaced by a certain cold calculation. “Thank you, Miss Lethridge,” he said. “But I will decide how best to proceed, the Board having given me full authority in this matter.”

  “Not over me, Director.”

  From fore and aft came the distinctive rattle and splash of anchors dropping into the harbour waters. Sailors swiftly hauled the gang-plank into place and the ship’s duty officer stepped forward to blow a piercing note from a whistle. An honour guard of Protectorate riflemen trooped down the gang-plank to the wharf. They lined up opposite a company of very tall Imperial Guardsmen flanking a clutch of Corvantine dignitaries in various garish finery.

  “Whatever Bloskin sent you here for,” Thriftmor said in a soft murmur as he took a step towards the gang-plank, “if it results in any disruption to this mission, rest assured I will not hesitate to disavow any knowledge of it and let the Corvantines have their way with you.”

  “I would expect nothing less, sir.”

  • • •

  They were conveyed to the Imperial Sanctum in a convoy of ornate carriages, each gilded in gold and drawn by a team of white horses. The Sanctum was a sprawling complex of palaces, parks and temples occupying a full one-fifth of the capital. Their route was lined with yet more soldiers, standing two ranks deep in places, usually where the onlooking crowd was thickest or the surrounding buildings less opulent. Lizanne noted clusters of cheering people where the soldiers’ ranks were thinnest, but in the more heavily guarded portions of the route the crowds were quiet and suspicious. Her gaze also picked out the tell-tale signs of recently repaired damage to several houses: patched up roofs and freshly painted walls that failed to conceal the scorch-marks beneath. There have been riots here, Lizanne mused. And recently too. Military failure is never conducive to civil order.

  Naturally, it all changed when they entered the Sanctum. It was ringed by a wall of ancient appearance, twenty feet high and fifteen feet thick. The gatehouse through which they gained entry was in fact a fortress equal in size to anything produced during the Mandinorian feudal age. Once inside they were greeted by broad fields of neatly kept grass and copses of maple and cherry blossom.

  “The Imperial Gardens,” explained the plump man seated opposite Lizanne. She had been guided to the last carriage in the convoy where the fellow had introduced himself as Chamberlain Avedis Vol Akiv Yervantis. The quatra-nomina indicated he was both scholar and hereditary member of the ruling class, evidenced by the biased historical commentary he delivered during the journey. “Here we see the statue of General Jakarin, victor of the Second Great Rebellion, tragically and treacherously slain by the rebels to whom he had granted mercy on the field of victory.”

  Lizanne knew that, in fact, General Jakarin had been stabbed to death in a whore-house. It was an act of revenge undertaken by a prostitute who had seen her brother publicly tortured and executed on the general’s order the day before. The chamberlain was the only other passenger in her carriage and Lizanne couldn’t decide if he was simply the effete, over-privileged fool he appeared to be or might, in fact, be a particularly skilled Cadre agent in disguise.

  “This may be hard to believe, my dear,” Yervantis went on, as if her half-raised eyebrow had been a sign of deep interest, “but the gardens, and the entire Sanctum, were constructed on swamp land. Construction of the whole complex was commenced by Emperor Larakis the Good, who decreed that he would not rob his people of valuable land. Instead, the swamps, which had been a source of fever for generations, would be drained. Thereby, glory and duty would both be served.”

  “Wasn’t Larakis the one who married his twelve-year-old sister?” Lizanne enquired. “And later had her poisoned when she failed to produce a male heir?”

  The chamberlain blinked, managing to maintain the smile on his pear-shaped face. However, she did notice a beading of sweat amidst the sparse hair on his head. “I see you are something of a scholar yourself, Miss Lethridge,” he said with a chuckle of forced joviality.

  “Not particularly,” she replied. “But I’ve often found a knowledge of Corvantine history to be useful. Tell me, Chamberlain, did you ever have the good fortune to meet Burgrave Artonin?”

  The man’s eyes widened before he blinked again, his eyelids performing several rapid flutters as fresh sweat broke out on his scalp. “Artonin?” he replied in a small voice.

  “Yes. Burgrave Leonis Akiv Artonin, late hero of the Imperial Cavalry and a scholar of impeccable repute. I thought, given your shared interests, you may have corresponded with him at some point.”

  Yervantis said nothing, his now-unsmiling features wobbling as he shook his head.

  “A pity,” Lizanne said, turning back to watch the gardens pass by, knowing she would now enjoy a quiet journey. “I think you might have learned a great deal from him.”

  Beyond the gardens lay the Blue Maze, an intricate series of interlinked canals encircling the small city of palaces and temples that lay at the centre of the Sanctum. From her studies, Lizanne knew the maze to be as much a defensive fortification as an aesthetic feature. Its many bridges and ornately statued artificial islands were certainly pleasing to the eye, but she could see how no two bridges were aligned and the walkways constructed so as to funnel a large body of people into narrow and easily defended channels. Also, the number of Imperial Guardsmen in sight grew as they drew nearer to the Sanctum proper.

  Chamberlain Yervantis found his voice again when they had begun to wind their way through the outer ring of temples. There were dozens of them, some grand and opulent, others barely more than a marble box, all built to honour the former emperors who had risen to godhood by the simple act of dying. “If I might draw your attention to a point of particular interest, my dear,” Yervantis said, then coughed to clear the quaver from his voice.

  Lizanne raised another eyebrow at him but he ploughed on valiantly. “The temple to the Emperor Azireh is now passing by on your left. I think you’ll find the statuary particularly interesting.”

  She glanced out of the window, frowning at the sight of the temple. It was of average size compared to the others, but set apart by the fact that the crowning statue was female, whereas every other temple featured a male figure. “Azireh is a woman’s name,” she said, surprised.

  “Quite so,” Yervantis confirmed, an eager note creeping into his strained voice. “
However, as a result of the massacres that marked the end of the third and final Regency War, she found herself the only surviving member of the Imperial dynasty.”

  “But no woman has ever sat the throne,” Lizanne said.

  “Indeed.” Yervantis shifted his plump self on the carriage seat, leaning closer, close enough in fact for Lizanne to smell the lavender-scented oil mingling with the sweat on his skin. It wasn’t a pleasant aroma. “As ordained by the first emperor,” the chamberlain went on. “But, with no other possessing the Divine Blood left alive, she was able to negotiate this obstacle by having the Arch-Prelate of the Imperial Divinity declare her the living embodiment of Great Arakelin himself, essentially a man in a female body. Consequently, she was able to rule quite successfully for the better part of two decades.”

  Lizanne’s gaze lingered on the statue. If the sculptor’s eye was to be believed, Azireh had been slightly built with a fairly prominent nose and chin, but there was a certain implacable resolve in the gaze she cast out at her fellow rulers. “She must have been quite a formidable woman,” Lizanne commented.

  “Oh yes.” Yervantis shifted closer still, causing Lizanne to respond with a warning glare. The Chamberlain gave a weak and entirely non-amorous smile before continuing, his voice now little more than a murmur. “And fond of riddles too. It’s said there’s a great treasure hidden somewhere in her temple, a treasure that can only be revealed under Nelphia’s light. Many have tried to find it, at risk of death I might add, as the Imperial family has always guarded well the sanctity of their ancestors. But, after so many centuries, the treasure remains undiscovered.” There was a weight to his gaze and voice now; a man attempting to convey meaning beyond his words, and in spite of a deeply felt fear.

  Nelphia’s light, Lizanne thought. Nelphia is the only moon visible tonight. “I’ve spent a surfeit of my life hunting for hidden treasures,” she told the chamberlain, meeting his gaze and holding it for a second longer than necessary. “I must say, it’s a mostly fruitless enterprise.”

  He gave a barely perceptible nod and leaned back, taking a silk handkerchief from his top pocket to mop his face. “Unseasonably hot, today. Ah!” He pointed to his right as another temple came into view. “See here, the monument to Emperor Hevalkis. Note the aquatic theme to the relief carvings, for Hevalkis was known as the Scourge of the Seas . . .”

  • • •

  One of the Sanctum’s minor palaces had been given over in its entirety to housing the Ironship delegation. According to Chamberlain Yervantis it had been built three centuries before for the then-emperor’s favourite concubine. Lizanne couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some subtle insult in the current Emperor choosing to place his corporate guests in the home of a courtesan. A plainly attired servant guided her to her suite in the palace’s eastern wing, no less than four spacious rooms arranged around a central pool complete with ornate fountain of somewhat erotic design. “The original occupant?” Lizanne asked the servant, nodding at the bronze woman at the centre of the carnal tableau.

  “It’s Yesilda, my lady,” the serving-woman replied with a deep bow. “An elder goddess of passion and fertility.”

  “I thought images of the elder gods were frowned upon.”

  “Only those beyond the Emperor’s sight, my lady. Those within the Sanctum dare not impugn his divinity, this being the centre of his holy power.”

  Lizanne searched the woman’s face for some sign of mockery and smothered a laugh upon realising she was entirely sincere. “I . . . see,” she said, glancing around. “My luggage?”

  “It will be here momentarily, my lady.”

  After a thorough search, no doubt. Lizanne went to the fountain, resting on its rounded edge and playing a hand in the water.

  “I can have it warmed, my lady,” the serving-woman offered. “If you would like to bathe before dressing. The Welcoming Ball will commence in less than three hours.”

  “No, this is sufficient, thank you. But I would be grateful if you would fetch some tea.”

  Her bags arrived shortly after the tea, a rich blend of leaves from the empire’s western mountains. Lizanne made no effort to sniff its aroma or display hesitancy in drinking it. The Emperor, even if in the throes of madness, would hardly summon her all this way for a mundane poisoning. In any case, it suited her for the serving-woman, who was much too keen of eye and toned of muscle for her station, to think Lizanne unworried for her safety.

  After enjoying her tea she bathed in the fountain for a time. It was deep enough for her to float free, arms spread wide and eyes closed as her hair trailed in the water. Despite the water’s soothing caress she found herself irked by the constancy with which Electress Dorice’s face lingered in her mind. Pampered, indolent and useless for most of her life . . . until the last few months. The thought birthed a simmering heat in her chest, the same sensation that had gripped her when the Cadre had taken Tekela in Morsvale. Anger is a distraction, she reminded herself. Vengeance is for amateurs. But still, the heat continued to simmer.

  After bathing she checked her luggage, confirming the tiny threads she had glued in certain places had been broken. The fact that whoever had performed the search hadn’t bothered to replace the threads was more concerning than the search itself. They don’t care if I know. Fortunately, whilst the search had evidently been thorough, it hadn’t been expert. She touched a satisfied hand to the cosmetic and jewellery cases nestled in her chest, before casting a reluctant eye at the ball-gown Bloskin had insisted she bring. A certain degree of finery will be expected, he had said, before handing over the frilly monstrosity. I’m told this is all the rage in Corvus, and it wouldn’t do to disappoint the Emperor. By all accounts, he’s quite taken with the legend of Miss Blood. Try not to disappoint him.

  CHAPTER 8

  Clay

  Silverpin smiled as she bled, uncaring of the dark red torrent rushing from the hole he had blasted through her. He called me here for a reason, her voice spoke in his mind, calm and rich in certainty. A very old but very necessary design has been interrupted, and will now be resumed.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Clay said, reaching out for her as she collapsed, her blood spreading across the chamber floor to form the now-familiar crimson wings. But this time it was different, because she didn’t die. Instead she stared up at him, face serene and accepting.

  I was a monster, Clay. I deserved this . . .

  “No . . .”

  Millions would have died. Millions more enslaved. You saved them, for a time.

  A great hiss of drawn breath drew his gaze and Clay found himself face-to-face with the White, its eyes full of malice and anger, mouth opening to reveal a haze of heated air as it summoned the flames from its guts. The fiery stream rushed forth, enveloping him in screaming agony. His skin blistered and peeled, his body twisted and deformed in the heat and through it all he heard a deep, grating rumble he knew was the sound of the White’s laughter . . .

  • • •

  “Dammit, young ’un, wake up!”

  Clay shuddered as the dream faded, blinking until Skaggerhill’s broad, leathery features came into focus. The cabin they shared was still dark save for the dim moonlight streaming through the port-hole. “Ain’t even morning yet,” Clay groaned, pushing the harvester’s hand from his shoulder.

  “That pet of yours is acting up again. Your uncle’s already had to stop one of the Corvies shooting it.”

  Clay muttered a curse, swinging his legs off the bunk and reached for his clothes.

  He found Lutharon in the aft section, lowered into a defensive crouch amidst the circle of accumulated driftwood and purloined barrels he had crafted into a nest. Uncle Braddon, Preacher and Loriabeth had formed a cordon in front of the drake, facing down a half-dozen Corvantine crewmen. They were all armed with a variety of edged weapons and seemed disinclined to heed the placating words of their young officer. To his
surprise, Clay found he could understand much of their babble despite never having spoken Varsal in his life. Must be the trance, he concluded. Miss Lethridge knows it, so I know it. It was a strange but welcome facet of Blue he hadn’t known existed.

  “The bugger nearly roasted me, sir!” one of the Corvantines said, the burliest one amongst them, brandishing the scorched arm of his jacket at Lieutenant Sigoral. “Ain’t natural having that beast aboard. Blasphemous even.”

  Clay paused, deciding to experiment with his new-found ability. “You were told to stay away from him for a reason,” he said in heavily accented but reasonably-well-phrased Varsal. “He doesn’t like to be gawped at.”

  “Threw him some grub is all!” the burly man bridled, stepping forward with a sea-axe in hand. Sigoral moved into his path, snapping out a curt order to stand fast as the fellow’s mates gave an angry murmur that bespoke imminent violence.

  “Doesn’t like to be fed, either.” Clay stepped through the line of Contractors and moved slowly to Lutharon’s side. The Black gave a low rumble of discontent but allowed Clay to touch a hand to his flank. “Like to hunt, dontcha, old fella?” he said, slipping back into softly spoken Mandinorian.

  Lutharon’s hide twitched under his palm and Clay sensed he was fighting an instinctive desire to flinch away. This was behaviour he had never exhibited in Ethelynne Drystone’s company, but then she had practically raised him from an orphaned infant. During the first few days following Ethelynne’s demise, Lutharon had followed Clay without question. He seemed fully capable of understanding his new master’s moods and responding to his unspoken wishes thanks to whatever bond Ethelynne’s final command had instilled. They had spent days ranging out over the Coppersoles whilst Captain Hilemore oversaw the repairs to the Viable Opportunity. Clay’s former fear of flight soon disappeared as they wheeled and soared above the mountains, the temporary joy a welcome respite from their shared grief. But since leaving Hadlock, Clay felt their connection fading with every passing day. Lutharon was becoming less placid in the presence of humans, more inclined to threatening growls or warning puffs of smoke whenever anyone but Clay came close. He had tried to strengthen the bond, spending as much time with the beast as he could, even drinking Blue and attempting to establish the kind of trance connection he had briefly shared with Silverpin. It didn’t work, their bond continued to erode and Clay had an intuition as to why.