by Anthony Ryan
“You are not foolish enough to believe that,” Lizanne said. “Otherwise, why spend so much time and energy pursuing the Mad Artisan’s device?”
“Largely thanks to Madame Bondersil’s increasingly deranged insistence. Was it you who killed her, by the way? The circumstances of her demise are a little vague.”
“She was eaten, by a Blue drake.” Watching a faint amusement play over the countess’s face, she added, “Tell me, were you really going to allow her to govern Carvenport independently?”
“It was not a decision I was privy to. All aspects of her co-operation were handled by the Emperor in concert with the Blood Imperial.”
A loud upsurge of martial drumming sounded from the open windows, soon joined by a chorus of trumpets. “Perhaps His Divinity will explain it all himself,” Countess Sefka said, Lizanne noting how her jovial tone suddenly seemed a little forced. “It seems he’s about to join us.”
She started back towards the ball-room, then paused, offering Lizanne a smile. “Despite it all, I am glad we finally met, Miss Lethridge. Please accept a word of caution; whatever it is the Blood Imperial wants of you, tell the old vulgarian bastard to piss off and sail home. It’s only going to get you killed.”
• • •
“Emperor Caranis Vol Lek Akiv Arakelin!” the page boomed out and every person in the ball-room sank to one knee. “First of his name. Divine Emperor of the Corvantine Empire, High Admiral of the Imperial Fleet, Supreme Marshal of the Imperial Host . . .”
It took at least two minutes for the herald to recite the full list of the Emperor’s titles, by which time Lizanne’s knee had begun to ache quite painfully. When the titular litany finally ended she couldn’t conceal a groan of relief as she rose to watch Emperor Caranis descend the ball-room steps at a sedate pace. He was a tall man, resplendent in a marshal’s uniform of an ivory hue and a long cloak of black fur. The thorn-like barbs of his silver crown glittered as they caught the light from the chandeliers above. Corvantine propaganda often spoke of the Emperor’s handsomeness, court-appointed poets penning lengthy verses praising his impressive physique and athletic accomplishments. Looking at him now, Lizanne concluded it might not all be exaggeration.
An elderly chamberlain stepped forward as the Emperor strode onto the ball-room floor, the man bowing and gesturing towards Director Thriftmor, who stood near by. “Divinity, might I crave the honour of presenting . . .”
“Where is she?” the Emperor cut in, his gaze roaming the ball-room. In contrast to his appearance, his voice sounded weak to Lizanne’s ears. Deep but also discordant, as if he had trouble maintaining an even tone. “Where is the one they call Miss Blood?” he went on, tongue lingering on the final word as if tasting it.
The chamberlain gave another bow and turned towards Lizanne, beckoning her forward. “Miss Lethridge, Divinity,” he introduced her. “Ambassadress . . .”
“I know what title they gave her,” Caranis snapped, causing the chamberlain to blanch and take an involuntary backward step. The Emperor’s attention, however, was entirely fixed on Lizanne as she approached and offered a deep curtsy.
“Yes . . .” Caranis said in a thin hiss as his eyes roamed Lizanne from head to toe. She tried not to return his stare, finding the awe on display highly disconcerting. “It is her. Sethamet’s Bane made flesh.”
Sethamet. She recalled Electress Dorice’s warning. His imaginary dark goddess.
“Rise!” the Emperor commanded with an elevating wave of his hand. “And walk with me.” With that Emperor Caranis turned about and strode back up the ball-room steps, leaving a vast silence in his wake. Lizanne’s eyes flicked towards Director Thriftmor, who replied with a minimal shake of his head. I cannot help you.
Smothering a sigh, Lizanne raised the skirt of her ridiculous dress and followed the mad Emperor out into the night.
She found him striding across a gravelled path on the bank of the ornamental lake, obliging her to adopt an undignified trot in order to come to his side. A platoon of Household Guards patrolled the grounds, each armed with a repeating carbine and never more than thirty yards away.
“An impressive form you’ve chosen,” Caranis said, sparing her a brief glance as he continued his purposeful march. His voice now possessed a brisk, business-like tone, as if greeting a trusted colleague rather than the servant of a long-standing enemy. “Pleasing to the eye, but not ostentatiously so. I suppose it must be useful.”
He doesn’t think me human, she realised. Rather, some manifestation of his invented religion. She had dealt with the deluded and outright insane before. Some required lies in order to become useful, whilst others responded best to the harsh, unalloyed truth. But none had possessed the power that rested in the hands of this particular madman.
“I have often found it so, Divinity,” she responded, deciding bland agreement would be the best course.
“Does it age?” he enquired. “The shell you wear.”
“It . . . ages as do all others, Divinity.”
He grunted and nodded in acceptance. “Of course. Unnaturally prolonged youth would attract undue attention.”
“My missions often require anonymity, Divinity,” she said.
“Enough pretence!” he grated, coming to an abrupt halt and rounding on her. Lizanne kept all emotion from her face as he came closer, merely blinking as he spoke in a harsh, rapid whisper, “I’ll have no more of this mummery. I am no more your superior than a bug is superior to the sun. Sethamet has set her beasts loose upon this earth and the Guardians have sent you as our deliverer.”
Although she tried to conceal it, some measure of confusion must have shown in her expression, for he frowned, face darkening in uncertain suspicion. “You are sent by the Guardians, are you not?”
Realising the time for half-measures had passed, Lizanne straightened and met his wide-eyed gaze before replying in as flat and certain a tone as she could manage. “We know them by a different name.”
He gave a sharp intake of breath, eyes flicking to the sides to ensure no one was listening. “Am . . . am I permitted to know it?”
“You will be, in time. Such knowledge must be earned.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “I do not . . . presume to overstep. But you must realise how much I have already sacrificed. My best troops sent to die by the thousand, little more than bait for Sethamet’s horde. This I did because the Guardians commanded it, plaguing my dreams every night until I complied, risking yet more rebellion. I realise the import of drawing out her minions, but do they not know how vulnerable my position is?”
“The whole world is vulnerable to Sethamet’s horde,” Lizanne replied evenly. “This they know.”
“Yes. Do not think I question their commands. When word reached me that you had arisen in Carvenport, I knew I had chosen the correct course. Who else but Sethamet’s Bane could have defeated both my army and her vile horde?”
“Your insight does you credit. But we are far from done.”
He nodded, face grave. “To prevent the Dread Goddess from seizing this world, I will give all I have.”
“The Guardians will expect nothing less. However, at this juncture they require only two things. First, you will sign the treaty with the Ironship Syndicate, allying your forces with theirs to defend against the hordes of the Dread Goddess. They will push for an agreement to launch an immediate invasion of Arradsia, but this you will refuse. Their actions are driven by greed, keen as they are to restore the source of their wealth. Whereas your actions, Great Emperor, are motivated by compassion and love for humanity. It is for these virtues that the Guardians chose you.”
He lowered his head in a servile bow, making Lizanne cast a cautious glance at the surrounding troops. An Emperor would never bow to a corporate underling.
“Stop that,” she told him in a soft hiss. “Others must never know of your true role. They would not
understand.”
He straightened, features resuming a regal mask, though she saw tears shining in his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “It is just . . . I am so humbled.”
“Humility will not save us. But strength and wise leadership might. From this point on you must be Caranis the Great, the Warrior Emperor who will save the entire world. You will speak no more of Sethamet, for merely giving voice to that name renders power unto her.”
He straightened further, blinking the tears away. “Yes. That . . . that makes things clearer to me now. It seemed strange that her power grew with every warning I gave.” He met her gaze, features stiff with resolve. “What is the second thing?”
“Merely information. You must impart to me all the information you hold concerning the man known to history as the Mad Artisan.”
A mystified frown passed across the Emperor’s face. “The old legend Kalasin used to witter on about? One of his many obsessions.” Caranis gave a rueful grimace. “In truth, I think my Blood Imperial may be a little touched in the head.”
“Touched or not, the Artisan is of interest to Sethamet’s minions, and also, therefore, to us.”
“Then it pains me to confess I have little to tell you. Kalasin comes to me every now and again with his arcane stories, begging funds for expeditions or scholarly investigations. Usually, I endeavour to indulge him, his other qualities being so useful. I will have his archive seized and conveyed to you forthwith . . .”
“No,” Lizanne cut in. Even in his madness the shock on the Emperor’s face indicated this may have been the first time anyone had ever interrupted him. Lizanne maintained her composure, meeting his gaze with an unwavering stare until he recovered. “We must be circumspect,” she went on. “There are far too many distrustful eyes in your court. Countess Sefka, for one.”
“You think she plots against our purpose?” Caranis’s voice held little sign of surprise. “She wouldn’t be the first Cadre Commandant to succumb to treasonous intentions. I suppose a quiet disappearance would be preferable to public trial and execution. Rest assured, all intelligence will be extracted from her first.”
Vengeance is indulgence, Lizanne reminded herself, though not without a pang of regret. “Best to leave her in place, for now,” she said. “Under careful watch. She may lead us to other plotters in time.”
He nodded and smiled in admiration. “Clearly the Guardians chose well.”
“I wasn’t chosen, I was made.” She glanced back at the palace from where an orchestra could be heard playing an old waltz. “We should rejoin the ball.”
“But what of the information you require from Kalasin?”
She dropped into a deep curtsy, head bowed low as if acknowledging dismissal. “Leave him to me, and know well how much the Guardians favour you.” She looked up, meeting his gaze and colouring her voice with a harsh note of command. “Remember; never again speak her name. Now return to your court and prepare to save the world, oh Caranis the Great.”
• • •
She lingered at the ball for another hour, noting how the other guests made scrupulous efforts to avoid her gaze and the only invitation to dance came from Director Thriftmor. Countess Sefka was also conspicuous by her sudden absence. It appeared holding the Emperor’s favour made Lizanne something of a dangerous acquaintance to make.
“I’m afraid I find myself tired by the day’s events, Director,” she said to Thriftmor at the conclusion of their first and only dance. “I believe I shall retire.”
“Of course,” he said, offering a respectful smile that failed to alleviate the concern she saw in his eyes. “In the morning we must converse fully regarding your interaction with the Emperor.”
“There’s little to say,” she replied. “Except that he’s every bit as mad as we were told. However, I have a sense he will be amenable to your diplomacy. I bid you good night, sir.”
Upon returning to her suite of rooms in the concubine’s palace, her first act was to render the keen-eyed, well-toned servant unconscious. It required only a well-placed blow to the back of her head as the woman offered a respectful bow of incautious depth. Lizanne dragged the senseless woman to the bedroom, leaving her face-down on the bed with her head correctly positioned so she wouldn’t choke to death whilst aslumber.
Quickly divesting herself of the appalling dress, she clad herself in nondescript dark cotton trousers and blouse. Knowing she would need to change later, she filled her waterproof pack with garb typical of that worn by a Corvantine woman of middling station. She then turned her attention to the case of cosmetics the now-unconscious serving-woman had helpfully placed on her dresser. Like the rest of her belongings the case had been thoroughly searched. Luckily, Countess Sefka’s operatives had proven to be less than familiar with Jermayah’s ingenuity, missing three separate hidden compartments, each opened by pressing certain key points in the correct sequence.
She opened the compartment in the lid first, extracting a set of metal components and a slim leather strap, which were swiftly assembled into a device of spidery appearance. This was Jermayah’s refined design, achieved after a short but productive collaboration with Lizanne’s father. It was less weighty and more easily broken down into concealable components, whilst also featuring a more efficient injection mechanism and expanded vials.
Lizanne strapped the Spider onto her left forearm then turned her attention to the large bottle sitting in the centre of the case’s perfume rack. The Cadre had undoubtedly checked all the bottles for the presence of product, paying closest attention to the four smallest. At first glance, the larger bottle appeared no more than a pleasant but unremarkable concoction redolent of roses and cinnamon, the clarity of the liquid a pale and unintriguing contrast to the more opaque and colourful smaller bottles. Bloskin had assured her of the efficacy of this new trick from the Ironship plasmologists, but Lizanne couldn’t suppress a lingering pang of worried scepticism as she opened another compartment and extracted a stoppered vial containing a dark, viscous substance.
It’s all to do with molecular weights, apparently, Bloskin had said back in Feros on the day of her departure. Bind them with a correct mix of chemical agents and they combine into an inert, colourless liquid, though I’m told it’s a bitter brew so don’t be tempted to drink it. Simply add a little something to dissolve the binding agents and all four colours will instantly revert to their original state.
Has this been used in the field before? she had asked and saw with some surprise that Director Bloskin was a poor liar.
Of course, my dear, he said, lighting another cigarillo. I’d hardly send my best agent off with an untried compound, now would I?
So it was with some relief that she saw the liquid in the bottle change as soon as she added the contents of the vial. After a short interval of confused swirling the four colours duly arranged themselves into layers. Taking a long pipette from the compartment Lizanne began to carefully extract enough product to fill the Spider’s vials. It was frustratingly delicate work but, as she had no intention of facing the approaching encounter without product, there was no alternative.
Upon completing the task she opened the case’s third compartment and extracted a slender dagger, the seven-inch blade encased in a leather sheath, which she strapped to her ankle. Jermayah had offered to modify the case to accommodate his redesigned Whisper but there hadn’t been time. He offered a number of miniature fire-arms but Lizanne had always eschewed such weapons; they were too noisy and lacking in effectiveness to make the risk worthwhile, leaving the dagger as her only realistic alternative.
Lizanne paused briefly by the bed to ensure the serving-woman’s breathing remained regular, then proceeded to the upper floor, emptying the remaining contents of the perfume bottle into the fountain on the way. She made her way to a balcony before clambering onto the roof, crouching low and injecting a burst of Green to allow for a thorough examination of the sur
rounding palace grounds. It made for a depressing view; numerous Household troops patrolled the environs and even with a full dose of Green and Black she doubted she could make it across even two of the bridges in the Blue Maze before being discovered. There was the option of proceeding across the maze and methodically killing or incapacitating the guards en route, but that would exhaust her product in short order, not to mention having a parlous effect on Director Thriftmor’s upcoming negotiations.
Lizanne gave a soft groan and moved to the roof’s edge where she began to clamber down the north-facing wall of the palace. She didn’t relish the task ahead but there was nothing else for it; she had a very long swim to make.
• • •
She climbed free of the maze some two hours later. The swim through the labyrinth of canals had been both mentally and physically taxing, forcing her to inject repeated small doses of Red to stave off the water’s chill as she followed the map she had memorised aboard the Profitable Venture. The patrolling guards had also been a considerable nuisance, frequently appearing to scan the water-ways with commendable if annoying scrutiny, forcing her to remain submerged for several minutes at a time and further denuding her stocks of Green and Red.
She wasted no time on clearing the maze, injecting yet more Green to enable a sprint into the concealing marble jungle of the temple ring. It took only a short while to find the tomb of Empress-cum-Emperor Azireh, Lizanne having marked its location thanks to Chamberlain Yervantis’s clumsy hints that morning. She made a wide circuit of the structure before approaching, finding no sign of anyone else in attendance. Lizanne read the archaic Eutherian inscription above the tomb’s entrance as she came closer: Greatness can rest in the most fragile vessel. Pausing to take in the sight of the Divine Azireh’s marble features in all its hawk-nosed imperiousness, Lizanne doubted this woman had ever exhibited a moment of fragility in her life.
Touching a tentative finger to the solid oak door covering the tomb’s entrance, she was unsurprised to find it unlocked. Got here early, she surmised, flexing her fingers over the Spider’s buttons before pushing the door fully open. For a second she saw only blackness, until the faint moonlight illuminated enough of the interior to reveal the curved bulk of Azireh’s sarcophagus and the pale grey cascade of hair crowning the head of a stooped man leaning heavily on a walking-stick. The long grey tendrils shifted as the man turned to her, his features lost to the gloom. There followed a moment of mutual scrutiny, seeming to last quite some time to Lizanne though in fact it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Finally the grey hair swayed again as the stooped man gave a short, irritated wave with his stick.