The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  “No.” Medeoan’s mouth had gone completely dry. Her words tasted thick with her own fear. “Send a page to say I give him my best greetings on this fine morning, and that I shall meet him in the god house so that we may receive the gods’ blessing for our journey.”

  “Yes, Mistress Imperial.” Chekhania gave the abbreviated reverence her position allowed and hurried out the door to alert the page girl who waited there with the men-at-arms. Medeoan had hoped that the lady’s brief departure would allow her to breathe easier, but instead her whole chest tightened.

  “Master Senoi,” she called over the dressing screens to her head secretary. “Go down to the pantries and make sure the Mistress of the House has prepared a complete inventory for His Majesty Imperial. He was remarking on the need for it the other day.”

  “Mistress Imperial,” her man said to acknowledge the order. She heard the sound of his footsteps, and the door opened and closed again. A moment later, Chekhania returned.

  “Your message is being delivered, Mistress Imperial.”

  “Good.” Medeoan stepped out from behind the dressing screens, more so she would not have to look at Chekhania than anything else. “Chekhania, you’ll stay here with Ragneda and see that the trunks are all packed and loaded properly. I do not trust some of these lackeys.” That made Chekhania smile, and Medeoan swore she was going to start preening any second now. Chekhania enjoyed her position, and any opportunity to lord it over her fellows.

  How did I miss that vanity for so long? Medeoan’s fingers knotted themselves in her skirt. Do not think of it now. You must think of what you will do next, and only that.

  “Ragneda, I want you to check the documents trunk off against the ledger. I do not wish any letters left behind. Report the results to His Majesty Imperial. Adeksii, come with me to the god house. We need to ask Vyshko and Vyshemir for a successful journey.”

  With only a single lady behind her, Medeoan swept out into the corridor. Her men-at-arms formed up, two in front of her, two behind, but if they noticed her abbreviated entourage, they said nothing. But then again, what could they say? They were only soldiers, and she was the empress. If she chose to wander the hallways stark naked, their duty would be to stay two in front and two behind and keep their eyes forward and their mouths silent.

  All of Vyshtavos’s grand corridors passed by her in a blur. The rhythmic tread of boots and the patter of shoes mixed together with the beating of her heart. Perhaps courtiers passed by and reverenced, perhaps a lord master moved forward to speak to her, she was not sure. Her sight strained past them, as if she were trying to see through the very walls of the palace to where Kacha was. She wanted to see if the loading of the barges kept him busy, or if he was even now on his way to the god house, and to her, to take her hand, and lead her down to the barge, to hold her prisoner with his constant gaze. He might already be there, waiting for her with his withered hand outstretched and his false smile. Medeoan swallowed as her stomach roiled. This was as cold as the hard frost of winter. She had never even considered that one day she might come to be afraid of Kacha, but so it was, for she now feared him worse than she had ever feared a living thing.

  At long last, the gilt doors of the god house loomed before her. The two men-at-arms who walked in the lead stepped forward to push the doors open and then stood back, saluting her with their hands over their hearts. Medeoan, her heart filling her throat, strode past them. For a moment, the dazzle of gold and candlelight kept her from looking around the room. First, she saw the gods on their pedestal, then she saw Keeper Bakhar ready and humble beside them. She bit down on her tongue to keep herself silent, and her gaze swept the painted and gilded room. There was no one else there. She had been swift enough.

  She approached the gods, her whole body trembling. With the deepest reverence, she kissed Vyshemir’s robe.

  “Help me,” she breathed soundlessly. “Guide my steps and harden my heart. Lend me your courage, Vyshemir, for what I must now do.”

  She stepped back and turned to her servitors. “You may wait outside. I have matters to discuss with Keeper Bakhar.”

  The lady and the soldiers reverenced, and backed out the doors. The doors swung shut with a hollow thud, and Medeoan was alone with Bakhar. As simple as that.

  “Quickly, Majesty,” whispered Keeper Bakhar, hurrying toward the vestment room. Medeoan gathered up her skirts and ran after him, her ears all the time straining to hear the doors open behind her, to hear Kacha’s voice say, “Beloved? What are you doing?”

  “You must leave quickly once I am gone, Keeper,” said Medeoan, gripping his hand. “Kacha will surely know you helped me.”

  The keeper’s smile was grim and brief. “He will not dare do anything to me at once, Majesty. If it becomes necessary, I will have time to make good my own escape.”

  Keeper Bakhar threw open the vestment room door and Medeoan darted through. The door shut at once, plunging her into darkness so quickly she pulled up short and blinked rapidly. Her eyes adjusted to show her the long wall hung with the formal garments of the keeper and his underlings. Among them stood Captain Peshek.

  “Majesty Imperial,” he whispered, reverencing quickly. “We must get you changed.” He handed her a bundle of cloth.

  “I can’t alone,” she said helplessly. She hadn’t even stopped to think of this before. It took two women the better part of an hour to get her into these clothes. It was physically impossible for her to remove them alone.

  Captain Peshek bit his lip, his gaze darting between the room’s four doors. “I ask dispensation to commit a great liberty, Majesty.”

  “You have it, Captain.”

  “Then, Majesty, turn around.” Captain Peshek drew his knife.

  Realizing what he meant to do, Medeoan put her back to him. She heard him suck in his breath, and a moment later, she was buffeted by a series of jerks and tugs. Laces snapped, cloth ripped, and her girdle snaked off from around her waist and slithered to the floor. If Kacha came in now, Peshek would be dead before she could order him spared.

  “Try now, Mistress Imperial.”

  Medeoan put her bundle on a nearby shelf and pushed the ruined finery from her shoulders. The cloth fell in a heap about her ankles, leaving her only her shift, stockings and shoes.

  Trying not to think about the man in the room with her, Medeoan hopped over the crumpled cloth and undid the bundle she had been given. Inside was a rough woolen skirt, a gray blouse with sleeves that could be rolled up firmly past her elbows, a stained apron, and an embroidered headscarf that had seen many washings. With a start, she realized that the scarf was Eliisa’s. She could not help but glance at Captain Peshek, but he had turned away from her and all she saw was his rigid back. Well, she had stolen much more from that girl than this, why should she now balk at a piece of cloth?

  Nonetheless, her scalp shivered as she tied the scarf in place.

  A pair of black, scratchy stockings and scuffed, badly sewn shoes completed the disguise. Medeoan caught sight of her reflection in the polished brass mirror that served the keepers and had to stand and stare. Was that her? That thin, pale, wide-eyed drab? That was a powerful sorceress, and empress of Eternal Isavalta?

  “Mistress Imperial?” came Captain Peshek’s urgent whisper.

  Medeoan tore her eyes from her diminished reflection. “You may turn around, Captain. I’m ready.”

  Captain Peshek pivoted on his heel, saw her, and his eyes widened. In the next heartbeat, however, he recovered himself, and reverenced. “This way, please, Mistress Imperial.”

  He led her out the far door into an unadorned corridor where she, for all her life in the palace of Vyshtavos, had never walked. A skinny boy in rough, clean servant’s clothes waited there, standing on one foot so that he could scratch his heel. When Peshek appeared, he lowered his foot hastily and reverenced.

  “This is Sherosh,” said Peshek. “He has no tongue, and cannot write, but he knows to show you out the servants’ ways. I will meet you b
eside the stables.”

  Peshek did not reverence as he retreated, nor did Medeoan fail to notice that he had not used her title. The boy beside her probably did not even know who she was. He just faced her, as wide-eyed and curious as a puppy. Then he smiled, showing a row of ragged and dirty teeth, and took off running.

  Suddenly a stranger in her home, Medeoan had no choice but to scurry after him. He led her down a bewildering array of windowless corridors that all seemed to be made of either aging plaster or dark wood. They passed other servants, some in livery, some in drab’s clothes. No one stopped to notice her. Some cursed as she ran by, some bellowed, but no one stopped. No one knew her as their empress.

  Sherosh lead her through the sculleries, where the air was thick with the stench of slops and garbage and ringing with the clash of pots and kettles. A door, black with age, stood propped open to let in what relief the summer’s air could provide. Outside, it was only a little quieter, but it smelled even worse, if that were possible. This was the work yard. Sheds waited here for the tanners, the dyers, and the weavers. The smiths’ great forges smoked in the shadow of the east wall. The butchers’ yard and the brewers’ hall stretched out along the west wall. All conceivable smells of animals, living and dead, mixed with the smells of hot metal and hot mash.

  The stables waited upwind of the work yard, so the horses would not be disturbed by the smells of work and slaughter. Reaching the relatively clean scent of well-kept horses was a relief.

  A man waited in the shadow of the stable’s western wall holding the reins of a scrawny yellow mule. His boots were worn, but his rough pantaloons and undyed kaftan were clean, and the brown sash around his waist was broad and neat. A moment later, Medeoan realized this man was Captain Peshek. She had never seen him out of uniform, and she found him as much altered as she herself was, from imperial guardsman to peasant with a change of a costume.

  “Good boy, Sherosh.” Peshek flipped a copper coin into the dust at the boy’s feet. Sherosh dived for the coin and scooped it up without even breaking stride. He slapped his fist against his heart in a child’s imitation of the soldier’s reverence and took off for the scullery again.

  “Now, mistress,” said Peshek hastily. “This mount is bad-tempered and inelegant, but it is inconspicuous. If you would …” He cupped his hands for her foot.

  Medeoan allowed herself to be helped onto the mule’s riding blanket. Peshek handed her the bundle she had entrusted to him the previous evening. It contained some money and the girdle she had woven of her magic and Eliisa’s memories. Even more importantly, it contained a plain wooden box in which she had secreted her signet ring. With that, she could still seal letters and decrees as the empress of Isavalta, no matter what clothes she wore.

  The mule flapped its ears and snorted as Peshek grabbed hold of its bridle and urged it forward. Medeoan clutched the harness with one hand and her bundle with the other. The mule’s backbone dug into her as the creature loped listlessly across the hardpacked yard.

  The shout will go up any moment. They’ve seen me. The guardsmen have noticed. They’ll have told Kacha. He’s coming for me.

  But no new voices shouted over the cacophony. The only people who came and went were the artisans and the bondsmen, and the apprentices with their baskets, bundles and barrows.

  Now Medeoan could see the unadorned iron of the rear gates with their six men standing outside the guardhouse.

  “Keep still and steady, mistress,” murmured Peshek, halting the mule. “This will take but a moment.”

  He walked forward, arms outstretched, hailing the other men. They stiffened to attention, and then evidently recognized him, because they hailed him in return, slapping him on the arm and clasping his wrists. With a wave of his hand, he brought them close for some conference. Medeoan’s ears rang. How much did Kacha know? How far had his search gone? What would he do when he found her? Who could she trust besides Peshek and Keeper Bakhar? Kacha would have them killed immediately, and she was not sure she could stop it. How would she keep herself whole until Iakush found Avanasy and brought him back?

  The soldiers’ conference continued, with several glances in her direction. Something, coins perhaps, passed between Peshek and the men on duty. Peshek then sauntered back to the mule. Behind him, the men swung the gates open.

  “When you return, mistress, you may want to consider having those men taken up,” he said quietly. “They are too easily bribed.”

  “What did you say to them?” she breathed as they passed between the gates and the soldiers. The men stared at her, measuring her with thin smiles on their faces.

  “Nothing I would relish repeating to Your Reverence.” Peshek ducked his head.

  And they were through. No voice cried out. Kacha’s shout did not drift to her through the thick, warm summer air. No column of guards came at the double to seize Captain Peshek. There was only the wide, rutted road cutting through the park and leading to the outer walls, and beyond that, the city, and beyond that the whole wide world.

  In that moment, Medeoan knew there would be no pursuit. Peshek’s arrangements had worked, and they would walk out of the grounds and into the city. She should have felt relief, but she felt only strangling anger. Was she worth that little? Kacha did not even consider pursuing her? He thought he ruled so completely that he did not even have to consider her presence anymore.

  You will learn differently, my false husband. And that presently.

  Isavalta was hers, and if she had neglected it before, she would never do so again.

  “Where is my Bride Imperial?”

  Keeper Bakhar blinked down at him. The man who kept house for Isavalta’s little gods was barrel-like in stature, obviously fond of the good life his office afforded.

  “The empress is not here, Imperial Majesty.”

  “I see that,” said Kacha impatiently. The man was many things, but not normally stupid. Suspicion formed in Kacha’s mind. “Where is she?”

  The keeper reverenced, giving at least the appearance of respect. “I do not know, Imperial Majesty. She came here to await the blessing, but when you did not arrive, she left. I assumed it was to go in search of you.”

  So, Kacha let out a sigh. So. It has begun. The child has run away from home, thinking by her actions to leave me in disarray and confusion.

  Poor child.

  “Very well,” said Kacha mildly. “Should the empress or any of her attendants come here, say that I will meet them in the courtyard.”

  Again, the barrel-shaped keeper reverenced. “As you command, Imperial Majesty.”

  This time, Kacha caught the cold glitter in the man’s eyes. He said nothing of it, however, and simply turned away, returning to the corridor where Medeoan’s men-at-arms and sole waiting lady stood, having been given, he was sure, no orders to be elsewhere. They looked uncomfortable to say the least. Doubtlessly they were wondering what was taking their mistress so long. She was a pious lady, yes, but this was excessive.

  Kacha turned to his nearest man and said in the court dialect of his home, “Run to the empress’s chambers and have her lady Chekhania meet me in my own apartments.”

  To Medeoan’s servitors he said, “You may wait for your Mistress Imperial in the courtyard. We will be joining you there presently.”

  Medeoan had all her personal attendants very well trained. They did not question him. They only reverenced, each according to their station, and left as ordered. Kacha found himself smiling at their retreating backs. In many ways, this was going to be simplicity itself.

  “Come,” he said to Prithu and his men. “We will return to the private apartments.”

  The corridors of Vyshtavos were largely deserted now. Most of the servants and courtiers were already on their way to the summer palace. That household would be full and bustling, awaiting its imperial masters.

  Well, we shall not keep you waiting long, thought Kacha with satisfaction.

  As he had instructed, Chekhania waited inside his ap
artments, beside the empty fire pit. She reverenced as he entered, and he came forward at once to take her hand and raise her up. He saw in her eyes that the gesture had its intended effect and reminded her well of their previous night’s sport.

  “Now then, Chekhania,” he said gravely, still holding her hand. “I must tell you, your Mistress Imperial has taken ill, but she must make the journey to Vaknevos, for there are none to care for her here. She must do so in complete quiet and seclusion. An enclosed litter, such that it can be made a bower for her on the imperial barge will be the answer, I believe. Can you arrange this?”

  Chekhania did not quite lick her lips, but she wanted to, Kacha could see it in her eyes. She knew exactly what she was being asked to do, and how much it meant he trusted her. She reveled in that knowledge, and the sight of that pleased Kacha to his core. Such a one would do all he asked, and more to keep her place of power. Oh, yes, in her he had chosen well.

  “All will be as his Majesty Imperial commands,” said Chekhania solemnly.

  “Excellent,” he said, giving her hand a secret squeeze. “You may go.”

  She reverenced again and left him to stand and smile at the empty air.

  Run away, Medeoan, he thought. Run far, run fast. When the time comes, Yamuna will find you, and I will bring you home in chains, and none will be the wiser.

  “We’ll spend the night in the lockhouse. The keeper knows how to keep secrets as well as his lock. Many’s a man put themselves up here.”

  Medeoan nodded and clutched her bundle. Peshek led the skinny mule with great patience through Makashev’s crowded streets. It was so strange, down here amid the jostling crowds. She had, after all, lived all her life amidst a crowd of people. She had thought traveling anonymously through the traffic of foot and cart would be liberating, or at least familiar. But the ones who had always surrounded her had been her people and there to serve her. Here, she was just another body, another obstruction. Carters hollered when Peshek could not hurry the stubborn mule along fast enough, and he shouted back. Gossiping women shouldered past her without a second glance. Herders screamed at them to make way for flocks of geese or drifts of sheep. Beggars spat and leered as she passed, holding up grubby palms. Several times, she barely escaped a deluge of filthy water dumped unceremoniously from an upper window.