The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  I must succeed now, she told herself. I have made promises in the name of the rule Imperial. I cannot fail now. Vyshko and Vyshemir have heard me speak in their stead.

  There, alone in the darkness, surrounded by tall ships and fleeing from her own soldiers, Medeoan at last felt them, the bonds of empire of which her father had spoken. Shackle and support, he’d called them, and he’d been right.

  Medeoan felt her shoulders square themselves as she hurried forward into the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  T’ien, the great city that held the Heart of the World, was a city of walls. Walls sheltered it from the outside world. Walls separated its quarters from each other. Walls lined its streets and hid its gardens. Walls sheltered its garrisons, and their broad tops provided pathways for its soldiers. Walls cradled its markets and squares.

  Medeoan sat hunched in the shadow of one of the beige stone walls, nursing her sore feet and trying to feel fortunate. Her ship had arrived without incident. No one on board had questioned or molested her. She had been able to perform the tasks assigned, not as well as Eliisa could have, but she got by, and she was safe and sound in the city that held the Heart of the World.

  All that was left was the question of how she was to approach the Heart’s gate. She could not simply walk up, tattered and unattended, and announce she was the empress of Isavalta. She did not have enough money left in her waistband to buy even a decent wardrobe, let alone the regal one she should have worn. She could not even hire a single bodyguard.

  But neither could she appear weak before the Nine Elders. She could not be seen to beg.

  “I am so tired,” she whispered. “Vyshemir, help me, I am so tired.”

  Tired of moving, tired of wondering what was being whispered behind her, tired of being so constantly afraid. Even if she could have acquired the proper materials to weave herself another disguise, Medeoan did not believe she could have concentrated long enough to complete the spell.

  Medeoan lowered her head into her hands and scrubbed her scalp to try to wake herself up. This was useless. She had to try. She had to find some way. She could not simply sit here and wait for some spy of Kacha’s to find her, if he could even be bothered. She leaned her head against the wall. The empress of Isavalta, lost in a foreign land in a servant’s clothes. Why go looking for her? She had put herself out of the way most efficiently. Kacha could consolidate his power over her empire and birthright without hindrance.

  That thought rekindled Medeoan’s anger. If for no other reason, if not for duty of birth or the gods or her parent’s deaths, she would see Kacha crawl to prove she was not to be taken lightly, to prove she was no longer lulled by his warm words or warmer touch, that she would not forgive him, even if he begged. She would only spit on him and order him put to death …

  So why can I not stop missing him?

  She did miss him. She missed his touch, his scent, looking into his eyes and seeing the light within them. Part of her knew that she would miss those things until the day she died, and that part wept.

  “Now then, here’s a pretty lady all alone.”

  Medeoan jerked her chin down. A man stood in front of her. His robe was plain, black cotton with wide cuffs of deep blue that no one but the imperial family would be allowed to wear in Isavalta. His burlap pack made a hump for his left shoulder. He wore his hair in a long ponytail, as was the fashion for the men of Hung-Tse, and his eyes twinkled as he smiled at her.

  Medeoan mustered what she hoped was a haughty stare. Evidently it was close enough, for the man shrank backward in a pose of mock cowardice.

  “Such ice! Such power! I shall surely be struck to pieces with another such glance!” He peered at her from behind his hands. “Perhaps the pretty lady will accept a gift? To show that we are indeed friends?” When Medeoan did not move or answer, he lowered his hand. “A poor sorcerer am I,” he said, waving his left hand about in the air. “A poor sorcerer of packs and the roads under the shadows of walls, but even such a poor sorcerer as I may give a gift to a pretty lady.” He opened his hand to show a fold of silk. Deftly, he knotted the silk, and pulled the knot close, and through, and opened the silk again, and inside lay a delicate summer flower with petals the color of ripe peaches.

  With a flourish, the man made the silk vanish, and handed Medeoan the flower. To her surprise, she felt herself smile.

  “Thank you,” she said, inhaling the sweet scent. “But I have nothing to give you.”

  “Ah, but perhaps you do.” He smiled. “Perhaps the pretty lady will allow me to ply my arts on her behalf. A horoscope? To tally the lovers that will surely be lining up before her door? An amulet of good luck? My powers are humble, to be sure, but they will serve, they will serve.”

  “They will serve to make a pretty trick for a sad day,” Medeoan answered. “But no further.”

  “The pretty lady assumes because my workings are humble, they are not sound,” said the man, his voice for the first time growing peevish.

  “There was no true working made here,” Medeoan said sternly. During the moment of creation, a sorcerer could feel a spell being created, especially if it was being completed nearby. “You know that, as do I. Thank you for the flower, man. I have no coin to spare.”

  “Then may someone teach you what it is to give your best for nothing,” he spat and stalked away, hitching his lumpy pack up higher on his shoulder.

  “It’s already happened,” she whispered to his back and his flower.

  Still, it was a pleasant trick. Even as she thought that, a fresh idea tickled at the back of her mind. A trick. Could such a trick get her into the palace? She was already in disguise. Eliisa was gone from her, but she still remembered some things that the girl’s presence had left in her mind. If she could just get inside the walls, then she would be able to find her way. She knew the ways of palaces, and of servants as well as of nobles. All she had to do was get herself inside.

  Medeoan, hope and energy restored, climbed to her feet and strode briskly down the street, following the path the trickster had taken.

  The walls guarding the five palaces that were the Heart of the World were, at first glance, painted a bright, solid yellow. Only after staring at them for a long time could Medeoan discern the patterns made with delicate brush strokes and enormous skill. Dragons, whiskered unicorns, phoenixes, tortoises, horses, oxen and cranes all had been woven together, layer upon layer, picture upon picture, to create a net of protective spells that stretched out on all sides, sealing the emperor away from any dangers.

  But such walls must have gates, for the servants as well as for the nobles, and although she knew the Heart of the World held orchards, gardens and fish ponds as well as palaces, what could be grown, herded or hunted on its extensive grounds was not enough to feed all its occupants. Food, at the very least, had to be procured.

  Medeoan bought herself a scrub brush and a bucket, and now she knelt outside the tall, yellow walls, slowly scrubbing at the bricks in the street, keeping one eye on the western gate, the servants’ small gate. It had a complement of six guards, which was changed regularly, for no one charged with the emperor’s safety was foolish enough to believe that a servant could not bring harm to their master. But still, she could see that in the steady stream of traffic flowing in and out some carts and some pack animals were searched more thoroughly than others and fresh plans came into Medeoan’s mind. Could she follow such a servant, and be smuggled inside in a bag or a basket? She shook her head. She was beginning to think like a tale in an opera, but still, it might work, and it might be less risky than an attempt at bribery. Medeoan dunked her brush in her bucket and turned her attention briefly to her bricks, so as not to be caught staring too long at the imperial gate.

  A mule tender, an empty hay cart and a detachment of soldiers all paraded out from the gate. Medeoan squinted up at the driver. He was a pudgy man in a good green coat, and a broad-brimmed straw hat to protect himself from the sun.

  Follow him, s
he told herself. See where he goes, how he is regarded. See where your chance is.

  She dropped her brush into the bucket with a splash and a thunk and staggered to her feet. Her entire right leg had gone numb from spending the entire morning kneeling on bricks. She would have thought her shipboard labors would have hardened her to such tasks, but not yet, evidently.

  She shook her leg, and tried to rub some feeling back into it, when a shadow fell across her.

  “Well, here’s a pretty lady all alone.”

  Medeoan could not stop herself from looking up. In front of her stood the mountebank, the false sorcerer. He still wore his black coat with its blue cuffs, but his pack was gone and he carried himself straight and proud, all trace of mischievous twinkle gone from his black eyes. Around him stood six soldiers, the saffron sashes around their waists and gold trim around their helmets marking them as members of the Heart’s guard.

  “Take her,” ordered the false sorcerer.

  One of the soldiers reached for her. Medeoan swung her bucket, a pathetic weapon at best, and doused him with muddy water, but the bucket itself only clanked against his armored coat, and he swatted it angrily away. Before she could run, another of them caught her from behind, seizing both her wrists. She twisted, trying to kick out, but he held her fast. Another of them moved forward, and Medeoan screamed as she saw the iron shackles ready to close about her wrists.

  “No!”

  But her cries did no more good than her struggles, and the soldier snapped the shackles shut, twisting the iron key in the lock that sealed them, and then turned with a bow to present the key to the false sorcerer.

  “Who are you?” demanded Medeoan. “How dare you!”

  “I am the one who has found a foreign sorceress,” he replied mildly. “And I dare for I serve the Nine Elders and through them the Emperor Himself. If she speaks again, you may strike her,” he said to the soldier to Medeoan’s left.

  “Sir.” He bowed.

  “Bring her.”

  The soldier pushed Medeoan, who stumbled forward, too startled to protest. The shackles weighted her hands down in front of her. The short chain that held them together rattled. The false sorcerer, the imperial official, walked ahead of her without a backward glance.

  The yellow walls with their iron-studded gates passed by, and Medeoan had her wish. She almost laughed. She was inside the Heart of the World.

  All she saw before her, though, was another yellow wall, as cunningly and delicately painted as the first. It was thicker though, and held its own garrison she guessed by the narrow slits of windows in its sides, and the sentries on its top. The two made a narrow lane that her nightmarish escort now marched her along. Her hair had come loose and wisps fluttered into her face, but she didn’t dare raise her hands to brush them aside.

  After what seemed an age, they came to a portcullis in the inner wall. Six guards raised their spears and swords in salute to her party. Medeoan had to stop herself from giving a reflexive and regal nod in return. Again she almost laughed. This was indeed becoming a bad dream.

  Medeoan only caught a glimpse of the great tiled courtyard that lay beyond the inner wall. The imperial official unlocked a door on the right side of the passage and the soldiers marched Medeoan into the wall.

  The world at once became cool and dim. Single beams of light filtered through the slit windows, and a pair of lanterns hung on either side of an iron-banded door that the official unlocked with a key he drew out of his robe. Medeoan blinked hard, trying to will her eyes to adjust, and she succeeded well enough to see the beginnings of a stairway leading down into the earth and darkness.

  “No,” she said, hanging back. “You don’t …”

  A heavy hand came down, and pain exploded in Medeoan’s head, making her see stars. Reeling, she barely felt herself shoved forward. She stumbled and would have fallen, had someone not caught her up under her arm and, pinching her painfully, hauled her forward.

  Slowly, the dizzying pain receded and Medeoan realized she was once again on level ground. Her vision stilled and cleared enough for her to see she was being led down a stone corridor lit at intervals by copper lanterns hung from the ceiling. Ahead, the corridor opened into a square room dominated by a table of chipped black wood behind which waited a crooked stick of an old man who wore a black coat that matched that of the imperial official who led Medeoan’s escort. The two men bowed to one another and spoke together, too fast and too soft for Medeoan to follow. The stick figure official sniffed and wrote something down on the paper scroll that was spread out before him. Another soldier came forward and grabbed Medeoan’s chain, jerking her forward. She opened her mouth, to try to protest or explain, but the memory of the last blow was too fresh and she shut it again.

  The new soldier dragged her into another square corridor, lit by more lamps, but this one was lined by iron doors. An eerie silence filled Medeoan’s ears. The guard’s square-toed shoes did not even make any noise against the dusty stone floor. One door in the left-hand wall stood open. The soldier tweaked the chain, causing Medeoan to stumble inside. The door swung shut without even a whisper from the hinges, cutting off all light. As if from a great distance, Medeoan heard a lock click shut.

  Then there was only silence, and the sound of her own shallow breathing in the absolute darkness.

  A tear trickled from her eye, tickling her cheek with its slow descent. It was followed by another, and another, until a stream of them ran down her face. But she could not raise her hands. The chains were too heavy. All she could do was stand and weep until her strength failed her and she fell to her knees, weeping still, until, at last, the darkness wrapped itself tight around her mind and she knew no more.

  The god house of Vaceta was seldom empty during the summer. Much of the prosperity of the town came from the fact that the court was in residence, and its merchants as well as those who tended its fields trooped in and out to ask their god that their sons, their daughters or themselves might be noticed by some member of the household staff and signed to indenture for the summer, earning a year’s wages in a few months, and a reputation as having served the imperial household, which would last for a good deal longer than a year. Courtiers not housed in Vaknevos itself also had need of their houses, their staffs, their artisans and servants. While not as good as an imperial appointment, appointment with a courtier was more secure than the hit-and-miss life of one bound to no house, and therefore much sought after. It seemed that the entire town was more engaged in offering prayers or giving thanks than they were in the business of the day.

  Peshek found it easy to settle in under the shadow of one of the carved pillars and wait without being noticed or remarked upon.

  Vaceta did not have anything like the imperial budget for gilding their god house, but they had made up for it by employing the best of their woodworkers to carve the interior into a haven of bounty. The supporting pillars were trees laden with apples and pears. The arched roof held friezes of all manner of artisans at their trades. The walls showed reliefs of farmers reaping and gathering in plentiful fields, accompanied by fat-cheeked children lifting sheaves of grain or baskets of vegetables to the sky.

  Cezta, the god of the city, stood on his pillar, a fresh, green branch in one hand and the other raised in blessing. Supposedly, he had gained his divinity during a famine by going out into a field and feeding his own blood to the soil. The next day, the grain waved fresh and green in the summer sun, and Cezta was gone.

  But it was not of Cezta that Peshek had come to beg aid. Once every ten days or so while the court was in its summer home, the keeper of the emperor’s god house would come to Cezta’s god house, to call on the keeper and extend the courtesies and the blessings of Vyshko and Vyshemir. Peshek had been hanging about the doorways and marketplaces for days waiting to overhear when the visit might be expected. Now that the day had finally arrived, all that was left was to wait and see if Keeper Bakhar had managed to survive at his post.

  Peshek forc
ed himself to exercise again the patience he had spent the recent days practicing. Since leaving his father’s house, he had traveled on foot, mostly at night, pausing here and there to work a day in a field or barn for a meal or a night’s lodging, so that he might be taken for nothing but an unattached laborer, no one to rouse suspicion, or even comment, except from maids, and, not infrequently, matrons with good eyes and lively minds.

  He had tried to plan for what to do if Bakhar was no longer the keeper, but his mind could not seemed to address the problem. He could only wonder what could have been done to the keeper, and what the keeper would have said before Kacha’s people were finished with him.

  The doors to the god house opened again. Peshek let his eyes flicker up from their reverent attitude, and his heart leapt. Bakhar strode into the dim house, accompanied by the men who bore the titles of Right Hand and Left Hand. All three were dressed in the simple, belted blue robes Bakhar favored for non-ceremonial occasions. Bakhar’s only adornments were the small gold symbols on his belt’s end: a cup, a knife and a pike.

  Peshek pushed past a knot of worshipers, hurrying toward the central aisle. Bakhar walked forward toward Cezta to pay his respects. The local keeper came out of the back, and opened his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. Bakhar lifted his hand in return. Peshek hurried forward, and collided straight into the Left Hand, who in turn collided with Bakhar.

  “Clumsy …!” began the Left Hand, but a glance from the keeper checked his exclamation.

  “I’m so sorry!” gasped Peshek, stepping back just a little and folding his hands to reverence to the keeper. “Forgive me, sir, please …”

  “That’s perfectly all right …” began Bakhar. Peshek lifted his head and met the keeper’s eyes. Recognition and surprise flickered swiftly across the other man’s visage. “… my son,” Bakhar went on, smoothing down his robe. “No harm.”

  Reverencing humbly, and keeping his head ducked lest the Left Hand and Right Hand should chance to recognize him, Peshek retreated down the aisle and out the doors. The summer sun was painfully bright after spending the better part of a day inside the dim god house, but the fresh breeze was more than welcome.