Ipid spared a look at Eia. She matched the ambassador, sitting in the chair she had positioned next to Ipid’s. She sat with her legs pulled to her chest as if she were six. Her expression was one of considered amusement as if unwinding an especially excellent joke to find all the layers of humor hidden within. Ipid, the only one still standing, felt like the only man in the room who didn’t understand the joke and was lost as to whether he should ask for a retelling or just play along to spare himself the humiliation.
“I’m sorry,” the ambassador started when he had himself situated. “As lovely as your wife is, I need to speak with you alone, Lord Chancellor. I’m sure you understand.” He looked meaningfully at Eia.
“What?” Ipid looked at Eia then back at the ambassador entirely bewildered. “We need not fear her divulging secrets.”
Ambassador an’ Pmalatir laughed, a dark snicker. “Either you are stupid or you think I am. And for all of our sakes, I hope it is that later. She understands every word we say, and neither of you is nearly a sufficient actor to maintain the lie.” Again, he laughed. “See the way her eyes moved when I said that? She looked to you for defense. Her mouth turned at the insult and her eyebrow twitched. Even without that, you did not complete our introduction in her language, and I doubt that such a creature as this would stand for manners so poor as that.”
Ipid looked toward Eia and saw her expression go blank. It was just as Vontel had said, she was responding with her face to every word he said. “Yes,” Ipid admitted, growing exasperated. “She can understand us. She was sent by the invaders to keep an eye on me. And she will remain with us as we talk. Now, can we discuss the matters at hand?”
Still, the ambassador did not answer. He stared at Eia for a long time. “You are, aren’t you?” He looked at her again. “I can see it now, though I never would have guessed that there were women with those powers.”
Ipid stared at them, wondering if he had somehow become invisible without realizing it.
“She is one of their wizards, isn’t she?” the ambassador asked. Ipid opened his mouth to protest. “No, it all makes sense now. Our new Emperor has one as well. Though you certainly got the better end of the deal. His wears the most awful black robes and sulks like an eel in a cave. You would never doubt his position, and the Emperor does not try, but to cover this one with robes and hood would be cruel. I can see why you dress her in satin instead.”
“Wait,” Ipid recovered enough to interject. “You saw the new Emperor. You have been to Sal Danar?” It was a thousand miles to the Imperial capital. There was no way a man could travel there and back in the time since the invasion. But then Ipid saw the truth inherent within his question. “They transported you?”
The ambassador nodded. “Right to your study. I see you have experienced it as well. It is something, don’t you think? I can certainly understand now why the Emperor has allied himself with these people.”
“The Emperor has . . . ?”
“Yes. In fact, that is why I am here. As we are now allied, the Emperor has asked me to help you in any way I can. So here I am to . . . help.”
Ipid had barely heard the ambassador’s words. He was still struggling with the idea that the San Chier Empire had somehow allied itself with the invaders. Located on the opposite end of the continent, it made perfect strategic sense. The Empire was a declining power that would not likely stand long against Liandria or the Fells, but as a distraction, as a means to draw off and divide those two nations, the Empire was perfectly positioned. And its instability and antiquated governance made it ripe for overthrow. The Darthur needed only to find their man and see him installed. But how had they managed to do that, to position themselves so perfectly in only a matter of days?
“Wait,” Ipid managed. Were both Eia and the ambassador smiling at him as if he were the butt of a joke and couldn’t see the fun that was being made of him? “Start with the new Emperor. What happened to Kristor? And who is Nabim? I don’t even know that name.” He tried to remember what he knew of the Imperial family. He had few dealings with the Empire but tried to keep himself informed of international matters and thought he had, at least, heard the names of all the Emperor’s sons. Nabim did not sound like one of them.
“My dear Lord Chancellor,” Ambassador an’ Pmalatir sighed as if being overly indulgent. “I see that we will get nothing done until I explain, though it means little to our dealings.” He paused and brought his hands to his belly, weaving his thick fingers together across its girth. “Warlord Rammeriz attempted to take the Throne of the Rising Sun,” he explained. “He and his men slaughtered almost the entire Imperial family. In the end, Nabim an’ Pmalatir, the Emperor’s cousin, and the last remnants of the Imperial Guard stopped him. After such a slaughter, it fell upon Nabim to accept the position of Emperor. He took the throne almost four weeks ago now.”
Ipid’s could not grasp it. For them to have gotten down to a cousin, there must have been dozens killed, a slaughter. It did not fit anything he had ever heard about Jaret Rammeriz. Yet even more disturbing was that the new Emperor must have been far enough from the line of succession to be informed. He would know that the Empire no longer ruled the known world – a lie that his advisors had maintained for the Emperors since the Liandrin Revolt. Ipid could not decide what the implications of that would be but could not imagine they were good. “And he knows? He is informed?”
“He is and does.” Vontel nodded. “Which is why I was sent to you at this late hour, via such strange means. Now, if we could discuss how I might assist you. . . .”
“Hold on.” Ipid was slowly catching up to what he had been told. “Four weeks.” He calculated. “The Darthur were barely across the mountains then. How can they have orchestrated a new Emperor taking the throne in Sal Danar when they didn’t even know that Sal Danar existed?”
“I did not say that the invaders had anything to do with the change of power.” The ambassador sounded defensive for the first time. “It was Jaret Rammeriz that killed the Emperor, not your invaders.”
“But the new Emperor is served by one of the te-am ‘eiruh. The Empire has allied itself to the Darthur?” Ipid sat forward, finally gaining his balance enough to push back. “You cannot think me naïve enough to miss the meaning of that.”
“It was part of Arin’s plan,” Eia provided too quickly, falling back into her somehow universal language.
“No,” Ipid pounced. “He could not have known. He didn’t even know where the Empire was four weeks ago. It doesn’t make any sense that he could work that quickly using the existing power structures. It would take months to set that up.”
Eia drew a deep breath, both men were now focused on her. Vontel did not speak, but his fingers drummed his belly and his mouth quirked. “It was the Belab,” she finally admitted. “We have studied you for a long time. I have already told you that we are descended from your Exiles. Though most of us had abandoned the idea, some of us maintained the dream of returning and used their powers to watch your side of the mountains. The city of Sal Danar is of particular interest to certain members of our order. I do not know what they plan now, but I am confident that the Belab has not sanctioned their activities.”
“Does Arin know?”
“I seriously doubt it. I don’t even know if the Belab knows, but I doubt either of them would much care. It changes little. Even if a nation fights with the Darthur, they must be tested, and their actions prior to the testing have no bearing on its outcome. A few nations on our side of the mountains tried to endear themselves to the Darthur by such means, but it did not save them from the testing, and if they weakened themselves by attacking their neighbors on behalf of the Darthur, it hurt them.”
“A mystery then,” Vontel said. “But it matters not to those of us who take orders from the powers at play. The only thing I know is that my dear cousin Nabim is the new Emperor, and he has asked me to aid you, so here I am.”
“I appreciate your offer.” Ipid could not decide what t
o think of any of it. “I will consider the role you can play.”
“I think you are underestimating me, Lord Chancellor,” Vontel said. He sat forward in his chair, eyes sparkling. “You see, being the ambassador to a country on the other side of the continent is . . . extremely . . . boring. No offense, but you’re all so good and orderly that it is hard to find any excitement, and, even so, how many petty laws and morays can a man break before even that loses its zest. So it was out of boredom (and a certain level of desire) that I started building a network of . . . . What is the best term, rumors, informants, spies? Take your pick. I intended to use them at first to seduce the wives of your nobles – a man such as me cannot rely on his looks, you see – but I soon learned that wives here are not chosen based on their abilities between the sheets. The only thing left to do with all that information that would provide any enjoyment at all was politics.”
Vontel stopped and spread his arms wide as if revealing some spectacular bit of magic. Ipid failed to see it. “Don’t you see, my dear Chancellor? I am the spider behind the web. I control all intrigue within this city. No scandal breaks, no malfeasance goes unrecorded, no dissent is uttered without my knowledge. And now all that is available to you. Do you still struggle to understand why the Emperor has sent me to you?”
Chapter 29
The 30th Day of Summer
“Lord commander,” the most resplendent of the Knights Imperial greeted as he leapt from his horse. He pulled off his helmet and dropped to a knee before Jaret, head bobbing before rising to catch his eye. His men formed around Jaret and the legionnaires where they stood before the carnage that the imperial regiment had become. They slowly followed their commander’s example, dismounting and falling in a creaking, clamorous wave to a knee.
Jaret’s attention went from the kneeling knights to their commander. He had long, shining, dark hair with a natural curl that Jaret could only picture on a whore. His face was long, bones pronounced, nose a beak. Not a scar or blemish marred his tan skin. A stubble beard had formed across his cheeks and chin in a way that was simply unfair to any other man. Jaret had no doubt that artists across the Empire fought to put this man in their portraits. And worst of all, he seemed to know it. Despite kneeling, he was exceedingly pleased with himself. His broad lips slowly rose in a self-satisfied smile, revealing large, white teeth. With that smile, Jaret realized that he knew the man. “Commander Yatier as’ Pmalatir?” he nearly stammered as he tried to make sense of the man who was kneeling before him.
“An’ Pmalatir now,” the knight corrected. “The new Emperor is my uncle.” The legionnaires bristled at this as if the man who had just saved them from certain death may still be an enemy.
“I’m still not sure I understand what just happened,” Jaret admitted, “but I thank you nonetheless.”
“It is my honor, lord commander.”
“What’s this then?” a powerful voice bellowed, cutting off Commander an’ Pmalatir just as he opened his mouth to say more. All eyes shifted to a great barrel of a man on a horse even larger than those that carried the knights. He wore light mail and a helmet engraved with the eyes and beak of an owl. A long beard quickly turning from brown to grey flowed from beneath the helm down across the chains that covered his wide chest. In his free hand was a single-bladed, long-handled axe that he swung to emphasize each word so that the knights around him ducked their heads and moved from his path. Behind him were half-a-dozen other men in similar light mail and helms. They remained in their saddles, weapons drawn, countenance wary.
“Joal?” Jaret asked again, turning his attention to the new arrival. He shook his head in disbelief and stared at his old friend, but there was no mistaking the Commander of the Northern Peace, Joal Quindin.
“Who’d ya think it was?” Joal answered. “We’ve been running for three days to get here.” He dismounted slowly and awkwardly then straightened with a mighty grunt. “I’m not sure I’ll ever walk correctly again. I’m an infantry man. I’m made to defend walls, not ride across hill and dale.” He stretched out his back, which gave a mighty pop.
“How’d you . . . ?” Jaret could not seem to finish his question as his eyes bounced between the two commanders. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Joal remained loyal to him, but an Imperial brat . . . ? And how did either of them still have men to command?
“Crest should be a badger instead of this cursed owl. Hunkered down in a hole is where I’m best.” Joal lifted the visor on his helm, revealing his round, red face. Heavy wrinkles cascaded from under his eyes showing his age even more than the grey in his beard. “That rat bastard who’s named himself Emperor tried to get rid of me, but if the Morgs can’t do it, you know he’s got no chance. But what about this one?” He turned to Commander an’ Pmalatir then to his knights, who had risen from their knees. He looked to the officers who had accompanied him then back to the infantry he’d led. Those were just now sorting themselves out at the northern end of the field and rounding up the half of the regiment that had been lucky enough to surrender. He seemed to reconsider what he was about to say then, in true form, said it anyway. “It’s imperial bastards like him that’s killed almost all our officers, Jaret. Killed and replaced ‘em every chance they’ve gotten. I barely knew there were that many of them, but Nabim keeps finding cousins and nephews and bastards and cousins of nephews of bastard. He’s killed our men and put them in charge of anything and everything he can think of.”
“Commander Quindin,” Yatier greeted before his adversary could get himself up to full bluster. He rose, extended a hand, and smiled, broad lips separating to show deep dimples. “You are almost as much a legend as Lord Commander Rammeriz. I must have read the accounts of your stand at Pada Por fifty times. I had such hopes that I would meet you at the seasonal briefing.”
Commander Quindin spent a long moment searching for the insult that must be hiding in the compliment. “You read those, eh?” He grinned and took Yatier’s hand. As the two men drew together, Jaret realized that the knight was every bit as tall as Joal and almost as powerfully built – where that had come from in the Imperial linage was a question that might have cost his mother her head.
“I did,” the knight answered. “I have always admired how you conceded the northern end of the pass to concentrate on the more defensible south.”
“Now wait,” Joal growled. “We had no chance of holding the northern wall. The Morgs had an open field to come at us. And your – I can say it now – bastard of a grandfather had sent half my men to throw themselves at that idiot wall in Pindar. And you were probably suckin’ on some rich whore’s tit. So what makes you think you can . . . ?”
“My apologies.” Yatier stepped back, but the smile did not leave his lips. “I understand that history has not been kind, but my praise was honest. You held the pass for months against a far superior force of Morgs. If you had failed, it wouldn’t have mattered what Commander Rammeriz was doing in the south.”
“Damn right. And it’s about time someone realized that.” Joal looked meaningfully at Jaret. For such a seasoned commander from a line of seasoned commanders, Joal’s ego was as fragile as a flower, and the young commander had touched the most sensitive petal.
“Now that you two have been introduced, can someone tell me what, in the Order’s holy name, is going on?” Jaret finally asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to establish!” Joal shouted, throwing his arms in the air. “We’ve been running since the moment we heard that you were heading north. We’ve gone nearly twenty miles a day on foot carrying weapons, food, and gear – just about killing ourselves – to find you charging headlong into a force fifty times your size. I thought we’d run ourselves to death just to watch you get cut to pieces. Then this . . . .” Joal seemed unable to find a word to describe the former prince now that he couldn’t insult him, “. . . this knight and his friends ride in like the original Pmalatir. And I still can’t understand why.”
Neither could Ja
ret, but he wanted to deal with one mystery at a time, and Joal seemed least likely to stay quiet. He put up a hand to stop the rant. “So you’ve maintained resistance to Emperor Nabim?”
“Damn right I have. You think I’d bow to that worm? Bad enough I had to serve his witless cousin.”
Jaret looked meaningfully toward Commander an’ Pmalatir, trying to remind his blusterous friend of the sensitivities of the armored men surrounding them.
“What?” Joal asked, missing the suggestion entirely. “If I ever become that delusional, I want you to cut my head off too. Put me out of my damn misery. So, yeah, I was in on Traeger’s plan. I practically kissed him when he told me about it. And don’t give me your lectures about ‘tradition’ and ‘defending the symbols of history’. It had to be done. I don’t know why you couldn’t see it. The situation was entirely untenable. I barely had enough food for my men, let alone the people who were actually working the land and paying the taxes. And we didn’t say anything to you because we knew you would do something stupid, like try to stop us.”
A month ago Jaret would have been furious, just as he’d been in the throne room when he had, in fact, tried to stop Traeger, the commander of the Legion in his attempt to usurp the Emperor and put Jaret in his place. Now, he could not feel anything about the betrayal except a slight regret that lingered behind the emotional barrier in his mind. “So you were able to maintain command of your units?”
Joal answered as if all this should be obvious, “Traeger was confident the other commanders would join us but didn’t trust them with the details in advance, so the embedded legionnaires were supposed to take control of individual units. I remained at Pada Por in case anything went wrong, and we needed a fall back.”
The False Martyr Page 34