The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  Chapter 73

  The 60th Day of Summer

  The bells rang. The morning had been remarkably quiet to this point, Ipid realized as he set aside the report he had been reading. Despite a series of Liandrin raids across the river and anarchy in Gorin West, it appeared that almost all the men from the south had reached Lianne and started crossing the Alta. It meant that the last of Arin’s demands had been met. The Liandrin Battle of Testing would occur three days from now, and Ipid had to return before it did. His time as Chancellor was almost finished. Stully was clearly in control of the rebellion that would end him – Gorin proved it if nothing else, showing what the Kingdoms would be like if Allard Stully weren’t controlling the mobs – but if he did not move quickly, Ipid would not be here to see it.

  With a glance at Eia, who was scooping the last of the yolk from a soft-boiled egg, he rose and walked to the window. They were in an upstairs sitting room that he’d had converted into an intimate dining room. It was Teaching Day, but with Stully’s threat looming large, Ipid dared not venture from the estate, so their morning was leisurely. He was dressed in light pants, had forgone his vest, and had not even tied a scarf around the top of his shirt. Eia had not gotten that far. She still wore her white silk nightgown with a flowered seafoam dressing gown that she had left open so that her breasts were nearly visible through the silk. Her legs were bare to the knees as were her feet. A few weeks before it would have been scandalous, but he and the servants now barely seemed to notice.

  In the courtyard, all was as it should be. It was almost completely empty given that most of the servants had been given their leave and the city watch was a skeleton crew. A few members of the watch patrolled the grounds or stood at the closed gates, but those were the only people visible. And beyond the walls, the city was quiet. A few streamers rose from chimneys, but fewer than he would have expected. There were no people that Ipid could see, and almost no sound made it through the glass panes beyond the resonate gong of the bells announcing the start of the weekly lessons.

  He had been sure that Stully would come yesterday, had spent the entire day in his office with the remaining Darthur, ready to transport away. Neither Jon nor Captain Tyne had any knowledge of the deal with Stully, but he had pestered them nonetheless about the state of the city until Jon took his leave and Tyne was actively avoiding him. Di Valati Wallock, who had not answered his summons in nearly a week, was of even less use, so Ipid had simply waited. For nothing as it turned out. He was still shocked by that. A Rest Day coup would have allowed Stully to use the weekly lessons to communicate the tyrant’s overthrow to the masses. It had been perfect, and it had passed without incident.

  So it would have to be tomorrow. They would never desecrate the holy day with bloodshed. Besides, today was too quiet. There would be riots. There would be mobs. He’d see them coming from miles away with Allard Stully in the lead. First Day was the day for it. Or maybe they had decided to simply wait until Ipid left of his own accord. Maybe Allard had put all the blame for his son’s death on Vontel. Maybe he had no more stomach for a fight, even one he was guaranteed to win.

  Either way, Lord Stully would unify the Kingdoms, would be the hero who had defeated a tyrant. Wallock would pardon Jon and Captain Tyne. The Kingdoms would rebuild and Ipid would transport away, would join Arin and accept his place in infamy. It had all been decided weeks before. Whether Stully played along or not, the result would be the same. Ipid’s only uncertainty was what would happen to him and Eia when this was all through.

  He spared a look at her. She had taken to reading the report he had relinquished. Their time was almost over, and when it was, she would return to her black robes, he to Arin’s side. But what would become of them? Secret liaisons? Knowing looks across the span of a room? Or never seeing each other again?

  With a throb in his heart, he turned his eyes back to the window, but he saw curls, a sharp nose, white skin, brown eyes, and round cheeks instead of the courtyard and city. His thoughts were on the sensation of her body pressed to his as they slept, of her warm kisses, of her teasing smile, of the pain and pleasure she had brought out of him.

  “What are you thinking about?” Eia asked. She watched him over the top of the papers, smiling.

  And there was that. She always knows. “You,” he admitted.

  “So sweet.” She held a hand out to him. He came to her, took it, and returned to his seat. “Are you thinking about last night? I told you, it is never too much. The pain this morning only reminds me of the pleasure last night.”

  Ipid could not disagree though, for once, that was not the focus of his thoughts. “No, I was thinking about what happens when we return to the Darthur.”

  Eia smiled. Red rose on her cheeks. She released his hand and ran hers up his arm. “You are perfect. So sweet in the light and so feral in the night. I thought maybe you were getting bored of me, that you were ready to move on.”

  “No, I could never . . . .” he said too fast and with too much certainty. Eia giggled, a sound entirely incongruous with the woman he knew when they were alone. “I . . . I mean, I want to continue being with you, but I’m not sure how once we’re back with the Darthur.”

  Eia rose from her chair and kissed him, slow and gentle. “We will find a way. Trust me. You’ve seen how resourceful I can be.” She kissed him again. “I should put on some clothes,” she said as she sauntered back toward the bedroom.

  Ipid watched her go, barely noticed that the footman who had been serving them had finally arrived with a pot of coffee – what might be the last pot in the Kingdoms given that Liandria had cut off all trade by land or sea. “Lord Chancellor?” he asked, holding the pot over Ipid’s cup.

  “Certainly,” Ipid acknowledged. He picked up a piece of toast and began slathering it with jam. The servant poured the coffee, a long black stream blooming from the silver spout of the pot. The spout wavered. Coffee hit the rim of the cup and splattered onto the white lace of the table cloth. Ipid jumped back. “Watch yourself,” he snapped.

  “My apologies, Lord Chancellor,” the man mumbled and corrected the trajectory of his pour.

  Ipid’s attention turned to the footman, Henrik. The man had been with him for years – having come with Jon from the Wildern household. He had served Ipid coffee countless times. He could not remember ever seeing a drop hit the table and wondered if the man was alright. Certainly, he was getting up in his years, face sagging, hands spotted, hair completely white, but had shown no other signs of decline. Still, he did seem pale. His hands did shake. Maybe I have simply failed to notice, he chastised himself before remembering that it didn’t matter in the slightest.

  “I will have some as well,” Eia said from the far side of the room, the promise of coffee bringing her back before she’d had the chance to depart.

  Henrik’s face hardened. Ipid’s ire rose at that, but it was nothing more than the look the staff always seemed to make when they were forced to serve her and not worth making a point of now. Rounding the table, Henrik poured another wobbly stream into Eia’s china cup. She reached and took it from the table, meaning to bring it with her to the room, not even bothering with the saucer. So many breeches of protocol that Ipid could not begin to consider them all, and he remembered why, among many other reasons, the staff disliked her.

  The ageing footman returned to Ipid’s side with a cloth and dabbed away the spots he’d created on the tablecloth. “No need for that,” Ipid said. “The kitchen staff will get it when they clear the table. May I have the cream, please?”

  “Of course, Lord Chancellor,” Henrik answered voice formal and steady as always. He expertly clasped the small silver pitcher and added a single splash of the thick cream, just as Ipid liked it.

  “Thank you,” Ipid said as he took up the spoon at the side of the saucer and began to stir. His other hand selected a paper from the stack at his side. Forgotten, Henrik retreated toward the board at the side of the room.

  There was a crash as a cu
p hit the floor. Ipid turned just in time to see the blur of Eia’s hand as she knocked the cup from his. It careened across the table. Coffee flew in a wave, scalding Ipid’s hand, staining his shirt, drenching his toast, ruining the tablecloth, and spraying across the floor. The cup tumbled over the table, chipped a bowl, upended a vase, and crashed with finality to the floor. It all seemed to happen very slowly, so that Ipid seemed to be watching each drop of liquid, each shard of displaced porcelain. He was just about to voice his pain and displeasure when a flash of light caught him from the other direction. Head turning, he barely saw the sharpened edge of steel slashing toward him.

  Jerking back, Ipid up ended his chair. For a second, he teetered – chair angling back, legs caught beneath the table – as the knife slashed past where his face had been a moment before. No assassin, Henrik lost his balance when the knife failed to reach the resistance of his master’s throat. He pitched forward, landing across the arms of Ipid’s chair and providing the deciding momentum. The chair slammed back into the table, catching the footman between Ipid and its polished surface. China crashed. Food flew. Vases overturned. Utensils scattered. Ipid was trapped. A full-grown man covered him, smashed between him and the table. Their arms were caught, Ipid’s under Henrik’s, Henrik’s between Ipid and the table. The man squirmed, cried, fought, and Ipid matched his movements, bring his knees up into the man’s chest and stomach as he tried to free himself.

  “Stop!” Eia demanded a second later. Henrik obeyed, falling almost completely still. Ipid was not so quick. It took him a moment to realize that he was fighting against an opponent who had already surrendered. He looked down and saw a kitchen knife in Eia’s hand held at the throat of the footman. “Are there more?” she demanded.

  As if in answer, three more servants burst through the door, knives in hand. They were thrown back almost immediately. Ipid’s eyes shifted from Eia’s mumbled words to the image of three grown men being lifted by an unseen force and cast against a wall. Their heads cracked as they struck. They slumped to the ground, moaning.

  “There are more,” Eia breathed. “The emotions of the entire household just piqued. We need to get out of here.”

  Henrik shook where he laid pinned against the table. “You’re an Order-cursed witch,” he wailed. “You’ve corrupted him. You’ve made him do this.”

  Eia ignored him. Tossing the knife to the far side of the table, she moved behind Ipid and pulled on his chair with all her might. Ipid helped with his feet, and they eventually moved the thing back enough for him to push the crying servant to the ground. Ipid watched the man fall, wanted to kick him, but he just cowered beneath the table, legs pulled up, back bent, arms around his head as if expecting to be beaten. Ipid could not bring himself to fulfill the expectation.

  “We hear you,” the man mumbled as he squirmed. “We hear you at night with that Exile witch. She’s corrupted you. She’s made you one of them.”

  “Come on,” Eia yelled, pulling on his arm, breaking him from the footman’s words.

  Adrenaline ragged through Ipid’s system. He was shaking, thoughts scattered. His eyes went to the men lying across the door, to the shaking of that door as others tried to push it open. “What . . . .” was as far as he got before the door at the other end burst open. He retracted, nearly falling over the chair that remained behind him as two of the Darthur burst into the room.

  “What happened?” the first of them demanded.

  “A servant tried to kill the Uhram Machtur,” Eia answered when Ipid failed to find the words. Was that what had just happened? He somehow couldn’t believe it, even though he had heard it from the mouth of the man. “Get him to his office. Gather the warriors. It is time to go.”

  The warriors responded without words. One of them ran down the hall. The other stayed, watching until Ipid and Eia could join him.

  “What . . . .” Ipid started again. They went through the door, following the big warrior with his thick-bladed sword drawn down the hall to the stairs. Ipid caught only a glimpse of his fellow as he chopped through two more servants with knives. “What are they doing?” Ipid asked as they ran. “Why are . . . ?”

  “They’re trying to kill you!” Eia snapped. “The coffee was poisoned. It was supposed to do it. I only realized because his unease turned to guilt when he thought you would drink it. The rest of the household is trying to see the plot through.” They started down the stairs, running. “I should have realized, but they kept their emotions hidden until the end. They were prepared, carefully coached, masking their emotions so that I would not know their intent.”

  “What does . . . what does it mean?” Ipid knew that he should not have to ask but couldn’t seem to make his mind work.

  “It means that Lord Stully is not satisfied to see you gone. He wants you dead, and he has gone to great lengths to make sure it happens.”

  They cleared the stairs and burst into the office. Six Darthur waited inside with weapons at the ready. Ipid’s shaking legs betrayed him as he stepped into the room so that he had to catch himself on one of the desks. He panted there, trying to get his head around what was happening. “What . . . what does . . . ?”

  “It’s happening today!” Eia yelled. “That was their first attempt, but you can be certain there will be more. We need to get out of here.”

  “Not . . . I mean it’s Teaching Day . . . not . . . .”

  “It is today!” Eia came to where he stood and slapped him. “Get yourself together. You’ve known this is coming, so stop acting so surprised.”

  Ipid shook his head, feeling his cheek where each of Eia’s fingers seemed to have burned themselves into its surface. There was a crash somewhere, the sound of fighting, weapons clashing, screaming, cursing. From the courtyard outside, Ipid realized. The mob had arrived. It would be over soon.

  Head clearing, he looked around the room and thought through the mental checklist he had prepared. Darthur. He counted seven warriors. Most of them had already returned to Arin. He had retained only ten for these final days. That meant the other three were out there somewhere. They had orders to come here, but that meant little to them when there was fighting to be had.

  Rynn and Naidi. Ipid had no idea where the wizard and his apprentice were. Probably off somewhere clearing rubble, or working on Rynn’s training, or looking for Dasen – their real purpose, Ipid sometimes suspected. Ipid could only assume that they could take care of themselves.

  Papers. He ran to his desk, brushing past Eia, nearly toppling her as he pushed by, but unwilling to be deterred. He found his satchel exactly where it should be, opened it, and thumbed through the papers inside. They were all there. He turned next to the top of the desk. All the damning evidence was laid out, everything needed to convict him and free his fellows. Those papers would put all the blame on him, would show beyond a doubt that this was his doing, that no one had aided him willingly, that they had fought him in every step, had conceded only because they had no other choice.

  Eia. Ipid reached the final item on his list. He looked but could not find her. He scanned the room, listened to the sounds of battle outside, and felt growing panic that she had abandoned him. He had been looking for the wrong color. His eyes had been searching for her green dressing gown, had skipped over the white of her naked body as if it didn’t exist. Standing near the fireplace, she had stripped and was just lifting a black robe over her head. He watched her, memorizing the curves of her slender body for what he hoped would not be the last time as the robe fell into place.

  She approached. “There are too many emotions,” she admitted. “I cannot separate or isolate them. I don’t know how he knew to do it, but every person in this house and outside is raging with emotion, and it’s too much for me to process. I have no idea what is happening. We need to leave now.” She opened a portal. Ipid did not even feel her draw upon his scattered emotions – obviously there were more than enough.

  “Through the portal,” she yelled at the guards. They looked at the
door then the portal and exchanged silent communications. Four of them broke off and ran through. The others remained in their places by the door.

  “We go after you,” one of them said.

  “Very well,” Eia conceded. “Come on.” She took Ipid’s arm and pulled him away.

  A pounding at the door froze Ipid as he turned. The Darthur bristled. Eia froze and seemed to concentrate. “Let me in,” Commander Tyne begged through the door. He pounded again. “We’re holding them outside, but not for long. Please, Lord Chancellor. I’ve done everything you’ve asked, and they’ll string me from the window for it. You have to take me with you. Please, I’m begging you.”

  Ipid let out his breath. The commander was right. Wallock’s pardon would be wasted on a dead man, and the mob would certainly not wait for it. If he left him, Commander Tyne was as good as dead. “Let him in,” he ordered.

  One of the Darthur turned the lock.

  “No!” Eia yelled, but it was too late. The door flew open. Commander Tyne was lost behind four men with crossbows – the captain’s own men. Two of them were crouched, two standing. They had been there the entire time. Tyne had been part of it all along. He was the piece that Ipid had been missing, the one who had been purging the city, the one who had destroyed Vontel’s network, the one who had coordinated all of this, the one who had been overlooked and would now deliver the final piece of Allard Stully’s revenge. The crossbows released at the very instant the door came open. Four bolts flew, aimed directly at Ipid. And he could only watch them come.

  Eia’s hand came up. The air before them shimmered. Ipid was too stunned to move, too stunned even to take a final breath. The bolts came so fast that he could not see them until they were bouncing away. They stuck Eia’s invisible barrier and ricocheted, flying back and away. Ipid stumbled, still expecting to feel the steel and wood cutting through him. He released his breath and watched from the corner of his eye as one of those bolts slid around the barrier and struck Eia. The thick bolt tore through her slim shoulder, striking her tiny body with so much force that it carried all the way through. She flew with it to the ground, landing hard. Her head bounced. The portal blinked out.