Rise Of Empire

by Sullivan, Michael J

  “Stand by at the capstan!” Lieutenant Bishop shouted, returning order. “Loose the heads’ls, hands aloft, loose the tops’ls fore and aft!”

  The crew scattered to their duties. A ring of men surrounded the wooden spoke wheel of the capstan, ready to raise the anchor. Wyatt moved quickly toward the ship’s helm while the rest, Jacob included, climbed the shrouds of the three masts.

  “And what are you two waiting for?” Mr. Temple asked after Hadrian had joined Royce. “You heard the lieutenant—get those sails loosed. Hadrian, take station at the capstan.”

  As they trotted to their duties, Mr. Temple gestured in Royce’s direction and remarked to Wyatt, “No wonder he doesn’t have rough hands. He doesn’t use them!”

  The ship’s captain appeared on the quarterdeck. He stood beside the lieutenant, his hands clasped behind his back, chest thrust out, and chin set against the salty wind that tugged at the edges of his uniform. Of slightly less than average height, he seemed the opposite of the lieutenant. While Bishop was tall and thin, the captain was short and plump, with a double chin and long hanging cheeks, which quickly flushed red with the wind. He watched the progress of the crew and then nodded to his first officer.

  “Take her out, Mr. Bishop.”

  “Raise anchor!” the lieutenant bellowed. “Wheel hard over!”

  Hadrian found a place among those at the capstan and pushed against the wooden spokes, rotating the large spool that lifted the anchor from the bottom of the harbor. With the anchor broken out, the wheel hard over, and the forecastle hands drawing at the headsail sheets, the Emerald Storm brought its bow around. As it gained steerage, it moved away from the dock and into the clear of the main channel, and the rigging crew dropped the remaining sails. The great canvases quivered and flapped, snapping in the wind like three violent white beasts.

  “Hands to the braces!” Mr. Temple barked, and the men took hold of the ropes, pulling the yards around until they caught the wind. The sails plumed full as the sea breeze stretched them taut. Hadrian could feel the deck lurch beneath his feet as the Emerald Storm slipped forward through the water, rudder balanced against sail pressure.

  They traveled down the coast, passing farmers and workers, who paused briefly to look at the handsome vessel flying by. At the helm, Wyatt spun the wheel, steering steadily out to sea. The men on the braces trimmed the yards so not a sail fluttered, sending the ship dashing through the waves as it raced from shore.

  “Course sou’west by south, sir,” Wyatt said, updating Temple, who repeated the statement to the lieutenant, who repeated it to the captain, who in turn nodded his approval.

  The men at the capstan dispersed, leaving Hadrian looking around for something to do. Royce descended to the deck beside him, neither one certain of his duty now that the ship was under way. It did not matter much, as the lieutenant, the captain, and Temple were all busy on the quarterdeck. The other hands moved casually now, cleaning up the rigging, finishing the job of stowing the supplies, and generally settling in.

  “Why didn’t we ever consider sailing as a profession?” Hadrian asked Royce as he moved to the side and faced the wind. He took a deep, satisfying breath and smiled. “This is nice. A lot better than a sweaty, fly-plagued horse—and look at the land go by! How fast do you think we’re going?”

  “The fact that we’re trapped here, with no chance of retreat except into the ocean, doesn’t bother you?”

  Hadrian glanced over the side at the heaving waves. “Well, not until now. Why do you always have to ruin everything? Couldn’t you let me enjoy the moment?”

  “You know me, just trying to keep things in perspective.”

  “Our course is south. Any clue where we might be going?”

  Royce shook his head. “It only means we aren’t invading Melengar, but we could be headed just about anywhere else.” Someone arriving deck side caught his attention. “Who’s this now?”

  A man in red and black appeared from below and climbed the stair to the quarterdeck. He stood out from the rest of the crew by virtue of his pale skin and silken vestments, which were far too elegant for the setting and whipped about like streamers at a fair. He moved hunched over; his slumped shoulders reminded Hadrian of a crow shuffling along a branch. He sported a mustache and short goatee. His dark hair, combed back, emphasized a dramatically receding hairline.

  “Broken-crown crest,” Hadrian noted. “Seret.”

  “Red cassock,” Royce added. “Sentinel.”

  “At least he’s not Luis Guy. It’d be pretty hard to hide on a ship this size.”

  “If it was Guy”—Royce smiled wickedly—“we wouldn’t need to hide.”

  Hadrian noticed Royce glance over the side of the ship at the water, which foamed and churned as it rushed past.

  “If a sentinel is on board,” Royce continued, “we can assume there are seret as well. They never travel alone.”

  “Maybe below.”

  “Maybe disguised in the crew,” Royce cautioned.

  To starboard, a sailor dropped his burden on the deck and wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag. Noticing them standing idle, he walked over.

  “Yer good,” he said to Royce. “No man’s beaten Jacob aloft before.”

  The sailor was tan and thin, with a tattoo of a woman on his forearm and a ring of silver in his ear.

  “I didn’t beat him. We landed together,” Royce said, correcting him.

  “Aye, clever that. My name’s Grady. What do they call you?”

  “Royce, and this is Hadrian.”

  “Oh yeah, the cook.” Grady gave Hadrian a nod, and then returned his attention. “Royce, huh? I’m surprised I haven’t heard yer name before. With skills like you got, I woulda figured you’d be famous. What ships have you served on?”

  “None around these waters,” Royce replied.

  Grady looked at him curiously. “Where, then? The Sound? Dagastan? The Sharon? Try me, I’ve been around a few places myself.”

  “Sorry, I’m really bad at remembering names.”

  Grady’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t remember the names of the ships you served on?”

  “I would prefer not to discuss them.”

  “Aye, consider the subject closed.” He looked at Hadrian. “You were with him, then?”

  “We’ve worked together for some time.”

  Grady nodded. “Just forget I said anything. I won’t be getting in the way. You can bank money on Grady’s word, too.” The man winked, then walked away, glancing back over his shoulder at them a few times as he went off, grinning.

  “Seems like a nice sort,” Hadrian said. “Strange and confusing, but nice. You think he knows why we’re here?”

  “Wish he did,” Royce replied, watching Grady resume his work. “Then he could tell us. Still, I’ve found that when hunting Merrick, stranger things have been known to happen. One thing’s for certain—this trip is going to be interesting.”

  CHAPTER 5

  BROKEN SILENCE

  Although it was early, Nimbus was already waiting outside the closed door of Amilia’s office with armloads of parchments. He smiled brightly at her approach. “Good morning, Your Ladyship,” he greeted her with as much of a bow as he could manage without spilling his burden. “Beautiful day, is it not?”

  Amilia grunted in reply. She was not a morning person, and that day’s agenda included a meeting with Regent Saldur. If anything was likely to ruin a day, that would do it. She opened her office door with a key kept on a chain around her neck. The office was a reward for the successful presentation of the empress nearly a month before.

  Modina had been near death when Saldur had appointed Amilia imperial secretary to the empress. At that time, the young ruler had not spoken a word, was dangerously thin, and had an unwavering expression, which was never more than a blank stare. Amilia had provided her with better living conditions and worked hard to get her to eat. After several months, the girl had begun to improve. Modina had managed to memorize a sho
rt speech for the day of her presentation but abandoned the prepared text and publicly singled out Amilia, proclaiming her a hero.

  No one had been more shocked than Amilia, but Saldur thought she had been responsible. Rather than exploding in anger, he congratulated her. Since that day, his attitude toward Amilia had changed—as if she had bought admission into the exclusive club of the deviously ambitious. In his eyes, she had not only been capable of manipulating the mentally unbalanced ruler, but willing to do so as well. This raised opinion of her had been followed by additional responsibilities and a new title: Chief Imperial Secretary to the Empress.

  She took her directions from Saldur as Modina remained locked in the dark recesses of her madness. One of her new responsibilities was reading and replying to mail addressed to the empress. Saldur gave her the task as soon as he discovered she could read and write. Amilia also received the responsibility of being the empress’s official gatekeeper. She decided who could, and who could not, have an audience with Modina. Normally a position of extreme power, hers was just a farce, because absolutely no one ever saw Modina.

  Despite Amilia’s grandiose new title, her office was a small chamber with nothing but an old desk and a pair of bookshelves. The room was cold, damp, and sparse—but it was hers. She was filled with pride each morning when she sat behind the desk, and pride was something Amilia was unaccustomed to.

  “Are those more letters?” Amilia asked.

  “Yes, I am afraid so,” Nimbus replied. “Where would you like them?”

  “Just drop them on the pile with the others. I can see now why Saldur gave me this job.”

  “It is a very prestigious task,” Nimbus assured her. “You are the de facto voice of the New Empire as it relates to the people. What you write is taken as the word of the empress, and thus the voice of a god incarnate.”

  “So you’re saying I’m the voice of god now?”

  Nimbus smiled thoughtfully. “In a manner of speaking—yes.”

  “You have a crazy way of seeing things, Nimbus. You really do.”

  He was always able to cheer her up. His outlandishly colored clothes and silly powdered wig made her smile on even the bleakest of days. Moreover, the odd little courtier had a bizarre manner of finding joy in everything, blind to the inevitable disaster that Amilia knew lurked at every turn.

  Nimbus deposited the letters in the bin beside Amilia’s desk, then fished out a tablet and looked it over briefly before speaking. “You have a meeting this morning with Lady Rashambeau, Baroness Fargal, and Countess Ridell. They have insisted on speaking to you personally about their failed petitions to have a private audience with Her Supreme Eminence. You also have a dedication to make on behalf of the empress at the new memorial in Capital Square. That is at noon. Also, the material has arrived, but you still need to get specifications to the seamstress for the new dress. And, of course, you have a meeting this afternoon with Regent Saldur.”

  “Any idea yet what he wants to see me about?”

  Nimbus shook his head.

  Amilia slumped in her chair. She was certain Saldur’s appointment had to do with Modina’s berating of the clerk the previous day. She had no idea how to explain the empress’s actions. That had been the only time since her speech that Modina had uttered a single word.

  “Would you like me to help you answer those?” Nimbus asked with a sympathetic smile.

  “No, I’ll do it. Can’t have both of us playing god, now can we? Besides, you have your own work. Tell the seamstress to meet me in Modina’s chambers in four hours. That should give me time to reduce this pile some. Reschedule the ladies of the court meeting to just before noon.”

  “But you have the dedication at noon.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Excellent planning,” Nimbus said, praising her. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I get to work?”

  Amilia shook her head. Nimbus bowed and left.

  The pile beside her got higher each day. She plucked a letter from the top and started working. While not a difficult job, the task was repetitious and boring, as she said the same thing in each reply.

  The office of the empress regrets to inform you that Her Most Serene and Royal Grand Imperial Eminence, Empress Modina Novronian, will not be able to receive you due to time constraints caused by important and pressing matters of state.

  She had replied to only seven of the letters when there was a soft knock at the office door. A maid hesitantly popped her head inside, the new girl. She had started only the day before, and she worked quietly, which Amilia appreciated. Amilia nodded an invitation, and the maid wordlessly slipped inside with her bucket, mop, and cleaning tools, taking great pains not to bang them against the door.

  Amilia recalled her own days as a servant in the castle. As a kitchen worker, she had rarely cleaned rooms but occasionally had to fill in for a sick chambermaid. She used to loathe working in a room with a noble present. It always made her self-conscious and frightened. She could never tell what they might do. One minute they might seem friendly. The next they could be calling for you to be whipped. Amilia had never understood how they could be so capricious and cruel.

  She watched the girl set about her work. The maid was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a brush, the skirt of her uniform soaked with soapy water. Amilia had a stack of inquiries to attend to, but the maid distracted her. She felt guilty not acknowledging the girl’s presence. It felt rude.

  I should talk to her. Even as Amilia thought this, she knew it would be a mistake. This new girl saw her as a noble, the chief imperial secretary to the empress, and would be terrified if Amilia so much as offered a good morning.

  Perhaps a few years older than Amilia, the girl was slender and pretty, although little could be determined, given her attire. She wore a loose-fitting dress with a canvas apron, her figure hidden, a mystery lost beneath the folds. All serving girls adopted the style except the foolish or ambitious. When you worked in the halls of those who took whatever they wanted, it was best to avoid notice.

  Amilia tried to decide if the girl was married. After Modina’s speech, the ban on servants leaving the castle had been lifted, and it was possible that the maid had a family in the city. She wondered if she went home to them each night, or, like Amilia, she had left everything, and everyone, to live in the castle. She likely had several children; pretty peasant girls married young.

  Amilia chided herself for watching the maid instead of working, but something about the girl kept her attention. The way she moved and how she held her head seemed out of place. She watched her dab the brush in the water and stroke the floor, moving the brush from side to side like a painter. She spread water around but did little to free the dirt from the surface. Edith Mon would whip her for that. The headmistress was a cruel taskmaster. Amilia had found herself on the wrong end of her belt on a number of occasions for lesser infractions. For that reason alone, Amilia felt sorry for the poor girl. She knew all too well what she faced.

  “Are they treating you well here?” Amilia found herself asking, despite her determination to remain silent.

  The girl looked up and glanced around the room.

  “Yes, you,” Amilia assured her.

  “Yes, milady,” the maid replied, looking up.

  She’s looking right at me, Amilia thought, stunned. Even with her title, and a rank equivalent to baroness, Amilia still had a hard time returning the stare of even the lowest-ranking nobles, but this girl was looking right at her.

  “You can tell me if they aren’t. I know what it’s like to—” She stopped, realizing the maid would not believe her. “I understand new servants can be picked on and belittled by the others.”

  “I’m getting along fine, milady,” she said.

  Amilia smiled, trying to set her at ease. “I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t. I’m very pleased with you. I just know it can be hard sometimes when you start out in a new place. I want you to know that I can help if you’re
having trouble.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but Amilia heard the suspicion in her voice.

  Having a noble offer to help with bullying peers was probably a shock to the girl. If it had been her, Amilia would have thought it a trap of some kind, a test perhaps to see if she would speak ill of others. If she admitted to problems, the noble might have her removed from the palace. Under no circumstances would Amilia have admitted anything to a noble, no matter how kindly the woman might have presented herself.

  Amilia instantly felt foolish. There was a division between nobles and commoners, and for good or ill, she was now on the other side. The conditioning that separated the two was far too entrenched for her to wipe away. She decided to stop tormenting the poor girl and return to her work. Just then, however, the maid put down the scrub brush and stood.

  “You’re Lady Amilia, is that right?”

  “Yes,” she replied, surprised at the sudden forwardness.

  “You’re the chief secretary to the empress?”

  “How well informed you are. It’s good that you’re learning your way around. It took me quite some time to figure out—”

  “How is she?”

  Amilia hesitated. Interrupting was very inappropriate, and it was incredibly bold to inquire so bluntly about Her Eminence. Amilia was touched, however, by her concern for the welfare of Modina. Perhaps this girl was unaccustomed to interacting with the gentry. She was likely from some isolated village that had never seen a visiting noble. The unnerving way she held Amilia’s stare revealed she had no experience with proper social etiquette. Edith Mon would waste no time beating those lessons into her.

  “She’s fine,” Amilia replied. Then, as a matter of habit, she added, “She was ill, and still is, but getting better every day.”

  “I never see her,” the maid went on. “I’ve seen you, the chancellor, the regents, and the lord chamberlain, but I never see her in the halls or at the banquet table.”