The Hollow March

by Chris Galford

There was not a man alive that did not have some impression of the Emperor.

  Emperor Matthias Rogimer Durvalle was among the most central of figures in the whole of Marindis. In Idasia, his own empire, he was heralded as near to godhood as any man might be. From the streets of Calvijon in the west, to the deserts of Zutam, the continent far to their south, the Emperor was praised and abhorred in equal measure. He was more a legend, less a man. Few could ever see the difference between the two.

  In Idasia, he was the bold. The brave. Master of horse and earth. The Zuti, Chigenda told them, knew him as “the Lord that Rides,” and it was his cavalry coupled with Asanti guns that had halted the Zuti people’s advance at the Halensa fields over a decade ago. He was one of the few “ghost” lords the Zuti feared and admired.

  Throughout his own continent, however, he had been praised as a defender of the faith, and as vigorously denounced for a heretic, devil-worshipper, and even the avatar of Mordazz himself—the Fell God, who led the prophet Artrecht into ruin in the Vorges, and inadvertently brought the world into the final cycle of existence, revealing the path to redemption.

  In his youth, Emperor Matthias rode to battle beside his men. He was a brilliant tactician, a seasoned champion of the jousts, and a benefactor of science and reason. Under his rule, and that of his father, the Empire had come to rival Asantil for culture. Art and sculpture, architecture and writing flourished in the streets of Anscharde, the capital of the Empire. Trade flourished. Thinkers and philosophers traveled from abroad to bear witness to the Imperial court, hoping for a glimpse of the man that could raise them up. The Church in Ravonno denounced these changes, as it denounced most things to do with its former defender, but so too did the people know the Emperor for this.

  He was the man that could stare down Assal Himself and never deign to blink.

  But the man that rode before them was not the man of legend.

  Between rows of armored knights and fur-clad lords, the only thing that might have distinguished the wrinkled, shrunken frame of a man from any other was the crown atop his liver-spotted skull, and yet as he passed they looked to him with swimming eyes. Those who dared called out to him in exultation.

  At this, however, the man did not list or shy away. His sunken eyes lit fiercely, and he seemed to stir with some inner font of strength yet hidden from the world. Rising up in his saddle, he sat straight and proud and tall—and though the slight hunch remained in his gait, one could see remnants of the gallant man that must have once been. It was this shade of a memory that raised its hand to the crowd of soldiers and graced them with a smile, its warm, friendly eyes tracing the ranks with a familiar sort of calm.

  At his side rode what must have surely been his bastard. Tessel, as some of the others whispered, looked every bit the man his father should have been. Strong, tall, proud, wearing his armor like he slept in it, his unassuming gaze more like a fellow soldier’s than a lord’s set upon inspection of his property. For all the nobles gathered around, he did not seem ill-at-ease. It had to be the soldiers. These were his men. This, his home. It was the other world to which he would never fit.

  Matthias’s love of his first wife was legendary, his love of women, infamous. When his wife died, it was said the whole world could feel the tremble of his tears. It had been the breaking point between Idasia and Ravonno, and some said, between the Emperor and Assal. Yet this bastard son he kept about him was from days when he still shared her bed. The Bastard, and any other bastards aside, he had fostered thirteen children between two wives, and countless others that did not live to an age. He was more than eighty years upon the world, and yet he had ushered his last child into the world just five years before. It was a marvel of fertility, but a monstrous hurdle for the topic of succession.

  Behind the legend-turned-man and his ill-begotten offspring, Rurik spotted also the figure of his brother, cut straight, nearly rigid. He was speaking to one of the other knights attending the procession, but Rurik could pinpoint the exact moment Ivon looked into the crowd and found him staring back. His brother’s eyes did not leave him again, as if daring him, by his very nature of existing, to sprout some new brand of trouble.

  Chance seemed content, as oft it did, to take that decision from his hands and uplift it to the stroke of whimsy. As chance would have it, the Emperor happened upon that very moment to exchange a word with the eldest son Matair. He must have caught Ivon’s odd fixation, however, as he turned in his saddle and followed his unseen course into the crowd of Gorjes. The Gorjes howled and called out to him, but his eyes swept them, narrowed on a point, and thrust home.

  Rurik felt his heart in his throat. The eyes were on him. In a panic, and to the confusion of his companions, he fumbled for the hood of his cowl, attempting to duck from sight.

  “What are you doing?” Essa called.

  “Disappearing,” he returned, hoping she would understand.

  “He’s looking at us,” Rowan exclaimed. “Assal above, he’s looking at us!”

  The look was fleeting, in truth, but Matthias exchanged more words with Ivon, then laughed heartily. He gestured in their direction, earning equal parts unease and excitement from the crowd about them, and as Rurik peered out from beneath the rim of his hood, he saw the Bastard and the Brickheart both had followed the gesture as well. He could feel the heat in his cheeks colliding with the chill rising from his chest.

  He can’t see. He’s old. Too far. So far above me. He wouldn’t know me. Never knew me…

  Yet his brother’s look said all. As the entourage wheeled away, passing along the men from Verdan and trotting off with nary a word, Ivon twisted sharply in his seat and fixed Rurik with one final, chilling glare. I know, it said. I know what you did. If he could have crawled into a hole right then, Rurik very well might have. It would have been preferable to what his brother would surely shower him with in the shadows of his tent.

  The crowd was rowdily discussing the Emperor’s fleeting appearance, but Rurik felt miserable. His breath caught in his throat and he thought that he might surely die. Essa’s hand grazed his shoulder, however, and yanked him back from the dark cellars of his thoughts. She bent down, pressing in close to ask, “What is wrong?”

  “So dis is man dat pierce sky with hoof?” Chigenda inquired. “Such thing, time. Rots all.”

  But age had nothing to do with Rurik’s fear. Time rotted the body, but the mind could persevere, and the mind was all the Emperor needed to take his head. A whisper or a glance. Then heads would roll—and for his father and his family, he suddenly reached, wishing no more than to shrink and to hide within their embrace, from the shriveled memory of a man that could kill him at a look.

  The Brickheart came for Rurik not an hour thereafter, taking him by the collar and dragging him bodily from camp. The others made feeble attempts to stop him, but he came at Ivon’s command, so there was little that could be done. Some of the Gorjes, thinking he was off to some bitter punishment, called out for lashings or canings, asked the man to break the fresh and pretty meat. Vardick ignored them, and pressed on.

  When they arrived at his brother’s tent, Rurik was heaved to the floor and left in silence, the Brickheart vanishing back out the door from whence they had come. Only Ivon remained, seated behind a simple desk, hands folded neatly in his lap. For an instant, Rurik could see no difference between the father and the son, and he cowered, for fear that his father could stretch nations to strike at him.

  As he staggered to his feet, Ivon did not bother rising to greet him.

  “That was a foolish thing you did.”

  Rurik swallowed, trying to think of the words. He tried to force all expression from his face, but it only made him feel more ridiculous for the effort. “As I recall, I was to be a soldier, and part of a soldier’s dint is to go where he is beckoned. Your man called, and so I went, as quiet and unassuming as could be.” He stood at attention, and focused on a point past his brother. Otherwise, he might not weather the storm.

  �
��Don’t be smart. You and those damned eyes of yours should have stayed in your tent. Anyone with a head atop their shoulders would know you.”

  “No wonder you put me with the Gorjes.”

  Ivon’s gaze darkened with his brother’s sarcasm. “Father should have simply banished you again. I do not see why I should have to deal with your nonsense.”

  Rurik wanted to say something, but the words dried out in his throat and left him with nothing. His brother pursed his lips into a cruel semblance of a smile.

  “He was much more forgiving than I would have been.”

  “Perhaps,” Rurik rasped. His brother had been cruel before, but he had not expected such vindictiveness. A cold glance. A punch to the gut. These things he might have weathered. Not this. This was inhuman.

  The young lord’s fingers grazed the open pages of a book that sat before him, as if searching for some hidden meaning in the text. “You have a great trial set before you, Rurik.”

  “A-a trial?” He felt himself sinking.

  Ivon rolled his eyes. “A tribulation. A taxation of mind, as well as body.”

  “Oh.”

  “The Emperor figured you. Inquired of you.” Ivon sighed, seemed to play the words over again in his head. “We march three days hence. Your company moves in two. You will be put to scouting actions with segments of Baron Uschent’s levies.”

  “Scouting? As in…no fighting?”

  “No. That is not what it means. Think of yourself as the advance guard. They have bands of outriders out there, marking our positions, checking our scouts. You will likely need to deal with their raids. We need to know what their movements are. As yet, we have mere whispers. You do have horses, yes?”

  Rurik nodded weakly, uncertain as to the nature of this gift.

  “Why me? Or…us?”

  “The problem with knowing you. Half-stories. The Emperor made you, Rurik. But he didn’t make your character. An emperor is as subject to rumor as the beggar on the street. He needed scouts. He needed someone without connections, but still with skill. I was to appoint them. He recommended you. Reasoned the disowned son of Lord Matair might fit the role to a tee. Alas, stories do not tell of your ineptitudes. Merely your bleeding cock.”

  Rurik blanched. “He thinks I’m like father?”

  Ivon shrugged, turned away. “We all make mistakes. Be glad you have that girl. She, at least, may prove him right for you.”

  * *

  For Charlotte, the greeting of guests had become almost instinctive. A flirtatious smile for all the bachelor lords. A curtsy and a bow of the head for all those of higher station. At just such an angle, no higher, lest the address come off as flippant or rushed, no lower, lest one appear too subservient. Delicate motions made routine. Like a doll.

  Her words were charming, and to the nobility of Idasia, that meant precise. They didn’t have time to dawdle at the door, speaking to a little girl—however pleasing a sight she may have been—so she had to make her addresses match the moment. Remembering each name, each face, and snatching at the appropriate words for each was like a dance all its own, and one she had long ago mastered. Few had her memory. Good for friends, she thought. Poor for enemies.

  As the count’s daughter, she had worn her best for the occasion. Tajiman silks and black velvet, embroidered with emeralds of the clearest green. The fabric had been perfumed, as had her hands—a treat for any man noble enough to grant her hand a kiss. A single golden ring studded with a similar gem adorned her right hand while a gold chain drooped from her neck, dragged down by a thick diamond, that it might draw the eye to certain low-cut proportions. On each wrist, a gold bracelet.

  Her hair was the most painstaking part of the whole ensemble. The others cost money, but the hair cost time. Embracing her natural style, her hair had been left long, but twisted into a knot in back, with a tail running down. It was wrapped in green ribbon. A single braid had been studded with pearls from the coast and one long loose lock was looped over it, like tree limbs, one wrapped over the other. Her handmaidens had taken nearly an hour crafting it to perfection. She topped it all off with a green lace barett, as all the maidens were lately wearing.

  One could not merely be perfection. They had to look it as well, and as she knew, far too many would be coming through those doors already looking at her as something distinctly…less. The very thought of it made her want to grate her teeth in frustration. So much was caught up in that one god-forsaken cleft. It could still warm a man. Hold him tight. Draw the lecherous eyes and the debaucherous tongues.

  What does it matter that someone else made it bleed?

  The months had passed without swell. That had been her only concern. Still the men were like boars. The women were worse. She should know. She was the best of all. They would see that again in time. In the meanwhile, it merely allowed her to move without impediment. Freeing, in a way, to have so little expected of you. It simply meant they would not see her coming. More’s the pity.

  Slim Count Haisher Hendensleuce was the latest arrival, entering with his horse of a wife at his side. The herald called them out to the assembly and promptly shrank away again. Charlotte stepped in to fill the void.

  Curtsies and kisses, false pleasantries exchanged. Then Rusthöffen appeared at her back, roaring as the sentimental old bear always did. For a moment, she thought that he would throw his arms around the count and hug the frail man to death, custom be damned, but it was a quality he always had about him, and one he carefully discarded now.

  “Excuse us, dear.”

  Just like that, she was shunted aside. Rusthöffen stepped in and took Hendensleuce’s arm in his own, and they fell into conversation immediately. Hendensleuce’s wife watched her out of the corner of her eye, the faintest glimmer of a smile there. It was sadistic. Some gloating Kuree, thinking themselves atop the very world as the enemy fled or burned. Charlotte curtsied again—to no one apparently—and took her leave.

  Such was Rusthöffen’s wont. The gathering was his, so she could but defer to his whimsies.

  It had been an unexpected turn of events when Rusthöffen asked them to hold the trial here, in their own castle. He had refused to defer judgment to her father in her case, and still did, but to try the offending lord on their grounds was only right, he said. It was they the Matairs most offended, after all, in the flouting of the law. It was apparent they felt no remorse over what their son had done. Pretty words that elated her father. She, however, saw it for what it was.

  Rusthöffen wanted as little blood on his hands as possible. If a popular lord’s head had to roll, let someone else clean up the stains.

  The family had come with the goodly duke, only to be promptly shunted off into the prisons, under guard by the duke’s own hand-picked men. Smart man. Doesn’t trust us to keep them safe. The trial was to commence two days hence, with the duke himself presiding. In accordance with tradition and the bloody-minded tastes of the court, a whole column of nobility had been invited to gather for the occasion—most without the notification of her lord father. An irritation, no doubt, for the cost to feed and house them all, but he spoke to each as though old friends, their presence long overdue.

  Hendensleuce had no reason to be in attendance beyond the fact that Rusthöffen and he were old friends. He had a province to run, but as was often the case, he likely set it into the hands of his son and took off to wherever the road beckoned. His wife was fussy, but he had the wanderlust. Charlotte couldn’t imagine it was healthy for a man his age, but it seemed lately fashionable for old men to undertake stupid ventures.

  New sights, new sounds, new faces. Now why doesn’t he just ride off a cliff?

  In her opinion, he was an irresponsible man with no eye or ear for what he had been given. Charlotte could not abide such men.

  She moved back into the crowd, looking for her father amidst the gathered fops and their hen-wives. He hung back, having taken a seat at the dining table with several others, her uncle among them. She smiled at that.
Maynard looked the most out of place of anyone. He dressed the part, but he could not sit still, his eye continuously seeking an exit.

  They spoke of trade and politics; he thought only of war and family. Yet her father always made him something of a conversation piece—a tool to distract the tedious, or to shoal up support for one of his proposals. She pitied him, but such was life. One had to play the hand they were dealt, and her uncle had forced himself into this role by his own lack of ambition.

  Servants began to file through the doors, plates in hand. Multiple courses would file out with them, but the theme of the evening would be pig. Pig for the pigs. A number of farmers’ animals had been slaughtered for the occasion. They died for a good cause. Spiced and salted pork. Smoked bacon. Brined ham and sausages. Always sausages. But there would be fish as well, and for that she was grateful. She could not stand the taste of pork. Too bland for her tastes. She liked something with a bit of natural flavor.

  Soon enough, the herald would call them all to sit and to dine. Then the politicking would begin in earnest. Food bound men to their seats. To leave would be to offend the host, or the other guests, and no goodly noble would do any such thing. The sweet smell of spices and sizzled meat also had a way of loosening the tongue and the vaunted inhibitions.

  If that failed, there was always the mead. Mead and good, stout wine from the Veldharts’ former estate. Her father had jumped quickly on that particular item.

  Walthere’s guests of the moment were strange fair. Several of the lords of Jaritz—Count Witold’s creatures. By definition, that spelled hostility to anything of Cullick blood. Most of these would be old friends of the Matairs. Some might have even fought with him, back when it was still considered valorous to crush the weaklings of Surin.

  They should have sharpened their tongues and turned their shoulders to him. They didn’t.

  Dogbee stood nearby, along with two hired dancers, loudly singing about a horse with a crown. His fellow performers waved their fans and swung sinuously about one another, screening the men. It meant they were discussing something naughty, something men like Boyce did not need to hear. They spoke amiably. One even laughed at a particular jest. He’s bought them off. As her father always did with problems. Throw enough coin at it and it will just go away.