Blood and Tempest

by Jon Skovron

  “I know his current intended destination.”

  “He’s doing something for you, isn’t he?”

  “With respect, Your Highness, he’s doing something for the empire.”

  “But you picked him to do it.” The prince’s frustration was already turning to anger.

  “Again with respect, no, he volunteered when it became clear to both of us that he was the ideal candidate for this mission.”

  “But it cost him his lordship! His reputation!”

  Merivale gave him a cool gaze. “Really, Your Highness. If you think either of those things matter to him, you don’t know your friend as well as I thought you did.”

  That brought the prince up short for a moment, his face flushing. But then he rallied. “Fine. But you can’t tell me he did it out of some sense of patriotism or loyalty to the throne either.”

  “You’re quite right about that, Your Highness. Those are my motives. His are far more personal.”

  Leston thought about that for a moment, then his eyes widened. “It’s that Vinchen woman of his, isn’t it? That Bleak Hope.”

  She smiled fondly and touched the prince’s cheek. “Excellently deduced, Your Highness.”

  “What is so special about that woman it warrants such risks?”

  “She and her companion, Brigga Lin, have the most powerful men in the empire so terrified that they’re taking the most desperate measures they can think of. Don’t those sound like women we want on our side, Your Highness?”

  “I’ve heard they’re not overly fond of imperial authority. Do you think they’ll join us?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Merivale. “But if anyone can talk them into it, it’s your good friend Rixiden-teron. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  He smiled wryly. “I suppose that’s true.”

  She curtsied to him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, there is a pressing issue related to the former Lord Pastinas’s safety that I must attend to. I trust you appreciate the importance of that as much as I do?”

  Leston sighed. “I would not dream of keeping you from something that vital, Lady Hempist. But we will talk more on this topic at a later time.”

  “I look forward to it, Your Highness,” said Merivale, then took her leave.

  Archlord Tramasta’s apartments were on the forty-sixth floor. There was no official decree that the higher you were, the more power and influence you possessed, but since the prince lived on the forty-ninth floor and the emperor lived at the top on the fiftieth floor, that was how the nobility viewed it. Merivale’s apartments were on the far more humble thirty-second floor, several levels below the former Lord Pastinas. After all, being a lord of even a section of New Laven was more impressive than being the lady of a small island known only for lumber. Of course, this also aided in the deception that Merivale had been cultivating for years that she was merely another inconsequential, marriage-hungry lady of the court. It was a guise that allowed her to roam relatively unnoticed through the ranks of the nobility. There were those who knew her true status. The empress, of course, and the emperor, if he had any interest in knowing. Those who worked in her employ, such as Hume, Murkton, and Red. It had also been necessary to reveal her true purpose to Prince Leston, and even more inconveniently, to the ambassador. But beyond that, the only other person authorized to know her role in the government was the current chief of military.

  Merivale gave a light, cheerful knock on the door to Archlord Tramasta’s apartments. A few moments later, a young serving woman opened the door. Merivale had been to his apartments many times, and she did not recognize this particular servant. But that was hardly unusual. Tramasta went through serving women with voracious rapidity. The way he treated them, she was amazed one of them hadn’t stabbed him in his sleep yet.

  “Lady Hempist to see Archlord Tramasta on a topic of some urgency,” she told the woman.

  “Yes, my lady.” The woman curtsied awkwardly in the impractically tight and revealing gown Tramasta made her wear. “Won’t you come in while I check if the archlord is able to see you?”

  “Thank you.” Merivale followed the woman into a sumptuous parlor with lush fur rugs, overstuffed furniture, and several paintings of nude women. She strongly believed that the atmosphere of one’s home reflected one’s mental state. She had often wondered what this over-cluttered and hedonistic setting said about Tramasta. Nothing good, she was sure.

  “Feel free to make yourself comfortable while I check with the archlord,” said the servant woman, gesturing to the doughy red sofa, which had several stains of highly questionable origin.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll stand,” Merivale said, and gave her a sly grin.

  The woman seemed taken aback for a moment, then returned the smile. “As you wish, my lady.” Then she hurried off to rouse the archlord from his chambers.

  Archlord Tramasta didn’t come hurrying out, of course. He made Merivale wait, as he always did. But finally, he came strolling into the parlor wearing a long silk dressing gown. She might have thought he’d just gotten out of bed, except his hair was neatly combed and styled. Tramasta had many faults. Rudeness, arrogance, addiction to gambling and cloud glass, and nail biting, just to name a few. But he was not a stupid man, so while he might not know the full extent of Merivale’s authority, he certainly suspected her of being more than she seemed.

  “Ah, Lady Hempist.” He flopped down on the thick sofa and reached for the wooden box of cloud glass he kept on the small side table. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your always alluring presence?”

  “I’m afraid certain recent events prevent me from indulging in our usual games, my lord,” Merivale said crisply.

  “And what events are those?” he asked as he took a tiny spoon and carefully scooped a small amount of clear powder from the box.

  “Why, the massacre of an entire station of your troops on Vance Post, of course,” Merivale said, not without some edge in her voice.

  “Oh, that,” he said blandly. Then he brought the tiny spoon to his nose, pressed one nostril closed, and snorted the clear powder into the other nostril.

  “Yes, that,” said Merivale evenly. “When you send the new battalion, I need to have one of my people in it.”

  “One of your people?” He carefully wiped at his nose with a silk handkerchief.

  “Yes, my lord. Hopefully it has not escaped someone of your intelligence that I am more than just a frivolous lady of the court. Now that you have been named chief of military, I am at liberty to reveal to you that I am chief of espionage. I believe it is in the best interest of the empire that our two offices work together as cooperatively as possible, just as your predecessor and I did.”

  “Is that it?” he said with an amused delight. His eyes had already begun to get glassy, and the pupils were dilated. “I knew there was a chief of espionage, and I knew you were up to more than you let on, but to be honest, I never made the connection between those two things.” He gave a little laugh. “Really, it explains so much.”

  Merivale regarded him carefully as he examined his ragged fingernails. Tramasta generally only admitted ignorance like that when he felt secure in his position. Perhaps the cloud glass had given him a false sense of confidence. Or perhaps he knew something she didn’t.

  “Yes, well, I fear the biomancers have let something—or rather, someone—loose on Vance Post that they can’t control,” she said finally. “I would like to place one of my people in the new battalion to gather more information.”

  “Oh, you mean the Vinchen, I suppose,” Tramasta said calmly. “I shouldn’t worry too much about them. I’ve been assured it was unfortunate, but necessary, and that it’s being contained. Think of it as a bit of controlled chaos to deal with the recent rise in seditionist activity.”

  “I see,” said Merivale. “So you consider the loss of forty imperial troops at the hands of this controlled chaos to be an acceptable loss?”

  “Every soldier enlists knowing he may have to
lay down his life for the good of the empire,” said Tramasta, as if that explained everything.

  Merivale was rarely caught by surprise. It was possible that her confidence in her ability to accurately assess people and situations bordered on presumption. But if that was one of her weaknesses, then one of her strengths was the ability to quickly adjust her understanding of the situation the moment she detected that her assessment was inaccurate. Now she looked at Tramasta in a different light. Less as a tiresome colleague and more as an adversary.

  “That sounds a lot like something a biomancer might say,” she said, keeping her tone light.

  “They’re not bad, once you get to know them,” he said.

  “And I take it you’ve gotten to know them quite well?”

  “The chief of military must work closely with the head of the order of biomancery,” said Tramasta, then chuckled. “The last thing the empire needs is for us to be working at cross-purposes with them.”

  “The very last thing,” Merivale said mildly. “I understand perfectly, my lord. If you think further investigation is unnecessary, I will of course defer to your judgment.”

  “Naturally,” said Tramasta. Then realizing he had perhaps gone a bit too far, he quickly added, “If this were concerning your people, I would do the same.”

  “I appreciate that, my lord,” said Merivale. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”

  “Of course. I’ll let you get back to creeping in the shadows, my lady,” he said good-naturedly. “Shelby will see you out.” He lifted his head and shouted, “Shelby!”

  Merivale watched thoughtfully as the serving woman from before came scurrying into the room and gave another awkward curtsy. Then Merivale turned back to Tramasta. “A pleasure as always, my lord. And if you ever have need of my services, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Hopefully not, but I suppose you never know,” said Tramasta, then he reached again for the small wooden box of cloud glass and the tiny spoon.

  “If … you’ll follow me, my lady,” Shelby said haltingly.

  “By all means, lead the way, my dear,” said Merivale.

  When they reached the front door of the apartments, Merivale turned to the serving woman. “Shelby, is it?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “How would you like to play an important role in the preservation of the empire and get paid handsomely for it?”

  12

  Hope and Uter sailed west-northwest for the better part of a week, then turned due north up through the large expanse of sea between Vance Post to the west and the Breaks to the east. Their vessel was a far cry from the relative comfort of the Kraken Hunter. The unnamed boat had only one mast, a small mainsail, and a jib. The single cabin was too low to even sit up in, and barely wide enough to fit the two occupants. Its only purpose was to keep them sheltered from the elements while they slept. Sailing one-handed, even on such a tiny boat, was difficult in the less predictable waters north of the Isles, but Hope had taught Uter the basics, and he was even more helpful than she’d anticipated. In fact, the most trying part of the long voyage to Walta was keeping Uter from getting bored.

  Hope continued to work with him on reading. She hadn’t thought to pack anything specifically for him, but fortunately, she always had Hurlo’s journal with her, so she set him to work reading that. She was surprised to discover that hearing someone else read it out loud brought new insights to a text she had already read countless times. As she squinted into the sun, her hand on the tiller and her hood thrown back to let the sea breeze pull at her hair, she listened to Uter’s halting, boyish voice talk of dreaming about a better future, and it made sense in a context she hadn’t understood before.

  But Uter couldn’t read all day, and there were still many hours of watching the endless ocean slide past as they made their slow way north. Uter would get fidgety, and on such a small boat, that could easily lead to capsizing. Hope was not completely unfamiliar with the way young boys worked. As a girl, she’d watched how Hurlo and Wentu dealt with the new, undisciplined arrivals to Galemoor. Little boys needed to move around. So even though it slowed their journey, she would drop anchor every afternoon and give him swimming lessons. Once she was confident in his ability to swim alone, she would have him swim laps around the boat until he was panting and barely able to pull himself back on board. It probably added a day or two to the voyage, but she was certain that it made for a much more pleasant trip.

  Even after making a point of exercising both his mind and body every day, it was often difficult to get him to settle down at night. Wentu had been in the habit of telling him bedtime stories, but Hope didn’t really know any stories. So instead, she told him the story of her life. Without consciously making the decision to do so, she began by describing in vivid detail the massacre of her village. It was something she had sworn she would never speak aloud again, but she couldn’t remember why she had even made that pledge. Perhaps she had been eager to rid herself of it and thought that if it went unspoken, the horror of the details would fade from her memory. It hadn’t, of course. And now, many years later, she was grateful for that. People should know what had happened. It should be in a history book somewhere, even if only as a footnote. And of course, once she finished telling him about that terrible period on Bleak Hope, she told him of how she came to Galemoor, then about her time on the Lady’s Gambit, and finally to New Laven.

  As she told Uter about Sadie, Hope couldn’t help thinking that the old woman would have done a much better job raising Uter than she was doing. But she had grown increasingly tired of chastising herself about every little thing. She wasn’t particularly maternal, so she would just do the best she could. And of course make sure her charge didn’t kill anyone else.

  Hope lost count of exactly how many days had passed by the time the southernmost islet off of Walta came into view. It was larger than what she would have considered a standard islet, spanning the equivalent of several city blocks. But all four trailing islets were considered part of Walta, and all four had the sign of the biomancers planted firmly in view to warn people away. In fact, they were planted along the shore at regular intervals so that no matter what direction you approached from, you would see them. Hope had never seen such a conscious effort on the part of the biomancers to keep people away. Perhaps it was merely because it was farther north than most quarantined islands. Or perhaps there was something on Walta they didn’t want discovered.

  “What do those signs mean?” asked Uter as they sailed past the first islet.

  “That the biomancers have done experiments on these lands which make it no longer safe for people to live on them.”

  “Like they did on your island?” asked Uter.

  “Yes. One of those signs is still there, in fact.”

  “It looks like a picture of a squid,” he said. “The one we read about that squirts ink.”

  “I think it’s supposed to represent the kraken, which some would call their greatest—or most terrible—achievement.”

  “What’s a kraken?”

  “I’ve only heard stories,” admitted Hope. “Sailors do like a good sea monster story, so it’s difficult to say how much is true. But the way it’s been told to me, the biomancers created a giant squid or octopus. They named it the Guardian because they set it to protect the northern border of the empire from invasion. Supposedly, it’s as big as one of those islets.”

  “That big?” Uter’s eyes widened as he stared at the second islet, which was now off the starboard bow.

  “So they say,” said Hope. “But even if it were possible to create such a large creature, the stories around it date back nearly a century, so it seems unlikely that it still lives.”

  Uter seemed disappointed by that. “Oh. Okay.”

  She gave him a lopsided smile. “You were hoping to see one, were you?”

  Uter nodded firmly. “I would make it my friend.”

  Hope allowed herself to imagine just for a m
oment how much destruction might come from Uter controlling something like a kraken, and shuddered. “Well, I’m afraid you probably won’t get the chance.”

  They continued past the third and fourth islets. Hope still couldn’t see why they were quarantined. There were small clusters of trees and swaths of grass that suggested a fairly healthy ecosystem. Perhaps it was like her own village, which had likely been quarantined merely because of the chance some of the larvae had escaped. But blocking off an island down in the Southern Isles was one thing. Walta was at a prime latitude and too valuable to simply block off as a precaution. Again, Hope felt a strange nagging suspicion that there was more going on here than it seemed.

  It was early afternoon when they finally reached the shores of the main island of Walta itself. Unlike the smaller islets, it was immediately clear that something on the island was deeply wrong. There were no trees and very little vegetation. In that respect, it was much like Dawn’s Light. But where Dawn’s Light had been mostly flat, Walta looked as if God had lifted the island up to a great height and then let it drop so that it shattered when it hit the surface of the water.

  “Whoa,” said Uter as he peeked over the gunwale at the fractured landscape.

  “Not very welcoming, is it?” said Hope as she steered their tiny craft toward the shore.

  Once they reached land, Hope was able to make out more details. Massive mounds of dirt were scattered across the broken surface of the island. There was a hole in the center of each mound roughly two to three feet in diameter.

  “Those must be mole rat tunnels,” she said quietly.

  “What are mole rats?” asked Uter.

  “Don’t you remember? We read about them back on Galemoor. Or do you only pay attention to the slimy sea creatures, like squids?”

  He grinned. “I like those better.”

  She couldn’t help smiling back. “Well, as the name suggests, mole rats look sort of like a combination of a rat and a mole, with long, sharp front teeth. They lack any fur and they’re nearly blind.”