by Luke Webster
“Did he say what I was wanted for?” Dervon puffed, trying to keep up with Nielle.
“No. He just wanted you to come. I think he might be interested in a truce with Baeni-Esum.”
“He could have sent you to do that,” Dervon frowned, a faint pain in his ribs memory of their previous encounter.
“I don’t question the lord,” Nielle pointed.
“Nor do I,” Dervon stated with haste, correcting his mistake. “Is he still mad regarding the vote?”
“He hasn’t mentioned it… to me.”
They continued, pressing past guards who nodded them through, the golden wings clasping the boys’ cloaks indication of their station. They reached the study, Nielle knocking once before entering.
Callis looked up from a scroll, staring dark-eyed at the children. He did not speak as the boys stepped forward, standing in the centre of the room. To Callis’ left hung a suit of ornate platemail, the highest casting presented in the church.
“My lord,” Dervon bowed in a nervous arc. “You summoned me?”
“I did,” Callis noted, dipping his head to Nielle. “Thankyou for coming in good time.”
Callis lifted his head again, the nod completed. From within a belt Nielle drew a sliver of a blade, bringing the thin stiletto out across his body and swinging it back. The blade pierced the side of Dervon’s neck, missing the arteries and glancing off the spine’s edge. Dervon dropped in an instant, dragging Nielle down too.
“I told you to prepare for his weight to drop,” Callis stated in a calm voice, walking to the pair and turning. He held a compact crossbow, used by few since the introduction of firearms. With simple grace he aimed at his suit, firing a single bolt into the chest.
“You’re covered in blood now,” Callis chided. “How do you expect to help me into my armour?” Nielle failed to answer, looking into Dervon’s terrified eyes. Fingernails clawed across the fine slate and legs pumped in a final moment.
“Forget him now. You did well.” Callis soothed, passing Nielle a towel and pointing to the suit.
27
Four days passed under lockdown. The guards of Greenstone castle dragged their feet under the weight of extended shifts, their eyes red and heavy. A stirring of assorted noble voices jabbed with complaints when Geoffrey Goldshore had been tried in the Regent’s Court.
Geoffrey had escaped the charge of Royal Defamation, the crime brought down to plain defamation. It accosted a two thousand-coin fine, to be paid into the Regent’s coffers. He had complained of the charge but acceded, knowing that the punishment could have been worse. The man was still grieved from the loss of his son when he was released from his cell.
Ivan’s councilors had reported back. There was a level of discontent within the nobility concerning the incident though few wanted to drag the issue out. Ivan hoped that time would wash away third party interest from the matter.
On the fourth morning a note arrived bearing the six sided cross of the church pressed into the wax seal. The church had indicated its support for the regent’s right to prosecute Fredrick, sealing the matter in the eyes of most nobles. Few would dare plant their voice against the savage sanctimony of Ea-Manati.
With this Ivan relaxed.
The lockdown was ended, the citadel reopened to representatives of the court and nobility. A crowd buzzed through the open hall as the day’s session started. Ivan stood, waiting for the herald to announce the day’s proceedings. He noted that the hall was full for the first time since his ordainment, the recent calamity generating a renewed interest in the station.
Ivan stepped to the raised dock, placing him a half body’s length above everyone else. He wore the standard dress of the regent, a black robe with gold hems.
“Before we begin, I would like to issue a statement on the recent situation concerning the death of the Themmond child,” Ivan struck to the point. “I have been criticised for my stand on the matter and for disallowing the nobles to charge my ward under their laws. I would like it noted that I am a man of my word. I swore an oath to grant my ward protection and assist in his upbringing. This is an oath that reflects on Ironwood’s standing as a nation and city. If I were to acquiesce to the nobles baying for blood then I would have betrayed not only my ward, but the city as a whole.
“I would further like it noted that the boy’s trial will begin on the eve of the following month. During that time it is expected that a case be compiled against him on the behest of Geoffrey Goldshore. Currently our lawyers have built a strong case in defence of the child. It was an illegal duel, one that was just as much the fault of the Goldshore child as the accused. During this trial it is expected that charges may be brought against other conspirators to the fight.”
“What of your son? I heard he was part of it.” Ivan looked for the voice, lost in a sea of faces.
“That will be covered by the courts,” he stated in a calm voice.
“Bah, the regent’s court. Who’s to expect them to charge the regent’s heir?” Again Ivan could not find the voice, nor could the eyes of his guards, scanning the mob.
“The issue is concluded for the day. If you have no other reason for being here then I suggest you leave so that those who wish to do business with the regent may have the opportunity.”
Many of the crowd departed, having heard what was said. Some pointed out that the regent had not apologised. Others left with their idle curiosity satisfied. The audience that remained were mainly merchants and foreigners.
28
Victoria was of the same age as Ammba, an attractive girl with long chestnut hair, heavier than Ammba’s, held up in a knot. She wore a thick woolen vest over a velvet top and leather riding pants. Ammba stepped out of the carriage with a hand from Gerard, her doting guard, looking at odds with the other girl. She wore a laced dress running full length, impractical in the frosty autumn morning.
“Are we not riding today?” Victoria asked, descending the marble steps of Geiland Manor and brushing Ammba’s cheek with a kiss.
“We are,” Ammba smiled, pointing to a case on the back of the breechpine carriage. “Father has enough worries.”
Gerard struggled with the large trunk, untying it from the back rail and lugging it up the front stairs. Geiland Manor was the second largest of its type within the city. More a complex bridled with many unused guest rooms than a home. It also held claim to one of only two parks within the city, a large artificial grassland decked with Tar Pines and hedge mazes. It was the one place that Ammba felt peaceful within the ironclad city. Ash still streaked into the parkland however and a full-time contingent of cleaners shoveled out the foul mess during the dry season.
“That looks heavy,” Victoria remarked as Gerard bounced the case up the stairs, his neck standing taught as he struggled with the weight.
“It would not be proper for a princess to travel light,” Ammba reflected. Both girls aired out gentle laughs that enticed the male guards standing atop the flight.
“Would you look on while Sir Gerard fulfils Miss Steward’s bidding?” Victoria teased her own guard. The man snapped from his trance, rushing to help carry the heavy weight.
“Did you bring your own horse?” Victoria continued with a laugh, suggesting that it hid in the case.
“Of course, he’s tied to the carriage though.” Ammba looked innocently at the other guard.
“Allow me,” he stumbled, hurrying to prepare the gelding.
“Men are easily manipulated,” Victoria sighed. “It almost seems too unfair.”
*
Once Ammba’s belongings were taken inside she changed into her riding gear, a leather outfit with a crested family insignia on the breast. In the case also hid a leather riding saddle, several dresses and a large makeup box.
“I suppose the saddle should go with the horses,” Ammba said, pointing to the front door. Gerard nodded, failing to complain at the nonsense, and pulled out the heavy riding set, lugging it to the rear of the house.
“Tha
t was nice of him,” Victoria smiled.
“He’s always helping out. For a lord’s guard he makes a good porter.” Both girls laughed, cutting through the manor to the stables. Their horses were waiting, both geldings, one saddleless.
“A new horse?” Ammba admired, running a hand down its sleek coat.
“He’s a Hyett purebred. I purchased him from a Northane merchant several weeks back. He’s a delight to ride. Larger than the typical mountain horses of the Imperial stock. I’ve called him Herieht, after his barbaric lineage.”
Ammba was impressed, she took an interest in most things that drew from outside the city, often scrambling to witness the wonders brought in from select merchants that dealt in souvenirs.
“At what cost?”
“A lady never tells,” Victoria smiled. “Let’s just say that if my father knew then he would have me thrown out.”
She joked, Lord Geiland was known throughout for spoiling his daughters. He had produced six through his time, his wife never bearing a son. When she died he had not taken a new wife, preferring the company of his daughters and the work of running an expanse of mines to keep him busy. They were one of the few noble families left that did not outsource their property to the corporations, the mass of logistics and accounting enough to keep one lord busy until the end of time.
From around a corner stumbled Gerard, a thick saddle weighing down his left shoulder.
“He’s waddling,” noted Victoria, as Gerard struggled to stop the seat from slipping, his shoulders crooked as his left sagged.
“Waddling like a duck,” Ammba laughed.
They began quaking as the young man blushed, ending his task with a deep pant.
“Thank you Duck,” Ammba told him. “Though it would’ve been faster to cut through the manor rather than going around.”
Gerard was breathless and irate. Ammba had directed him out the front door. His attempt at revolt was cut short when she ordered him to saddle her horse.
The girls rode for part of the morning, their guard in tow, the scent of the thin grass and pines just discernable over the heavy smog. It had stopped raining through the night and already there was a thin layer of ash blanketing the park.
“I wish the wind would change,” Victoria sighed. All the ash in the city drudged out from the coal stations in the northernmost part of the city. They were set there as Ironwood took in a southern wind for the majority of the year, pushing the pollution further north into the Highlands and Milkweed river. During the autumn months the wind changed into a swirling one, drawing the choking ash into the city more often.
The park was not so wide as it was long, stretching through the north wall and continuing into the Sloping Crag, an area of the city off-limits to all bar the highest socialites. It was the other park contained with the city, larger than the Geiland one but more trafficked.
The girls ate a light morning tea under the branch of an old oak, struggling to survive in the harsh conditions. It was a twisted creature, shorter than the glorious oaks that Ammba had seen during her stay in the Imperial heartland, inspiring nonetheless. Both girls had spent many years of their younger life playing in the gnarled branches.
As the girls nibbled honey cakes Victoria’s two guards watered and fed the horses while Duck poured tea for the girls. The sun came through split clouds, a welcome reprieve from the constant drizzle of the last week. Ammba and Victoria drank it up, knowing that it might be months before they felt its touch again.
A crack sounded off, snapping the girls from their daydreams. It was followed by a second. Herieht galloped past the trio, nostrils flared in terror. Duck stood, dragging a musket from his belt, his sword hanging in its sheathe. He scanned the field, noting two bodies sprawled in the grass not far off. Several pines were scattered across the park providing hidden access. He gestured for the girls to stay near the oak, making his own way towards it. He watched from behind the twisted stump, scanning the spread of wood.
Ammba screamed. The enemy had flanked them. Before Duck could turn a shot was fired from behind, the lead ball-bearing hitting him in the back, searing through the steel plate and digging deep into chain mail. The force bowled him over.
At first there was one figure, wearing a heavy black cloak, face concealed in a wrap around scarf. Both girls were screaming as more figures appeared from the woodland, two, four then six. Each carried a rifle, a rare commodity within the city. The girls held each other tight, fearing the worst as they were trapped.
One figure pointed and Ammba was wrenched from her companion. With deft skill she was tied and gagged, thrown over a shoulder and carried away. She struggled with her bonds, tied with a professional skill that saw off a young girl’s fight.
As the sect carried off their prize Victoria was left alone and untouched, sobbing in trauma. She lay in the grass, face smeared with ash. A moan tore her from her mourning. She looked over to see Duck, his face rendered in pain. Victoria crawled to him, cradling his face.
“They’ve taken Ammba,” she sniveled.
“I can’t move my legs,” Duck wheezed. The chain mail had stopped the bullet from slicing him apart. It had not prevented the force from hammering his kidney with enough power to crack the spine. “You need to get help.”
Victoria stood on weak legs, trembling with horror. She searched for a horse. They had fled leaving her to return on foot.
29
Ivan dismissed his councillors. It had been five days since he had ordered the citadel locked down. Since then there had been little news regarding the nobles’ intentions. Whatever plans they had set out were made behind closed doors, their schemes known only to a few. There had been no threat of attack and his spies had not found anything of great consequence.
Ivan sat with a glass of fine Imperial wine, his entourage of four guards standing firm by the chamber door. He sunk into the backed leather chair and took a deep draught, letting the spiced flavour sooth his throat, sore from speech. Master Freeman watched him, a concerned look across his face.
“You still look worried,” Freeman said.
“Aye, and will be till this thing is done and dead.”
“The church has granted you their support, you should relax.”
“They took their time,” Ivan whined, re-filling his cup and pressing it to his lips.
“They are a democracy of sorts. Nothing will ever be done with speed. The church is a slow hulk, once set to a path, near indestructible.”
“Well, I wish they had come sooner,” Ivan lamented, a slur added to his voice.
“You’ve drunk a lot these last few days,” Freeman noted. Ivan gave a furled brow over the rim of his cup.
“It soothes my stomach,” he said, patting his belly to emphasise.
“I’ve seen it before,” Freeman continued, reflecting on the past regents and kings he had served. “It’s stress.”
“So the doctors say… did you come here to admonish me?”
“Of course not,” Freeman confronted. “I wanted to discuss formal arrangements for your declaration of ascendancy.”
“My heir,” Ivan restated.
“I would offer advice if you chose to listen.” Ivan was quiet, enough of an answer for the old man. “Give your support to Haylee.”
Ivan’s eyes betrayed his surprise. “Tradition says that I should off it to the first born”
“And what do you think of that?”
“Ammba would not make a good regent,” Ivan agreed. “But I do not think Haylee has the strength of heart to follow her will either.”
“She is smarter than you give her credit.”
“I do not doubt her intelligence,” Ivan corrected. “But that alone will not rebuild the station of regent.”
“She understands the game better than the other children, I can attest to this.”
“And do you know the game?”
Freeman was insulted, he had been a king’s councilor before Ivan was born, and a regent’s one since their coming.
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“What are you implying?” he snapped.
Ivan opened his mouth, his voice slurred to an incomprehension.
“Lord Steward?” Freeman asked.
The cup dropped, spiced wine spilling across expensive carpets. Ivan’s arms were twitching, his hands grasped to the wooden armrests to prevent them from flailing. Freeman stood and rushed to his aide, shouting for a guard to fetch the surgeon.
The twitch turned into a convulsion, the regent’s body thrown from the chair and sprawling out in an uncomfortable position. Ivan was bent over, his legs jerking out and in again. Guards rushed to his side, trying to discern the cause of attack, turning over the regent on Freeman’s order. The Master tried to check Ivan’s airways while two of his guards pinned down the regent’s flailing arms, another lying on his legs. They struggled while Ivan’s head cracked back and forth, spitting foam and choking. With fingers scrapping inside the lord’s airways Freeman could feel no blockage.
“It’s poison,” he told one of the guards.
“What do we do?” came the concerned reply.
“We wait.”
It took time for the surgeon to arrive, his flabby head panting from the charge up the stairs.
“Get here now,” Freeman demanded. “He’s been poisoned.” the convulsions had slowed to a persistent tenseness.
The doctor wasted no time, pushing past the guards sitting on the regent.
“Get off him,” he puffed. As they did Ivan’s body contorted slowly, spine bending backwards so that Ivan’s feet nearly touched the back of his head.
“That’s bad,” the doctor grieved.
“A toxin?” Freeman asked.
“Only one does that to a man… Tylon Ferment.”
The Master nodded in grim understanding. There was no cure to the poison.
“He has no chance?” the question was rhetoric.
“None. The worst is done… he will die within the hour.”
“Take him to his bedchamber. Inform his children… and his wife,” Freeman added as an afterthought.