Three of Swords (Empire Asunder Book 1)

by Michael Jason Brandt

  Manus, a man most known for the wicked scar disfiguring his cheek, shuffled a deck of cards. “What’s the game?” Nico asked.

  “Augury,” Manus replied, not looking up from the shuffling.

  Nico looked curiously at Mip.

  “It’s a betting game,” the twin explained. “Watch me the first hand, then you can join in the second.”

  “If he’s sitting here, he plays,” Manus growled.

  Nico swallowed his reply, not wishing to break any unwritten rules. Although their leader, Nico wanted no special treatment. He glanced at Bayard, who nodded. “Afraid so, Commander.”

  “All right, deal me in.”

  “Every hand tells a story,” Manus said as he dealt. His hands flashed, and cards spun into place on the ground before each participant. Most looked at each card as it was received, but Nico emulated the unhurried nonchalance of Hager, who waited until the stack was full.

  “There are five rounds, or chapters,” Mip explained. “We go around the circle, each choosing one card at random from the man to his right. So you take from me, Hager from you. Betting between each chapter.”

  “So the hand I’m betting on is not the one I’ll end up with?”

  Mip grinned. “That’s right. I recommend not betting too much.”

  “Not that we have much to bet,” Manus grumbled. Nico smiled inwardly. A soldier complaining about his pay—that was more like it.

  Nico looked at his hand. Two shields, two swords, and one storm. “Their values are what I’m used to?” he asked. The others nodded.

  That was good. Every card player quickly learned the ascension of the eight suits in a standard deck—skull, devil, sword, storm, dragon, shield, crown, and heart.

  “High score wins?” More nods. The talking was at a minimum now that concentration prevailed.

  Each suit represented some significant aspect of life in the empire. Most players disregarded these double meanings, preferring instead to reduce each hand to a numbers game. But Nico liked to think the cards were telling him something, it was simply a matter of comprehension.

  His best two cards, the shields, represented friendship and loyalty. The swords, on the other hand, were his worst. Signifying war, they were the ones he hoped to get rid of first. His storm, representing chaos and turmoil, lay in between. He resisted the instinct to sequence the five cards in order. Better that Hager should draw completely at random than guess the arrangement.

  Captain Bayard started the betting with a copper penny. Considering that the average soldier’s pay was only ten per month, the amount was reasonable. Everyone called without raising, which made sense given the unpredictable nature of the game.

  “First chapter,” Manus announced. He took a card from Hager, who took one from Nico. The storm—no great loss.

  Nico took a replacement from Mip and slipped it into place, admiring the simple artistry of the heart it depicted. Associated with love, this was the best possible suit he could have drawn. He tried not to grin.

  Mip was supposed to initiate the betting this round, but instead shook his head negatively. Must be unhappy with his hand. Nico was about to bet two pennies, then caught himself. There might be another reason the twin was not betting. With five rounds, this game could get expensive in a hurry, particularly for a former thrall. Nico shook his head as well, then watched the others do the same. No one wanted to push the pot too high—a subtle but edifying moment, leading him to appreciate how much Mip was respected within the group. Nico wondered whether the young twin knew it. He certainly did not seem the type for deep reflection.

  “Second chapter.” One of the shields was lost and replaced by a dragon, signifying beasts. A much younger Nico had found it curious that the dragon was ranked as one of the higher suits, indicating some form of benevolence. In his studies and experience since then, however, he had learned that many creatures possessed surprising nobility and grace, once one could be troubled to look.

  In any case, this round had resulted in only a slight improvement, but at least he was still heading in the right direction.

  Nevertheless, he shook his head again at his turn to start the betting. Much longer and their forbearance would become obvious, so Nico suspected the pot would start growing again soon.

  For the third chapter, he lost his remaining shield and replaced it with another sword. That was a significant reverse, and the disappointment was compounded when the betting jumped up to two pennies per person. Not that he worried about his coin purse—it was more the spirit of the matter. Nico did not wish to come off a flat to be taken advantage of.

  The fourth chapter was slightly better, his dragon replaced by a crown. Nobility for the nobleman. The high suit made him more hopeful. The betting dropped back down to one penny apiece, as his gain was the others’ loss.

  “Last chapter,” Manus announced. Nico found himself holding his breath, wanting to make a strong showing for his first time with the group. He watched Hager’s hand hover over one of the swords, then pause. Hager was studying his face, so Nico forced himself to scowl, as if disliking that choice. Then the hand moved away and stole the heart, his best card.

  Nico hoped he did not look as dejected as he felt. He turned to Mip, trying to read expression the way Hager had done to him, then made his selection and slipped the new card into place. The grotesque, malignant face of a devil stared back at him. Representing evil, it was worse than everything but the skull, which signified death. This last chapter had been disastrous.

  Three swords, one crown, and one devil. He held no hope of winning with a hand like that.

  “You look a touch sick, Commander,” Manus said, sounding a little too cheerful for Nico’s liking. “Perhaps our plain soldier’s food does not agree with you.”

  “Hush, Manus,” Mip said. Then he looked at Nico. “He’s right, though. You need to work on your card-face.”

  Their words were true, this took a different kind of steel than swordfighting. Yet for whatever reason, the teasing helped. Partly because Mip’s goodness was so unmistakable, but mostly because the joking was a form of acceptance.

  Nico chuckled. “That I do. And I plan to get my revenge…another night. For now, comrades, I’m afraid I must get back to duties.” He tossed his cards aside and stood up.

  The Asturian weather was comfortably warm and clear. The ground was so dry, he wondered if it ever rained here. Certainly, they had seen few signs of clouds since crossing the border several days earlier. But for all its barrenness, the land was not without a certain harsh beauty. During eves like this, a faint breeze added just the right effect to a pleasant atmosphere. He spent a few minutes appreciating it, and life, and camaraderie.

  Not until ducking inside his tent did Nico think of the cards again. Three swords, a crown, and a devil. What were they telling him? Inauspicious, that much was clear. Or perhaps simply random.

  Two morns later, the low walls and white brick houses that marked Cormona’s outer boundaries came into view. At one point during the journey, the Threeshields had ridden through a series of shallow dusty canyons, but here the city was as flat as the land, appearing with no greater distinction than a smudge on the horizon until the company was within a few miles.

  Nico rode at the front, Renard at one side and Captain Bayard at the other. For days and days they had seen few people on their journey through the Asturian plain, but in the last hour the olive-complected inhabitants appeared with such regularity that he knew the capital must be close.

  He was not surprised to see a small body of horsemen riding out to meet them. Other than a few words exchanged with those in the countryside, this was his first encounter with the Asturians, so he did not know what to expect. He could only hope that the familiar imperial etiquette functioned the same in all twelve kingdoms.

  Nico counted ten riders in the party that approached, each mounted on a sleek white Asturian horse and bedecked in the official red and gold regalia of King Anton’s royal house—a suitable g
reeting for a visiting prince.

  At the forefront, one man rode slightly ahead. He was rather smaller than the others, but the angular cut of his features and the carry of his back suggested a certain dignity. “Prince Nicolas Hermann-son,” he called, pulling up at a formal ten yards distance. “I am Captain Gornada of King Anton’s royal guard. The king bids you welcome to Cormona.”

  “We thank you for your welcome, Captain. King Hermann sends his respect to the people of Asturia, our cherished neighbors and allies. I am eager to see King Anton, when his duties allow.”

  Gornada nodded and turned around. And so it begins, Nico thought. He motioned to Bayard, then spurred his own mount forward. Gornada led the way toward the open gates of the city.

  Cormona sat on the banks of a river, the Qiver, that looked far more impressive on a map than in person. It stretched all the way from the Stormere Mountains in the north to the great ocean on the empire’s southern expanse, leading Nico to expect a mighty torrent. The width and depth of its banks suggested that it had been at one time, but now the shallow flow over rocky bed was little more than a stream.

  Even this trickle of water was valuable in a land like this, however, which explained the concentration of citizens in one place. Beyond the river and the outer walls, the houses were packed close together, on and on into the heart of the city. There loomed the upper heights of a castle, built from the same drab white stone as every other structure in the area. He presumed this to be Anton’s castle, and their destination.

  He was not wrong. As they proceeded along the city’s widest avenue, the procession narrowed to three riders abreast. Nico rode between Gornada and Renard, feeling the icy disregard of one and the comforting silence of the other. Stealing a few hurried glances at his retainer, Nico recalled how he had asked the more experienced man to come along on this command as an adviser on military protocols. Renard had scoffed at the suggestion, expressing that he was a terrible adviser on anything but swinging a sword. But when Nico had taken that as a refusal, the old soldier had surprised him with a laugh. “Of course I’ll come, Boy,” he said at last. “Just don’t expect much advice.” In the end, Nico realized that all he really wanted was the man’s reassuring presence.

  That desire was for moments like this. Here they rode through a foreign city, surrounded by hundreds of inquisitive strangers fighting one another to get a look at the spectacle, yet Renard rode as casually as ever. His eyes stared straight ahead, and an observer might have thought he was looking for an ambush. Then the old soldier raised one hand to stifle a yawn. The sight made Nico want to laugh, had etiquette not forbade such an act.

  They passed through a second wall into the surprisingly broad expanse of the castle courtyard, free of the crush of the masses. Not for a lack of people, however. Rows of soldiers lined the stone road—much neater and better manicured here—leading all the way to the castle walls. Nico traced his eyes along those rows, admiring their rigid formality. Then he became aware of a disturbance ahead, and saw figures emerging onto a wide balcony that hung over the castle entrance. More soldiers, then a woman in ornate silks, then a young man, and at last an older one with a short white beard and splendid red coat.

  He felt all eyes staring as Gornada led him to a point within conversational distance of the balcony. Nico motioned for Renard to halt, continued a few steps beyond, then bowed.

  “King Anton,” he called, raising his voice for all to hear. “I thank you for this most gracious welcome. I bring glad tidings and best wishes from my father, King Hermann, and humbly request an audience to discuss important matters of state.”

  “Prince Nicolas,” the older man responded. “The honor is ours. I am pleased to meet one of King Hermann’s sons at last. Be welcome here, as long as your stay requires.”

  During the exchange, Nico tried to take in all the surroundings. He was particularly curious about the woman. Could this be my future sister-in-law?, he wondered. It seemed likely, although discerning her age at this distance was impossible. He could not even tell if she was pretty or plain. So bedecked she was in overflowing silks and gaudy jewelry—over her arms, across her neck, and throughout her hair—that it was difficult to discern where ornamentation ended and girl began.

  The young man was far easier to make out. His doublet made a drabber, less ostentatious display of the Asturian colors. His face appeared very young, but his height gave the impression of being older. Little more than a boy, then, but tall for his age. Probably the king’s son, Prince Tobias.

  “I have other matters that need attending, so our audience must necessarily be brief,” Anton continued. “Let us get started at once.”

  With that, he turned and disappeared into the castle. The girl and boy followed, and then the soldiers. Soon the balcony was unoccupied.

  “Please follow me,” Gornada requested. “Your soldiers will be escorted to the barracks.”

  “Fine. But my retainer attends to me.”

  Gornada bowed, then dismounted. So did Nico. He glanced at Bayard and noted that the captain was already in conversation with several members of the Asturian guard. He seemed to be coordinating matters proficiently, so Nico turned back toward the castle. Gornada was waiting by the entrance, a heavy pair of closed wooden doors. As Nico and Renard approached, he rapped heavily. The doors swung open, and the three men stepped inside.

  “I must inform you, young prince, that my instinct is to throw you into the dungeon.”

  It took Nico a moment to recover from the surprise. “For what reason, King Anton?”

  “For the reason that you are your father’s son, and thus a harbinger of deceit.”

  “I see.” He did not, but neither did he know what else to say. Clearly the Asturian king had abandoned etiquette, but Nico was not certain that he wished to do likewise. Perhaps Anton was testing him, attempting to lead him into some rhetorical trap.

  The audience was not progressing at all the way Nico had expected. As gracious as the man was outside in his public persona, King Anton was equally contentious within the private confines of the throne room where few ears were listening.

  The chamber was itself magnificent, larger even than the throne hall at Neublusten and richly decorated with glittering trim and embroidered curtains on and around every wall. An enormous banner depicting the golden olive tree on vermilion background hung behind the king, and it must have been a glorious sight when the light caught it just right. But the lights were currently subdued—only a few of the many overhanging chandeliers were in use—and the voices of those inside echoed through the vast empty space.

  Only five of them occupied the room—himself and Renard, Anton and Gornada and another man who had never been introduced. This last figure had remained mute throughout, watching and scratching a thin beard, either in contemplation or from boredom.

  Perhaps seeing Nico’s indecision compelled Anton to explain. “The timing of your father’s offer is certainly suspicious, young prince.”

  “The timing?”

  “Are you truly ignorant of what happens in Asturia?”

  “I am embarrassed to admit that I am.”

  The king looked at his unnamed companion with a bemused expression. The other shrugged, then resumed stroking his beard.

  Anton turned back to Nico. “Very well. Let me inform you. My kingdom turns against me, that is what happens. The Duke of Feana has raised an army.” At the very thought, Anton’s face twisted in contempt. “Iago claims to lead a thirteenth kingdom—this is what he uses to motivate his followers into treachery—but what he really wishes is to rule Asturia.

  “I…underestimated the threat. How quickly it would grow, and how well-armed mere rebels would be. I’ve sent a force to subdue Iago and pacify Feana, but I fear it may be too late. Even without Iago at its head, I believe the unrest has gone too far to abate quietly, or soon. Cries of rebellion, of separation—of independence—can now be heard throughout Asturia. It seems my rule has not been as popular as I believed.
” A hint of regret—perhaps self-reproach—afflicted the man’s voice. “I do not understand these people, and because of that I know not how to allay their concerns.”

  “Perhaps Akenberg can help, My Lord.”

  “Yes…your offer. Marriage and alliance. It comes at a conveniently good time, wouldn’t you say?” Anton snorted. “You will excuse me, young prince, if I don’t show much trust in Hermann’s motives. Or yours.”

  Nico considered. Clearly there was far more involved in this diplomatic mission than he knew, and he blamed himself for not being better prepared. But the assignment had come so suddenly, so soon after his Proving, and had seemed such a routine affair.

  “I beg your forgiveness for my ignorance, King Anton. I can offer only my assurance that I knew nothing of these events.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Anton pondered a moment longer. “Some believe I should confine or execute you.”

  “What purpose would that serve?”

  “To harm King Hermann, and no other. Yet perhaps that is sufficient. If I am to lose my throne regardless, why not weaken my enemy in the process?” He bowed his head, deep in these morose thoughts.

  For the first time, Nico took Anton’s threat truly seriously. But he could conceive of no convincing response.

  A silence fell over the small assemblage, broken only when a messenger arrived. Captain Gornada halted the boy, exchanged a few words, and sent him away. Then began a slow, solemn approach toward the throne.

  Initially, Nico was not certain that the king was even aware of the interruption. But when Gornada neared the seat of power, Anton spoke without lifting his head. “What message, Captain?”

  “News from Feana, My King. The rebel Iago chose to fight rather than negotiate. It seems he has driven your army back, and now marches on Cormona.”

  “A defeat, then. This was…unexpected. How did he…? No matter. It appears the duke is stronger than we supposed.” A humorless smile crept upon his face as he once again looked upon Nico. “Well, young prince. It appears I have other concerns. You have my permission to depart, if you prefer.”