The Empire's Ghost

by Isabelle Steiger

  At first Roger attempted not to look surprised, but then it occurred to him, too late, that looking surprised might actually have helped. “What, ah, what do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Morgan said, “that you can get us inside the Citadel, one way or another.”

  “Look, even if I could—”

  “You can,” Morgan said. “I want to know whether you will.”

  Gods, and he’d been saving that one. “You’re lucky I’m not about to have that boy on my conscience,” he said at last. “I’ll do what I can do.”

  “Good.” She leaned her forehead on the heel of her hand, squeezing her eyes shut. “I swear, that boy’s going to be paying me back for years.”

  * * *

  The ceiling of the cell was so low, there wasn’t more than a hand’s breadth between it and the top of Seth’s head. The back wall was slanted, so his upper body leaned back where his wrists were chained to the stone, but his legs were forced forward, so he always felt like he was about to fall. Something dripped unsteadily from the stone above him, seeping into the cloth between his shoulder and his neck.

  The woman at his side shifted, casting one eye up to look at him. “Don’t fret so, boy,” she muttered. “You’ll rile the guards.”

  Until she spoke, Seth hadn’t realized he’d been shaking. “S-sorry,” he said, but she didn’t react one way or the other, just looked straight ahead again.

  The woman was what Roger would’ve called an odd bird, though Seth couldn’t have said exactly why. She was young, probably of an age with Lucius and Deinol, and thin, but there was nothing weak about her; instead she was wiry and lean, as if everything inessential about her had been boiled away. Even though she wasn’t unusually tall, she was still taller than he was, and that meant she couldn’t stand upright in such a tiny cell. Their jailers had had to content themselves with fastening manacles to her wrists and leaving her to crouch on the stone floor, but her predicament didn’t seem to bother her; she sat there almost lazily, with one leg bent and the other straight, her chained wrists resting on her knees. Her tangled hair was the color of new copper; he hadn’t been able to see her eyes very well in the torchlight, but he thought they were blue.

  She had already been there when they locked Seth in, and she’d barely moved since, not even a fidget. He wanted to ask her why she was there, but he’d been too afraid; there was something in her manner that discouraged questions.

  When she wasn’t shooting the occasional glance over at him, she mostly kept her eyes closed, as if willing her thoughts to wander. Seth couldn’t blame her: if he could have found a way to distract himself from all this, he would have. Instead all his senses seemed heightened, so that even the sound of the dripping ceiling was almost unbearable.

  “Stop fidgeting,” the woman said again, her eyes snapping open, and again Seth was startled to realize that he was. But how had she even noticed, if her eyes had been closed like that? “Nothing will happen to you if you just stay calm, all right?”

  “Beg pardon if I’m not convinced of that,” he replied, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “Things are looking pretty bad for us, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  The woman shook her head, but he couldn’t tell what it meant—if she disagreed with him, or if she were merely trying to wave his words away.

  He pitched his voice lower. “Do you think—do you think they’ll let us out? Eventually, I mean. Or are they—are they just going to—”

  The woman snorted. “If it’s favors you’re counting on, boy, you’ll grow old in here.”

  “But I— It isn’t fair. I didn’t—I don’t even know what I did—”

  “It doesn’t seem like your imperator is in the habit of requiring a reason for this sort of thing,” the woman said. “Or am I wrong?”

  That was true enough, Seth admitted to himself. And it wasn’t quite true he didn’t know his offense—he knew what he’d done, he just didn’t know why they cared. If they arrested everyone in his position, there’d hardly be anyone left to walk the streets. Of course, Palla had been able to arrest him only because she’d been there at Westcross, and presumably knew the whole story. But surely someone higher up than she was had taken an interest in him, or else he’d just have been fined or whipped and sent home. That was how these things worked, right?

  He squirmed, trying to avoid the slimy water—he hoped it was water—but it was useless. “Well, if it was so much better where you’re from, I wonder why you didn’t stay there.”

  Her nose twitched, her expression going opaque. “I imagine there are scores of places more hospitable than this one, but their existence isn’t going to be much help to either of us.”

  Seth shook his leg out, trying to keep it from stiffening. “I don’t know that anything will help us.”

  “Your silence,” the woman said, “will do wonders. Just wait and see.”

  Seth waited, but before he’d seen anything, he heard the shuffle of feet coming down the hall. Palla stopped in front of their cell, the torch she carried making her pale skin look sallow. Seth had forgotten the color of her hair and the shape of her face, but he never would’ve forgotten that scar; he was just surprised she’d remembered him. He supposed that his attempt to bolt when he saw her might have aided her memory, but it wasn’t as if he’d been thinking clearly at the time. “Well, now,” she said, much more self-satisfied than he ever remembered seeing her back then. “Enjoying your new quarters, boy?”

  What did she expect him to say to that? What wouldn’t make her angry? “Am I … going to be here a long time?”

  “That depends on what you have to say, doesn’t it? Your memory hasn’t been very good so far. We have ways to help that along, though, if you’d prefer.”

  Seth quailed where he stood, but the woman just snorted, hiding an ironic smile behind her hair. Palla cocked her head. “You think that’s funny, do you?”

  “Not particularly,” the woman replied, flat and toneless.

  “That’s good. You won’t be doing much laughing when you get called to answer.”

  “I don’t do much laughing anyway,” the woman said, just as before.

  Palla curled her fingers against the bars. “And screaming? Are you used to much of that?”

  The woman’s nose twitched again. “I’m not some child you can frighten. If you truly think your kind can break me, you’ll be disappointed. But I know you wouldn’t dare try.”

  “Wouldn’t dare?” Palla snapped. “Orders are simple enough.”

  “Yes, and I can guess what yours were,” the woman replied, tilting her chin so she could catch Palla’s eyes. “If your master thought torturing us would get him whatever information he’s after, you’d already have done it. He’s not known for letting his prisons get too full, after all. My guess is he knows the boy’s fragile—any fool can see that—and he doesn’t want any of you getting carried away and killing him by accident. As for me, I suppose I’ve been deemed too valuable to damage just yet—or else too worthless, but the result is the same.”

  Palla scowled, but her silence was enough. “Might be if you push me, I’ll get tired of following those orders.”

  The woman shrugged. “Might be I’ll kill you. Doesn’t much matter to me.”

  Palla snorted, then shot a glance back at Seth. “If you remember anything more about that trinket you stole, boy, we’d love to hear it. Otherwise you can count on a very long stay in here … or a very short one, depending on His Eminence’s mood.”

  Seth looked at his feet. “I already told you everything I remember.”

  “Mm, perhaps. But long confinement can sometimes … unearth forgotten memories, or so I’ve been told.” She raked a hand through her curls. “You can always give a shout if your answer becomes more favorable. Think on it.” She turned and left, her footsteps slowly fading away. The woman made a soft but audible scoffing noise, but she said nothing more.

  “Do you … really think they’re not going to torture us?” Seth
finally ventured.

  The woman just shrugged again. “What they intend to do with us is not my concern.”

  “I’ll respectfully disagree with you on that—it very much matters to me whether I’m tortured or not. I don’t know what you think’s going to happen here, but—”

  She sighed. “Boy, will nothing convince you to be quiet? You’re not helping your chances.”

  “If I wanted to help my chances, I’d think of some story to—”

  “Not your chances with them,” the woman interrupted. “You have none. I mean your chances with me.”

  She extended one arm, and when she flexed it, something shifted, the glint of metal peeking out over the edge of her sleeve. Seth squinted at it, confused at first, but finally he realized what it was.

  The woman met his gaze. “It might be I’m feeling generous today. But first I need to know that silence is a concept you understand. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

  Seth didn’t even squeak.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “So where exactly are we going to—”

  “Will you be quiet?” Morgan hissed.

  Roger laughed. “There’s no cause to worry about that yet, Morgan—it’s not as if they can hear us from here.” To underscore his point, he tapped on the thick stone wall of the tunnel, producing a blunt, weak sound that didn’t even echo. Perhaps it would have been more appropriate to tap on the ceiling, since they were underground, but it was far too high for him to reach. He hoped Morgan was reassured anyway.

  “Thank you, Roger,” Deinol said, so smug that even Roger wanted to groan. “Now, as I was saying, where exactly does this passage of yours come out?”

  Roger tapped his chin. “Well, I don’t have a map of the Citadel, mind, but this tunnel’ll put you in among the kitchen stores—it’s a false floor, just push up on the panel when you get to the end; you’ll see it. That’s ground level, and below that you’ve got five levels of dungeon, and we know Seth’s on the third. So … it could be worse, all told.”

  He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret—this passage was one of the few secrets valuable enough for him to keep, valuable enough even to outweigh his inclination to brag. There were many times he’d been tempted just to let a slight hint slip, but he’d always shut his mouth just in time. And now here he was, leading four people right to the spot. It was a pity, no denying it. “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” he muttered. “I’m damned proud of this thing, you know.”

  Deinol peered down the passage, squinting into the dark as if it were sunlight. “How long have you known about this?”

  “Oh, year and a half, maybe two—would’ve sat on it for a lot longer if I’d had my way. Do you know how many people would kill for a direct route into the Citadel?”

  “How did you even find it?” Morgan asked.

  Roger felt himself beginning to grin; if he had to give up the secret, at least now he got to boast about it. “Folks’ve been whispering about hidden routes into the Citadel for as long as I can remember—story is, they’re as old as the empire, or even older than that. Gran used to talk of a whole tangled web of tunnels right in the dungeons themselves—more false walls than true ones down there, she always said. She was never able to find any of those tunnels herself, though, and I never knew of anybody else who had, either. I’m fairly certain this is as close as anyone alive’s going to get you.”

  Braddock shook his head, holding the torch well away from himself so he didn’t singe his hair. “Swindler, you expect us to believe this precious little passageway has been here all this time and the only one wise to it was you?”

  Roger had no idea how many other people might’ve stumbled upon the passage as well, but he wasn’t about to say that. “And why not?” he asked. “You know more of my exploits than most, and you’re still surprised? I was born for this sort of thing. Gran always said I was the smartest Halfen in the family—well, ’cept for Cousin Len, but he wasn’t a real Halfen anyway. ‘Roger,’ she’d say, ‘one of these days you’re going to—’”

  “Yes, Roger, that’s wonderful, thank you,” Morgan said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll be happy to hear all about your family once we’re back at the Dragon’s Head, but at the moment there’s a kitchen boy who requires our attention.”

  They didn’t think there was any sense in his stories, and they had absolutely no respect for Gran. But Roger was used to that by now. “All right,” he said. “I’ve brought you to it in any case, haven’t I? What’re you waiting for?”

  Morgan peered dubiously down the length of the passageway. “You’re sure this goes where you say it does?”

  “No doubt of that. Nearly stumbled right into a guardsman the day I first discovered it—lucky he was drunk off his ass, or I’d have been spotted for sure.”

  Lucius cleared his throat. “Speaking of guardsmen, Morgan, I really think it’s better that you stay here.”

  She sighed. “Not this again. I’m not defenseless, Lucius; you know that.”

  “Aye, but these are killers, not brawlers. They—”

  “Do you think I’ve never had anyone draw a sword on me before? If this were solely a matter of stealth, you’d have to bring Roger along, and you wouldn’t let Braddock or Deinol anywhere near. As it isn’t, you’ll need as many pairs of hands as you can get, and I know how to use mine. Let’s say no more about it.”

  “Well, you tried,” Roger said to Lucius. He shook his head, unsmiling, but said nothing more.

  This was where Roger had chosen to leave them, so he faced the four of them, searching for any last scraps of advice he could give. “I … Well, be as quick as you can.” He leaned against the wall. “I’ll wait out here for the first hour or so.”

  Lucius looked surprised. “Why not just head back? Safer that way.”

  “Aye, well, maybe I’d rather know if you’ve hit trouble or not. Wondering about it would just ruin my concentration, anyway.”

  Morgan smiled slightly. “As you like.” Then, to the others, “We all ready?”

  They looked at one another with vague grins, but Roger knew it couldn’t have been easy. As far as he knew, Morgan had never killed anyone before, and though Deinol and Braddock had talent, they were only two men. Lucius was special—anyone who knew two bits about swordplay could see that—but even he couldn’t take on every guardsman in the Citadel. Roger tried to remind himself of all Gran’s tales of daring prison escapes through the years, the grand majority coming off without so much as an exchange of blows. And no matter what anyone else thought, Gran had always known what she was about; she had always told him such tunnels existed, and here one was.

  He pressed his fingertips together, then clasped his hands. “Well, good luck.”

  “We’ll need it,” Lucius said quietly. “Thanks.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Deinol insisted. “Come on.” He started off down the passage, going on his way with at least the appearance of confidence. Lucius hurried after him—no doubt to make sure he didn’t trip on his own feet, as Braddock was the one with the torch—and Braddock exchanged a glance with Morgan before following suit. She gave Roger a lingering look as the torchlight faded ahead of them.

  “If we’re delayed,” she said at last, “you make sure nothing happens to my bar, you hear?”

  Roger nodded, and then she was gone.

  He waited until he couldn’t hear so much as the whisper of a footfall on the stone, then walked back out of the tunnel and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving it indistinguishable from the rest of the wood paneling. That left him—where else?—in the lower chamber of a Ninist vestry. He sat himself down to wait, tucking himself into a corner of the room and looking up at the still faces of the Traitor and the Whore. These had been done in granite, not marble, but he’d know them anywhere. Always a Ninist vestry, he thought, and wondered if Seth would have been disappointed or impressed.

  * * *

  Perhaps it was a rather childish method, but at t
his point Varalen was prepared to try anything. At the top of a new sheet of parchment, well away from the eyes of the guardswoman, he wrote: Problem the First: the Woman Prisoner. Then he glanced at her over the tip of his quill. “He didn’t ask for her to be tortured?”

  The guardswoman—Palla?—pursed her lips. “His Eminence did not deign to answer, milord. He said only that he was not to be bothered, and that we should direct our questions to you until such time as he is better disposed to answer them.”

  Lovely. “Well, I have rather an aversion to torture myself, so if we’re leaving it to me, I’d just as soon not.” He brushed the tip of the quill against his cheek. “Tell me truly, now—your fellows arrested the wrong person, didn’t they? I’ll make sure no harm comes to them from the mistake, I promise you, but I can’t afford to waste my time chasing shadows.”

  She stayed tight-lipped, and her eyes gave him nothing. “She matched the description we were given.”

  The description Elgar’s esteemed guardsmen had been given amounted to nothing more than this: every several nights or so, claimed their informant, a woman involved in the very highest orders of the resistance bought rumors off a trader at the Night Market named Six-Fingered Peck (who, it seemed, had ten fingers, five on each hand, just like everybody else). And the woman herself? Why, she was tall and cloaked and carried a sword. So, naturally, instead of waiting to overhear any suspicious conversation between Six-Fingered Peck and any of his female customers, Elgar’s guards had simply arrested the first armed woman who approached him. But Varalen couldn’t tell Palla outright that he thought her brothers-in-arms had behaved like proper imbeciles, so instead he rubbed his temples and considered his words.

  “Captain Gardener told me he’d swear to her innocence,” he said at last. Unfortunately, since Quentin Gardener was only captain of the Citadel guard, he lacked the authority to reprimand anyone who’d been involved in the woman’s arrest—it had been entirely carried out by members of the city guard. What a surprise that Wyles’s people had made a mess of things. “And he’s been interrogating prisoners for years, so I imagine he knows what he’s about.” Of course, Wyles had interrogated prisoners for many years as well, but although he had many preferred instruments, words were not among them. Thank the gods Elgar hadn’t left him to deal with the prisoners.