The Empire's Ghost

by Isabelle Steiger

  “I know,” Marceline said, “but … it’s not the same thing, is it? It’s not the same thing as being able to find out for myself.”

  Tom ran his thumb along the edge of his tankard. “If you want to find something out for yourself, girl, you’ve got to start with what you want to know. That’ll at least narrow it down some.”

  She’d already had time to think about that. “The Night Market,” she said. “That place is odd enough to begin with, but something special’s been going on there lately, hasn’t it?”

  Tom snorted. “Aye, resistance business, and that’s the last thing that should concern people like us.”

  “The resistance?” Marceline asked. “You mean there really is one?”

  “Its members’d like you to think so, but there’s not enough resistance in the resistance to ruffle a sparrow. It’s all talk—that and incompetence, and wishful thinking.”

  “But it exists,” Marceline said. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  Tom wrinkled his nose, scratching idly at the rough stubble of one cheek, and it took Marceline a few moments to realize he wasn’t sure how to answer her. “Listen, girl,” he finally said. “A resistance is most truly an idea—a word. Anyone can claim to be such a thing, just by speaking of it, and there are those who’ve done so—that is true. But whether they’re a real resistance…” He shrugged. “I’m not expecting any liberation to come from that quarter. Why, were you thinking of joining?”

  Marceline laughed. “Not for my weight in gold. I’m no idiot.” She leaned her cheek on her hand. “Do you know who it is, though? Do you know what they’re like?”

  “You have to ask? They’re fools, of course.” He took a last great gulp of ale, plunking down the empty tankard. “From what I’ve been able to turn up, there’s not a trained soldier among them. That’s not to say that soldiers are the only ones who know how to wield blades, but here it most properly means that our resistance possesses too much in the way of pretty words, and not enough in the way of actual skill.” Leaning back in his chair, he added, “You know the one who calls himself their leader is some sort of peasant historian? A book reader from Iron’s Den, younger than Halfen. That’s the story, anyway.”

  Damn it, this was sounding worse with every word. Maybe Roger didn’t know about this yet, but would he even care? Would he even count it as something she knew that he didn’t if the knowledge itself was worthless?

  “You’re sulking again,” Tom said. “Don’t tell me you’re disappointed?”

  “I’m annoyed,” Marceline told him. “If they’re going to be so useless, why the hell do they have to exist at all? Why can’t they just leave all of us alone?”

  “I can’t help you with that one. Some folk are born to meddle, hopeless or not.”

  Marceline scratched at the table with one fingernail. “How widely known do you figure this is?”

  “In a word, not. I could learn of it, but I do, as you say, have something of a talent for such things. I doubt Elgar’s people know, or even common Valyanrenders. Most of Sheath’s in the dark too, though I expect that’s more to do with the fact that most of us don’t care. The merchants at the Night Market know more than they ought, but I think that’s about it.”

  “So that’s where the connection to the Night Market is, then? Through the merchants?” Then another thought struck her: “Is that why Seth was arrested? Because he was at the Night Market?”

  Tom frowned. “Who’s Seth?”

  “Morgan Imrick’s boy.”

  “Oh, that whelp at the Dragon’s Head? Aye, but that was a mistake. He never had any dealings with the resistance.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Marceline asked. True, Seth was timid and soft, and usually had enough sense to stay out of things that could bring trouble down on him. But Seth had disappeared from the Dragon’s Head, hadn’t he? If the arrest had truly been a mistake, wouldn’t he have come back by now?

  But Tom shook his head. “No, that trail’s cold, girl. I’d wager there’s quite a story behind the current whereabouts of the Dragon’s Head’s proprietress and her kitchen boy—not least because I haven’t been able to find it out. But wherever they are, they aren’t in the city. Besides, while the resistance might be made up of poor fighters, I’ll admit they’ve done well to hide themselves for as long as they have. They at least know how to keep secrets, and that boy couldn’t conspire his way out of bed in the morning. He’s not involved.”

  “Fine,” Marceline said. “Then tell me this: If they’re a true resistance, then what exactly are they doing to resist?”

  Tom hesitated at that, contemplating the inside of his tankard. “I figure at first all they needed to do was exist. Having pulled that off, they tried to increase their numbers in secret, something it seems they’ve been able to do well. But now … I wonder.” He tapped the table with one finger. “There are things even I can’t find out for sure. But it seems two of Elgar’s most bloodthirsty butchers have met mysterious ends in the past fortnight, and no ready culprits to be found. I wouldn’t swear that this resistance is behind it, but I wouldn’t swear they weren’t.”

  Marceline kept scratching her edge of the table. “Mysterious ends?”

  “Aye. One hanged with a curtain, and the second took an arrow in the throat. Both killed indoors, and no one to say who’d done it. But at two separate times, and in two unrelated places. I suppose it’s impressive, after a fashion—I certainly wouldn’t be able to do as much. But if that’s all they do, it won’t make much difference. Elgar pays well to keep his streets the way he likes ’em—I’m sure those two have already been replaced by another lot just as bad, or worse. Their little assassinations might make those overgrown children giggle in whatever lair they’ve hidden themselves away in, or earn them a handful more recruits to the cause. But it won’t change the state of things. That’s just a fact.”

  And that depressed her more than it ought to have done. She didn’t doubt Tom was right, and she didn’t care about any resistance, but it seemed sad to imagine all those people come together, full of rosy ideals and big plans, only to have it all come to nothing in the end. Did some of them know that, too?

  She shifted restlessly in her seat. “You said some Night Market merchants had ties to the resistance?”

  Tom hesitated again. “The Night Market’s gone cold by now, for all I know. There was a man called Peck who had dealings with the resistance, but that mess with Morgan Imrick’s boy will have put them on edge. If they’ve wits at all—and I expect they have at least that much—they’ll have cut all ties with him long since.”

  “Peck,” Marceline repeated.

  “Aye, Six-Fingered Peck. Though as for fingers, I failed to note that he has any more or less than usual.” He squinted at her. “Are you really going to chase him down? You aren’t thinking of joining, are you?”

  “I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” Marceline said, “but … well, I might see what I can find out there, from Peck or anyone else.”

  “Nothing that’ll do you any good.”

  “We won’t know that until I try, Tom.”

  He held her gaze, more solemn than she was used to seeing him. “I know I’ve told you the most important thing about secrets.”

  “You’ve got to be able to tell which to latch on to, and which were best let go,” Marceline recited. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Varalen looked up from the letter. “Well, shit.”

  “Precisely,” Elgar muttered, not moving from his position by the window.

  “When did he even get there?”

  “The bloody gods know. I don’t.” Elgar turned sharply on his heel, started pacing the length of the room. “She would go, too. She would go all that way just to spite me, instead of staying in the Fellspire like a sensible—”

  “We don’t know whether she’s actually going,” Varalen objected. “The boy could’ve said so as a bluff, to lure you—”r />
  “I know her,” Elgar said. “She’s going. She wouldn’t miss it for all the gold across the sea.”

  Varalen scratched his cheek. “Well, perhaps. I doubt the boy means to kill her, unless he’s crazy. Which he may well be, I suppose, to attempt such a thing.”

  Elgar stopped at the wall, pressing his clenched fist against the stone. He was pale, paler than usual, dark circles standing out starkly under his eyes. “He was cunning enough to devise this scheme to begin with; he’ll certainly be cunning enough to know killing her will only hurt him. It’s her allegiance he wants, not her death.”

  “No doubt,” Varalen said. “That doesn’t mean he’ll get it.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can allow them to negotiate at all.”

  “That’s just what he wants you to think.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong.” His voice was strangely tremulous, not uncertain but breathless, as if he’d run a great distance. Was he unwell again? Varalen half wondered.

  “It doesn’t mean you should go, either. How can anyone protect you in a place like that, away from your armies?”

  “I won’t be away from my armies,” Elgar said. “The boy may have effectively reclaimed Mist’s Edge”—without spilling a single drop of blood, Varalen thought bitterly—“but that’s all he’s reclaimed. Mist’s Edge is so close to the border it’s practically in Hallarnon; we can march nearly up to his doorstep.”

  Varalen sighed. “If that’s so, my lord, why not just oust him from the castle altogether?”

  Elgar did not answer right away; perhaps he felt at least a little shame at claiming ghosts as a reason. Perhaps. “It does not matter so much if the boy has reclaimed it,” he said at last.

  “Doesn’t matter? Mist’s Edge is a fortress! Second Hearth is a lump in the sand by comparison. Kelken is no doubt moving more of his men into it by the day, and now that they’ve got a foothold there—”

  “If it’s already going to be difficult to remove them, then why are we even discussing it?” Elgar flattened his palm against the stone. “It’s a waste of time.”

  “My lord, if you’d only kept men there to start with—”

  “It’s a waste of time, I said.”

  “As you wish.” Varalen prodded the map in front of him. “Why not have the boy taken care of while you’re there, at least? You might even be able to get rid of Lady Margraine as well.” He knew Elgar would say no; he just wanted to hear him justify it.

  Elgar scowled. “I’m not fool enough to murder my host in his own halls.”

  “Why, will the gods strike you down?”

  “Mind your tongue.” He curled his fingers back into a fist, but stayed by the window, eyes fixed on his hand. “I do not need to explain to you why I will or will not do a thing.”

  And I don’t have to like it, Varalen thought. “My lord, you’re telling me that you actually intend to go, that you intend to simply follow the path this boy has laid out for you and put yourself in danger without any real hope of—”

  “Benefit?” Elgar laid his free hand atop his fist. “There will be benefits. I have wanted to lay eyes on Arianrod Margraine for some time, and this way I can take the measure of the boy as well.”

  And that paltry advantage was worth such a risk? Well, Varalen supposed it wasn’t his neck at stake. “If you think that is worth the trouble, my lord, the choice is yours to make.”

  “Indeed it is.” Elgar smiled thinly. “There’s no need to look so put out, Varalen. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you behind.”

  Varalen tried not to visibly start up in his chair. “What?”

  Elgar’s smile did not fade. “How could I attempt such a journey without my trusted strategist by my side? I’d be woefully unprepared.”

  You just want to make sure I don’t have the pleasure of escaping any fate that ensnares you. “Will you … will you not be taking Shinsei, my lord?”

  Elgar’s face darkened. “No.”

  Varalen might have pressed the issue, but he didn’t think that was wise at the moment. One thing he was becoming more and more certain of, though—Shinsei wasn’t supposed to have been away this long. Elgar was certainly used to sending the man off on strange errands, but he was eager to start his advance into Reglay, and he was becoming ever more distressed and evasive whenever Varalen brought Shinsei into the conversation. Varalen didn’t know if Shinsei had rebelled or if whatever task he’d been sent to accomplish was just taking longer than usual, but either way, it was clear things were not going according to plan.

  “If you are determined to go without him,” he said, “how are we to defend ourselves? Strategist or not, I can hardly help you if we’re attacked outright.”

  Elgar waved the question away. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll choose enough of my men.”

  Easy enough to say not to worry about it, wasn’t it? Gods, what a bloody disaster. “I hope you know what you’re doing, my lord.”

  Elgar stroked his beard. “Yes, you had better.”

  * * *

  “No,” Gravis said. “This is unacceptable.”

  The marquise smirked at him. “My, that sounds serious.”

  “My lady, going at all is the highest folly—”

  “I have explained to you, several times in fact, why that is an erroneous—”

  “But I did not object,” Gravis persisted, running over her words, “because I knew you could not be persuaded otherwise. But to expect me to stay behind while you rush headlong into danger—did you ever truly think I would heed such an order? I refuse.”

  As usual, his agitation only amused her. “You refuse? What about your oath?”

  “I swore to protect you, not to obey you,” Gravis said. “I am the greatest of my men, as you well know. Almasy is talented, to be sure—more talented than I am, I admit—”

  Lady Margraine rolled her eyes. “You needn’t remind me of your deficiencies, Gravis. I am fully aware that there is no command Seren could not carry out more excellently than you—except, perhaps, for bore me.”

  Gravis ignored that. “She is competent, and she has defended you well in the past. But she is only one person, and the rest of your guard lack my skill. I must go with you, for your own safety.”

  The marquise raised her eyebrows, though her voice showed no trace of surprise. “You’re so concerned for my welfare, Gravis? I’ve half a mind to be touched. And here I was under the impression you didn’t care for me.”

  Gravis gritted his teeth. “My lady, I am sure I need not explain to you that personal likings and dislikings have nothing to do with it. My oath is my oath, and even without it, your death would be an unmitigated disaster for Esthrades. As you insist on not marrying—”

  “I do insist on it,” the marquise agreed. “Marriage means boredom, and I have sworn never to be bored.”

  “As you insist on not marrying,” Gravis continued, “you are all that stands between this kingdom and utter chaos.” Though you hardly act like it, he didn’t add.

  “Believe me, Gravis, I’m far less eager to die than you are. But I cannot leave Esthrades’s administration to fools while I’m gone. You may be boring, but you are also dependable, and I can trust you to make generally competent decisions without trying to seize anything for yourself.”

  “Why not do as your father did on his campaigns, and”—too late, Gravis realized he should not have introduced the idea in such a way, but he kept on—“and set up the customary quarter-court?” The quarter-court, according to tradition, was made up of one scholar to read the law, two marquis-appointed judges to interpret it, and one scribe to record all facts and decisions; all judgments made during its tenure were then subject to review and amendment upon the marquis’s return.

  Lady Margraine propped her chin on her hand somewhat wearily, but she did not look dismissive. “I could do that, but that just means I have to go through it all when I get back.”

  Gravis tried not to smile—when had more reading ever been a problem
for her? “My lady, you’d want to look it over yourself even if you had me take care of it.” She prized her control far too much not to, but he didn’t say that.

  “Hmm. That’s true.” She tapped her jaw. “And the judges?”

  Gravis did smile then. “My men have returned from Woodhearth by now, but even if they had not, I would be able to provide you with two honest men, at least.”

  Lady Margraine let out a little huff of breath, but she was sitting up now, pressing her fingertips together. “Well, Gravis,” she said, after only a slight pause, “I’m as surprised as you are, but you may actually have convinced me. If you truly want to defend me so much, I suppose I can grant your wish.”

  Gravis bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

  She waved him off. “I do hope you don’t require much on the road, as I don’t intend to delay our departure on your account. And give me the names for the quarter-court so I can draw up the writ.”

  “Dent will do it fairly,” Gravis said, “and Kern—hmm, no, Kern’s maybe a bit too eager. You wouldn’t want to find the wrong person had been executed when you got back. Benwick’s not as sharp, but he’s more solid.”

  “Fair enough.” She had already started writing, but she looked up. “Gravis, I was not being metaphorical when I said I was leaving in two hours, so put your affairs in order or I will literally leave you on the steps of Stonespire.”

  Gravis bowed again, and quickly withdrew to head for the barracks. He didn’t need much in the way of supplies, but if he hurried, he could get in a quick word to Dent and Benwick before he left.

  He didn’t find either of them in the barracks, or in the kitchens, but Kern was there, wolfing down the last of his breakfast. He looked up expectantly when Gravis caught his eye. “Captain Ingret? Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

  Had Kern been five years older, Gravis really would have recommended him for the quarter-court—he was quick-witted and thorough, with a dedication to duty uncommon in one so young. But fire could not always stand in for experience, as Gravis well knew, and in situations where quills, not swords, were called for, it was best to let cooler, grayer heads take the lead. “I can’t stay long,” he said, “but since you’re here, there’s something I wish to tell you: her ladyship has allowed a quarter-court to be appointed in her stead for the duration of her journey to Reglay.”