Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “They won’t destroy Ratibor!” the fat man shouted back. “You’re just spouting rumors, trying to scare decent people and stir up trouble. Armies will fight, and maybe the city will change hands, but it won’t affect us. We’ll still be poor and still struggling to live, as we always have. King Urith had his wars and Viceroy Androus will have his. We work, fight, and die under both of them. That’s our lot and treasonous talk like this will only get people killed.”

  “They will burn the city,” an older woman in a blue kerchief said suddenly. “Just as they burned Kilnar. I know. I was there. I saw them.”

  All eyes turned to her.

  “That’s not true! It can’t be,” the fat man protested. “It doesn’t make sense. The Nationalists have no cause to burn the cities. They would want them intact.”

  “The Nationalists didn’t burn it,” she said. “The empire did.” This statement brought the room to stunned silence. “When the imperial government saw that the city would be lost, they ordered Kilnar to be torched to leave nothing for the Nationalists.”

  “It’s true,” said a man seated with his family near the kitchen. “We lived in Vernes. I saw the city guards burning the shops and homes there too.”

  “The same will happen here.” The youth caught the crowd’s attention once more. “Unless we do something about it.”

  “What can we do?” a young mother asked.

  “We can join the Nationalists. We can give the city to them before the viceroy has a chance to torch it.”

  “This is treason,” the fat man said. “You’ll bring death to us all!”

  “The empire took Rhenydd through deceit, murder, and trickery. I don’t speak treason. I speak loyalty—loyalty to the monarchy. To sit by and let the empire rape this kingdom and burn this city is treason and, what’s more, it’s foolhardy cowardice!”

  “Are you calling me a coward?”

  “No, sir, I’m calling you a fool and a coward.”

  The fat man stood up indignantly and drew a dagger from his belt. “I demand satisfaction.”

  The youth stood and unsheathed a long sword. “As you wish.”

  “You would duel me sword against dagger and call me the coward?”

  “I also called you a fool, and a fool it is who holds a dagger and challenges a man with a sword.”

  Several people in the room laughed at this, which only infuriated the fat man more. “Do you have no honor?”

  “I’m but a poor soldier’s son from a destitute town. I can’t afford honor.” Again, the crowd laughed. “I’m also a practical man, who knows it’s more important to win than to die—for honor is something that concerns only the living. But understand this: if you choose to fight me, I’ll kill you any way I can, the same way that I’ll try to save this city and its people any way I can. Honor and allegiance be damned!”

  The crowd applauded now, much to the chagrin of the fat man. Red-faced, he stood for a moment, then shoved his dagger back in his belt and abruptly stalked out the door into the rain.

  “But how can we turn the city over to the Nationalists?” the old woman asked.

  The youth turned to her. “If we raise a militia, we can raid the armory and storm the city garrison. After that, we’ll arrest the viceroy. That will give us the city. The imperial army is camped a mile to the south. When the Nationalists attack, they will expect to retreat to the safety of the city walls. But when they arrive, they will find the gates locked. In disarray and turmoil, they will be routed and the Nationalists will destroy them. After that, we’ll welcome the Nationalists in as allies. Given our assistance in helping them take the city, we can expect fair treatment and possibly even self-rule, as that is the Nationalists’ creed.

  “Imagine that,” he said dreamily. “Ratibor, the whole city—the whole kingdom of Rhenydd—being run by a people’s council, just like Tur Del Fur!”

  This clearly caught the imagination of many in the room.

  “Craftsmen could own their own shops instead of renting. Farmers would own their land and be able to pass it tax-free to their sons. Merchants could set their own rates and taxes wouldn’t be used to pay for foreign wars. Instead, that money can be used to clean up this town. We could pave the roads, tear down the vacant buildings, and put all the people of the city to work doing it. We would elect our own sheriffs and bailiffs, but they would have little to do, for what crime could there be in a free city? Freemen with their own property have no cause for crime.”

  “I would be willing to fight for that,” a man seated with his family near the windows said.

  “For paved roads, I would too,” said the elderly woman.

  “I’d like to own my own land,” another said.

  Others voiced their interest and soon the conversation turned more serious. The level of the voices dropped and men clustered together to speak in small groups.

  “You’re not from Rhenydd, are you?” someone asked Arista.

  The princess nearly jumped when she discovered a woman had slipped in beside her. She was not immediately certain that it was a woman, as she was oddly dressed in dark britches and a man’s loose shirt. Arista initially thought she was an adolescent boy, due to her short blonde hair and dappled freckles, but her eyes gave her away. They were heavy and deep, as if stolen from a much older person.

  “No,” Arista said apprehensively.

  The woman studied Arista, her old eyes slowly moving over her body as if she were memorizing every line of her figure and every crease in her dress. “You have an odd way about you. The way you walk, the way you sit. It’s all very … precise, very … proper.”

  Arista was over being startled now and was just plain irritated. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who should accuse others of being odd,” she replied.

  “There!” the woman said excitedly, and wagged a finger. “See? Anyone else would have called me a mannish little whore. You have manners. You speak in subtle innuendo, like a … princess.”

  “Who are you?” Hadrian abruptly intervened, moving between the two. Royce also appeared from the shadows behind the strange woman.

  “Who are you?” she replied saucily.

  The door to The Laughing Gnome burst open and uniformed imperial guards poured in. Tables were turned over and drinks hit the floor. Customers nearest the door fell back in fear, cowering in the corners, or were pushed aside.

  “Arrest everyone!” a man ordered in a booming voice. He was a big man with a potbelly, dark brows, and sagging cheeks. He kept his weight on his heels and his thumbs in his belt as he glared at the crowd.

  “What’s this all about, Trenchon?” Ayers shouted from behind the bar.

  “You would be smart to keep your hole shut, Ayers, or I’ll close this tavern tonight and have you in stocks by morning—or worse. Harboring traitors and providing a meeting place for conspirators will buy you death at the post!”

  “I didn’t do nothing!” Ayers cried. “It was the kid. He’s the one that started all the talk, and that woman from Kilnar. They’re the ones. I just served drinks like every night. I’m not responsible for what customers say. I’m not involved in this. It was them and a few of the others who were going along with it.”

  “Take everyone in for questioning,” Trenchon ordered. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I want the ringleaders!”

  “This way,” the mannish woman whispered. Grabbing Arista’s arm, she began to pull the princess away from the soldiers toward the kitchen.

  Arista pulled back.

  The woman sighed. “Unless you want to have a long talk with the viceroy about who you are and what you’re doing here, you’ll follow me now.”

  Arista looked at Royce, who nodded, but there was concern on his face. They grabbed up their bags and followed.

  Starting at the main entrance, the imperial soldiers began hauling people out into the rain and mud. Women screamed and children cried. Those who resisted were beaten and thrown out. Some near the rear door tried to run, onl
y to find more soldiers waiting.

  The mannish woman plowed through the crowd into the tavern’s kitchen, where a cook looked over, surprised. “Best look out,” their guide said. “Trenchon is looking to arrest everyone.”

  The cook dropped her ladle in shock as they pressed by her, heading to the walk-in pantry. Closing the door, the woman revealed a trapdoor in the pantry’s floor. They climbed down a short wooden stair into The Laughing Gnome’s wine cellar. Several dusty bottles lined the walls, as did casks of cheese and containers of butter. The woman took a lantern that hung from the ceiling and, closing the door above, led them behind the wine racks to the cellar’s far wall. There was a metal grate in the floor. She wedged a piece of old timber in the bars and pried it up.

  “Inside, all of you,” she ordered.

  Above, they could still hear the screams and shouts, then the sound of heavy boots on the kitchen floor.

  “Hurry!” she whispered.

  Royce entered first, climbing down metal rungs that formed a ladder. He slipped into darkness and Hadrian motioned for the princess to follow. She took a deep breath as if going underwater and climbed down.

  The ladder continued far deeper than Arista would have expected, and instead of the tight, cramped tunnel she anticipated, she found herself dropping into a large gallery. It was completely dark, except around the lantern, and the smell was unmistakable. Without pause or a word of direction, the woman walked away. They had no choice but to follow her light.

  They were in a sewer far larger and grander than Arista had imagined possible after seeing the city above. Walls of brick and stone rose twelve feet to a roof of decorative mosaic tiles. Every few feet grates formed waterfalls that spilled from the ceiling, raining down with a deafening roar. Storm water frothed and foamed in the center of the tunnel as it churned around corners and broke upon dividers, spraying walls and staining them dark.

  They chased the woman with the lantern as she moved quickly along the brick curb near the wall. Like ribs supporting the ceiling, thick stone archways jutted out at regular intervals, blocking their path. The woman skirted around these easily, but it was much harder for Arista in her gown to traverse the columns and keep her footing on the slick stone curb. Below her, the storm’s runoff created a fast-flowing river of dirty water and debris that echoed in the chamber.

  The corridor reached a four-way intersection. In the stone at the top corners were chiseled small notations. These read HONOR WAY going one direction and HERALD’S STREET going the other. The woman with the lantern never wavered, and turned without a pause, leading them down Honor Way at a breakneck pace. Abruptly, she stopped.

  They stood on a curb beside the sewer river, which was like any other part of the corridor they had traveled except a bit wider and quieter.

  “Before we go further, I must be certain,” she began. “Allow me to make things easier by guessing the lady here is actually Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar. You are Hadrian Blackwater, and you’re Duster, the famous Demon of Colnora. Am I correct?”

  “That would make you a Diamond,” Royce said.

  “At your service.” She smiled, and Arista thought how catlike her face was, in that she appeared both friendly and sinister at the same time. “You can call me Quartz.”

  “In that case, you can assume you’re correct.”

  “Thanks for getting us out of there,” Hadrian offered.

  “No need to thank me. It’s my job and, in this particular case, my happy pleasure. We didn’t know where you were since leaving Colnora, but I was hoping you would happen by this way. Now follow me.”

  Off she sprang again, and Arista once more struggled to follow.

  “How is this here?” Hadrian asked from somewhere behind Arista. “This sewer is incredible but the city above has dirt roads.”

  “Ratibor wasn’t always Ratibor,” Quartz shouted back. “Once it was something bigger. All that’s been forgotten—buried like this sewer under centuries of dirt and manure.”

  They moved on down the tunnel until they came to an alcove, little more than a recessed area surrounded by brick. Quartz leaned up against a wooden panel and gave a strong shove. The back shifted inward slightly. She put her fingers in the crack and slid the panel sideways, exposing a hidden tunnel. They entered and traveled up a short set of steps to a wooden door. Light seeped around its cracks and voices could be heard from the other side. Quartz knocked and opened it, revealing a large subterranean chamber filled with people.

  Tables, chairs, desks, and bunk beds stacked four high filled the room, lit by numerous candles that spilled a wealth of waxy tears. A fire burned in a blackened cooking hearth, where a huge iron pot was suspended by a swivel arm. Several large chests lay open, displaying sorted contents of silverware, candlesticks, clothes, hats, cloaks, and even dresses. Still other chests held purses, shoes, and rope. At least one was partially filled with coins, mostly copper, but Arista spotted a few silver and an occasional gold tenent sparkling in the firelight. This last chest they closed the moment the door opened.

  A dozen people filled the room, all young, thin predators, each dressed in an odd assortment of clothing.

  “Welcome to the Rat’s Nest,” Quartz told them. “Rats, let me introduce you to the three travelers from Colnora.” Shoulders settled, hands pulled back from weapons, and Arista heard a number of exhales. “The older gent back there is Polish.” Quartz pointed over some heads at a tall, thin man with a scraggly beard and drooping eyes. He sported a tall black hat and a dramatic-looking cloak, like something a bishop would wear. “He’s our fearless leader.”

  This comment drew a round of laughter.

  “Damn you, Quartz!” a boy no older than nine cursed her.

  “Sorry, Carat,” she told him. “They just walked into the Gnome while I was there.”

  “We heard the Imps just crashed the Gnome,” Polish said.

  “Aye, they did.” Quartz gleamed.

  Eyes left them and focused abruptly on Quartz, who allowed herself a dramatic pause as she took a seat on a soft, beat-up chair, throwing her legs over the arm in a cavalier fashion. She obviously enjoyed the attention as the members of the room gathered around her.

  “Emery was speeching again,” she began like a master storyteller addressing an eager audience. “This time people were actually listening. He might have gotten something started, but he got under Laven’s skin. Laven challenged him to a duel, but Emery says he’ll fight sword to dagger, which really irks Laven and he storms out of the Gnome. Emery shoulda known to beat it then, but the dispute with Laven gets him in real good with the crowd, see, so he keeps going.”

  Arista noticed the thieves hanging on every word. They were enthralled as Quartz added to her tale’s drama with sweeping arm gestures.

  “Laven, being the bastard that he is, goes to Bailiff Trenchon, right? And returns with the town garrison. They bust in and start arresting everyone for treason.”

  “What’d Ayers do?” Polish asked excitedly.

  “What could he do? He says, ‘What’s going on?’ and they tell him to shut up, so he does.”

  “Anyone killed?” Carat asked.

  “None that I saw, but I had to beat it out of there real quick like to save our guests here.”

  “Did they take Emery?”

  “I suppose so, but I didn’t see it.”

  Polish crossed the room to face them up close. He nodded as if in approval and pulled absently on his thin beard.

  “Princess Arista,” he said formally, and tipped his hat as he made a clumsy bow. “Please excuse the place. We don’t often entertain guests of your stature here, and quite frankly, we didn’t know when, or even if, you’d be coming.”

  “If we had known, we’d have at least washed the rats!” someone in the back shouted, bringing more laughter.

  “Quiet, you reprobate. You must forgive them, milady. They’re the lowest form of degenerates and their lifestyle only aggravates their condition. I try to elevate
them, but as you can see, I’ve been less than successful.”

  “That’s because you’re the biggest blackguard here, Polish,” Quartz shot at him.

  Polish ignored the comment and moved to face Royce. “Duster?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  At the mention of that name, the whole room quieted and everyone pushed forward to get a better look.

  “I thought he was bigger,” someone said.

  “That’s not Duster,” Carat declared, bravely stepping forward. “He’s just an old man.”

  “Carat,” Quartz said dismissively, “the cobbler’s new puppy is old compared to you.”

  This brought forth more laughter and Carat kicked Quartz’s feet off the chair’s arm. “Shut up, freckle face.”

  “The lad makes a good point,” Polish said.

  “I don’t have that many freckles,” Quartz countered.

  Polish rolled his eyes. “No, I meant just how do we really know this is Duster and the princess? Could be the Imps knew we were looking and are setting us up. Do you have any proof about who you are?”

  As he said this, Arista noticed Polish let his hand drift casually to the long black dagger at his belt. Others in the room began to spread out, making slow but menacing movements. Only Quartz remained at ease on her chair.

  Hadrian looked a bit concerned as Royce cast off his cloak, letting it fall to the floor. Eyes narrowed on him as they stared at the white-bladed dagger in his belt. Everyone waited anxiously for his next move. Royce surprised them by slowly unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it down to expose his left shoulder, revealing a scarred brand in the shape of an M.

  Polish leaned forward and studied the scar. “The Mark of Manzant,” he said, and his expression changed to one of wonder. “Duster is the only living man known to have escaped that prison.”

  They all nodded and murmured in awed tones as Royce put his cloak back on.

  “He still doesn’t look like no monster to me,” Carat said with disdain.