Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “About time,” Mauvin greeted them. “Alric just sent me to look for you.”

  Two years had passed since his brother Fanen’s death, and Mauvin still dressed in black. The haunted look in his eyes would be unnoticeable to most. Only those who had known him before the contest in Dahlgren would see the difference. That had been when Sentinel Luis Guy attacked Hadrian with a force of Seret Knights, and Mauvin and Fanen had taken up arms with him. The brothers had fought masterfully, as was the nature of Pickerings. Yet Mauvin had been unable to save his brother from the killing stroke. Before that day, Mauvin Pickering had been bright, loud, and joyful. He had worn a permanent smile and challenged the world with a wink and a laugh. Now he stood with his shoulders slumped and his chin dipped.

  “You’re wearing it again?” Hadrian gestured toward Mauvin’s sword.

  “They insisted.”

  “Have you drawn it?”

  Mauvin looked at his feet. “Dad says it doesn’t matter. If the need arises, he’s certain I won’t hesitate.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Mostly I try not to.” Mauvin opened the doors to the hall and let them swing wide. He led Royce and Hadrian past the clerk and the door guards into the reception hall. Tall windows let in the late-morning light, casting bright spears on the parquet floor. The great tapestries still lay rolled in bundles against the wall, stacked in hope of a better day. In their places, maps with red lines covered by blue arrows pointing south plastered the walls.

  Alone, Alric paced near the windows, his crowned head bowed and his mantle trailing behind him like—like a king, Hadrian thought. Alric looked up as they entered, and pushed the rim of the royal diadem back with his thumb.

  “What took you so long?”

  “We ate breakfast, Your Majesty,” Royce replied.

  “You ate break—Never mind.” The king held out a rolled parchment. “I’m told you delivered this dispatch to the castle this morning?”

  “Not me,” Royce said. Unrolling it, he found two parchments and began reading.

  “I did,” Hadrian admitted. “I just arrived from Ratibor. Your sister has matters well in hand, Your Majesty.”

  Alric scowled. “Who sent this?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hadrian replied. “I got it from a man named Price in Colnora.”

  Royce finished reading and looked up. “I think you’re about to lose this war,” he said without bothering to add the expected Your Majesty.

  “Don’t be absurd. This is likely a hoax. Ecton is probably behind it. He enjoys seeing me make a fool of myself. Even if it’s authentic, it’s simply someone making wild claims to extort a bit of gold from the New Empire.”

  “I don’t think so.” Royce handed the letter to Hadrian.

  King Alric—

  Found this on a courier traveling from Calis to Aquesta. Sweepers bumped him in Alburn but he was more than he seemed. Three Diamonds dead. Bucket men caught him and found this letter addressed to the regents. The Jewel thought you’d like to know.

  Esteemed Regents,

  The fall of Ratibor was unexpected and unfortunate but, as you know, not fatal. Thus far, I have delivered Degan Gaunt and eliminated the wizard Esrahaddon. This completes two-thirds of our contract, but the best is yet to come.

  The Emerald Storm rests anchored in Aquesta Harbor, ready to sail. When you receive this message, place the payment on board along with the sealed orders I left. Once loaded, the ship will depart, the fortunes of war will shift, and your victory will be assured. With the Nationalists eliminated, Melengar is yours for the taking.

  While I have all the time in the world, you, on the other hand, might wish to make haste, lest the flame you call the New Empire is snuffed out.

  Merrick Marius

  “Merrick?” Hadrian muttered, and looked at Royce. “Is this …?”

  Royce nodded.

  “You know this Marius?” Alric asked.

  Again, Royce nodded. “Which is why I know you’re in trouble.”

  “And do you know who sent this?”

  “Cosmos DeLur.”

  “Isn’t Cosmos a wealthy merchant in Colnora?”

  “He’s also the leader of the thieves’ guild known as the Black Diamond.”

  Alric paused to consider this, then paced once more. “Why would he send this to me?”

  “The Diamond wants the Imps out of Colnora. I guess with Gaunt gone, Cosmos thought you could make the best use of this information.”

  Alric stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So who is this Merrick fellow? How do you know him?”

  “We were friends when I was a member of the Diamond.”

  “Excellent. Find him and ask what this is all about.”

  Royce shook his head. “I have no idea where Merrick is, and we’re not on good terms anymore. He won’t tell me anything.”

  Alric sighed. “I don’t care what kind of terms you’re on. Find him, resolve your differences, and get me the information I need.”

  Royce said nothing and Hadrian hesitantly added, “Merrick had Royce sent to Manzant after he mistakenly killed the woman Merrick loved.”

  Alric stopped pacing and stared. “Manzant Prison? But no one ever leaves Manzant.”

  “That was the plan. I was happy to disappoint him,” Royce replied.

  “Nowadays, Royce and Merrick have an unspoken agreement to stay out of each other’s way.”

  “So how can I find out if this Merrick is just boasting, or if there is a real threat to Melengar?”

  “Merrick doesn’t boast. If he says he can turn the war in the New Empire’s favor, he can. I suggest you take this seriously.” Royce thought a moment. “If I were you, I’d send someone to deliver this message and then stow away on this ship and see where it leads.”

  “Fine. Do that, and let me know what you find out.”

  Royce shook his head. “We’re retired. Only a week ago I came here and explained how—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! You said to take his threat seriously, which is why I need my best—and that means you.”

  “Pick someone else,” Royce said firmly.

  “All right, how much do you want? It’s land this time, right? Fine. As it happens, Baron Milborough of Three Fords was killed in battle a few weeks ago. He doesn’t have any sons, so I’ll grant you his estate if you succeed. Land, title—all of it.”

  “I don’t want land. I don’t want anything. I’m retired.”

  “By Mar, man!” Alric shouted. “The future of the kingdom may depend on this. I’m the king and—”

  Hadrian interrupted. “I’ll do it.”

  “What?” Alric and Royce asked together. “I said I’ll go.”

  “You can’t take this job,” Royce told him as they walked back to The Rose and Thorn.

  “I have to. If Esrahaddon is dead, Merrick is my only chance to find Gaunt. Do you think he really could have done it?”

  “Merrick wouldn’t lie to a client about a job.”

  “But Esrahaddon was a wizard. He’s survived a thousand years—I can’t imagine he could be murdered by a common killer.”

  “I just said it was Merrick. He’s not common.”

  As the two walked through an empty Gentry Square, even the bells of Mares Cathedral were silent. Hadrian sighed. “Then I’m on my own in finding the heir now. If I follow the payment to Merrick, I’ll be halfway to finding Gaunt.”

  “Hadrian.” Royce placed a hand on his friend’s arm, stopping them mid-step. “You’re not up to this. You don’t know Merrick. Think a minute. If he can kill a wizard, one who could create pillars of fire even without hands, what do you think your chances are? You’re a good—no, you’re a great—fighter, the best I’ve ever seen, but Merrick is a genius and he’s ruthless. You go after him, he’ll know, and he’ll kill you.”

  They were across from Lester Furl’s old haberdashery in Artisan Row, the shop that the monk Myron once worked in. The sign of the cavalier hat still hung out front, but th
e place was empty.

  “Listen, I’m not asking you to come. I know you’re marrying Gwen. Congratulations on that, by the way. And it’s about time, I might add. This isn’t your problem. It’s mine. It’s what I was born to do. What my father trained me for. Protecting Gaunt, and finding a way to put him on the imperial throne—that’s my destiny.”

  Royce rolled his eyes.

  “I know you don’t believe that, but I do.”

  “Gaunt could be dead already, you know? If Merrick killed Esrahaddon, he might have slit Gaunt’s throat too.”

  “I still have to go. By now, even you must see that.”

  When they reached The Rose and Thorn, Gwen was waiting with anxious eyes. She stood on the porch, her arms crossed, clutching her shawl. The autumn wind brushed her skirt and hair. Behind her, within the darkened interior, patrons talked loudly around the bar.

  “It’s okay,” Hadrian reassured her as they approached. “I’m taking the job, but Royce is staying. With luck I’ll be back for—”

  “Go with him,” Gwen told Royce firmly.

  “No—really, Gwen,” Hadrian said, “it’s nothing—”

  “You have to go with him.”

  “What’s wrong?” Royce asked. “I thought we were getting married. Don’t you want to?”

  Gwen closed her eyes, shaken. Then her hands clenched into fists and she straightened. “You must go. Hadrian will be killed if you don’t—and then you … you …”

  Royce took her in his arms on the steps of the tavern and held her as she began to cry.

  “You have to go,” Gwen said, her voice muffled by Royce’s shoulder. “Nothing will be right if you don’t. I can’t marry you—I won’t marry you—if you don’t. Tell me you’ll go, please, Royce, please …”

  Royce gave Hadrian a puzzled glance and whispered, “Okay.”

  “Here, I made this for you,” Gwen said to Royce, holding out a folded bit of knitted cloth. They were in Gwen’s room at the top of the stairs of Medford House and he had just finished packing.

  He held it up. “A scarf?”

  Gwen smiled. “Since I’m going to be married, I thought I should take up knitting. I hear that’s what proper wives do for their husbands.”

  Royce started to laugh but stopped when he saw her expression. “This is important to you, isn’t it? You realize you’ve always been better than all those ladies in the Merchant Quarter. Having a husband doesn’t make them special.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just … I know you had a less than perfect childhood, and so did I. I want something better for our children. I want their lives—our home—to be perfect, or as much as possible for a pair such as us.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve met dozens of aristocrats who had ideal childhoods and they turned out to be horrors. You, on the other hand, are the best person I’ve ever met.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s nice, but I highly doubt you would approve of our daughter working here. And would you really want our son living the way you did as a boy? We can raise them right. Just because they grow up in a proper home doesn’t mean they will turn out to be horrors. You’ll be firm, and I’ll be loving. You’ll spank little Elias when he acts disrespectfully, and I’ll kiss his tears and give him cookies.”

  “Elias? You’ve named our son already?”

  “Would you prefer Sterling? I can’t decide between the two. But the girl’s name is not negotiable—it’s Mercedes. I’ve always loved that name.

  “I’ll sell this house and my other holdings. Combined with the money I banked for you, we’ll never want for anything. We can live peaceful, happy, simple lives—I mean, if you want to live like that. Do you?”

  He looked into her eyes. “Gwen, if it means being with you, I don’t care where we are or what I do.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Gwen grinned and her eyes brightened. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of …the two of us in a small cottage somewhere safe and warm, raising a family.”

  “You make us sound like squirrels.”

  “Yes, exactly! A family of squirrels tucked in our cozy nest in some tree trunk while the troubles of the world pass us by.” Her lower lip quivered.

  Royce pulled her close and held her tight as she buried her face in his shoulder. He stroked her head, feeling her hair linger on his fingertips. For all Gwen’s strength and courage, he was forever amazed at how fragile she could be. He had never known anyone like her, and he considered telling Hadrian that he had changed his mind. “Gwen—”

  “Don’t even think it,” she told him. “We can’t build a new life until you’re done with the old one. Hadrian needs you, and I won’t be blamed for his death.”

  “I could never blame you.”

  “I couldn’t bear it if I felt you hated me, Royce. I’d rather be dead than let that happen. Promise me you’ll go. Promise me you’ll take care of Hadrian. Promise me you won’t despair, and that you’ll set things right.”

  Royce let his head lower until it rested on hers. He stood there, smelling the familiar scent of her hair as his own breathing tightened. “All right, but you have to agree to go to the abbey if things get bad like they did before.”

  “I will,” she said. Her arms tightened around him. “I’m so scared,” she whispered.

  Surprised, Royce said, “You’ve always told me you were never frightened when I left on missions.”

  She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and a guilty expression on her face. “I lied.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE COURIER

  Hadrian stood in the anteroom, waiting in line to deliver the dispatch. The clerk was a short, plump, balding man with ink-stained fingers and a spare quill behind each ear. He sat behind a formidable desk, scribbling on documents and muttering to himself, unconcerned with the growing line of people.

  Hadrian and Royce had ridden to Aquesta, and Hadrian had volunteered to deliver the dispatch while Royce waited at a rendezvous with horses at the ready. Although Hadrian had performed jobs for many of the nobility, few here would know him by sight. Riyria had always conducted business anonymously, working through third parties, such as Viscount Albert Winslow, who fronted the organization and preserved their anonymity. He doubted that Saldur would recognize him, but Luis Guy certainly would. As a result, Hadrian kept a clear map of the nearest exit in his head and a count of the imperial guards between him and freedom.

  The seat of the New Imperial Empire was busy. Members of the palace staff hurried by, entering and exiting through the many doors around him. They ran or walked as briskly as need dictated and dignity allowed. Some turned his way, but only briefly. As he knew from experience, the degree of attention someone paid others was inversely proportional to his or her status. The lord chamberlain and high chancellor passed without a glance, while the serving steward ventured a long look, and a young page stared curiously for nearly a full minute. Although Hadrian was invisible to those at the highest levels, he was becoming uncomfortable.

  This is taking too long.

  Two dispatch riders reached the front of the line, quickly dropped off their satchels, and left. A city merchant was next and had come to file a complaint. This took some time, as the clerk asked numerous questions and meticulously recorded each answer.

  Next came the young, plain-looking woman directly ahead of Hadrian. “Tell the chamberlain I wish an audience,” she said, stepping forward. She wore no makeup, leaving her face dull. Her hair, pulled back and drawn up in a net, did nothing to accentuate her appearance. She was pear-shaped, a feature made even more evident by her gown, which flared at the hips into a great hoop.

  “The lord chamberlain is in a meeting with the regents and cannot be disturbed, Your Ladyship.”

  The words were proper, but the tone was disrespectful. The inflection on ladyship sounded particularly sarcastic. The woman either did not notice or chose to ignore it.

  “He’s been ducking me for over a week,” the woman said accusingly. “Something must
be done. I need material for the empress’s new dress.”

  “My records indicate that quite a large sum was spent on a gown for Modina recently. We’re at war and have more important appropriations to make.”

  “That was for her presentation on the balcony. She can’t walk around in that. I’m talking about a day dress.”

  “It was very expensive nonetheless. You don’t want to take food from our soldiers’ mouths just so the empress can have another pretty outfit, do you?”

  “Another? She has two worn hand-me-downs!”

  “Which is more than many of her subjects, isn’t it?”

  “The empire has spent a fortune remodeling this palace. Surely it won’t break the imperial economy to buy a bit of cloth. She doesn’t need silk. Linen will do. I’ll have the seamstress—”

  “I’m quite certain that if the lord chamberlain thought the empress needed another dress, he would provide one. Since he has not, she doesn’t need it. Now, Amilia,” he said brazenly, “if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  The woman’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Footsteps echoed from behind them, and the small man’s smug expression faltered. Hadrian turned and saw the farm girl he had once known as Thrace walking up, flanked by an armed guard. Her dress was faded and frayed, just as Amilia had said, but the young woman stood tall, straight, and unabashed. She motioned to the guard to wait as she moved to the front of the line to face the clerk.

  “Lady Amilia speaks with my authority. Please do as she has requested,” Thrace said.

  The clerk looked confused. His bright eyes flickered nervously between the two.

  Thrace continued, “I’m sure you do not wish to refuse an order from your empress, do you?”

  The scribe lowered his voice, but his irritation still carried as he addressed Amilia. “If you think I’m going to kneel before your trained dog, you’re mistaken. She’s as insane as rumored. I’m not as ignorant as the castle staff, and I’m not going to be toyed with by common trash. Get out of here, both of you. I don’t have time for foolishness this morning.”