Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Amilia cringed openly, but Thrace did not waver. “Tell me, Quail, do you think the palace guards share your opinions of me?” She looked back at the soldier. “If I were to call him over and accuse you of … let’s see … being a traitor, and then … let me think … order him to execute you right here, what do you think he would do?”

  The clerk looked suspiciously at Thrace, as if trying to see behind a mask. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his eyes shifting between the two women.

  “No? Why not?” Thrace replied. “You just said yourself that I’m insane. There’s no telling what I might do, or why. From now on, you’ll treat Lady Amilia with respect and obey her orders as if they come from the highest authority. Do you understand?”

  The clerk nodded slowly.

  As Thrace turned to leave, she caught sight of Hadrian and stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. Her eyes locked on his and she staggered a step and stood, wavering.

  Amilia reached out to support her. “Modina, what’s wrong?”

  Thrace said nothing. She continued to stare at him—her eyes filling with tears, her lips trembling.

  The door to the main office opened.

  “I don’t want to hear another word about it!” Ethelred thundered as he, Saldur, and Archibald Ballentyne entered the anteroom together. Hadrian looked toward the hall window, estimating the number of steps it would take to reach it.

  The old cleric focused on Thrace. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’m taking Her Eminence back to her room,” Amilia replied. “I don’t think she’s feeling well.”

  “They were requesting material for a new dress,” the clerk announced with an accusing tone.

  “Well, obviously she needs one. Why is she still wearing that rag?” Saldur asked.

  “The lord chamberlain refuses—”

  “What do you need him for?” Saldur scowled. “Just tell the clerk to order what you require. You don’t need to pester Bernard with such trivialities.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Amilia said, placing one arm around Thrace’s waist and supporting her elbow with the other as she gently led her away. Thrace’s eyes never left Hadrian, her head turning over her shoulder as they departed.

  Saldur followed her gaze and looked curiously at Hadrian. “You look familiar,” he said, taking a step toward him.

  “Courier,” Hadrian said, his heart racing. He bowed and held up the message like a shield.

  “He’s probably been here a dozen times, Sauly.” Ethelred snatched the folded parchment and eyed it. “This is from Merrick!”

  All three lost interest in Hadrian as Ethelred unfolded the letter.

  “Your Lordships.” Hadrian bowed, then turned and quickly walked away, passing Amilia and Thrace. With each step, he felt her stare upon his back, until he turned the corner, placing him out of her sight.

  “Any problems?” Royce asked when Hadrian met him outside.

  “Almost. I saw Thrace,” Hadrian said as they walked. “She doesn’t look good. She’s thin—real thin—and pale. She was begging for clothes from some sniveling little clerk.”

  Royce looked back, concerned. “Did she recognize you?”

  Hadrian nodded. “But she didn’t say anything. She just stared.”

  “I guess if she was planning to arrest us, she’d have done it by now,” Royce said.

  “Arrest us? This is Thrace we’re talking about, for Maribor’s sake.”

  “They’ve had her for more than a year—she’s Empress Modina now.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” Hadrian said, remembering the look on Thrace’s face. “She doesn’t look well. I’m not sure what’s going on in the palace, but it’s not good. And I promised her father I’d look out for her.”

  Royce shook his head in frustration. “Can we focus on one rescue at a time? For a man in retirement, you’re really busy. Besides, Theron’s idea of success was to get his eldest son a cooper’s shop. I think he might settle for his daughter being crowned empress. Now, let’s get rid of these horses and make our way down to the wharf. We need to find the Emerald Storm.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE RACE

  while not as large or as wealthy as Colnora, the imperial capital of Aquesta was the most powerful city in Avryn. The palace dated back to before the age of Glenmorgan and had originally been a governor’s residence in the ancient days of the Novronian Empire. Scholars pointed to the gray rock of the castle’s foundation with pride and boasted about how imperial engineers from Percepliquis had laid it. Here, at Highcourt Fields, great tournaments were held each Winter-tide. The best knights from all of Apeladorn arrived to compete in jousting, fencing, and other contests of skill. These weeklong events included an ongoing feast for the nobles and provided healthy revenue for the merchants, who showed their wares along the streets. The city became a carnival of sights and sounds that attracted visitors for hundreds of miles.

  Much of Aquesta’s economic success came from possessing the largest and busiest saltwater port in Avryn. The docks were awash with all manner of sailing watercraft. Brigs, trawlers, grain ships, merchant vessels, and warships all anchored in its harbor. To the south lay the massive shipyard, along with rope, net, and sail manufacturers. The northern end of the bay held the wharf and its fish houses, livestock pens, lumberyards,and tar boilers. All the industries of the sea and seafaring were represented.

  “Which one is the Emerald Storm?” Hadrian asked, looking at the forest of masts and rigging that lined the docks.

  “Let’s try asking at the information office.” Royce hooked his thumb at a tavern perched on the edge of the dock. The wooden walls were bleached white with salt, and the clapboards were warped like ocean waves. The door hung askew off leather hinges, and above it, a weathered sign in the shape of a fish announced THE SALTY MACKEREL.

  The tavern had few windows, leaving the interior dim and smoky. Each tiny table had a melted candle, and a weak fire smoldered in a round brick hearth in the center of the room. Men, dressed in loose trousers, long checkered shirts, and wide-brimmed hats with glossy tops, packed the place. Many sat with pipes in their mouths and their feet on tables. Some stood leaning against posts. All heads turned when Hadrian and Royce entered, and Hadrian realized just how much they stood out in their tunics and cloaks.

  “Hello.” Hadrian smiled as he struggled to close the door. The wind whistled through and snuffed out the three candles nearest them. “Sorry, could use some better hinges.”

  “Iron hinges rust overnight here,” the bartender said. The thin, crooked man wiped the counter with one hand while gathering empty mugs in the other. “What do you two want?”

  “Looking for the Emerald Storm.” Royce spoke up.

  Neither took more than a step inside. None of the haggard faces looked friendly, and Hadrian liked the comfort of a nearby exit.

  “Whatcha want with it?” another man asked.

  “We heard it was a good ship, and we were wondering if there are any openings for sailors.”

  This brought a riotous round of laughter.

  “And where be these sailors who be looking fer a job?” another voice bellowed from within the murky haze. “Certainly not two sand crabs like you.”

  More laughter.

  “So what you’re saying is you don’t know anything about the Emerald Storm. Is that right?” Royce returned in a cutting tone that quieted the room.

  “The Storm is an imperial ship, lad,” the crooked man told them, “and it’s all pressed up. They’re only taking seasoned salts now—if there’s any room left at all.”

  “If yer looking fer work, the fishery always needs gutters. That’s about as close to seafaring work as is likely for you two.”

  Once more the room filled with boisterous laughter.

  Hadrian looked at Royce, who shoved the door open and, with a scowl, stepped outside. “Thanks for the advice,” Hadrian told everyone before fo
llowing his partner.

  They sat on the Mackerel’s steps, staring at the line of ships across the street. Spires of wood draped with tethered cloth looked like ladies getting dressed for a ball. Hadrian wondered if that was why they always referred to ships as women.

  “What now?” he asked softly.

  Royce sat hunched with his chin on his hands. “Thinking,” was all he said.

  Behind them the door scraped open, and the first thing Hadrian noticed was a wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned up by a lavish blue plume.

  The face beneath the hat was familiar, and Royce recognized the man immediately. “Wyatt Deminthal.”

  Wyatt hesitated as he locked eyes with Royce. He stood with one foot still inside. He did not look surprised to see them, but seemed to be merely questioning the wisdom of advancing, like a child who approached a dog that had unexpectedly growled. For a heartbeat no one said a word, and then Wyatt gritted his teeth and pulled the door shut behind him.

  “I can get you on the Storm,” he said quickly.

  Royce narrowed his eyes. “How?”

  “I’m the helmsman. They’re short a cook and can always use another topman. She’s ready to sail as soon as a shipment from the palace arrives.”

  “Why?”

  Wyatt swallowed, and his hand absently drifted to his throat. “I know you saw me. You’re here to collect, but I don’t have the money I owe. Setting you up in Medford was nothing personal. We were starving, and Trumbul paid gold. I didn’t know they were going to arrest you for the king’s murder. I was just hiring you to steal the sword—that’s all. A hundred gold tenents is a lot of money. And honestly—well, I’ve never saved that much in my life and I doubt I ever will.”

  “So you think getting us on the Emerald Storm is worth a hundred gold?”

  Wyatt licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “I don’t know … is it?”

  Royce and Hadrian crossed the busy street, dodging carts, and stepped onto weathered decking suspended by ropes. The boards bobbed and weaved beneath their feet. The two were dressed in loose-fitting duck-trousers, oversized linen shirts, tarpaulin hats with a bit of ribbon, and neckerchiefs tied in some arcane way that Wyatt had fussed with for some time to get right. They both carried large, heavy cloth seabags, in which they stowed their old clothes and Hadrian hid his three swords. Being unarmed left him feeling off balance and naked.

  They snaked through the crowded dock, following Wyatt’s directions to the end of the pier. The Emerald Storm was a smart-looking, freshly painted ship, with three masts, four decks, and the figurehead of a golden winged woman ornamenting the bow. Its sails were furled, and green pennants flew from each mast. A small army of men hoisted bags of flour and barrels of salted pork onto the deck, where the crew stowed the supplies. Shouts came from what appeared to be an officer, who directed the work, and another man, who enforced the orders with a stout rattan cane. Two imperial soldiers guarded the ramp.

  “Do you have business here?” one asked at their approach.

  “Yeah,” Hadrian replied with an innocent, hopeful tone. “We’re looking for work. Heard this ship was short on hands. We were told to speak with Mr. Temple.”

  “What’s this here?” asked a short, heavyset man with threadbare clothes, bushy eyebrows, and a gruff voice worn to gravel from years of yelling in the salt air. “I’m Temple.”

  “Word is you’re looking to put on a cook,” Hadrian said pleasantly.

  “We are.”

  “Well then, this is your lucky day.”

  “Ah-huh.” Temple nodded with a sour look.

  “And my friend here is an able—ah—topman.”

  “Oh, he is, is he?” Temple eyed Royce. “We have openings, but only for experienced sailors. Normally, I’d be happy to take on green men, but we can’t afford any more landlubbers on this trip.”

  “But we are sailors—served on the Endeavor.”

  “Are you, now?” the ship’s master asked skeptically. “Let me see yer hands.”

  The master examined Hadrian’s palms, looking over the various calluses and rough places while grunting occasionally. “You must have spent most of your time in the galley. You’ve not done any serious rope work.” He examined Royce’s hands and raised an eyebrow at him. “Have you ever been on a ship before? It’s certain you’ve never handled a sheet or a capstan.”

  “Royce here is a—you know—” Hadrian pointed up at the ship’s rigging. “The guy who goes up there.”

  The master shook his head and laughed. “If you two are seamen, then I’m the Prince of Percepliquis!”

  “Oh, but they are, Mr. Temple,” a voice declared. Wyatt exited the forecastle and came jogging toward them. A bright white shirt offset his tawny skin and black hair. “I know these men, old mates of mine. The little one is Royce Melborn, as fine a topman as they come. And the big one is, ah …”

  “Hadrian.” Royce spoke up.

  “Right, of course. Hadrian’s a fine cook—he is, Mr. Temple.”

  Temple pointed toward Royce. “This one’s a topman? Are you joking, Wyatt?”

  “No, sir, he’s one of the best.”

  Temple looked unconvinced.

  “You can have him prove it to you, sir,” Hadrian offered. “You could have him race your best up the ropes.”

  “You mean up the shrouds,” Wyatt said, correcting him.

  “Yeah.”

  “You mean aye.”

  Hadrian sighed and gave up.

  The master did not notice as he had been focused on Royce. He sized him up, then shouted, “Derning!” His strong, raspy voice carried well against the ocean wind. Immediately, a tall, thin fellow with leathery skin jogged over.

  “Aye, sir?” he responded respectfully.

  “This fellow says he can beat you in a race to loose the topsail and back. What do you think?”

  “I think he’s mistaken, sir.”

  “Well, we’ll find out.” The master turned back to Royce. “I don’t actually expect you to beat Derning. Jacob here is one of the best topmen I’ve seen, but if you put in a good showing, the two of you will have jobs aboard. If it turns out you’re wasting my time, well, you’ll be swimming back. Derning, you take starboard. Royce, you have port. We’ll begin after Lieutenant Bishop gives permission for us to get under way.”

  Mr. Temple moved toward the quarterdeck and Wyatt slid down the stair rail to Royce’s side. “Remember what I taught you last night … and what Temple said. You don’t need to beat Derning.”

  Hadrian clapped Royce on the back, grinning. “So the idea is to just free the sail and get back down alive.”

  Royce nodded and looked apprehensively up at the towering mast before him.

  “Not afraid of heights, I hope.” Wyatt grinned.

  “All right, gentlemen!” Mr. Temple shouted, addressing the crew from his new position on the quarterdeck. “We’re having a contest.” He explained the details to the crew as Royce and Jacob moved to the base of the mainsail. Royce looked up with a grimace that drew laughter from the rest.

  “Seriously, he isn’t afraid of heights, is he?” Wyatt asked, looking concerned. “I mean, it looks scary, and well—okay, it is the first few times you go aloft, but it really isn’t that hard if you’re careful and can handle heights.”

  Hadrian grinned at Wyatt, but all he said was, “I think you’re going to like this.”

  An officer appeared on the quarterdeck and stood beside the master. “You may set sail, Mr. Temple.”

  The master turned to the main deck and roared, “Loose the topsail!”

  Royce appeared caught by surprise, not realizing this was the order to begin the competition. As a result, Jacob got the jump on him, racing up the ratlines like a monkey. Royce turned but did not begin climbing. Instead, he watched Jacob’s ascent for several seconds. The majority of the crew rooted for Jacob, but a few, perhaps those who had heard they would win a ship’s cook if the stranger won, urged Royce to ge
t climbing and called to him like a dog: “Go on, boy! Climb, you damn fool!” Some laughed, and a few made disparaging comments about his mother.

  Royce finally seemed to work something out in his head and leapt to the task. He sprang, clearing the deck by several feet, and began to run, rather than climb, up the ratlines. It appeared as if Royce was defying gravity as he pumped his legs up the netting, showing no more difficulty than if he were running up a staircase. He had nearly caught up to Jacob by the time he reached the futtock shrouds. Here the webbing extended away from the mast, reaching toward the small wooden platform known as the masthead. Both men were forced to hang upside down using the ratlines, and Royce lost momentum without the ability to go no-handed.

  Jacob swung around the masthead and jumped to the topmast shroud, where he ascended rapidly once more in monkey form. By the time Royce cleared the masthead, he was well behind Derning. He made up time when he could once again advance without crawling inverted. They reached the yard together and both ran out along the top of the narrow beam like circus performers. Seeing them balance a hundred feet above the deck drew gasps from some of the crew, who gaped in amazement. Royce stopped, pivoting to watch his opponent. Derning threw himself down across the yard, lying on his belly. He reached below for the gaskets to free the buntlines. Royce quickly imitated him, and together they worked their way across the arm. As they did, the sail came free, revealing its bright white face and dark green crown. It spilled down, whipping in the wind. Royce and Jacob lifted themselves back to their feet and moved to the end of the beam. They each grabbed the brace, the rope connected to the far end of the yardarm, and slid to the deck with the cheers of the crew in their ears. The two touched down together.

  Mr. Temple shouted to restore order of the unruly crew. It did not matter who had won. The skillful display by both men had been impressive enough to earn their approval. Even Hadrian found himself clapping, and he noticed Wyatt was staring with his mouth open. Temple nodded at Hadrian and Wyatt.