The Defiant Heir

by Melissa Caruso

  I climbed the stairs to Istrella’s tower room but found her unwilling to open her door more than a sliver because she was working on something “extremely volatile” and the slightest disruption could be “catastrophic.” By the smoke that wafted out through the door crack, I took her seriously.

  “Do you have any ideas for an artifice device that would make a good present for a Witch Lord?” I asked her.

  Behind the colored lenses of her rune-circled artifice spectacles, Istrella blinked. “Why would I ever give anything to a Witch Lord?” she asked, with slow care, as if examining the bewildering question as she spoke it.

  “No, no, I have to give a present to a Witch Lord.”

  “Oh! Well, in that case …” She shut the door in my face.

  I stared at the sign that hung there (Please Knock, or I Cannot Be Held Responsible for the Consequences), wondering if I’d somehow offended her. A rustle and a cascading crash sounded from inside her room—but then, that wasn’t unusual with Istrella.

  The door eased open a crack again at last, and her skinny arm reached through, something shiny swinging from her hand.

  “Here!” she said happily. “Spyglass pendant. Made it to pass the time while Marcello was rambling on about how I need to get out of my tower more often. Ten times magnification, and terribly stylish, I’m sure! Speaking of which, I like your necklace.”

  I touched the cold, smooth claws at my throat. “Ah, thanks.”

  Istrella shook the pendant at me, as if trying to tempt a cat. “Now, I should get back to this project before the fire spreads.”

  I took the clear, round crystal wrapped in gold wire. “Do you need any help?”

  “Oh, no, I think I have it all figured out,” she said vaguely. “Tell Marcello I talked to you, which makes at least two contacts with the outside world this week. So he should stop nagging and let me work.”

  “Tell him yourself,” I laughed. “I’ll see you soon, Istrella.”

  As I tucked the pendant into the pocket of my chocolate-and-gold brocade coat and started back down the stairs, it occurred to me that I had time to visit Marcello. A strange, fluttery apprehension replaced my usual delighted warmth at the thought of him. Oh, hello, Marcello, I have a couple of hours to spare before going on a potentially romantic picnic with the man I’m courting. You know, the one who isn’t you. Would you like to engage in some painfully awkward conversation?

  I shook my head. I couldn’t start avoiding him out of misplaced guilt. He was still a good friend, and the last thing I wanted was to let this political courtship put a wall between us.

  Crossing the courtyard garden, I veered toward the patch of lawn where I’d left Zaira, hoping to thank Terika for the gift suggestion and ask if they’d seen Marcello about. There was no sign of them on the open grass, but Scoundrel’s wagging rear end protruded from behind a hedge.

  I peeked around it, lifting my hand in a cheery wave.

  Terika and Zaira leaned against a tree trunk together. Terika’s eyes were closed, so she didn’t see me, which was for the best, since she and Zaira were engaged in a rather passionate kiss. Their curls twined into each other, and Zaira’s head tipped back, baring her throat, her hand firmly between Terika’s shoulder blades.

  Zaira didn’t spare me a glance but did use her free hand to signal with a crudely eloquent gesture her annoyance at my interruption. I quickly ducked back out of sight, my cheeks warming. But I couldn’t help grinning as I hurried off.

  It seemed as if Terika had gotten through Zaira’s armor at last.

  I’d made it nearly across the garden when I spotted Marcello heading toward me, his face pale, seeming on the edge of breaking into a run. That couldn’t be good. I hurried to meet him.

  “Amalia. Thank the Graces you’re all right.” The words burst out of Marcello with the urgency of ill tidings piling up behind them. “I’ve been on the courier lamps since the reports started coming in, so I didn’t know if you’d …” He pushed a hand through his hair. “If you were safe.”

  I sucked in a breath through my teeth. “I take it there’s bad news?”

  He nodded grimly and pulled a paper from his pocket: a copy of the Vaskandran assassin’s list of names. It trembled in his hand as he jabbed a finger at it. “Lamonte Clare. An artificer, in his twenties. He was supposed to arrive at his family’s home in Loreice yesterday. I granted him leave to go ask his parents for permission to marry the woman he was courting.”

  I could hear the strain in his voice. Oh, Marcello. “He failed to arrive?”

  “He and his Falconer vanished on the road, along with the additional guards I assigned to escort him; their horses made their way back to the post station last night, saddles empty. The soldiers at the post station are looking, but they haven’t found the bodies yet.”

  I searched for words, at a loss for any comfort to give him. But he wasn’t done. His finger moved to another name.

  “Parona da Valisia. An alchemist. Smart and meticulous in her work; you would have liked her. She was stationed in Callamorne, providing cures and elixirs to the people there. The inn she and her Falconer were staying at on their way to her next call burned to the ground before dawn this morning. The proprietors and all six guests failed to escape the blaze.”

  “Grace of Mercy,” I breathed.

  He moved on to another name, speaking more quickly, forcing his way through. “Halim of Osta, an elderly alchemist. He was attacked while visiting the lace festival in Palova today. His Falconer and guards successfully fended off the attackers, though some were wounded. And Harrald Callo, a quiet artificer with a passion for baked goods. He was visiting his elderly parents at their farm near Ardence when he and his Falconer went missing last night. Their bodies appear to have been dumped in the farmhouse well.” He folded the list with unnecessary vigor. “Not to mention the attack on Istrella a week ago, and Namira’s murder.”

  I let out a low whistle. “That’s four attacks in the past day. Six, if you count the two earlier ones.”

  “Yes.” Marcello met my eyes. “All across the Empire, people on this list are dying. The extra guards I assigned to them weren’t enough. Vaskandar has made a list of the Falcons most key to our military preparations, and they’re expending enormous resources to kill everyone on it.”

  A spike of raw, wild energy jolted through my veins—half fear, half anger. “Have you warned the others?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I was on the courier lamps. I’m on my way to a meeting of officers now. Colonel Vasante said you should come, too.”

  That struck me as odd, but I fell in by his side, and we strode off toward the colonel’s quarters. If the problem hadn’t been so serious, I would have been grateful for the distraction; it kept me from worrying about how much distance to place between us.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “This must have taken an enormous amount of planning and effort. Advance setup to get their people in place, coordination to strike around the same time, sufficient force to overcome the extra guards. All that to kill a handful of artificers and alchemists?” A thought struck me. “Could they be killing them to steal their jesses?”

  Marcello shook his head. “Someone tried that a couple hundred years ago, and the artificers came up with a solution. Once they’re bonded to a Falcon, jesses destroy themselves if they’re removed. The only way to steal a jess is to get one that hasn’t been used yet.”

  “Then this must be part of some larger plan we’re not seeing.”

  “If the Lady of Thorns has a plot this big and well thought out, I’m worried,” Marcello confessed. “One of our advantages against Vaskandar in the past has always been that Raverran strategy is superior; the Witch Lords we’ve fought tended to act impulsively and without coordination, rather than carrying out long-term plans or working together. If we’re now facing different Witch Lords with more of a mind for the long game, we could be in trouble.”

  Ruven. This was his sort of twisted cunning. I�
��d thwarted his attempt to steal books of dangerous magic from the Empire a month ago, but I should have known he’d have other plans. He wasn’t the type to sit quietly and accept defeat.

  We’d come to the door of Colonel Vasante’s study, where she called her officers for their most important meetings. Marcello reached for the handle with the surety of familiarity.

  “I think we’re already in trouble,” I said quietly.

  And then he opened the door, and I saw how right I was.

  Maps, books, and antique weaponry lined the walls of Colonel Vasante’s study, and draperies in Falconer scarlet swathed the windows. Most of the officers gathered around the scarred mahogany table also wore uniforms bright as blood. But one man, seated at Colonel Vasante’s left hand, stood out ominously in his impeccably tailored black velvet coat despite the nondescript droop to his shoulders and his attitude of quiet deference.

  Lord Caulin, the Chancellor of Silence. Hells, what was he doing here?

  Colonel Vasante gestured us in with a curt wave of her hand, scowling. But as she met my eyes, I could tell her irritation wasn’t for us. She knew, as commander of the Falcons, what Lord Caulin truly was. And she wasn’t happy to have him in this meeting, presiding over the room like the Demon of Death with his obsidian ax.

  “Glad you could make it, Lady Amalia.” She bit off the words as if annoyed we’d arrived last, but her intent gaze carried another message. “I want you here for this.”

  Ah. So she’d invited me as her ally: the only other person in the Mews who would understand the disturbing implications of Caulin’s presence.

  “I appreciate the invitation,” I murmured, and settled into a chair beside Marcello. Lord Caulin gave me a respectful nod.

  Colonel Vasante flipped her iron-gray braid over her shoulder and swept the assembled officers with her gaze. Most of them straightened; Jerith, always contrary, slouched deeper into his chair. “You all know why we’re here,” she said. “Vaskandar has launched an assault on our Falcons, working down a list of targets that Lady Amalia intercepted last week.” She turned to Marcello. “Verdi, have you accounted for everyone on that list?”

  Marcello nodded sharply. “Yes, Colonel. Aside from the losses I’ve already reported, the rest are confirmed safe, either in person or over the courier lamps.”

  “Perhaps,” Lord Caulin suggested in a silky voice, “it would be best to keep all Falcons under guard in secure fortresses until such time as we are certain the threat has passed.”

  A muscle jumped in Colonel Vasante’s jaw. “Lord Caulin, I understand that the doge has placed you in charge of his investigation into the murders. However, I’ll thank you to leave the running of the Falcons to me.”

  “Of course,” Caulin murmured. “His Serenity merely wishes to be certain such valuable resources are well guarded.”

  Jerith sneered at that, and a few of the other officers stiffened. Some of them were Falcons, and I rather doubted they appreciated being called resources.

  “We’ll follow standard procedure for a known, active threat against Falcons,” Colonel Vasante told her officers, ignoring him. “But there’s another concern. Any of you notice a pattern in the attacks?”

  “They were all traveling,” Marcello said immediately. “Three on leave, and one on assignment.”

  “But the assassins knew when and where to strike,” I realized, the implications pouring in like cold lagoon water. “They had people in place already. They knew where those Falcons would be before they arrived.”

  Jerith frowned. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. And then he spoke the words I hadn’t wanted to say, for fear of making them real.

  “You’re saying we have a traitor.”

  Chapter Eight

  Silence fell over the table. The officers exchanged worried glances. I wanted to deny Jerith’s conclusion, but no matter how I turned the pieces, it was the only way the puzzle fit.

  “Who would have had access to the records of planned leave and traveling assignments?” I asked.

  “Any Falcon or Falconer can access those records,” Marcello said, shaking his head. “They get referenced all the time—to schedule leave, check who’s available for assignments and training, or even just to see who’ll be around next week for dinner in the city. They’re not circulated outside the Mews, but they’re not secret, either.”

  “Perhaps they should be,” Lord Caulin suggested.

  “The point is,” Colonel Vasante said, without sparing him a glance, “someone inside the Mews provided those records to Vaskandar. Either one of our clerks, which I find unlikely given how closely we vet them, or some Falcon or Falconer.”

  “That’s impossible,” Marcello objected.

  “And yet,” the colonel said dryly, “it happened.”

  “I know our Falcons and Falconers. They’re good people.” Marcello’s jaw set stubbornly. “They wouldn’t set up their fellows to get killed.”

  Oh, Marcello. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to shake him in frustration until he accepted the inevitable disappointments of reality, or shelter him from them so he could stay unspoiled forever.

  “I can understand what a shock this must be.” Lord Caulin laced his fingers on the table, his voice calm and soothing. “It’s unpleasant to contemplate a traitor in our midst. Yet it can’t be a complete surprise; there are those among the Falcons who have made their disdain for the Serene Empire clear.”

  He turned unperturbed eyes upon Jerith as he said it. Half the table stared at the storm warlock.

  Jerith shrugged. “I’ve been known to compose the occasional satiric verse. Call it disdain if you like.”

  I’d pay a purse full of ducats to read those. Though I supposed some might pertain to my mother; I couldn’t decide if that made me want to read them more or less.

  “Hardly appropriate for an officer of the empire,” Lord Caulin chided.

  “There are reasons I haven’t advanced to a higher rank in the Falcons.” Jerith grinned, but there was an edge to it. I expected Balos to come to his defense, but then remembered his husband wasn’t an officer, and thus wasn’t present. “If you think making fun of the personal vices of our leaders is in the same league of offense as betraying my friends to Vaskandar, you have a rather poor understanding of human nature.”

  Lord Caulin’s smile remained fixed. “I did not personally assemble the list of potentially rebellious Falcons I was given. I am merely here as an agent of the doge, to pass on his recommendations for how to handle suspects in this serious matter of high treason until such time as we catch the culprit.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that at all. Especially given that expedient murder was high among Lord Caulin’s favored ways of handling problems. I pressed my lips tight against the objection I wanted to voice.

  Jerith’s eyes narrowed, and his fellow officers stirred uneasily. One clasped his shoulder, a touch that Jerith shook off.

  “Recommendations?” the colonel grated.

  Lord Caulin unfolded a list of names and smoothed it on the table. Two columns of small, precise writing covered the page. I glimpsed Zaira’s name near the top. “These are all new recruits within the past year, plus those who have expressed, ah, disgruntlement against the empire. A reasonable list of starting suspects, no?”

  “No,” Jerith said, crossing his arms.

  Caulin ignored him. “We recommend simple precautions. Investigating their activities over the past month, and watching them closely until the traitor is caught. Reading their mail, both incoming and outgoing, and forbidding courier lamp use. Confinement to the Mews—”

  Marcello stood, his chair scraping the floor. “Absolutely not.”

  “You are out of order, Captain Verdi,” Lord Caulin said pleasantly.

  Colonel Vasante leaned an elbow on the table. “Verdi is my second at the Mews, and responsible for much of its daily operation. Carry on, Captain. But respectfully.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” Marcello bowed stif
fly. “Respectfully, then, Lord Caulin. Even setting aside that these are good soldiers who’ve done nothing wrong, they have jobs to do. They can’t perform their duty to the Empire while they’re locked up in the Mews.”

  Lord Caulin sighed sympathetically. “I see the difficulty, Captain. But I am merely a messenger. My orders—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted, affecting a tone of curiosity to cover the anger churning in my gut. “It does seem a little odd for the doge to convey orders to the commander of the Falcons through his legal adviser. Isn’t the Marquise of Palova the usual point of contact between the Council of Nine and the military?”

  Appreciation flashed in Colonel Vasante’s eyes. She adopted the same contemplative tone and turned to Lord Caulin. “She has a point, Caulin. Perhaps we should get on the courier lamps to the good marquise, and bring her into this conversation?”

  “I’m not here as an emissary of the Council of Nine, of course.” Lord Caulin lifted his hands. “The doge has placed me in charge of his investigation into these murders and the security response to it.”

  “Ah.” I nodded, as if this cleared matters up. “Then certainly you can be part of the discussion. But any actual orders for Colonel Vasante from the doge should come through the proper military chain of command, should they not?”

  Lord Caulin smiled a broad, fixed smile. “Of course. Forgive me; I am but a mere civilian and ignorant of military protocol.”

  “Right.” Colonel Vasante nodded. “Then unless I receive orders directly from the Marquise of Palova or the doge himself, we’re going to focus on protecting the Falcons and finding the traitor, not on punishing good soldiers who’ve griped about the Empire a few times when they’re off duty.”

  Lord Caulin’s smile thinned. He remained silent for the rest of the meeting but watched with shrewd, calculating eyes.

  As my oarsman rowed me home along the Imperial Canal, between the looming façades of palaces with their spun-sugar stonework and gilded frescoes, I fumed silently over Lord Caulin’s interference. Clouds had gathered overhead, gray and sullen, draining color even from the bright hues of the flower garlands and festive bunting that still decked the palaces in celebration of the Festival of Beauty. By the time my own palace came into sight, dominating the final curve of the Imperial Canal with its broad rows of graceful arches and the courier lamp spire rising from the roof, rain had begun to patter against the silk canopy my oarsman extended over my head.