“What about Miss Goodgrave?”
Mr. Starling shrugged. “None of my business. Dr. Silk is interested in her, that’s all I know. You are excused.”
As Luke left, the Inquisitor reached across the table for his cold, uneaten meal.
A PASSING STORM
Even though Karigan had to pretend that she was a boy and there was nothing between her and Cade, she enjoyed sitting beneath the maple with him, her back against the tree trunk. He lay on the shady grass with his hands behind his head, gazing at the interwoven branches above, or perhaps daydreaming, or maybe counting leaves. Their silence was comfortable, more comfortable, actually, than it had ever been before.
The stuttered call of a white-throated sparrow rang out from a grove of evergreens across the canal. Bees droned among the summer flowers in the meadow beside the tavern. It was all very pleasant in the Capital. Those who never left it would have a difficult time comprehending grim places like Mill City. Everything was much more vibrant here, perhaps because it wasn’t all paved over and built up with brick, with tall chimneys belching smoke into the sky. There was supposed to be etherea in the Capital, or Gossham, at least. Could that have anything to do with it? Karigan supposed another answer might be that the elite of the Capital did not wish to have to see, on a daily basis, the blight imposed on the lesser classes in other parts of the empire.
Luke stepped out of the doorway of the tavern. As he approached, she noticed his stride lacked some of its usual swagger. She nudged Cade with her foot.
“Luke’s coming.”
Cade sat up, brushing off stray bits of grass.
When Luke reached them, he said in a very low voice, “Tam needs to be sick. Do you understand? Play sick, and you’ll ride in the back of the wagon as before.”
Karigan wondered if Luke saw this as a more effective way of keeping people from speculating about the affection between the two “lads,” but Cade, his voice very low as well, asked, “Spies?”
“We must not forget the emperor’s eyes are everywhere,” Luke replied.
“Is there a specific threat?”
“Only if you do not do as I say.”
Cade nodded, and Karigan pretended weakness and allowed him to help her rise and make her way to the wagon. It was hard not to smile, and she was pleased by his touch, tense though it was in the wake of Luke’s warning. He lifted her into her old spot in the back of the wagon, and Raven whickered his approval. He nosed her over the tailgate.
Karigan settled into the straw as the mules hauled the wagon down the drive. She looked back at the tavern, where on the front step, watching after them, stood a portly gentleman in a dark suit. Eyes of the emperor? No wonder Luke had grown tense about their behavior and appearances earlier—he knew they were likely to be watched.
The villages they passed through remained pastoral, but grew in size and population as they traveled. Each, like the towns and cities outside the Capital, had a statue of Amberhill the emperor gazing over his realm. Often he was depicted in a heroic stance, but there were variations, such as the one the wagon now rolled beneath. It showed him standing tall with his hands placed on the shoulders of a boy and a girl. To show his compassion? Or his ownership of all the people? In the next village, his statue held a book. Whether to show he was a scholar, or holding the laws of the empire in his hands, she did not know. The facial expression on each statue, however, looked very much the same—a distant, stern version of the Amberhill she’d once known.
Another detail she noticed as they traveled was the increasing number of irrigation canals snaking through the land. Water flowed over beds of granite blocks, well-made smaller versions of the Imperial Canal. They even meandered through villages. Small bridges allowed traffic to cross in several places. Karigan began to wonder if they were actually for irrigation at all, and if not, what were they for? Riding in the rear of the wagon, she was not able to ask Cade. She would try to remember later.
The Imperial Canal skirted around the villages, but the road always rejoined it. Canal traffic grew steadier the deeper they got into the Capital, and though she saw many Inspectors patrolling the streets with their mechanicals, there were no more checkpoints than before. She sank back into the straw and gazed at the clouds above. As the afternoon wore on, they grew thicker, tinged with gray. She could smell rain in the air. Yes, it would rain tonight, but there was something else, a briny tang mixed with it. They were nearing the coast, and Corsa. No—not Corsa, but Gossham. Her Corsa was gone.
That evening, as the first few drops of an incoming storm plunked down on their heads, they had to try a few different inns before they found one with space, much less an entire bunkhouse that Luke could reserve for the night. Karigan pretended sickness as usual, with Cade supporting her all the way. Once securely in the bunkhouse, they were immediately in one another’s arms, kissing like long lost lovers separated by continents and the passing of years, instead of only by the length of a wagon and the passing of a day.
Cade pulled away.
“What is it?” Karigan asked.
“I just want to check in with Luke for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Before Karigan could question him, he was gone. She decided then to make use of the bath tub with which this bunkhouse was equipped. Even after she finished, however, Cade had not returned. She paced for a while, sampling spoonfuls of the stew that had been left for them. Hers was lukewarm, and Cade’s would be cold before he returned. She had too much restive energy to sit still, so she occupied herself by working through swordfighting forms. She had no sword or staff, not even a broomstick to work with, but it felt good to go through the motions anyway.
She was in the middle of Aspen Leaf when Cade finally returned. She froze.
“Don’t stop,” he said, closing the door quietly behind him.
She continued the series of forms she had begun, and became more than mildly distracted when he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, his hands resting on her belly.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured into her ear when she hesitated.
Thunder clapped and rain thrummed on the roof. With Cade folded around her, moving through the steps and patterns of the forms with her, the techniques of the swordmaster truly became a dance. His hands roved down her arms, along her waist and hips, and lower, till she could hardly bear it, aching with need.
Using steps all his own, he led her into a different form of the dance, the storm their orchestra.
• • •
Karigan lay contentedly in Cade’s arms once again as rain still pattered on the roof. The bunkhouse interior sprang into relief with flashes of lightning, rumbles of thunder delayed by distance. Cade’s thumb rubbed a scar beneath her ribs, an old sword wound given her during Prince Amilton’s attempted coup of King Zachary’s throne.
“What did you and Luke need to talk about?” she asked.
“Hmm?”
“Earlier. You said you had to talk to Luke.”
“Oh.” He shifted position, making their narrow bed creak. “Tomorrow we reach Gossham, and I wanted to go over our approach.”
So soon, Karigan thought with dismay. She did not feel prepared. What would they be walking into?
“When we reach the inner city, Luke will find us accommodations and send his letter from Mill City’s master ahead to Webster Silk.”
“And then?”
“And then we wait for a response. Hopefully an invitation to the palace.”
An invitation, she hoped, that would allow her to rescue Lhean. And wring Amberhill’s neck in the process.
“We may not have more than another night together, if even that,” Cade said quietly.
Karigan took the hint and, banishing all else from her mind, gave Cade her full attention.
• • •
They did not sleep after, but as rainwater dripped from t
he eaves of the roof in the wake of the storm, they talked into the early morning hours, Cade asking her about her life back home, and she telling him about the Green Riders, her father, and her aunts.
“Your aunts sound fearsome,” he said.
Karigan chuckled. “Individually they can be intimidating. As a group, yes, fearsome is an apt description.”
“Now I know where you get it from,” Cade said. “You are like all four of your aunts in one.”
“Hey!” She poked him in the ribs, and his laughter shook their little bed.
“They’ll love you,” she said. As I do. Or, at least, she thought they would. He wasn’t the heir of a major merchant clan they’d been angling for, not even of a minor one, but once they met him, she knew they’d love him before long. In fact, she thought they’d just be relieved she’d finally found someone.
“Tell me about King Zachary,” Cade said. “He must have been a very great man.”
“He is,” Karigan said, her voice trembling. She swallowed hard. It did not feel right to speak of Zachary while she lay in Cade’s arms. Made her feel . . . guilty? “He’s a good king. He loves his land and its people.”
“But not all love him back,” Cade prompted.
She bit her lip. The question came so close to—other things. “No.” She had to force herself to speak. “Not Second Empire, nor those who desire no king at all, and there are those who bridle at peace and live just for war. They do not get it under King Zachary.”
“The responsibility cannot be easy. Do you know him personally? You must have some contact . . .”
Karigan didn’t answer immediately. She wanted to get up, pace, pour a glass of water. Anything but talk about this. But if she did not answer his innocent questions about King Zachary, what would he think? “Yes. Occasionally a Rider will receive messages directly from him, or report immediately to him following an errand, depending on the nature of the message.”
Cade must have heard something in her voice, or maybe felt her tense beside him, because, much to her relief, he started asking about the Weapons.
“I really don’t know too much of their ways,” Karigan said. “They are secretive. They receive most of their training at a place called the Forge—it’s a keep on an island that is kind of the home of the Black Shields.” Then she frowned thinking that if Cade pursued being a Weapon in her time, he’d probably be sent off to the Forge to train and prove himself. How long of a separation would that be? The idea of any time apart disturbed her.
When did this happen, she wondered, that she could not imagine her life without Cade? She had done all right on her own for so long. She’d been independent.
But yes, lonely.
Cade, she did not think, was the sort of man to stifle her, to demand she give up her independent ways. He certainly would have no say over her duties as a Green Rider. It was odd to realize, however, that returning home without him was a bleak picture she did not wish to contemplate. Even if it meant the occasional separation as they pursued their individual duties.
Yes, she thought, resting her head on his shoulder, there might be periodic lapses of loneliness, but better that than not having him at all.
AWAKENING
Webster Silk, attired in a long coat of mink, stood attentively in the icy chamber, his breaths fogging the air before him. On the bier lay the emperor, his head upon a pillow, a red velvet cover drawn up to his chest. He looked like one of the kings of old upon a sarcophagus with his pale marble face. But the emperor was not dead, and was in fact on the verge of awakening after only eight years of rest. The change in routine was disturbing, and there was no telling what state the emperor would be in when he woke.
In fact, they never knew. Sometimes he was confused but affable, sometimes demanding, often violent. They kept his chamber cold so he would not burn from rage, and several slave girls, bred for comeliness, stood ready in a nearby chamber should he need to slake any thirsts upon rising, carnal or cruel.
The only other allowed into the chamber was the emperor’s own Eternal Guardian, brought with him from the old days and armored in blood-red steel and leather, his face masked by a helm. Copper tubing protruded from the helm’s bevor and snaked back to a breathing apparatus, a pump, and the pair of cylinders he wore on his back. It hissed and sighed as air was pumped into his lungs. In some ways, his appearance reminded Webster of a sea creature with a carapace, or a segmented insect, inhuman and dangerous. Few had seen the Guardian’s true visage.
He was a tall, silent, and forbidding presence, and he carried only a longsword—no firearms. He had been made immortal by the emperor, just as Webster Silk had been, but the Guardian had been by the emperor’s side from the beginning, before Webster had even been born. As much as the Guardian watched the emperor, Webster watched the Guardian.
The awakening was imminent. Webster could tell by the subtly warmer hue in the emperor’s cheeks. Webster’s own body was taut in anticipation. Did the emperor’s shortened sleep period mean he’d be awake an extra two years? Did it mean a permanent alteration in the cycle, or would all go back to normal after this one time? These were important things to know, for the emperor’s periods of awakening sometimes turned bloody and caused turmoil across the empire.
The awakenings, of course, interfered with Webster’s own workings. It was he who had shaped the empire, solidified its power. It was he who put laws and policies in place. What better way to fulfill his existence than by steering the fortunes of a great empire? It was not so easy to occupy one’s time when one had all of eternity.
He rarely took credit for his successes, and few knew the true extent of his authority. He did all he did in the emperor’s name, but took great pleasure in being the true strength behind the throne. His work was not a complete secret, of course. The Adherents knew.
It was a fine thing to deploy the governing power of the emperor, yet not have the responsibility of being the emperor.
The emperor’s lips moved as though he tried to speak. His eyelids parted to slits and revealed the whites of his eyes. Not long now.
Eternal life had also brought Webster a stillness. Where once he would have lost patience and been annoyed with waiting, it now bothered him little. He had time. Few could afford patience the way he could, and it was just another way in which he wielded power over others.
“Mead,” the emperor murmured, eyes still not quite open. “No, a good burning whisky.”
If the emperor was awakening thinking of libations, it might not go so badly this time. Webster went to the door to tell the guard on duty to fetch a variety of liquors for the emperor to choose from. Sometimes the emperor would argue with himself at length over such choices.
As Webster moved back toward the emperor’s bier, he felt the gaze of the Eternal Guardian follow him, burning into him. The Guardian, too, was patient. How else could he stand sentry over the emperor’s body day in and day out? Over centuries?
The door guard returned with a tray of bottles and glasses, casting nervous glances toward the emperor. “You can go,” Webster said, taking the tray and placing it on a table next to the emperor’s bier.
“I remember a particular year of fine Rhovan wine,” the emperor said in a dreamy voice. “You could almost taste the dew on the ripening grapes.” He licked his lips.
Rhovanny was no more, but slaves now worked the rows of grape vines and made the wine. Webster eyed the tray and there was a bottle from the lake country, a pleasant, fruity white that usually pleased the emperor. He poured some into a glass and held it ready.
The emperor’s slow awakening was usually over like the snap of fingers. This time was no different. The emperor inhaled sharply and sat straight up. “Lady Alger’s diamond necklace,” he announced.
“What about it, Your Eminence?”
“She was so delightful I forgot about it and left it behind on her dressing table.
Could have bought back most of my estate with that one piece alone.”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” The emperor sometimes fancied he’d been an infamous thief at one time.
“Webster, is that you?” the emperor asked, as if only just realizing he was not alone. “What do you have there?”
“Some wine, Your Eminence. I’ve no doubt you are thirsty after your long sleep.”
“My long sleep . . .” The emperor took the glass absently and sipped. Then he spat a mouthful to the floor and tossed the glass across the room. It shattered near the Eternal Guardian’s feet. The Guardian did not flinch.
“I am sorry the wine did not please you,” Webster said.
“I forget where I am,” the emperor replied. “I forget how the years pass. That wine is nothing like the Rhovan. It gets worse every time. It tastes like soot.”
“I am sure we’ve older vintages you would find more palatable.”
“Don’t bother.” The emperor eyed the bottles, slowly sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bier. “Pour me some brandy.”
As Webster obeyed, the emperor stretched as though he’d taken only a nap. None of them—not Webster, the Adherents, the menders, or even the emperor himself—knew why there were these long sleep intervals, except to guess that they helped preserve the emperor’s body from the extreme powers it housed.
It also preserved, Webster reflected, the empire from its emperor.
He handed the emperor his drink, and this time, the first sip was met with a sigh of satisfaction.