Impyrium

  It was a traditional greeting. The sisters’ response was automatic.

  “Sol Invictus.”

  The formalities observed, Lord and Lady Sylva welcomed them inside. More flashbulbs as they entered a foyer packed with guests who promptly bowed. Hazel spied Dàme Rascha by the double staircase. Violet and Isabel’s bodyguards were present, but there was no sign of the Grislander. Where was she? An image flashed in her mind: Sigga unveiling Rascha’s painting to an attentive Spider.

  This troubling image persisted as Lord Sylva gave his guests a painfully thorough tour of his ancestral home. Hazel’s stomach was growling when they finally arrived at a dining room whose curving windows provided a spectacular view of Impyria. Hazel hoped her seat would face them; she needed the distraction.

  She hoped in vain. Violet was seated on Lord Sylva’s right hand, Isabel at Lady Sylva’s left. To Hazel’s dismay, her place was between Dàme Rascha and their host’s fossilized aunt. As Hazel sat, the lady whirled about.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Hazel Faeregine.”

  “You astonish me.”

  Hazel was equally astonished. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her neighbor did not reply, but proceeded to inspect Hazel with great intensity and suspicion. A footman appeared and murmured to Hazel that Lady Bethunia was a “spirited” ninety-seven and that no offense was intended.

  The inspection continued.

  Since teleportation was beyond Hazel’s skill, she merely placed her napkin upon her lap and glanced sidelong at Dàme Rascha. “Have you seen Sigga?”

  “No,” said the vye, plainly irritated. “But your sister’s bodyguards are here. I’ve already spoken with them. You will be safe.”

  Again, Hazel thought of the painting. “Do you think Sigga went to . . . her?”

  The vye declined wine from a servant and shot Hazel a look to let the matter drop. Hazel eyed the dish set before her, a glistening cube of lobster held together by grains and seaweed. She poked it with a tiny fork before raising a glass as their hostess toasted Violet and pledged eternal friendship from House Sylva.

  Conversation soon flowed around Hazel in a steady stream. The topics were trade and politics, shortages of this, prices of that. Hazel ate in silence, managing a facade of polite interest until talk turned to the Lirlanders. When the ocean dwellers were mentioned, Hazel set down her fork and turned her head toward the speaker.

  “Trouble’s brewing in the deeps,” rumbled Baron Palantine, his face the color of his wine. “It’s no coincidence the Lirlanders appointed Lord Kraavh. He’s a warlord, not a diplomat.”

  “Warlord?” exclaimed his wife. “The demons have never made war on us. Not since the treaty. How can the ambassador be a warlord?”

  “They make war on one another, my dear. It’s said Kraavh’s done monstrous things to his rivals. Tales that would freeze your blood. And Prusias—!”

  “But as you say,” interjected Lord Sylva, “the Lirlanders war with one another. Their squabbles don’t affect us.”

  The baron was clearly relishing a fight. He thumped the table with his fist. “The very night Kraavh arrived, the Lirlander Vault was breached. Only a blind man would think that’s a coincidence. He openly declared that the demons have tired of the treaty. Naturally, they’d want to steal the Seals. No Seals, no treaty!”

  Lord Sylva dismissed the theory with a chuckle. “The demons aren’t fools. Why would Kraavh do such a thing when he knows perfectly well he’d be the obvious suspect?”

  The baron scowled and began attacking his quiche. “Don’t ask me to fathom a demon’s mind. They’re twisted creatures, evil. You’ll find no domanocti under my roof.”

  Hazel sat up. The evening was finally getting interesting. The Sylvas employed many domanocti. She’d spied no less than seven toddler-sized imps wearing velvet dinner jackets during their tour. The baron was insulting his hosts!

  Lord Sylva set down his wine. “Nineteen domanocti have served House Sylva for generations. Legions serve the Faeregines. I trust you didn’t intend to offend our guests.”

  “What?” said the baron. “No. I was merely stating my policy on the creatures. If others employ them, that is their affair.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Sylva. “Still, a retraction would be most gracious.”

  The baron flushed an angry purple. Hazel’s eyes flitted from one man to the other. Was this going to turn into a duel? They weren’t uncommon, but she’d never seen one. She tried not to betray her disappointment when the baron extracted his bulk from his chair and bowed. “I apologize if my comments were misconstrued. No personal reflection was intended.”

  Lord Sylva raised his glass. Tensions dissipated further as servants brought yet another course—a quivering mound that Hazel prayed was rice pudding and not a soft cheese.

  A cheese it was. Her neighbor inhaled deeply.

  “Most astonishing.”

  No duel. Stinky cheese. And now some other man was holding court. Men were always pontificating. Who was it this time?

  Hazel did not recognize the speaker, a spare man in a gray suit wearing rimless glasses. His voice was mild, his brown face intelligent. No medals adorned his chest.

  “It’s a shame we must speculate about what happened at the Lirlander Vault. If Her Radiance permitted more technology on this island, the culprits could be readily identified.”

  “The criminals were disguised,” said Isabel.

  The man gave a complacent smile. “We have surveillance capable of piercing most disguises, even many types of illusion.”

  Isabel frowned. “I assume these have been authorized.”

  “Of course, Your Highness. The Workshop does nothing without the permission of the Divine Empress and her compliance officers. If it’s of interest, I’d be happy to arrange a tour of our laboratories. We have some just outside Impyria.”

  “I would like that,” said Violet. “Could we take a motorcar? I long to ride in one.”

  The Workshop man bowed. “One will be waiting.”

  “Make sure it’s a Phantom,” put in Lady Sylva, winking at Violet. “It’s even faster than a stalliana and it won’t bite off your arm. I drove one from Impyria all the way to Southhaven. Deliciously fun.”

  Violet’s awe was readily apparent. “You drove one?”

  “Of course,” said Lady Sylva. “We keep several at our mainland estates. It’s all very nice to ride in back, but the real excitement is behind the wheel.”

  “You don’t think it’s too . . . muirish?” said Violet. “Driving, I mean.”

  Lady Sylva laughed. “It would be muirish to worry what others think.”

  Violet nodded, clearly entranced by their hostess. Across the table, a viscount wiped a glob of cheese from his freckled chin. “You take great risks, Lady Sylva, motoring about the mainland. It’s only a matter of time before the rabble revolts again. Very dangerous, indeed.”

  The viscount held forth on a recent piece of legislation he’d proposed. Evidently it aimed to expand the rights of the Houses Minor and had not been well received.

  “My fear,” he said to Violet, “is that unless we bolster the lesser nobles, there will be naught between us and the mob. If Her Impyrial Highness voiced her support, I’m confident—”

  “Ernst,” chided Lady Sylva, “don’t be dreary. Our guests don’t want to be harangued on matters best left to council. You’re boring that young lady to tears.”

  To Hazel’s horror, she realized Lady Sylva was looking at her. She stopped probing her cheese and sat up. “You’re kind to think of me, but I find the Muirlands perfectly riveting.”

  “Indeed?” said Lady Sylva. “Well then, what do you think we should do? Do you agree with Ernst’s proposal, or do your views align with the Hyde camp?”

  Hazel was at a complete and utter loss. Her only hope was to affect a knowing, superior look while saying something pleasantly noncommittal. She’d seen it work for Uncle Basil. Lifting her water glass,
she began to swirl it like wine. Ice cubes spilled over the rim.

  “I think they both make valid points.”

  Lady Sylva smiled like a cat who’d stumbled upon a crippled canary. “Diplomatic. But which do you find most compelling? Have you done much traveling throughout the Muirlands?”

  Cursing silently, Hazel feigned deep thoughts as she stalled for time. She gazed past her hostess at the servants lining the wall. The one directly behind Lady Sylva was a stocky black-haired boy with straight brows and a broad, earnest face. For an instant their eyes met and Hazel caught a glint of something. What was it? Amusement? Sympathy?

  “It would be premature to comment,” said Violet tightly. “The proposal’s ink is barely dry. Besides, my sister’s passion is magic, not affairs of state.”

  Lady Sylva bowed to both Violet and Hazel. “Forgive me. We can certainly discuss magic. I’m particular to aeromancy. Has Her Highness studied it?”

  Before Hazel could answer, Dàme Rascha spoke up. “Her Highness’s studies are a private matter.”

  “Ah,” said Lady Sylva. “I’d forgotten the secrecy surrounding Faeregine sorcery. I am confident she must be making great progress under your expert tutelage.”

  The vye said nothing. An unmistakable pall settled over the table. To Hazel’s relief, a servant whisked away the cheese and replaced it with an iced sherbet. Sweets at last! A liver-spotted hand reached across and buried a spoon in Hazel’s dessert.

  “Most astonishing,” said Lady Bethunia, helping herself to a second bite. Hazel felt like elbowing her. Why couldn’t the old bat have stolen the cheese?

  “Well,” said Lady Sylva. “Let’s lighten the mood, shall we? It’s a tradition at House Sylva to play a game at the end of meals. Childish, I know, but merry on winter nights.” She turned to Violet. “Do you like riddles?”

  Violet nodded. “Very much so.”

  Hazel and Isabel exchanged incredulous glances. Their sister had never been interested in games of any kind.

  “Wonderful,” cooed their hostess. “Let’s begin. A muir ferryman has to transport a goblin, a wolf, and a basket of toadstools across a river. However, his rowboat is so small he can only take one at a time. Herein lies the problem: if the ferryman leaves the wolf alone with the goblin, the wolf will kill it. If he leaves the goblin with the toadstools, it will gobble every last one. So what’s our poor ferryman to do?”

  Silence ensued as the guests tried to work out a solution. Brows furrowed. Some looked pensive, others gassy. Hazel felt a slight tap. She glanced over to see Rascha give an almost imperceptible shake of her head. The meaning was plain.

  Do not answer.

  Hazel became indignant. Why shouldn’t she take a guess? She could figure it out.

  “It’s a muirish riddle,” said the vye in an undertone. “You know nothing about muir.”

  “Now, now,” laughed Lady Sylva. “No cooperation. Has anyone worked it out?”

  “It’s obvious,” said the viscount. “The ferryman must take the wolf across first. Then he can come back and get the toadstools . . .”

  “The goblin will eat the toadstools,” observed his companion.

  The man considered. “Can he bribe the goblin?”

  Laughter was followed by several other half-formed guesses. Hazel sat in silence, stewing over Rascha’s blunt remark. It might have been true, but Hazel was feeling defensive after fumbling Lady Sylva’s question. Besides, it’s not like Rascha was some sort of Muirlands expert. The vye has spent her entire life among mystics, witches, and royalty.

  More guesses were made, but no one managed to keep the goblin alive or unfed. When one lord threatened to flay “that damnable pest,” Lady Sylva invited the servants to answer.

  Lord Sylva chuckled. “They haven’t the education, my dear.”

  Ignoring her husband, Lady Sylva perused the many servants spaced about the room. “You there,” she said to a petrified maid. “What should our poor ferryman do?”

  The maid looked like she might faint. “I—I beg your pardon, milady, but I don’t know.”

  Undaunted, their hostess addressed an aged butler. “What about you, Barnes? Surely you’ve got a bit of country wisdom in you.”

  The gentleman gave a dignified bow. “Alas, my knowledge is confined to avoiding goblins, not preserving them.”

  A visibly relieved Barnes was excused.

  “Really, Akiko,” said Lord Sylva, “it’s not kind to tease the servants like this.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said his wife. “I’d wager anything one of them has figured it out. What about you? Lady Harwell boasted that you placed at Provinces. I bought you just to shut her up.”

  The guests snickered at Lady Harwell’s misfortune. Poaching servants from other houses was a popular pastime among nobles, a form of social warfare.

  The person Lady Sylva addressed was the very boy Hazel had noticed earlier. For an instant, his face lost that habitually blank expression so common to servants.

  He knows the answer, thought Hazel excitedly.

  The boy bowed. “I couldn’t say, my lady.”

  Evidently Lady Sylva had spied the same glimmer as Hazel. “You ‘couldn’t say’ or you don’t know? Which is it?”

  “I . . . might have an idea how to work it out.”

  “Then let’s hear it,” said Lady Sylva.

  Baron Palantine tossed a heavy purse on the table. “Fifty solars say he hasn’t a clue.”

  “Done,” said Lady Sylva. She turned back to the servant. “That’s twice what I paid for you. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Looking down, the boy gave an almost helpless smile. He was trapped. If he solved the riddle, he would upstage a roomful of nobles, including his future empress. The alternative would cost his employer a large sum of money. It was a lose-lose proposition.

  Exhaling slowly, he closed his eyes.

  “The ferryman should take the goblin across and leave the wolf with the toadstools. Next, he should bring the wolf across but take the goblin back with him so the wolf doesn’t kill it. Once he’s returned the goblin to the original bank, he can bring the toadstools across before making a final trip back to fetch the goblin.”

  Hazel almost smacked her forehead. Of course! Like most riddles, the answer was absurdly obvious in hindsight. She’d assumed the ferryman couldn’t bring something back across the river, but Lady Sylva never set that as a condition. Clever muir.

  “Bravo!” cried Lady Sylva, clapping.

  Her guests followed her lead, but Hazel glimpsed displeasure on several faces, including Violet’s. Isabel clapped heartily, however. So did Lady Bethunia, who declared the feat “most astonishing” and consumed the last of Hazel’s dessert.

  Baron Palantine glared at the boy. His jaw muscles twitched. “What is your name?”

  The servant bowed. “Hobson Smythe, my lord.”

  “And where do you come from, boy?”

  “I believe he just told you his name,” said Lady Sylva.

  “I’ll call him whatever I like. I just paid fifty solars for the privilege.”

  “The Northwest, your lordship. A village called Dusk.”

  The baron sniffed. “Savages live in the Northwest,” he observed. “Little muir savages that squat in huts, gobble seals, and worship rocks instead of their empress. I hear they mate with vyes.”

  Everyone glanced at Dàme Rascha, who sat perfectly rigid, her eyes fixed on the baron.

  He returned her glare with a smirk. “Present company excluded.”

  Lady Sylva rose. “Ladies,” she said pointedly, “I invite you to join me in the parlor. We’ll leave the gentlemen to discuss whatever it is gentlemen discuss when we’re not present.” She turned to the servant boy. “Mr. Smythe, please come along as my guest and educate me about your homeland. I refuse to believe such a witty creature gobbles huts or squats on seals or whatever it was the baron said. For shame, Vardon.”

  Most of the guests laughed, but Baron Palantine merely stood w
ith the other lords as the women prepared to leave. His eyes never left the muir boy.

  A dozen ladies followed Lady Sylva to the parlor. While the hostess chatted with Violet, Hazel and Dàme Rascha were forced to walk behind Lady Bethunia, who halted periodically to inspect them. Hazel gazed up at her tutor. The baron had been unspeakably insulting.

  “Are you all right?” Hazel asked.

  “Yes,” replied Dàme Rascha.

  “That boy isn’t,” said Hazel. “Did you see the way the baron was looking at him? I think he’s in danger.”

  “I should say he is.”

  “We have to help him.”

  The vye glanced down at her. “It’s not our affair.”

  But this did not satisfy Hazel, who felt a nagging concern for the servant boy’s welfare. Why did she even care? Isabel would tease that it was because he was handsome, but that wasn’t the reason. No, they had shared something earlier, something strangely intimate and comically depressing. In a single glance, this muir boy—a total stranger—had shown her more empathy and kindness than Violet had in a lifetime.

  “Make it our affair,” said Hazel.

  “And how should I do that, Your Highness?”

  “Poach him.”

  The vye raised her bristly eyebrows. “You wish me to poach our hostess’s servant?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Hazel. Just ahead, Lady Bethunia veered urgently into a powder room. Apparently, there was justice in the universe.

  “On what pretense?” said the vye.

  Hazel felt a rush of excitement. Would Rascha actually do it? “I don’t know. Make something up.”

  The pair entered the parlor, a tacky, old-fashioned chamber their hostess assured them would be redecorated now that she was in charge. A trio of imps brought drinks, and the ladies settled into superficial conversation on the many settees. Lady Sylva monopolized Violet, discussing art and politics, the time she’d snuck aboard a galleon bound for Zenuvia. Her father sent every ship in his fleet after her! Violet doted on every word, flushing a giddy pink when her hostess made a confidential aside. They were like two girls at a slumber party.

  Lady Sylva had forgotten about the muir boy. Hazel was not surprised, nor could she blame her. The young matriarch had invested the Sylva’s House Debt to make inroads with the next empress. She wasn’t going to waste the evening on a servant’s tales about blubber and tundra. It was enough she’d whisked him away from a semi-murderous baron.