Impyrium

  Owyn cleared his throat. “Are you ready?”

  Both boys nodded.

  Owyn backed out of the circle. “Begin.”

  Immediately, Dante went on the attack. Striding forward, he feinted a jab before spinning about to bring Volsifer screaming at his opponent’s head. Hob sprang back, nearly slipping on the wet ground.

  Again, Dante closed, this time holding Volsifer like a fencer’s rapier. He flicked his wrist, the movement so sudden that Hazel caught only the flash of torchlight on the blade. Hob grunted with pain, backing away as blood streamed down his forearm. One of the Castile twins turned away.

  Crouching low, Hob feinted and swept Bragha Rùn at Dante’s midsection. The attack was quick but inexpert; he might have been swinging a cudgel. Dante parried it easily and nearly beheaded Hob on the counterattack.

  Hazel almost wished the kitsune would resume playing her belyaël. The duel was a horrific sight, but its sounds were almost worse: shuffling steps, the shrill ring of steel, the hoarse gasps of its combatants.

  There had been eight passes thus far and two facts had emerged: Hob was extremely agile; and he had no chance of defeating Dante Hyde in a sword fight. Blood now flowed from three wounds to his left arm and knee. His face remained grim and focused, but he was clearly favoring his uninjured leg as he circled away from his skillful opponent.

  “Coward,” hissed Dante. “Stand and figh—”

  Hob slipped. Rushing in, Dante brought Volsifer down like a thunderbolt.

  But he’d been tricked! A boulder jutted from the earth behind Hob and he used it as a backstop to plant his foot and dive low at his opponent. Volsifer swept harmlessly over him, sparking as it cleaved the stone. Dante toppled backward into the mud as Hob tackled him around the waist. Imogene cried out as her brother flailed about on his back, one hand on his weapon, the other on Hob’s wrist. A sword like Volsifer was useless at close quarters; the Faeregine blade was made for it.

  But Bragha Rùn was pointed skyward. The two were at a stalemate, Dante gasping as he strained to prevent Hob from reversing his weapon.

  Crack!

  Hob brought Bragha Rùn’s pommel down on Dante’s nose.

  Crack! Crack!

  Two more blows in quick succession. Dante turned his head, revealing several broken teeth. Hazel could not breathe, could barely look as the two struggled. Dante was beginning to panic. He twisted about, frantically searching the crowd as he tried to keep Hob’s weapon at bay. The instant he found Imogene an understanding passed between them. Dante shut his eyes.

  Imogene pointed at Hob and whispered, “Ayin!”

  A flash of phosphorescent light burst like a mortar before Hob’s eyes. He recoiled, rolling off Dante and clutching his face with one hand. Isabel whirled on Imogene.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Do what?” said Imogene coldly.

  “Stop the duel!” Isabel shouted. “The Hydes cheated!”

  Imogene ignored her. “Finish it, Dante!”

  Owyn was flustered. He began to speak, hesitated, and was silent as Dante scrambled to his feet. Hob backed away, gasping and holding Bragha Rùn at arm’s length. He made tentative stabs as though groping for an unseen opponent. Blood trickled from glassy, unfocused eyes. Dante circled like a shark.

  Hazel looked on, almost literally paralyzed with terror. It was like a waking nightmare; she saw what was occurring, wanted to stop it, and yet her body was completely unresponsive. She wanted to cast a spell—needed to cast a spell—but her mind was numb. She glanced about at her classmates.

  Why didn’t someone stop the fight?

  Dante swung Volsifer. There was a hideous clang as Bragha Rùn was knocked from Hob’s grasp. Weaponless, Hob tried to sidestep but found Volsifer pressed against his ribs. Leering like a madman, Dante dragged its point across his opponent’s stomach, raising a thin line of blood. Hob raised his head and gazed blindly at Dante. Hazel had never seen a more contemptuous smile.

  “You’re soft as cake, mehrùn,” said Hob. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  He spat at Dante’s feet.

  Hazel turned away, horrified for Hob and ashamed at her impotence. What was the point of studying magic if you couldn’t use it when it mattered most?

  “He forfeits!” cried a frantic voice.

  Hazel turned to see the blond page, Hob’s second, bolt into the circle. “Mr. Smythe forfeits! He withdraws, he surrenders—whatever you wish to call it. He’s out!”

  “Hold!” cried Owyn, waving his arms. “The duel is ended! Honor has been satisfied and Lord Hyde is the victor.”

  Dante looked tempted to cut the blond page in half. Instead, he turned back to Hob. The earl’s voice was thick through broken teeth.

  “One good turn deserves another, eh, muir?”

  Using both hands, he struck Hob full in the face with Volsifer’s pommel. The page dropped and lay motionless in the mud, limbs splayed like a discarded doll’s.

  Hazel saw Imogene step on Hob’s throat as she congratulated her brother. Recovering her senses, Hazel hurried into the ring and knelt by Hob.

  His face was a bloody ruin. Nose shattered, left eye hidden by a grotesquely swollen cheekbone. He was alive, however. Breaths came in wheezing whistles through a chipped tooth.

  “Is he dead?” whispered a boy.

  Glancing up, Hazel saw the other page. “He’s unconscious. You did the right thing to forfeit. He never would have surrendered.”

  “He’s my roommate. I know how stubborn he is.”

  “Should we move him?” said Hazel. She knew nothing about nursing or healing spells.

  “Step aside,” said a quiet voice.

  She turned to see Sigga Fenn. The agent looked far from pleased. Hazel scooted over immediately.

  Crouching over Hob, the Red Branch ran her long fingers over his chest, tapping his heart and humming softly. Leaning close, she spread his eyelids and peered at his pupils. “We have to get him to the healing ward,” she muttered. “He’ll live, but he might not be so pretty.”

  Hazel half sobbed out of relief for Hob and guilt at everything she’d done. “I know I shouldn’t have gone out without you. I’m sorry.”

  The Grislander’s green, almost luminous eyes surveyed her thoughtfully. “Do it again and you can find another bodyguard, Your Highness. Do we understand each other?”

  Unable to speak, Hazel merely nodded.

  A breathless Isabel grabbed Hazel by the shoulder. “Look!”

  When Hazel waved her away, Isabel spun her about so forcibly that she almost toppled over. Hazel looked up, bewildered. To her astonishment, she saw that her sister’s face was tear streaked. Isabel never cried.

  “What’s wrong?” Hazel gasped.

  Isabel let out a whimper. “We’re dead. . . .”

  She held out her hands. Within them, Hazel saw only a muddied gold hilt and jagged pieces of metal. Bragha Rùn was broken.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE CONVALESCENT

  History tells you what happened.

  Economics tells you why.

  —David Menlo, archmage (17 P.C–72 A.C.)

  Five days later, Hob squinted through his bandages as he composed a letter in the palace’s healing ward. It was a large room with lots of windows and sunlight and flowering rowan trees where cardinals nested and chirruped. Instead of Faeregines, its paintings depicted pastoral landscapes. As Hob scratched away with his pen, there was a grunt from the neighboring bed.

  “Ready when you are.”

  “Just a minute,” Hob muttered. Setting down the pen, he flexed his fingers and read the letter over.

  3014, March 21

  Dear Ma,

  This is my eighth letter and I haven’t heard back, but you’re probably busy, or mad. Don’t be mad. You always said a soul has to find its own way in the world. I’m finding mine. Hope what I left is helping. You could move come summer. Anything’s better than renting from the Danes. . . .

  You wouldn’t bel
ieve where I am. The empire’s a grander, stranger place than I ever imagined. I’m doing fine, so don’t worry. Write when you can. You can send letters to the Stock & Trade Servant School, 111 S. Fells, Market District, Impyria. They’ll forward it on. Give Anja a hug and my fishing pole (the one with red tape). She could try Miller’s Pond when the mayflies hatch. Say hi to all, especially Mole and Bluestripe.

  Satisfied, he folded the paper and slipped the letter in a waxed envelope so it would survive its journey to the Sentries. By the time mail arrived in Dusk, most of it had been drenched or opened.

  “It needs stamps,” said Hob’s neighbor, the private.

  “I plan to win them off you,” said Hob. “Ten points each?”

  “Let’s make it five to teach you a lesson.”

  “Done.”

  Hob maneuvered so he could reach the arcadia board between their beds. He inspected the game’s four platforms and checked to ensure all was proper.

  “What’s the objective?” he asked. Arcadia offered five objectives and each required different strategies. His neighbor’s disfigured face twisted into a grin.

  “Conquest.”

  “Works for me,” said Hob. “Your move.”

  Turning the little hourglass, his opponent jumped his centaur down a level so that it was square with Hob’s dragon. An aggressive play, too aggressive so early in the game. Hob slid his jinn next to an unclaimed tower . . .

  Half the hourglass’s sand remained when the guardsman conceded defeat. He stared at the board in disgust.

  “Good game,” said Hob.

  “That wasn’t a game,” the soldier grumbled. “It was dissection. What do I owe?”

  “Let’s see,” said Hob. “I’ve still got my dragon, afrit, centaur, sorceress, and both hampersprites. One hundred and five points, so . . . twenty-one stamps.”

  A groan. “Revenge?”

  Hob agreed provided the soldier coughed up the ten stamps needed to mail his letter. These were passed over. Once Hob affixed them, he put the letter aside and scooted his bed back to its place.

  “What about our game?” said the guardsman.

  “You need time to recover your spirits,” Hob joked. “And I have work to do.”

  The older boy scoffed. “What work? You’re a page on bed rest.”

  Hob drew the curtain between them and slipped his Impyrial handbook from the box of personal items Viktor had brought him.

  He transmitted messages to the Fellowship using the spypaper on the inside back cover but he received replies on a different page. These appeared amid a dense paragraph that listed diplomats and blended with the surrounding text. The last he’d received was before his injuries, but another was due. He turned to page 213.

  Many people took great risks to place you in the palace. They did not do this so you could fight an idiotic duel that endangered your life and drew unwanted attention. We are extremely displeased. Lower your profile and resume quiet progress toward your goal. Failure to do so will force us to take steps we would rather avoid. Intelligence gleaned from page duty is helpful, but your priority is information regarding HF’s magical capabilities. You will report everything you hear or observe. We fear you are not being wholly forthcoming . . .

  Hob reddened, feeling some of the accusations were unjust. He’d reported everything he’d witnessed in the Direwood: Hazel’s argument with Dante, her dreamlike trek to the Reaper’s tomb, and the appearance of that horrifying stag-man. What else was he supposed to say? Hob had no idea what had drawn Hazel to those stones, or what her capabilities might be. Her Highness never discussed magic, and Hob was reluctant to press the issue after the debacle at Hound’s Trench. He felt fortunate that they’d still be meeting to discuss the Muirlands.

  In fact, they would be meeting that very afternoon. A zephyss from Dàme Rascha had inquired if he was well enough for a short session; Her Highness had a test on economics that week. He did not need to stir. They would come to him. Closing his eyes, Hob tried to recall everything he’d studied for Provinces: financial principles, means of production, regional industries . . .

  Shortly before five o’clock, one of the moomenhovens wheeled Hob’s bed into a private room and changed his dressings. All of the ward’s nurses were moomenhovens—plump, matronly beings, almost entirely human but for their cow legs and tails. Despite his initial misgivings, Hob had discovered they were gentle creatures, tireless in service of their patients.

  Hob leaned over the bed rail for a glimpse of the nurse’s shins. “Thank you, Suusa.”

  She smiled shyly. Moomenhovens were mutes and nearly identical save for the spotted patterns on their legs. Once she’d brought in two extra chairs, Suusa took her leave.

  Her Highness arrived right on time, accompanied by Dàme Rascha and Sigga Fenn. Lowering her hood, Hazel offered a somewhat anxious greeting and asked how he was doing.

  “Better each day, Your Highness.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to thank you for the other night. I’m deeply sorry about your family’s sword.”

  “Oh,” said Hazel, turning pink. To Hob’s surprise, she looked almost embarrassed by his apology. “The sword wasn’t your fault,” she began, glancing at Dàme Rascha. The vye shook her head in answer to some unspoken question. Hazel seemed inclined to argue, but Dàme Rascha gave a warning chuff. Hob quickly changed the subject.

  “When did you get this?” He pointed to the bat-like creature clinging to Her Highness’s cowl.

  Hazel grinned. “This is Merlin. Master Montague had an extra homunculus and gave it to me as a reward for speaking up on your behalf. He said I showed backbone.”

  Hob leaned forward on his bed. The creature was smaller than his hand and resembled a minuscule person with glistening blue-black skin and delicate, membranous wings. He was fast asleep and breathing rapidly, eyelids fluttering as though deep in a dream. Despite being newly spawned, the creature’s wrinkly grimace made him look like a toothless old man.

  Hazel stroked its glistening head. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  Hob managed a noncommittal grunt. “I suppose we should dive in. What’s the topic?”

  The princess groaned. “Money—the most boring subject ever. I think I’ve got the theory, but Montague likes it when I apply them and use examples. That’s where you come in.”

  “Understood,” said Hob. “Tell me what you know and we’ll go from there.”

  Sighing, Hazel rattled off what she’d memorized concerning currency types and their values before trying to explain—semicoherently—that the Bank of Rowan did something to manage how much money was in circulation to help Impyrium’s economy.

  “How was that?” she asked.

  “Not bad,” said Hob. “But even the theories aren’t going to help you understand how the economy really works.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s almost no Impyrial currency circulating in the Northwest. Not even in bigger settlements like Wulfast.”

  “Why?”

  “The banks hoard it. It makes it more valuable, Your Highness.”

  “But the values are set,” said Hazel. “My textbook says what they are.”

  “In real life, Impyrial currency’s much more valuable than what it says in your book,” said Hob. “There’s lots of demand, but banks only release very little.”

  “But why do they do that?” said Hazel.

  Hob considered how best to explain. “There’s a woman in my village named Mother Howell who told me there’s really just a few things to understand about money, and then you can figure out the rest. The biggest one is supply and demand.”

  “The master mentioned that,” said Hazel. “But he assumed we all knew what it meant. He didn’t give examples. I don’t understand it.”

  Hob pointed at the water pitcher his nurse had left. “What would you pay me for that?”

  Hazel gave it a puzzled look. “Nothing. I can get water whenever I want.”

  “What if you couldn’t? What if thi
s was the only water left? What’s it worth then?”

  “Well, everyone needs water,” said Hazel slowly. “If there isn’t any, I guess that would make the pitcher priceless.”

  Hob nodded. “That’s supply and demand. It usually sets something’s price. Now, what if I told you water was scarce, but I had lots in a secret reservoir? Should I sell it all at once?”

  The princess considered a moment. “If you did, the price would go down. But if you sold small amounts at a time, you could keep the price high.”

  “How high?”

  The princess shifted Merlin. “As high as people were willing to pay, I suppose.”

  “Exactly,” said Hob. “And that’s why banks hoard currency in the Muirlands. If I borrow ten solars from a bank, it will cost me thirty solars worth of goods to get the coin to pay it back. Most people never get out of debt.”

  “If banks are so expensive, why do people use them?” said Hazel. “Can’t they just barter instead? Master Montague said bartering was common throughout the Muirlands.”

  “People do,” Hob replied. “No one in my village pays each other with coin—too valuable. We exchange furs or fuel, little nuggets of silver, even labor. But you can’t barter with tax collectors or banks. They only accept official currency.”

  Hazel was deep in thought. She turned suddenly to Dàme Rascha. “Is that really how it works? It doesn’t seem fair.”

  The old vye cleared her throat. “I do not know, Your Highness. As Mr. Smythe says, theory and practice may differ throughout the land. But I cannot imagine your uncle would approve banks hoarding currency that muir are required to use. It would seem unethical.”

  Hob kept a straight face. This was exactly what the Bank of Rowan had been doing for centuries. It was amazing how little these people knew about the institutions keeping them in power. Ignorance was no excuse. They were part of the system, complicit in its injustice.