Impyrium

  He’d brought no coat, only a wool cap and scarf that fluttered behind him as he walked to the cove where the royal boats were docked.

  As Hob walked along the beach, he passed a group of monks in golden robes, meditating on the wet sand. One stood in the shallows, chanting and scattering handfuls of rice. Many religious delegations came from all over Impyrium to visit Faeregine tombs or behold various relics. Hob guessed the monks were paying homage to Ember. Some believed the Father of Dragons still slumbered beneath the Sacred Isle, and that the beast’s awakening would herald a second Cataclysm. Hob did not share this view.

  At the checkpoint, he showed his papers to one of the guardsmen and ignored the man’s grunt of recognition. Apparently soldiers read tabloids too. The man waved him ahead.

  “Stay away from Mariner,” he warned. “Captain’s got her on alert after what happened to Polestar.”

  Hob continued on, gazing at the trade galleon in question. Sailors and cranes were unloading crates from her holds and deck. A Lirlander Seal shone like a ghostly sun beneath her bowsprit. Hob could not get over the ship’s size. The harbor tugs and yachts were toys in comparison. He recalled the newspaper account of the Polestar’s disappearance. What could possibly tear such a vessel in two?

  He was the first to reach the rendezvous spot. Sitting on one of the pier’s benches, he watched birds circle the lighthouse on Kirin Point. Within its shadow stood the Lirlanders’ embassy, a structure resembling a crown of black coral. A barricade blocked the coastal road to its doors. Just offshore, a pair of Impyrial warships lay at anchor. He would inform the Fellowship of their presence.

  Hob wondered how many more reports he would ultimately write. Over the past few weeks, he had come to the realization that he was a good teacher and a poor spy. He was too proud, too quick to defend his honor in situations where muir were not supposed to have any. Professional spies didn’t fight duels or find themselves in gossip pages; they were bland, forgettable collectors of available intelligence and clever procurers of intelligence that was not readily available. It was this last quality that differentiated spies from mere informers and Hob had failed miserably in this regard. His reports on Hazel Faeregine had been limited to her strange behavior in the Direwood, her dizziness at the phantasia, and the fact that she worked late every evening atop Tùr an Ghrian. None of these provided any real insight into her magical capabilities.

  He had made casual inquiries into her magic, innocent little questions about what she was working on, what Tùr an Ghrian was like, and so forth. Yet they never yielded anything more than a sharp reminder from Dàme Rascha that he would confine his lessons to the Muirlands.

  And those would soon be at an end. Hob was perfectly aware that Hazel’s grades were the only reason he had not been fired. They had improved significantly, and not just in Montague’s class. Still, Hob knew he only had so much time to gather information until the school year ended and he’d be shown the door. If he was lucky, Oliveiro would give him a reference and a bribe to go quietly. The Fellowship would be disappointed—perhaps even angry—but Mr. Burke would find another use for him.

  As time ticked past, Hob grew troubled. Several yachts had come and gone. From high above, Old Tom chimed the hour. Nine o’clock. Nine thirty. Still, no Hazel. Hob confirmed with a patrolling guardsman that he was at the right pier. It was nearly ten when an elderly banker in a gray suit asked him the way to pier seven.

  “This is it,” said Hob, glancing at the two young clerks that accompanied him.

  “Good,” said the banker complacently. “Apparently the illusion is effective. Come along, Mr. Smythe.”

  Hob cocked his head. “Sigga?” he whispered.

  “Rascha,” replied the banker curtly. “Don’t gawk, boy. You did not think we would venture out undisguised, did you? Come.”

  Getting up, Hob followed them down the pier, trying to guess which clerk was Sigga and which was Hazel. Rascha led them not to a yacht but to a little sloop whose captain was dozing with a cat on his lap. He cracked an eye as Rascha stood in his sun.

  “You Yezdani?” he said. “If so, you’re late.”

  “Yes,” said Rascha. “Thank you for waiting.”

  The man spit tobacco juice over the side. “It’s your money. Come aboard. Try not to scratch the paint.”

  He laughed at his own wit. What little paint the Spritely had was faded and peeling. As they walked down the gangplank, the captain barked orders at a barefoot girl playing jacks in the bow. She scowled and got up to unmoor them.

  The boat eased into the harbor. Through the cabin’s dirty windows, Hob watched as the captain steered them toward some boatmen bobbing in their skiffs. One took up its oars to guide them through the maze. The younger of the clerks—a small red-haired boy of ten or eleven—came to stand near Hob.

  “Sorry we’re late. I was having second thoughts.”

  Hob stared. “Your Highness?”

  The clerk nodded. The other one, a dusky teenager, pushed aside some newspapers and sat on a bench. “You’ll get your own illusion once we’re off this tub.”

  “Agent Fenn?” said Hob.

  “At your service.”

  Hazel’s eyes wandered about the cabin. “Speaking of tubs . . .”

  Rascha sat heavily next to Sigga. “You wanted real experiences, Your Highness. The Spritely is the cheapest fare to the mainland. She’s popular with servants and tradesmen.”

  Hazel nudged aside a sandwich crust. “I miss Vesper.”

  The four sat in the cabin as the little sloop followed the boatman through the shadowed maze. It was far easier to get out than in, but Hob noticed the route they took was different from the one used on the night he’d attended the Grotesque. He would never grow used to the maze’s towering walls and smothering mists.

  The sun returned when they left the maze. Sailing south, they rounded its outer walls and headed west toward Impyria. Water sprayed over the bow as Spritely skimmed the waves. Turning from the window, Hob did a double take.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Hazel.

  “Your disguises are gone,” he said, looking from one to another.

  “They’re not,” said Sigga matter-of-factly.

  “But I can see you,” Hob insisted. “You’re not a boy in a gray suit anymore. You’re Agent Fenn plain as day.”

  “That’s not what the captain or that girl see,” Sigga replied. “Since you know it’s a disguise, the illusion gradually loses its effect on you. But others see it.” She took out a small folding mirror and angled it toward him. “Look at us in there.”

  To Hob’s amazement, the banker and his clerks continued to live in the looking glass. The hairs on Hob’s arm stood up.

  “Mirrors intensify illusions,” Sigga explained. “They always show the false image. Even to those who know better.”

  Hob left the cramped cabin to get some air. On deck, the captain hummed a bawdy shanty. The cat now sat by the young girl, who had resumed her game of jacks.

  Hob went to the starboard rail. Looking north, he could just make out the Île des Rêves, its concert hall a white seashell on a bed of black rock. The island had no other buildings that Hob could see. He wondered where the nemones lived. Looking down, he watched his shadow racing over the sea. A taller one joined it.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Sigga asked, coming to stand by him.

  “Just needed air,” he replied. “I really don’t like boats.”

  “You wouldn’t. You’re a Sentries boy.”

  He nodded.

  “I was just thinking about your village,” she said. “Dusk came up in my security memo.”

  Hob turned. “Is everything okay? Were there raiders? My mother and sis—”

  Sigga waved off his concern. “Nothing like that. No, there’s an Impyrial dig site nearby. The archaeologists returned and discovered that someone made an unauthorized visit.”

  Hob tried to keep calm. “I heard about that site. Someone trespassed?”
r />   She nodded. “They even destroyed its guardian. The archaeologists found a rifle all twisted up in the golem’s hand. A Boekka.” The agent paused, gazing thoughtfully at the waves. “You had a Boekka, didn’t you? You used it to hunt that Cheshirewulf.”

  “Everyone in the Northwest uses Boekkas.”

  Sigga grinned like a jackal, hungry and clever. The Grislander was showing through.

  “Oh, I’m not accusing you of anything,” she said. “This happened sometime after mid-October. Your records say you enrolled at Stock & Trade’s in July. Unless you can teleport, you couldn’t possibly have been at the dig site.”

  Hob tried to keep his mouth from twitching. “I’m glad you did your homework.”

  Sigga drummed her fingers. “Of course, there’s always a chance your records were falsified. It’s happened before and you’re certainly smart enough. Did you falsify your records, Mr. Smythe?”

  Hob met her gaze. “No.”

  “Very good.”

  Her tone was such that Hob couldn’t tell if she was satisfied by his answer or complimenting his performance. The Grislander glanced sideways at him.

  “Ever been to Whitebarrow?”

  The question was so out of the blue that Hob merely stared at Sigga a moment. Whitebarrow was a ruin in the high Sentries, not far from the pass that led into the Grislands. Most Duskers assumed it had been some kind of burial or religious site, but none could say for certain. Whoever raised its mounds and stone structures had left long before even the Hauja settled those inhospitable lands.

  “What does Whitebarrow have to do with anything?” he asked.

  “Have you been there?” she repeated.

  “Near it,” he admitted. “I passed by its cairns on séyu. But I never set foot in the actual ruins. No one does. It’s supposed to be haunted.”

  “Someone visited,” said the Grislander simply. “And fairly recently.”

  “Okay,” said Hob. “Why is that so disturbing?”

  Sigga was studying his face closely. “The archaeologists found a recent blood offering atop the highest cairn. This is disturbing, Mr. Smythe, because Whitebarrow was built to honor the Shibbolth. Have you heard of them?”

  Hob searched his memory. “The Shibbolth are demons, aren’t they?”

  “Correct,” said the Grislander. “Ancient demons that remained in their own realm during the Cataclysm. Unlike the Lirlanders and Zenuvians, they viewed Astaroth as an upstart and refused to serve him.”

  “So, they’re like another tribe?” said Hob.

  “More like another race,” Sigga replied. “The Shibbolth are older than the Lirlanders. Since they never served Astaroth, they were never conquered by humans and haven’t spent millennia confined in the mortal world. Some would say they are purer demons, untainted.”

  “You almost sound like you admire them, Agent Fenn.”

  This made her laugh. “I wouldn’t be the first. Once, there were cults that worshipped the Shibbolth as gods. The worst was a group of necromancers called the Coven. They’re the ones who built Whitebarrow.”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” said Hob. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”

  She tutted. “No need to get defensive, Mr. Smythe. I merely thought you should know what we’d found. If I had family in Dusk, I’d want to warn them. Necromancers prey on humans and your village is the closest settlement to Whitebarrow.”

  Hob felt sick. “You think they’re in danger?”

  “I hope not,” said Sigga. “The offering at Whitebarrow might have been a hoax or an isolated incident. After all, the Coven was stamped out centuries ago. I’d still alert those I care about.”

  “I’ll write to them tonight,” said Hob. “What should I say?”

  “To be vigilant,” Sigga replied. “Necromancers can be difficult to detect because they hide within living hosts, but I’d tell your mother to be wary of any recent arrivals in Dusk. If she’s suspicious of someone, she should watch to see if they linger near burial sites. Necromancers are drawn to death. It enhances their power.”

  Hob nodded. “Anything else?”

  From her pocket, Sigga produced a slim vial filled with a greenish liquid. Hob peered at it, for it appeared to be bubbling.

  “What is that?”

  “A special poison,” said Sigga. “Harmless to ordinary humans, lethal to necromancers. It incinerates the host’s body they’re inhabiting. I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Smythe. You drink this and I’ll give you a second vial you can send on to your mother.”

  Hob gave an uneasy laugh. “You think I’m a necromancer?”

  “Not really,” said Sigga. “But a necromancer can pass as just about anyone—even a child.”

  Hob peered warily at the potion. “You’re certain that won’t hurt me?”

  She handed it to him. “Let’s just say I’m optimistic.” As Hob took the glass tube, he had a sudden urge to fling it into the sea. Was he really going to drink some mysterious potion? It might very well be dangerous. Then again, he imagined refusing to drink it might be more so. Turning his back to the cabin, Hob tossed back the vial’s impossibly bitter and even greasy contents. The first time he tried to speak, he nearly retched.

  “That”—he wheezed—“was unbelievably disgusting.” Wiping his mouth, he glowered at Sigga. “How long ’til I explode?”

  She patted his shoulder. “No explosions, Mr. Smythe. Apparently, that’s the body you’re meant to have. I’m glad. I’d have hated to say good-bye this way.”

  The Red Branch handed over a second vial. “I hope your mother puts it to good use. Let’s move on to happier topics. I trust you got the tickets?”

  Hob patted his jacket pocket. “Four seats, midtier. Should be decent.”

  Sigga held out her hand for the change, nodding with approval at the number of coins. “Thank you, Mr. Smythe. I hope Her Highness enjoys this day. I know I am.”

  She returned to the cabin. Hob spent the next hour in an anxious state. Her story of necromancy at Whitebarrow was troubling, but his main concern was the discovery of his Boekka at the dig site. Mr. Burke had promised Hob that no inquiries into his background would turn up anything suspicious. His paperwork passed muster, but what if Sigga had someone make inquiries in Dusk itself? Most Duskers would stonewall Impyrial questions, but someone would talk eventually. Angus Dane would be more than happy to tell the authorities that Hob had been there through the New Year.

  What did Sigga truly suspect? The agent was not broaching these topics by chance. She was playing with him, spooking him on purpose. To what end? She could have him arrested any time she liked. Was Sigga hoping he’d lead her to bigger game? He needed to stay calm and think things through. The Fellowship would have experience in these matters. He would contact Mr. Burke as soon as it was safe. Gazing ahead, Hob saw they were nearing the long, curving seawall that sheltered Impyria’s harbor. The Spritely, along with other ships, was making for the southernmost gap. Hob walked back to the captain.

  “Why are we coming in so far south?”

  The man pointed to colored flags fluttering atop the seawall. “Scrag’s End’s safest today. Rough currents.”

  Hob returned to the cabin where Hazel was sitting beside Dàme Rascha. She stared straight ahead, her upper teeth caught on her lower lip. He noticed she was wearing a tiny smudge of pink lipstick. He’d never seen her wear lipstick before, not even at the phantasia. And those little silver earrings were new. So was the camel hair coat. One hand stroked Merlin; the other gripped the strap of a smart little purse. She looked like a girl on her first day of school. He’d almost forgotten Her Highness was disguised by an illusion until he caught her reflection in the opposite window. It showed an anxious clerk sitting beside a scowling banker.

  The banker spoke. “Feeling better, boy?”

  He glanced at Dàme Rascha. “Yes, thank you. The captain says we need to come in from the south, so we’ll be sailing by Scrag’s End. Perhaps Her Highness might want to se
e it.”

  The princess frowned. “What is Scrag’s End? It’s not one of the districts.”

  “It’s an unofficial district,” said Hob. “Technically, it’s not in the city limits. It’s—”

  “The slums,” said Sigga bluntly.

  “And why would Her Highness wish to see slums?” said Rascha.

  “I thought the idea was to see how people live in the outside world,” said Hob. “Scrag’s End is part of it. A bigger part than many realize.”

  The vye offered a baleful glare. “Are you lecturing me?”

  “Of course not,” said Hob. “I’ll see if we can sail around—”

  Hazel hopped to her feet. “I want to see it. The whole point of today is to have new experiences. Besides, it can’t be that bad.”

  They smelled Scrag’s End well before the Spritely slipped past the massive seawall. Its reek carried on the wind, a miasma of raw sewage, dead fish, and concentrated humanity. On deck, Hazel promptly produced a handkerchief and pressed it tightly against her nose.

  When it came into view, Hazel stared in astonished silence. Scrag’s End couldn’t be seen from most parts of Impyria. It was tucked away, separated from the city by walled cliffs crowned with watchtowers. A makeshift city of tents and shacks sprouted in their shadow like toadstools. Most were made of wood, scrap metal, even bits of sailcloth. Many hundreds were piled atop one another, ten or even fifteen high on makeshift scaffolds. Space was so scarce that the settlement overflowed onto the sea in networks of rafts and houseboats. They rose and fell on the swell like clumps of seaweed.

  Dàme Rascha chuffed. “Not the introduction to Impyria I would have wished.”

  Hazel was spellbound. “How many people live there?”

  Hob couldn’t have guessed. The distant figures teemed like maggots on a carcass, thousands upon thousands of human beings climbing the scaffolds, peering out from shacks, relieving themselves in the very water where others fished or bathed.

  “A hundred thousand,” said Sigga. “Give or take. Sometimes a fire destroys it, but they always rebuild.”