Impyrium

  A shrouded figure had maneuvered the rowboat next to the ship, whose crew was lowering a rope ladder over the side. The rowboat’s two passengers took hold of it and began to climb. The first was Ms. Marlowe; the second was an ungainly, crippled-looking figure with patches of bare skull that gleamed in the moonlight.

  Hob took aim at the thing he’d known as Mr. Burke. He tried to calm his breathing and forget how much depended on this shot. He’d downed caribou from farther distances, but not with his heart beating like this. And the ship was rolling on the swell, causing his target to bob up and down. Then there was the inshore breeze. Elevation. So many factors . . .

  Sailors helped Ms. Marlowe over the rail. Mr. Burke was nearly there. Exhaling slowly, Hob whispered a prayer and waited for the next roll.

  Crack-crack!

  A body splashed into the sea but it was not the one he’d aimed for. An instant before Hob pulled the trigger, Ms. Marlowe had leaned over the railing to extend Mr. Burke a hand. The gesture had proved fatal. As she plunged toward the water, Mr. Burke disappeared safely over the gunwale. Hob’s family was still in danger.

  He trained his rifle on the ship, but no figures remained visible on deck. Nevertheless, it was getting swiftly under way as though ghosts were at the helm. As for the rowboat, its oarsman had already sculled it to safety behind the rocks.

  Leaping down from the boulder, Hob raced up the beach, his feet squelching in the cold sand. Faster and faster, he ran, his eyes fixed on the ship. It was picking up speed, its topgallants unfurling as it steered northwest toward an encroaching fogbank.

  “Come on,” Hob pleaded. “One shot. One lucky shot.”

  Scrambling up a little dune, he brought the rifle to his shoulder.

  Crack-crack-crack-crack!

  But there was no lucky shot.

  The rounds struck wood, and perhaps a bit of canvas or rope, but no Mr. Burke. Lowering the gun, Hob watched in silence as both the ship and his hopes faded in the mist.

  He spent the next hours on the beach, sitting in a daze with his back against the monolith. Now that the Faeregines were secure, patrols began fanning out over the island. The first to pass Hob took away the rifle but did not arrest him, on Sigga’s orders. Apparently, the Grislander intended to come for Hob herself. No one seemed to think that boded well.

  The soldiers asked Hob where the attackers had gone, but Hob found that he couldn’t tell them anything. Traces of psychnosis remained. The soldiers assumed he was in some kind of shock and continued on. Shortly thereafter, a warship swept north with a mystic at its prow, conjuring a fair wind. It soon vanished into the mist and Hob was alone once more.

  A body washed ashore just before dawn. At first, Hob thought it was a seal, for there were many in these waters. But a gull soon landed to investigate, followed shortly by another. Climbing slowly to his feet, he made his way down to the water.

  Almost everything hurt. Dried blood caked his ear and neck. His nose was broken, his feet had been cut to ribbons. But the pain in his right hand trumped all. The skin had blistered and peeled away. His palm and fingers were raw, red flesh. Even the wind made it sting, much less holding or touching anything. In the heat of battle, it was an irritant. Now, it was agony.

  Hob gazed down at the body on the sand.

  Ms. Marlowe’s bun had come loose so that her long white hair lay in damp tangles. Hob was glad she lay facedown, for her flesh appeared to be dissolving like sea foam. The reek was sulfuric. Hob backed away, watching in silent horror as her body, maintained perhaps by some dark magic or alchemy, slowly collapsed into sludge.

  Gulls cried out behind him. Hob turned to see a lone figure walking toward him down the beach. Mist hung between them, but he knew that silhouette and stride.

  Sigga did not hurry. When she reached Hob, she glanced at Ms. Marlowe’s remains.

  “What’s this?”

  “The other one,” said Hob. “Who’s protecting Her Highness?”

  “Red Branch,” she answered. “The royal family is all together.”

  Sigga crouched over Ms. Marlowe. Using one of her daggers, she poked about, fishing out whatever might remain among the sludge and wet clothes. There was a belt, a flask, some bracelets, rings, and a bronze pendant. It was the reliquary that interested her. It looked just like the others.

  “So they were all necromancers,” said Hob.

  “Not Beecher,” said Sigga, inspecting the reliquary. “He was probably just an acolyte. But that other man was powerful. I’ll be going after him. Our business is personal.”

  “What did he say to you?” said Hob.

  “‘The Shibbolth do not forget. Neither does Aionia,’” she replied quietly.

  “Who’s Aionia?”

  The Grislander’s mouth twitched. “My sister, Mr. Smythe. She died ten years ago.” Sigga frowned and pocketed the pendant. “Let me see your hand.”

  Hob held it out for her to inspect it.

  “It’ll hurt, but it’ll heal,” she said. “How’s the rest of you?”

  Hob shrugged. He felt dead inside. Sigga looked attentively at him.

  “They threatened your mother and sister?”

  “Yes.”

  Hob shut his eyes and willed himself not to cry. The last thing he wanted to do was shed tears in front of Sigga Fenn. The agent laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You fought hard for Her Highness. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  She did not have to explain. Hob walked slowly back the way he had come. He stopped after fifty yards or so, and waded into the water. He was tempted to keep walking, but he didn’t. He merely stared out at the dark swells as the sun peeked over the horizon and turned the gray mists gold. He didn’t think about Mr. Burke or the Fellowship, the Faeregines, or even his family. There would be plenty of time to brood on them. Instead, Hob focused on the cool water lapping about his shins, the sensation of sand between his toes.

  “It’s time,” said Sigga.

  He left the water and went to her. The agent bound his wrists, her face as unreadable as the day they’d met.

  “Hobson Smythe, you are under arrest for high treason against Her Radiance, the Divine Empress.”

  CHAPTER 23

  HOUND’S TRENCH

  Once I became the Reaper, Arianna did not cease to exist.

  She had never existed.

  —Divine Empress Mina IV (322–401 A.C.)

  Hazel did not stir again until Rowana returned to the Sacred Isle. When she finally woke, it was in her own room with Dàme Rascha reading at her bedside.

  That was four days ago. It had taken Hazel much of that time to process what had happened during her virtual absence. The empress and sisters were unhurt, although they’d suffered quite a shock when the grove by the standing stones had suddenly detonated. Several servants had been injured, but the most grievous loss was that of Oliveiro. Many generations of his family had served the Faeregines. He received a posthumous medal and his heirs were granted good lands in Southaven. The Spider valued loyalty.

  Consciousness had returned, but Hazel’s magic had not. She could not even snuff a candle or conjure a glowsphere. Master Montague was kind enough to give her a lunestone that would sustain Merlin until they could find a more permanent solution. At night, the homunculus curled about the glowing shard and absorbed its energies. Hazel remained in Merlin’s debt. If he hadn’t fetched Sigga, she knew she would be dead.

  Hazel and Rascha did not discuss the implications that her loss had for the Mystics examinations, or the vye’s potential punishment. If the Spider intended to grant an extension or reprieve, she had not told them. Rascha’s conviction that Hazel’s magic would return began to dwindle. It was clear she was growing worried. So was Hazel, although she was preoccupied with other matters.

  Hob had been arrested. He was being kept in prison until his trial, which was to take place in one week. Sigga explained to Hazel that he was a member of the Fellowship, a revolutionary group whose ranks had been infiltr
ated by necromancers with a more insidious agenda. There was no real question whether Hob was involved with the Fellowship; Sigga had confiscated a handbook containing an ancient, almost undetectable type of spypaper. While Hob’s deceit was painful, Hazel refused to believe it was the entire story. He was caught up in a conspiracy that went far beyond muir rights. And she intended to prove it.

  There was a knock and Rascha entered, moving stiffly and leaning heavily on her staff. She looked gravely at Hazel.

  “You promised not to look at it again.”

  The vye was referring to the painting of Arianna Faeregine, propped against the armoire. They had found it in the fireplace when they returned from pilgrimage, covered in soot, the canvas burned in several places. Hazel could not say precisely when it had been expelled from its interdimensional hiding place, but she imagined it was probably when she had locked eyes with Talysin. That was the last time she had heard the Reaper’s voice, the last time she had felt any trace of magic.

  The painting was dead now, its image ruined, its depths uninhabited—if it had ever been inhabited at all. Its hold over her was broken. Hazel confessed all to Rascha when she had woken from her slumber—all her whispers at the witching hour with that terrible ancestor. The news upset Rascha deeply. She blamed herself for showing Hazel the painting and wondered aloud if it had been mere chance that led her to find it in the archives. The Reaper had been an unimaginably powerful sorceress—it was not impossible that she would have created some artifact to preserve her spirit and enable her to possess a descendant.

  But that was over now. The Reaper was gone. Talysin had burned her away.

  Rascha threw a blanket over the ruined painting. “You are ready?”

  Hazel smoothed her dress, and checked her appearance in the mirror. “I think so.”

  “You must be certain,” said the vye.

  Hazel went to stroke Merlin, who was sitting on the bed. “I am.”

  Thirty minutes later, Hazel and Merlin arrived in Old College. The campus was in its full summer glory, awash in flowering ivy and sun roses. The July morning was hot and overcast, with storms threatening in the western sky. Hazel made her way to Maggie.

  The hallway leading to her uncle’s office was unusually crowded for a Sunday. Clerks and secretaries hurried to and fro, making final preparations for the Impyrial Stakes, whose races would take place in the city that evening. It was the sporting event of the year, and Uncle Basil was chairman of the Equestrian Club.

  Lord Faeregine opened his office door himself, dressed in a summer suit with a rowan flower stuck through the lapel.

  “There she is,” he said, pecking Hazel on each cheek. He glanced at the guardsmen who were Hazel’s escort. “Where’s Agent Fenn?”

  “On a well-deserved vacation,” said Hazel. “She left two days ago for Afrique.”

  “I didn’t know the Red Branch took vacations,” he said with a laugh.

  He closed the door once Hazel followed him into his office. Servants had already brought their brunch, which was under silver covers on a little dining table strewn with fresh flowers. The office looked much the same: polished wood and glass cases glinting with curios and artifacts. Harkün occupied an armchair by the window, looking like a mummy made of basalt.

  “How is Rascha?” said Uncle Basil.

  “Lucky,” Hazel replied. “A bullet barely missed her spine. But she’s mending.”

  “She’s a tough old girl. And you’re a tough young one. It’s awful what you’ve been through.”

  Hazel nodded in appreciation. “I’m just trying to get things back to the way they were. Like our Sunday brunches. Thank you for doing this. I know today’s busy.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I don’t sail until this afternoon. Incidentally, shall I place a bet for you?”

  “I don’t know the first thing about horse racing,” said Hazel.

  “Lucky for you I’m an expert. Mistral’s at three to two, but Hellfyre’s better on a muddy track and rain’s not unlikely. He’s at four to one, but the odds will shorten once the first drop falls. Of course, you can always take a flier. Tincropper’s fifty to one.”

  Hazel set her bag and Merlin on a nearby windowsill. The homunculus sat on his haunches like a miniature gargoyle. He even had a surly grimace.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t have any money.”

  Her uncle pulled a chair out for her. “You do, my dear. You come into it on your thirteenth birthday. In a few months, you’ll be one of the wealthiest people in Impyrium.”

  Hazel sat down. “How exciting.”

  He took the opposite seat. “Never turn your nose up at money. Some fools say it doesn’t buy happiness, but that’s absurd. Money lets you do what you like when you like. If that isn’t happiness, a more philosophical mind will have to tell me what is. Now, let’s see . . .”

  He lifted the covers off the dishes, and served Hazel eggs, bacon, grapefruit, and a twist of doughy bread. He was a gourmand but believed in simple breakfasts. Hazel poked at her eggs.

  “So, how are things with you?” she asked. “After all this unpleasantness.”

  “Not bad,” he allowed. “Trade’s recovering, the Lirlanders are behaving, and the riots have ceased. Your grandmother’s never been a beloved figure, but no one wants to see an old woman murdered, much less her grandchildren. There are boundaries, and decent people understand them. That business on Man scared even our critics. Who’s going to rule Impyrium and tend the gate dragons if not our family? The Hydes?”

  Hazel rolled her eyes.

  “Exactly,” said her uncle. “Speaking of them, Lord Willem’s ceased his capers at the bank. He’s got enough on his plate without trying to take my job, especially now that the empress is weighing charges of treason. It turns out the Hydes had close dealings with that Mr. Burke who escaped. This necromancy business is rather appalling.”

  “I actually want to speak to you about these matters,” said Hazel.

  “Do you indeed?” he asked. “I’d have thought you would want to put all this behind you.”

  “I would like to, but my friend has been charged with treason.”

  Uncle Basil darted a look at her. “That page? What about him?”

  “Mr. Smythe’s trial is next week,” said Hazel. “And I happen to think he’s innocent.”

  A laugh. “Come now, my dear. The boy’s not innocent. He’s a member of the Fellowship. We’ve arrested a score, including his roommate in the palace. A whole nest of radicals was in the city. Rascha herself said he was standing over you with Bragha Rùn.”

  “I think it’s more complicated than that,” said Hazel.

  This brought a frown. “How so?”

  “I have some theories,” she said. “But I’d like to discuss them privately.” She looked over his shoulder at his bodyguard. Uncle Basil took the hint.

  “Harkün, please step into the inner office and close the door.”

  The agent rose, glanced quizzically at Hazel, and walked slowly into the inner office. He closed the door without a sound.

  Uncle Basil spread butter on his bread. “So, what’s this all about?”

  Hazel retrieved The Little Mermaid from her bag and laid it on the table between them. Her uncle crowed happily and picked up the beloved volume.

  “There she is. My collection thanks you. I was afraid you’d lost it.”

  “I shouldn’t have borrowed it without asking,” said Hazel. “It was wrong. And I ended up getting something I shouldn’t have.”

  She placed a square of paper on the table. Her uncle raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

  “A threat,” said Hazel. “From people who called themselves Butcher, Baker, and Candlestick Maker. We assumed someone slipped it in my room during the succession announcement. But it was never intended for me. This note was written for you.”

  Uncle Basil scoffed. “Preposterous.”

  “I wish it was,” said Hazel. “I picked it up the other day and
noticed there was glue on the back. Just the tiniest little dab. There’s also some on the story’s last page. The people who placed it there knew you read that book every holiday. They didn’t expect anyone to borrow it.”

  “And why would anyone leave a threatening note for me?” said Uncle Basil.

  “Because they were blackmailing you,” said Hazel. “They wanted to remind you they could get to you at any time. But you knew that, which is why you helped them break into the Lirlander Vault.”

  The blood drained from her uncle’s face.

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked. “Why are you saying such preposterous things?”

  Hazel spoke slowly in an effort to hold back her tears. “Because I want to give you a chance to confess. Because I don’t want to lose every shred of love and respect I have for you.”

  Instead of growing angry, he looked at her sympathetically. “This is about your magic. It’s gone for good, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe it is,” said Hazel. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about crimes you’ve committed against Impyrium and our family. Were you involved in Dr. Razael’s death, Uncle Basil? Look me in the eye and say you weren’t involved in the plot against me.”

  Lord Faeregine sipped his coffee. A vein throbbed at his temple. “I’m going to treat this as a bad joke carried too far. Please tell me you haven’t shared your absurd ‘theories’ with anyone. Your sisters, for example.”

  “No,” said Hazel. “I wanted to give you a chance to explain.”

  “That’s very sporting.”

  Reaching back, he gestured with two fingers as though calling a dog. A coil of slender gray rope shot from a bookcase display. In a split second, the cord wrapped tightly about Hazel, binding her to the chair. Merlin cowered as Hazel’s muscles went slack. She could not move.

  “It’s a passive fetter,” Lord Faeregine explained. “Handy thing. Pre-Cataclysm. I’d apologize, but you should have had your guard up. Everyone always underestimates the Faeregine men. We can do magic too.”