Chapter 14:
Line of Descent
I
The movements had grown rote. Cough, and cough again, willing what felt like invisible pulleys to bring up the sticky stuff from deep inside. Then, taste the blood and raise the cloth to his lips.
Gaius didn’t know why he looked at the cloth afterward, as if to confirm that there was blood on it, because there always was. It astonished him how much blood he’d been coughing up. Surely one man shouldn’t lose so much, yet he kept on going.
He looked across his desk as he lowered the fabric.
Sarnax sat primly on the facing chair, his old brown face struggling between three equidistant points of solicitude, pity, and disgust. In a fit of petulance Gaius crumpled the cloth and tossed it at his old friend. He regretted the action the moment it left his hand.
The soiled napkin went no further than the edge of the ridiculous wide expanse of the desk separating them.
The struggle on the old Hadiran’s face was won at last by pity, and Gaius scowled. “If you’re going to keep looking at me like that, you can just go now.” He knew his voice still conveyed power and was disturbed that the effect was lessened by the hint of old man quaver on the final word.
Sarnax’s more customary imperturbable mask slid into place, smooth and bland from his chin to the top of his long round head, shorn close overall. Hair that had once been jet black was gray, and sparse along the sides, as though it were a legionary’s helmet. The freedman and now chief advisor would have made a spindly, pathetic legionary. Even in his prime he had never been capable of feats of brawn, but his agile mind had any number of uses.
Gaius sighed at him. Sarnax, as usual, refrained from responding to the temperamental outburst. In his own way he was as unyielding as the fluted columns built into the wall of the study behind him.
“I hate this room,” Gaius said. “All this marble. It looks like a temple, or a tomb. Which I supposed I’d better get used to.”
“We need to get you south,” Sarnax said. “I don’t see why you won’t go.”
“Not until this matter with the Eltyr gets cleared up. The revenants seem to have botched it thoroughly.”
“Surely we should blame the Cerdians.”
It was the Cerdians who’d brought down the revenant outpost where many of the records on the matter had been kept, but Gaius shook his head. More and more often he’d come to doubt the revenants. “My brother put too much faith in them. And so did I. I’m starting to think they engineered all this talk of Hanuvar just to make themselves more important.”
Sarnax countered with reported facts. “There were the testimonials from the Isles of the Dead, and those who say they saw Hanuvar in that arena in Hidrestus. And there have been other instances—”
Gaius raised a hand as Sarnax spoke. It was wrinkled, but he thought it still looked strong. Especially for a man his age. He shook the hand and cut off his advisor. “Who knows what really happened, and how reports may have been exaggerated by the revenants?”
He continued as Sarnax opened his mouth to object. “And don’t talk to me about Caiax claiming he saw him. Caiax was a vainglorious fool. Marching off without leave for some ridiculous vendetta against the Ceori. He’d clearly lost his mind.”
“We could have followed up against the Ceori more forcefully afterward.”
Gaius snorted. “And waste more men chasing them through their valleys?” He pointed with his hand to the floor, only then noticing a spot of blood on his thumb. He couldn’t see the space in front of his desk without craning forward, but there was a bright tiled mosaic of the Inner Sea with Tyvol central before him, and the emperor’s sigil fastened to the front of the desk hung directly over it. “You believe what the maps show—that we control every spare inch of land in Tyvol. It’s not like that. We control the cities and the hubs of transportation. It’s not worth it to control every flea-bitten desolate mile.”
“We Hadirans have some familiarity with empire, sire.”
“As you’ve mentioned. But it’s easier when you’ve got a long strip of land on the side of a river and nothing but sand-blasted desolation everywhere else. Who cares if there’s some criminals or unruly bits hiding out over there, as long as they keep to themselves and leave off our commerce?”
“If they don’t become too numerous, I suppose there are better things to waste our resources upon,” Sarnax agreed with visible reluctance.
“But to my point. Caiax. What did Caiax expect to find? Hanuvar and a ghost army, crossing the Ardenines again?” He sputtered his lips in disgust. “I’m tired of all of it. Fools, the lot of them. I’m starting to regret that entire Volani debacle.”
“And then you’d have had Cerdia to the west and Volanus to the east and the Herrenes and the Ceori setting fires everywhere else?”
“You’re being especially argumentative today, Sarnax. Are you enjoying your Volani riches? Now no one trusts us.”
“But they fear us. You yourself said that was important. And if my Volani riches shame you in any way, I will part with them.”
Gaius shook his head and waved his hand.
“I think that the Volani women charmed you,” Sarnax said.
“They did, and rightly so. Izivar and her little sister, both. And the revenants are full of shit if they think the entire matter was engineered to impress me. Idiots. Those two girls were desperate to help me. And that younger was the bravest of all. I swear, if I had a legion of men as brave as that one girl . . . ” He let his voice trail off because he suspected he repeated himself, and the patient look in Sarnax’s eyes confirmed it.
He sighed. “Forgive me that comment about your riches.”
Sarnax bowed his head.
“I am so tired all the time now,” Gaius said bitterly. “My temper is short. Like my time. Anything now is just a delay.”
“Yes. But will the delay be a few months, or a few years?”
Gaius liked the sound of that. “You are a good friend. The most important thing is to prepare Enarius for what’s to come. I don’t think we can manage the Cerdians before I pass, but with luck Aminius will get himself killed fighting them, and get them bloody at the same time. He’ll never be able to ingratiate himself with the legions.”
“I think you’re right on the latter point, and we can hope for the first.”
Gaius liked the sentiment, but there was a touch of pity again in the shape of that thin old mouth across from him. Gaius swore. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I. Saying the same things over and over. I feel as though I’m making a list in my head and have to keep going through it to make sure my choices are sound.”
“There’s the matter of the Eltyr, sire.”
Good old Sarnax. He’d remembered what they were really supposed to be talking about, and brought it back around. So many other courtiers would let him wander from topic to topic to keep him happy, but Sarnax spoke the truth, even if it got him growled at.
“Yes. I’ve made a decision. I’m done with revenants. I’ve placed the matter of the Eltyr into Ciprion’s hands.”
Sarnax’s black eyes stared into the middle distance as he composed a response. “He is an avowed republican, sire. He has publicly stated, on many occasions, that he feels the power to run an empire is too much for a single man, no matter how talented. Do you think it wise to trust him with the safety of you and your son?”
Gaius laughed derisively. “People said Catius was the most honest man in Derva. But Catius’ ‘honesty’ was always self-serving, and shallow. Ciprion also tells you what he thinks, but his thinking is deeper. His ambition is only for a steady state. He’s no revolutionary, and he’s not in it for himself or his family. He will help shape the rule of Enarius. And Enarius will profit from his guidance. With Ciprion for military matters, you for societal and political ones, and Lucius for spiritual concerns, Enarius will be in good hands.”
“Ciprion is an honorable man,” Sarnax conceded.
The general had confounded Sarnax for years, just as he had Gaius himself. But as his life closed, Gaius had come to understand some topics in a different light. Most around him thought mainly about increasing their intake of the state’s treasures. But through inclination or schooling, a very few were defenders of the whole, thinking of the treasury as vital for the empire as though all the people in it were one large family. Ciprion himself had explained his concept of duty to Gaius over the winter, and it had struck a chord with him.
Sarnax was waiting patiently, and Gaius finished. “So. Ciprion is taking over the investigation. If he needs resources—”
“Of course, sire. I shall be happy to assist. I suppose it is fortunate you retained copies of records of the Eltyr’s depredations.”
“It is. The revenants are nearly useless.”
“Their leaders do seem more concerned about their hold on power than they do the welfare of the state.”
“That is exactly what Ciprion said. Do you know, Enarius wishes to speak with me this morning. I’ve a mind to assign him to assist Ciprion’s search. It would do him good to see our master strategist at work.”
“I imagine you’re right. Especially since the only military man he spends time with is Metellus. Which, if I may, brings up a point of concern Lucius and I have.”
This again. “Metellus is a brave man. And a good observer.”
“Lucius doesn’t trust him. He says there’s a darkness to Metellus.”
“He’s a soldier. Of course there’s darkness. And he’s ambitious. But he’s kept his head and kept Enarius protected.”
“And he also reports on Enarius to you. Yet Enarius thinks him a boon companion. If he can fool your son, who else might he be fooling?”
“Metellus just reports to me because it’s a soldier’s duty to report to his emperor. Enarius has gotten a stiffer spine around Metellus. A stronger character. And Ciprion won’t last forever—Enarius will need someone younger to counsel him, eventually, someone he can trust.”
“Perhaps your son’s developed that character in spite of Metellus, sire. If I may, Metellus may feel that he’s more important than he has a right to be. There’s the matter of that special banner he’s had made, and the way that he actually drinks with Enarius. As if he thinks himself an equal.”
“We’ve been over this. A man has to have a few around him who aren’t always bowing and saying sire this and sire that and telling him what he wants to hear.”
“Which is why you long ago advised me to be blunt. You wish to build for the future. I do not trust Metellus. I advise you, strongly, to separate him from Enarius.”
Through their long years together, Gaius had learned when Sarnax believed something passionately. It didn’t show in his eyes, but in a slight twitch along the left side of his mouth. His thin lips twisted now, though his voice remained level. “Send him to Aminius, to report on him. Let Metellus gain more seasoning, if you mean him to be the military expert he thinks himself. He’s never seen actual warfare.”
Sarnax had a legitimate point. A military advisor to leadership had to have experienced more than a few small combats. He dimly recalled that the young centurion’s record consisted of typical praetorian work shepherding members of the royal family from place to place. Gaius lightly tapped the desk with his knuckles, spotted more dried blood flecking them, and scraped it clear with his thumbnail. He looked up at Sarnax. “Good enough. A little time on the frontier should make him more useful.”
“Exactly, sire.”
“Or maybe you want him killed.”
“I find him unsavory, sire.”
That Sarnax, after seeing and hearing so much over the years, should take exception to one bawdy young officer, struck Gaius as amusing. He laughed, but that turned into a long, racking cough.
Sarnax stretched across the desk, picked up the bloody cloth, and passed it back to him so he could wipe his lips.
The blood was shining red, bright and winking like a sword point.
II
After the aged house slave admitted Hanuvar to the atrium, Ciprion was swift on the scene. Like Hanuvar, he played a role, and thus his welcome was formal, appropriate for greeting an old underling with whom he was fond rather than a peer. He showed his approval of Hanuvar’s disguise only by a brief uptilt of a thick eyebrow. He remained as Hanuvar had last seen him, a handsome aging soldier with dark thick hair and bushy brows, his stern demeanor belied by faint lines of humor about his mouth and eyes. He wore a red tunic with a plain black belt and sturdy brown sandals.
When he was not concealing his identity, Hanuvar now appeared closer to his true age than he had in months, although owing to a lack of weathering, wrinkles, and scars that his newly regenerated body had never accumulated, he could still pass for a younger man. For all that, though, he was more easily recognizable as himself, which was why he had dressed head to foot as a Ceori veteran of the legion auxiliary. A gaudy citizen ring shone on his finger, as though he were proud of the right granted him by his service. Like many aging Ceori he had dyed his hair blond and combed it back. He had also grown and dyed a thick mustache, though his chin and cheeks were cleanly shaved.
Antires had suggested he apply makeup to lighten his skin, but there were enough half-breed Ceori serving in the Dervan ranks that Hanuvar had decided against that more involved and more easily detectable step. Instead he relied upon long experience among the Ceori to inform his walk and manner. A Ceori who’d risen through the ranks and won the regard of a famed war leader like Ciprion would be proud of his acceptance, and therefore wear a fine Dervan citizen’s ring, but would retain enough pride in his heritage that he would style his hair and mustache traditionally and prefer a piney-green tunic too earthy for most Dervans. As final elements of his assumed identity, Hanuvar had donned Ceori boots, and a woven Ceori belt holding a knife almost large enough to be challenged by the city vigiles.
There was no knowing what servants might be listening in to spread gossip, so Hanuvar greeted Ciprion with his Ceori accent and an effusive raising of his arms, though, as a Ceori would know, he did not expect a Dervan patrician to actually embrace him. Instead he smiled and took his friend’s offered hand in an effusive shake.
They then went through a pantomime of health inquiries before Ciprion finally ushered Hanuvar formally into his home. He told the house slave that they were not to be disturbed and led Hanuvar forward.
Masks of ancestors hung upon the walls, and Hanuvar was certain two were of Ciprion’s father and uncle, who had battled against him and Adruvar both. There were lovely paintings of temples and seascapes and ships in encaustic wax, and a few fine Herrenic sculptures. Though he couched his appreciation in Ceori phrasing, the pacing huntress with a lion was honestly masterful and Ciprion informed him that his brother Lucius had acquired it for him.
Much as he would have liked a proper tour of Ciprion’s home, all this was prelude to the true purpose of the visit. Ciprion conducted him through a courtyard with a fountain that featured a stern helmeted warrior pouring water from a pitcher. The statue’s other hand held a spear, and it wasn’t entirely clear what the tableau was supposed to portray.
Ciprion sensed his curiosity and said apologetically, “This villa was a gift from the emperor. I’ll get that replaced, eventually.”
“Is he readying to spear a fish?” Hanuvar asked in his accented Dervan.
“I think that’s the intent, although the spear’s pointed at the bush, and why is he pouring water into the pond?” Ciprion shrugged, a Ceori gesture, and Hanuvar chuckled and mirrored it.
Stopping before the left of a set of double doors closed to the courtyard, Ciprion knocked the bottom of one with his foot, as was Dervan custom. “Amelia,” he said, “our guest is here.”
Ciprion had not said why his wife so wished to meet, though Hanuvar inferred she meant to take the measure of him. A woman’s alto voice with a slight rasp bade them enter.
Opening the door, Ciprion gestured for Hanuvar to precede him.
Amelia was rising from behind a desk in a small, tidy office. Behind her was a shelf unit partly given over to the display of potted plants and busts and partly to the tidy storage of documents. Family portraits of her daughter, grandchildren, and son-in-law hung upon the wall opposite the courtyard.
Hanuvar paid only scant attention to the surroundings. He advanced into the space and presented himself with the formal dignity of a Ceori, bowing from the waist before rising to meet the shrewd brown eyes of Ciprion’s wife.
Hers was an appealing face, with high cheekbones. Her nose was small and rounded and her brunette hair was well tended without being elaborate; from the way she presented herself, Hanuvar had the sense she liked things just so, and wished them to be pleasing to the eye, so long as no truly extravagant expenditure of time was involved. Her hair hung in flattering loose curls, and had surely taken some effort, but not the labors of a half dozen slave women. Her stola was a soft green with brown-gold tracing that called out a similar shade in her eyes.
“I’ve brought our guest,” Ciprion said, and closed the door behind him. Light still flowed through open windows above the walls to the courtyard.
Hanuvar kept his accent but left off the Ceori gestures. “I am honored to meet you. Thank you for welcoming me into your home.”
“I have hoped to meet you for some time,” she said. The rasp remained. Ciprion had not mentioned her being ill, and he did not wish to immediately inquire about her health.
“Why don’t we sit?” Ciprion indicated the two cushioned chairs facing the desk.
Amelia retreated to her short-backed chair behind the desk. Ciprion had probably told her that Hanuvar would be disguised as a Ceori, but he felt her attention upon his mustache and hair for a long moment before she chose to speak at last. Her diction was formal, almost stilted. “I wish to thank you for your help with that unpleasantness in the provinces. You saved the lives of my grandson, and my husband. I am grateful.”
He bowed his head to her. And here, quietly, he dropped his accent at last. “I am grateful to you both for your help safeguarding Volani orphans. If it is not too much trouble, I’d like to see them in the coming weeks.”
She acquiesced with a graceful inclination of her head. “Ciprion mentioned your interest. He said there’s a possibility that one of your nieces might be among them.”
“I do not hold high hopes, but I would like to meet them regardless.”
“I’ll be happy to arrange a visit. We . . . acquired Volani tutors for them. We wished them to be as comfortable as was possible. Given the circumstances.”
“So Ciprion said, and I am immensely grateful.” Ciprion and Amelia had nearly bankrupted themselves buying all the young Volani children they could afford to house and care for, and it was a debt he would never be able to repay. That the boys and girls had been indelibly traumatized and were being raised in a culture in many ways antithetical to their own were worries for another time. Under the aegis of these two, the children at least were safe from abuse or exploitation.
“And how do your liberation efforts proceed?” Amelia asked. She seemed to be warming ever so slightly.
He answered honestly. “Better than I feared. We have recovered nearly half of them so far. Slightly more if I account for the children under your protection.”
“And you are taking them away from our lands?”
“I am.”
“How far off is . . . your new city?”
She had come very close to naming New Volanus. Ciprion had assured him that they could speak openly here, so her reticence likely had more to do with the desire to refrain from mentioning certain topics by name. Hanuvar appreciated that, for it was easier to not speak of the wrong things in the wrong places if you were practiced in never mentioning them at all.
“Half a world. While I’ve some Dervan friends, it seems best to keep our peoples separate going forward.”
“That may be true. Are your people in no danger there? There are no other nations?”
He wondered if she were merely being polite, or if she was honestly curious to know just how distant he and his people would be from hers. Probably she wanted to ensure that they would cause no more trouble in the future, either for Ciprion or her family. “There are some city-states on the mainland, and a few tribal cultures on some of the islands, something like those living among the Lenidines. But there are no great powers. As of now, we all have room.”
“That is good to hear.” She folded her hands and her gaze sharpened. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but my brother and my father died in your war.”
Hanuvar felt rather than saw Ciprion tense beside him.
“I did know that,” Hanuvar replied. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“They didn’t have to die when they did. They were good men. Kind men.”
And did she blame him for those deaths? He couldn’t fully read her, though long-banked anger was clear in the way she held her head.
“If the good and the kind were the ones who led us, we might never come to blows,” Hanuvar responded.
Ciprion approved of this with a grunt. “Fairly said.”
Amelia eyed her husband for a moment, her expression still guarded. She returned her attention to Hanuvar. “If you had won the war—if you had beaten the Dervan legions, what would you have done?”
He would neither apologize, nor make excuses. “You want to know if I would have leveled Derva. Sold the survivors into slavery?”
His bluntness did not surprise her; perhaps she even appreciated it. “I know that you Volani do not keep slaves.”
“We do not level cities, either.”
“But you kill. I’m told more than fifty thousand perished that day with my father and brother, at Acanar. Ciprion was there. He might have died as well. You started the war. How would you have ended it?”
It was Derva that had started the war, by making their plans for domination manifest, and by gobbling up, taxing, subjugating, and otherwise interfering with Volanus’ formerly free trading relations. But this was not a time for debate. By starting the war she meant that he was the one who had invaded their lands. And by that reckoning she was correct.
“I thought I could bring Derva to its knees, and it would have to make terms. I was young, and hopeful, and a little arrogant. I didn’t know how stubborn Derva would be. But then I didn’t know how changeable my own government would prove, or how undependable the Herrenes would remain.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Invade Tyvol? We knew you would come for us, too, sooner or later. What other option did I have?”
She had grown more somber still and sat frowning. “It might have been different if you had not spilled so much of our blood.”
“We might have lived on under Dervan governorship. With Dervan rules, intolerable to most. My people have been free as long as yours. We did not want to wear your yoke.”
She breathed out slowly. She looked over to the door, but not at it, as though at some distant landscape. He wondered if she were imagining the past, or the future, or was remembering her father and brother. “You are the enemy of my state,” she said at last. “There was a time when I would not have suffered you in my presence. But here I sit, knowing that having you in my house is tantamount to treason, and yet I will not report it. My husband has taken immense risks for you and continues to do so. And he risks more than himself.”
“I know it.”
She shifted her attention to Ciprion. “Do you honestly think he will be seen for a Ceori?”
Her husband answered smoothly. “There are many half-breed Ceori in the ranks of the auxiliary, and they frequently dye their hair. Especially the older ones. And his mangled Dervan is perfect.”
Hanuvar addressed his friend with a thick Ceori accent, rolling his rs and lingering on the hard consonants. “But I have been working so hard on my Dervan. Do you think I have an accent still?”
Ciprion chuckled.
“You two are amused by yourselves,” Amelia said.
Her husband showed empty palms in concession as he replied. “Amongst such grim duties, we must look for humor somewhere.”
She faced Hanuvar. “I can see why my husband likes you. Can you explain to me why his efforts on your behalf are worth the risk to my family?”
“They aren’t.” His answer seemed to startle her, though she recovered as he continued. “If I had other options, I wouldn’t ask him to make such efforts.”
“If anyone were to learn that he had assisted you, it would be not just the end of him, but our entire line. Not just me, and our daughter, but our grandchildren, and our brothers and sisters and cousins. Do you understand that?” Her gaze transfixed him. This, he thought, is a mother lion, declaring a warning from her den.
“I do. I will never be able to thank him adequately, and you, for the aid you have provided me.”
“I do not want your thanks,” she said curtly. “I want you to keep him safe.”
Beside him Ciprion shifted in his seat. Hanuvar guessed that he had not anticipated this particular line of conversation.
Amelia continued. “My husband seems to think that you are the cleverest man in the world. Well then, make sure that you use that cleverness to shield him, and our family, and that your tracks are so carefully covered that even were you to fail in some scheme nothing could be traced back to us.”
Hanuvar bowed his head. “He has been a true friend to me. And I hold true to my friends and allies. I pledge what you ask with my life.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer. She looked as though she meant to say more but remained silent. Finally, she gracefully inclined her head to him and spoke to her husband. “What are the two of you going to do first?”
“We’re trying to narrow down the Eltyr’s possible hiding place based upon the locations of the murders,” Ciprion said. “We’re expecting the delivery of an important map today that should help. After that, we’re going to personally visit each of the murder sites ourselves.”
“And you think you can stop this murderess?” Amelia asked.
“I know that we will try,” Ciprion answered.
“Even if it is your daughter?” she asked Hanuvar.
“I do not approve of her actions, whoever she is. There must be no more.”
Ciprion climbed from his chair. “And time speeds. We should be on our way.”
Hanuvar stood with him.
“You do not want to host your friend for a meal?”
“Few things would please me so well,” Ciprion said. “But there is work to be done.”
“He’s right, and I’ve already eaten,” Hanuvar said. “But milady is kind.”
She rose. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” She offered her hand. As was Dervan custom he took her fingertips and squeezed them gently before releasing.
“It was an honor.” Hanuvar bowed, and when he straightened, he spoke once more with his Ceori accent. “It is time, yes?”
“It is time,” Ciprion agreed. He exchanged farewells with his wife, who wished them fortune, and then they left the villa and started into the city streets.
“I hope that was not too uncomfortable,” Ciprion said after they had advanced to the opposite curb. They started downhill past expensive neighboring villas.
“Her concern is entirely warranted,” Hanuvar answered. “I like her. She’s smart and dedicated.” He held off saying that if her society had accorded her the power to match her intellect, she’d likely be as formidable on the battlefield as her husband.
“She is.”
III
This time the old man had summoned him to a small office to the rear of the palace. Wide doors were thrown open to an inner courtyard Metellus had never seen, one where a riot of greenery thrived, and where a gorgeous, garishly painted nymph statue with one cocked hip leaned over from her pedestal to stare into a rectangular pool. The sun was so bright it was almost blinding, but he saw the outline of a butterfly flitting in one of the beams.
The emperor sat behind a high-topped desk. There was a remarkable contrast between the courtyard and the empty desktop, the gray of the emperor’s skin, the room bare of decoration apart from a solemn bust of Gaius’ predecessor and older brother.
The sour old Hadiran, Sarnax, sat in a backless chair to the emperor’s side.
The emperor’s gaze was stern, by which Metellus understood that Enarius’ meeting hadn’t gone quite so well as he’d suggested. But then Metellus had prepared for just this moment. If he could get the old tyrant to hear him out, he might still be able to turn things the proper direction.
The emperor frowned. “My son has told me of his ridiculous scheme. He tells me further that you support it.”
Metellus bowed his head. “Your Excellency, Enarius seemed bent upon the enterprise. He said, ‘No more children should be put at risk while I walk shielded.’”
“He is my only heir!”
“That is what I told him, Your Highness!” Metellus nodded fervently. “But Enarius was insistent. He said a ruler had to protect his people and that he would put a stop to this child murderer.”
Enarius had said something of the kind, but Metellus had forgotten the wording. It didn’t matter.
“And you have spoken to Ciprion about this? He is in the midst of bringing a stop this matter right now.”
“Is he, sire? Enarius worries that he’s taking too long already. And I do not mean to malign Ciprion—he deserves honors. But his thinking may be too conventional in this instance. Enarius will draw out the killer.”
“Ciprion would not risk exposing my son,” the emperor said sharply.
The Hadiran continued to watch, his expression masklike.
“I advised him that you would not like the plan, Excellency,” Metellus said. “But he told me if I did not want to help him, he would find someone else. And I do not trust someone else.”
“If I may, sire,” Sarnax said quietly.
The emperor coughed as he turned to him. He raised a cloth from his lap, coughed thrice, then lowered it as the attack subsided. “Speak.”
“A successful venture like this will only enhance your son’s popularity, especially since it was his idea.”
“It will kill him if it fails.”
Sarnax received this objection placidly. “We can take steps to ensure his safety. Make Ciprion a part of this planning. No offense to this young officer here, but your son is likely to be far safer if the plan is overseen by the master of Dervan strategy. And you did say you had been thinking about having your son assist in the investigation.”
Metellus didn’t like that at all; if matters weren’t arranged just so, then the entire operation would be for nothing. And yet he saw the emperor’s expression softening. Gaius turned to the wrinkled advisor as if by scrutiny he could weigh the worth of his advice. “My son did wish to use Ciprion’s anniversary celebration as the opportunity for a lure. I told him that Ciprion has no interest in celebrating that occasion, though. He’s made that perfectly clear.”
“Another of Ciprion’s peculiar habits,” Sarnax said. “He is not one keen to sound his own horn. But if you order Ciprion to attend the celebration and place him in charge of your son’s safety—”
“Your pardon, Minister,” Metellus said, and pretended as though he were not dismayed by the sudden intense attention his interruption brought. “I have pledged to protect Enarius.”
Sarnax looked as though he were about to speak, but the emperor launched into a prolonged coughing fit, and the old Hadiran clamped his mouth shut.
The emperor dabbed at his lips with the cloth then lowered it. His gaze was watery and ill-defined and Metellus wasn’t sure what the old man was looking at or thinking about.
“If I may, sire,” Sarnax began, but the emperor held up a hand to him.
The silence stretched on.
“I trust Ciprion,” the emperor said finally. “And I must allow the boy to make his own decisions. But heads will roll if anything happens to him.” He looked pointedly at Sarnax.
“I will let nothing happen to him,” Metellus vowed. “I shall be there every step of the way.”
The emperor rubbed at one bloodshot eye. “I think not. You’ve done such a fine job keeping tabs on my son that I have another task for you. You’re to be posted to the border. Greater hostilities with the Cerdians are certain, and I want someone I can depend upon to keep a close watch on what our legions are doing.”
The old windbag hadn’t come up with this idea on his own. He never had any ideas of his own. Which meant that it had likely come from the ancient Hadiran, whose expression was remote and superior.
Metellus bowed and kept the anger from his voice. “My emperor, have I disappointed you in some way?”
“On the contrary, Metellus. I am pleased with you.”
“Surely you already have other agents monitoring Aminius. I think that I am more useful here.”
“If you are to advise my son you need more seasoning.” The emperor spoke as if relating well-established fact. He continued irritably, “And you need to learn better how to follow orders. You will pack your bags and prepare for departure tomorrow morning.”
Metellus bowed formally. “I hear and obey. But, sire . . . grant me a small request.”
The emperor’s heavy jowls quivered. “You tax my patience.”
With head low, Metellus offered his open hands. He spoke quickly and worked to demonstrate heartfelt passion. “Permit me to see this operation through to completion. I have been charged with Enarius’ protection this last year, and he is knowingly putting himself at risk. I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to him when I was not here. It is true that Ciprion knows far more about strategy than I. Let him plan the larger details, but allow me to learn from him, and stay at your son’s side through to this mission’s completion.”
The emperor still glared.
“Sire, I have saved him in the past. I will make sure he is safe now.”
The emperor sat there unmoving for a moment, but, like winds pushing through thunderheads, his expression cleared. For more than anything else, the emperor cared for his legacy, and right now his adopted son was that legacy personified.
“Sire,” Sarnax said, “Ciprion has a whole host of veterans he can assign to help Enarius.”
“Metellus is right, though, old friend. He personally saved my son’s life once already. How many other men can say that? Very well, Metellus. I grant your favor. See this operation through before your reassignment. For the sake of my son.”
“Thank you, sire. I shall not fail you.”
That was the wrong thing to say, for the emperor’s expression clouded once more.
“Fail me, and it will be the end of you. Now go.”
Metellus bowed deeply, aware of the deadly look from Sarnax as he departed. He felt it against his back as surely as he felt the sun on his face as he left the palace.
IV
A young slave from the civil service finally arrived with the map, and then he and his assistant unrolled it across the long table in Ciprion’s office, in the rambling government building near the forum. It was an impressive piece of papyrus that stretched nearly the entire two spear lengths of the table and came within a handspan of its other sides.
The slaves weighed down the corners with curios. Some artisan had labored long hours to carve warrior faces framed in helms out of sizable chunks of amber, conjuring stunning personality, and now they served solely as paperweights. They grimaced at the detailed map of the city of Derva like angry golden gods.
The slaves left, and Ciprion set to work, assisted by Antires. The Herrene needed no disguise, for Herrenic servants and slaves were ubiquitous throughout the empire. The young playwright wore a well-made tunic and a freedman’s ring, less ostentatious than Hanuvar’s. And he held a sheaf of papers, from which he read off the location of each of the recent murders identified as the work of the Eltyr.
Ciprion leaned out across the table, and, impervious to the scornful gazes from the ferocious little amber heads, darkened the beautiful map with tight text where each of the murders had taken place. Volani maps tended to be more colorful and impressionistic, conveying essences more quickly, but Hanuvar appreciated the stark precision in the detailed line drawing beneath his hands.
The room’s last occupant waited to one side, the most obviously incongruous of them all. Izivar today wore Dervan garments, and her curling ringlets were pulled high. The soft saffron stola sheathed all but her ankles and sandals. She might have passed for a Dervan woman if she held herself with less open curiosity. She was engaged, and contemplating the work of these men, in a man’s office in the sprawling government building, as though she were an equal participant. Dervan women might command a household, but few would have looked so comfortable at a conference in so masculine a setting.
She had arrived separately, for her quarters were removed from those of Hanuvar and Antires, to maintain the illusion of their respective identities.
“It seems a shame to mark up that map,” she said. “It really is quite beautiful.”
“It is a work of art.” Ciprion’s voice was strained from his stretch across half the table. He finished his notation. The mark was in black, and to differentiate it from the detailed roadways, he had enclosed each of the murder points with a precise, thick rectangle.
Ciprion straightened. His thick dark eyebrows were drawn as he contemplated his handiwork.
“What’s the goal of this?” Izivar asked. She had arrived only a few moments before.
“He’s trying to pinpoint a safe area for the killer’s retreat,” Antires explained, “based on where the murders have occurred. And the times when they occurred, when known.”
She nodded impatiently. “But Derva’s huge. Even if this gives you some kind of pattern, how much help can that be? Suppose it points to the north; the northside of the city is vast.”
“Milady has a point.” Ciprion allowed a trace of his famous charm to show in his smile. “This is only a humble start.”
“If we organize the information, connections may stand out that aren’t immediately visible,” Hanuvar said.
Her look to him was that of one upon hearing surprising words from a stranger. He had promised her he would maintain his cover constantly, warning her not to show any sign of a personal connection between them, but realized from her reaction that he hadn’t mentioned he would maintain his accent. She might have expected him to dispense with it in private.
“It’s like a tile picture designed by some artisan that you have to assemble on site,” Antires finished, probably pleased with his metaphor, although it was obvious from Izivar’s look that further explanation was unneeded.
“So you’re hoping to understand the ground and then see if there’s another way to get close,” she said to Hanuvar.
“Yes,” he agreed, amused that she had spent enough time with him to speak of taking ground as a tactical matter.
Ciprion directed a question to Antires: “Is that the last one?”
“One more.”
Izivar fingered her bright blue necklace and walked closer, studying the map, then each of the locations marked by Ciprion. The majority occurred in a rough crescent in the city’s central north, and slightly west. Beyond the forum, beyond the apartments, rooted around the moneyed neighborhoods.
“Five in the last two months,” she said, as Ciprion was making note of Antires’ final information. “And three were children?”
“Yes,” Ciprion answered grimly.
Hanuvar let out a slow breath, remembering how the Narisia from the other tapestry had recoiled at the thought of slaying children. He hoped his Narisia, even impacted by misfortune and tragedy, would never have chosen this course of action. It might be one of the other Eltyr who had escaped with her. But then what if Narisia had seen her own children die by Dervan hands? His grandchildren?
Hanuvar discovered he had balled his hands at his sides and forced himself to unclench them.
“This is strange.” Izivar tapped the second location.
Ciprion had bent across the table with a notched measuring stick but looked over to her and straightened.
Once more she tapped the location, and the bracelets upon her slim dark wrist made soft, jangling music. “Are these the dates found, or the actual dates of the murders?”
“Day discovered,” Ciprion answered. “All were children under ten. They were not left unattended for long.”
“I wished to be sure,” she said. “I thought I had heard that some of these were found the day after their death. That they had been slain in the night.”
“Most of them were likely slain in the night,” Ciprion confirmed.
“Well, then, we have a conundrum.” Again, her slender fingers played with her agate pendant. “This was a high holy day. Some Volani are more observant of religious traditions than others, but this is the day that Danit stepped from the ocean to take up with a human lover, before they met, again and again, at the site of the sea gate. The Eltyr especially hold this night sacred. If the child’s body was found the next morning, that means an Eltyr could not have maintained an all-night vigil before a ceremonial bath.”
“Well reasoned, lady,” Hanuvar said.
“And do you happen to know if Narisia was devout?” Ciprion asked the room at large.
“According to my sources,” Hanuvar said, “she practiced the traditions with great solemnity, and found them spiritually cleansing.”
It felt strange to speak of his daughter with such a remove, but fictions had to be practiced, lest he drop his guard at the wrong moment. And there was no knowing when they might be secretly overheard. This old capital building could contain hidden passages or spyholes.
Ciprion set his measuring stick aside.
Hanuvar continued: “But we must also remember that a warrior, given an opportunity to achieve some important goal, would not put it aside for a religious day. The more so if she thinks their gods have abandoned them.”
“And do you believe she thinks that?” Ciprion asked.
Hanuvar replied with a question of his own. “How could she not?”
“It depends upon the strength of her faith,” Izivar said. “But it is curious.”
“So the date may or may not mean anything,” Ciprion said, and to Izivar’s raised eyebrow he added: “But it may be important. I just don’t know how to use the information. At this point it’s hard to know what information is useful and what isn’t.”
As he finished, a loud knock sounded on the outer door. Ciprion glanced toward it, checked the room, and then said, simply, “Enter.”
The door was pushed open by a man in a glittering white praetorian uniform, minus the helmet, but complete with lacquered white chest armor. As a praetorian Metellus was even permitted to wear a sheathed sword on his hip within government offices. His was a noble profile, one with a proud nose and dark eyes. A trio of scars traced down the left side of his face. He swept the room with his eyes as though assassins or plebeians might be lurking in every shadow.
On his heels came Enarius, in a plain red tunic, his wavy hair recently trimmed, and after him an older man in a long, old-fashioned toga: the priest, Lucius Longinus, walking with a staff tipped with a falcon’s head, though he did not seem to require its assistance, for his tread was certain.
Months had passed since Hanuvar had been in the company of any of the three, and then he had looked decades younger and Dervan as well. But he didn’t care to encounter any of them, much less all at once in a well-lit room.
Ciprion greeted them by name, apart from Enarius, whom he addressed as “Excellency,” then asked what had brought them here. He had been promised privacy for his investigation.
Metellus was staring at Hanuvar as if he had discovered a rotting fish among the table fruits. “Who’s the Ceori?”
“This is Acunix. He’s an expert on the Eltyr. His unit tangled with a small contingent of them during the second war, and he was involved in a prisoner exchange.”
Metellus’ brow furrowed but he must have decided that he didn’t know the man disguised before him or that the explanation made sense, for he lost interest and walked toward the map.
Enarius greeted Izivar brightly, complimenting her hair. Antires, playing the part of a servant, stepped to the back, and Ciprion made no effort to introduce him.
Lucius, though, stared at Hanuvar with growing curiosity.
This same man had seen his aura and commented upon it months before. Was his scrutiny owing to recognition, or that he had found another man with a certain kind of aura?
“Father told me you were in charge of the hunt for the killer and asked me to join your staff,” Enarius said to Ciprion, who managed to look only a little startled by the pronouncement.
Metellus peered down at the map. “How do you expect to find the killer with this?”
“These are the locations of the attacks,” Ciprion explained. Metellus and Enarius both drew closer, and Ciprion told them he was using the murders to determine a point from which the Eltyr could advance and retreat in a single night. He meant to create expanding circles to surround the neighborhood of the killer’s likely headquarters.
As the general explained his reasoning and rattled off details about the deaths, the priest stepped to Hanuvar’s side and pretended to watch the cluster at the table.
“We have met before,” Lucius said softly.
“Have we?” Hanuvar asked, just as soft, but with his strong accent.
The priest’s lips twitched toward a smile without reaching it. “There is no mistaking your aura. But you are decades older. And wear another nation’s garb. How is this accomplished, and what are you doing here?”
It was pointless to dissemble, although he did not abandon his accent, or his own whisper. “It is as Ciprion says. I have experience facing Eltyr and I am here to help find the killer.”
“Why are you in disguise? Does Ciprion know?”
“Justice cannot always be delivered openly. And Ciprion trusts me. I thought I had your trust as well.”
“You did. But I find this troubling. Your transformation is, frankly, confusing and concerning.”
“These are confusing times. But my motives remain the same.”
“Your aura does,” Lucius said doubtfully. He returned his attention to the others. Izivar and Antires both watched Hanuvar’s quiet conversation with veiled concern. Ciprion had deployed his measuring rod amongst the murder sites while the other two questioned him about security at the attacks.
“I would be your friend,” the priest said softly. “Why must you be evasive?”
“I am in need of friends,” Hanuvar replied with grave patience. “But now is not the place, or time, for this discussion.”
“If it were not for your aid to Enarius and the profound strength in your aura, I would demand an accounting, now. Your changed appearance cannot be managed with cosmetics. You must be a wizard, and that troubles me. Greatly.”
“I am no wizard.”
“You will explain, later?”
“At some point. You can rest assured that I am here to help.”
The priest grunted. “Were you helping Enarius in his earliest difficulties, or was that truly your brother?”
Hanuvar answered with a look and the priest delivered a slightly more optimistic grunt. It was likely the best reception to be had at the moment.
Ciprion had finished his presentation and Enarius stepped back, hands at his hips. “This is all very clever, but how are you going to draw her out? There’s a lot of places she could be hiding.”
“We’re still early in the investigation,” Ciprion admitted. “We finished notating the map only moments before you arrived.”
“So you need more time to plan?” Enarius asked. To Ciprion’s polite, neutral smile, he turned to Izivar. “And you, my dear, have you been able to provide any useful insight into what an Eltyr might think?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid. But then I only arrived a few moments ago myself.”
“We need to stop planning, and act,” Metellus said, with the sly arrogance of a youth.
Enarius was more diplomatic. “I mean no disrespect, General. But we can’t have more children dying. We know that she means to kill the children of the powerful, but we don’t know where she’ll do it. We need to draw her out.”
“With a tempting target?” Ciprion suggested, and then at Enarius’ head bow the same realization must have come to him as it came to Hanuvar, although Ciprion hesitated a moment before voicing the disbelief visible in his gaze. “Please tell me you’re not thinking of yourself.”
Enarius’ head rose, as though he imagined himself speaking before a multitude. “I am thinking of myself. Why should I be shielded when infants are being slain?”
If his pose was dramatic, his expression at least seemed honest.
Ciprion objected, although Hanuvar was grudgingly impressed by the young man’s sense of duty. He said, quietly, to the priest: “A ruler must put the people before himself. Have you taught him that?”
Lucius inclined his head ever so slightly, saying, “He has some inclinations in that direction already.”
“Did you know they were going to suggest this?”
The priest’s answer was dour. “The emperor has already approved the basics of their plan.”
Metellus, meanwhile, had lifted placating hands. “It could work. Without that much risk. We put out word that Enarius is going to be doing something that would suggest he was exposed. But then we don’t actually have him as exposed as he seems. We could even have someone dressed up like him.”
“You two have been planning this for some time,” Ciprion said.
“My father has given us permission,” Enarius said. “But only if you oversee the overall strategy.”
Ciprion digested this with an expression just shy of nausea.
Metellus looked almost smug. “We mean for Enarius to be supremely well protected, of course. We were thinking that a celebration of the anniversary of the Battle of Mazra would serve as a fine opportunity for him to appear in public at a specific time and place.”
Ciprion’s frown deepened. “I don’t celebrate that.”
Hanuvar saw Antires’ eyes flick over to him as if he tried to gauge Hanuvar’s reaction on the mention of the battle he had lost to Ciprion years ago. But Hanuvar wanted no connection made between himself and Antires by the priest, and so ignored the attention.
“I’ll throw the celebration for you,” Enarius said. “We should remind the city why you’re so well honored. And we’ll annoy Aminius as well.”
Ciprion glanced over to Hanuvar as if in apology but also to invite his input.
Metellus continued: “We thought that we would create the appearance of a small security breach. It seems as though the Eltyr is an opportunist who takes advantage of those. Except this time, it will be deliberate.”
“But suppose they come in disguised as a Dervan lady, or a slave, or a servant?” Ciprion asked.
It was a fine question, but Metellus answered it.
“However they come in, they will have no access to Enarius. He’s going to give a public speech from a distance, then we’ll get him away to a private room. He’ll never be near anyone we don’t know. We’ll have a decoy dressed like him to further complicate matters.”
Hanuvar wasn’t entirely sure a decoy was necessary, but he wished to draw no attention to himself, and remained silent.
Ciprion rubbed his forehead. He seemed to be reluctantly coming around to acceptance of his role in Enarius’ rash plan. Recognizing this, Metellus looked ready to rub hands together in satisfaction. Izivar’s eyes were deep with worry, which did not go unnoticed by Enarius, although he seemed to interpret her meaning differently.
“Bowing out seems rather cowardly on my part,” he said finally.
Metellus’ surprise looked honest. “No one expects you to remain and stand toe to toe with a trained killer with decades of fighting experience, Excellency. You’re our next emperor. The general and I have studied to be warriors.”
“He’s right, Enarius,” Izivar said softly. “No one here doubts your bravery. Especially since this plan smacks of something you would think of. But it’s your duty to rule. You have tens of thousands of men who can stab other people.”
He accepted this counsel with a slight smile.
“But I still don’t think you should do it,” she added. “This Eltyr is very determined and obviously a little mad.”
“We can protect him,” Metellus insisted.
“And we have to lure this woman out into the open so we can finish her,” Enarius said. “She’s out to hurt the empire by killing its children—how could she resist a chance to murder the son of the emperor?”
Hanuvar was struck by the conviction with which the young man spoke. While there was excitement in his manner, he radiated dedication to his ideal rather than a thirst for glory. It reminded Hanuvar why he had grown fond of Enarius, against all natural inclination.
He leaned to Lucius, speaking softly. “He may do well, at that.”
“I think he may,” the priest whispered back. “Will you be fighting to safeguard him again?”
While the priest recognized him, he still had no idea as to Hanuvar’s true identity, for there was no irony in the question. And while there was considerable irony in the situation, Hanuvar answered with a single, solemn nod. A real Ceori would have boasted and sounded elaborate, but now was not the time for loud gestures. Ciprion, Metellus, and Enarius now discussed fine points. “Like you, I think that he is the future of the empire. A more benevolent future.”
“Whoever you are,” the priest said, “I believe that you have the empire’s best interests at heart. I would prefer to learn the truth from you sooner, rather than later.”
The only interest in the empire Hanuvar had was to keep it from murdering his people and allies, but because it seemed clear their safety was far more likely with Enarius’ hand upon the tiller, Lucius’ assumption was essentially correct. As to that in-depth conversation, Hanuvar would delay as long as possible, for he had no idea what he would say. But his expression remained closed, as if he thought for a long moment over the answer he had already formulated. After a time, he spoke. “When this crisis is resolved.”
“Very well. Let that be soon.”
V
Metellus didn’t permit himself a true smile until he was well clear of the government offices. Gods, but he was brilliant. He’d managed not just to turn the emperor to his needs, but outwit Sarnax and outmaneuver Ciprion, the alleged master of strategy.
He laughed out loud. One by one he’d steered all of them into place, starting with Enarius. It had by no means been easy, but he had done it.
Now there remained one last sticking point, but with the report he was about to make, surely even they would come around to his way of thinking.
He wandered the streets for a time, imagining he might be followed, and passed through an inn he partly owned, seeming to settle down and joke with some of the regulars and drink a little before telling them he had to visit the Cerdian throne room.
But rather than heading to the private piss hole he slipped into a backroom, threw a cloak over his distinctive features, and slid out the back. Evening was on its way, and he hurried through narrow streets with his face concealed. His stride was purposeful, and the young bravos readying their nightly scourings let him be.
Finally, he made his way into a tavern in the shadow of the Kaladine hill, flashed a hand sign to the clerk behind the counter, and retreated to a rear area almost completely absent of the reek of sour wine and cooked goat meat which had soaked into the stone and wood in the rest of the building. The scowling attendant warding the private room opened it to his knock, let him in, and then promptly closed the door and sat down beside the portal on a cushioned stool.
Cerdians were almost universally courteous even as they plotted against you, but they also kept rigidly to their assigned roles, and this fellow was a doorman, not a chaperone, or a host. Metellus started toward the table where three men waited, already drinking. They shoved a cup toward him and he reached over for the pitcher. He poured himself a draught.
They watched, keen-eyed murderers that they were, to make sure he drank deep before they said anything.
It was fine wine, though flavored with some exotic spice the Cerdians cared for overmuch, and dry as his throat was it took no great effort to down it and prove his trust in his companions.
He set the cup down.
“You said that you would have news, and we have waited,” said Taricon, seated in the middle.
The three Cerdians possessed straight dark hair, and a complexion of a dark sepia. That skin tone in itself would not have rendered any of them suspicious, for Derva was a melting pot of freedmen, citizens, slaves, and merchants from dozens of far-flung lands. And merchants from Cerdian lands and Cerdian-adjacent lands had been present in the east for generations, so even given the current paranoia about Cerdians Taricon’s accent would have given few pause. It was the flat-eyed stare employed by all three that was worrying, as if they had little patience and examined Metellus to consider where best to insert their blades.
He smiled. “Cerdian wine. A gift to the world.”
“You promised you would have word on who was behind the destruction of the revenant fortress in our name.”
He reached for the pitcher and poured out more wine, then beckoned to the others, offering to fill.
They simply stared.
He set the pitcher aside. “I don’t know, and I don’t care, and neither should you.”
The three men were completely different in appearance apart from their hair, skin tone and murderous stares. The shorter one with the cheek mole cursed him. The one on his left, his face cratered with acne scars, smiled unpleasantly. But both waited for Taricon, who had a long, slim nose. His skin was clear and smooth, almost feminine, as were his soft eyes and long lashes. His voice too was smooth. “I do hope, for your sake, that you have better news on our other front.”
“He has none,” said the one with the mole. Metellus had forgotten his name because it was a mouthful of strange sounds and because he rarely spoke. “He said he would reward us for our help, and he does nothing but drink our wine and smile his smiles and promise things that never come to pass. And we stain our honor with the blood of children.”
Metellus had always prayed to Ericol, the swift and subtle. The plump ewe he’d sacrificed at his temple earlier this week must have pleased the god, for mole-face’s objection could not have been a better prelude for Metellus’ news.
“If I’m smiling today, it’s because I bring news that will please all of us.” Metellus took a long drink, silently praising Ericol. The first Dervan child murder had been unplanned—the Cerdian assassin had been unable to locate the target and the boy had been about to raise alarm. Only Metellus had seen the possible advantage, and he’d convinced the Cerdians to change their campaign to target the offspring of the powerful.
The skepticism of the Cerdians had been growing, but he’d known it would require multiple attacks before he could shape the opinion of Enarius into taking a stand.
He set his wine cup on the table side. “Enarius is planning to offer himself as a lure so the Eltyr can come for him. And guess who’s helping manage security for the alleged trap?”
That set their heads turning, and the three quickly exchanged words in their own language. Metellus drank more wine.
Finally Taricon silenced them with a look and faced Metellus. “So you have delivered upon your promise. What are the details?”
Metellus hunched forward across the table and lowered his voice. He didn’t fear they would be overheard, but he wanted to stress the secrecy of the information he was about to share. “In a few days’ time, Enarius is throwing a commemoration for Ciprion’s victory over Hanuvar. I’m going to get you in there and the Eltyr’s going to kill off the priest, Lucius, Sarnax the Hadiran, and Ciprion himself. Anyone else who has Enarius’ ear but me. I’m going to get him out of there alive, which will make him even more inclined to be grateful and listen to my advice.”
Taricon’s lips slid into a sardonic smile. “So we’ll be helping you. That doesn’t do anything about the emperor.”
“Did I leave that part out? He’ll be there, too. And the Eltyr gets to kill him as well.” He smiled and sat back, then spread his hands. “Enarius ascends the throne. The Volani take the blame. The Cerdians make some kind of gesture—claim the tower was destroyed by a rogue captain or a pirate—or even some disguised Volani or something—and send a big basket of royal gifts, so Enarius can get back to partying and leave the border.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that.”
Taricon glanced at his advisors, then, finally, poured himself another drink before adding more to Metellus’ cup, the ultimate sign of Cerdian accord. “Tell me more.”
VI
The child’s death had so disturbed the slave that her expression remained fixed in horrified regret when she showed Hanuvar and Ciprion around the room of the murder. She was small and sturdy, with an age-seamed face and apple cheeks and bright blue eyes that roved constantly toward the window through which the attacker had vanished.
“I was the first one here,” she said, repeating herself.
It was too much to ask that any real evidence remained in that upper room where the little boy had been killed only a few evenings before. Marta, the slave and nurse, had already told them how he’d been playing with toy legionaries while she swept the walkway overlooking the courtyard.
She’d heard a scream and come running, only to find the boy twitching in a rapidly expanding pool of blood among his scattered soldiers. A woman in armor, her long dark hair hanging in a ponytail behind, had been escaping through the window.
Ciprion was still trying to extract information while Hanuvar moved to the window. “You said she looked back at you. Did you see her face?”
“I’m sorry, my lord general. I did not. It was dark outside—it was raining. That’s why the boy was playing upstairs.”
Ciprion had already instructed her twice that such a weighty honorific was unneeded, but Marta had returned to it in her nervousness.
The floorboards had been well scoured, naturally. Of the Eltyr symbol and the blood with which it had been drawn there was no sign, nor were there footprints or even toppled toy soldiers. There were only the storage chests and some old furniture. Hanuvar walked to the window, undid the shutter, and pushed open both sides.
The afternoon light streamed into the space. The sun was lower than Hanuvar would have liked. The last few days had moved too quickly. Ciprion had fervently hoped that their map triangulation would prove more useful than it had so far, for he had no liking for Enarius’ plan and would just as soon find the murderer before the heir risked himself.
But it had as yet done no good to have expanding circles of possibility as to where the murderer might be retreating after each killing. Over the last two days Hanuvar and Ciprion had traveled to each of the murder sites in an attempt to gather additional information, learning only today that this one had a witness.
Unfortunately, Marta hadn’t been able to tell them much more than they already knew, and in not too many more hours their efforts would be for naught, for Ciprion’s celebration would be under way.
Ciprion joined Hanuvar and both men carefully examined the sill. The blank wall of another building lay less than five feet away. There was no mystery about which way the murderer had gone, for part of the reason the slave’s story had been believed was that muddy footprints had been found not only in the room, but in the dirty alley below where the woman had dropped and run away.
Hanuvar ran his hand along the sill and looked over the edge.
Ciprion braced himself against the sill so he could lean out and inspect the right shutter’s front, then pulled it towards him. He rapped his fist against one slat marred by a long, recent scratch through old red paint, and Hanuvar nodded his agreement. That was the point where the invader must have inserted a tool to open them. “Do you see anything else?” Ciprion asked.
Behind them, the woman continued lamenting about what a sweet child little Lentullus had been, and what a tragedy his death was.
Hanuvar touched more damage on the weathered sill. “I believe this is where a hook must have landed. A strong climber could have been up in a few heartbeats.”
Ciprion’s mouth thinned. “That doesn’t tell us anything useful. I’m afraid this whole trip may be a waste of time.”
“There’s something that strikes me as strange,” Hanuvar said.
Ciprion met his eyes. “Go on.”
Hanuvar turned from the window and spoke to Marta, his Dervan still touched by his Ceori accent. “You say she was armored. But not in a helmet.”
“No, sir.”
“What armor did she have?”
“On her chest.” Marta touched her solar plexus. “And she had a soldier’s leather skirt. And the leg armor.”
Hanuvar nodded his thanks, then faced Ciprion. “So she was wearing baltea and greaves and apparently a cuirass. It smacks of theater, doesn’t it?”
Ciprion grunted. “You’re right. There’s no need for armor like that on this sort of mission. It would make climbing harder.”
“The master keeps armed doormen in the house, though, my lord general,” Marta insisted.
“Yes,” Ciprion agreed politely. But his look to Hanuvar said what both were cognizant of: the presence of seasoned fighters didn’t explain away wearing stiff, heavy gear on a mission of stealth. “Did she want to be seen?”
“She wanted to ensure that if she was seen, it would strike fear. It seems a peculiar risk to take.” Hanuvar considered the window, through which it was just possible to climb if a person crouched and kept their head low. “I assume she might even have worn a helmet if it could have fit through here.”
“Let’s examine the ground.”
The sad-eyed matron waited on the main floor, eager for information, or the promise that justice awaited the boy’s killer. Ciprion had to delay while speaking with her, so Hanuvar left through the servant’s entrance and headed into the alley by himself.
As he had expected, any prints were muddled by previous investigators. Hanuvar hadn’t the skill to separate who might have been wearing what sandal.
He looked up at the window, already reshuttered by Marta, and calculated where the murderer’s rope would have lined up. A row of neglected shrubs had taken root along the foundation, and those beneath the window looked as though they had suffered recent damage.
Hanuvar knelt in the moist earth beside them and began a painstaking examination of both vegetation and ground.
He hadn’t expected to find anything of use, so he was intrigued when he discovered a scrap of cloth caught in the lower limbs of a prickly bush. He extricated it carefully and lifted the dark fabric to the light.
Threads trailed from its edge. It had been torn, possibly, but not certainly, when it had caught on the bush and someone in a great hurry had pulled away.
He was lifting it to his nose when Ciprion joined him.
His friend looked dour. “Something?” he asked.
Hanuvar passed him the cloth. “What do you smell?”
Ciprion sniffed it, looking thoughtful, then smelled it a second time. “Goat dung.”
“Our murderess might have torn it when she landed and left in a hurry.”
Ciprion took in the trampled bushes and the mess of prints. He gently cradled the fabric in his hand as though it were a weighty thing. “We might make something of this,” he said finally. “If we had more time. There are a lot of taverns in Derva, even in the area we’ve centered on. Even assuming we’re right.”
“Not all of them will sell goat meat.”
“No.” Ciprion swore. “Pardon me.”
Hanuvar stood. “I share your sentiment. We can put Antires on this. He’s sharp-eyed. Send him out with a couple of your men and he’ll have knocked on half the right doors in the next few hours.”
“What we need is a few days.”
“But we don’t have them. A general should be familiar with the press for time.”
“Is it wrong of me that I never came to like it? Also, this . . . ” He lowered his voice before continuing. “This upcoming operation did not need to be forced. Not yet.” He lifted the cloth. “Not when this might lead us on to victory.”
“Or it might be an old cloth a goatherd was wearing as he staggered drunkenly down this alley. Come. We have to turn it over to the scouts. They’ll seek out the truth and report back in. We’ve got to get you to your party. We can’t have the guest of honor turning up late.”
“I don’t suppose we can, at that.”
They returned to their headquarters, explained their instructions to Antires, who couldn’t seem to decide if he was pleased to be so instrumental in their plans, or disappointed to be absent from the celebration. But he hurried away, accompanied by a squad of legionaries, and Hanuvar and Ciprion retreated to their respective quarters and dressed for the occasion. Before very long, they had arrived at the appointed villa, one of those situated in the sprawling grounds north of the city, below the low rise sometimes called the sixth hill of Derva. Both wore ornamental, though still functional, armor. It was a look both normally would have disdained, but they had agreed it appropriate in light of the potential for danger this evening.
“We’ll feel very silly if nothing happens, won’t we?” Ciprion asked.
Antires had taught Hanuvar never to fiddle with the accoutrements of his disguises, because that would draw attention to his unfamiliarity with them. But Hanuvar had long since learned that there are few absolutes. He’d seen enough Ceori playing with their mustache ends over the years that he had adopted the fingering of the left side of his own over the week he’d maintained his new identity, and it had grown into a habit.
That evening, he pulled at the mustache as he stood with Ciprion on a balcony overlooking the central garden of the great feast. Expensive glass lanterns hung in abundance, painting everything beneath them in warm amber. An army of slaves finished placing reclining couches about long tables. At the garden’s far end the slaves wheeled in a life-sized artistic depiction of a warrior bowing before another in Dervan armor. The resemblance to Ciprion was more implied than definitive because the scene had been fashioned from flowers and plants: Ciprion’s eyes were dark blue periwinkles.
The bowing figure before Ciprion Hanuvar guessed for himself, from the green crest rising from the Volani helmet.
“I am sorry for this,” Ciprion said softly.
“I’ve long since gathered that if the gods are paying attention to mortals, they love irony.” He had grown so used to using his Ceori accent he had joked with Izivar he might not recognize the sound of his actual voice. For a variety of reasons, she was not in attendance this evening. Ciprion’s wife, Amelia, was making the rounds and speaking with the serving staff, hoping to minimize potential embarrassments.
Both men turned at the sound of footsteps behind them. It was a pale-skinned slave, a pretty blonde who bowed her head and offered a platter of baked goods topped with honey and fruit, cut into shapes someone had thought appropriate for a military celebration.
“Don’t feel so bad,” Hanuvar told Ciprion. “Have an elephant cookie.” He selected one himself and bit into it. He nodded thanks to the slave.
Ciprion demurred and the girl departed.
“It’s good,” Hanuvar said.
“I think you’re enjoying this,” Ciprion said from the side of his mouth.
“You sound like you’re in a Herrenic tragedy.” With a slight gesture of his cookie, Hanuvar encompassed the garden arranged for Ciprion’s benefit. “Surely you can enjoy the hard-won victory in defense of your people. As for me . . . ” He smote his chest, armored in a bronze Dervan cuirass, decorated with images of laurel leaves and curling vines. “We Ceori know to drink deep and eat all the elephant cookies we can, for life is short.”
“Oh, very nice. Is that your original gem of wisdom, or did you read it on a bathhouse wall?”
Hanuvar grunted and spoke with stuffy dignity. “I think you civilized folk forget the simple truths.”
That finally broke Ciprion’s reserve, and he laughed. “All right, my barbarian friend.” He spoke with a dramatic flourish. “Tomorrow we may die, so we must seize the cup with both hands.”
“Or at least the elephant cookies. One in each fist, I say.”
Ciprion snorted. “Are they really that good?”
“You ought to try one.”
A movement on the far end of the hall caught both men’s attention. One of the domestic slaves was conducting a gaggle of well-dressed Dervans into the central chamber.
“It looks like the celebrants are arriving,” Hanuvar said.
“I suppose I ought to go press the flesh. But if I start now it’s going to be interminable.”
“Would you rather wait until you’re announced?”
“Perhaps. It will be difficult to appear relaxed and welcoming. The less time I have to do that, the better.”
“I was going to double-check the security postings,” Hanuvar said. “Join me?”
“Yes, I think I will.”
They left the main hall by a back stair. At the end of a long corridor, they spotted Metellus scanning in their direction, and the men raised hands to one another in greeting.
With twilight deepening, the plan would be for the slaves to light the outside lanterns, and then be called away from a point on the east before they completed their job. This would leave a defensive gap that it would seem they forgot to return to address.
With Ciprion following, Hanuvar walked the outside grounds, keeping to the shadow of the sprawling villa, knowing that the sentries were posted in obvious places. A trumpet fanfare rang from the front of the building, signaling the emperor’s arrival. Hanuvar glanced at Ciprion, wondering if that meant he would wish to return, but he made no comment.
Ciprion appeared even more reluctant to attend than Hanuvar would have guessed, for he lingered over the various sentry posts, examining things in far greater detail than Hanuvar expected.
Finally, they passed the point where the gap in lanterns lay, closer to the outer wall than any other locations. An ideal advantage for enemy exploitation. So far no one seemed to be moving on the opening. The villa sprawled unevenly, with long wings thrust out from the central quadrangle. As they rounded a corner of the right wing, they saw that someone had left a barrel-laden wagon against one of the walls.
He halted, and Ciprion came to his side, whispering, “This is nowhere near the kitchens.”
He answered with a single nod. Both men were intimately familiar with the positions of troops and outside forces. There should be no wagon here.
A pair of praetorians patrolling the grounds with a lantern drew close to the wheeled conveyance, and Hanuvar expected that they would soon express dismay and send one of their number running for assistance. Instead, the one in the lead set down his lantern and both raised their hands to the clear heavens, looking as though they were trying to shield themselves from the moonlight.
But Hanuvar deduced their true intent. They were measuring the height of the moon above the trees to gauge time.
“I don’t like this,” Ciprion said softly. He took the lead and strode forward, Hanuvar following. He announced himself with the penetrating snap of a commander. “Soldiers!”
They jumped at the sound of his voice and turned to face him.
“You have no orders for stationing here.”
The one who’d brought the lantern had a long square chin and large ears that stuck out from his helmet. “We have them, sir.”
Ciprion raised his head imperiously. “Show me.”
The two looked confused for a moment and exchanged a look. The shorter one reached toward his belt.
There had been no written orders to anybody tonight. Hanuvar called warning and ducked the sword blow of the man he’d heard creeping from behind. His own blade slashed through the dangling pteruges of his attacker and into his thigh. Blood splattered the nearby shrubbery.
The wounded man screamed, even as the big-eared one dashed forward and swung wildly at Ciprion, who drew and struck in a single motion, taking the soldier’s overextended arm off at the elbow, then drove his sword tip through his screaming mouth.
The third man rushed Ciprion’s side, but Hanuvar interposed, swaying away from a deadly head blow. He pivoted left, and Ciprion drove his own gladius under the man’s arm. The Dervan general had to throw himself backward to avoid a return blow, but then their adversary sagged, saying in surprise, “You’ve killed me.”
The praetorian sounded both startled and accepting of the situation, as if he were a philosopher disengaged from worldly concerns. He dropped with a groan and lay still beside the armless man, trembling in shock as he bled out.
Hanuvar scanned the surrounding environment. Beyond the dying man’s gurgling, he heard distant laughter and music, and the moan of the man who’d come at him from behind, crawling determinedly toward the lantern. He left a long smear of blood across the grass in his wake.
Ciprion trudged after him and Hanuvar, blade ready, followed. As they neared the wagon there was no missing a faint reek of oil.
The wounded man was so determined to reach the lantern, Hanuvar almost felt bad for him when Ciprion stepped past and lifted it out of reach.
“Who sent you?” Ciprion demanded.
The soldier cursed him. Something flared to the east.
A red tongue of flame lapped at a corner along the other wing.
The man at Ciprion’s feet chuckled. “Stupid Dervan,” he said. His voice was weak with death, but it rattled with the trace of an accent, one Hanuvar identified as Cerdian when the man kept talking. “Your emperor and his nephew will die now.” His chuckle turned into a death rattle.
Either the Cerdians had slain and replaced some praetorians, or some of the praetorians themselves were part of the cabal.
Ciprion swore and spoke quickly to Hanuvar. “Get inside and get Enarius to safety.” He started away at a run.
“What are you going to do?”
Ciprion shouted over his shoulder. “Rouse the troops!” With that, he increased to a sprint. Hanuvar would have preferred a longer consultation and hoped Ciprion had in mind that if these praetorians were impostors, others might be.
But he trusted his friend’s judgment and understood the need for haste. Well-briefed on the building’s layout, he dashed for the nearest entrance, his thoughts turning through various scenarios as he searched the gloom, alert for more attackers.
He’d been concerned that he’d arrive at a locked door, then was more troubled when he found it open. No praetorian was stationed on its other side, and he supposed that meant one of those supposed to be there was among the three he and Ciprion had fought.
From further along in the building a man shouted a warning about the fire.
Hanuvar ran on toward the backroom where, if the schedule was accurate, Enarius should be waiting to emerge and present his speech.
It was then he saw the emperor, surrounded by a security entourage, being escorted through the doors ahead.
VII
Gaius had insisted on a final change in the plans, so that he’d speak before Enarius, promising the crowd his son would be out shortly. He’d planned to thank Ciprion in person, but no one seemed quite sure where the general had gone. The guest of honor’s absence had irritated him, but Gaius had plunged ahead. His words were well received and he managed to get through the whole speech with his back straight and voice strong.
He’d expected to retire to a backroom where refreshments waited. He had thought all the violence would take place far from him and his son, so the sight of dead bodies in the back corridor came as a shock. Two were praetorians and the third was a young dark-haired man in purple tunic. Enarius.
Gaius threw himself to his knees, his heart thundering, blood trailing from his lips as he coughed. He touched the prone body of his son, found it warm, but discovered by pressing hand to his neck that there was no pulse.
With an agonized cry he shook the body, careless of spirits, shouting that he could not be dead, that he must come back to him. It was only when the young man’s head flopped around that he saw it was the stand-in, a slave with a similar build. He’d been supposed to come out after Enarius had given his speech and wave from the balcony, so everyone could be certain his son was still nearby.
Someone was shouting about a fire, and Lucius put a hand to his shoulder, telling him that they had to leave.
Gaius climbed unsteadily to his feet and then hurried away with his escort and advisors, wiping tears and straining to breathe while he fought off a coughing fit. Sarnax assured him Enarius’ own security detail would see to his son’s safety, but the praetorian squad leader advised finding him, and Gaius agreed.
Neither Sarnax nor Lucius cared for that, and Gaius swore he’d have all of them crucified if they didn’t find his son alive. And so they relented and moved on into a small courtyard. Two of the praetorians entered boldly into the space and started across it. The moon shone on statues and sent long shadows down from the second-floor loggia.
The lead praetorians were halfway across when spears rained down. The praetorians cried out in alarm. Two were shouting to protect the emperor; another called something strange to the attackers: “Not us, you fools!” But he died with a spear in his throat.
“Down, my liege,” Sarnax shouted, and then a spear struck him through the chest. His hands cradled its haft like a lover and then he dropped groaning to the pavers. Gaius gasped in horror.
The ululating call everyone knew for the sound of the Eltyr rang out nearby, and another man cried, “Death to the tyrant! Long live Hanuvar!”
A half dozen warriors closed in against the final pair of praetorians, and with them was a dark-haired woman, shrieking her strange warrior call. Lucius brandished his staff and stood before his liege.
The praetorians fought bravely, taking out two and sheering through the Eltyr’s cuirass. She staggered back and collapsed. One of the assassins broke past the praetorians, slid by Lucius, and came at Gaius.
He saw the hatred in the man’s eyes. The actual spear thrust seemed to take a hundred years; Gaius was acutely aware of its slow plunge toward him. He willed his body to move but it seemed reluctant. He had barely leaned away when the spear tip took him in the belly.
It struck him deep and hurt more than he would have guessed, almost like a burn. Even after the spear was withdrawn, he felt it inside of him, as though part remained to block his breathing.
A praetorian cut the spearman down before Gaius was stabbed again. Gaius retreated, wobbling on his feet. Dimly he was aware of Lucius crying out in worry for him.
The last two praetorians tried to ward him and the priest both, but couldn’t fend off so many determined attackers, and fell in short order.
Gaius sank to his knees, dizzily noting that it was his blood staining his toga. The three final assassins closed in. Lucius interposed himself with energetic swings of his staff. Gaius didn’t know why he fought so hard. Didn’t he see that they were finished?
And then a Ceori warrior came, moving like a ghost, slaying one of the attackers as he turned. The assassin fell so swiftly it was as though the Ceori had only to touch a man to kill. He moved with a dancer’s grace, blocking a spear thrust with a casual tap of his own spear before plunging it through his attacker’s loins.
The last assassin tried to run, but the Ceori flung his spear, and the tip hit the man’s back with a sturdy chunk, as of a knife delivered through an apple. He was dead before he hit the pavement.
Lucius limped over to the victorious warrior. “Help the emperor,” he pleaded.
But the Ceori strode for the downed woman in warrior garb.
VIII
The runner reported there was still no message from optio Munius, who was supposed to be alerting Metellus to the arrival of the Cerdians. Metellus didn’t care for that at all. Had the Cerdians been admitted in their disguise as entertainers? Where were they?
The emperor was gone and Enarius hadn’t appeared, but that didn’t matter. Ciprion’s wife was talking to the crowd, saying that her husband was doubtlessly seeing to the emperor’s security before he could be bothered with a celebration, for duty always came first for him.
Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Metellus slunk away and started through the backrooms. With any luck, Ciprion was already dead.
A few partygoers lingered in nearby chambers to flirt or talk politics. Metellus ignored them and kept on, as he suspected a man charged with security would do.
He’d thought the Cerdians would understand the advantage of the plan he’d laid before him, but he felt a presentiment of disaster and called for one of the real praetorians to accompany him. He’d taken his assistant Munius and a small inner circle into his trust; all the rest were loyal to their oaths.
It was then someone called warning about a fire, and Metellus, cursing, realized he might just have given the Cerdians too large of an opening. He threw himself into a flat-out run for the room where Enarius was supposed to be safe. One of the emperor’s personal guards, an amiable ex-gladiator named Belbo, came alert as Metellus slid to a stop at the chamber door. “Is Enarius all right?”
“He’s in here, and he’s fine.” Belbo’s face wrinkled in consternation because screams and shouts filled the hall beyond the two praetorians.
Belbo threw open the door. Metellus snapped at him to stand guard and brought the soldier in with him.
Enarius looked up from a chair, sulking. Across from him was a pretty slave girl and between them was that stupid Hadiran board game with the pegs and stones.
“Metellus!” Enarius cried. “Am I my father’s prisoner now? He insisted I—”
“We have to get you out of here,” Metellus said. “Something’s gone terribly wrong. Up, sire. Up!”
“What’s gone wrong?” Enarius climbed to his feet. The nervous young slave rose with wide eyes.
“The building’s on fire,” Metellus said.
“What?”
Metellus didn’t bother repeating himself. Enarius motioned the girl to come with him, which was just the sort of useless thing he supposed the heir would do.
Then the door burst open, disgorging a trio of men dressed in garish tunics, like circus entertainers. Two of them were Metellus’ Cerdian table companions, and they bore bloody blades.
Metellus’ curse was drowned out by the slave girl’s scream.
Apparently the Cerdians had decided it more advantageous to kill Enarius along with the emperor. Enraged by the betrayal, Metellus ran at them, blade in hand.
He ducked the swipe from the longer sword and drove the gladius deep through Taricon’s chest. He felt it punch clear through.
But the blade was caught on a rib and he struggled to pull it clear. The other Cerdian brought his weapon clanging against Metellus’ helm.
It was as though a burning brand had struck him in the side of the face. He didn’t remember falling, but suddenly discovered he was on the floor, and something was wrong with his right eye—he couldn’t see through it. He tried to shield himself with upraised hands as the mole-faced Cerdian cried out death to the tyrant, long live Hanuvar. He advanced with his companion, and Enarius retreated, warded by the praetorian ranker.
Other men came at the Cerdians from the rear. But Metellus could not focus upon them. He heard the clack of swords and the screams of men. Dully through the pain and the shaking vision he realized the man in the lead was Ciprion. Thrice cursed Ciprion, who told Enarius to come with him.
And Enarius, loyal, stupid Enarius, was talking of Metellus. “Help me get Metellus! He’s been wounded, fighting to protect me.”
Rough hands grasped him and the jostling shook out a fresh wave of pain. The last thing he heard was a gasp and final phrase from the slave girl. “Master, his eye!” And then, mercifully, he lost consciousness.
IX
Hanuvar bypassed the emperor, who clasped futilely at the dark stain on his toga. He ignored the priest.
He had seen the woman fall, and he went to her.
Time always passed slowly for him in combat, as if he could take measure of every single breath while they ticked on. Usually, it snapped back to normal when the fight finished. This once, though, that awareness of individual heartbeats remained. He smelled burning wood, heard distant cries of fear and the steady bleat of the priest’s remonstrations. Then, too, there were the groans of the wounded emperor.
But Hanuvar’s eyes were only upon the outstretched body and the feebly moving leg that might be his daughter’s.
He couldn’t be sure. He doubted. But he still feared. And it was a terrible thing to fear for her, who had lived despite great odds and might be dying now before his eyes.
When he reached the woman, he didn’t recognize the face below him, paling with blood loss in the courtyard’s bright moonlight. Her eyes flickered.
The blood was thick about her. Whoever she was, she did not have long.
He spoke to her in Volani. “Hail, Eltyr,” he said. “You fought bravely. It is almost time for the final sleep.”
She groaned and gritted her teeth.
“You escaped with my daughter,” he said. “Do you know where she is?”
The woman only stared blankly, cursing him in Dervan. Her accent was Cerdian. Her words lost steam and then she began to mumble in her own language, one he understood passably, enough to recognize that she spoke a prayer.
He stepped away.
Behind him rose the voice of Lucius, speaking in flawed but practical Volani. “She’s not an Eltyr at all, is she?”
“No.” Hanuvar turned to face him.
The emperor still breathed. He was turned on his side, hands pressed to the dark rent in his garment. The dead lay everywhere around him, macabre lawn ornaments.
The priest fought for breath and used the staff too support himself. “You’re Hanuvar, aren’t you. I don’t understand. How did you trick me?”
Hanuvar gave him a pitying look, then looked down at the man who had killed his people.
“Please,” the emperor said. “Help me.”
The words that left Hanuvar’s lips came out shaking. “You beg me, for help.”
The emperor looked up, wide-eyed and wheezing, and Hanuvar stared down at him. There was so much he might have said. When the thousands had braced themselves behind the walls of Volanus, waiting for their deaths with swords in hand, who had been there to help them? After the city was razed and the fire swept through the slave pens to claim the lives of even more Volani, who had rushed to free them from the manacles?[18] What of all the predations, thefts, pain, indignities, much less the beautiful things lost to the world because of this man, who had done nothing to abate any of the suffering, before, during, or after?
For once he could not contain the rage, and he bared his teeth, as though he were an animal.
“You are a good man,” Lucius said. “I . . . I don’t fully understand, but I have seen it from the first. Do not allow him to die, in here. I cannot move him, and I cannot leave him.”
Lucius leaned heavily against the staff, his eyes pleading.
Hanuvar’s gaze swung back to the emperor. Easier, he thought, to kill this man. But he did not move. Lucius would probably not depart without this hated old man. And the place reeked of smoke. Soon it might choke them all.
He bent and rose with the emperor. The dictator was lighter than Hanuvar expected.
He headed for the doors through which he’d entered, Lucius walking with him.
The emperor groaned. Hanuvar’s hands were wet with his blood.
“What is it you’ve been doing all this time?” Lucius asked.
Hanuvar said nothing.
The priest answered his own question. “You’ve been saving people, haven’t you?” His voice was soft, but certain.
Hanuvar looked over to him.
Lucius explained his conclusion. “The revenants coat their reports with lies, but Sarnax passed along the rumors that did not fit. That Hanuvar was the one who set fire to the amphitheater to kill an underworld demon. That Hanuvar wandered through a village and killed a creature that was trying to kill many others.”
“I have done what I must.” They passed under a flickering lantern and in its light the priest was almost as pale as the man Hanuvar carried. The priest leaned upon his staff to help him walk, and his breath was rapid and shallow. Hanuvar hadn’t been heeding the signs that Lucius had been injured. “How badly wounded are you?”
“Worse than I thought.”
“The emperor is dead.” Hanuvar halted and faced Lucius.
The priest’s eyes were searching. “How does that make you feel?”
“I’m no child in need of a parable on the emptiness of revenge. I’m saying I should set him down and carry you.”
“No. You must bear him out.”
“We must honor the dead but care for the living.”
“Bear him out. There is a favor I can do you yet.”
“Why should you help me?”
“Because my people let him murder yours. And because a lesser man would have left me to die, with him, or slain me once I confessed I knew you.”
“Come, then.”
The fire roared somewhere behind them.
“You really weren’t involved with the Eltyr murders, were you?” Lucius asked. “Why are you here? Why are you, of all people, trying to protect Enarius?”
“Because your empire needs a good man at its helm. And because I like him. And I was trying to stop the Eltyr murders. Your people took my daughter from me.” He forced his voice to cease its shaking. “I feared you had made her into a monster. But she is gone, still. All I found was a Cerdian playing dress-up.”
The empire had stolen his daughter. But she was not yet a monster.
They arrived at last at the little side door through which he’d entered, and walked clear. The sky was red with the fire that ate at the villa and threw crimson light and flickering shadows upon the crowd that encircled the dying building. Hanuvar bore the dead man toward them and raised his voice, remembering once again to employ a Ceori accent. “We need a healer!” he cried. “Where is a healer?”
Limping at his side, Lucius shouted on his own. “Where is Enarius? Enarius, attend! Lucius calls for you! Your father needs you!”
Folk pushed toward them, but Lucius weakly swept his staff to right and left, crying for all to hold back until finally Enarius arrived. A mix of slaves and guests and scattered praetorians kept everyone else at bay while the young man came forward.
Hanuvar knelt with the body and lay it in the grass, staring down at the blank face, empty and foolish and waxen. All had left it, sense, and evil, and love, and hate, drained away with the mistakes and the triumphs and embarrassments and worries and hopes. In the end, good or bad, there was nothing left but this empty vessel.
Ciprion arrived, Amelia at his side in an elegant creamy white stola, her hair this night elaborately curled. With them was a Herrenic healer, who knelt by the emperor’s body. Hanuvar tried to turn him toward the priest, but he insisted on inspecting the dead man. Enarius, his face ashen, stared down into the empty gaze of his adopted father.
Lucius eased painfully down near the emperor, saying, wearily, but carefully, “It was not Volani, it was Cerdians. In their guise.” He raised his voice. “They dressed a woman as an Eltyr, but when addressed in Volani, she could not understand!”
Ciprion succeeded in turning the physician’s attention to Lucius, and the gray-haired Herrene ripped open the priest’s robe to show the bloody gash in his side. The fire painted both in ruddy shades and highlighted the stark black stain along the side of the priest’s robes.
Enarius turned from the body of his adopted father and gasped at sight of his advisor’s injury.
Lucius muttered something about Jovren under his breath, blinked slowly, and looked up at the new emperor. “The Cerdians were behind it all,” he said.
“I heard.” Enarius’ voice was quiet as the grave. “They will pay.”
Lucius blinked. “Heed Ciprion, sire. He is the last of the advisors your father chose for you. Select the next batch well. And ’ware Metellus.”
Enarius shook his head minutely without taking his gaze from the dying man. “He lies gravely wounded and may perish. He was injured trying to save me.”
Lucius looked doubtful. His gaze was piercing. “I have seen his soul, Enarius. Darkness shrouds him. Don’t let it take you.”
Enarius looked confused but grim.
“I must speak to the Ceori. Healer, begone. I’ve bled out, and you know it.”
The little Herrene started to object.
“Leave him,” Ciprion said curtly, and the healer stepped away. Ciprion took Enarius’ arm and guided him over to his adopted father. Amelia went with them, her expression grave.
In stilted Volani the priest spoke formally, softly, to Hanuvar. “I shall ask the gods to aid you.”
Hanuvar didn’t think that would do him any good, but he was touched by the gesture, and answered quietly in Dervan. “May you find peace, and the warm embrace of lost family and friends.” He reached out and gripped the man’s arm. Lucius’ return grasp was weak and cold.
Again, he addressed Hanuvar in his native tongue. “May you find your daughter in the living world.”
Hanuvar nodded his appreciation, then called for Enarius to return. While the new emperor sat with the dying man, one almost as still and pale as the other, Hanuvar joined Ciprion. “I’m glad you found Enarius,” he said. “I ran into some trouble.”
“So I see. I found support faster than I expected and Enarius’ quarters were close. I’d hoped we’d link back up. Are you all right?”
Hanuvar glanced down at his blood smeared uniform, then met his friend’s eyes. “None of this is mine.”
Ciprion nodded once. “Someone in the ranks is a traitor,” he said tightly. “Someone high up. Antires sent a runner—one of the three restaurants serving goat meat in the first circle of our map was owned by a Cerdian, and tavern goers report that there were meetings taking place in the backroom. One of them believes he saw a praetorian go in and out a few times. They caught a glimpse of his armor. He was cloaked and hooded, though, so he couldn’t be described.”
Hanuvar sighed. He did not say what Ciprion would obviously agree with: it would have been nice to know that sooner.
Ciprion continued: “Only another day or two would have made all the difference. But that is ever the way. So far the only four I’m sure about are you, me, Enarius, and Metellus. I suspect Munius, the praetorian optio, because he can’t be found. Heads will roll. Maybe mine should be with them.”
“No. Not yours,” Hanuvar said. “Don’t be so sure of Metellus’ innocence. He’s the one who helped push this scheme. Suppose Metellus ordered a few more of the men to stay back than he had said. Suppose he was hoping all the advisors would die but himself and the new emperor.”
Ciprion’s frown deepened. “Those are alarming speculations.”
“They’re worth considering.”
“He would have been a fool to take such risks,” Ciprion mused, though he sounded unconvinced by his own doubt.
“We’ve known a lot of foolish men who wanted power,” Hanuvar reminded him.
“He will bear watching.” Ciprion met Hanuvar’s eyes. “I’m glad it wasn’t your daughter.”
“Yes.” Hanuvar managed to master his own feelings on the matter with a long eye blink. “We can all be pleased the false Eltyr is finished. They worked a little too hard to make it seem like the assassins were Volani. They were shouting slogans even when it didn’t seem like anyone but dead men were nearby.”
Ciprion smiled darkly. “Some were hailing you with Cerdian accents.”
Hanuvar looked back to where the new emperor sat by the priest, now slumped and still. “Lucius is dead. I’m sorry for that. He was a good man.”
“He was. And I’ll be sorry to see the end of Sarnax, as well.”
Enarius bowed his head over the dead man, ignoring the long line of onlookers.
The fire ate at the villa. They could hear its roar as it devoured its timbers. Wind carried the smoke westward and away.
“I’ll leave you to the cleanup, and your new emperor. If I don’t extricate myself now, I’ll be even more exposed.” He inclined his head toward Amelia, watching from a distance, and she bowed her own head in acknowledgment.
Ciprion offered his hand. The two men clasped arms tightly, and then Hanuvar retreated. The crowd eyed him as he pushed through, but most of their attention was devoted to the emperors before them, both motionless. Soon, from the flames, a new reign would begin, and they watched expectantly for history to unfold before them.
***
We retreated from the capital, and though we moved fast, news of the emperor’s death moved faster. Violence sometimes follows in the wake of a leader’s death, but in the empire of those days the majority of folk in the capital and beyond waited tensely, hopefully, for a peaceful turnover. Izivar convinced Hanuvar to retreat to Selanto until things were calmer, and men could be assured order would prevail.
As it happened, she had a surprise awaiting him. For the first two ships were finished at last and provisioned for their maiden voyages.
—Sosilos, Book Fourteen
Footnotes
18) During several talks with Olmar, upon the Isles of the Dead, Hanuvar had learned how thousands of those who’d survived the siege of Volanus had perished in a fire of indeterminate cause the night after the battle. More than four thousand men, women, and children were overcome by smoke and burned to death.
—Silenus, Commentaries