Impyrium Read online

  MAPS

  DEDICATION

  For my mother, Terry Ann Zimmerman

  CONTENTS

  Maps

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Hazel

  Chapter 2: Hob

  Chapter 3: The Transcontinental

  Chapter 4: Supper with the Spider

  Chapter 5: The Big Lie

  Chapter 6: A Tedious Affair

  Chapter 7: In the House of God

  Chapter 8: The Tutor and the Typhon

  Chapter 9: The Direwood

  Chapter 10: The Reaper’s Tomb

  Chapter 11: House Blades

  Chapter 12: The Convalescent

  Chapter 13: The Phantasia Grotesque

  Chapter 14: Tourists

  Chapter 15: Echoes

  Chapter 16: Lingua Mystica

  Chapter 17: The May Ball

  Chapter 18: The Interview

  Chapter 19: A Stowaway

  Chapter 20: The Road to Talysin

  Chapter 21: Butcher, Baker, and Candlestick Maker

  Chapter 22: The Assassin

  Chapter 23: Hound’s Trench

  Chapter 24: A Muirlander in July

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  At three o’clock in the morning, a monster entered Founders Hall.

  The vye might have been wearing scholarly robes and spectacles, but it still counted as a monster. What else did one call an eight-foot wolf that walked on two legs?

  Despite this disquieting sight, Private Marcus Finch remained at attention: chin up, shoulders back, his carabine resting against his epaulette. Impyrial guardsmen did not stare, slouch, or fidget. Not even when a monster approached.

  But Marcus was not a machine. When he recognized the figure walking beside the vye, his heart beat even faster. Lord Basil Faeregine was the Divine Empress’s only living son. He was arguably the most important man in Impyrium.

  Fortunately for Marcus, Founders Hall spanned three hundred feet from its pillared entry to the great vault. He had time to appreciate the occasion and rejoice inwardly. The new year was just a few hours old and he’d just seen his first vye and a member of the royal family. It was going to be a very good year. As the pair drew nearer, Marcus tried to decide which sight was more thrilling: the Faeregine or the monster?

  The boy in him leaned toward the monster. Vyes had served the Faeregines since Mina I, but the creatures were rarely seen in other parts of Impyrium. Back in his village, parents invoked them as bogeymen to frighten disobedient children: Get to bed or a vye will carry you off to the Grislands! As Marcus watched it approach, he wished it would snarl or lope or exhibit some other savage quality. Instead, the vye advanced with a stately grace.

  Such civilized behavior was disappointing but not a surprise. Dr. Razael was a famous scholar, a Rowan valedictorian who had been advising Basil Faeregine since his lordship was a boy. Marcus was pleased with himself for recalling these facts. He’d only been on the Sacred Isle a week, but he’d spent his free time studying profiles in his handbook. Dr. Razael looked just like her photograph.

  Basil Faeregine did not. Marcus had imagined Faeregines would be resplendent figures whose magic and heritage would be apparent at first glance. His handbook had shown a tanned gentleman with silver hair, an impeccably tailored suit, and the complacent smile of one whose family ruled the world. This present version was still handsome, but older and thicker than expected. He was also slightly disheveled, with a sheen of sweat upon his florid face.

  Still, Marcus tried not to judge. Here on the Sacred Isle, New Year’s was not merely a holiday but a major state function. Throughout the week, visitors from all over Impyrium had been arriving to conduct important business with the Bank of Rowan. As the bank’s chairman and managing director, His Excellency was undoubtedly spent.

  When he reached the vault, Lord Faeregine muttered a distracted “Happy New Year” and reached for something in his suit pocket. He did not bother looking at the guardsmen, but Marcus was not offended. Members of the royal family were surrounded by servants from birth. They might bond with nannies and tutors, but the rest were background elements: nameless, faceless, and interchangeable. To a man like Basil Faeregine, Impyrial guardsmen might have been tall red vases that happened to flank palace doorways.

  And that was how it should be, thought Marcus. The family had an empire to run.

  But as Lord Faeregine removed something from his pocket, he paused to peer at the other guardsman, a sergeant standing fifteen feet to Marcus’s right.

  “Why, it’s Beecher isn’t it?”

  From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw the sergeant bow. “I’m flattered you remember me, sir.” The man’s gravelly burr contrasted sharply with his lordship’s patrician tenor.

  “Not at all,” said Lord Faeregine genially. “You were with me when those miserable Caterwauls blocked the road to Port Royal. Knocked several flat as I recall. Good man.”

  “Your lordship’s very kind.”

  Lord Faeregine turned in Marcus’s direction. “And who’s this poor lad? He looks like he’s going to topple over.”

  Do not slouch. Marcus focused on a distant portrait.

  “Private Finch is new,” replied the sergeant. “This is his first night on palace duty.”

  “My word, they get younger every year,” Lord Faeregine muttered. “May I ask your age, Private Finch?”

  Marcus cleared his throat. “Eighteen, your lordship.”

  “Well,” said Lord Faeregine, “all I can say is that I envy your youth, your height, and your good fortune to serve with the sergeant. Welcome aboard, soldier.”

  Marcus shook the proffered hand, unable to suppress a grin. A Faeregine was speaking to him! His reply was barely coherent, but his sincerity appeared to please Lord Faeregine, who chuckled and introduced him to Dr. Razael.

  The vye had towered silently over the humans throughout the pleasantries. Now she fixed Marcus with a pair of tawny, unblinking eyes. Marcus’s smile faded. Never before had he looked into a face that was so intelligent and yet so feral. The combination was so unsettling that Marcus quickly averted his eyes. Dr. Razael exuded no overt hostility but also no warmth. Her gaze wandered over Private Finch, found little of interest, and returned to the vault door.

  Lord Faeregine held up what he’d taken from his pocket. The object looked like a palm-sized nautilus crafted of a coppery metal. “If you two will give us a moment, we’ll pop inside and confirm everything’s in order. Tonight’s auction set a new record.”

  Sergeant Beecher bowed. “Congratulations, your lordship. ”

  Shouldering his carabine, the sergeant walked forward ten paces and stood with his back to the vault. Marcus followed his lead. A moment later, there was a mechanical clicking, followed by the sounds of his lordship murmuring strange words in a lyrical undertone. A shiver ran down Marcus’s spine.

  Lingua Mystica. Lord Faeregine was speaking the language of sorcery! The Lirlander Seals were undoubtedly protected by all kinds of spells and enchantments, but this was the first time Marcus had ever heard it spoken aloud. He almost giggled at his good fortune. He’d only been posted here a few hours ago, when a guardsman had taken ill, and already he was brushing shoulders with Faeregines. Not to mention that palace duty was infinitely warmer and dryer than patrolling the harbor and eyeing those boatmen in their black skiffs. Marcus did not care for the boatmen.

  A tremor shook the floor as the vault’s heavy door began to roll aside. As it did, light spilled from within, so dazzling and bright it chased the shadows from the vast hall. The vault might have contained a fallen star. Marcus broke into another
grin.

  When Lord Faeregine and Dr. Razael entered, they sealed the vault behind them. The glorious light retreated, ebbing like a swift sunset. Sergeant Beecher sighed.

  “Well, Private Finch. I’ll guess you won’t be forgetting this night anytime soon.”

  Marcus remained at attention. “No, sir.”

  A pause. “You don’t ‘sir’ me, lad. I’m a sergeant.”

  “Sorry,” said Marcus quickly. “I guess I’m just a little . . .”

  “The word is nervous. A tot will take off the edge. It is New Year’s after all.”

  The sergeant slipped a flask out from beneath his sash. Marcus stared. Members of the Impyrial Guard were not permitted to drink, to swear, to smoke tobacco, or generally do anything that might besmirch their impeccable image. They were the elite, and expected to behave as such. What was the sergeant playing at?

  Now that he was getting a good look, Marcus saw that Beecher was rather ancient for a guardsman—forty at least—and barely met the regiment’s height requirements. And there were other shortcomings: sloping shoulders, a slight paunch, and a trace of stubble. His face was genial but homely, with bushy black eyebrows and a slight cast in one eye. The man resembled a dairy farmer more than a crack soldier. Small wonder he’d never risen past sergeant.

  “No, thank you,” said Marcus. He spun back to face the distant portraits.

  The sergeant unscrewed the cap and took a sip. “I see we have a stickler.”

  Chin up, shoulders back. “Not a stickler, Sergeant. A professional.”

  This brought a dry chuckle. “Ah, you take me back. I’ll wager you’ve been studying your handbook and dreaming about the day you get to go home and strut about in that uniform. Every girl for miles is sure to sally out in her best homespun for a look at Private Finch, the pride of Backwater Village. Am I close?”

  Marcus flushed scarlet.

  The sergeant took another sip. “You’re going to burn out, Finch. Save the spit and polish for when it matters.”

  “And guarding the Lirlander Seals doesn’t qualify?” Marcus retorted. “They’re the crown jewels of the empire.”

  “Sounds like you’re an expert,” said Beecher. “Ever seen one up close?”

  Marcus had only been on one ship in his life, a leaking tub that brought him down from New Halifax. It did not have a Seal, and thus had no choice but to hug the rocky coastline. Ships without Seals did not venture beyond sight of the land. If they did, they risked entering the Lirlands, territory controlled by demons that inhabited undersea kingdoms. An ancient treaty confined the Lirlanders within their borders, but they did not tolerate trespassers. Ships that entered their waters suffered a terrible fate unless they bore an enchanted relic upon their prow. These were known as Lirlander Seals, and they were among the most valuable objects in Impyrium.

  “No,” said Marcus sheepishly. “I haven’t.”

  “Come have a look,” said Beecher. Turning, he walked back to the vault door.

  Marcus remained rooted to the spot. He spoke in a pleading whisper. “What are you doing? Lord Faeregine’s inside!”

  “Oh, he’ll be in there for a while yet,” said the sergeant. “And don’t worry about him hearing us. The door’s three feet thick.”

  “But what about . . . ?” Marcus glanced anxiously about the hall. Legend held that unseen servants—fiendish servants—tallied every whisper within the palace.

  The sergeant appeared to read his mind. “Nothing’s listening from the shadows, lad. I’ve been on the Sacred Isle for twenty-two years. The ghost stories are bunk. Come have a look. You might never get another chance to touch a dragon.”

  A dragon? There were only a handful in the entire world, and none in Founders Hall. But the sergeant had aroused Marcus’s interest. He came to stand by the man and craned his neck at the famous Lirlander Vault. Marcus had seen it when he came in, but he had not taken a close look. It was his duty to guard, not to gawk, and he’d swiftly turned his back upon taking up his new post.

  But now, he indulged his curiosity. His first impression was one of ancient strength. The vault’s door was simply massive: a circular slab of bronze some fifteen feet across, green with age and etched with runes about its periphery. Its center had been sculpted with marvelous artistry into a relief showing a Hadesian galleon braving wild seas with a bright, mother-of-pearl inlay on its prow. A kraken and several other monsters could be seen among the waves, but nothing that resembled a dragon.

  “Where is it?” said Marcus, searching in vain.

  Beecher stood on tiptoe and tapped the pearl at the galleon’s prow.

  “That’s not a dragon,” said a disappointed Marcus. “It’s a pearl.”

  Beecher took another sip and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “No, lad. That there is a scale—just a fragment, mind—from Ember the Golden. The big ones are on the other side of that door. You’re looking at the world’s tiniest Lirlander Seal.”

  Marcus gave a laugh of pure boyish delight. The Seals were made from dragon scales! And not just any dragon but the greatest to ever walk the earth. He stood on tiptoe and rubbed the wondrous thing for luck. The surface was slick and smooth, like oiled horn.

  “Do they really cost a million solars?” he asked, gazing up in awe.

  “Heard they were fetching two at tonight’s auction,” the sergeant replied. “Two million in bullion, no paper. And that’s just to rent one for twelve months. Once the year’s up, you’ve got to come back, kiss some Faeregine behinds, and ante up again.”

  Private Finch raised his eyebrows. House Faeregine had ruled Impyrium for over three thousand years. Faeregine magic was the strongest, their coffers the deepest. Only Faeregine women could rule, but even the men were reputed to be sorcerers of rare ability. It was dangerous for anyone, much less a member of the guard, to speak of them so flippantly.

  “We should return to our posts,” Marcus muttered. He marched back to his spot and rested his carabine against his shoulder. Chin up, shoulders back.

  Beecher followed suit. “I told you no one’s listening.”

  “I’m listening, Sergeant. And I don’t want to hear any blasphemy.”

  A grunt. “You can’t blaspheme your fellow man, Finch. The Faeregines aren’t gods. They’re flesh and blood, same as us.”

  Marcus stared at a distant portrait of Mina II. The man had to be drunk.

  “That’s bordering on treason.”

  The sergeant scoffed. “If truth is treason, I’ve lived long enough.”

  Do not slouch. “My father says my uncle used to talk like that,” said Marcus stiffly. “They hanged him during the last rebellion.”

  The sergeant took another sip. “Let’s hope I didn’t hold the rope. Strung up plenty for the Faeregines in those days. Bad business.”

  Marcus turned and glared at the sergeant. “If you think so little of the Faeregines, why serve in the Impyrial Guard?”

  Beecher looked genuinely amused. “Who said I think little of ’em? They’ve convinced the world they’re masters of heaven and hell and everything in between. I tip my bloody cap.”

  It was Marcus’s turn to scoff. “So it’s all just smoke and mirrors?”

  The sergeant’s expression became surprisingly thoughtful. “Not all,” he murmured. “I’d guess there’s still some magic in the family. Maybe in those triplets. But it ain’t what it was. Mina the First might have been a goddess, but it’s Mina the Forty-second that sits the throne now. Ever see our ‘Divine Empress’ in person?”

  Marcus pursed his lips. Lord Faeregine was the only family member he’d ever seen and his lordship had not quite lived up to Marcus’s expectations. Maybe the Divine Empress wasn’t the ageless, scintillating figure whose image adorned coins and banknotes.

  He must have looked crestfallen for the sergeant softened his tone.

  “Don’t mistake me. I honor the Faeregines. But I honor ’em as men and women, as folk born to rule like I was born to soldier. Sooner you ditch the fairy
tales, the better off you’ll be.”

  Marcus almost asked for the flask. “You know,” he said pensively, “I’m not quite sure if this has been the best night of my life or the worst.”

  This made Beecher chuckle. “It’s not over yet.”

  As though in answer to the sergeant’s quip, rapid footsteps echoed from the corridor outside the hall. A hooded figure appeared in the distant archway and ran toward them. The sergeant’s grin vanished. He held up a hand.

  “Halt and show yourself.”

  Marcus shifted anxiously as Sergeant Beecher repeated the order.

  When the figure ignored a second command, the sergeant brought up his carabine. The figure skittered to a stop some twenty yards away. Beecher’s voice was iron.

  “Not another step. Let’s see your face.”

  The figure gasped for breath. “Stand aside, Sergeant.”

  “Three seconds,” Beecher replied coolly. “Lose the hood or lose that head.”

  Marcus’s weapon shook in his trembling hands. His marksmanship scores had always been excellent, but the firing range was nothing like a live situation. Thank the gods he’d underestimated the sergeant. Beecher might be old and cynical, but he was also experienced. Nothing about him wavered—not his voice, his weapon, or his apparent resolve to use it. The visitor yanked back his hood and glared at the sergeant. Marcus gasped when he saw the man’s face.

  The visitor was Lord Faeregine.

  Sergeant Beecher’s carabine remained leveled. “Good. Now tell me who you really are.”

  The man stared at the guardsman with a look of puzzled outrage. “I’m Basil Faeregine, you buffoon. Lower that weapon and stand aside or I’ll have you tossed down Hound’s Trench!”

  Beecher smirked. “Sorry, friend. You can’t be Lord Faeregine.”

  “Is that so?” the man said with a sneer. “And pray tell me, why not?”

  “Because Lord Faeregine’s in the vault.”

  Blood drained from the man’s face. He looked at the two soldiers as if they were insane. “B-but that’s not possible!” he sputtered. “It must be an imposter! I’m Lord Faeregine!”