Rise Of Empire (101 page)

They hesitated.

Twenty archers appeared, moving out from behind the pillars of the galleries with stretched bows aimed down on Royce and Hadrian from three sides. Pikemen entered the hall in an orderly march, boot heels clicking on the tile. They spread out, forming two lines. A dozen more armored men issued down the side corridor from the second-story gallery and proceeded in two-by-two formation to the bottom of the stairs, fanning out to block any retreat back the way they had come.

“Now, lie on your bellies, or we’ll cut you down where you stand.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re here—” Hadrian’s words were cut short as an arrow hissed through the air and glinted off the stone less than a foot from them.

“Now!” the voice shouted.

They lay down.

The moment they did, troops from in front and behind entered, pinning them and stripping them of their weapons.

“You have to listen to us. There’s an invasion coming—”

“We’ve heard all about your phantom armada, Mr. Black-water, and you can give up that charade.”

“It’s real! They will be here tonight, and if you don’t fix the tower, all of Delgos will be taken!”

“Bind them!”

They brought forth chains, tongs, and a brazier. Smiths arrived and went to work hammering manacles onto their wrists and legs.

“Listen to me!” Hadrian shouted. “At least check the pressure-release controls, see if something is wrong.”

There was no reply except the smiths’ hammers pounding the manacles closed.

“What’s the harm in checking?” Hadrian went on. “If I’m wrong, what does it matter? If I’m right and you don’t even look, you’re sealing the fate of the Delgos Republic. Just humor me. If nothing else, it’ll shut me up.”

“Slitting your throat will do that too,” the voice said. “But I’ll send a worker if you two come quietly without resistance.”

Hadrian was not certain what kind of resistance he expected them to give as the smith finished attaching another chain to his legs, but he nodded anyway.

The voice gave the order and the guards pulled them to their feet. Navigating stairs with hobbled legs was difficult. Hadrian nearly fell more than once, but soon they reached the main gate at the bottom of the fortress.

The gigantic doors of stone soundlessly swept open. Outside, the late-afternoon sun revealed a contingent of port soldiers waiting. The commander of the fortress guard stepped forward and spoke quietly with the Port Authority captain for some time.

“You don’t think these guys are always waiting out here, do you?” Hadrian whispered to Royce. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”

“It didn’t tip you off when they called you by name?”

“Merrick?”

“Who else?”

“That’s a bit far-fetched. How could he possibly expect us to be here? We didn’t even know we would be here. He can’t be that smart.”

“He is.”

A runner appeared, trotting up from the bottom of the tower, and reported to the commander with a sharp salute.

“Well?” the fortress commander asked.

The runner shook his head. “There is no problem with the pressure-release control—everything checked out fine.”

“Take them away,” the commander ordered.

The Tur Del Fur City Prison and Workhouse sat back, hidden on a hillside away from the dock, the shops, and the trades. It appeared as little more than a large stone box at the end of Avan Boulevard, with few windows and a spiked iron fence. Hadrian and Royce both knew it by reputation. Most offenders typically died within the first week due to execution, suicide, or brutality. The magistrate’s role was merely to determine the manner of execution. Parole was not an option. Only those known to be serious threats went there. Petty thieves, drunks, and malcontents went to the more popular and lenient Portside Jail. For those in Tur Del Fur Prison, this was the end of the road, literally as well as figuratively.

Royce and Hadrian hung by their wrists with their ankles chained to the wall of cell number three, where they had spent the past few hours. The room was smaller than those in Calis. There was no window, stool, nor pot—not even straw. The room was little more than a small stone closet with a single metal door. The only light came from the gap between the door and its frame.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Hadrian said to the darkness.

“I’m trying to figure this out,” Royce replied.

“Figure it out?” Hadrian laughed even though his arms and wrists burned like fire from the metal cutting into his skin. “We’re hanging chained to a wall, awaiting execution, Royce. There’s not that much to it.”

“Not
that.
I want to know why we didn’t find anything wrong with the spouts.”

“Because there’s a million levers and switches in there and we were looking for just one?”

“I don’t think so. When we got to the bridge, what was it you said? You said you didn’t think anyone could scale that fortress except me. I think you’re right. I know Merrick couldn’t. He’s a genius, not an elf. I always outdid him when it came to anything physical.”

“So?”

“So a thought has been nagging me since they brought us here. How could Merrick get into Drumindor to sabotage it?”

“He figured another way in.”

“We spent weeks trying to do that, remember?”

“Maybe he bribed someone on the inside, or maybe he paid someone to break in.”

“Who?” Royce thought a minute. “This is too important to trust to someone who
might
be able to do it—he would need someone he
knew
could do it.”

“But how do you know someone can do something until they’ve actually—” Hadrian stopped himself as the realization hit. “Oh, that’s not good.”

“Throughout this whole thing we’ve been following two letters, both written by Merrick. The first we thought was intercepted and delivered to Alric, but what if it was
intentionally
sent to him? Everyone knows we work for Melengar.”

“Which led us to the
Emerald Storm,”
Hadrian said.

“Right. Where we got the next letter—the one to be delivered to that crazy Tenkin in the jungle, and it just happened to mention that Drumindor was set to blow.”

“I’m not liking where this is heading,” Hadrian muttered.

“And what if Merrick knew about the master gear?”

“That’s impossible. Gravis is dead. Crushed, as I recall, under one of those big gears.”

“Yes.
He
is dead, but Lord Byron isn’t. He probably boasted about how he saved Drumindor by hiring two no-account thieves.”

“It still seems too perfect.” Hadrian tried to convince himself. “In retrospect, sure, it sounds like the pieces fall into place, but there are too many things that could have gone wrong along the way.”

“Right. That’s why he had someone on board the
Storm
making sure it all worked—Derning. Did you see the way he took off the moment we hit port? He knew what was coming and wanted to get away.”

“I should have let you kill him.”

Silence.

“You’re nodding, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“Bastard,” Hadrian grumbled.

“You know the worst thing?”

“I’ve got a pretty long list of
bad
things right now, and I’m not sure which one I would put on top. So I’ll bite.”

“We did exactly what Merrick
couldn’t
do himself. He used us to disarm Drumindor.”

“So he never sabotaged anything? That would explain why Gile laughed when I told him Drumindor was going to explode. He knew it wasn’t. Merrick promised he would have it intact. Merrick’s a bloody genius.”

“I think I mentioned that once or twice.”

“So now what?” Hadrian asked.

“Now nothing. He’s beaten us. He’s sitting somewhere with a warm cup of cider, smiling smugly with his feet up on the pile of money he’s just been paid.”

“We have to warn them to reengage the master gear.”

“Go ahead.”

Hadrian shouted until the little observation door opened, flooding the cell with light.

“We need to speak to someone. It’s important.”

“What is it?”

“We realized the mistake we made. We were tricked. You need to tell the commander at Drumindor that we locked the master gear. We can show him where it is and how to release it.”

“You two never stop, do you? I’m not sure if you’re really saboteurs or just plain nuts. One thing’s for certain: we’re going to find out how you got in, and then we’re going to kill you.”

The observation door closed, casting them back into darkness.

“That worked out really well,” Royce said. “Feel better now?”

“Bastard.”

A
rista stayed in the corner of the stable, wrapped in Hilfred’s arms most of the night. He stroked her hair and, from time to time, without any particular reason, kissed her passionately. It felt safe, and lying there, Arista realized two things. First, she was certain she could be content remaining in his arms forever. And second, she was not in love with Hilfred.

He was a good friend, a piece of home she missed so dearly that she drank him in with a desert-born thirst, but something was missing. She thought it strange that she had come to this conclusion while in his arms. Yet she knew it with perfect clarity. She did not love Hilfred and she had not loved Emery. She was not even certain what love was, what it should feel like, or if it existed at all.

Noblewomen rarely knew the men they married before their wedding day. Perhaps they grew to love their husbands in time, or merely grew to believe they did. At least she knew Hilfred loved her. He loved enough for both of them. She could feel it radiating off him like warmth from smoldering coals. He deserved happiness after waiting so long, after so much sacrifice, and she would make it up to him. Arista would
return to Melengar and marry him. Alric would make him Archduke Reuben Hilfred. She laughed softly at the thought.

“What?”

“I just remembered your first name is Reuben.”

Hilfred laughed, then pointed to his face. “I look like this, and you’re making fun of my
name?”

She took his face in her hands. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I think you’re beautiful.”

He kissed her again.

Periodically, Hilfred would peek out at the sky and check the position of the moon. Eventually he returned and said, “It’s time.”

She nodded, and once more Arista transformed into the morose visage of Regent Saldur.

“I still can’t believe it,” Hilfred told her.

“I know. I’m really starting to get the hang of this. Care to kiss me again?” she teased, and laughed at his expression. “Now remember, don’t do anything. The idea is to just walk in and walk out. No fighting, understand?”

Hilfred nodded.

They stepped out of the stable. As they did, Arista looked up at Modina’s window. Although it was dark, she was certain she saw her figure sitting framed within it. Once again she recalled Modina’s final words, and regretted not asking her to come. Maybe she would have refused, but now it was too late. Arista wished she had at least asked.