Rise Of Empire (32 page)

How many are cowering outside under a boardwalk or in a muddy alley somewhere in the rain?

As they settled, Arista noticed the noise of the inn was not simply the confusing sounds of forty unrelated conversations, but rather one discussion voiced by several people with various opinions. From time to time one speaker would rise above the others to make a point, and then drown in the response from the crowd. The most vocal was the red-haired young man.

“No, he’s not!” he shouted once more. “He’s not a blood relative of Urith. He’s the brother of Urith’s second wife.”

“And I suppose you think his first wife was murdered so he could be pushed into marrying Amiter, just so Androus could become duke?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” the youth declared. “Don’t you see? They planned this for years, and not just here either. They did it in Alburn, Warric … They even tried it in Melengar, but they failed there. Did anyone see that play last year? You know,
The Crown Conspiracy.
It was based on real events. Amrath’s children outsmarted the conspirators. That’s why Melengar hasn’t fallen to the New Empire. Don’t you see? We’re all the victims of a conspiracy. I’ve even heard that the empress might not exist. The whole story of the Heir of Novron is a sham, invented to placate the masses. Do you really think a farm girl could kill a great beast? It is men like Androus who control us—evil, corrupt murderous men without an ounce of royal blood in their veins, or honor in their hearts!”

“So what?” a fat man in a checked vest asked defiantly. “What do we care who rules us? Our lot is always the same. You speak of matters between blue bloods. It doesn’t affect us.”

“You’re wrong! How many men in this city were pressed into the army? How many are off to die for the empress? How many sons have gone to fight Melengar, who has never been our enemy? Now the Nationalists are coming. They’re only a few miles south. They will sack this city, just as they did Vernes, and why? Because we are now joined to the empire. Do you think your sons, brothers, and fathers would be off dying if Urith were still alive? Do you want to see Ratibor destroyed?”

“They won’t destroy Ratibor!” the fat man shouted back. “You’re just spouting rumors, trying to scare decent people and stir up trouble. Armies will fight, and maybe the city will change hands, but it won’t affect
us.
We’ll still be poor and still struggling to live, as we always have. King Urith had his wars and Viceroy Androus will have his. We work, fight, and die under both of them. That’s our lot and treasonous talk like this will only get people killed.”

“They will burn the city,” an older woman in a blue kerchief said suddenly. “Just as they burned Kilnar. I know. I was there. I saw them.”

All eyes turned to her.

“That’s not true! It can’t be,” the fat man protested. “It doesn’t make sense. The Nationalists have no cause to burn the cities. They would want them intact.”

“The Nationalists didn’t burn it,” she said. “The empire did.” This statement brought the room to stunned silence. “When the imperial government saw that the city would be lost, they ordered Kilnar to be torched to leave nothing for the Nationalists.”

“It’s true,” said a man seated with his family near the kitchen. “We lived in Vernes. I saw the city guards burning the shops and homes there too.”

“The same will happen here.” The youth caught the crowd’s attention once more. “Unless we do something about it.”

“What can we do?” a young mother asked.

“We can join the Nationalists. We can give the city to them before the viceroy has a chance to torch it.”

“This is treason,” the fat man said. “You’ll bring death to us all!”

“The empire took Rhenydd through deceit, murder, and trickery. I don’t speak treason. I speak loyalty—loyalty to the monarchy. To sit by and let the empire rape this kingdom and burn this city
is
treason and, what’s more, it’s foolhardy cowardice!”

“Are you calling me a coward?”

“No, sir, I’m calling you a fool
and
a coward.”

The fat man stood up indignantly and drew a dagger from his belt. “I demand satisfaction.”

The youth stood and unsheathed a long sword. “As you wish.”

“You would duel me sword against dagger and call me the coward?”

“I also called you a fool, and a fool it is who holds a dagger and challenges a man with a sword.”

Several people in the room laughed at this, which only infuriated the fat man more. “Do you have no honor?”

“I’m but a poor soldier’s son from a destitute town. I can’t afford honor.” Again, the crowd laughed. “I’m also a practical man, who knows it’s more important to win than to die—for honor is something that concerns only the living. But understand this: if you choose to fight me, I’ll kill you any way I can, the same way that I’ll try to save this city and its people any way I can. Honor and allegiance be damned!”

The crowd applauded now, much to the chagrin of the fat man. Red-faced, he stood for a moment, then shoved his dagger back in his belt and abruptly stalked out the door into the rain.

“But how can we turn the city over to the Nationalists?” the old woman asked.

The youth turned to her. “If we raise a militia, we can raid the armory and storm the city garrison. After that, we’ll arrest the viceroy. That will give us the city. The imperial army is camped a mile to the south. When the Nationalists attack, they will expect to retreat to the safety of the city walls. But when they arrive, they will find the gates locked. In disarray and turmoil, they will be routed and the Nationalists will destroy them. After that, we’ll welcome the Nationalists in as allies. Given our assistance in helping them take the city, we can expect fair treatment and possibly even self-rule, as that is the Nationalists’ creed.

“Imagine that,” he said dreamily. “Ratibor, the whole city—the whole kingdom of Rhenydd—being run by a people’s council, just like Tur Del Fur!”

This clearly caught the imagination of many in the room.

“Craftsmen could own their own shops instead of renting. Farmers would own their land and be able to pass it tax-free to their sons. Merchants could set their own rates and taxes wouldn’t be used to pay for foreign wars. Instead, that money can be used to clean up this town. We could pave the roads, tear down the vacant buildings, and put all the people of the city to work doing it. We would elect our own sheriffs and bailiffs, but they would have little to do, for what crime could there be in a free city? Freemen with their own property have no cause for crime.”

“I would be willing to fight for that,” a man seated with his family near the windows said.

“For paved roads, I would too,” said the elderly woman.

“I’d like to own my own land,” another said.

Others voiced their interest and soon the conversation turned more serious. The level of the voices dropped and men clustered together to speak in small groups.

“You’re not from Rhenydd, are you?” someone asked Arista.

The princess nearly jumped when she discovered a woman had slipped in beside her. She was not immediately certain that it was a woman, as she was oddly dressed in dark britches and a man’s loose shirt. Arista initially thought she was an adolescent boy, due to her short blonde hair and dappled freckles, but her eyes gave her away. They were heavy and deep, as if stolen from a much older person.

“No,” Arista said apprehensively.

The woman studied Arista, her old eyes slowly moving over her body as if she were memorizing every line of her figure and every crease in her dress. “You have an odd way about you. The way you walk, the way you sit. It’s all very …
precise,
very … proper.”

Arista was over being startled now and was just plain irritated. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who should accuse others of being odd,” she replied.

“There!” the woman said excitedly, and wagged a finger. “See? Anyone else would have called me a mannish little whore. You have manners. You speak in subtle innuendo, like
a … princess.”

“Who are you?” Hadrian abruptly intervened, moving between the two. Royce also appeared from the shadows behind the strange woman.

“Who are
you?”
she replied saucily.

The door to The Laughing Gnome burst open and uniformed imperial guards poured in. Tables were turned over
and drinks hit the floor. Customers nearest the door fell back in fear, cowering in the corners, or were pushed aside.

“Arrest everyone!” a man ordered in a booming voice. He was a big man with a potbelly, dark brows, and sagging cheeks. He kept his weight on his heels and his thumbs in his belt as he glared at the crowd.

“What’s this all about, Trenchon?” Ayers shouted from behind the bar.

“You would be smart to keep your hole shut, Ayers, or I’ll close this tavern tonight and have you in stocks by morning—or worse. Harboring traitors and providing a meeting place for conspirators will buy you death at the post!”

“I didn’t do nothing!” Ayers cried. “It was the kid. He’s the one that started all the talk, and that woman from Kilnar. They’re the ones. I just served drinks like every night. I’m not responsible for what customers say. I’m not involved in this. It was them and a few of the others who were going along with it.”

“Take everyone in for questioning,” Trenchon ordered. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I want the ringleaders!”

“This way,” the mannish woman whispered. Grabbing Arista’s arm, she began to pull the princess away from the soldiers toward the kitchen.

Arista pulled back.

The woman sighed. “Unless you want to have a long talk with the viceroy about who you are and what you’re doing here, you’ll follow me now.”

Arista looked at Royce, who nodded, but there was concern on his face. They grabbed up their bags and followed.

Starting at the main entrance, the imperial soldiers began hauling people out into the rain and mud. Women screamed and children cried. Those who resisted were beaten and thrown out. Some near the rear door tried to run, only to find more soldiers waiting.

The mannish woman plowed through the crowd into the tavern’s kitchen, where a cook looked over, surprised. “Best look out,” their guide said. “Trenchon is looking to arrest everyone.”

The cook dropped her ladle in shock as they pressed by her, heading to the walk-in pantry. Closing the door, the woman revealed a trapdoor in the pantry’s floor. They climbed down a short wooden stair into The Laughing Gnome’s wine cellar. Several dusty bottles lined the walls, as did casks of cheese and containers of butter. The woman took a lantern that hung from the ceiling and, closing the door above, led them behind the wine racks to the cellar’s far wall. There was a metal grate in the floor. She wedged a piece of old timber in the bars and pried it up.

“Inside, all of you,” she ordered.

Above, they could still hear the screams and shouts, then the sound of heavy boots on the kitchen floor.

“Hurry!” she whispered.

Royce entered first, climbing down metal rungs that formed a ladder. He slipped into darkness and Hadrian motioned for the princess to follow. She took a deep breath as if going underwater and climbed down.

The ladder continued far deeper than Arista would have expected, and instead of the tight, cramped tunnel she anticipated, she found herself dropping into a large gallery. It was completely dark, except around the lantern, and the smell was unmistakable. Without pause or a word of direction, the woman walked away. They had no choice but to follow her light.

They were in a sewer far larger and grander than Arista had imagined possible after seeing the city above. Walls of brick and stone rose twelve feet to a roof of decorative mosaic tiles. Every few feet grates formed waterfalls that spilled from
the ceiling, raining down with a deafening roar. Storm water frothed and foamed in the center of the tunnel as it churned around corners and broke upon dividers, spraying walls and staining them dark.

They chased the woman with the lantern as she moved quickly along the brick curb near the wall. Like ribs supporting the ceiling, thick stone archways jutted out at regular intervals, blocking their path. The woman skirted around these easily, but it was much harder for Arista in her gown to traverse the columns and keep her footing on the slick stone curb. Below her, the storm’s runoff created a fast-flowing river of dirty water and debris that echoed in the chamber.

The corridor reached a four-way intersection. In the stone at the top corners were chiseled small notations. These read
HONOR WAY
going one direction and
HERALD’S STREET
going the other. The woman with the lantern never wavered, and turned without a pause, leading them down Honor Way at a breakneck pace. Abruptly, she stopped.

They stood on a curb beside the sewer river, which was like any other part of the corridor they had traveled except a bit wider and quieter.

“Before we go further, I must be certain,” she began. “Allow me to make things easier by guessing the lady here is actually Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar. You are Hadrian Blackwater, and you’re Duster, the famous Demon of Colnora. Am I correct?”

“That would make you a Diamond,” Royce said.

“At your service.” She smiled, and Arista thought how catlike her face was, in that she appeared both friendly and sinister at the same time. “You can call me Quartz.”