Rise Of Empire (91 page)

“We don’t need to be released,” Defoe said from behind the door. “I could open it myself if I wanted to get out.”

“I’m not here to let you out,” Royce said, opening the door.

Bernie backed up and drew his dagger.

“Stay out of this, Bernie,” Royce told him. “So far you’ve just been doing a job. I get that, but stand between me and Thranic and it gets personal.”

“Seaman Melborn!” Wesley snapped. “I can’t let you kill Mr. Thranic.”

Royce ignored him and Wesley appealed to Hadrian, who shrugged in response. “It’s a policy of mine not to get in his way, especially when the other guy deserves it.”

Wesley turned to Wyatt, whose expression showed no compassion. “He burned a shipload of elves and, for all I know, was responsible for taking my daughter. Let him die.”

Dr. Levy stepped aside, leaving Thranic alone at the back of the cell with only his dagger for protection. By his grip and stance, Hadrian knew the sentinel was not a knife fighter. Thranic was sweating, his eyes tense as Royce moved in.

“Might I ask why you’re killing Mr. Thranic?” Bulard asked suddenly, stepping between them. “Those of you intent on fleeing could make better use of your time than butchering a man in his cell, don’t you think?”

“Won’t take but a second,” Royce assured him.

“Perhaps, perhaps, but I’m asking you not to. I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve death, but who are you to grant it? Thranic will die, and quite soon, I suspect, given where we’re headed. Regardless, our mission is vital not just to the empire, but to all of mankind, and we’ll need him if we’re to have any hope to complete it.”

“Shut up, you old fool,” the sentinel growled.

This caught Royce’s attention, though he kept his eyes on Thranic. “What mission?”

“To find a very old and very important relic called the Horn of Gylindora that will be needed very soon, I’m afraid.”

“The horn?” Hadrian repeated.

“Yes. Given our precarious situation, I don’t think it wise to give you a history lesson just now, but suffice to say it’s in all of our best interests to leave Thranic alive—for now.”

“Sorry,” Royce replied, “but you’ll just have to make do without—”

The door to the cellblock opened and a pair of soldiers with meal plates stepped in. A quick glance at the dead guard and they ran.

Royce sprinted after them. Bernie quickly closed his cell door again.

“Go, all of you!” Bulard urged.

The party ran out of the cellblock and up the stairs. By the time they reached the top, the hallway was filled with loud voices.

“They got away,” Royce grumbled.

“We gathered that from the shouting,” Hadrian said.

They faced a four-way intersection of identical narrow stone corridors. Wall-mounted flames burned from iron cradles staggered at long intervals, leaving large sections of shifting shadows.

Royce glanced back toward the cellblock and cursed under his breath. “That’s what I get for hesitating.”

“Any idea which way now?” Wyatt asked.

“This way,” Royce said.

He led them at a rapid pace, then stopped abruptly and motioned everyone into a doorway. Moments later a troop of guards rushed by. Wesley started forward and Royce hauled him back. Two more guards passed.

“Now
we go,” he told them, “but stay
behind
me.”

Royce continued along the multitude of corridors and
turns, pausing from time to time. They climbed two more sets of stairs and dodged another group of soldiers. Hadrian saw the wonderment reflected in the party’s faces at Royce’s skill. It was as if he could see through walls or knew the location of every guard. For Hadrian it was nothing new, but even he was impressed at their progress, given that Royce was towing a parade.

A door unexpectedly opened and several Tenkins literally bumped into Dilladrum and one of the Vintu. Terrified, Dil-ladrum fled down a corridor, the Vintu following. The stunned Tenkins were not warriors and were just as scared as Dilladrum. They retreated inside. Royce shouted for Dilladrum to stop, but it was no use.

“Damn it!” Royce cursed, chasing after them. The rest of the crew raced to keep up as they ran blindly through corridor after corridor. Rounding a corner, Hadrian nearly ran into Royce, whose way was blocked by Tenkin warriors. The dead bodies of Dilladrum and the Vintu lay on the floor, blood pooling across the stone. Behind them, a small army cut off their retreat.

“Who are you to defy Erandabon?”
chanted the crowd of Tenkin warriors.

“Get back!” Hadrian ordered, pushing Wesley and the others into a niche that afforded a small amount of defense. He pulled a torch from the wall and together with Royce formed a forward defense.

The Tenkin soldiers charged, screaming as they attacked.

Royce appeared to dodge the advance, but the foremost warrior fell dead. Hadrian drove the flame of his torch into the second Tenkin’s face. Using his feet, Royce flipped the dead man’s sword to Hadrian, who caught it in time to decapitate the next challenger.

Two Tenkins charged Royce, who simply was not where
they expected him to be when they arrived. His movements were a blur, and two more collapsed. Hadrian advanced as Royce kicked the dead men’s weapons behind them to Wyatt, Derning, and Wesley. Hadrian stood at the center now.

Three attacked. Three fell dead.

The rest retreated, bewildered, and Hadrian picked up a second blade.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The warlord walked toward them, applauding and grinning. “Galenti, it is you. So good to have you back!”

A
milia sulked in the kitchen, head in her hands, elbows resting on the baker’s table. This was where it had all started, when Modina’s former secretary had brought her to the kitchen for a lesson in table manners. Remembering the terror of those early days, she was staggered to realize those had been better times.

Now a witch hid in Modina’s room, filling the empress’s head with nonsense. She was a foreigner, the princess of an enemy kingdom, and yet she spent more time with Modina than Amilia did. She could be manipulating the empress in any number of ways. Amilia had tried to reason with Modina, but no matter what Amilia said, the girl remained adamant about helping the witch find Degan Gaunt.

Amilia preferred the old days, when Modina had left everything to her. Sitting there, she wondered what she should do. She wanted to go to Saldur and report the witch but knew that would hurt Modina. The empress might never recover from such a betrayal, especially by Amilia, whom she trusted implicitly. The loss would surely crush her fragile spirit, and Amilia saw disaster at the end of every path. She felt as if she
were in a runaway carriage racing toward a cliff, with no way to reach the reins.

“How about I make you some soup?” Ibis Thinly asked her. The big man stood in his stained apron, stirring a large steaming pot, into which he threw bits of celery.

“I’m too miserable to eat,” she replied.

“It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”

“You have no idea. She’s become a handful and then some. I’m actually afraid to leave her alone. Every time I walk out of her room, I’m frightened something terrible will happen.”

It was late and they were the only two in the scullery. Long shadows, cast by the flames of the cook’s hearth, traced up the far wall. The kitchen was warm and pleasant, except for a foul smell coming from the bubbling broth Ibis cooked on the stove.

“Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that. Come on, can’t I interest you in some soup? I make a pretty mean vegetable barley, if I do say so myself.”

“You know I love your food. It’s just that my stomach is in knots. I noticed a gray hair in the mirror the other day.”

“Oh please, you’re still just a girl,” Ibis laughed, then caught himself. “I guess I shouldn’t speak to you that way, you being noble and all. I should be saying, ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ or in this case, ‘No, no, Your Ladyship! If you’ll allow me to be so bold as to speak plainly in your presence, I beg to differ, for I think you’re purty as a pot!’ That would be a more proper response.”

Amilia smiled. “You know, I never have understood that saying of yours.”

Ibis drew himself up in feigned offense. “I’m a cook. I like pots.” He chuckled. “Have some soup. Something warm in your belly will help untie some of those knots, eh?”

She glanced at the pot he was stirring and grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh no, not this. Great Maribor, no! I’ll make you something good.”

Amilia looked relieved. “What is that you’re making? It smells like rotten eggs.”

“Soup, but it’s barely fit for animals, made with all the worst parts of old leftovers. The smell comes from this horrid yellow powder I have to use. I try to dress it up as best I can. I throw some celery and spices in, just to ease my conscience.”

“Who’s it for?”

“I’ve no idea but in a little while a couple of guards will come by and take it. To be honest … I’m afraid to ask where it goes.” He paused. “Amilia, what’s wrong?”

Amilia stared at the big pot, her mouth partially open. Noise on the stairs caught her attention. Two men entered the kitchen. She knew them by sight. They were guards normally assigned to the east wing’s fourth-floor hall—the administration corridor, where she and Saldur worked. They recognized her as well and took a moment to bow. Amilia graciously inclined her head in response. Their looks revealed they found this courtesy odd but appreciated it. Then they turned to Ibis.

“All done?”

“Just a sec, just a sec,” he muttered. “You’re early.”

“We’ve been on duty since dawn,” one of the guards complained. “This is the last job of the night. Honestly, I don’t know why you put such effort into it, Thinly.”

“It’s what I do, and I want it done right.”

“Trust me, no one is going to complain. Nobody cares.”

“I care,” Ibis remarked, his voice sharp enough to end the subject.

The guard shrugged his shoulders and waited.

“Who’s the soup for?” Amilia asked.

The guard hesitated. “Not really supposed to talk about that, milady.”

The other guard gave him a rough nudge. “She’s the bloody secretary to the empress.”

The first one blushed. “Forgive me, milady. It’s just that Regent Saldur can be a little scary sometimes.”

Amilia agreed in her head but externally remained aloof.

His friend slapped himself in the forehead, rolling his eyes. “Blimey, James, you’re a fool. Forgive him, milady.”

“What?” James looked puzzled. “What’d I say?”

The guard shook his head sadly. “You just insulted the regent and admitted you don’t respect Her Ladyship all in one breath.”

James’s face drained of color.

“What’s your name?” she asked the other guard.

“Higgles, milady.” He swallowed hard and bowed again.

“Why don’t
you
answer my question, then?”

“We takes the soup to the north tower. You know, the one ’tween the well and the stables.”

“How many prisoners are there?”

The two guards looked at each other. “None that we know of, milady.”

“So who is the soup for?”

He shrugged. “We just leave it with the Seret Knight.”

“Soup’s done,” Ibis declared.

“Is that all, milady?” Higgles asked.

She nodded and the two disappeared out the door to the courtyard, each holding one of the pot’s handles.

“Now, let me make
you
something,” Ibis said, wiping his big hands on his apron.

“Huh?” Amilia asked, still thinking about the two guards. “No thanks, Ibis,” she said, getting up. “There’s something I need to do, I think.”