Storm and Steel (23 page)

Alyra glanced across the rows of shelves. She hadn't found any mention of a plan to attack the queen. In fact, it was just the opposite. The Order's last orders had clearly stated the captain-curate was not to provoke the queen in any way, to only defend themselves in extreme circumstances. She'd come up blank.

She was about to leave when she noticed an odd detail. A piece of the paneling behind one of the shelves on the east wall was slightly askew, so it didn't join properly with its mate. Alyra went over and tapped that section, and it swung inward to reveal a secret nook. A roll of papers was hidden inside. She took them over to the lamp and went through them quickly, her heart beating faster with every sheet she unrolled.

It was all here, just as Cipher had expected. Letters from noble families in other cities, including one from a prominent house with imperial blood ties, all promising their support for Lord Qaphanum if the queen were usurped. They were dissatisfied with Byleth's leadership and her friction with the Sun Cult. Alyra didn't see a response from Lord Qaphanum to any of these letters, but these were enough. She added them to her satchel. Then she blew out the lamp and went to the door.

The hallway outside was quiet, but she waited for a slow count of fifty to be sure. Then she left the study and stole down the hallway. She left the manor
by the slaves' entrance, pausing only to be sure there were no guards in the area before she raced across the lawn. Slipping out the side gate, she closed it behind her as quietly as possible and then let out a long breath.

It was done. She'd found what she came for, but what now? Could she trust the network with this evidence? That was the question.

A cool wind picked up as she emerged from the tree cover and hurried down the street. Alyra pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She wasn't sure she wanted to go back to Horace's house tonight. She felt cut off from him, like she needed room to breathe and clear her head. She considered spending the night with Sefkahet, but that would just bring on a different set of problems.

Trying to make herself small in the darkness, she headed back to the Cattle Quarter.

The battle lines were drawn. Horace stared across the gleaming battlefield at his adversaries. Their cool glances returned nothing but mocking challenge. When he placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword, his enemies looked back and forth among themselves, yet none of them faltered in their resolve. The silence stretched out for minutes that seemed like hours. Finally, he lowered his gaze and let out a long sigh. He was beaten.

Horace slumped back in his chair as the other ministers filed out of the council chamber, leaving him alone at the long polished table. A hot breeze played across the back of his neck from the open window behind him. Flames flickered in the half-dozen lamps hanging from the chamber ceiling, throwing shadows across the walls.

For the last three hours he'd tried with every ounce of persuasion he possessed to convince the council to ratify new orders concerning his prosecution of the rebellion. Things he thought were commonsense to deescalate the conflict, which was quickly growing out of control across the queen's province. Yet they had defied him on every single one, not budging an inch no matter what he tried. In fact, their proposals would only exacerbate the tension. Angered that the council had rebuffed his solutions, Horace refused to agree to their remedies as well, and so both sides were stymied. The final hour of the meeting had been spent in a contest of wills, with the entire council arrayed against him. Tempers flew and harsh words exchanged. One minister had called him a filthy
pukkarag
, whatever that was.

Horace reached for the cup in front of him, only to find it empty. He started to look for a pitcher to refill it but gave up. His head was already swimming with wine fumes, and his stomach threatened to rebel if he didn't eat something. He pushed himself to his feet and left. A pair of his personal guards joined him at the door.

Thankfully, none of the council members were waiting to confront him in the hallway, as had happened before. Since the
Tammuris
he hadn't received any
personal challenges, either, but his detractors hadn't ceased in their efforts to bring him down. They just took different tacks to undermine his authority, like these council sessions. Formerly, the First Sword could act unilaterally in the queen's name, but the council had called a secret session just a few days after the holy day while he was still convalescing from his injuries and passed a special law that required all his orders to be approved by them. Horace had taken the matter to the queen, but Byleth told him she wouldn't interfere. All the while, he knew various members of the court were trying to convince the queen to take a harsher course in regards to the rebellion, erasing all his efforts.

Swaying a little, he made his way up a flight of marble stairs to his office on the second-highest tier of the palace. Mezim met him with a sheaf of scrolls.

“Master, I've put together a list of witnesses to the self-immolation yesterday morning. And the Tanners' Guild sent a request that they be allowed to increase the price of their wares.”

Horace took the list of witnesses. “Why are they petitioning me? Isn't that something for the city minister to handle?”

“For most guilds, yes, but the tanners and leatherworkers fall under the purview of the First Sword because their industry has been deemed of utmost value in times of war.

“There's also a report from each legion detailing their current inventories and budgets for the rest of the year. Oh, and quotes from various grain suppliers for next season. Once you select one, I'll arrange for delivery of the first payment with the royal treasury.”

Most of what Mezim said went over his head, but Horace nodded. “I don't have time to deal with that. Send the petitions to the High General's office. Is there any news from Lord Ubar's expedition?”

“Not as yet. But I will check with the palace messenger service right away.”

“What about the search for Jirom?”

“I put a dispatch on your desk from an officer of the Third Legion who was at the battle of Omikur. He reports that almost all the dog soldiers were killed in action, either by the enemy or by the legionnaires themselves when the slaves tried to rebel. However he has no confirmation of your friend's demise.
Apparently, the dog soldiers were buried in mass graves in the desert, and finding evidence of a single man is exceedingly difficult.”

“Of course,” Horace muttered to himself. “Nothing can ever be easy, can it?”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Go find out about Lord Ubar.”

“At once. There's just one last thing. The protests continue in various places around the city.”

“
Ai
, I noticed a couple on my way in.”

“The royal chancellor has voiced some concern about safety….”

“Of course. We can't have Master Unagon wetting himself. Order additional guards at the palace gates and on the queen's personal detail. Anything else?”

“
Neh, Belum.
”

As his secretary scurried away, Horace walked to his office at the back of the suite. The guards took up positions outside.

His inner sanctum was bare, with the only furnishings being a desk and chair. The former was a gift from the queen. A handsome block of cedar, its front was carved with a relief image of the palace and the entire desk painted with the rich red varnish.

A yawn escaped him as he sat down and opened the first field report. After a quick scan, he opened another, and then a third. They weren't good. Over the past two months more than six separate attacks had occurred, including the one that so incensed the queen—the royal caravan sacked and its contents, listed only as “tribute from the northern estates,” stolen. Clearly, the rebellion was gaining momentum.
And making my job nearly impossible with the same stroke.

As he read more, a pattern emerged. The rebels seemed to attack at random, never hitting the same target twice and slipping away before reinforcements could arrive. Horace had sent the forces at his disposal to bolster important garrisons, but it was never enough. There were too many potential targets to cover them all.

Also included among the dispatches were reports of
zoanii
cracking down in their own fiefs with harsh penalties for just about any infraction. One lord in a town east of Erugash had allegedly boiled eighteen of his field slaves
alive because he suspected them of collaborating with the rebels. No proof of their guilt was found. Horace pounded his fist on the desk. These draconian methods were only making the problem worse. But, just like with the council, the noble caste refused to hear reason.

Horace put down the scrolls and rubbed his eyes. He wasn't getting anywhere. His head hurt, and he was too tired to think straight. What he wanted more than anything was something to eat and a strong drink, and perhaps to look at the stars from his terrace until he fell asleep. He called for Mezim, but there was no answer. With a sigh, Horace pushed his chair away from the desk and got up. His guards stood outside the door. Beckoning them to follow, he left the suite.

They passed a few people Horace knew from court on the way out, but he didn't stop to talk. Not that they seemed eager to see him either. He'd always assumed a powerful title would attract all sorts of people, those seeking favors and wanting to form alliances, but in his case the elevation to First Sword had made him less popular with the other
zoanii
, if that was possible.

This entire country is insane. I must be mad to stay here with them. Or too damned stubborn to give up on a losing proposition. Only a few days back at the palace and I'm ready to slit my stomach. Let someone else deal with these headaches.

He left the palace by the west gate. Horace declined a palanquin when offered, deciding he wanted to walk instead. It was a nice evening. A pleasant breeze from off the canal kept the insects at bay. The moon was just rising above the skyline, limning the city's roofs and towers in a soft silver glow.

Most of the government buildings were closing. Street cleaners worked the avenues, cleaning up the day's accumulation of refuse and animal dung. Slave-borne litters navigated the boulevards like proud ships, led by linkboys with burning brands to ward off the night.

Horace passed by the site of the demolished Sun Temple. The gates were chained. Through the iron bars Horace could see the vast pile of stone and debris. It still boggled his mind that he was responsible for such devastation. He'd heard that sinkholes had opened in the temple courtyard as a result of the collapse. Work crews had been assigned to fill them, but according to the reports the larger ones kept opening up.

Horace was considering stopping at an eatery for supper when three men appeared at the end of the block, barring the way. Their crimson robes wavered in the evening breeze. Standing still, their faces hidden under deep hoods and hands pulled up into their sleeves, they nonetheless radiated an aura of malice.

The Order of the Crimson Flame.

Horace wondered how these three had gotten into the city. There was something strange in the way the sorcerer-priests stood, hunched over at the shoulders as if they were in pain.

His bodyguards drew their weapons and stepped ahead of him. Horace thought to stop them, but before he could a stinging wind reeking of ozone and burning metal rushed down the street. With one arm thrown over his face, Horace closed his eyes against the cloud of flying dust swirling around him and reached for his
zoana
. To his surprise, the power answered his call. It felt so good flowing through him, like a lover's embrace or the taste of mulled brandy on a cold day. He quickly formed a bubble of air around himself and his guards that blocked out the foul wind. Then he fashioned the first offensive attack that came to mind. He wove together strands of fire into a seething sphere. Its angry vermillion glow blinded his eyes. With a grunt, he hurled it through the swirling dust cloud in the direction of the priests.

A sudden spike of pain pierced his chest. Gasping, Horace squeezed his eyes shut just before the sphere exploded. A torrent of scalding heat engulfed the street, buffeting him with the blowback. The air howled one last time before it died away.

Rubbing the grit from his eyes, Horace peered down the street. The three robed men were gone. Vanished as if they had never existed, a circle of untouched clay pavement where they had been standing. The rest of the street, however, was awash in flames. Pangs of guilt stabbed Horace as he witnessed the damage he had wrought. The outer facings of the buildings on both sides—homes, shops, a winehall—were completely torn away, exposing the singed beams of their interiors. His only hope was that no one had been killed, but the guilt fed the fire of rage burning inside him. He reached for his
zoana
again to combat the fires before they burned out of control, and he had to battle with his
qa
to keep it open. Finally, he wrested away enough power
from the Mordab dominion to summon a gentle mist. The flames sizzled as the water vapor dampened their ire, but it did nothing to cool Horace.

Then he noticed something inside the circle of pristine pavement where the priests had been standing. A person lying on the street, covered by a shimmering sheet of yellow silk.

His guards rushed ahead of him as Horace approached the figure. He caught the edge of the silk sheet with his toe and kicked it away. His stomach clenched in a painful spasm when he saw the face staring up at him. A face he knew well.

Mulcibar.

A thousand questions crowded Horace's mind as he looked down at his friend's corpse, but they were battered down by a tide of rage. Ever since the night of the
Tammuris
he had struggled with Mulcibar's loss, fearing he may have buried his one-time mentor under the rubble of the fallen Sun Temple. Now to be faced with the proof that Mulcibar had not been inside the temple when it fell, that he must have been alive all this time, threatened to break down the walls of his self-control. The
zoana
surged inside him, wanting a release, but he held it in tight check as he beckoned to his guards. They rolled the corpse inside the yellow sheet and picked it up.

The street was empty as they marched toward his home, a silent funeral procession.