Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (22 page)

He sat back down in the chair, obviously seething with anger. After a few moments he visibly calmed himself, and slid open a hidden compartment in the arm of his throne. He fiddled with something, then directed his glare back at Octavia. “And I’m sure you got picked for this assignment because you’re stupid enough to think it was an honor, eh? Does Rome want a full-scale war? Is that why they send babies to negotiate? Do they have no honor?”

Finally, Octavia felt her spine stiffen. “No, Your Majesty. You have not returned the other emissaries we’ve sent, alive or dead. So how are we to tell if you want peace when all signs point to war? And my name is
Senatora
Octavia Pelia, daughter of General Horatio Pelia. You knew him as an honorable opponent. He defeated you personally at the battle of Vilnus and your top generals in the Seven Woods War, and here you are accusing me, his own daughter, of being dishonorable? I think it is you, sir, who has no honor. You send spies and rabble-rousers to ferment trouble because you dare not face us on the field of battle, like men.”

Octavia thought she had gone too far, but the king nodded in a peculiar, almost proud way. “Ah, I knew that you must be a daughter of the north. A daughter of the general? You must have been tough to live in that household. I once saw the man take the arm off an
ulvkankisk
in combat. I’ve never seen someone take apart one of our mechanical wolves in such a fashion.”

Oh, a mecha-wolf,
Octavia realized
. That’s what they call them? Ulvkankisk?

Bismark must have pressed some button or pulled some lever, because within a few minutes, the sound of chimes indicated more visitors to the great hall. A large door slid squeaking into a pocket in the wall, and a large party of warriors, servants, and what Octavia assumed were probably clerics entered the hall. The servants promptly began assembling a large dining table in the middle of the throne room. The party of warriors and clerics made their salutes to the king, then gathered off to one side while the servants finished their jobs.

Only when one of the “servants” whipped another one for not moving fast enough did Octavia notice the iron collars circling their necks.
Slaves, not servants
. A child slave had stopped to place a few drop of oil on the door’s exposed piston, and the door slid shut again with quiet precision. Something familiar about the girl tugged at her memory, as if she’d
seen the child somewhere before.

Another chime indicated the arrival of the midday feast. A slave slid open an ingeniously conceal door in the wall, revealing a dumbwaiter that produced an unending flow of steaming hot food. The warriors and clerics jostled for positions at the table. Octavia stood to the side, between her two unmoving guards. The king stood and descended from the dais to settle in a plainer wooden throne.

Finally, grudgingly, he waved her over, pushing aside several other occupants of a bench on his left side. “You may be our enemy, but you are also a warrior. Not with weapons, perhaps, but words. I’ve always believed the quill stronger than the quarrel.”

Octavia stared at him, then slowly sat at the table, nervous under the hostile stares of the other diners. What little appetite she’d had vanished. But the trays of steaming food called to her, and soon she was devouring her first hot meal in a full day. The king drank deeply from his mead flagon, and called for refills many times. The atmosphere was jovial, but tense.

After satisfying the immediate needs of her body, Octavia observed the other feasters. One in particular was eating little, drinking little, and generally staring her way far more often than not. She met his gaze, noting the distinct purple eyes that darted away as soon as hers met them.
Ah, must be a relative. A son, perhaps? He definitely does not have the same presence as the king
. His gaze returned, and this time Octavia could see some fire inside them.

The purple-eyed stranger stood and interrupted the table chatter. “Father, how can you let this
southerner
be present at our table? She should be down in the dungeons with the rest of her kind. Or on her back in your quarters, if you’d rather,” he added with a sneer. Several of his companions laughed. “Her kind does not belong among us. They are our enemies; one of their armies is at our door, and you invite her to midday feast?”

The king remained seated, taking his time to chew on a mouthful from a large leg of mutton in his fist. He slowly put down his food and licked his fingers one by one, obviously enjoying making his son stew as he waited for a response. “Lokus, you must learn some diplomacy and patience, along with some manners,” he said at last. “If your mother was here to see this—”

“But she is not, Father. Mother has been dead for ten years and you let this—this
Roman
sit in her place.”

Bismark regarded his son with what Octavia perceived as sadness and resignation. “When it is your turn to be king, Lokus, then you may decide who will sit where. You may even decide who will live and die. But now I am king, and as the senatora is a political emissary of the Roman emperor, she will be afforded the dignity due a civilized people. Of which we are one. Something you may need to remember.”

Lokus turned beet red. “I am no longer a child.”

“Then stop acting like one,” the king said derisively.

His son turned and, cape billowing in his wake, fled the hall.

“Please forgive my son; he is hotheaded, like his father,” the king to her. A servant handed him a fresh flagon of mead and Bismark took a long swig. “And he has yet to learn the power of thought over action. I had hoped his mother might be able to teach him, but she passed ten long years ago.”

The food was cleared away, and the slaves returned with bowls of smoking leaf and chewing tobacco. Men pulled long pipes out and soon an acrid haze hung about the table. Octavia coughed as the smoke burned her lungs and made her eyes water.

“Horrible stuff, isn’t it? I don’t partake, but my vassals enjoy the pastime,” Bismark said pleasantly.

He really seems to like talking to me,
Octavia realized
. I suppose he hasn’t really had anyone who isn’t a flunky to talk to since his wife died.

The mood was far more jovial, now that the prince was gone, and conversation flowed thick and fast. Men boasted with war stories, while one cleric delighted in telling Octavia all about the Nortland gods and goddesses. At least an hour passed, and Octavia had been pulled into the conversation when the main doors of the hall slammed open.

Lokus had returned, at the head of a large party. Pure hatred twisted his face as he approached the table, now fully armored. Octavia stared at the man as he bore down on the feast participants.

“I’m glad you chose to return, Lokus. There’s plenty to eat, still,” the king said, apparently unconcerned by his son’s entrance.

His son drew his sword. “Now is not the time for feasting, Father. You will abdicate the throne. Now.”

The king looked at his son and his followers and laughed. “What? Are you going to take on the whole citadel? This is my kingdom. Mine. You shall not take it from me. You’ll have your turn in a few years, whelp. After you’ve proven your worth.” The king stood slowly, his balance affected by the wine he had imbibed. “Guards!” he called. “See my son back to his chambers, and let him rest his hot head a while.”

One of the armsmen at his back moved toward the prince. He had barely taken a step when the other armsman’s spear gutted him like a fish, punching through his chain mail with a sickening crunch. Octavia cried out in horror, as did several other courtiers. The guard collapsed to the ground.

Lokus now called out in Norse, the guttural language almost abrasive on Octavia’s ears. It was too quick for Octavia to translate. Bismark bellowed in return, swinging his goblet around and cracking the traitorous armsman on the head. As the soldier dropped like a stone, the king grabbed his discarded spear, and faced down his son.

The crown prince drew his massive chain-axe, the weapon humming ominously as the teeth began to move. Octavia was able to translate this time: “I should be king. I will lead our people to greatness, not leave us cowering here in these frozen mountains like pitiful sheep.”

Lokus began to circle his father. Suddenly Lokus charged, axe teeth blasting through the meager defense offered by the king’s spear. The king fell back, blood welling from his hands, and Lokus punched him with his gauntleted hand. The king spun about and collapsed to the floor right before his throne. Octavia heard retching, and Lokus backed off for a moment. When the king turned back toward the feast table, Octavia saw black streaks running up and down the side of his face.
What is happening? Is that from some kind of poison?

“How are you feeling, Father? Do you like being punched?” Lokus taunted.

The king dragged himself up the steps of the throne platform. No other guards were coming to help, and it appeared that none of the courtiers were willing to make a move. Octavia looked about, trying to find anyone willing to help. She had just gathered the nerve to stand when she felt two hands drop onto her shoulders. A voice in Latin made her freeze.

“Now there, Senatora, leaving so soon? I think you’d really like to watch this. After all, this is an event months in the making.”

“Corbus,” she hissed under her breath.

“The one and only.” Octavia could practically feel the smirk on Corbus’s face.

With her escape thwarted, Octavia had no choice but to watch Lokus slowly murder his father for the next several minutes. By the time the crown prince decided to end the king’s life, the honorable man who had welcomed the Roman emissary so far from home to his table was no more. Instead there was a shivering, pain-wracked man with no more control over his body.

Somehow, Octavia found his eyes in the bleeding mess of his face. Bismark’s eyes held hers until the last glint of life was snuffed out. Octavia let out a small sob. The rest of the throne room was silent, save for the whirring motor of the chain-axe as it powered down.

Lokus stooped and lifted his father’s crown from where it had rolled off the bald head of the deceased king. He took the dais steps two at a time, then dropped onto the Copper Throne and settled the band of metal onto his head. “The king is dead. Long live the king,” he proclaimed.

His supporters took up the cry. “Long live the king! Long live the king!”

It’s rather telling when even the men paid to fawn upon the king aren’t doing so,
Octavia thought as the men at the table sat, silent and stunned by the recent events.

Another door slid open and a smaller party entered.

“Why, Duke Laufas, how kind of you to join us,” Lokus called from the throne. “You’re just in time to congratulate me.”

“Why are congratulations in order, Prince Lokus?” Laufas asked, walking closer to the throne. Various aides and supporters grouped behind him.

The table and Lokus’ supporters were screening the dead king from the duke’s view, and Octavia watched as the traitorous guards in Lokus’ employ began to unobtrusively surround the duke’s party.

Octavia made up her mind. “It’s a trap, Duke Laufas, he killed the king!” she shouted in Norse before Corbus practically lifted her up off the bench and hurled her behind him. She tumbled across the floor. As she slid to a halt, the senatora first thought her head was ringing, then realized it was actually the clash of swords as the duke’s guards and the new king’s men fought briefly. With shouts and screams, the sounds of battle quickly faded.

Are they dead? Did they escape?

Without warning, Octavia was roughly hauled to her feet. An open-handed slap made her see stars. “I knew I should have killed you earlier,” Corbus growled at her. “But don’t worry, we’ll take care of the duke and his pesky men. After all, it’s not like there’s anywhere to hide.” His laughter was echoed by several other conspirators in the throne room.

Corbus turned to the dais. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty, I’ll take my leave. I need to escort the senatora to more . . . suitable . . . chambers.” The menace of those words hung on the air, and Octavia felt her throat tighten.

King Lokus turned to look first at the senatora, then at Corbus. “Ah, I see. Well, please hurry back. We must catch the duke before he tries to gather a force to resist our rightful ascendance to the throne. Don’t let your . . . distraction . . . keep you for long. And be sure to clean up any mess. I’d hate to have to clean up after you.”

Nodding, Corbus tossed Octavia over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes. Octavia screamed and kicked, but the assassin’s rock-hard hand buffeted her about, then he set her down on the ground. The tip of his knife rested on her throat. “There’s no need for that,” he said.

With her protests silenced, Octavia felt panic rising in her breast.
Gods protect me.

Chapter 19

Julius

W
hile the clang and clash
of fighting was familiar to Julius, the sudden appearance of fifteen fully armed and armored warriors in his cellblock both intrigued and terrified him.

“What is it?” whispered Scipio.

Their leader was obviously giving orders, and Julius heard the clanging of the cellblock door as it was slammed shut. Fists hammered on the door, echoing down the cold stone hallway.

“They’re locking themselves in? Why?”

“Dunno, legionnaire. Something must be happening. You remember that bell we heard earlier?” Julius asked.

“Oh yeah. Escape attempt, perhaps? There must be other dungeons somewhere around here.” Scipio looked thoughtful. “Hopefully they aren’t looking for us.”

The warriors
were
looking into each cell carefully. Finally, one Nortlander stepped up to their cell and held up a lantern. The light spilled into the cell, illuminating the two ragged Roman soldiers.

“Ro . . . mans?” the man asked in heavily accented Latin. Constantine nodded. “You . . . fight?” he asked, obviously trying hard to come up with the right words.

“Is he asking us what I think he is?” Scipio whispered.