Harbinger (17 page)

The captain leaned across to her. “It is as you said, your brother has gone mad, turned on his own people. No one will deny that you are the next legitimate ruler of Arkaym now.”

Zofiya gritted her teeth; her concerns suddenly going from how she was going to take the palace, to if there would be anyone left inside to put up a fight.

“Kal, what have you done?” she muttered softly to herself. It might have been Derodak that had turned her brother’s mind, but if he had been stronger . . .

“Follow me,” she snapped.

The cobbled square around the palace was very wide, but there were plenty of homes and shops around the perimeter. All looked sadly empty, but she had spotted a public house with a low stone wall around a small garden. It had fine lines of sight and an excellent view of the main entrance to the palace. Zofiya and her motley collection of airmen, marines and soldiers gathered there.

The Grand Duchess clenched her jaw and tried to imagine this was like any other tactical situation—and not the place that had been her home in Delmaire for so long. She had to quickly size up what was going on here and decide the best course of action.

Despite the condition of the rest of the defenses, the gate was manned. It should have made her fearful, but instead the Grand Duchess actually found she was pleased. If they could mount some kind of defense of the gate, then there had to be someone in charge. Still, despite all that, she did not want to simply lead her own group within rifle shot of them—not without knowing how they would react.

Zofiya yanked down on the edge of her borrowed uniform and gestured to the soldier standing nearby. “Spyglass!”

His cap was missing and the insignia on his shoulder torn off; he looked like a war victim rather than the supply sergeant of the Imperial docks. He gazed at her for a moment, and she could actually observe the clouds roll back from his eyes. He’d joined them at the airship port along with a few others, but the majority of their troops were marines from the
Summer Hawk
.

Recovering himself, he slapped a brass spyglass into her open palm; she trained it on the soldiers manning the defenses, running her eye over the squadron. Their uniforms were tidy enough looking, but through the glass she could see that they were hollow eyed. Some part of her was proud that the men she had trained had stayed at their posts, despite what her brother was doing.

Many of the aristocrats had probably fled to the Imperial Palace when geists started appearing once again. However, she had to consider that the palace housed many artifacts collected over its long history. She could only hope none of her brother’s men knew how to use them.

“The cannons, Your Imperial Highness.” Captain Revele drew Zofiya’s attention away from the men, to where short, snub-nosed cannons had been pulled up on the battlements. “Should we not conceal ourselves?”

Zofiya drew her eyebrows together in a hawklike stare. This was a new addition to the battlements. In the early days of her brother’s reign, there had been artillery on the walls, but Kal had ordered them rolled away once it was obvious the population welcomed him. What could have happened here to make him bring them back? Again, she had to remind herself that the last time she had seen her Imperial brother he had been frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.

She took a deep breath before speaking, “Captain, these are my men. I trained them. They know me, and I want them to see me.”

With the aide of the spyglass she determined there were no gunners nearby, so they were probably safe for the moment. Still, she did not want to show any hint of fear. If Zofiya were to pull off what some might call a coup, she would need the appearance of knowing what she was doing.

She could call in the remaining airships to the city and bombard the walls—but that would be what her brother in his current state would do. No, she had to not only take the palace and the city, she also had to secure the goodwill of the citizens. Without that, she would be simply another Pretender to the throne—no better than Raed Syndar Rossin.

Zofiya gestured to one of the aircorp sailors who had joined them from the
Summer Hawk
. “Do you know my bugle call?” She had noted earlier that he had the standard– issue instrument hanging from his belt. On airships and in other branches of the military different calls were played for various activities and events.

The young man’s eyes widened at being addressed by the Grand Duchess of Arkaym; they were coincidentally the same deep brown as Merrick’s. “Yes, Imperial Highness,” he stammered out. “I know all the regulation calls.”

Her gaze tightened on him. “Then I need you play it, as loud and clear as you can make it.”

The young man swallowed hard and raised the trumpet to his lips. His first notes were halting, but after a few moments he grew a little more confident. Her call blasted out across the square and directly at the palace that not that long ago she had lived in.

The soldier kept shooting a look out of the corner of his eye, until she eventually gave the signal for him to cease. The final notes of the horn fluttered off and died among the rubble. It was not long until results were in evidence.

The first was a shot that ricocheted off the pavement directly in front of the Grand Duchess. She did not flinch, though most of those on each side of her ducked back behind a low stone wall that surrounded the shop.

“A fine shot,” she commented to Revele who had jerked a little but remained upright. “At least one of the Imperial Guard snipers is alive.” She trained the spyglass in the direction of the shot, and caught a glimpse of ginger hair and a long rifle barrel pulling back behind the battlements. Schling—that was the only sniper she knew that could make that shot and had hair that color.

If he was still alive, then there was still some order within the palace. He was a stickler for protocol and needed a leader he could believe in. If not, he would not act. The Grand Duchess’ mind raced over the possibilities of who could have been left in charge of the palace. It had to be Mertle or Gunnine.

Quickly, Zofiya began stripping off her weapons, dumping both her saber and her pistols at Revele’s feet. The captain looked at her in horror. “Your Imperial Highness, I hope you are not—”

“We have no other choice,” Zofiya replied, retying her belt around her waist. “I will not kill any Imperial Guards, but I must have the palace and the throne under my control. You have seen what my brother is doing . . . I can’t let him . . .” She stopped, steeled herself and looked the airship captain in the eye. “In the end, I don’t matter. None of us do, but the Empire and her people do. We must see them through, even if the Emperor no longer can.”

The captain stared for a moment—perhaps weighing if she believed Zofiya or not—and then nodded shortly. “The ‘Call to Talk’ then?”

“If you please.” The Grand Duchess adjusted her uniform as best she could, and then waited.

The bugler now had a thin line of sweat running down his face, though it was still chilly. Zofiya could imagine that he was terrified of being the soldier that sent the Imperial sister to her death. However, he raised his instrument to his lips and blew out the solemn notes of “Call to Talk.”

Zofiya stepped around the stone wall, and walked toward the guard tower with her arms outspread. She kept her face impassive, but her heart was racing in her chest, and now she was sweating as much as the young soldier.

The line that the sniper had on her—she could feel it like it was a bee stinging her between the eyes. As Zofiya approached the wall, her steps sped up. The sound of the bugle went on, and it was a dull funerary drone to her footsteps. Finally, she looked up and saw there was another uniformed figure leaving from the walls of the palace, keeping the same pace she did.

Zofiya was excited to see that she did in fact recognize the narrow tall form of Gunnine approaching. The major had been the protector of the Imperial Palace for as long as Kaleva had been Emperor—and in fact before then. She had been the caretaker of the palace when it had been empty, making sure to keep looters and fortune hunters from it in those dark years between the disposal of the Rossin family and the arrival of Kaleva and Zofiya. Her scarred and Ancient face made the Grand Duchess feel a little more secure. Now if she could only convince the major of her good intentions toward Vermillion and the Empire itself.

They reached the middle ground between the edge of the square and the palace walls. Gunnine snapped off a salute that was as sharp as any by a solider half her age. Her keen gaze flickered over the Grand Duchess’ uniform and presentation, and the Imperial sister was suddenly glad that she had taken some care with it. Such things mattered to the older soldier.

“Nice to see you are alive,” Gunnine said, raising one of her eyebrows. “Your Imperial brother has however put a price on your head.”

Zofiya had expected it, but nevertheless, her heart sank. “I am sorry to hear it, Major, but my purpose for coming here is not to give a bounty hunter an easy payday. It is to save the Empire.”

The old soldier frowned and glanced once over her shoulder. “The palace still stands, the throne is still there, and so are we.” She paused. “Your Imperial Highness should know, though, that we remain loyal to the Emperor.”

Zofiya would not have expected any less. “I understand that, Major. However, I think you will agree that there are exceptional circumstances to be taken into account.”

Gunnine tilted her head, the skin around her gray eyes crinkling as she narrowed her gaze on Zofiya. “It is not for a soldier to judge the merits of the leader that she serves. It is not our job to do so. If we had to stop and think about the value of every order that is given, we could not operate.”

It was the usual argument given by any soldier, marine or airman in service, but Zofiya could not simply accept that. “I understand your position, truly I do, but I think that you will agree recent events have changed things for all of Arkaym.” She shuffled her feet, looking down at them for a minute and considering how much to reveal she knew. Eventually she decided that she needed to release all the cannons. If Zofiya could not gain entry to the palace, and the trust of its final guardians, then there was no chance to be had.

“You have heard of the bombardments, I take it?” she went on. “The cities in the west have all suffered from them . . . and some of them not very far away.”

“Indeed,” Gunnine murmured, her voice low and stained with distress, “we are not that cut off that we would miss them.”

“My brother, I am convinced, has become quite unhinged.” Zofiya looked up, and was not ashamed to show the guardian of the palace her barely held-back tears. “It is not his fault. A lying worm insinuated himself into the Court and poured poison into his ear—it has driven him mad, and that is why I have come back.”

“A dangerous tactic,” the major commented. “I should really be arresting you as a traitor to the crown.”

“I am no traitor,” Zofiya spat back, “and you know it. You
know
me, and you know I have only the best interests of the people in mind. That is why you must give me control of the palace in the name of my brother.”

Gunnine blinked, which was the only sign that she had heard and comprehended what the Grand Duchess said. “Imperial Highness, I fear you go too far . . .”

The time for politeness had long come and gone. Zofiya stepped forward, using her greater height to force the older woman to look up at her. “You have known me as long as my brother, Major Gunnine. I have served him and this Empire with every breath in my body—putting my own life at risk, time after time. You also know that my brother’s attacks on the people of this Empire are completely contrary to the vows he gave when he took the throne.”

The old solider swallowed and shot a look past Zofiya, sizing up her small band with a practiced eye.

The Grand Duchess, sensing a weakening, pressed on. “I have the support of the Imperial Air Fleet, because I am not seeking the throne for myself, but merely to hold it for my brother until he returns to his senses.” She took a step back and spread her arms to take in the damage to the city. “For all your loyalty and goodwill, Major, you have not been able to keep the city safe—nor its people. Let me in, and I can help you do that.”

Gunnine’s jaw flexed, and her hands flexed into fists. This was a terrible choice for a soldier, but the major was more than just a simple soldier; she was trained to keep the safety and goodwill of the city of Vermillion in mind. She tucked her hands behind her back, and stared up at Zofiya. “Do I have your word on that, Imperial Highness? If the Emperor returns to claim his throne once more, you will give it up to him? Do you swear on the blood of your ancestors?”

Zofiya swallowed, and for an instant glanced up at the sky. It was clear blue and not marred by a single cloud. It was the kind of day that she and Kal had shared often in Delmaire. Things had seemed so simple then.

“I swear,” she whispered, “on the blood of my ancestors, if my brother returns fully capable of taking up his throne and rule over Arkaym, then I will turn it over to him.”

Gunnine held out her hand, browned and creased by duty, to Zofiya, and the Imperial sister gave hers in turn. “Then I will place the palace and the city in your care.”

The Grand Duchess knew this was a terrible chance that the major was taking. If Kal returned as mad and dangerous as Derodak had left him, then he could well order the destruction of the entire military outpost and city of Vermillion.

Both of the women, young and old, had obviously decided to put such a possibility out of their minds. Gunnine turned and waved a signal to the sniper and the troops on the battlements. Zofiya did the same to her squadron, and they double-timed it over the square to stand at her side. Revele’s face expressed all of their surprise, but she handed back the Grand Duchess’ weapons without comment.