Read The Grimjinx Rebellion Online
Authors: Brian Farrey
The Grimjinx Rebellion
To Jim, Mark, and Pam,
who've always known the truth about the Vanguard
Contents
Chapter 11:
The Great Uprisings
Chapter 12:
Beyond the Black Door
Chapter 14:
Escape from the Creche
Chapter 16:
The Fall of the House of Soranna
Chapter 18:
The Truth About Slagbog
Chapter 21:
The Seeds of Rebellion
Chapter 23:
Danger in the Swamp
Chapter 25:
The Abbot and the Answer
Chapter 27:
The Dowager's Dilemma
Chapter 33:
A Plague of Monsters
Chapter 40:
The Key and the Keep
Chapter 41:
Attack of the Scourge
Chapter 42:
The Death of Jaxter Grimjinx
1“Portents bleed the foolish and feed the wily.”
âMendar Grimjinx, sole survivor of the Rexian Ziggurat plunder
O
f all the wisdom passed down through the generations of the Grimjinx clan, the bit I think about most came from Jerrina Grimjinx, wife of Corenus, our clan father. She said, “Tomorrow's eyes penetrate yesterday's haze.”
It means that when things get hecticâlike when you're fighting off balanx skeletons or stopping a madman from blowing up every mage in the Five Provincesâit's hard to get perspective. It's only with time that you can reflect and see clearly what would have been obvious.
If, you know, you hadn't been distracted by all the running and screaming.
Looking back, it's all very clear to me now. The Creche, the war, the Scourge . . . each one shines brightly in my past, like a beacon leading me to my fate. At the time, you could have told me what was coming but I wouldn't have believed it. Yet the signs were all there.
I was going to die.
No expense had been spared for the Dowager's party.
The Banquet Room in Vengekeep's town-state hall was the largest, most lavish room in the whole city. Silky red draperies hung from the ceiling, framing walls that had been decorated with woodcuts depicting key moments in Vengekeep's history. Long tables buckled under the weight of roast hemmon, freshly steamed vegetables, and a collection of the best vintages of ashwine ever assembled. It would have been a party worthy of the High Laird himself.
It was a shame no one showed up.
I stood in a small antechamber tucked into the Banquet Room's north wall, hidden behind a golden curtain. I peeked out and did a quick head count.
“Twelve people,” I announced in a whisper. “But they look happy to be here. You'll have a captive audience.”
Dowager Annestra Soranna sat on a stool. Her hands picked at the formal gown that clung tightly to her frail frame. She hated dressing up. “
Sallah kesh
,” she said, only loud enough for me to hear.
The Dowager, in her never-ending quest for knowledge, had asked me to teach her ancient par-Goblin, the language of thieves. She didn't
quite
have the hang of it yet. She thought
sallah kesh
was a form of swearing. Actually, it meant “prudent soup.” I figured I'd get around to correcting her. Someday.
To the Dowager's right stood Neron, her most trusted guard. On the other side, decked out in his official uniform as Protectorate of Vengekeep, stood Da. He gritted his teeth at the news.
“Twelve!” Da said. “Well . . . that's a
good
sign. Twelve's a lucky number for thieves. There are twelve clans in the kleptocracy, twelve charters in the Lymmaris Creed. . . .” His voice trailed off as he failed to identify other ways to make twelve people sound promising.
The Dowager's nose wrinkled as Ma brushed powder onto her crooked cheekbones. “I heard Ullin Lek, the butcher, is here,” Ma said cheerily. “He's the wealthiest man in Vengekeep.”
Ma, Da, and I were taking turns trying to keep the Dowager from worrying that a banquet thrown in her honor had attracted so few people. Earlier, Da, who was in charge of security, had told Ma and me that over three hundred invitations had been sent to dignitaries and the nobility throughout Korrin Province. Nearly all had been returned with polite regrets. A few, Da had added, were less than polite.
“I appreciate your optimism,” the Dowager said, a gentle lilt to her voice, “but we all know
very well
why there are so few people here.”
Ma looked surprised. It was easy to mistake the Dowager as being doddering and unaware. In truth, a razor-sharp mind lurked beneath that befuddled exterior, ready to cut anyone who believed the facade for a second.
It was hardly a secret that her brother, the High Laird, was facing . . . popularity problems these days. His erratic behavior had been raising questions for a year now. But in the two months since the exile of the Sarosan pacifists, he'd gone positively naff-nut. Unjust taxes. Centuries-old freedoms revoked. Even his most loyal subjects were unhappy.
I had hoped to see my friend Callie Strom here tonight. But both she and her cousin, Talian, Vengekeep's mage, were absent. This suggested truth behind another whispered rumor that had slinked its way across the Provinces: the Palatinate, the mages who governed magical law for the High Laird, was also trying to distance itself from the government.
I was worried about Callie. From the letters I'd received while studying with the Dowager in Redvalor Castle, it sounded like she had come a long way in her magical training. Talian said she had a real talent. What worried me was how close she was getting to the Palatinate. If the recent past had taught me anything, it was that the mages couldn't be trusted.
I turned to Aubrin, my eleven-year-old sister, who sat in the corner, scribbling in her journal as usual. To break the tension, I tried snatching the book. But she saw me coming and did a tuck and roll to get away.
“Come on, Jinxface,” I said. “When are you going to let me see what you're always writing?”
She raised an eyebrow. “It's not time,” she said. It was what she
always
said when I wanted to read her journal.
The gold curtains parted and in came Castellan Jorn, chief magistrate of Vengekeep. His thick fist clutched an oversize key made of brass and encrusted with fake jewels: the symbolic key to the gates of Vengekeep. Jorn presented it to anyone of importance who visited the town-state.
He bowed low before the Dowager. “My lady,” he said, “I believe we are ready to begin.”
“You look marvelous, Annestra,” Ma told the Dowager.
The Dowager kissed Ma, then Ma and Aubrin slipped through the gold curtain to join the others in the Banquet Room. Jorn straightened his robes and followed Ma and Aubrin.
“May I have your attention!” we heard Jorn call out, his bass voice thundering off the room's walls. “As you know, every one hundred years, the reigning High Laird throws a Jubilee to commemorate another century of benevolent rule under the Soranna family. In one month, we will mark
five hundred
years of unification for the Five Provinces!”
The Dowager cringed on hearing the smattering of polite applause. Given the mood throughout the Provinces, many people doubted the Jubilee would happen at all.
“This Jubilee,” Jorn went on, “is especially exciting for Vengekeep. As per custom, members of the royal family offer their patronage to a town-state they feel most exemplifies patriotism for the Five Provinces. Tonight, we gather to celebrate that the Dowager Soranna has graciously chosen Vengekeep!”
Jorn paused, expecting applause. Silence.
“As such,” he continued quickly, “the Dowager will oversee Vengekeep's celebration, offering her insight until the Jubilee begins in one month. It is now my extreme pleasure . . .”
I took the Dowager's hand as she nervously licked her lips.
“. . . to introduce Her Majesty, the Dowager Annestra Soranna!”
Neron pulled back the curtain. A smile lit the Dowager's face. We walked into the Banquet Room to meek applause from the stateguard and Jorn's overzealous cheers. But most of the guests stood immobile and frowning. The Dowager waved as she took her place at the head table next to the Castellan.
“Good people,” the Dowager said, “it is I who feel honored to be among you tonight. For centuries, the High Laird's Jubilee has served as a symbol of your sovereign's devotion to these lands we all forge day to day. . . .”
As the Dowager continued, I spotted Aubrin trying to get my attention. She wiggled her eyebrows and jerked her head. I looked where she was motioning. All I saw were the people of Vengekeep. Ullin Lek, the widow Bellatin, Abrinar Benrick, the cobbler. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, just as the Dowager started describing her plans for Vengekeep's Jubilee celebration, the widow Bellatinâa frail old woman who'd devoted her life to teaching girls to be proper ladiesâstepped forward and flung her arm toward the Dowager.
Splat! A large, juicy blackdrupe struck the Dowager's chest, exploding in a mess that left the front of the Dowager's gown stained purple. The Dowager's jaw dropped.
Immediately, a retinue of Provincial Guardsâthe Dowager's protectorsâwas upon the widow, holding her stick-thin arms at her sides. But the widow strained against them, her face flushed with rage.
“The High Laird is bleeding the Provinces dry!” Bellatin said with a roar. “The money I inherited from my husband should have kept me for life. Now I am nearly destitute, thanks to the High Laird's new taxes.”
I swallowed hard. The widow had been one of the wealthiest women in town. The idea that she was poor seemed inconceivable.
Da, two stateguards at his side, approached the widow. “Arrest her,” he said with a sigh.
“No.”
The Dowager raised her hand as she spoke. The Provincial Guards released the widow. The Dowager smiled at Bellatin, even as the widow stared back defiantly.
“Tomorrow,” the Dowager said, “you will come to the Grimjinx house and we will discuss your grievances. I have the High Laird's confidence. Perhaps I canâ”
But the widow would hear no more. She gathered her skirt and stormed from the Banquet Room. Everyone fell silent.
Mortified, Jorn jumped to his feet. He fumbled to hand the Dowager his napkin, which she used to mop up the mess down her front.
“So,” Jorn squeaked, “you were saying about the Jubilee?”