The Usurper's Crown (62 page)

“That is my only wish for you, my son,” she murmured piously.

“I thank you, Honored Mother,” he replied. “You may now go. I wish to be alone awhile yet.”

She rose and left him. Pa K’un watched her gliding away among the carefully tended willows and drooping lilies.

And thus the thing is set in motion
, he thought, and permitted himself to shiver despite the warmth of the day.
We play with the dice of lives and empires, Honored Mother, and we know not what is truly stirring in the hearts of the Isavaltans or their kings. O gods, oh spirit of my father, let my throw be true
.

There is no such thing as a warm night on guard
.

Ferin Zarnotasyn Ferinivin, Over-Lieutenant of the Imperial House Guard, tucked his poleax under his arm and clapped his hands together, trying to get some blood circulating through his fingers. His leather gloves seemed to be holding the cold in more than they were keeping it out. In the darkness, he could hear his fellow guards giving each other the watch word as they patrolled the edges of the encampment in the light of the campfires and the slender moon. Most of them worked in twos and threes. Ferin had the dubious distinction of a lonely outrider’s post, gleefully assigned to him by his bull’s ass of a captain who liked the southern emperor’s ideas of camp discipline. What was a dice game to anyone? A man had to do
something
with his time. There was only so much sitting around a man could bear.

Make sure to tell Rasina he was lucky they didn’t catch him with that woman. Probably had the balls off him for that
. Ferin stripped off his right glove and blew on his fingers.

Damn, we’re too far south for it to be this cold
.

To his left, the woods rustled. Ferin broke off his train of thought, and lowered his poleax to a ready position. No need to get upset if it was just a fox, but no excuse not to be ready in case it wasn’t.

The rustling continued. Whatever was out there, it was far to big for a fox, and too bold for a deer.

“Come out and be recognized,” Ferin called into the darkness, straining his eyes to see further, but there was nothing but shadows.

After another moment’s rustling, an indistinct figure emerged from the underbrush. It took Ferin a minute to realize what he was seeing was a thick kaftan with a hood pulled down low to disguise the face underneath it.

What Ferin did not see was any weapon. That, however, did not ease his mind at all.

“Friend or foe?” he demanded.
And you’d better speak your Isavaltan pure, friend. Any Hung accents and I’m having your head off here
.

“Friend,” came back a man’s voice, muffled badly by the deep hood.

“What’s the word?”

The stranger hesitated and Ferin tightened his grip on his axe.

“The word is that the night you made over sergeant, Ferin Zarnotasyn Ferinivin, you decided you were going to celebrate in Voislava’s house, no matter what anyone tried to tell you about that particular whore’s den being a thieves’ den as well. You got so drunk, you passed out and woke up to find out the women had stolen your purse, all your gear, stripped you naked and left you out in the street for the dawn patrol to find, and if you hadn’t had good friends in the foot guard at the time, you would have lost your new rank as well.”

Ferin choked. There were two men who knew that story. One of them was still guarding Vaknevos. The other …

“Peshek?” whispered Ferin despite the disbelief that filled him.

The hooded figure nodded.

“Vyshko’s pike!” Ferin reached out to clasp his friend’s hand, but stopped in the midst of the gesture. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “Are you out of your mind? They’ll kill you if they catch you!”

“You should kill me here and now, Ferin,” replied Peshek steadily. He moved sideways just a little to let the moonlight filter under his hood. It was Peshek all right. There was no mistaking that face, or those blue eyes that held their spark of mischief even at such a time as this. “I’m a traitor after all.”

Ferin spat. “Pah. Not a man believes that.”

The corner of Peshek’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Tell that to the ones that have been chasing me halfway across Isavalta.”

“Not a man who knows you then.” Ferin looked sharply left and right to make sure no one was approaching. “But what in the name of Vyshko’s bones
are
you doing here?”

“Recruiting.” Peshek’s smile faded and his partly lit face became a mask of perfect seriousness. “Starting with you, I hope.”

“Recruiting?” Ferin gaped at him. “Who? For what?”

“For the empress’s army.”

Ferin pulled back. He could see enough of Peshek’s face to see the man was perfectly sober, and that he meant what he said. Could it be true after all? Could Peshek, Peshek of all men, son of one of the best commanders there ever was, truly have turned traitor?

“The empress’s army is here.” Ferin planted the butt of his poleax on the ground for emphasis.

“No,” replied Peshek gravely. “This is Kacha’s army. The empress’s army is with me, and my father.”

Again, Ferin’s gaze shifted left, then right. The other patrols sounded reassuringly far away. If he were caught at this moment, what he’d be staring at would be a lot worse than a cold patrol. “Peshek, I think maybe you should get out of here, now.”

Peshek didn’t move. “Do you think I’d be here if I couldn’t prove what I say?” he asked with his familiar, light confidence. “Will you hear me, Ferin?”

Vyshko’s bones. I should be calling for the men. I should give you a count of three to get your fool self out of here. I should
.

But he did not. “I’ll hear you, but only if you talk fast.”

“I’ll do my best.” Peshek reached into his sash, and despite all he knew of the man, Ferin automatically stiffened, ready to dodge sideways should metal flash in the moonlight. If Peshek noticed, he said nothing. He just pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out for Ferin.

Ferin took the paper, squinting closely at it to decipher the broken seal. At last, he made out the spread wings of the imperial eagle.

“Where did you get this?”

“From the empress.”

Ferin opened the letter and read the brief words it contained. As he did, Peshek began to speak in a steady whisper, telling him of being summoned to the Red Library, of the empress’s fear for her life, of how he and the keeper of the empress’s god house had helped her imperial majesty flee toward the Heart of the World, of how he had carried out his orders by meeting Lord Avanasy, whose treason was also a ruse, and sending him on after the empress. How he continued to serve by raising an army to stop the one now led by Emperor Kacha.

“He’s nothing but a southern usurper,” muttered Peshek. “I know not what he’s done to the Council of Lords, but he has strong magics supporting him. This whole business of the confinement is a lie to explain why the empress does not appear in public anymore. I’ll bet my head that they’ll say she died suddenly in childbed, probably with the heir, when her time comes.”

Ferin looked down at the letter again. The paper crackled between his fingers. “And that is why we could not find this madwoman sorceress, although we scoured the country for her.”

Peshek nodded. “This war is not the empress’s. This war is the southerner’s.”

Ferin looked away from Peshek toward the camp. The fires flickered between the trees. The noise of voices had abated as those not on watch took to their tents, if they were lucky enough to have such, or rolled themselves in blankets to get what sleep they could on the unforgiving ground.

“What’s the mood of the camp?” asked Peshek.

Ferin shrugged. “Good enough. No one likes the southern emperor, that’s certain, but they do like the idea of taking a bite out of the Hung.”

Peshek fell silent. Ferin kept looking toward the fires. He did not want to think about this. This was not the sort of choice he should have to make. He knew where his orders came from and where his loyalties all lay. Before Peshek had come with this … story of his, Ferin would not have questioned any of that, any more than he would have questioned his need to breathe. But if what Peshek said was true, then it was Ferin himself who was the traitor right now, not Peshek. But if he was being led astray …

“Do you believe what I’m telling you, Ferin?” asked Peshek finally.

The night wind blew cold against his cheeks, and Ferin inhaled the scents of wood smoke and pine resin. “I don’t know.” It was the only answer he could give.

“I think you do.” Ferin did not turn to look at him. He did not want to see Peshek’s face right now. He did not want to hear these words anymore. But Peshek continued. “And I’m going to prove it to you. At the Padinogen passage, my men and I are going to attack the baggage trains. If you don’t believe me, warn your commanders. Send out search parties. If you do believe … come away with us, and let it be known why you’re going.”

“Start a camp rumor for you,” he snorted. “And then desert.”

“Yes. Because it won’t be desertion. It will be returning to the proper service of the empress.”

Ferin said nothing. He did not know what reply to make. His head swam with the implications of what he had heard, and of the fact that he had been willing to stand here and listen.

“I’ll take my letter back now.”

Ferin turned, startled. He had forgotten he still held the thing. He stared at the pale paper. He could no longer make out the words. He should keep it. Show it to his commanders. It was a forgery. It must be. What Peshek told him was ridiculous. It would mean Isavalta had been conquered by Hastinapura, without anybody knowing the thing had happened.

Ferin folded the paper and handed it back to Peshek, who took it without a word and stowed it in his sash. The two men looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Ferin knew Peshek saw all the disquiet inside him. Peshek, on the other hand, looked back at him with nothing but calm certainty.

The sound of tramping boots and crackling scrub broke the moment. Peshek drew his hood down and plunged back into the woods.

“Vyshko’s balls,” growled a familiar voice. S’t’pan. His relief was here. The big man loomed in the darkness. “What was all that racket?”

Ferin blinked and straightened up. Peshek was already well out of sight. “A fox,” he said. “Nothing more.”

Chapter Eighteen

“The Revered Person of the Dowager Empress, Dieu Han, requests the company of the Lady Ingrid in the Autumn Garden.”

Ingrid shook herself to avoid staring. She had not realized until they spoke that the person clad in black armor and sashed in saffron, bowing deeply before her, was a woman.

She glanced back at Avanasy, who sat at one of the room’s low tables where he was, to all appearances, puzzling through a silken scroll recounting Hung Tse’s recent history. Avanasy raised his brows, somewhat in surprise, and nodded, which was the gesture she expected.

“Of course I will come,” Ingrid told the woman soldier. “When should I be ready?”

“Her Revered Personage requests that you accompany me as soon as is convenient.”

Which, of course, could not mean anything but now. “Certainly,” said Ingrid, self-consciously smoothing down the jade-and-black robe she wore. “I am ready.”

Ingrid exchanged a parting glance with Avanasy. They had not spoken much during the past day. Avanasy had been absorbed in delicate magics, trying to find some way to reach out past the room they were in without alerting the Nine Elders. Ingrid, in an attempt to give him the freedom he needed to concentrate, had roamed the little space of garden outside their rooms, and watched the guards walk by on the walls, and tried hard not to feel trapped.

They had heard nothing from the emperor, or the Nine Elders.

Now, the woman soldier led Ingrid across the garden to one of the wall’s arched doorways. She produced an iron key and unlocked the portal. The wall, it seemed, was actually a pair of walls that made a cool, dim tunnel. She could hear the footsteps of the patrols overhead. She stood back as Ingrid entered, locking the door behind them. Ingrid felt her heart speed up, and hoped her sudden attack of nerves did not show in her face.

“This way, Honored Lady.”

The soldier led her off to the right, so they were following the sound of marching. Ingrid could see nothing except her escort’s yellow sash. Even as her eyes adjusted, there was little to make out but beige stone and a dusty floor. The dust tickled her nose and she suppressed a sneeze. It seemed a strange way to take an honored guest, and Ingrid’s unease grew stronger.

Nothing was made better by the occasional ghost standing beside this or that door. They drew to attention as her escort passed them, and saluted her with pale hands. Ingrid tried to keep her eyes on the living woman’s heels.

At last, she stopped them in front of one of the doors in the left hand wall. Two ghosts stood on guard here, big and grim, pale and hollow-eyed, surrounded by the smell of old dust. Ingrid could discern nothing from them. Was this a trap? What truly lay beyond that door?

Her escort produced a second key, this one smaller and more highly polished than the first. She unlocked the new door smoothly, and a shaft of sunlight shot through. She stepped back and bowed again, and Ingrid, blinking, walked out into the welcome daylight.

When she could see clearly again, she knew why this place was called the Autumn Garden. The carefully trimmed trees had leaves the color of burgundy and rich brandy. Gold, orange and claret chrysanthemums bloomed in profusion. Tiny yellow flowers of a sort similar to those her mother called “eggs and butter” bloomed in the grass. White lace blooms and tall stalks tufted with purple swayed above beds of low red-leafed plants around the garden pools where herons and storks stood tall and graceful in the brown water. One blue heron looked at Ingrid and stretched its great wings, flapping them in the gentle breeze, but it did not fly, and Ingrid realized those wings must have been clipped.

There was no question as to where she was supposed to go. Toward the center of the garden, a great pavilion had been erected. In keeping with its surroundings, it was made of burnt orange cloth that Ingrid suspected of being silk.