Siege of Rage and Ruin Page 13

  “Miss Tori,” he says. “My apologies. People mostly don’t call me by name.”

  “Because you’re the Emperor,” I deadpan.

  “Indeed.”

  “Shouldn’t you be angry with me for not knowing the right etiquette, then?” I cross the room, and he pushes his book aside and turns to me.

  “Probably,” he says. “But it’s refreshing. Call me Avyn, if you like.”

  “All right.” I sit down across from him. “You can call me just Tori, then.”

  “Tori.” He looks genuinely pleased. “I was hoping to see you again.”

  “Likewise.” I smile back. “I was hoping I could ask you some questions.”

  “Of course! What about?”

  I blink. I hadn’t imagined, talking to someone who claimed to be the Emperor, there could be another topic of conversation, but apparently he expects me to ask him about the mating habits of Jyashtani canids or something. I shake my head. “You say you’re the Emperor—”

  “I don’t say it,” he says, frowning slightly. “I just am. I—” He pauses, and his face lights up with sudden delight. “You don’t believe me!”

  “It’s a pretty wild thing to claim, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? I wouldn’t know.” He plays idly with the end of his braid, thinking. “Men have impersonated the Emperor before, I suppose. Three hundred years ago a young man got most of the way into the Vault of the Imperial Regalia with a crew of actors and a forged pass.”

  “If you’re the Emperor,” I ask him, “then what are you doing here?”

  “Here in the palace? Where else would you expect to find the Emperor?” There’s a slight edge to his smile that tells me he knows he’s being annoying.

  “Here in the library. Specifically, the library in a wing of the palace that I can wander into, even though I’m a … guest.” I gesture at the quiet all around us. “The Emperor should have … guards. Attendants.”

  “Ah. I can see how that would be troubling.” He leans forward across the table. “Can you keep a secret?”

  I nod, skeptically. He grins again.

  “I’m sneaking out,” he says. “I have guards and attendants and so on, and they all think I’m asleep in my chambers right now.”

  “You snuck out of your own chambers? How?”

  “I have my ways,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “No one knows the palace better than I do. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  “All right, why? You must have a library of your own.”

  “This is the best one in the palace, actually. At least for the things I’m interested in. Everything in my library is so carefully vetted and expurgated that I don’t even have to open a book to know what it’s going to say. My tutors mean well, but they’re a bit overzealous.” He waves at the books around us. “Whereas this is where they stick all the books we get given as gifts that nobody really wants. It’s not in much order, but you can find some fascinating gems.”

  The funny thing is, it sounds almost plausible. At the house in the Third Ward, our supplicator always watched my tutors carefully, making sure they didn’t teach anything that would be bad for my moral development. (Clearly, that worked out well.) For the actual Emperor, it has to be so much worse.

  But … still. I look at Avyn. Really?

  “Let’s say I believe you,” I say slowly. “You really are the Emperor.”

  “For the sake of argument,” he says, agreeably.

  “If that were true, I’d want to say…” A bubble of anger rises up inside me. “What in the Rot are you doing sitting in a library? Do you have any idea what’s happening outside?”

  The smile fades from his face, slowly. I stare at him and shake my head.

  “You don’t know, do you? They haven’t told you anything.”

  “They don’t give me the details,” Avyn says quietly. “And I don’t ask. But if you mean, do I know about the rebellion, the fighting, then yes.”

  “And you approve?”

  He presses his lips together. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I approve.”

  “But—” I raise my hands, helplessly. “Why?”

  I’m not really sure what I’m expecting. When I’d imagined our enemy, I’d always pictured Kuon Naga, the cruel, omniscient spymaster everyone knew dominated the government. It was hard to connect this handsome, charming boy to the slaughter at Grandma’s hospital, or the assault on the Sixteenth Ward that had claimed so many lives. But, ultimately—always assuming I believe him, of course—he has to be responsible for all of it, doesn’t he? Everything Naga does, he does in the Emperor’s name.

  “You’re not a noble,” he says, staring at me. “Not a guest like the Markas.”

  “No,” I mutter. No point in pretending now. “I was—am—a rebel leader. Gelmei Tori. Unless that was a detail that got left out.”

  “That explains a few things.” He cocks his head. “You must hate me. Should I be afraid?”

  “Afraid?” It takes me a moment to get it. “I’m not about to assassinate you with a book, if that’s what you mean. And … I don’t know. Everyone outside assumes Kuon Naga is running the show. No one ever mentions the Emperor doing anything.”

  “That’s the answer, more or less.” He shakes his head. “Emperors doing things always leads to disaster.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you the story of Emperor Rhioa, didn’t I?”

  “Who took charge of his troops and got everybody killed?”

  “Exactly. And here I’ve been reading about Emperor Valenga. In his time, there was a schism among the priests of the Blessed, with two different Grand Supplicators, each supported by their own faction. Valenga tried to stay out of it, but his advisors eventually convinced him to pick a side.”

  “And it went badly, I suppose.”

  “Catastrophically badly. The population turned on him, and there was fighting in every major city. Eventually Valenga was forced into suicide so his son could take over and renounce his decision. Tens of thousands died because he’d made the wrong choice.”

  “Things don’t always go wrong, though,” I protest.

  “Of course not. Who’s the best emperor you’ve ever heard of?”

  “Uh … Gatlin the Great, I suppose?” I feel suddenly ignorant—the history of the Empire has never been a particular interest.

  “Certainly. Defeated the Jyashtani, added two provinces in the north, reformed the coinage and ushered in a boom in trade.”

  “Right—”

  “Never left the palace. Barely left his chambers, in fact, after his ascension. His wars were fought by generals, his Minister of Currency saw to the coins. Whereas Emperor Corund the Blind personally oversaw the redesign of the Imperial Mint, and bankrupted the state within a year.”

  “So … what?” I glare at him. “You’re not doing anything about what’s going on in the city because you’re worried you’ll get it wrong?”

  “It’s not just worry. I’ve studied our history, ever since I was a boy. My father died when I was young, you know, and I grew up knowing that all this was my responsibility. I just wanted to be … good at it. And what I discovered is that often means doing nothing at all.”

  “Often, maybe, but this is hardly ordinary circumstances.” I take a deep breath. At some point, I started taking this seriously. If he really is … I mean … what if I can get through to him? “You could end this tomorrow! Tell Naga to call off the troops, cancel the draft, pardon the fugitive mage-bloods—”

  “And then what?” He shakes his head. “That’s the trouble, what comes after. Cancel the draft, lose the war. Give in to the rebels, and in ten years time there’s another rebellion, twice as bad. It’s like—being emperor is like being a giant. You’ve got all this strength, all this power, but if you actually use it people are going to get trampled underfoot. You’re big and clumsy and you’re going to break things.”

  “So instead you sit in here reading ancient history while people are d
ying?”

  “People are always dying, Tori.” Avyn fixes me with his bird-like gaze. “That’s the other lesson of all this. There are always wars, plagues, famines. No matter what, people are dying. I’ve spent ten years trying to teach myself how not to make it worse.”

  I get to my feet, my hands trembling on the tabletop. “That’s horrible. You’re horrible.”

  “From your point of view, I suppose I am.” He smiles at me again, a little sad this time. “I guess you won’t want me to recommend you any books after all?”

  I storm out of the library before he has the chance to say another word.

  * * *

  I brood on the conversation all afternoon.

  People are always dying.

  It can’t be that simple, that stark. There has to be something he can do.

  And how well have you done? asks the traitor part of my mind, the dark slithering shameful thing in its depths. With your power. You decided to wield it, in the end, and look where that’s gotten you. If you’d stayed at home, been the good girl that Isoka wanted you to, none of this would have happened.

  Or it would have happened anyway. But it wouldn’t have been my fault.

  I’d thought Isoka needed my help. Idiot. She’d made it home without any effort from me. Of course she had. She’s unstoppable, my sister, I was rotting stupid to doubt her. If I’d only done nothing—

  Grandma Tadeka might be alive. The others from the sanctuary. Thousands in the Sixteenth Ward.

  Monster, monster, monster—

  I throw myself on my mat, facedown in my pillow, trying to blot out the voices coming from inside my head. Kindre pressure bears down on me, as always, like I’m wrapped in cotton wool. I try to push back on it, but it’s like punching fog.

  I do my best to ignore the soft rapping at the door. After a few minutes, though, I hear it slide open, and the soft rustle of a servant shuffling forward.

  “Mistress Tori,” a woman says, very quietly. “Dinner is in half an hour.”

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say.

  “Your presence has been requested,” the servant says, then hesitates. “Master Kuon Naga will be joining us.”

  I sit up abruptly. “Naga’s coming here?”

  “Yes, mistress.” The servant woman is bowed over in the entrance. “Please allow us to assist you in getting dressed.”

  I do, standing like a cloth-shop mannequin while three young woman bustle around me, pinning and arranging under an older servant’s critical eye. I’m not sure how much the staff here are aware of my situation, but they obviously understand the importance of a visit from Kuon Naga. I’m soon swathed in the finest of everything—silk cool and smooth against my skin, embroidered in colorful patterns that would put butterflies to shame, hair artfully pinned and arranged with jeweled combs, face delicately painted.

  Naga. I want to vomit, or sleep for a hundred years. Instead I smile at the servants, and follow them out to the main dining room.

  I haven’t looked in here, but it fits with the rest of palace—old-fashioned, expensive, beautiful. A long, low table has been laid for twelve people, with tasseled silken cushions at each place. Garo and his father are already here, along with a half-dozen other men I know are Marka cousins or close allies. They’re talking in low tones, but fall silent as I enter, every eye directed my way.

  Garo gets to his feet, gesturing to an empty seat beside him at the end of the table. I take it, gratefully, glad to have him between me and all those stares. It’s only natural, of course. They must know who I am, and why I’m here.

  “Are you all right?” he says quietly, squeezing my hand for a moment. “Father was worried you’d be late.”

  “It’s been a long day,” I admit.

  Before he can respond, the door slides open, and another man enters. He’s short and slim, with a bald dome of a skull and circular wire-frame eyeglasses. His robe is plain gray, unadorned, with long sleeves that hide his hands. You might take him for a clerk, except that everyone in the room turns to him and bows, including Lord Marka. I follow suit, trying to watch his face out of the corner of my eye.

  This, then, is Kuon Naga. When he waves a hand to let us up, I see that he has long, lacquered fingernails, like claws hidden in the folds of his robe. He crosses the room, and I realize with a start that the only available seat is directly opposite me. Naga folds himself onto the cushion, and greets me with a smile and a nod.

  Servants rush in, bearing trays with plates of jellied rock-eel and small cups of sweet liquor for the first course. No one moves, not daring to touch anything until Naga does. Finally, he reaches out one hand for his cup, lifts it delicately, and brushes it against his lips. Apparently this is some kind of signal, because all of a sudden everyone is eating in a clatter of chopsticks and porcelain.

  “Master Naga,” Lord Marka says. “It is an honor to have you with us.”

  “Thank you for welcoming me, my lord.” Naga’s smile is polite, his eyes unreadable behind thick lenses. “His Imperial Majesty wishes me to convey once again his appreciation for the support of his staunchest allies in this time of crisis.”

  “The House of Marka has ever been a friend to the throne,” Lord Marka says. “I am thankful to have the opportunity to prove this once again.”

  “Indeed.” Naga gestures at Garo with a lazy claw. “I do not believe I have met your son.”

  “I am Marka Garo, Master Naga,” Garo says. He sounds wary. “As my father says, it is an honor for us all.”

  “It is a good thing to see such fine manners in a young man,” Naga says. “Too many of the current generation are prone to frivolousness and strange passions.”

  I know I’m not catching everything that goes on here. Like the formal structure of a religious play, there are layers to this conversation reaching far beneath the surface. I’m guessing, though, that Naga’s last words constitute a threat to Lord Marka—he must know about Garo’s role in the rebellion. If Lord Marka is worried, he doesn’t show it.

  “And you, young lady, must be Miss Gelmei Tori,” Naga says to me. All at once, conversation goes quiet along the table. “I have followed your career with interest, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  I bow my head, blood thundering in my ears. What does he expect me to say? What does he want from me? I reach for my anger, but all I can find is fear. I feel hollowed out.

  “Miss Tori has been an exemplary guest,” Lord Marka says.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Naga says. That smile again, thin and bloodless. Everyone else starts talking at once, and I blow out a long breath.

  Dinner proceeds, course after course. It is probably the finest meal I’ve ever had, but I barely notice the taste of it. I take a few bites of each dish, a swallow of liquor or wine for politeness’ sake, and listen to the chatter that passes among the Marka clan. Mostly, it’s gossip about other nobles—who has fled to the country, who is staying with whom, what it might mean in terms of alliances or romantic liaisons. Naga listens in silence, not eating much more than I am.

  Every so often, Garo reaches for my hand. I think he means to comfort me, but I suspect he needs reassurance as much as I do.

  We’ve reached the sweet pastry course, near the end, when Naga clears his throat. Instantly, everything goes quiet.

  “I do have a little news from the city, as it happens,” he says. He glances around, eyes running over Lord Marka and Garo and finally coming to rest on me. “Our loyal militia, led by the Ward Guard, launched an offensive against the rebels and won a tremendous victory. The Fourth Ward has been freed, and the traitors are falling back in disarray.”

  There’s a brief, shocked silence. Then one of the cousins snatches up his cup and raises it high, proclaiming a toast to the Emperor and his loyal soldiers, and afterward everyone else has to compete to find the most ostentatious way to proclaim his loyalty. Lord Marka quiets everyone by raising a glass to those brave men and women who have fallen in the struggle, wh
ile expressing his hopes that the Blessed will cast the rebel dead into oblivion. Naga smiles and nods, approvingly.

  The Fourth Ward. How did they get over the wall? All I can think about are the grain storehouses, the lines of hungry people who were already gathered outside rebel headquarters. They won’t even have to wait for the Legions. The Red Sashes will starve in a few weeks.Unless Jakibsa cuts off supplies to the civilians entirely—but in that case, we’re guaranteed to have traitors—

  Garo nudges me in the ribs. I blink and look up to find Naga and the rest looking at me, cups in hand. I guess it’s my turn. I nearly fumble my own cup and manage to get it raised.

  “To an end of the violence,” I offer, “with no more bloodshed.”

  Lord Marka narrows his eyes, and the cousins look at one another. But Naga raises his glass and murmurs, “To an end of the violence,” and then everyone joins in a chorus. I sip from my cup—a strong cherry spirit, alcohol thick in my nose—and set it down again.

  The mints that traditionally end a feast are produced, and I start to hope the ordeal is finally over. Naga picks one off the silver tray with two fingernails, turning it over with surprising deftness before popping it into his mouth. He gets to his feet and adjusts his eyeglasses.

  “Your hospitality is remarkable, Lord Marka,” he says, as though Marka had provided any of this himself. “Once again, let me convey His Imperial Majesty’s gratitude for your service.”

  “I am honored beyond measure,” Lord Marka says, with a bow.

  “Now, unfortunately, I must return to my duties.” He looks around the room, and his eyes catch mine. As if as an afterthought, he says, “Miss Gelmei, do you think we might have a few words alone before I go?”

  “Of course,” Lord Marka jumps in, before I can respond.

  So I walk back to my chamber with the most powerful man in the Empire, the head of the Immortals, personally responsible for the deaths of many of my friends. We’re escorted by a couple of servants, and I catch a glimpse of Garo trailing us at a distance. I open the door and bow to invite Naga inside, and once we’re over the threshold he dismisses the servants with a wave.