The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 2: An Engagement, Interrupted, Part 1

 Denisius Gallis knew that the prefecture of Marhollow was one of the Anointed Realms' smaller provinces, but he didn't believe that fact merited such an obvious insult from the Imperial Court at Talinara. He had ridden a hard road to be here, slept in inns that were far below his normal standards, had even been trailed along the edge of the eastern forests by what he was quite sure was a pack of bandits. If not for his menservants, Vos and Quilla, he thought it likely he'd be a pile of moldering bones tucked into a shallow ditch somewhere. 

Now he had spent all afternoon and much of the evening in a decaying wing of the Chalcedony Palace, morosely studying muddy portraits of the Emperor's ancestors and flipping pages in forgotten books that were crumbling to dust. Idly he wondered how many libraries the Palace held, and how many years it had been since the bloated thug who called himself Emperor had deigned to visit any of them.

Vos, the taller and leaner of his menservants, a man with sharp eyes and sharper ears, paced up and down the hallway that connected this lesser library with one of the many lounges that adorned this wing of the Palace, fingering the hilt of his sword, keeping watch for any shadowy figures who might bear the third son of the Prefect of Marhollow any harm. So far none seemed to be forthcoming, unless one counted boredom. They had not seen so much as a chambermaid since they'd been led to the Gloaming Wing by a perfumed courtier when they arrived at the Palace early this afternoon, save for a single boy in Imperial livery who had come to light a token half dozen lamps in the library long after it had begun to grow dark. He had passed them no messages and only shook his head when questioned, bent on returning to more familiar areas of the Palace as quickly as possible. Denisius seemed less in danger of assassination and more in danger of being completely forgotten.

Quilla, stocky and squat and far deadlier with a knife than his thick fingers and thicker forehead would suggest, perched on the edge of a monstrous oak table that ran down the center of the library for nearly thirty feet, lined with dust-shrouded wing chairs. In his lap was a finely bound and illuminated copy of one of the holy books of the Graces, the Chronicle of Sorrows. Quilla thumbed gilt-edged pages back and forth, rummaging through the sacred text for pictures of murders, great battles, or at least kidnappings of fair maidens. He found none, and with a sigh he tossed the volume onto the table, where a small stack of such discarded books had begun to accumulate.

Denisius watched from where he sat slumped in his own wing-backed chair as Quilla hopped off the table, looking positively toadlike as he roamed up and down the shelves, looking for anything to pass the time. Finding nothing, he turned toward his master and said with a trace of hope, "Don't suppose you have a deck of cards on you, milord?"

"If our lord is seen playing Whistling Jack with a pair of cutthroats like us, he can bid his marriage to the Princess Carala a fond farewell." Vos had reappeared in the yawning double doors that opened onto the hallway, as silent as a creeping cat. He gave a perfunctory bow to Denisius and a more sincere scowl to Quilla. "Clean those up, idiot. We need to be able to attend to the Emperor's whim at a moment's notice." Quilla grumbled an indistinct curse but went about returning the books to their proper places at once, or at least as close to their proper places as he could remember. Vos sauntered to Denisius's side. "May I speak freely, milord?"

Denisius was rather taken aback. Vos had been his servant for nearly a decade, assigned to him to replace the nanny that had looked after him until he had come of age at thirteen. During that time the Nythelian ex-soldier had become quite close with him, assisting him with his studies and listening with a patient ear to all the woes the third son of a lesser lord suffered. They had even gone drinking together and ventured into Marhollow's brothels a few times. The last thing he expected of Vos was for the man to stand on ceremony. "Of course. What's the trouble?"

Vos frowned at Quilla, his broad back presented to them as he fumbled through the books that were technically the property of the Malachite Throne and some of which were probably priceless. When he turned his gaze back to Denisius, he spoke barely above a whisper. "Your father is no enemy of the throne. This isn't a slight, either accidental or deliberate. This is something else."

"What do you mean?" Instinctively Denisius's voice had become nearly as low as his servant's. "What could it be?"

"I don't know. Something unexpected."

Denisius racked his brain for what felt like minutes, looking from Vos's bright green eyes to Quilla's slumped shoulders and back again. A terrible thought occurred to him, his face turning even paler than usual under his fringe of gingery hair. His bowels turned to ice, and he found himself grateful he was seated, because at that moment he did not trust his legs at all. "Could he have died?" 

It hardly seemed possible. The Emperor Somilius III Alois Numirith Deyn, Arch-Prefect and High King of the Anointed Realms, Marshal of the Scorched Desert, Grand Admiral of the Azure Sea, Protector of the Ninefold Vow, dead at the age of sixty-three. Fat, swollen with lassitude and probably disease, barely capable of walking under his own power, a paranoid murderer who had smashed the Academies Arcane and burnt hundreds of their scholars and healers and cursewrights at the stake, a man who had ordered the execution of three of his many children for conspiring to steal the Malachite Throne, a man who had been witnessed crushing the head of an illegitimate infant daughter under the heel of one boot after his Empress-Consort had complained of his infidelity -- it seemed beyond hope that he had finally done his subjects the favor of dropping dead in his tracks.

One's reaction should have been undiluted relief, but as of last Yearsend the Emperor had yet to name an heir, and with over a dozen potential claimants, war was likely inevitable upon his demise. The best mediators had, after all, been graduates of the Academies Arcane. Any who were still alive were so deep in hiding they might not be found in time to avert disaster.

"It's possible. His Imperial Majesty's health has been poor for years." Vos hesitated, choosing his next words with great care. "But the Palace should be ready for such a thing. There should be procedures in place. Unless . . . . " His voice trailed off, and Denisius realized that the old soldier had not taken his eyes off the darkened hallway that led to the bulk of the Palace.

"He can't have been murdered," Denisius said at last, his lips numb. It suddenly occurred to him that if the marriage to the Princess Carala went through, then he was something like fifteenth in line for the Malachite Throne, and thus a mess for other claimants that would have to be cleaned up with alacrity. "Who would have done such a thing?"

"We haven't the time for me to give you a full list, milord. But never mind that. If the Emperor has been assassinated, gods forbid, then you are immediately a choice suspect. A lesser lord of no great prospects appears at the Palace, and the Emperor dies within hours? You're likely in trouble even if he died peacefully in his sleep."

"I wouldn't say no prospects -- "

"Milord, we need to get you out of here. I don't know the Palace very well, but I do know a few servants' entrances we might use. Quilla will lead the way. I'll cover your back. But watch Quilla. We can't dismiss the possibility he's been bought."

Denisius's eyes narrowed in a suspicious cast that was unusual in his round and earnest face. "How do I know you haven't been bought?"

"Because if I had been, your throat would already be cut."

"Oh." There seemed nothing else to say to that. Nervously Denisius fingered the hilt of his own sword, a fine jeweled blade that he had never drawn outside of sparring lessons. He was abruptly and acutely aware of how soft his hands were.

"Don't bother, milord. Now's not the time for you to play warrior. Quilla and I will get you out of here. Or I'll do it myself, if it comes to that."

Denisius flushed scarlet. There were many times he'd found occasion to feel ashamed of his lack of martial prowess, but few had stung as badly as this one: his life possibly in danger right in the Chalcedony Palace; the Emperor perhaps still face down in a pool of blood or a puddle of poisoned vomit; suddenly thrust into the heart of darkest Imperial intrigue and still dependent on a nursemaid to see him through the night. But he didn't argue the point. If he failed to return safely to Marhollow, Vos's own head would be the next one on a pike.

A new sound broke the silence, and they all froze. Even Quilla, unaware of the details of what was troubling his lord and his partner, knew something was amiss. Footsteps were pattering down the shadowy hallway.