Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (36 page)

He yanked his hand back as an image of the former First Sword lying in a pool of his own blood burst in his brain. “Get this out of here.”

Alyra placed a hand on his arm. “This is tradition.”

“I don't care what it—” Horace bit off his words as Pomuthus produced a scroll tied with a scarlet ribbon. He thought it was another challenge until he noticed the seal stamped into the blood-red wax. A crown over a full moon flanked by two men with dogs’ heads. The royal seal.

Horace took the scroll and broke it open. He read the message feeling this wasn't going to be good news—a summons to another war council or a late-night meeting with the queen—but it was worse than he imagined.

“What is it?” Alyra asked.

“It's Lord Mulcibar.” Horace lowered the scroll to his lap. “He's missing.”

Horace slowed his pace as he tried to make out the lettering written on the side of the building. He sounded out the words under his breath.

Vashidom. No, that's the gymnasium.

Motioning to the others, he kept walking. The sword—the First Sword's weapon of office—felt strange on his hip. He would have left it at home except Alyra insisted he wear it in public. “You have to look the part,” she said as he dressed to go out, “if you want others to see you as the First Sword.”

Not exactly feeling like a First anything, he walked the streets of Erugash in search of Lord Mulcibar. He had already been to the vizier's home where he discovered from the chief steward that Mulcibar had gone to visit the city archives yesterday afternoon but never returned. Now Horace was heading to the archives to see what he could find out. He had brought four of his bodyguards along, leaving the rest home with Alyra, although she protested long and loud that he needed the protection more than she did. She had a point, but he insisted anyway. He worried about her safety, even when she didn't.

That woman thinks she's immortal, but I'm not going to let happen to her what happened to
—

Horace bit down on his tongue and renewed his focus on the buildings around him. Alyra was fine.

Until what? Until you run back to Arnos and leave her here to face the queen and the court alone?

He considered Pomuthus, who walked beside him. The veteran with the jagged scar down his face rarely said anything outside his official duties, and Horace realized he knew next to nothing about this man who was sworn to defend his life. “How long were you with the Queen's Guard, Captain?”

“Seven years, my lord. The last two as watch commander.”

“And before that?”

“I served in the Sixth Royal Legion.”

Horace nodded as he scanned the nearest buildings. “See any action?”

“We were part of an excursion into Etonia about ten years ago. After that I was offered a post at the palace.”

“And now you're here with me. Tell me, Pomuthus. Does the idea of protecting a foreigner bother you?”

“From my experience, outlanders are the same as anyone else. They eat, shit, fuck, and die. My lord.” The captain pointed to a broad building at the end of the street. “I think that's it.”

They strode to the structure. Flambeaux flickered on either side of a tall bronze door, its surface tarnished with verdigris. Pomuthus rapped with a heavy fist. The sound of his knocking echoed down the street. Horace looked over his shoulder. He could see the palace above the rooftops. He and Alyra had talked about the message as he dressed to go out. It was his impression that the queen wanted him to turn out her personal guard and scour the city, but Alyra had argued for a subtler approach. “If he was killed, his body is likely floating down the Typhon,” she'd said.

“We shouldn't think that way,” he had responded as he belted on a crimson surcoat emblazoned with the golden sigil of his rank.

“No, we
have
to think that way, Horace. After the attack on you, and now Lord Mulcibar's disappearance, it's clear that someone is trying to eliminate the queen's allies.”

So he'd begun the search without involving the Queen's Guard. Alyra's suggestion that he begin at Mulcibar's home had been a good one. Now he hoped to pin down the time of the nobleman's disappearance. The door opened, and a slight man in a loose tunic and woolen skirt looked out. His face was wrinkled like old leather, his eyebrows and the halo of hair around the edge of his scalp just the merest puffs of white. “The archives are closed,” he said in a wispy voice.

Horace made a small bow. “I am Horace, First Sword of the Queen.”

The old man glanced at the guards surrounding Horace before he bent his head a few inches. “What do you want, my lord?”

When Horace asked if Lord Mulcibar had been there, the old man frowned. “These are the royal archives, not a social club.”

The archivist actually looked as if he was going to close the door. Horace put out his hand, just wanting to ask another question, but Pomuthus shoved his shoulder against the bronze valve. The door yawned wider, and the old man staggered back as if he'd been kicked by a mule. Horace grimaced. “I'm sorry, sir!”

The archivist retreated another step, but there was no fear in his gaze, only anger. Horace held out both hands. “Forgive me. The queen sent us to determine the whereabouts of Lord Mulcibar. He has gone missing, and this is the last place his servants knew him to be. Please, did you see the vizier yesterday?”

He got all that out in broken Akeshian while the old man glared, but when he finished, the archivist gave a terse nod. His reply was long and detailed, and more than once Horace had to ask him to repeat himself. Finally, Horace bowed his head and gestured for his guards to follow him out. Once back on the street, Horace took a minute to consider what he'd learned. Lord Mulcibar had indeed been to the archives yesterday. In fact, he was a regular visitor. The archivist estimated that Mulcibar arrived an hour after midday and stayed until evening vespers. He himself had seen the nobleman and his manservant to the door.

Standing on the cooling pavestones, Horace eyed the homes lining the avenue, all of them elegant manses of stone and brick with their own walled enclosures. Had anyone seen anything out of the ordinary?

Horace pointed to a pair of his guardsmen. “You two go door to door and ask if anyone saw something strange last night around sunset.”

The two guards saluted before jogging to the nearest gate. Horace took Pomuthus and the remaining guard on a slow walk down the center of the street in the direction of Mulcibar's home. He felt like he should be looking for something, like a shepherd tracking a lost sheep, but he was no tracker and he had nothing to go on.

If he left in the evening, the sun would be going down. The light would be dim and the street almost empty, like it is now. Where would he have gone?

Horace tried to imagine he was in danger. What would he do? Approach one of these fine houses for help? Not likely. Calling for the watch also wasn't an option. The idea of a militia that patrolled the streets, keeping the peace, wasn't embraced in Erugash. Instead, those who could afford it hired their own guards. Everyone else remained behind locked doors until morning or took their chances.

Horace paused at an intersection of two avenues. The old bookkeeper also
told him what Lord Mulcibar had been reading yesterday. The reply had surprised him. The tomes dealt with the Annunciation, the era of ancient history when—according to Akeshian legend—the gods came down from the stars to rule directly over the world.
Zoanii
meant, literally, “children of the stars,” and
zoana
, their term for sorcery, could be translated as “starlight.” Yet, though the terms “star child” and “starlight” had a poetic ring, what little Horace knew suggested that this mythical time had been marked with strife and terror. It seemed that the people of this land had not enjoyed the reign of their pagan deities. What had possessed Mulcibar to take up studying those old myths?

After a few minutes, his guardsmen returned with a negative report. No one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Horace cursed under his breath. This was getting him nowhere. He ordered the two guards to walk the route back to Mulcibar's home, look for anything amiss, and then report back to his manor to check on Alyra.

“Where are we going, my lord?” Pomuthus asked.

Horace was about to say back to the archives to see if they could discover anything else that might help the search, but then a gleam of pale light flashed from the gutter. He went over to the deep stone trench and bent down. Something was stuck in the channel, half-submerged in the dirty water and night soil. Holding his breath against the odors rising to meet him, he fished it out.

The silver square hung on a chain. By the moonlight Horace could make out the design of an eight-sided star surrounded by squiggly lines engraved on the obverse side. He didn't know what it meant, but he recognized the medallion at once. Mulcibar had worn it on the day of the flying ship crash.

Horace wiped the medallion on the hem of his robe and stuck it in a pocket. Then he turned to his guard captain. “To the palace. Right now.”

They walked quickly through the vacant streets as the shadows lengthened and the cover of night fell over the city. Horace glanced over his shoulder every few strides as a feeling came over him, the feeling that he was being watched. He needed to converse with the queen about how she wanted to proceed.

God be good. Let her dismiss me from this whole affair.

As the thought crossed his mind, Horace was stabbed with guilt. Lord Mulcibar had been kind while all the other nobles shunned him. The old man deserved his best effort. Gritting his teeth, Horace hurried his steps.

They ran into a patrol of temple soldiers as they crossed an empty plaza. Horace's stomach dropped at the sight of twenty yellow uniforms, but he straightened his shoulders and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword as he walked forward with purpose. The officer at the head of the platoon raised a hand. “A moment, my lord.”

Horace was made to show his papers indicating his rank and authority to be in this part of the city. As the temple man examined his documents by torchlight, Horace became more and more exasperated. “Is everything in order?” he asked after several minutes of waiting.

The officer handed back the papers. “It seems to be. My lord. I wasn't aware that Byleth had promoted a new First Sword.”

Horace blinked at the soldier's casual use of the queen's name. The
zoanii
, especially royalty, were treated as living deities by the people of this land. “Yes. Now if you have no further questions, I'll be about my business.”

He tried to use the imperious inflection he'd often heard from other
zoanii
, but it sounded bizarre coming from his own mouth. The officer's lips bent downward in a stern frown, but he waved them along. Horace strode away before he said something he would regret.

The palace gates were a welcome sight. Horace and his guards were questioned briefly and their persons searched before being admitted, and then were stopped again at an inner gate for a repeat of the procedure. The palace grounds swarmed with soldiers. Horace looked around, wondering if there had been a problem, but Pomuthus bent close and said, “They've been on alert since the night you and Lady Alyra were attacked. All who come in or come out are handled like this. Even the lords.”

At last, they were admitted into the palace proper. Horace ordered his guards to wait outside as he entered the atrium alone. He hadn't gotten farther than a few steps into the huge chamber when a servant in a long, white robe approached him. Horace asked to see the queen, adding that it was very
important. The servant bowed and bid him to wait, and then disappeared through a side door. Several other people stood around in small groups. By their clothing and bearing, they were clearly of the upper class, possibly minor
zoanii
or persons with political connections. He was still uncertain about the strata of Akeshian society and how it all fit together.

After a few minutes, Chancellor Unagon appeared. His bald pate shone in the light of the many oil lamps hanging from the ceiling as he hastened across the wide chamber. “Pardon me, my lord,” he said when he arrived before Horace and made a short bow. “I was not made aware of your arrival until just now. How may I be of service?”

“I need to speak with the queen.”

“I understand, my lord. Please pardon me.” The chancellor made another bow, a little lower this time. “But Her Majesty is not able to receive visitors at the moment. May I suggest that you make an appointment for tomorrow?”

Horace looked around to make sure no one else could overhear. The nearest person was fifty feet away, but still he lowered his voice. “Please, if you could inquire. This is very important.”

The chancellor had the good grace, or the proper training, to appear embarrassed as he shook his head. “I must beg your pardon, my lord, but I have explicit instructions. Her Majesty is not to be disturbed at this time.” He leaned a little closer. “She is in conference with an official from the Temple of the Sun. I should fear for my head if I were to interrupt.”

Horace rubbed his eyes. He wasn't getting anywhere. “All right. But I need to see her as early as possible.”