Rise Of Empire (37 page)

“And what about you, Royce?” She turned toward him.
“Have you forgotten the wagons? What do you think the fate of those and others like them will be when the New Empire rules all?

“Don’t you see?” She addressed the entire room. “We either fight here and win, or die trying, because there won’t be anything left if we fail. This is the moment. This is the crucial point where the future of yet unborn generations will be decided either by our action or inaction. For centuries to come, people will look back at this time and rejoice at our courage or curse our weakness.” She looked directly at Royce now. “For we have the power. Here. Now. In this place. We have the power to alter the course of history and we will be forever damned should we not so much as try!”

She stopped talking, exhausted and out of breath.

The room was silent.

To Hadrian’s surprise, it was Royce who spoke first. “Making Emery disappear isn’t the hard part. Keeping him hidden is the problem.”

“They’ll tear the city apart looking, that’s certain,” Polish said.

“Can we bring him here?” Arista asked.

Polish shook his head. “The Imps know about us. They leave us alone because we don’t cause much trouble and they enjoy the black market we provide. No, they’ll most certainly come down here looking. Besides, without orders from the Jewel or the First Officer, I couldn’t expose our operation to that much risk.”

“We need a safe house where the Imps won’t dare look,” Royce said. “Someplace they won’t even want to look. Is the city physician an Imperialist or a Royalist?”

“He’s a friend of Emery, if that’s any indication,” Quartz explained.

“Perfect. By the way, Princess, conquering Ratibor wasn’t
in our contract. This will most certainly cost you extra,” Royce said.

“Just keep a tally,” she replied, unable to suppress her smile.

“If this keeps up, we’re going to own Melengar,” Hadrian mentioned.

“What’s this
we
stuff?” Royce asked. “You’re retired, remember?”

“Oh? So
you’ll
be leading the Nationalist advance, will you?”

“Sixty-forty?” Royce proposed.

Despite the recent rain, the public stable on Lords Row caught fire just after dark. More than two dozen horses ran through the streets. The city’s inhabitants responded with a bucket brigade. Those unable to find a place in line stood in awe as the vast wooden building burned with flames reaching high into the night’s sky.

With no chance of saving the stable, the town fought to save the butcher’s shop next door. Men climbed on the roof and, braving the rain of sparks, soaked the shake shingles. Bucket after bucket doused the little shop as the butcher’s wife watched from the street, terrified. Her face glowed in the horrific light. The townsfolk, and even some imperial guards, fought the fire for hours, until, at last, deprived of the shop next door, it burned itself out. The stable was gone. All that remained of it was charred and smoking rubble, but the butcher’s shop survived with one blackened wall to mark its brush with disaster. The townsfolk, covered in soot and ash, congratulated themselves on a job well done. The Gnome filled with patrons toasting their success. They clapped their neighbors on the back and told jokes and stories of near death.

No one noticed Emery Dorn was missing.

The next morning, the city bell rang with the news. A stuffed dummy hung in his place. Guards swore they had not left their stations, but had no explanation. Sheriff Vigan, the judge, and various other city officials were furious. They stood in Central Square, shouting and pointing fingers at the guards, then at each other. Even Viceroy Androus interrupted his busy schedule to emerge from City Hall and personally witness the scene.

By midmorning, the Gnome filled with gossipers and happy customers, as if the town had declared a holiday, and Ayers was happily working up a sweat filling drinks.

“He was still breathing at sunset!” the cooper declared.

“He’s definitely alive. Why free him if he was dead?” the grocer put forth.

“Who did it?”

“What makes you think
anyone
did it? That boy likely got away himself. Emery is a sly one, he is. We shoulda known the Imps couldn’t kill the likes of him.”

“He’s likely down in the sewers.”

“Naw, he’s left the city. Nothing for him here now.”

“Knowing Emery, he’s in the viceroy’s house right now, drinking the old man’s brandy!”

This brought laughter to go with the round of ales Ayers dispensed. Ayers had his own thoughts on the matter—he guessed the guards had freed him. Emery was a great talker. Ayers had heard him giving speeches in the Gnome dozens of times, and the lad had always won over the crowd. He could easily imagine the boy talking all night to the men who were charged to watch him and convincing them to let him go. He wanted to mention his idea, but the keg was nearly empty and he was running low on mugs. He did not care much for the Imps personally, but they were great for business.

A loud banging at the tavern’s entrance killed the laughter and people turned sharply. Ayers nearly dropped the keg he was lifting, certain the sheriff was leading another raid, but it was only Dr. Gerand. He stood at the open door, hammering the frame with his shoe to get their attention. Everyone breathed again.

“Come in, Doctor!” Ayers shouted. “I’ll have another keg brought up.”

“Can’t,” he replied. “Need to be keeping my distance from everyone for a while. Just want to let people know to stay clear of the Dunlaps’ house. They’ve got a case of pox there.”

“Is it bad?” the grocer asked.

“Bad enough,” the physician said.

“All these new immigrants from down south are bringing all kinds of sickness with them,” Ayers complained.

“Aye, that’s probably what did it,” Dr. Gerand said. “Mrs. Dunlap took in a boarder a few days back, a refugee from Vernes. It was that fella who first come down with the pox. So don’t be going near the Dunlaps’ place until you hear it’s safe from me. In fact, I’d steer clear of Benning Street altogether. I’m gonna see if I can get the sheriff to put up some signs and maybe a fence or something to let people know to keep out. Anyway, I’m just going around telling folks, and I would appreciate it if you helped me spread the word before this gets out of hand.”

By noon, the city guard was turning all the townsfolk out of their houses and shops, searching for the escaped traitor, and the very first place they looked was the Dunlaps’ home. The five guards on duty the night Emery had disappeared were forced to draw lots, and one lone soldier went in. He came out after finding nothing but a couple of sick people, neither of whom was Emery. After making his report from a distance, he returned to the Dunlaps’ to remain under quarantine.

The soldiers then tore through The Laughing Gnome, the marketplace, the old church, and even the scribe’s office, leaving them all a mess. Squads of soldiers entered the sewers and came up soaked. They did not find the escaped traitor, but they did find a couple of chests that some said were filled with stolen silver.

There was no sign of Emery Dorn.

By nightfall, a makeshift wooden fence stood across Benning Street and a large whitewashed sign read

KEEP OUT!

Quarantined by order of the Viceroy!

Two days later, the soldier who had searched the Dunlaps’ house died. He was seen covered with puss-filled boils in the yard. The doctor dug a hole while people watched from a distance. After that, no one went near Benning Street.

The city officials and those at the Gnome concluded Emery had left town or died—and was secretly buried somewhere.

Arista, Hadrian, and Royce waited silently just outside the entrance to the bedroom until the doctor finished. “I’ve taken the bandages off him,” Dr. Gerand said. He was an elderly man with white hair, a hooknose, and bushy eyebrows that managed to look sad even when he smiled. “He’s much better today. A whipping like he took …” He paused, unsure how to explain. “Well, you saw what it did to the poor lady that hung alongside him. He should have died, but he’s young. He’ll bounce back once he wakes up and starts eating. Of course, his back will be scarred for life and he’ll never be as strong as he was—too much damage. The only concern I have is noxious
humors causing an imbalance in his body, but honestly, that doesn’t look like it’ll be a problem. Like I said, the boy is young and strong. Let him continue to rest and he should be fine.”

They followed the doctor downstairs, escorting him to the front door of the Dunlaps’ home, where he bid them good night.

Pausing in the doorway, he looked back. “Emery is a good lad. He was my son’s best friend. James was taken into the imperial army and died in some battle up north.” He glanced at the floor. “Watching Emery on that post was like losing him all over again. Whatever happens now, I just wanted to say thank you.” With that, the doctor left.

Arista had seen the insides of more commoners’ homes over the past week than she had in her entire life. After visiting with the Bakers of Hintindar, she had assumed all families lived in identical houses, but the Dunlaps’ home was nothing like the Bakers’. This one was two stories tall, with a solid wooden floor on both levels. The upper story created a thick-beamed ceiling to the lower one. While still modest and a bit cramped, it showed touches of care and a dash of prosperity, which Hintindar lacked. The walls were painted and decorated with pretty designs of stars and flowers, and the wood surfaces were buffed and stained. Knickknacks of glazed pottery and wood carvings lined shelves above the fireplace. Unlike Dunstan and Arbor’s sparse home, the Dunlaps’ house had a lot of furniture. Wooden chairs with straw seats circled the table. Another pair bookended a spinning wheel surrounded by several wicker baskets. Little tables held vases of flowers, and on the wall hung a cabinet with small doors and knobs. Kept neat, clean, and orderly, it was a house loved by a woman whose husband had been a good provider, but had rarely been home.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” Mrs. Dunlap
asked while clearing the dinner plates. She was an old, plump woman who always wore an apron and a matching white scarf and had a habit of wringing her wrinkled hands.

“We’re fine,” Arista told her. “And thank you again for letting us use your home.”

The old woman smiled. “It’s not so much a risk as you might think. My husband has been dead six years now. He proudly served as His Majesty Urith’s coachman. Did you know that?” Her eyes sparkled as she looked off as if seeing him once more. “He was a handsome man in his driver’s coat and hat with that red plume and gold broach. Yes, sir, a mighty fine-looking man, proud to serve the king, and had for thirty years.”

“Was he killed with the king?”

“Oh no.” She shook her head. “But he died soon after, of heartbreak, I think. He was very close to the royal family. Drove them everywhere they went. They gave him gifts and called him by his given name. Once, during a storm, he even brought the princes here to spend the night. The little boys talked about it for weeks. We never had children of our own, you see, and I think Paul—that’s my husband—I think he thought of the royals as his own boys. It devastated him when they died in that fire—that horrible fire. Emery’s father died in it too, did you know that? He was one of the king’s bodyguards. There was so much death that terrible, terrible night.”

“Urith was a good king?” Hadrian asked.