Engines of Empire Page 3

  “And you brought my niece and nephew,” he said, opening his arms to hug Tyreta.

  She embraced her uncle, feeling his perfumed beard soft against her cheek. Sullivar squeezed her a little too tightly, crushing her against the cog sigil embossed on his breastplate, but there was little she could do to stop it. Once he’d released her, Conall reached forward to shake Sullivar’s hand, but he too was met with a bear hug.

  “Lady Oriel,” Rosomon said, bowing before Sullivar’s wife, who had come to join them. “Or should that be Empress?”

  “Nonsense,” Oriel replied, taking Rosomon’s hand and leading her up the stairs. “We are family. No need for such affectations between us.”

  They might have been sisters by marriage, but the difference between them was stark. Where Oriel was dazzling in a gown of red and gold, her hair tied up in an intricate bunch fastened with elaborate pins, Rosomon wore a skirt and cloak of plain blue, brown hair falling straight and unadorned about her shoulders.

  Tyreta followed them up to the palace, passing the heavily armoured Titanguard who lined their route. Each one was a behemoth, glaive in hand, bulky armour powered by ingenious artifice. She noticed there was no sign of Lancelin Jagdor, swordwright of the Archwind Guild, but then it was best if that man didn’t show his face in front of the Hawkspurs. But Lancelin wasn’t the only one conspicuous by his absence.

  “Where’s Fulren?” Tyreta asked.

  “Your younger brother wanted to come and greet you,” said Sullivar. “But he is busying himself in his workshop. He has almost made a breakthrough with his studies, so I am told.”

  “He always was dedicated,” said Rosomon, glancing momentarily at her daughter.

  Tyreta bristled at the insinuation. Her younger brother couldn’t even be bothered to come greet them, yet still he was lauded. Once again she was reminded who the favourites were.

  “He’s been a great asset,” said Sullivar. “His skills have improved beyond measure. You should go see him at work, Tyreta,” he added.

  She was about to protest, but a look from her mother made her realise she should probably do as she was bid. Best not to push things too far, considering she had still to face her punishment for toying with the landship.

  As Rosomon and Conall were led away through the palace by Sullivar and Oriel, Tyreta was taken by a sullen-looking footman down into the bowels of the huge building. Here were foundries by the dozen, smelting works, rows of benches upon which artificers worked on minuscule inventions. The farther down she got the more the place stank of industry—oil and rust permeated the air, the heat of the forges making the atmosphere sticky. Tyreta felt the essence of the pyrestones that lay all about, making her tingle right to her fingertips.

  The footman led her to the lowest level. A door stood ajar at the end of the corridor, and the servant stopped, beckoning Tyreta inside. She pushed the door open to see a small workshop. It was in disarray, spare parts of machinery lying all about, and in the centre of the room, hunched over a workbench, was her brother Fulren.

  “Hello, Tinhead,” she said to his back.

  “Hello, Ratface,” he replied, without turning around.

  She walked toward him, picking up some piece of artifice from a bench. It looked intricate, wires and pins protruding from every surface. Tyreta had no idea what it was for.

  “Too busy playing with your toys to greet our beloved mother?”

  “I’ve been busy,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll forgive me.”

  “For you, Lady Rosomon would forgive anything.”

  Fulren turned to face her. On his head was strapped a contraption that supported a lens over one eye to magnify his work. He would have looked every inch the artificer—studious, serious—were it not for the fact that he was broad about the shoulders and lean about the waist. A fighter in body, inventor in mind. The perfect combination of skill and intelligence. She couldn’t help but resent him for that.

  “I’m sure she’s forgiven you plenty,” he said. “How was the journey?”

  “Let’s just say it could have gone more smoothly.”

  Fulren flashed her a toothy grin. “Just can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Ratface? You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

  “I’m older than you. That’s pretty much where my responsibility ends.”

  “Not for long,” said Fulren.

  And he was right. Though Conall was to inherit their Guild’s title and obligations, Rosomon had demanded that Tyreta also take on the responsibilities of the Hawkspur Guild. Conall would see to military matters, and Tyreta would be in charge of transportation all across Torwyn—by air, land and sea. She would administer trade routes and supply chains and keep her nation moving. It was a daunting prospect, and one she would gladly delay for as long as possible.

  “No,” Tyreta said. “It won’t be long. I’m to travel to the Sundered Isles after the reception. Mother thinks it will build character.”

  “So soon?” Fulren seemed genuinely concerned. “I won’t see much of you, then.”

  “You’d see more if you came with me. We could do this together. You could take up Father’s mantle yourself. You could—”

  “We’ve been over this a thousand times. My place is here.” He gestured to the junk that lay strewn all around him. “Uncle Sullivar has granted me an apprenticeship. I am to become a master artificer. It’s all been settled.”

  “So I’m doomed then?”

  Fulren laughed at that. “You’ll just have to live up to your responsibilities for once. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it. You’ll get to see the world.”

  The prospect of that did excite her, but thinking on the burden of controlling an entire Guild only filled her with dread.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Are you going to live out your days cooped up in here, playing with your toys?”

  “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get to see the world too, one day.”

  Tyreta glanced around the windowless workshop, then shook her head. “Not you. You’ll never leave this place.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He winked at her. “Anyway, get lost, I’m busy.” With that he turned back to his machinery.

  “See you at the reception, Tinhead,” she replied before she left him to his labour.

  The footman was still waiting for her outside, and Tyreta asked to be taken to her chamber. It had been a long journey, even for her.

  Obediently the servant led her back up through the vast workshops until they reached ground level. There they took the elevator, steam pumping and gears grinding until it had juddered all the way to the upper levels of the palace. As she followed the open walkway toward her chamber she could see out onto the vast city. Huge stormhulks walked the streets, but they looked tiny from the heady heights of Archwind Palace. Not even the highest spires of Wyke could rival this place for majesty.

  When finally she opened the door to her chamber, Tyreta was brought back to earth with a crash. Her mother was waiting patiently inside, her back to the door as she gazed from the window.

  Tyreta closed the door, shutting herself in, bracing for what was coming.

  “Mother, I—”

  “We won’t speak of it,” Rosomon said.

  That was unexpected. Tyreta had prepared herself for a tirade followed by yet another lecture on responsibility and duty to the Guild.

  Rosomon turned from the window. Her hands were clasped in front of her, face a mask of calm. She was far from the raging harpy that usually manifested after one of Tyreta’s frequent misdemeanours.

  “Your first public engagement is coming.” She gestured to the bed, where lay a dress in the deep blue of the Hawkspur Guild. “You’ll wear that. You’ll fix that.” Rosomon pointed at Tyreta’s hair, which, as usual, was worn up in a messy knot on top of her head. “And you’ll do your best to act in a manner befitting an heir to the Guild of Hawkspur.”

  Tyreta wasn’t sure what was worse—her mother’s raging or her clinical order
s.

  “Of course,” she replied. This was no time for defiance.

  “And, if you wish, you can wear this.”

  Rosomon opened up her hand. In her palm was a silver pendant inlaid with a single gem. Tyreta recognised the nightstone immediately. It was the rarest of pyrestones, one that was useless for artifice but valued for its beauty nonetheless.

  “Mother, I don’t deserve—”

  “No, you don’t,” said Rosomon. “But it was your father’s and you should have it.”

  She took the pendant from her mother’s hand. Tyreta had never been one for jewels or trinkets, but the fact that it had been her father’s made it more precious than anything she had ever owned. She was about to thank her mother, to tell her she would do better from now on and live up to her father’s legacy, but Lady Rosomon was already on her way through the door.

  “And don’t be late,” Rosomon said before closing the door behind her and leaving Tyreta alone.

  She held the pendant in her hand for a moment, feeling the nightstone cold against her palm. It could not be imbued with any power, could not be used for any practical purpose, and yet she suddenly felt more connected to it than she had to any pyrestone. She would wear it with pride.

  Glancing down at the gaudy blue dress, she realised there was other attire she would just have to get used to.

  FULREN

  Gatherings like this made him want to be sick. He stood in the corner, clutching an empty goblet, wishing he were back in his workshop. Give him a bench laden with artifice, or even a sword in the training circle, but by the Great Wyrms spare him a social event.

  They were in a huge rotunda at the summit of Archwind Palace. The hall was adorned with the pennants of the six most powerful Guilds, the great and good wandering the place in a twisting dance of feigned smiles and clutching handshakes. Of course his uncle Sullivar and aunt Oriel were at the centre of it—the newly proclaimed emperor and empress of Torwyn. And around them milled their obedient subjects, though you wouldn’t have known that to look at them, flush with self-importance as they were.

  At the other side of the rotunda Fulren could see his mother and sister as they mixed with the other guests. He couldn’t help but be surprised at how well Tyreta took to the job, smiling warmly and greeting her peers with what could only be described as charm. Clearly his mother had prepared her accordingly. Fulren was happy in the shadows. Let them carry the mantle of the Hawkspurs—he had his own ambitions.

  As for the other guests, he recognised few of them. He spied Rearden Corwen looking imperious as he moved through the crowds in a robe of stark yellow. Of course he would be here. The Guildmaster of Corwen had to register and document every event and transaction that went on in the empire. The arrival of a foreign emissary would not be something he’d miss.

  Lord Wymar Ironfall stood in his dark-armoured regalia emblazoned with the forge fire symbol of his Guild. His brother, the Guild swordwright Maugar, stood beside him as always. The two weren’t twins, but one could be forgiven for making that assumption, both their faces being buried beneath thick black beards, long hair greased back into topknots.

  Jarlath Radwinter and his wife Mincloth seemed more concerned with sampling the food Sullivar had laid on than mingling with the crowd. Since they were heads of a Guild that oversaw Torwyn’s agriculture, it seemed odd they’d need feeding at a time like this. The burgeoning waistlines that strained against their green velvet tunics were testament to the fact they were both amply nourished.

  Fulren’s eye eventually fell on a lone figure also standing at the periphery of the rotunda. He recognised Emony Marrlock immediately, her family having visited Wyke on a number of occasions. She stood alone, ash-blonde hair concealing most of her face, her dress looking sublime despite its being cut from cloth of drab Marrlock grey. It seemed curious she was here on her own to represent her Guild since she was only the youngest daughter of Guildmaster Oleksig, but Fulren couldn’t see any of the other Marrlocks.

  He moved from his position in the shadows. If he was to get a decent conversation out of anyone, it would be Emony. He navigated his way through the crowd, shifting past the perfumed parade, but wasn’t halfway before he saw someone who removed all thoughts of Emony from his head.

  Lancelin Jagdor was no more than ten feet away. He was tall, bearing the broad shoulders of a swordsman, a thick curved scar down one side of his lean face. He wore the Archwind Guild’s red uniform, embellished with polished brass pauldrons. At his waist hung his sword of office, the pommel in the shape of the Archwind cog, his hand never straying far from it. Fulren had seen him only once since his arrival at the Anvil, his workshop keeping him cloistered away for the most part. This man was the reason Fulren had trained himself with a sword just as vigorously as he had studied the trade of artifice.

  Jagdor had slain his father.

  It had been a duel of honour by all accounts, though no one had ever known the slight that caused it. Melrone Hawkspur had chosen to fight the duel himself rather than have his swordwright Starn fight for him. Fulren had been in his mother’s belly when the duel took place. Not yet born when Jagdor had stripped him of the father he’d been raised without. Some called him Hawkslayer to this day, but Fulren would see that insult redressed.

  The swordwright still had his back turned, and Fulren’s hand strayed down to the knife at his belt. A vendetta blade, they called it. The weapon that would see him avenged. Fulren had crafted it himself, as was tradition. Perhaps he should draw it now. Perhaps he should plunge it into Lancelin’s back and the debt would be paid.

  A hand grasped his wrist, holding it tight and the blade along with it.

  “You should be careful. Don’t want to cut yourself on that thing.”

  Fulren looked up into the blue eyes of his brother, Conall. He was smiling, but the strength with which he held Fulren’s arm conveyed the seriousness of his intent.

  Fulren loosened his grip on the blade. “I was just…”

  Conall glanced over to where Lancelin Jagdor was mingling into the crowd.

  “Yes, little brother. I’m sure you were.”

  Conall let go of Fulren’s arm, then gently laid a hand on his back, guiding him to a quiet corner.

  “One day, Conall,” Fulren said, feeling his rage waning.

  “No,” Conall replied. “That’s not for you.”

  “It’s just…” Fulren tried to put it into words but failed. He had never known his father. Never known the reason for his feud with Jagdor, but still it was his duty to avenge his family. Wasn’t it?

  “I understand,” said Conall. “But if anyone’s going to end that bastard it’ll be me. And it won’t be with a knife in the back.”

  Fulren looked up at Conall. He had always been more a father to Fulren than a brother. It would be foolish to ignore his counsel now, but Fulren yearned for justice. Or was it just a selfish need for vengeance? Either way, he was determined that this was not the end of the matter.

  “How long are you here for?” Fulren asked, changing the subject as deftly as he could manage and unclenching his bunched fists.

  “Not long,” his brother replied, placing a consoling hand on Fulren’s shoulder. “I’ve been posted to Agavere. I’ll find out which battalion I’m seconded to once we arrive.”

  “So you’re leaving too.”

  Conall smiled down at him. “It’s only for a few months. When I get back to the Anvil we’ll have all the time in the world. I’ll have some stories to tell, for sure.”

  The crash of a gong pealed throughout the rotunda, making the chatter suddenly ebb away, and Fulren saw an equerry standing in the huge archway that led out onto the pier.

  “My lords and ladies,” he announced, his voice quaking slightly, the auspiciousness of his audience getting the better of him. “If you would like to step out onto the promenade, our honoured guest is about to arrive.”

  “He’s here!” shouted Sullivar, smiling through his well-appointed beard.
r />   Fulren’s uncle led the way up the stairs and through the archway. Immediately a line of courtly figures followed him. Fulren and Conall hung back, watching them all clamour after their emperor, a procession of sycophants eager to follow in Sullivar’s wake.

  As the crowd began to thin, Fulren started to make his way outside. Turning, he saw that Conall still waited in the rotunda.

  “Are you coming?” he asked when Conall made no move to join him.

  “I’ve got better things to do,” his brother said. “Preparations for my trip. But don’t let me stop you.”

  For a moment Fulren considered leaving with Conall. They’d not see each other for months, and it would be good to spend some time with him, but he knew that if he did not attend the greeting ceremony he would be missed.

  “I’ll see you later?”

  “Bet on it,” Conall said with a smile before turning and making his way from the empty hall.

  Reluctantly Fulren followed the procession up the stairs and through the arch.

  The wind whipped up as he stepped out onto the vast promenade of Archwind Palace. A pier jutted from the tower, stretching a hundred yards due west. Along it was arrayed the might of the Archwind Guild. Stormhulks stood beside Titanguard, flying flags bearing the golden cog of Archwind. Thick iron roosts jutted from the tower, atop which perched the giant war eagles of Torwyn, their riders sitting proud, lances festooned with cog-symbol pennants. It appeared Sullivar wanted this foreign emissary to see exactly which Guild was in charge when he arrived.

  The crowd had gathered outside, wind blowing cloaks and carefully styled hair into a fury. Fulren peered into the distance, and in the west, beyond the mountain range that marked the border with the Drift, there was a dark spot in the air. It was little more than a blot on the horizon, hovering just above the mountaintops.

  A pall of silence fell over the crowd as they watched, bewitched by the approaching spectacle. Fulren spied Tyreta in the crowd and pushed forward to join her. She looked as unenthused as he felt.

  “Cheer up, Ratface,” he said. “Apparently this is a great day. Could be the start of a new age.”