Engines of Empire Read online

  “Yes,” she replied. “If Uncle Sullivar has his way.”

  “I’m sure he will. A treaty with Nyrakkis will mean a new trade route. It could be your time to shine.”

  Tyreta looked thoroughly unimpressed by the prospect. “I can’t wait.”

  Fulren glanced down at her attire. It was the first time he’d ever seen her in a gown of any kind.

  “What are you wearing?” he said.

  Tyreta rolled her eyes in that way she often did when pressed into something she hated. “Don’t. This was Mother’s idea. I wasn’t in a position to refuse.”

  “Ah yes.” Fulren grinned. “I heard about your little trick on the landship. Just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  Tyreta had no answer to that. Fact was, she’d never been able to help herself. Fulren would have thought it a curse if he believed in such things.

  “What’s that noise?” asked a voice in the crowd.

  It started a murmur among the onlookers, and Fulren turned his attention back to the approaching spot in the sky. It was closer now, growing larger above the mountains, and as Fulren listened he could hear something on the wind. A whisper carried on the breeze, bringing a sense of foreboding with it.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Tyreta.

  Fulren could discern an outline now. The approaching vessel was some kind of airship, black in the pale sky. The closer it got the more the sound of it increased, as though someone were being tortured in the distance.

  A disquiet settled on the crowd, and some of the guests began to back away, fearful of whatever dark magics approached from the west. The guards who lined the promenade gripped their splintbows with white-knuckled trepidation. Each of those weapons was a mechanical marvel—more accurate than a crossbow and faster loading than a longbow, the breech fed via a clip containing half a dozen bolts. Developed by the artificers of Archwind, the basic design had not changed for over a century, and they were used widely throughout Torwyn in one form or another. Nevertheless, watching that ship draw ever nearer, Fulren doubted even a hundred of them could hold back what was coming.

  Sullivar was unperturbed, walking to the head of the crowd, eager to greet the vessel heading their way. Fulren saw Lancelin Jagdor at his side and bristled once more. This time he left the knife where it was, but still he could barely quell his hate.

  “That bastard,” he heard Tyreta say, and he was pleased that she felt the same.

  “Now’s not the time,” he replied, placing a hand on her shoulder, remembering Conall’s words.

  The other Guild representatives moved forward. Rearden Corwen stood beside Sullivar, not wishing to be outdone by his emperor. Wymar and Maugar Ironfall also strode to the front, though they shuffled uncomfortably all the while. Fulren’s mother came to stand among them, and even Emony Marrlock took her place with the other Guildmasters.

  The airship was clearly visible now. It cruised through the sky like a great ark, a black pirate battleship ready to enslave them all. The fell sound of its passing had grown louder, more a scream than a roar, as though the engines themselves were being tormented to the point of madness.

  The crowd was spellbound, and Fulren along with it. He wanted to run from this behemoth but he couldn’t move. All he could do was gape, openmouthed, as it approached the far end of the vast platform.

  The giant war eagles atop their perches ruffled their feathers nervously, one of them beating its wings in an attempt to take flight as the vast ark came to land. Its descent was smooth, the engines producing a strange heat haze as it touched down on the platform, landing gear slamming to the ground like black metal talons. The engines hissed, smoke and steam billowing from vents along the dark iron of the hull. Then, after a final tormented breath, the ark fell silent.

  Fulren watched from the crowd, seeing the airship glaring ahead like the face mask of an iron helm. No one seemed to know what to do. Not even Sullivar wanted to walk down the jetty to greet the new arrivals.

  The sound of grinding metal was carried across the promenade by the wind. Chains clanked as the ramp at the front of the ark yawned open like a huge maw. It crashed to the marble floor with a boom, revealing the dark interior.

  Two columns of warriors marched from inside, down the ramp and onto the pier, before turning to face one another and raising their spears in salute. Each one was tall and thickly muscled, their upper bodies naked but for the rings and chains that pierced their flesh and the tattoos that adorned their backs and arms. Then a single figure walked from within the ship.

  She was taller than any woman Fulren had seen. Even from a distance he could see her flame-red hair matched the crimson of her long flowing cloak. Beneath she wore the close-cut leather of a warrior rather than the formalwear of an envoy. She moved between the ranks of the honour guard, her rangy gait swallowing up the distance as she approached. Sullivar stood awestruck, watching her draw ever nearer until she finally came to stand before him.

  A smile played across her pale lips, dark eyes regarding him with amusement. Before either of them could speak she bowed low, sweeping her cloak aside theatrically.

  “Emperor Sullivar,” she said, her voice easily carrying across the platform for all to hear. There was but a trace of a foreign accent, and if Fulren hadn’t known better he would have thought her schooled in one of Torwyn’s own academies. “I am Assenah Neskhon of Jubara, emissary to the Queen Meresankh of Nyrakkis, Daughter to the Crimson Moon and Keeper of the Silent Key.”

  There was a pause as Sullivar composed himself before he said, “Welcome.” His voice was quiet, subdued. Then he spread his arms, though he fell short of hugging the tall woman. “Welcome,” he said louder.

  Assenah responded with a wide smile, displaying her impossibly white teeth.

  Sullivar guided the emissary inside, introducing her to the other members of the Guilds, who seemed all but spellbound.

  Fulren glanced back at the tall warriors who stood rigid on the platform.

  “She left them behind,” he whispered. “Like she has nothing to fear.”

  Tyreta watched as the rest of the crowd followed the emissary inside. “Only thing she has to fear is Uncle Sullivar talking her ear off. Are you coming?”

  Fulren dragged his eyes away from the exotic warriors. “I think I’ve had my fill,” he replied.

  “Nonsense, Tinhead. You need a drink.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Then don’t think, little brother. Just try and enjoy yourself for once. We should at least try and make the most of this pompous spectacle. And Uncle Sullivar will have opened up his very extensive wine cellar.”

  She took his arm with a grin and led him back into the rotunda.

  There was a ring of activity around the emissary, and Fulren decided it best to take his position on the periphery once more as Tyreta fought her way through the crowd to find them a drink. He far preferred the anonymity the shadows granted to being subject to the indignity of a fawning crowd.

  “Never were one for public events.”

  Fulren turned to see his mother standing behind him, taking her own place in the shadows. She wore a gown of blue and red, straight brown hair pinned with a Hawkspur brooch. They had spoken briefly the night before, but exchanged only a quick greeting before she went to rest after her journey from Wyke.

  “I know you don’t enjoy them either, Mother,” he replied.

  “No. But sometimes events like this are good for diplomacy. And some people live for them.”

  She glanced over at Sullivar, who was loudly regaling the emissary, and the surrounding crowd, with one of his tedious anecdotes.

  “Uncle Sullivar is a force of nature.”

  They both laughed at that. It was short-lived, as Fulren saw two figures approaching them from the throng.

  Lady Darina Egelrath was five feet of spite, and Fulren’s aunt. She wore a long flamboyant dress that made it look as though she were gliding along the tiled floor. Her wrinkled neck was adorned wit
h expensive jewels, earrings so heavy they made her lobes droop. There was little love between her and Rosomon, despite them being sisters by marriage. She approached with her son, Sanctan, now bedecked in the white robes of the Archlegate. Fulren’s cousin was approaching his middle years but looked much younger. His handsome face and open smile would have suited him perfectly were he a diplomat or merchant. Instead he now held the highest seat in the Draconate Ministry and was one of the most powerful men in all Torwyn.

  Lady Rosomon stiffened at their approach, gripping Fulren’s elbow as though for support.

  “Rosomon, how nice to see you again,” said Darina, holding out her hand, a garish ring adorning each and every finger.

  Rosomon took her sister-in-law’s proffered hand and gave it a limp shake. “And you, Darina.”

  “Cousin,” said Sanctan, smiling at Fulren. It had been some years since they’d seen each other, and he appeared to have lost none of his charm.

  “Archlegate,” Fulren replied, with a bow.

  “None of that,” Sanctan replied, taking Fulren by the shoulders and hugging him close. “The Ministry hasn’t forbidden me from embracing my family.”

  Fulren felt the anxiety leak out of him. He had always liked Sanctan, and the two had played together as children, even though his cousin was some years the elder.

  Lady Rosomon bowed. “Archlegate. I was sorry to have missed your ordination.”

  “It was a quiet affair, Aunt Rosomon. We are all still grieving after Archlegate Gylbard’s loss. He was taken from us too soon.”

  “The youngest Archlegate in the Ministry’s history,” said Darina, missing no opportunity to laud her son. “We are very proud.”

  “I’m sure you must be,” Rosomon replied.

  “And what about you?” Darina said to Fulren. “I hear your uncle Sullivar has taken you under his wing.”

  “Fulren is progressing very well,” Rosomon replied, before Fulren could speak for himself. “A full apprenticeship is guaranteed.”

  “Ah, that warms the heart. And what about Tyreta?”

  That question lingered in the air. Tyreta’s reluctance to adopt her responsibilities was no secret.

  “Rest assured the future of the Hawkspur Guild is in good hands,” said Rosomon.

  “Yes, I hear Conall is a captain now. A credit to the family name. I’m sure with him in charge, our Guild’s future prosperity is assured,” Darina replied.

  “My Guild’s future prosperity.”

  The two women regarded one another with looks of feigned amusement. It was widely known that after the death of her younger brother, Darina had coveted control over the Hawkspur Guild, but her marriage into the Egelrath family had made that impossible. But it seemed those old desires lingered still.

  Before Fulren could interject, Sanctan took Lady Darina by the arm.

  “Mother, we must introduce ourselves to the new arrival.” He gave both Fulren and Lady Rosomon a nod. “It’s been good to see you again. Fulren, we must catch up later. You can show me those legendary sword skills I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  He led Lady Darina away toward the centre of the room, where the envoy was still surrounded.

  “Sword skills?” Rosomon said when they were alone once more. “I hope you’re not still harbouring those ambitions, Fulren. There’s no future in it.”

  “I was just—”

  “I thought we’d talked about this. The military is your brother’s calling, not yours. You’re no warrior, Fulren, this lingering obsession with the blade will do you no good. Your duty is to your uncle Sullivar and the Guilds.”

  Fulren felt all the old frustrations creep back again. It was the whole reason he’d left Wyke in the first place—the burdens piled upon him; the need to please his mother, to live up to his father’s reputation. A father he’d never known.

  “I know, Mother,” he replied, suddenly feeling the need to escape. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m not feeling all that well.”

  Before his mother could question him further, Fulren squeezed his way through the crowd. It was cloying in the great hall, and he had to get out for air, to get as far from Rosomon and her expectations as he could.

  When he finally managed to escape the hall, he was struck by a sudden pang of guilt. Somewhere Tyreta would be on her way to him with a stiff drink. Not that it mattered. He was sure she’d have no trouble drinking enough for the both of them.

  ROSOMON

  She watched from a balcony above the aerie. Tyreta was checking the tack of one of the war eagles. They had a habit of snapping and hissing at riders they didn’t trust, but Tyreta always had a way with the beasts. It was calm under her ministrations, allowing her to adjust the martingale with little fuss. She could be so capable when she wanted to be. Wilful? Yes. Rebellious? Most certainly, but Tyreta’s strength of character was something Rosomon had always loved. It reminded her of how she’d acted as a younger woman. All she had to do was give her daughter a chance to shine and she would become the woman the Hawkspurs needed. A leader. A master of the Guild.

  Conall approached along the walkway. He was smiling his usual easy smile, the one that reminded Rosomon so much of his father. Thankfully that was largely where the similarity ended. Over one of his shoulders was slung a rare and precious pyrestone weapon—a longbarrel of masterful design.

  “Where did you find that?” she asked.

  Conall took the weapon from his shoulder and held it reverently. It had clearly taken an artificer weeks to craft. “Isn’t it beautiful? A parting gift from Uncle Sullivar.”

  The butt plate and muzzle were wrought with intricate metalwork, stock and barrel crafted from finely polished red oak. Pyrestones were set in the lock mechanism, which could propel steel shot over two hundred yards. The Armiger Battalions would have paid a Guildmaster’s ransom for such a treasure.

  “Sullivar was always far too generous with you,” she said.

  Conall acknowledged the fact with a nonchalant shrug as he slung the longbarrel back over his shoulder. “Aren’t you due for the meet in the Guildhall, Mother?”

  Rosomon nodded but still didn’t move. This might be the last she saw of her son and daughter for some weeks. Let the Guilds wait.

  “I will miss you both,” she said. Conall had been seconded to Agavere on the northern coast of the Karna Frontier. It was a tradition that dated back over two centuries. When they were old enough, the eldest sons of the Guildmasters were given a commission on the farthest frontiers of Torwyn to serve with one of the Armiger Battalions. Sullivar’s own son, Lorens, was even now at Ravenscrag with the Corvus.

  Though Conall was a capable leader, he lacked experience. A posting at one of the forts would give him that in abundance. He was to accompany his sister to the port of Goodfleet, and there they would go their separate ways.

  “We’ll be fine,” he replied. “And it will be good for Tyreta to see the islands. She’s more than ready.”

  Rosomon shook her head. “Are any of us ready when we’re called upon? She’s not ready yet, but she will learn. Tyreta needs to see something of the world. I just hope this will also help open her eyes to the weight of her duties.”

  “She may well surprise you,” Conall replied. “You took on the responsibility of an entire Guild not so many years ago, with little experience. And look what you’ve built.”

  “What choice did I have?” Rosomon replied, remembering all too well she’d had none. After Melrone’s death she’d had to take over mastery of the Guild. What alternative had there been? Hand it over to Darina? No, that would never have stood.

  “We all have our duties,” said Conall.

  “We do. And mine are calling me away. I’ll return before you set off so I can say goodbye.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” said Conall with a reassuring wink.

  The gesture warmed her, but Rosomon still felt the distance between them. Conall had once been her sweet boy, but he hadn’t needed her for the longest time. As mu
ch as she wanted him to take on the responsibilities of a Talon captain, she couldn’t help but wonder if the eagerness with which he’d pursued the distant posting in Agavere was because he wanted to escape from something. Perhaps even escape from her.

  She left the sounds and smells of the aerie behind and tried to put thoughts of Conall and Tyreta far from her mind. This was an auspicious day, and she could not allow herself to be distracted.

  Starn Rivers was waiting with a contingent of the Talon as she left Archwind Palace. The Guildhall was not far, but still it would not do for the head of the Hawkspur Guild to travel there unaccompanied.

  They marched the short distance, taking the Bridge of Saints over Whitespin River, which flowed through the heart of the city. Rosomon could see trading boats chugging up and down the waterway, bringing ore, lumber and textiles from the four corners of Torwyn.

  At the other side of the Whitespin, the Guildhall stood like a huge monolith, though it was still dwarfed by the majesty of the palace. It had been decades since her father, Treon Archwind, had decided to construct his palace to overshadow the symbolic home of the Guilds. This was supposedly a place where all the members of the Guilds were equal, but her father had decided that his own base of operations would be the most prominent edifice in the Anvil.

  Rosomon approached, and the Titanguard at the entrance dutifully moved aside. The Guildhall’s lobby was a colossal affair, vaulted ceiling rising a hundred feet above her, every wall painted with a mural showing the history of the Guilds and their rise to supremacy. Rosomon could only hope the emissary would not spend too much time examining them, with so many depicting the wars fought between Torwyn and the demon lords of Malador in centuries past. They were far from flattering to the Maladorans.

  As she approached the central chamber she could hear voices and felt a sudden sting of embarrassment. It would do her reputation as head of the transportation Guild no good if she couldn’t even manage to transport herself to a council meeting on time.