Rise Of Empire (4 page)

“Everyone was so excited when I was accepted. When I found out the job was just to wash dishes, I didn’t have the heart to tell my family, so I’ve not been home since. Now, of course, they won’t let me go.” Amilia sighed but then put on a bright smile. “But that’s okay, because now I’m here with you.”

There was a quiet knock and the guard stepped in. He took a minute to survey the changes in the cell and nodded his approval. His gaze shifted to Amilia and there was a distinct sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, miss, but Regent Saldur has ordered me to bring you to him.”

Amilia froze, then slowly put the brush down and with a trembling hand draped a blanket around the young girl’s shoulders. She rose, kissed Modina on the cheek, and in a quivering voice managed to whisper, “Goodbye.”

H
e always feared he would die this way, alone on a remote stretch of road far from home. The forest pressed close from both sides, and his trained eyes recognized that the debris barring his path was not the innocent result of a weakened tree. He pulled on the reins, forcing his horse’s head down. She snorted in frustration, fighting the bit—like him, she sensed danger.

He glanced behind him and to either side, scanning the trees standing in summer gowns of deep green. Nothing moved in the early-morning stillness. Nothing betrayed the tranquil facade except the pile before him. The deadfall was unnatural. Even from this distance, he saw the brightly colored pulp of fresh-cut wood—a barricade.

Thieves?

A band of highwaymen no doubt crouched under the cover of the forest, watching, waiting for him to draw near. He tried to focus his thoughts as his horse panted beneath him. This was the shortest route north to the Galewyr River, and he was running out of time. Breckton was preparing to invade the kingdom of Melengar, and he must deliver the dispatch before the knight launched the attack. Before he had embarked, his commander, as well as the regents, had personally expressed
the importance of this mission. They were counting on him—
she
was counting on him. Like thousands of others, he had stood in the freezing square on Coronation Day just to catch a glimpse of Empress Modina. To the crowd’s immense disappointment, she never appeared. An announcement came after many hours, explaining she was occupied with the affairs of the New Empire. Recently ascended from the peasant class, the new ruler obviously had no time for frivolity.

He removed his cloak and tied it behind the saddle, revealing the gold crown on his tabard. They might let him pass. Surely they knew the imperial army was nearby, and Sir Breck-ton would not stand for the waylaying of an imperial messenger. Highwaymen might not fear that fool Earl Ballentyne, but even desperate men would think twice before offending Ballentyne’s knight. Other commanders might ignore a bloodied or murdered dispatch rider, but Sir Breckton would take it as a personal assault on his honor, and insulting Breckton’s honor was tantamount to suicide.

He refused to fail.

Brushing the hair from his eyes, he took a fresh grip on the reins and advanced cautiously. As he neared the barricade, he saw movement. Leaves quivered. A twig snapped. He pivoted his mount and prepared to bolt. He was a good rider—fast and agile. His horse was a well-bred three-year-old, and once she was spurred, no one would catch them. He tensed in the saddle and leaned forward, preparing for the lurch, but the sight of imperial uniforms stopped him.

A pair of soldiers trudged to the road from the trees and grudgingly peered at him with the dull expression common to foot soldiers. They were dressed in red tabards emblazoned with the crest of Sir Breckton’s command. As they approached, the larger one chewed a stalk of rye while the smaller man licked his fingers and wiped them on his uniform.

“You had me worried,” the rider said with a mix of relief and irritation. “I thought you were highwaymen.”

The smaller one smiled. He took little care with his uniform. Two shoulder straps were unfastened, causing the leather tongues to stand up like tiny wings on his shoulders. “Did ya hear that, Will? He thoughts we was thieves. Not a bad idea, eh? We should cut us some purses—charge a toll, as it were. At least we’d make a bit o’ coin standin’ out here all day. Course Breckton would skin us alive if’n he heard.”

The taller soldier, most likely a half-wit mute, nodded in silent agreement. At least he wore his uniform smartly. It fit him better and he took the time to fasten everything properly. Both uniforms were rumpled and stained from sleeping outdoors, but such was the life of an infantryman—one of the many reasons he preferred being a courier.

“Clear this mess. I have an urgent dispatch. I need to get through to the imperial army command at once.”

“Here now, we’ve orders too, ya know? We’re not to let anyone pass,” the smaller said.

“I’m an imperial courier, you fool!”

“Oh,” the sentry responded with all the acumen of a wooden post. He glanced briefly at his partner, who maintained his dim expression. “Well, that’s a different set of apples, now ain’t it?” He petted the horse’s neck. “That would explain the lather you’ve put on this here girl, eh? She looks like she could use a drink. We got a bucket and there’s a little stream just over—”

“I’ve no time for that. Just get that pile out of the road and be quick about it.”

“Certainly, certainly. You don’t have to be so rough. Just tell us the watchword, and Will and me, we’ll haul it outta yer way right fast,” he said as he dug for something caught in his teeth.

“Watchword?”

The soldier nodded. He pulled his finger out and sniffed at something with a sour look before giving it a flick. “You know, the password. We can’t be lettin’ no spies through here. There’s a war on, after all.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. I wasn’t informed of any password.”

“No?” The smaller soldier raised an eyebrow as he took hold of the horse’s bridle.

“I spoke to the regents themselves, and I—”

The larger of the two pulled him from his horse. He landed on his back, hitting the ground hard and banging his head. A jolt of pain momentarily blinded him. When he opened his eyes, he found the soldier straddling him with a blade to his throat.

“Who do you work for?” the large sentry growled.

“Whatcha doin’, Will?” the smaller one asked, still holding his horse.

“Tryin’ to get this spy to talk, that’s what.”

“I—I’m not a spy. I’m an imperial courier. Let me go!”

“Will, our orders says nothin’ about interrogatin’ them. If’n they don’t know the watchword, we cuts they’s throats and tosses them in the river. Sir Breckton don’t have time to deal with every fool we get on this here road. Besides, who ya think he works for? The only ones fightin’ us is Melengar, so he works for Melengar. Now slit his throat and I’ll help you drag him to the river as soon as I ties up this here horse.”

“But I
am
a courier!” he shouted.

“Sure ya is.”

“I can prove it. I have dispatches for Sir Breckton in the saddlebag.”

The two soldiers exchanged dubious looks. The smaller one shrugged. He reached into the horse’s bags and proceeded
to search. He pulled out a leather satchel containing a wax-sealed parchment, and breaking the seal, he examined it.

“Well, if’n that don’t beat all. Looks like he’s tellin’ the truth, Will. This here looks like a real genuine dispatch for His Lordship.”

“Oh?” the other asked as worry crossed his face.

“Sure looks that way. Better let him up.”

His face downcast, the soldier sheathed his weapon and extended a hand to help the courier to his feet. “Ah—sorry about that. We were just followin’ orders, ya know?”

“When Sir Breckton sees this broken seal, he’ll have your heads!” the courier said, shoving past the large sentry and snatching the document from the other.

“Us?” The smaller one laughed. “Like Will here said, we was just followin’ his orders. You were the one who failed to get the watchword afore ridin’ here. Sir Breckton, he’s a stickler for rules. He don’t like it when his orders ain’t followed. Course ya’ll most likely only lose a hand or maybe an ear fer yer mistake. If’n I was you, I’d see if’n I could heat the wax up enough to reseal it.”

“That would ruin the impression.”

“Ya could say it was hot and, what with the sun on the pouch all day, the wax melted in the saddlebag. Better than losin’ a hand or an ear, I says. Besides, busy nobles like Breckton ain’t gonna study the seal afore openin’ an urgent dispatch, but he will notice if’n the seal is broken. That’s fer sure.”

The courier looked at the document flapping in the breeze and felt his stomach churn. He had no choice, but he would not do it here with these idiots watching. He remounted his horse.

“Clear the road!” he barked.

The two soldiers dragged the branches aside. He kicked his horse and raced her up the road.

Royce watched the courier ride out of sight before taking off his imperial uniform. Turning to face Hadrian, he said, “Well, that wasn’t so hard.”

“Will?” Hadrian asked as the two slipped into the forest.

Royce nodded. “Remember yesterday you complained that you’d rather be an actor? I was giving you a part: Will, the Imperial Checkpoint Sentry. I thought you did rather well with the role.”

“You know, you don’t need to mock
all
my ideas.” Hadrian frowned as he pulled his own tabard over his head. “Besides, I still think we should consider it. We could travel from town to town performing in dramatic plays, even a few comedies.” Hadrian gave his smaller partner an appraising look. “Though maybe you should stick to drama—perhaps tragedies.”

Royce glared back.

“What? I think I would make a superb actor. I see myself as a dashing leading man. We could definitely land parts in
The Crown Conspiracy.
I’ll play the handsome swordsman that fights the villain, and you—well, you can be the other one.”

They dodged branches while pulling off their coifs and gloves, rolling them in their tabards. Walking downhill, they reached one of the many small rivers that fed the great Galewyr. Here they found their horses still tied and enjoying the river grass. The animals lazily swished their tails, keeping the flies at bay. “You worry me sometimes, Hadrian. You really do.”

“Why not actors? It’s safe. Might even be fun.”

“It would be neither safe nor fun. Besides, actors have to travel and I’m content with the way things are. I get to stay near Gwen,” Royce added.

“See, that’s another reason. Why not find another line of
work? Honestly, if I had what you do, I would never take another job.”

Royce removed a pair of boots from a saddlebag. “We do it because it’s what we’re good at, and with the war, Alric is willing to pay top fees for information.”

Hadrian released a sarcastic snort. “Sure, top fees for us, but what about the other costs? Breckton might work for that idiot Ballentyne, but he’s no fool himself. He’ll certainly look at the seal and won’t buy the story about it softening in the saddlebag.”

“I know,” Royce began as he sat on a log, exchanging the imperial boots for his own, “but after telling one lie, his second tale about sentries breaking the seal will sound even more outlandish, so they won’t believe anything he says.”