Shadow’s Lure (22 page)

A furious seed of anger bloomed in Josey’s belly. Border problems were nothing new; she’d heard her foster father speak of them since she was a little girl. But an attack against her peacekeepers was unacceptable.

“I want all patrols doubled,” she said. “The same with the guards at all posts throughout the city.”

“For how long, Majesty?”

“For as long as it takes to get my city under control, Lord Chancellor.”

“That will be an expensive undertaking.”

She threw up her hands. “Has the realm suddenly become impoverished?”

“No, but—”

“I have every confidence in you.” A thought occurred to her. “If we’re short of money, go to the merchants. They’ll suffer the most if crime and injustice run rampant.”

“I suppose we can try.”

Throughout the exchange, Hirsch had volunteered nothing. It was a little unnerving. Josey started to say something to the adept, but a sound from outside caught her attention. Above the clack of the team’s hooves, a susurrus had arisen. She pushed aside the lace curtains, and a bracing gust of wind blew through her hair. Candles glowed in the windows facing the Processional. This was her favorite time of year. Soon there would be snow on the streets and rooftops, converting the entire city into a winter paradise.

Something flew past the window. Josey tumbled back into her seat as it thudded against the side of the cabin. At the same time, her brain registered the speeding object. A melon, thrown at the carriage. Someone had tried to hit her!

She peered out the window. A crowd of people lined the street beyond the pikes of her mounted bodyguards. Josey started to wave until she heard the chant coming from the mouths of her subjects.

“The empire is dead! Long live the Church!”

Josey froze, stricken by the words. Then she saw a picture scrawled on the side of the building above the crowd, of a woman wearing a crown, and beside her was drawn a downward facing hook like a claw. The demon’s horn, the mark of a blasphemer condemned by the True Church to eternal exile in this world and the next. Hubert took Josey by the arm and eased her back into the seat. She was numb. It was like a horrible nightmare.

Hubert closed the curtain. “I told you it was a bad idea to venture out tonight, Majesty, but you insisted.” He smiled when she glared at him. “The people are a rambunctious lot. They just require time to get to know you better.”

“They
hate
me.”

“Nonsense. They simply don’t understand the complexities of governing. In time, they will come to love you as their imperial matron.”

Josey wasn’t sure she liked the idea of being anyone’s matron, nor did she enjoy the professorial tone Hubert had adopted, but she got his point.

“It’s the Church, isn’t it? I’ve deposed them and now they’re turning the people against me.”

Hubert made a face like he was biting into something sour. “There have been reports of priests giving sermons against Your Majesty’s reign.”

“What are they saying?”

“The actual wording is not impor—”

She stared at him.

“Some have threatened the Prophet’s wrath upon those who support the …” He cleared his throat. “The ‘usurper-whore.’”

Josey sat back in her seat. She pinched the back of her hand to keep the sting in her eyes at bay. The carriage swayed as it slowed to a halt. Apprehension gripped Josey for a moment until the footmen jumped down from the roof and she realized they had reached their destination. Hubert stepped out first as the door opened, and he turned to offer her a hand.

As she climbed down from the carriage, Josey pushed aside her sadness and allowed a ribbon of excitement to flutter in her belly. She hadn’t been to the Kravoy Theater in years, but it was every bit as impressive as she remembered. Flambeaux flickered in the scores of arched windows piercing the massive circular wall. The Kravoy had been built during the height of the empire, when art and culture flourished. Hoping to foster such a revival during her reign, Josey had commissioned a season of performances.

A multitude of people awaited her. When Josey emerged holding her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders, they surged forward as far as her line of bodyguards would allow. Here, at least, the reception was mixed. For every catcall issued from the throng, a hearty “Hail to the empress!” resounded.

A loud grunt from behind her ruined the moment for Josey. She turned as Hirsch, standing on the top step of the ladder, craned his neck to survey the theater.

“This will not do,” the adept said over the crowd. “Not at all.”

The carriage rocked as the adept clambered down the steps. He looked around as if he couldn’t find the gate, which was right in front of them, festooned with bouquets of fresh flowers.

Josey swallowed the smile that wanted to play upon her lips. “You do not enjoy the theater, Master Hirsch?”

“You cannot enter this … place.” Hirsch scowled at the theater. “No, no. I forbid it!”

All jocularity dropped from Josey’s mood. Gasps erupted from the nearest citizens, and Hubert’s mouth fell open.

Josey frowned. “Master Hirsch, I do not like your—”

But he rode over her words with another grunt. “It’s too big. Impossible to defend. Why, it fairly begs anyone in the vicinity to attempt any manner of larceny. No, no. This is out of the question. We must leave at once.”

“
We
are not leaving,” she said. “But
you
are. Captain Drathan!”

The leader of her bodyguards stepped up and made a sharp salute.

“Escort Master Hirsch back to the palace, Captain. And confine him to the guest wing.”

The officer gestured for a pair of his men to come forward as he turned to the adept.

Hirsch stared at Josey. “So be it. I wash my hands of this evening’s fiasco.”

With another grunt, he walked away. Josey watched them depart, the adept leading the soldiers away into the night. Was she making the right decision? She twisted the imperial signet around her finger, feeling its weight. She couldn’t back down now. Josey glanced around at the faces surrounding her. Her subjects.
I must lead with strength, not weakness
.

Josey turned to Hubert, who had watched the exchange with a frown. He clearly wanted to say something, but wisely did not. She hooked his elbow before he could change his mind, and they entered the theater arm in arm.

The atrium was a tribute to the imperial age of Nimea, with a massive colonnade supporting the ceiling five stories above their heads. Luxurious fresco murals of the city provided the backdrop for the scads of attendees who lined the walls as she passed. Josey waved and nodded to everyone as if this was the grandest moment of her life. In a way it was. Since taking the throne, she had seen more of the inside of her palace than of the city beyond its walls. She knew less of her people—their habits and preferences—than she cared to admit. Of all the things Caim had shown her in their time together, it was that the city, and the entire country, consisted of more than just nobles and prefects and exarches, that the lifeblood of her realm were the common men and women who toiled every day to provide for their families.

Caim. There he was again, infiltrating her thoughts even though he was a thousand leagues away. Did he ever think of her? Josey shoved aside the wistful feelings and concentrated on her presentation, her walk, her wave—all the things Hubert had drilled into her during their long preparation. She thought she was doing pretty well until she caught his glare out of the corner of her eye.

“Rarm dun,” he murmured under his breath. “Rarm dun!”

She frowned, and then noticed her arm swaying above her head.
Arm down!
She pulled her hand back down beside her face, waving from the wrist.
Turn and wave to the other side. Now nod, but not too much
. Like a pair of dancers, they crossed the atrium and went up a flight of carpeted stairs to the balcony level. An usher bowed low before leading them into the imperial box.

Josey settled into the center seat, which was fashioned into a miniature throne, but was more comfortable.
Thank heaven
. Hubert took her cloak and hung it on a hook while four bodyguards took up positions, two inside the box’s curtained entrance and two outside. While listening to the strains of the orchestra tuning up, Josey looked around. The imperial box was the highest seat in the house, directly before the stage. Lesser boxes fanned out to either side. Many of their occupants turned her way. Her gaze swept across the men and women in formal attire as Hubert, sitting at her right side, pointed out a few he thought she should know.

“There is Lord Rodney, the Viscount of Wessenax, with a young woman who is
not
his wife. And in the next box over is Percival Heinley. His family isn’t noble, but he’s one of the richest men in the kingdom. Inherited a string of silver mines from his father. Now
there
was a true bastard in every sense of the word, though it’s said he had a fine eye for horseflesh.”

While Hubert ran through the litany of names and ranks, Josey leaned over the balustrade. Numerous alcoves surrounded the floor beneath the box seats. Aisles ran from these recesses down to the main seating. Besides the alcoves, there were exits on both sides of the stage. She estimated there were four hundred people in the audience below. She ought to have felt safe. Instead, a bud of anxiety was lodged in her bosom.

A pair of familiar faces in a box across the theater caught her attention. Lord Du’Quendel and Lieutenant Walthom sat with a pack of other young men in military uniform. Before she could look away and pretend she hadn’t seen them, Walthom stood up and made a formal bow in her direction. Lord Du’Quendel hastily did likewise. She started to raise her hand out of habit.
Oh heaven, Josey. Don’t encourage them!

She settled for a polite nod instead.

“Hubert, have those levies been raised to send west?”

“They are being assembled as we speak, Majesty.”

“Put Lord Du’Quendel in charge of the expedition.”

“Du’Quendel? I don’t believe he has any military experience.”

“Humor me. The generals can run the show, but I want Lord Du’Quendel on his way the first thing tomorrow morning. And send Lieutenant Walthom’s unit as well.”

“As you command.” Hubert pointed to the box on their left. “I see Duke Mormaer has decided to attend this evening.”

Glad for the distraction, Josey followed his gesture to the next box, where the Duke of Wistros was sitting down with an elderly matron.

“Let me guess,” she said. “That’s not his wife, either.”

“No. I haven’t any idea who she is. I’m certain his mother is passed. Possibly an aunt or some other relative. Odd, though. Mormaer isn’t a regular attendee of the theater. In fact, to my knowledge Mormaer hasn’t attended a production in years, but he turns up here tonight.”

Josey resumed her study of the seats below. Armed soldiers walked among the patrons. “Perhaps he holds the same contrary opinion of my attendance as you and hopes to see me pelted with rotten fruit.”

Hubert turned to her, his brow pinched together. “You’re up to something.”

Josey gave him a bland look. “What do you mean? I’m simply enjoying this, my first night out of that drafty stone shack you call a palace. In peace, if it pleases you, my lord.”

“You’ve set a trap!” He leaned so close his nose bumped into her ear. “You’re using yourself as bait to draw out the assassin, and Mormaer is in on it.”

“Keep your voice down.”

Josey grimaced as she glanced over her shoulder at her guards. This was the moment she’d been dreading. Hubert’s face was a stiff mask, but she could see the anger bubbling underneath. More than that, there was true resentment. She didn’t blame him. That had been the hardest part of the plan for her to accept. But Mormaer had sworn her to secrecy; it was the only way he would assist her. Now, with Hubert sitting beside her, wounded, she wished she had insisted on the need to include him.

“It was Mormaer’s idea. He came up with a plan to catch my attacker. The fewer people who knew …”

“Fewer meaning not your lord chancellor. Who else knows?”

“Only those who must. We don’t know anything about the assassin. He could be masquerading as anyone.”

“Am I a suspect, too?”

Josey met him frown for frown. “If you were, you would be sitting in a very cold cell right now, and not here beside me. I trust you, Hubert, even with my life. If this fails, you are my last line of protection.”

“Majesty, I cannot protect you if I am not informed—”

A voice called from the hallway behind them. Josey rose as the curtain dividing the back of the box was pulled aside. Lady Philomena stood in the doorway. She wore a long indigo gown that personified her. Plain, but expensive.

The lady made a small curtsy, so small that Josey almost missed it. Josey bent her head to precisely the same degree.

Hubert made a bow. “I was not aware Your Ladyship enjoyed the theater.”

“I do not.” She looked to Josey. “I enjoy nothing which distracts me from the grandeurs of the Prophet. But I have come at the prelate’s behest, to relate His Holiness’s relief that the empress survived the cowardly attempt on her life and our sincere wish that this event will bring Her Highness to a closer relationship with the Church, which is the true source of authority.”