Sterling (20 page)

I
rode
through Shankar’s busy streets to the garrison. As soon as the building came into sight, I knew. The same eerie silence that permeated the Manor grounds ruled here, in marked contrast to the bustle in the city beyond.

Dear gods, Costas couldn’t have taken them all?
My heart raced as I tore up the garrison steps. What if he had? What did he care if Shankar fell? We’d betrayed him.

I shook my head, stunned, in the garrison foyer. No one on guard? Even Costas would not do this. He wouldn’t want Shankar to fall to the Imperial Army; it would leave Murana, a Galatien city, too vulnerable. It would mean Imperials on his soil.

“Hello?” I called into the garrison.

Military footsteps snapped down the stairs. Thank Amassis! I didn’t recognize the Galatien Guard who glowered at me.

“Lieutenant Lessin?” I asked. “Is he here?”

“He left this morning, Lady Ricknagel, summoned north by the King.”

“How many?” I blurted. “How many troops did he take with him?”

“Half the garrison accompanied him.”

“Half?” I almost shrieked. “Half! But what about Shankar? What about a sea attack?”

The soldier studied me from the neck down, averting his gaze from my mark. “Shankar is not at risk. Do not fear, my lady.”

I wasn’t afraid. I was furious. Their intelligence didn’t extend all the way to Vorisipor, damn the gods! They couldn’t know one way or another if the troops in Vorisipor were moving. No one could.

I clenched my hands in my riding habit. “This is folly. There are ten thousand or more enemy troops in the city of Vorisipor. They could sail at any time and arrive in Shankar’s waters in a matter of days.”

“The entire existing Lethemian fleet lies arrayed in the Parting Sea to prevent such an attack, my lady. Please, go home. We are too busy to assuage your unfounded fears. I’ll send you home with an escort if it will ease your panic.”

“That will not be necessary.”

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps I overreacted, but my gut told me otherwise.

Papa had been dealing with the Governor of Vorisipor for years. They’d trusted one another, so far as two such men could, though it had infuriated King Mydon Galatien, Costas’s father, that Papa had parleyed with an Imperial. I did not know exactly what arrangements Papa and the Governor had made, but their parleys had made Shankar—and Lethemia—a safer place. Papa had secured our border without battle or bloodshed.

But the Vorisipor situation had always been delicate and fraught with difficulties. Papa had prepared carefully for his journeys there. Normally, he had always faced his troubles directly, but when going to Vorisipor, he’d put on a different face. He’d become someone he was not, sleek and slippery as an eel. He’d return from Vorisipor expelling great sighs, as though to relieve pent distress, like a man saved at the last minute from the gallows.

On those trips to the Empire, Papa had negotiated treaties which prevented the Governor of Vorisipor from attacking Shankar, and these enduring arrangements
should
hold the Vorisipor fleet at bay—but only if the Governor held to them even after Papa’s death. Only Papa had known the actual terms of the agreements—a required secrecy as House Galatien had forbidden him from parlaying with the Empire at all.

Did the Governor of Vorispor know of Papa’s demise? Did my father’s death invalidate their agreements? I couldn’t imagine Papa not making provision for such an occurrence. He had been a thorough man. He would have worded any treaty carefully to protect Shankar—and me—in the event of his death.

Treaties can be broken.
Serafina’s words when she had heard of Papa’s arrangements beat at my mind. She had never trusted the Imperials. Indeed, she had thought them the more likely culprits in Stesichore’s assassination, but she had no proof for such a theory, and she had hated the Governor of Vorisipor for personal reasons. I had thought her too biased to believe.

But now, I wondered. Perhaps the Imperials
had
orchestrated Stesichore’s death to foment civil war between Papa and the Galatiens, to bring Lethemia to this very moment: weak and under threat from the Empire. Gods in Amaranth!

It was my responsibility as Head of House Ricknagel to remind the Governor of Vorisipor of his treaty with Papa. I could do little for Lethemia, weak and helpless as I was, but I could at least send a letter to the Governor, letting him know that I was aware of the agreements and that I expected him to uphold them.

I threw my horse’s reins at the Galatien groom as I arrived home and dashed back to the map in Papa’s salon. I moved the Lethemian markers to reflect the new arrangement: so few men in Shankar. My stomach clenched. By taking troops from Shankar, Costas would have enough men to face the approaching onslaught from the Empire at Orvia.

I’d forgotten about the Imperial troops in Muscan, a mere day’s ride from Shankar! Acid boiled up my throat. The Imperial Army often moved on many fronts at once. If they did not send their Muscan troops at Shankar as soon as they discovered that Costas had called the majority of my men north, they’d be stupid, and the Imperials were by no means novices at warfare. Any Vhimsantese emperor felt a failure if he did not conquer at least one neighboring domain in his tenure.

Costas Galatien was no military fool, though. Everyone boasted of his brilliance in that domain.

But Papa beat him.

Another thought struck me
:
Costas had been trained to strategize with magic on his side. How would he fare without it?

I leaned over the map, pulling at my hair.
What would Papa do?
How I wished he were here! A wayward tear fell, leaving a wet circle on the map.

I needed to know the specifics of Papa’s arrangement with the Governor of Vorisipor. That knowledge could relieve me of my worries or transform this situation into a catastrophe.

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and pushed off the table. Where would Papa have kept records of such meetings?

“Sterling? Where have you been? I waited almost an hour.” Erich entered the room, wearing his fencing breeches and a tight-fitting shirt.

“Oh! I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Erich scowled. “You forgot about me?” He looked down at the map over which I hovered.

His face transformed as he eyed the positions of the enemy troops and Costas’s men. “Is this real?”

I nodded. “Half our troops left Shankar this morning.”

“My Talatan men. They’ve also already ridden north?”

“I can only imagine so. I came from the garrison. They say Shankar is not in danger.” I pointed to the Imperial markers near the border at Orvia. “Costas rides to meet this group.”

Erich indicated Muscan. “How far away is that?”

“A little over a day’s ride.”

His eyes tracked south to Vorisipor. “Hells of Amatos! Costas is sacrificing Shankar.”

I stared at Erich. “But—but—” I halted, trying to gather myself. “How can he? If Shankar falls, how will he protect Murana?”

Erich smiled grimly. “Here’s what you don’t know.” He reached for some spare markers and counted out three red ones, placing them over Murana. “My mother sent most of her troops here.” He placed more markers. “So did Lord Jaasir Amar.”

I studied the reorganized map, wishing it would show me different facts. “But even with those Lethemian troops in Murana, if the Imperials take Shankar, who knows how many enemy troops will flood in here? He’ll give them a doorway to the whole country!”

Erich shook his head. “Look.” He moved Imperial troops into Shankar, removing the few Lethemian markers. “Costas saw their ploy. They wanted him to remove men from Shankar. That’s
why
they sent so many to the border near Orvia. He gladly walked into their trap. The Imperial troops from Muscan will move in quickly, and so will a fleet from Vorisipor.” Erich moved even more enemy markers into Shankar. “Costas will let them. Our ships will let them pass, staying hidden. In the meantime, Costas will defeat the invasion at Orvia. As soon as the Imperials settle at Shankar, Costas and his men will come down from the north, running along the border to close it. Our ships will attack Imperial-held Shankar by sea, while the Imperial ships are in harbor and vulnerable. Lethemian troops will march on Shankar from the west, from Murana. The Imperials in Shankar will be surrounded, and Costas will retake the city.” Erich moved all the markers to show the final outcome, a resounding Lethemian victory.

“But at what cost!” I gestured at the discarded markers from the Imperial sacking of Shankar. “Those are his men!”

“Ricknagel men, I’d bet my life on it,” Erich said.

“But—” The nastiness of it flummoxed me. We’d surrendered. We’d repented. I’d shamed myself and groveled. I’d handed those men over to him, won their trust for him, and offered them up like sacrificial lambs. And Costas had done it all on purpose, with a plan in mind: to punish me—as if stripping me of all my dignity and fortune weren’t enough. He had to rub my face in it and leave me dripping in guilt.

“I cannot allow this,” I said. I swept my forearm across the map, sending all the markers crashing to the floor.

“It’s already happening.” Erich ignored my tantrum. “We must leave the city before those Imperials from Muscan arrive.”

“What?” I almost screamed. “You think I could
leave?
Those are my father’s men! This is my city! The citizens—I am the Head of House Ricknagel. I refuse to run! It would make their lives meaningless.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This city is going to fall, and it is going to fall hard. We have to leave. Now.”

“No!” I glared down at the mess I’d made. “I’ve been stupid from the start. I’ve let everyone sway me. Not this time. I will not abandon my city. It isn’t fair. My father’s men have only been loyal. They’ve done nothing wrong. I cannot leave them here to be ambushed.”

“Sterling,” Erich said sharply. “The Imperials are not known for their mercy or good treatment of women during war. You cannot stay. Your father’s men would not expect it. They would want you safe. You are the reason they fight. They would want to know you are protected.”

“I won’t do it.” I spun and darted from the salon.

I tore into my room, slamming the door and turning the lock lest Erich follow. Then I leaned against the door. The enormity of the situation appalled me. Costas had left Shankar to fall. Imperial troops rode towards us from the east; their ships sailed from the south.
What if we all left
? I could ride back to the garrison and command the remaining men to follow me west on the coastal road, send runners into the city to order an evacuation. We could ride for Murana and a defensible position with the other troops stationed there.

But Costas had left commanders at the garrison who would not heed orders from me. Likely the soldiers would not either.

I paced my room. The bed’s coverlet was pulled tight and smooth; my nightclothes hung from their hook. My vanity was arranged, my jewel box, organized. I liked the order; normally it settled my mind. But nothing could soothe my current agitation. I pulled out the Emerald Ophira, rubbing it against my cheek.

Still my thoughts raced. Was the garrison bracing for a battle, or would they simply surrender? I would have returned to the stables, but my memory of the garrison commander’s unrelenting face stymied me. That stern man would not confide in me. But in good conscience, I had to do something. The soldiers who remained in Shankar were my father’s men, now mine.

I unbuttoned my riding habit and found the dress Erich had procured for me in Galantia, Stesi’s dress, Ricknagel blue. The temptation to make up my face taunted. The little cosmetic bottle sat on my vanity, screaming for use. But Sterling Ricknagel had a red mark on her face. Everyone knew it, and they expected to see it.

I carefully tucked the Emerald Ophira into my jewel box, locked the box, and put it in my wardrobe safebox.

I half-expected to find Erich lurking in the hallway. He wasn’t in Papa’s salon, either, nor in the foyer or anywhere en route to the stables.
Had he already departed?
My stomach lurched. I wished he would stay with me, though I had no excuse for the exorbitant expectation. House Talata’s heir had other duties, and particularly, he had the duty to stay alive.

“My lady! My lady!” I whirled on the path to the stables. I did not recognize the young man who approached, waving an envelope. “Lady Sterling Ricknagel?” He wore the standard postal uniform, a brown coat with a matching cap. “I have an urgent letter for Lady Ricknagel.”

I took the envelope as he bowed, his gaze glancing off my mark. No need for further identification. “Thank you,” I said. “From where have you come?”

“The port, my lady.”

“You need to get out of the city. We’re going to be attacked.”

He bowed smartly and nodded; he did not look surprised. “I’ll be on my way then.”

The envelope had an unfamiliar seal in black wax, though the paper was thick and expensive. I broke the seal and unfolded the page.

To the Lady of House Ricknagel of the Warrior Sigil
, I read—a strange and formal opening.