William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Below was a fleet that could destroy the Republic, and he alone could bring warning of it.

He finally pulled back on the stick, sending his aerosteamer up toward the clouds. He could only hope for a fair wind that would help to carry him home.

The night was fetid with the oppressive heat of summer. The poor quarter of the city, as always, stank of unwashed bodies, rotting food, refuse, excrement, and a moldy, musty smell that seemed to cling to poverty no matter what the race, be they human or Kazan.

Hazin, flanked by his escort, negotiated the narrow twisting alleyways that led from his temple to the base of the Qutiva, the hill of the Imperial presence. The temples of his order, at least those in the cities of the empire, were always built in the poorest quarters, for it was thence that so many novitiates came. Desperation guided them to seek salvation, no matter what price was required.

The Green Gate, so named for its sheathing of pale green marble, came into view. The alleyway spilled into the Processional Way, the great boulevard that was the main axis of the city, running from the Qutiva down to the harbor, half a league below.

Looking to the south as he stepped out on to the main avenue, he could see the flickering lights of the Red fleet riding at anchor. The great ships of the line were festooned with hundreds of lanterns in celebration of the victory. The entire city was thus decorated, though Hazin knew that the celebration was not so much one of joy but of relief for having been spared yet another battle, for when emperors fall there is always a battle and, at times, a massacre. The mob that had only weeks before been so supportive of Hanaga were now relieved by the news that he was dead.

At Hazin’s approach, the crowds clogging the Processional Way parted, drawing back with averted eyes and bows. A few made subtle gestures to ward off the darkness or clutched the amulets of rival cults.

The guards flanking the open portals of the Green Gate offered the usual salute at his approach, but then one of them stepped before his standard bearer, demanding identification. Hazin stood in silent rage as an assistant fumbled in his haversack for the necessary papers bearing the Imperial Seal.

“I see here only a request for the presence of Grand Master Hazin Vaka,” the commander of the guard announced, “nothing concerning an honorary escort.”

A scene now ensued, the argument dragging on for several minutes. The assistant indignantly argued that no master should walk without an escort. The commander of the guard replying that the imperial escort was sufficient. It was obvious what was being played out, and finally Hazin stepped forward.

“Ilvani, wait here,” Hazin said softly. He fixed the captain with his gaze. “Your name.”

“Ragna, captain of the Green Gate”-he hesitated the briefest of moments-“Your Holiness.”

“You will be in my thoughts, Ragna,” Hazin replied with a cool smile, and the captain, though trying to maintain a calm exterior, blinked, eyes lowering.

Hazin smiled. This one knew he was dead, orders or no orders from the emperor. The touch of a courtesan armed with a finger needle that would barely scratch the skin would be enough, or a powder slipped into a tavern drink. Wait awhile, though, let him contemplate, let him learn fear, then manifest the fear before killing him.

Imperial guards flanked him. There was no chair waiting, and he said nothing. The approach to the palace zigzagged up the steep hill, passing the villas of the lesser nobles, court officials, who now anxiously awaited their fate with a new emperor of the throne, and chosen consorts of the bed chamber, the place of each palace on that hill in direct relationship to their favor or disfavor of the moment. At each turn gun positions were cunningly laid out, often concealed behind finely wrought stonework, or small pleasure gardens, guards barely visible in recessed alcoves. The muzzle of a land cruiser was barely visible, hidden inside a stone arched stable. Several light fieldpieces, ready to be rolled out at an instant’s notice, were parked in a courtyard.

The place had been a fortress only a month ago, manned by ten thousand of the elite imperial assault troops. They had sworn allegiance to the new emperor without a moment’s pause, for what was the use of dying for someone who was dead? They were gone now, back to their barracks on the far side of the island. All that was left were the Imperial Guard-gilded fools in Hazin’s eyes. A hundred of his Shiv could take them in an hour if he so desired.

Turning the final corner of the Processional Way, he was disgusted to see that the inner gate was closed. Nor was there a banner of the Order displayed to mark his arrival. This outrageous oversight caused him to again look at the captain, who stood impassive, except for a slight twitching of his jaw.

The gate finally swung open, and he passed beneath the archway and into the outer courtyard, where a chamberlain, a gelded one, awaited and silently pointed the way, a whiff of costly perfume trailing in his wake.

They passed through the outer audience chamber, where the ceremonial holding of judgments took place on the first day of the new moons, a ritual harkening back across thousands of years when the emperor was no more than a rude clan elder in a felt tent. It was nothing more than a farce play now, already scripted as to who would be sent to the circle and who would leave with hide still intact.

At last the meandering tour through the outer rings of the palace, past cautious observers and whispering nobility, gave way to the inner circle, the private domain of Emperor Yasim. The chamberlain opened the door, then stepped backward, eyes averted.

Hazin strode in.

Yasim was alone, standing on a veil-draped balcony, goblet in hand, back turned. Hazin knew that the room was double walled, cunningly designed and inspected daily by the chamberlain so that no eunuch of the court could get close enough to eavesdrop on what was being said.

Hazin did the proper bow, right hand touching the floor.

“A drink to refresh you, Hazin.”

His voice was relaxed, betraying the slightest touch of the narcotic malva, a perceptive sniff of the air catching its pungent scent. Hazin looked over to a side table. A few light snacks were arranged, fresh slivers of meat, clean goblets of wine, and fermented milk.

As he took an empty goblet, he quickly looked for any abrasions, or slick spots that might indicate dried poison. It was a tiresome game and he doubted the emperor would ever be so direct, but a lifetime of training always prevailed.

Years of slowly increasing self-administered doses of most of the common and several of the preferred uncommon poisons had built a certain immunity. Combined with the oils he had drunk prior to coming here, he should be proof against a clumsy effort by anyone other than the emperor who might make the attempt and thus hope to pin blame on the imperial household.

He took several slivers of raw meat, poured a few ounces of blood, and stepped out onto the veranda.

A cooling breeze was coming down off the mountain, sweeping away the choking heat and stench of the summer’s day.

“You are well?”

“Yes, sire.”

Yasim turned, cool eyes appraising as Hazin sipped his drink.

“Frankly, it is a surprise to see you alive.”

Hazin smiled.

“My last communication with your Grand Master, or should I say your late, lamented Grand Master, was most interesting.”

“Please enlighten me, sire.”

“The cost of my victory at Ra was dear, very dear.” Hazin wanted to laugh. “My victory…” It was the Order that had given him victory. This fool had simply footed the bill. Fifteen assassinations, the turning of the Greens through the threat of a genocidal attack on their families and, above all else, the death of Hanaga, which had cost more than anyone had ever been willing to pay.