Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) Page 18

  But the prince would have none of it. “We move today, or I throw you out of this fortress. I am tired of having your sniveling southern ways lead me to weakness. We will strike, and I will kill my father and become king. That is what will happen. And it will happen today!”

  Corbus gestured at the prince to keep his voice down. “Very well, Lokus, if that is what you wish. But please don’t alert the entire citadel to it before we strike. Let us gather our men. We can take the king in his throne room while he eats.”

  The prince nodded, rubbing his hands together in glee.

  “You go get your men,” Corbus said. “I shall go get your equipment and gather up other supporters on the way back.”

  Lokus nodded in quick assent, turned, and ran down the hallway.

  In a flat-out sprint, Corbus raced to the nearest fløte station. The bell rang discordantly as he yanked on the call cord. When the car arrived, he tipped the operator extra to move at his fastest speed. The operator complied, the wind of their passage flowing over Corbus as the vessel swept gracefully through the inky darkness.

  “Wait here,” he told the operator when they stopped. He ran to his quarters, pulling a key from under his shirt as he crossed to a chest at the back of the room. Unlocking it, he threw the lid back and pulled out a handful of vials and several blades, delicately storing each item in its proper place on his utility belt. Finally he gave his sword a once-over with his whetstone. Just right, he decided, testing the edge with his thumb.

  Gods, he hated it when things were rushed. There was something not right about speeding through such a momentous event. It is supposed to be months in the planning, not a week and a half! he thought, hefting a knapsack before closing the trunk lid. He made sure he had everything.

  Weapons? Check.

  Armor? Check.

  Nasty surprises no one sees coming?

  Check.

  He turned and bolted from the room and back down the passageway to the waiting fløte, the large knapsack banging against his back. The operator looked surprised at the speed of his return. He had obviously been about to cast off.

  “Don’t leave without me,” Corbus said breathlessly as he directed the operator to a different destination. The man nodded, then activated the machine. It swung ponderously around again, the motion tossing Corbus against one of the support poles on the edge of the fløte’s platform. He gripped it tightly.

  Just one more stop.

  This time when he exited he told the man he would tip him well when he returned. The fløte had descended to a much lower level of the fortress, and Corbus walked out into a darker hallway smelling of must, yet with the murmur of muted conversation and the clink of glasses all around. Corbus stepped up to a certain doorway, knocked twice, then once, then three times. Instantly the door swung open. Several standard-looking Nortlanders, complete with the bushy beard and ruddy face, stared out at him.

  “The wolf howls at midnight.”

  “The pack bays for blood,” the shortest man replied.

  “It is time, my friends, much earlier than we thought. The prince has need of you. Will you answer the rightful king’s call?”

  The men knelt, saluting Corbus. “We are ready, Assassin.”

  He opened the knapsack and handed them the weapons he had gathered. “Use them only if necessary. Otherwise, use your own weapons.” They nodded, treating the small daggers with reverence. “Let’s go.”

  He led a dozen men back to the fløte. The operator appeared surprised at the large number of fully armed and armored men approaching his vessel, but he cast off at Corbus’s direction, and the vessel ascended. As promised, Corbus generously tipped the operator when they returned to the hallway where the prince now waited with his men.

  Corbus moved up close to Lokus to murmur, “My Liege, if I may say it, I still do not believe we are ready. We cannot take them yet. Next week perhaps, when the Romans are weaker and both Therodi and Laufas are in the field, we can take the citadel unaware.”

  The prince gazed back at him with eyes that burned in cold fury. “Tonight, my father shall die. And I shall be king. Laufas and Therodi shall either bend knee to me, or find themselves lacking knees and heads.”

  Corbus bowed his head in acknowledgement, then said, “May I see your weapons, My Lord? I wish to sharpen them for you before the attack, as only a master assassin such as myself knows how.”

  Lokus handed over his sword and his gauntlet claws—intricate and extraordinarily rare weapons; Corbus had never seen any others in existence. And this man treats them like common objects. Why, if I owned them . . . Despite such thoughts, Corbus matter-of-factly pulled his whetstone and, more surreptitiously, one of the tiny vials from his belt pouch. Lokus turned away, uninterested in such workaday procedures, and addressed his men. Taking advantage of their distraction, Corbus carefully uncorked the vial, tipped the contents onto a rag, and rubbed the rag over each of the five needle-sharp claws and the tip of the sword blade. No one will be recovering from that, even a man with the king’s famous iron constitution. He tucked whetstone and the rag-wrapped vial back into his pouch, and held the weapons out to Lokus.

  “Be very careful, my prince; a prick from these weapons will have dire consequences.” The man sheathed his sword and pulled the gloves on nonchalantly, as if ignoring the warning. Corbus nearly threw his hands up in exasperation.

  “Ready?” The usurper asked. His men nodded, grim-faced.

  Corbus, hand on the hilt of his own weapon, pulled the door open. The prince and his rebels stormed in. Corbus followed.

  Chapter 18

  Octavia

  Spilled roughly onto the red-carpeted floor of the throne room, Octavia drew a shaky breath and tried to gather her wits. The lump on her head was still pounding, and her empty stomach threatened to dry heave again. Thank goodness that murderer Corbus isn’t here, she thought as she looked around.

  The throne room of the Nortland king was relatively barren. Large stone columns, intricately carved in mythological scenes from Nortland’s past, supported heavy timber beams, some looking many hundreds of years old. It was all Octavia could do not to gawk in awe of the Nortlander artistry. She had been to the Imperial throne room in Rome, strode amongst the magnificent columns that graced it, but this dwarfed even that in scale. While not as refined, nor as gaudy, this throne room certainly had their more “civilized” neighbors beaten in the “terrifying and imposing” department.

  Octavia dragged her eyes down from the ceiling to the massive throne that stood on a stone dais at the center of the room. Sunlight filtered in from somewhere very high above, creating a field of shimmering light around the throne.

  Octavia rose shakily to her feet, her hands rubbing at her arms to try to bring some warmth to her body. Her other jacket had been so matted with blood and puke that her captors had burnt it. Her teeth chattered as she examined the immense throne.

  It was rumored to be pure copper, and the rumors appeared to be true. The massive construct was simple and smooth, a large square seat with two armrests and a headrest of hammered and engraved copper. Apart from the engraving, there was no further adornment, other than the furs thrown over the seat. Probably gets cold up there.

  A faint shuffle grabbed her attention. The two large guards behind her had straightened to stand ramrod straight, something relatively rare for these generally undisciplined barbarians. That fact alone made her take notice of the man who entered.

  He was swathed in fur and armor, save for his bald head, which shone like the copper throne in the diffuse overhead light. He needed no herald, no trumpet of announcement. This was the Copper King, his mighty lordship, first among equals, master of hammer and anvil, ruler of Midgard, Nortland, and assorted territories, frozen chief of the north and general pain in the Imperium’s side, His Majesty Gustavus Bismark II.
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br />   Regarding her with intense purple eyes, he approached Octavia calmly. His face betrayed no hint of anger or malice, nor any sign of warmth or curiosity. All Octavia could discern was the iron strength of his chill gaze. She lowered her eyes, but not her head, unable to maintain eye contact with such a man.

  “Are you afraid?” The voice was low, but melodic, like water burbling from the high mountains.

  “No, Your Majesty,” Octavia managed to whisper.

  “And why not? Your people have brought war to my country. I have seen it for myself.” A loud thump piqued Octavia’s curiosity enough to get her eyes up again. The king had placed his large copper hammer of state next to his throne, its head thudding against the solid stone. They really go all out with this whole “copper king” business, Octavia’s mind thought fleetingly.

  Gustavus’ voice pulled her back to reality. “Your legions have cut a bloody swath through my nation, and we have done naught to you. Perhaps you, Senatora, representative of our esteemed brother in Rome, could shed some light on why there is an army camped at my door.” He lowered himself into his seat.

  Octavia was stunned. How can he not know? Has no one told him? Have none of our envoys demanding he capture and turn over the prosecutors of the Brittenburg Incident been received? She voiced these thoughts.

  Now it was the king’s turn to be surprised. Or so Octavia thought, although the only indication of it was a slight narrowing of his eyes. If anything, his piercing stare became even more painful to look at.

  “You’re telling me that your entire Empire declared war on my nation because of a simple raid?” he said quietly in unaccented Latin.

  “It . . . it was far worse than a raid, Your Majesty,” Octavia replied unevenly. “Most of the city was destroyed, and there were reports of widespread rape, looting, and more done by the rebels you supported and your local forces.”

  “Pah!” He slammed his fist down on the throne, and Octavia swore she could feel the floor shake. The man half stood in anger. “I’ve never supported them. I cannot tell every single little whelp of a pissant lord with an airship and two dozen raiders that he can do this or can’t do that. I’d spend my entire life chasing them up and down the accursed peninsula!” Bismark bellowed at her. “I already executed that imbecile, if only just to get your army out of my country.” He glared at her, and Octavia involuntarily shrank back. “With that done, I shall go out and crush your army for being foolish enough to come here in the first place!”

  He sat back down in the chair, obviously seething with anger. After a few moments he visibly calmed himself, and slid open a hidden compartment in the arm of his throne. He fiddled with something, then directed his glare back at Octavia. “And I’m sure you got picked for this assignment because you’re stupid enough to think it was an honor, eh? Does Rome want a full-scale war? Is that why they send babies to negotiate? Do they have no honor?”

  Finally, Octavia felt her spine stiffen. “No, Your Majesty. You have not returned the other emissaries we’ve sent, alive or dead. So how are we to tell if you want peace when all signs point to war? And my name is Senatora Octavia Pelia, daughter of General Horatio Pelia. You knew him as an honorable opponent. He defeated you personally at the battle of Vilnus and your top generals in the Seven Woods War, and here you are accusing me, his own daughter, of being dishonorable? I think it is you, sir, who has no honor. You send spies and rabble-rousers to ferment trouble because you dare not face us on the field of battle, like men.”

  Octavia thought she had gone too far, but the king nodded in a peculiar, almost proud way. “Ah, I knew that you must be a daughter of the north. A daughter of the general? You must have been tough to live in that household. I once saw the man take the arm off an ulvkankisk in combat. I’ve never seen someone take apart one of our mechanical wolves in such a fashion.”

  Oh, a mecha-wolf, Octavia realized. That’s what they call them? Ulvkankisk?

  Bismark must have pressed some button or pulled some lever, because within a few minutes, the sound of chimes indicated more visitors to the great hall. A large door slid squeaking into a pocket in the wall, and a large party of warriors, servants, and what Octavia assumed were probably clerics entered the hall. The servants promptly began assembling a large dining table in the middle of the throne room. The party of warriors and clerics made their salutes to the king, then gathered off to one side while the servants finished their jobs.

  Only when one of the “servants” whipped another one for not moving fast enough did Octavia notice the iron collars circling their necks. Slaves, not servants. A child slave had stopped to place a few drop of oil on the door’s exposed piston, and the door slid shut again with quiet precision. Something familiar about the girl tugged at her memory, as if she’d seen the child somewhere before.

  Another chime indicated the arrival of the midday feast. A slave slid open an ingeniously conceal door in the wall, revealing a dumbwaiter that produced an unending flow of steaming hot food. The warriors and clerics jostled for positions at the table. Octavia stood to the side, between her two unmoving guards. The king stood and descended from the dais to settle in a plainer wooden throne.

  Finally, grudgingly, he waved her over, pushing aside several other occupants of a bench on his left side. “You may be our enemy, but you are also a warrior. Not with weapons, perhaps, but words. I’ve always believed the quill stronger than the quarrel.”

  Octavia stared at him, then slowly sat at the table, nervous under the hostile stares of the other diners. What little appetite she’d had vanished. But the trays of steaming food called to her, and soon she was devouring her first hot meal in a full day. The king drank deeply from his mead flagon, and called for refills many times. The atmosphere was jovial, but tense.

  After satisfying the immediate needs of her body, Octavia observed the other feasters. One in particular was eating little, drinking little, and generally staring her way far more often than not. She met his gaze, noting the distinct purple eyes that darted away as soon as hers met them. Ah, must be a relative. A son, perhaps? He definitely does not have the same presence as the king. His gaze returned, and this time Octavia could see some fire inside them.

  The purple-eyed stranger stood and interrupted the table chatter. “Father, how can you let this southerner be present at our table? She should be down in the dungeons with the rest of her kind. Or on her back in your quarters, if you’d rather,” he added with a sneer. Several of his companions laughed. “Her kind does not belong among us. They are our enemies; one of their armies is at our door, and you invite her to midday feast?”

  The king remained seated, taking his time to chew on a mouthful from a large leg of mutton in his fist. He slowly put down his food and licked his fingers one by one, obviously enjoying making his son stew as he waited for a response. “Lokus, you must learn some diplomacy and patience, along with some manners,” he said at last. “If your mother was here to see this—”

  “But she is not, Father. Mother has been dead for ten years and you let this—this Roman sit in her place.”

  Bismark regarded his son with what Octavia perceived as sadness and resignation. “When it is your turn to be king, Lokus, then you may decide who will sit where. You may even decide who will live and die. But now I am king, and as the senatora is a political emissary of the Roman emperor, she will be afforded the dignity due a civilized people. Of which we are one. Something you may need to remember.”

  Lokus turned beet red. “I am no longer a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one,” the king said derisively.

  His son turned and, cape billowing in his wake, fled the hall.

  “Please forgive my son; he is hotheaded, like his father,” the king to her. A servant handed him a fresh flagon of mead and Bismark took a long swig. “And he has yet to learn the power of thought over action. I had hop
ed his mother might be able to teach him, but she passed ten long years ago.”

  The food was cleared away, and the slaves returned with bowls of smoking leaf and chewing tobacco. Men pulled long pipes out and soon an acrid haze hung about the table. Octavia coughed as the smoke burned her lungs and made her eyes water.

  “Horrible stuff, isn’t it? I don’t partake, but my vassals enjoy the pastime,” Bismark said pleasantly.

  He really seems to like talking to me, Octavia realized. I suppose he hasn’t really had anyone who isn’t a flunky to talk to since his wife died.

  The mood was far more jovial, now that the prince was gone, and conversation flowed thick and fast. Men boasted with war stories, while one cleric delighted in telling Octavia all about the Nortland gods and goddesses. At least an hour passed, and Octavia had been pulled into the conversation when the main doors of the hall slammed open.

  Lokus had returned, at the head of a large party. Pure hatred twisted his face as he approached the table, now fully armored. Octavia stared at the man as he bore down on the feast participants.

  “I’m glad you chose to return, Lokus. There’s plenty to eat, still,” the king said, apparently unconcerned by his son’s entrance.

  His son drew his sword. “Now is not the time for feasting, Father. You will abdicate the throne. Now.”

  The king looked at his son and his followers and laughed. “What? Are you going to take on the whole citadel? This is my kingdom. Mine. You shall not take it from me. You’ll have your turn in a few years, whelp. After you’ve proven your worth.” The king stood slowly, his balance affected by the wine he had imbibed. “Guards!” he called. “See my son back to his chambers, and let him rest his hot head a while.”

  One of the armsmen at his back moved toward the prince. He had barely taken a step when the other armsman’s spear gutted him like a fish, punching through his chain mail with a sickening crunch. Octavia cried out in horror, as did several other courtiers. The guard collapsed to the ground.