Shackles bound Amaranthe’s wrists behind her back. Two guards dragged her through dark narrow hallways and down a dank stairway framed by walls of roughly quarried stone. Lanterns burned at distant intervals, hanging from old torch sconces. As the group moved in and out of the shadows, Amaranthe felt as if she had stepped back hundreds of years in time.
Warm blood trickled down her temple. Numerous glass cuts afflicted her face and scalp. Worse pain came from her battered muscles, courtesy of the pummeling they received in the three-story fall. This discomfort was only the beginning, she knew. I can survive this. Whatever torture they inflict on me, I will survive, and I will plan, and I will escape.
Then she entered the dungeon.
She was expecting shackles, instruments of pain, and moldy, bloodstained walls. The archaic atmosphere ended at the doorway, however. Inside, a honeycomb of whitewashed tunnels and chambers spread out. They were brightly lit by gas jets and smelled of lye soap. The first man she saw likewise did not meet expectations.
Amaranthe had anticipated towering, monosyllabic guards led by a sadistic, whip-cracking overseer who had not seen the sun in twenty years. Instead, a gray-haired man in crisp black military fatigues greeted her with a smile.
“Ah!” he said cheerfully. “A female. You’re our first. Excellent.”
The pin on the left side of his collar proclaimed him a colonel; the pin on the right bore a needle, the symbol for a surgeon.
A shiver raised the hair along her arms. “First for what?”
“I’ll show you.” The surgeon hummed and tapped his clipboard against his thigh as he led the way down the stark, white corridor. “Come along, come along.”
The guards forced Amaranthe to follow. If her hands had not been bound behind her, she might have tried for one of the swords or pistols hanging from their belts, but she had no hope of reaching them.
Cells lined either side of the corridor, each secured by steel bars and locked gates. Male prisoners occupied most. Some stood and watched her pass, but most lay prone and unresponsive. One had black fingers and toes, symptoms of the advanced stages of frostbite. Another had pox marks all over his skin. Occasionally, medics in military fatigues surrounded the prisoners. One would hold a clipboard and pen while others stabbed and prodded at their victims.
In one cell, a man was stretched facedown on a metal table with a surgeon poking around several inches of exposed vertebrae. He screamed with each prod, and blood flowed from his back. It splashed the floor, ran down a slight slope, and poured into a central drain. Amaranthe experienced the unwelcome insight that someone had angled the floors and placed the drains with exactly that purpose in mind.
Torture, but more methodical than the simple cuts and burns designed to extract information. They were performing medical experiments on these people. She shuddered.
“The emperor might not like the idea of a lady being dissected in his dungeon,” one of the guards holding Amaranthe whispered to the other as they traveled deeper into the tunnels.
“This was his idea,” the other said. “He wanted more money to go into medical research, right?”
“He has no idea what’s going on down here, and I’m sure this isn’t the kind of research he meant.”
“That’s ‘cause he’s soft, and you are too if you listen to him. Hollowcrest is smart to keep his thumb on the boy. The Nurians would be mauling us if they had any idea how weak-minded our supposed emperor is.”
Amaranthe wondered how many men in the Imperial Barracks were loyal to Sespian and how many to Hollowcrest. If these two were representative of the whole, Hollowcrest’s supporters were more vocal.
The surgeon turned into a large room with four occupied cots against the back wall. A counter with upper and lower cabinets stood along one side and a coal stove along the other. No fire burned in it, and the room was cold. The men on the cots were inert, flushed faces and wheezing breaths the only indications of life. A bumpy red rash covered their skin.
The surgeon paused by a cot. “Ah, good. This one’s dead. Take him to my examination room. A few more dissections and we ought to make some headway.” He rapped his knuckles on his clipboard. “It’s not right that those magic-throwing Kendorian shamans can cure this while sound imperial medicine lags behind.”
The guard who had spoken up for Sespian left Amaranthe to obey the surgeon’s orders. He touched her shoulder briefly, eyes sad, before he dragged the corpse away. The pity unnerved her more than the callous attitudes of the others.
“Magic-throwing shamans?” Amaranthe asked. The empire’s stance was that magic did not exist. Of course, the empire also forbade its use, so one tended to wonder about the truth of the first statement. Either way, she had never seen any evidence of magic in her life.
“Yes, their healers sacrifice chickens, wave their hands, and cure the disease.” The surgeon sniffed disdainfully. “Fear not. Your sacrifice will help us find a legitimate cure and distribute it to our troops along the southern border.”
“Oh, good.” Amaranthe swallowed. “What is the disease?”
“Hysintunga.”
“And it’s always deadly?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How long does it take to ah...” She nodded in the direction the corpse had been taken.
The surgeon unlocked a cabinet and rummaged inside. “Three to four days from infection to death, at least based on the cases we’ve had so far. Perhaps it’ll be faster for you, since you’re smaller than the men.”
A locomotive trip to Kendor took over a week. I’m dead if I let them infect me.
She flexed her shoulders and tried to work her wrists free of the manacles. The remaining guard clamped his hand tighter around her biceps and gave her a warning frown. The hilt of his sword dug into her side. If she could somehow get his weapon, maybe she could hold it to the surgeon’s throat and bargain her way free. She would need her hands free first.
“I don’t suppose you’d—” she started, but a shadow fell across the doorway.
Hollowcrest entered the room, and four guards came in on his heels.
Amaranthe slumped.
He regarded her coolly, hefting his right arm. A bandage wrapped it from wrist to elbow.
“You are a tedious pain, woman. In more ways than one.”
“You attacked me,” she said, seeing no reason to bother with honorifics at this point. “After you sent me on a suicide mission. I’m the one who’s a pain?”
He snorted. “Don’t put this on me, girl. It seemed a shame to waste a bright enforcer; it’s not like they’re a common breed. Your ambition is what made you dangerous. I couldn’t let you at the emperor.”
A shame? Vanquished ancestors, was he actually regretting what he had done? Did he feel guilty? Or was she imagining it? Maybe he had just come down to gloat. It didn’t seem that he had noticed the missing note yet, though she was not sure how that helped. She could not read it with her hands behind her back.
The surgeon removed a jar from a cabinet, one of several on a shelf. A large, winged insect buzzed inside, its droning ominous. Amaranthe made herself focus on Hollowcrest. As long as he was talking, she had to learn as much as she could in case she had the opportunity to do something with that information later.
“Does the emperor know you’ve got me locked up down here?”
“Unfortunately, he is mourning your tragic death,” Hollowcrest said. “Killed falling out the window. You should be pleased; Sespian appeared quite distraught by the news.”
“What are you doing to him anyway? What does the drug you’re putting in his tea do?”
Amaranthe glanced at the surgeon and the guards, hoping the news would come as a surprise to them. If she could trick Hollowcrest into answering in the affirmative, maybe it would shock them, coerce them to do something to defend the rightful leader of the empire.
“It’s a herb that dulls the intellect and renders the drinker susceptible to manipulation,” Hollowcrest said calmly.
No one in the room reacted. They know. They all know and they don’t care.
“Why?” Amaranthe asked. “When you were sworn to act as his regent, you made a promise to him and the empire that you would step down when he reached his majority. That was last year.”
“Do you think I wanted to break my word? I’m no power-hungry tyrant. I have always been content to advise. But the boy would destroy the empire.” He cleaned his eyeglasses with a handkerchief. “In his first week on the throne, he vowed to make peace with all the nations we’ve ever warred with, cut military spending in half, funnel the money to education, and...oh, yes, and phase out the empire itself, instating some ridiculous people’s republic with elected officials.”
“They sound like noble goals.”
“You’re as naïve and idealistic as he is. Yes, let us announce to all the nations we’ve conquered over the last seven hundred years that now we wish for peace. I’m sure they’ll embrace us with heartfelt brotherhood and forget about all the men slain, the land taken, the freedoms stolen, the laws imposed. Please. They would send diplomats on the one hand and secretly build their armies for revenge on the other. And dissolving the empire? Since religion fell out of fashion, faith in Turgonia is the only thing that gives our people a sense of meaning. The empire is not just a government; it’s a way of life. Our citizens know they’re a part of something greater than them. Without the empire to define an ideology for them, they would be lost. Take that away and the next zealot with a vision would end up creating something with all of the tyranny and none of the benefits. Sespian’s idealistic world doesn’t exist. It can never exist as long as men live in it.” Hollowcrest returned his glasses to his nose and curled his lip. “Nineteen year olds. They shouldn’t be allowed to tie their own shoes much less rule a nation.”
Amaranthe groped for an argument that would sway the old man. It was hard because she wasn’t sure he was entirely wrong. But Sespian wasn’t wrong either. These two stubborn men ought to be working together to find a middle ground, not trying to force their visions on each other.
“I’m ready, sir,” the surgeon announced.
“It’s not too late,” Amaranthe said, forcing herself to meet Hollowcrest’s now-withdrawn gaze. “You don’t have to do this. I’m loyal to the emperor, but have no designs on his future. You don’t need to kill me, and you could stop drugging him—involve him in his own rule. You make some good points. Maybe his enthusiasm just needs to be tempered with your experience, not stifled by it. He’s smart. He’ll learn in time. You have to give him a chance.”
Hollowcrest did not immediately reply. Amaranthe had no reason to think her words would mean anything to him, but she found herself hoping anyway, for her own life and for the emperor’s.
“Once battle has been engaged,” Hollowcrest said, “you cannot call back your armies and say never mind. You are committed. There can be only victory or defeat.” He nodded to the surgeon and said, “Go ahead,” before leaving.
“The emperor’s not an enemy to be made war upon,” Amaranthe called after him. “He’s a man.”
Hollowcrest’s soldiers stayed behind. That left five guards plus the surgeon. Not good.
Two men forced her to her knees. One unlocked her shackles to free her arm for the surgeon. Though she had no hope of escaping, she elbowed the guard in the gut and lunged for the gate. Another simply caught her and threw her down, forcing her back against the cold floor.
“This will go easier if you relax,” the surgeon said.
Amaranthe eyed the jar in his hands. Inside, the malignant black bug bounced around, reminiscent of both wasp and lizard. Its wings flapped, and its agitated tail hammered at the glass with audible ticks. Strange that such a healthy-looking bug could carry a disease that would kill her.
“What is it?” she asked morbidly.
The surgeon loosened the jar’s lid. “The desert nomads call them Fangs. They transmit the infection with their bite.” He cocked his head and studied her as if she were an exotic fungus growing on a damp wall. “It will be interesting to examine your cadaver and see if the disease affects women differently than men.”
“Interesting. Right.”
The surgeon pushed up her sleeve. A part of Amaranthe wanted to face the moment with dignity, but when he removed the lid and set the mouth of the jar against her skin, fear surged through her. She twisted and jerked her arm away.
The surgeon cursed and flung the lid back on before the insect could escape. “Hold her!”
“Sorry, sir. She’s stronger than she looks.”
Another joined the first two, leaving a guard on her legs and one on each arm. The surgeon descended, ready with the jar again.
She tried to thrash free, all sense of strategy forgotten in pure desperation. Despite her frenzied struggle, Amaranthe felt the bite of the insect.
At that point, she deflated. Tears formed in her eyes.
“You can let her go.” The surgeon screwed the lid back on and returned the jar to the cupboard. “She won’t fight now. There’s no point, eh?”
He was right. Amaranthe became as inert as the wheezing forms on the cots. When the guards released her and backed up, she made no lunge to her feet. Their heads receded, and she only stared up at the reinforced concrete ceiling.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” the surgeon said in parting. “There’s water in a jug over there.”
Amaranthe did not move her eyes to follow his pointing arm. A part of her mind registered the clank of the steel gate shutting, the throwing of the lock. The insect bite burned, and a hot tingle spread toward her shoulder.
So, this was defeat.
She had always imagined death would come at the end of some criminal’s sword during a battle for a worthwhile cause. Never had she pictured dying amongst strangers, forgotten by the world. Was anyone even wondering where she was? She had no family in the city, but surely some of her enforcer comrades would be curious why she had disappeared from work without a word.
What about Sicarius? Would he wonder what was happening to her? No, he had predicted she would end up in the dungeon. And why not? She was an amateur next to him. She had walked into Hollowcrest’s office without any sort of plan. What had she expected would happen? That she would talk her way out of a death sentence and get Hollowcrest to stop drugging Sespian while she was at it?
After a time, Amaranthe grew bored of staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for herself. She still had a reason to escape. Even if she was going to die, she could tell Sicarius what she had learned.
She staggered to her feet and plucked her hairpins from her sagging bun. The lock was set into the corridor-side of the door, which made it awkward to probe. It only took a moment to discover her pins were too large to reach the tumblers in the back. Opening that door would take a key or a professional set of lockpicks. She had neither.
While mulling her next act, she took some water to the men on the cots.
They smelled of urine and sweat, and cracks like canyons marred their lips. The men were an unsettling preview of her own last hours, and she wanted to crawl into the corner as far from them as possible. Instead, she tried to get them to drink. One opened his eyes briefly, but stared through her, not at her. She took his hand. With the splotchy rashes covering his skin, it felt like rust-licked metal under a summer sun. She fumbled for something comforting to say. All she could think of was how soon this would be her.
A smooth patch on the man’s hand drew her attention. She rotated his arm. A gang brand marked his skin. The Panthers. He was one of Mitsy’s. Amaranthe checked the other two men. They bore brands for the Black Arrows, another gang in the city.
“They’re using our own people,” she whispered, chilled.
One of the men sighed, exuding tangible pain.
“I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you,” Amaranthe said.
She wished for a book or something to read aloud to them. The thought triggered the memory of the note she had stolen from Hollowcrest’s office. She dug it from her pocket.
Hollowcrest, you said the emperor was under your control. Your puppet hasn’t made any of the changes we discussed, primarily to exempt key businesses from taxes in order to foster growth. Forge also demands a voice in the government. The empire is a defunct warrior aristocracy out of touch with the modern world. Your recalcitrance forces us to make threats. If the emperor does not pass the laws we have requested, he will be eliminated during his birthday celebration. The people will not accept you as a ruler. Since Sespian is the only Savarsin left who claims royal blood through both paternal and maternal lines, he is the only legitimate heir. His death will create civil war, giving us the opportunity to back a more amenable prospect.
How do we go forward? The choice is yours.
—Forge