Empire: Empire, #1

By Andrew Stanek

Somebody is trying to kill the Emperor. Kean d’Angelo, a beggar-boy who never before gave murder a second thought, is plunged into the middle of a conspiracy when he finds the body of an Imperial Prince at his feet. With a ruthless assassin hot on his trail, Kean must unravel the conspiracy before his enemies find him - but with a whole Empire of suspects to choose from, Kean may be hard-pressed to discover the all-important truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Stanek
• Release date: Apr 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507020982

Book preview

Chapter 1: An August Visitor

January 18, 780 IY

The Prince? Here?

Yes, the Prince, that’s what I heard.

To think that the Prince is really coming here!

The first few times Kean heard snippets of conversation like this, as passersby paused to throw a few coins in his cup, he ignored them. He had never heard of the Prince before, and frankly, he was much too cold and wet to wonder about it. Talk of Princes was just not something he took the time to worry about, particularly when the Steierbor winter was only just beginning. It had been very harsh last year, and it was only by the mercy of good fortune he had survived the snowy months.

Kean was a boy of eleven. He was an orphan. He had no family, no friends, and no home. His worldly possessions consisted of rags and a little metal cup that people occasionally dropped money into. If they did, the coins made a satisfying clang when they hit the bottom, which was good because the sound made the people who threw the coins feel like they’d accomplished something and Kean could tell how much he’d gotten. It was usually just a bit or two, but from time to time a gentleman would throw in a whole crown.

Begging was fairly peculiar, Kean decided - having had a lot of time to think about it. He’d never really thought of himself as a beggar, though that must be what he was - he certainly wasn’t anything else, but he never felt he was begging. A long time ago, Kean had used the cup to take water from the well and drink it. One day he sat down by the roadside, exhausted, and put down his little metal cup next to him. People had started throwing money into it, and so he had become a beggar.

Kean ran his hand through his crop of light brown hair whenever he thought about it. He’d never wanted to become a beggar. In his experience, asking for help got him nowhere. He’d never gotten anything for his trouble. It was only when he did not ask that he received.

But that irony was lost on the people on the street as they went from one shop to the next, most barely pausing to consider the tiny human castaway that was Kean. That suited him just fine.

A tall man stopped in front of Kean, not even looking at him as he carelessly flung some coins into the cup. They emitted that rough chime as they hit the bottom. Two copper bits - Kean could tell without even looking.

They say the crier’s getting ready to make the announcement right now, the tall man was saying to a well-to-do lady.

The Crier was a stout, loud man with a round belly and a silly hat and a little bell who occasionally came out into the square, not far away, and shouted news of interest to Steierbor. Kean smiled very slightly to himself, because for all their bits and crowns, most of the townspeople couldn’t do what this little beggar could. He didn’t have to rely on the Crier for news.

However, Kean’s moment of inner superiority was fleeting. As the tall man walked away, Kean picked up his cup and retreated from the street. The Crier would come with the Constable, and the Constable didn’t like beggars. Kean reached into his cup and took out the coins he’d gathered, except for the two bits the tall man had just put in. He hid the bounty in the folds of his rags, wrapped tightly so they wouldn’t jingle, and vanished from the roadside. Kean was quite certain he wouldn’t be missed.

Steierbor’s alleyways were all the same, and though Kean had long since memorized the lot of them, he couldn’t say he preferred any one over the others. They were shoddily paved and drab stone-gray with dirt cracking through. Brown wooden walls of thatch-roofed stores inevitably flanked the uneven paths. If Kean huddled up next to them, under the overhang of the roof of a nearby building, he could just about keep out of sight of the Constable and stay dry during the winter rains. Kean intended to do exactly this for the rest of the day, since judging by the morning clouds, it looked like it might rain again. He bunched up his rags and spread them over himself like a blanket, hugged his knees to his chin, and tried to sleep. Maybe he could sleep until afternoon and go back out into the street with his cup.

Despite his best efforts to drift off, Kean did not fall into any sort of slumber. No sooner had he closed his eyes than a soft but distinct sound, a sort of fluttering, roused him. He opened his eyes.

A raven had landed on the pavement, not two feet away from Kean, and was staring at him. Kean blinked. It certainly was a raven. Crows didn’t grow that large. He stared at the raven and the raven stared back at him.

Yes, it certainly was a raven, and a very handsome raven at that, jet black and with shiny red eyes, like rubies. It was still staring at Kean, unblinking. Kean had never seen a bird that close before, much less a big raven. He supposed because it was so large it wasn’t scared of him; it was about the size of a small falcon, while Kean was small and scrawny for his age. It continued to observe him almost curiously. At one point it cocked its head to one side, as if examining him from a different angle, then cocked its head back. Did it want something from him?

I’m sorry, Kean said finally. I don’t have any bread or anything for you, if that’s what you’re after. I don’t even have anything to eat myself. Kean was almost surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. He rarely spoke since he rarely had anyone to talk to. In fact, he spoke so infrequently that when he did, his voice was like a stranger to him. His speech was exceedingly soft and gentle, though, perhaps with a hint of a musical lilt to it, so fluid that it did not startle the raven.

You probably shouldn’t stick around here, Kean continued. Some of the other boys trap birds if they get really hungry.

The raven ignored his advice and stayed where it was. Kean sighed. He guessed there was no reasoning with ravens. He was about to try a different tactic when a new but sadly familiar noise distracted him. There was shouting, then the crash of shattered glass, then the sounds of general commotion and the patter of nearby footfalls. A woman screamed.

You little hooligans! came Mrs. Hubbs’ voice. You’ll get into real trouble one of these days! Magister Septimus come and take your souls!

Rambunctious laughter followed her proclamation, and the footfalls grew louder still. Kean could now make out the words of the approaching crowd.

That crazy old bat, Gelvin was saying, amidst guffawing laughter. Did you hear what she said? ‘Magister Septimus’ and all that? She really believes all that kid stuff - Magister Septimus isn’t real, even the church says so. Like hell that’s gonna scare us. Cackles of brutish agreement surrounded Gel’s voice.

You’d better get out of here, Kean whispered to the raven. It isn’t safe. Go on, shoo! Still, the raven did nothing.

Mrs. Hubbs was a kindly old widow with a limp who, once a day, would hobble down to the market street to do her shopping. Gel and his gang thought that the way she walked was funny and would sometimes throw rocks at her as she passed. They often missed and broke things, as they’d apparently done on this occasion, then legged it before the Constable could arrive. In her yells, Mrs. Hubbs had called the group hooligans, and Kean decided that was a pretty good name for Gel’s lot. Some of them were orphans, like Kean was, others were poor runaways and troublemakers of other flavors, but none of them were friends to Kean.

The sound of their laughter told Kean that they were getting closer.

Go, please, he begged the raven, but his final plea fell on deaf ears. The night-black bird remained firmly in place, scrutinizing him.

Gel and his group rounded the corner and spotted the raven almost immediately.

Hey, said one of them, pointing at the bird. Look at that! Let’s get it. Gel agreed and aimed a stone at the beautiful raven and chucked it hard. Mercifully, it missed both the bird and Kean and thudded into the wood of the building behind them. The raven turned a baleful eye on the gaggle of miscreants, who launched several more stones at it. All struck the wall with a cacophony of dull thuds and the raven, looking slightly resentful, flew away. Some of the boys turned to try to strike it down in the air, but Gel stopped them.

You idiots are just wasting stones now, he said. Besides, look who we got here... our old pal Kean. How you doing today, Kean?

Kean said nothing.

Oh, he’s ignoring us. That’s not very nice of him, is it? The dozen or so boys behind Gel roared in disapproval. Gel was fifteen, the biggest in the group, powerfully built. He constantly kept his dark brown hair covered by a little short-brimmed cap and carried a cane he’d gotten somewhere over his shoulder. The cane was used to deliver beatings, which Kean was not particularly eager to receive.

I’ll ask again, said Gel. How you doing today, Kean?

Not too well so far, Kean replied quietly. I only got two bits on the street. He gestured with his head towards the little tin begging cup, which Gel walked up to and inspected.

Only two bits, huh? You never seem to get much, Kean. I guess it’s because you’re so small and weak people figure it’s not worth it. They decide the cold’s going to finish you off anyway. And to think how much you used to believe in the charity of strangers, too.

Gel paused and watched Kean closely to see if he reacted. Kean didn’t do anything. He’d heard this story before and listened to Gel recite it a dozen times already, and knew that the next part was supposed to get his temper up.

You should have seen him when the orphanage closed down, Gel recanted, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "Kean here didn’t know what to do. He used to go up to person after person and just say, ‘Please help me, please help me.’ He didn’t even ask for money, he just wanted help, because he didn’t know what he needed." The group laughed stupidly.

Images flashed through Kean’s mind. Looks of revulsion on people’s faces as he, dirty and covered in rags, begged them for assistance, something, anything to help him…

"‘Help me, please help me,’ Gel quoted in a mocking sing-song voice. And you know what he got? Nothing. Sometimes people kicked him just for asking. And now he doesn’t have anything. He’s just a tiny weak loser."

Kean would have liked to teach Gel a lesson, but Gel was twice his size and armed.

Give us your two bits, Gel was saying now. A scrawny weakling like you doesn’t deserve them.

Don’t seem overeager now, Kean told himself, or he’ll figure you out.

No, Gel, you can’t have them. I need them for bread. Kean’s voice was barely a whisper.

Funny how you always need to be told twice, replied Gel and unslung his cane. He brought it up to Kean’s chin and poked him in the collarbone. Now I’ll be taking your two bits.

Kean tipped over his cup and poured out the pair of copper coins at Gel’s feet.

Fine. Take them and leave me alone.

The larger boy scooped them up and cackled to himself. While Gel pocketed the coins, Kean tried to worm away.

Not so fast, called Gel, halting him. I’ve got something to ask you. In fact, it’s why I was looking for you. The bully reached into his other pants-pocket, pulled out a small scrap of paper, and threw it at Kean’s feet. Kean glanced at it.

Well? demanded Gel.

Well what? asked Kean, fighting to suppress a small smile.

What does it say?

Kean glanced straight down at the tiny scrap so that his tormentors couldn’t see him grin. None of them could read, but, he, Kean, the littlest, scrawniest orphan, could. While they’d been out wreaking havoc in the streets, he’d been learning. When the orphanage was still open, he’d studied the handful of books on the rickety shelves and uncovered their secrets with the help of the caregivers. Now, even though they called him names and robbed him and beat him, Gel and his friends had to come to Kean for help to decipher the written word. Come to think of it, Kean very much doubted it had ever occurred to any of them that they might learn themselves. To this rambunctious bunch, literacy might as well have been magic.

What is this? asked Kean, picking up the scrap of paper and examining it.

No idea, said Gel, momentarily sidetracked. I picked it up off the ground near the church. I figured it must have been important, since they couldn’t leave it to church announcements or the Crier... so I picked up one after everyone had gone.

Kean’s eyes passed over the message. It was stamped on fine paper in a swirly, bold typeface, in two different colors, with a little logo of a bird on the corner in red. Certainly, the message was the most elaborate printing that Kean had ever seen. He read it in an instant, but gave the appearance of painstaking effort, just to add to the mysticism of the process for his audience.

It says, ‘Let it be known that His Imperial Highness, Prince Johann, son and heir of Our Gracious Emperor, has determined that he will visit your town.’

After reading it aloud, Kean turned the little slip over. The reverse was blank.

That’s all it says, he concluded.

One of the boys in the bunch let out a low whistle.

The son of the Emperor, huh? said one boy, That’s a pretty big deal. He’s about our age, isn’t he?

I remember that, yeah, said another. We should go see him when he comes.

No way, rejected a third. "I heard that if you even look at the Emperor wrong, they kill you. He drew a finger across his throat and made a squelching noise. Dead."

Don’t be stupid, said Gel, having completely forgotten Kean in the excitement. That’s the Emperor, not his son. Besides, the whole town will be there to watch him show up, right? There’ll probably be a parade or something. It can’t hurt to get a look in.

Let’s go tell the others! said some other voice, and a buzz of general agreement filled the crowd. Soon, they had walked off. Before he went, Gel had sauntered over to Kean and dropped a sizable stone in his cup. The deadweight had made a very loud bass clang as it hit the metal.

A little gift for helping us out, Gel explained, provoking more cackles from his fellows. Maybe you can trade that in for bread! The whole lump of them had left laughing at that stupid joke. When they’d finally gone Kean smiled to himself and dumped out the stone into the dirt. They’d gotten two bits from him, but he still had a dozen that he’d cleverly concealed in his rags, and they’d also given him some interesting information.

A flapping sound diverted his train of thought. Kean turned to see that the raven had returned and settled down in exactly the same place it had been before. Then, another flurry of wings and black broke the air, and a second raven settled down next to the first. This second bird looked very much like the first except it had bright green eyes that shone like gems. Both pairs of raven eyes, emerald and ruby, fixed on him.

Is this your friend? Kean asked the first one.

It did nothing to respond. Maybe they were a pair, Kean decided. They might have nested on an adjacent rooftop.

I’m sorry that Gel and his cronies scared you off, Kean apologized. If it makes you feel any better, you only had to move. They got two bits from me.

Despite Kean’s friendly appeal, the ravens simply continued to stare at him.

I’ve always heard that ravens were scary birds, but you don’t seem so bad, Kean soldiered on. Gel on the other hand, he really is terrible. But he needs me sometimes, because I can read and he can’t. That’s why I don’t need to listen to the Crier. I can go read the church bulletin board... and lots of other things too.

They just kept staring at Kean with those curious bejeweled eyes. Somehow, Kean thought he saw a strange kind of avian cleverness behind their gleaming stares. He could almost imagine they understood him.

I wonder why the Imperial Prince is coming here. I’m sure we’re part of the county, but the Count never comes to Steierbor and he doesn’t even have the whole Empire to choose from!

Suddenly, a ray of sunlight spilled across Kean, startling him. He looked up to find the storm clouds that had been hovering ominously overhead had backed off and the sun was poking cheerily through.

With the world looking a bit more hospitable than it had before, Kean made up his mind. Even though he had very little in the entire world, Kean did have a passion, a dream, an ambition. He knew it was silly and fantastical but he indulged himself in it anyway, particularly after Gel and his company of thugs extorted a few bits from him. It helped him to forget how poor and hungry and powerless he was, and let him to imagine for just a few minutes that he was someone else.

I’m going to go watch the fencing, Kean announced to the ravens. I’m sorry to have bothered you. He grabbed his cup and stood up, intending to leave, and turned his back on the strange birds. As soon as he did, there was another symphony of feathered wings, and Kean turned back around to find that both ravens had disappeared. Kean blinked - he must have scared them off when he stood. Oh well, he thought to himself, and set off.

Down the river, past the old mill, across from the tall grass, there was a brightly-painted stone building with a big open-air courtyard. This curious structure was the Fencing Academy. At this school, young pupils - of whom there were about a hundred, all Kean’s age - learned the art of swordsmanship. Kean had discovered the academy during his wanderings around the countryside and became instantly enamored with it. When he’d been learning to read, he had fascinated himself with a tome of old stories. It had been filled with tales of knights and damsels and tournaments and glorious battles, and Kean had decided that he’d quite like to be a knight.

Yes, a knight was definitely the thing to be, he’d concluded. To have a suit of shining armor and go slay dragons and defend the weak (a category which Kean often neglected to remember included himself) was definitely the life for him. With this fantasy taking firm root in his imagination, Kean had once disclosed his secret ambition to one of the caregiver mothers, before the orphanage had closed. She had laughed and told him, as kindly as possible, that knights were from before the time of the Empire and while they might have battled dragons and evil wizards once, they didn’t really exist anymore, and those few knights that did exist were just people who had done a great service to an Imperial lord and probably weren’t warriors in any event. Kean had been very disappointed, of course, but since the imagination is a thing that tends to stay somewhat disconnected from reality, he had not surrendered the dream in its entirety.

Kean had often travelled down to the river for water; he discovered the fencing academy by chance after the orphanage had closed. Most times in the day, students could be seen lining up out in the courtyard, pairing off and sparring in little practice matches or otherwise receiving instruction. While he knew his knightly fantasy was just foolishness, Kean still loved to watch - the flashing of the practice weapons, the back and forth of swordplay. He imagined himself with one of those shining blades at his hip, sometimes, an honorable duelist who people like Gelvin wouldn’t dare to challenge.

Impossibility was nothing for Kean, whose desire to spectate at the fencing academy had grown with age. He’d discovered that if he concealed himself in the tall grass, he could creep close enough to the school to hear what they were saying. Once or twice, he was caught by an instructor and tossed off the premises, but since he was just watching they hardly ever did more than eject him. More often, they never noticed him at all. Most of the time, he’d sink down in the tall grass and watch the exchanges between pupils and masters. After a while, he even got to recognize some of the better students. There was that tall, lithe one, George, the top student, who wanted to become an officer in the county guard... and Mark, the second student, shorter but quick, an expert with the foil and the rapier... and of course, Cecil, the dark horse, who took powerful swings and spoke of fighting at the Coliseum as a gladiator.

Often, Kean found himself becoming so intoxicated by the sights and sounds of the dueling academy that he became blind to everything else, and today was one such day. He did not feel the heavy steps behind him, nor hear the crunching of the reeds beneath a boot, until it was too late. One heavy hand came down on Kean’s shoulder and he gave a small yelp.

I’m sorry, I was just watching, Kean squealed automatically, but his squeaking halted abruptly when he saw who had clamped him on the shoulder.

Standing there was one of the oddest men Kean had ever seen. He was tall with a strong build, neither thin nor fat, and he wore a loose-hanging crimson tunic over dark slacks. If he’d had to guess, Kean would have said the man was late-middle aged. He had surely had black hair once, but age had grayed it, and his head was wild with disorganized, errant hair sticking up this way and that. The man wore a huge olive green traveller’s backpack, bulging with irregular lumps and a big bedroll crowned over the top of his burden, all secured by a pair of shoulder-straps that he hooked his hands behind like they were suspenders. His face was not wrinkled, though it was certainly lined, and his dark eyes crackled with the warmth of a good fire as he smiled down at little Kean. All in all, this newcomer looked very strange indeed, but all the same had an odd dignity about him, as if he were a slightly eccentric nobleman.

You like to watch the fencing? the peculiar fellow asked.

Um... yes, answered Kean uncertainly. He was sure this person wasn’t from the academy - they had a strict dress requirement - but he nevertheless knew that he’d be thrown off if the stranger betrayed him to the fencers.

"And that’s the truth?" The man placed such a strange emphasis on the last word that Kean stared at him.

Yes, I - I really like to watch.

I see. Do you have any thoughts?

Thoughts? Kean repeated.

About the fencing.

Oh, um, well... that one, George... Kean gestured to the lean figure of the top student. He’s like lightning on his feet and his swordplay is almost like dancing... even the instructors can’t keep up with him anymore. He hasn’t lost a match in ages. I think he’ll beat pretty much anyone who cares to challenge him.

"Is that the truth, I wonder?" said the stranger, still smiling broadly.

Um... I think so. Excuse me, but who are you?

Oh, that’s of no importance just now, the man answered cheerily. You’ll find out in due course. I just stopped by to tell you, Kean, that your love of fencing will bring about great change in the Empire.

Kean blinked. What?

Your love of fencing will bring about great change in the Empire, the man repeated, still grinning. The Empire would be a very different place if you just forgot about the whole sport tomorrow.

What are you talking about?

I thought it was only fair to warn you. Oh, and I have something for you.

After a second of rummaging, the stranger produced an envelope and handed it to Kean. The back was sealed with crimson wax, the same shade as the man’s tunic. On the front, in big slanty writing, it said, Do not open until the 20th of January.

That’s the day after tomorrow, the odd man explained. Don’t open it until then.

And without another word, he turned his back on Kean and walked briskly away, whistling. Kean stared after him.

Chapter 2: Blue and Red

The Empire is a feudal system and there are four tiers of hereditary landed titles in the Empire. They are from smallest to largest, Barons, Counts (or Earls, in the north), Dukes, and of course, the Emperor. Barons are not powerful enough to be independent, but duchies and those counties that are not part of a duchy are states of the Empire (though there are many states that are not counties or duchies). The amount of authority the Emperor wields over these states varies greatly and depends on the Emperor.

The rest of the day passed without serious incident for Kean and he slept in a cold alleyway that night, having failed to build a small fire. He spent ten of his dozen bits on a loaf of bread and the tiniest scrap of mutton that he was able to bargain away from the butcher, but as meager as the meal was, it was far better than hunger. Kean ate it gratefully, drew his rags close around him, and slept through the night.

He woke up to the sound of shouting and cheering.

Make way! Make way for the Prince!

Kean stirred and turned over. He suddenly realized he was incredibly cold, and tried to draw himself into a tiny ball to warm up.

The town bell was chiming loudly. The church bells as well. Kean decided to count the chimes to figure out what time it was. Ten chimes, eleven, twelve, thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? Those great brass instruments kept ringing and ringing for all to hear, and it was only after about thirty rings that Kean remembered. The Prince!

Make way! Make way for His Highness! the cry came again. It was very loud, right near him.

Kean leapt to his feet and quickly scrambled to the edge of the alley. A huge throng of people had gathered just outside. Passing almost right in front of Kean’s eyes was nothing short of a circus of lights, sounds, and colors. The town crier, the fat man with the stupid hat and silly bell, came first. He was positively jubilant as his shouting and ringing parted the crowd with ease. Judging from his expression, it might have been the high point of his life. After him came a soldier on horseback, wearing shining metal armor splashed with red and blue. A dozen mounted men followed him in perfect formation, then perhaps two dozen soldiers on foot, some bearing banners with the same birdlike crest that Kean had seen on the paper notice the previous day.

More and more men walked past, courtiers and soldiers alike, until finally...

Riding on a lone horse in the center of a formation of footman, some bugling, was a boy of perhaps fourteen. He was tall with a medium build, handsome, and strong-chinned, holding his head high. A rich purple robe was draped around him, pinned at his shoulders, and he wore a red silk shirt with the Imperial Phoenix, the Firebird, splashed across the chest. His short-cropped brown hair was decorated with a golden circlet that caught the light. All around him, the crowd roared in approval as he passed and he waved back to them, unsmiling, but every inch of him detached and regal. There was no mistaking him. Without doubt, this boy was Prince Johann, the son of the Emperor.

Johann surveyed the entire town that had come out to see him, occasionally making little gestures towards the crowd that elicited cheers and other spasms of joy from the people. For the tiniest moment, Kean thought that Johann’s sweeping gaze met his eyes. A shiver ran down Kean’s spine. Kean felt certain that he shouldn’t be here, not this close to the crowd and the Constable. He really ought to leave.

Casting his mind around for a destination, Kean decided on the Fencing Academy. He navigated through the back alleys until he reached the river, then followed it down to the tall grass, just across from the yellow-stone courtyard. Kean had vaguely hoped that the teachers and students alike would have left the academy derelict for one day - he could have snuck into the school and had a go with one of the practice swords, maybe - but there was no such luck. Just the opposite, in fact. As many students and teachers as he had ever seen were all lined up for morning exercises. Though he wondered why they hadn’t gone to see the Prince, Kean settled in to his favorite part of the tall grass and watched.

It seemed to Kean like any other day at the fencing school. The boys paired off and sparred. Cecil, the would-be gladiator, was miserable as ever with the foil but batted his opponents handily aside with stiffer weapons. George and Mark, the first and second student, tested each other’s guards with unnatural quickness but the top pupil, George, won out in the end. Other matches sprang into being and ended around them, and Kean took all of it in with hungry eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen until about an hour had passed, when Kean was roused from his trance by the sound of approaching hooves.

At first, Kean didn’t even turn to locate the source of the noise until it was almost thunderous, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw that the originator was the royal convoy, the same procession that he’d seen in the city. The information took a few moments to make its way to Kean’s mind - the Imperial Prince was coming this way! They were going to pass right by his hiding place. Kean huddled in the weeds and hoped they wouldn’t spot him.

For a minute, the parade continued by in relative silence, but then, all of a sudden, the formation halted. Kean was particularly startled because the Imperial Prince, Johann, had reigned in his horse almost directly in front of Kean’s hiding place. Had they spotted him? Kean winced, hoping they hadn’t, but chancing a glance upward, he saw that the entire company seemed to be looking at the Academy.

Inform the Headmaster here that I have arrived, Johann ordered, his voice deep and commanding. A man bowed deeply and rushed off towards the academy. Seconds later, he returned with the person Kean knew to be the Headmaster of the Academy, Mr. Watt Hedley. Hedley had been an officer in the Emperor’s army and, rumor had it, a legendary duelist and dashing rake in his youth. Now he wore thick spectacles and was quite bald, not to mention that he stood with an eternal stoop, but he nevertheless commanded great respect at the school and in the town of Steierbor. Kean had never seen him up close before.

Your Imperial Highness, Hedley said, bowing low. I am greatly honored to welcome you to our humble school.

Think nothing of it, replied Prince Johann. Your Academy has a reputation that spans the Empire as a center of learning for young swordsmen. I myself have some slight interest in the practice... in fact, I chose to visit Steierbor so that I could see your school for myself.

We are surely not deserving of your attention, Your Imperial Highness, said Hedley with another bow.

Hm... I do have a question for you, Headmaster. Johann looked slightly displeased about something; apparently that subtle dissatisfaction resonated strongly with the headmaster, who winced under Johann’s gaze. My father commanded that wherever I go, bells should be rung in celebration of my arrival. I see that your school has a small tower there, yet I hear no bell.

Hedley looked bemused and Kean could practically see the gears turning in his head to produce a response.

Ah. Well, as to that, Highness, there - there are three reasons.

Johann inclined his head slightly. I would be glad to hear them.

The first reason, your Imperial Highness, is that we have no bell.

At that, Johann broke into laughter. The men around him began to laugh as well, though Kean felt most of them had not heard the exchange and were only laughing to mimic the Prince.

After a few hearty chuckles, Johann wiped an invisible tear from his eye. That being the case, Headmaster, I don’t feel the need to hear your other two reasons.¹

Military decorum, perhaps, had prevented Hedley from much change in expression but he still looked relieved.

Perhaps your Highness would like to tour our facilities?

The Prince agreed and the entire huge group, footmen and all, vanished onto the premises. Kean suddenly understood why all the students were here. They must have been told that the Imperial Prince was coming to visit them ahead of time and assembled specifically to greet him. After a few minutes, the Prince and Hedley, accompanied by various lackeys, appeared into the courtyard.

Kean was too far away to hear much of what they said, but he dared to edge closer. Still, he could not make out their speech. However, Kean could guess at what was said when the headmaster handed Johann a blunt fencing sabre. The Prince gave the weapon a few experimental swings and, apparently satisfied with it, hooked it through his belt. Hedley clapped his hands and the whole class, students and instructors alike, retreated and lined up against one wall of the courtyard. Johann advanced to the center of the grounds, a bit closer to where Kean had secreted himself.

Hedley summoned one of the students forward and Kean realized that they were meant to face each other in the match. Both boys bowed low to each other, then began a short and furious fight. Johann appeared to be both quicker and stronger than his opponent and rapidly overcame him. Several more students were called forward to challenge the Prince and were similarly dispatched - Johann just seemed to be more agile and skilled, but there was something slightly off about the way he was moving that Kean couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was quicker than his opponents but also overly aggressive, offensive to a fault and haphazardly swinging, sometimes leaving openings that he only barely closed. Still, it seemed Johann’s speed covered his deficiencies. The Prince’s enemies seemed sluggish and slow by comparison.

Cecil, who dreamed of the coliseum, was eventually called forward to face the Prince. From what he’d seen of Johann, Kean would have favored Cecil in the fight. With a thin, bendy fencing foil Johann might have had the upper hand, but Kean was sure that the stiff heft of the sabre would give Cecil the advantage. However, after a few exchanges, Cecil dramatically overswung, missed, and put himself off balance, allowing Johann to strike in in the back of the shoulder.

Mark, the second apprentice, was called forth next. This time, Kean was certain that Johann was in for a real fight, but no - it looked as if that despite Mark’s great speed, Johann was faster still. No, that wasn’t quite right - Mark started out with the quicker blade but seemed to slow with exhaustion. After a few intense moments, the Prince managed to break Mark’s guard and land a blow. The pattern repeated itself for several rounds, and finally the match was called in the Prince’s favor. Johann graciously shook Mark’s hand and declared him a worthy opponent.

Then came George, the ultimate apprentice. Now, here, Kean was absolutely sure that Johann had met his match. No one in the school, teacher or pupil, could touch George and despite Johann’s great showing thus far, Kean knew that he was not an equal to the Fencing Academy’s top man. In the opening seconds of the match, George had Johann instantly on the defensive. He broke the Prince’s stance, forced Johann off balance, came close to scoring a point... and then at the last second, something changed and George broke off.

Kean frowned.

Johann lunged in, recklessly by way of a counter-attack. George easily deflected the attack and danced to the side, again sliding through the Prince’s guard and seemed poised to score... but again, he somehow missed and broke away. This time, however, Kean caught something out of the corner of his eye. Behind Johann, Hedley had made some kind of a gesture to George in the instant before he would have scored. The pattern repeated itself several more times, but Kean kept an eye on Hedley. Each time George seemed to be near a victory, Hedley made a frantic motion to the top apprentice and he aborted the assault. Eventually, Johann landed a blow from sheer luck and was awarded a point.

And finally it dawned on Kean. Johann was not better than George. Nor had he been better than Mark or Cecil or any of the fencers before them, in all likelihood. They were letting him win. The Prince had seemed unnaturally quick only because his opponents had slowed down and blundered to allow him easy victories, but it was only George, so far out of Johann’s league that it was painfully obvious, who was having trouble throwing the fight. After Johann landed a second point, Kean clenched his fist in anger. He had great affection for the sport of fencing and respected the labors that the trainee swordsmen took to become first proficient, then competent, then excellent at the subtle maneuvers.

They’re letting him win, said Kean, more loudly than he had meant to, and his voice sounded angry and unfamiliar. They all came out here and practiced and warmed up just to greet him and they’re letting him win! He doesn’t know any fencing at all.

Then, for the second time in as many days, Kean felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder. He squealed and looked up, terrified, to find an armored guard standing over him. Immediately, Kean started to struggle to free himself. The soldier seized him by the scruff of the neck but his rags tore and Kean fell to the ground and tried to scramble away. With one grab, the man caught him by the ankle and hoisted him up and as much as Kean kicked and squirmed, he knew he had been caught.

Seizing him around the arms, the guard brought him to the courtyard, just a few yards away, and threw him down onto the sanded surface. The false match between Johann and George had ended with the Prince’s victory and the Headmaster was congratulating Johann on his incredible prowess. Both Hedley and Johann were distracted from their conversation by the guard’s crisp salute, which was directed at the Prince.

Your Highness, I thought I saw something strange in the tall grass on our way in and I went to investigate. I found this boy there.

Hedley looked uneasy as he eyed Kean. Think nothing of it, my Prince. He is just one of the boys from the town... sometimes they like to sneak down here to watch our practices...

Begging your pardon, Headmaster, Highness, interjected the guard, but that is not all. I heard him uttering a slander against your Highness’ honor and that of the Academy.

A slander? Johann repeated. Of what kind?

He said that the matches you fought today were fixed in your favor, and your victories undeserved, your Imperial Highness.

Behind the Prince, Hedley’s eyes flashed dangerously at Kean, but before he could say a word, the Prince began to speak.

Very well. Set him down.

The soldier did as he was asked, and his faithful report complete, he withdrew.

Johann turned his gaze on Kean, and the cold anger in his stare sent shivers up Kean’s spine once again. Kean was certain he was in trouble, and wasn’t at all sure that he would escape alive. He wanted to run, but he had been surrounded by people when the soldier had brought him in. It didn’t seem as if he could flee.

You, boy, stand, Johann commanded.

Kean complied.

What is your name?

Kean, y-your Imperial Highness, said Kean, trying not to meet Johann’s gaze. The words from one of Gel’s gang, that they would kill you if you looked at the Emperor wrong, was flitting around in Kean’s head. Surely for insulting the Prince, the punishment would be just as severe?

Do you have a surname? demanded Johann.

No, your Imperial Highness, Kean replied. There was faint chuckling from around the courtyard and even Johann cracked a small smile.

So be it. Tell me what you said about me. You would be very well advised to tell the truth...

Kean gulped. Panic had been building in him before, but now he felt that his heart would stop. He was sure that the whole assembled fencing school could hear it thumping in his chest. Your- your- your- guard was right. I said - I said that.

You said that these matches were rigged in my favor?

Y-yes, your Highness. Unable to bear staring at his feet any longer, Kean stared up at Johann and saw little mercy in the Prince’s dark eyes.

And what do you know of fencing?

It is as Mr. Hedley said, your Highness. I watch the matches sometimes.

Those around me seem to have been quite honest for alleged match-fixers, commented Johann, and again, everyone chuckled at the slight display of wit. Well, boy, I’m going to tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you an opportunity to prove your complaint against my honor. Pick up a sabre. You and I will have a match. If you win, I will let you go. But if you lose, I will have you whipped. Understand?

Over Johann’s shoulder, Hedley’s expression had darkened even further, but Kean was not considering him. Instead, Kean fell to his knees.

But your Highness, I have never even held one of these before-

It does not matter, Johann replied with the indifference he spoke of. You will prove your allegations or pay the price.

Someone handed Kean a sabre. Had he been a professional, he supposed he would have waved it around a bit and tested it for balance, maybe, but he had no idea what to look for. It was very heavy, moreso than Kean had imagined, and he had trouble keeping it in his shaking hand. Hedley announced the match was ready to begin and Kean and Johann stood five paces apart, with their blunted swords out and pointed towards each other, nearly tip to tip. Johann was standing there smiling with absolute confidence.

Begin, called Hedley.

Johann lunged. Kean yelped audibly and stepped out of his way, narrowly avoiding the oncoming Prince and thrust out his sabre wildly. Somehow, it had made contact with the Prince’s stomach.

The world seemed to stop. Johann and Kean froze there, Johann having overreached with Kean’s weapon prodding him. Around them, the crowd gasped. Kean almost recoiled in surprise but some greater power kept him right there, paralyzed. Slowly, Johann turned to look at him, flushed and appearing angry.

It’s funny, Johann said, loudly enough that the spectators’ outburst died instantly. His sword is in my gut, but I don’t hear you calling the point, Hedley.

P-p-point, Hedley stuttered, and gestured towards Kean, and then Kean and Johann returned to their positions and squared off again.

Kean gradually realized that he had been wrong. Johann was not an inadequate swordsman or a poor swordsmen; he was a downright miserable swordsman. In addition to being tired from mock-fighting a dozen opponents, albeit ones who had all but surrendered, Johann had picked up years of bad habits which apparently none of his tutors had been brave enough to correct. He launched in with obvious, inaccurate thrusts and huge, powerful swings that looked impressive but left him so open that even Kean could see it, and he did not recover quickly. Kean scored point after point against him, while Johann scored only once. After numerous exchanges, Kean scored the match point.

He - he - committed numerous fouls, your Highness, the headmaster stuttered, he has cheated.

Johann was red in the face. He committed no fouls, Hedley. The match is his. Johann threw down his sabre in disgust and turned to Kean. I said I would let you go. Go.

If he was being let go, why had a soldier seized him? Kean had little time to wonder about this as the soldier dragged him into the tall grass, where they’d found him, punched him extremely hard in the chest with one gloved hand, and dumped him into the dirt. The second he was at liberty, Kean scampered away, but as he did, he thought he heard the Prince’s voice.

About these matches today, Hedley...

Kean did not wait to hear the rest. He ran back to town as fast as his legs could carry him and found a secluded alley, far away from the public’s eyes, or Gel, or anyone else. For the moment, he didn’t care that he was cold and hungry in the Steierbor winter. He was just glad to be alive.

It took him a while to notice that he was not quite as alone as he had planned. The two ravens were back (was this the same alleyway?), perched on a nearby windowsill and staring down at him with their bejeweled eyes. Unlike yesterday, they only observed him for a few minutes before they took to the air and flew away. Something quite curious happened as he watched them go, though. As he looked up, Kean thought he saw the swish of a dark cape on the rooftops above him, but when he looked again, there was nothing.

He spent the rest of the day huddled in the alley. The sun rose high in the sky and then fell. Day turned to night. Across the street, the hustle and bustle of traffic died away as the townsfolk went home. When the moon had come out and was hovering in its usual domain, Kean was still rocking back and forth in the alleyway. This was bad, he was sure. Even if Johann had been allowed to win - and Johann had apparently been unaware of this - Kean shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just allowed it to happen. Now, he had shamed the Imperial Prince. Who knew what would become of him?

There was a distant clamor of footsteps. Kean ignored it.

Surely a peasant boy like Kean couldn’t be expected to take responsibility for the subterfuge of the academy, could he? Maybe Hedley would be fired.

The footsteps grew louder. Kean still ignored it.

And what of those who had participated in the match-fixing that Kean had exposed? George and Mark and Cecil? Were they ruined because Kean had been unable to keep his mouth shut?

Now the footsteps were very nearby. Acoustics were such that in a quiet place, Kean could always hear footsteps from the next alleyway over.

Maybe it was Gel coming to torment him some more. That was the last thing Kean needed.

The sounds were very close by now.

Kean realized that the sound was of a booted foot, perhaps even a steel-toed boot, that resonated loudly against the stone. Gel did not wear such a shoe.

A figure, clad in a rich cloak and tunic rounded the corner with something long and thin draped over his shoulder. In the light of the moon, Kean could see that it was Johann.

Your Highness, Kean gasped and pushed himself against the wall.

For once, Johann was alone. He did not look angry, but as always, something about the cold darkness of his eyes made Kean want to run away as far and as fast as he could.

How did you- Kean gasped. His brain seemed to have jammed. What was the Prince doing here?

Find you? I had you followed, said Johann indifferently. I always have someone around who can do that sort of thing. Here, he unslung one of the long, thin objects he had over his shoulder and tossed it to Kean. Kean caught it, but the weight was such that the effort almost sent him tumbling back to the ground. It was a sword.

Johann drew his own blade and pointed it at Kean. Kean could see it was not blunted. The moonlight caught three feet of gleaming, deadly iron, sharpened to a fine edge. The crossguard was in the holy V-shape. With a flourish, Johann flipped the blade around expertly and pointed it straight up, so that the flat faced him, then twirled it around and planted it in the ground. He leaned on the hilt almost casually.

I’ve come here to ask you for a rematch - I mean, I say ask you, but I don’t really intend to give you a choice.

Your Highness, I don’t want to-

I insist.

I’m sorry that I... I disgraced you, your Highness. I don’t want to fight you anymore.

If you don’t I’ll simply kill you.

The words shot through Kean like lightning. But why? he whispered.

Why? repeated Johann. Yes, I suppose you do deserve to understand. He sheathed his sword with a sigh and, much to Kean’s amazement, sat down in the grime next to Kean. This isn’t about ego. I can swallow my pride. I suppose that the trouble is this sort of thing is always happening to me. He stared up at the sky and gazed the moon; his eyes assumed a faraway look. When I tell jokes, everyone laughs. It doesn’t matter whether they were funny or not. If I try my hand at painting, everyone tells me my work is beautiful, and I know it isn’t. Even for things you wouldn’t think would be so easy... when I go hunting, they release tamed animals ahead of me for me to catch. Sometimes even my tutors, when I answer a question wrongly, they’ll tell me I’m right. It’s the same in everything. Archery. Falconry. Poetry. Swordsmanship, he added. I can tell them to stop but they won’t. So you see, ever since my mother passed away... I’ve been wondering... Johann took a deep breath. Am I really any good at anything?

For the briefest moment, Kean saw something much akin to very deep sadness in Johann’s eyes, and for all the worlds of wealth and status between them, Kean felt sorry for him.

I have to know, Johann said at last. And that’s why I want a match against you. No, not a match. A duel. Fight me with everything you have because if you don’t, I’ll win. And I’ll kill you.

Your Highness, said Kean slowly. I am not good at anything either-

A smile curled around Johann’s lips. "You are better than an Imperial Prince at fencing. Or so a vast audience has seen. I was not at my best this morning. I was tired, flustered, and overconfident. I will not repeat my mistakes again. Now, en garde."

Johann stood and drew his sword, placing the tip just inches away from Kean’s chest. With panic rushing through his veins like poison, Kean picked up the blade that Johann had given him and drew it out of the sheath. It was even heavier than the sabre Kean had handled that morning, so weighty that Kean nearly toppled over when he tried to steady it. It took him both hands to stabilize the weapon until Kean grew accustomed to it..

Good, said Johann. Now we will duel. If I win I will have my satisfaction. If you win... He reached in to his pocket and drew out a small ring and held it up for Kean to see. It was a golden ring inlaid with a red gem. Cut into the face of the jewel was the Imperial phoenix. You can have this. A gift from my father. He told me it once belonged to Theum Gavelkind. It’s worth more than a gold mine. And then, handling the precious thing like Gel handled a stone, Johann tossed the ring into Kean’s tin cup. It clanked against the bottom, worth more than a thousand sovereigns.

With that, Johann raised his sword and Kean struggled to do the same.

We begin on the count of three, Johann declared. "One, two, three!"

Kean immediately saw that Johann had not been lying when he’d said he would not repeat old mistakes. He was not reckless, as he had been in the morning. At first, he made no sudden moves. With life and limb at stake, the pair fought with a few glancing blows off each others’ weapons, causing moonlight to dance around them, glinting off the iron. However, Kean could also see that he was at a disadvantage. He was younger, smaller, and weaker than Johann, and he was having trouble holding the sword at all. The Prince quickly discovered that applying force at the right moments was all that was necessary to put Kean off balance. In seconds, Johann had broken Kean’s stance, such as it was. Johann forced Kean’s sword back and away, created an opening, and swung sideways with all his might to deliver one final, decisive blow. Squealing in terror, Kean thrust, but he could see that his counter was far too late...

Then Johann’s sword stopped, as if immobilized in the air, while Kean’s sword sliced deep through the shoulder of the Prince’s good arm. Johann grunted as the blade sunk in, and Kean, wide-eyed, saw what had stopped Johann’s stroke. The venue of the alleyway had been too narrow for their contest. The Prince’s sword had raked the wood of the adjacent building during the wide swing, catching and stopping in the store’s plank before it could ever reach Kean. Kean’s weapon meanwhile, had sunk deep into Johann’s arm. With another small yelp of panic, Kean drew it out. Johann’s tunic was stained an even deeper red than its native crimson where the blade had cut. Wasn’t royal blood supposed to be blue?

Johann stared at his crippled arm, then a slow, grim smile crossed his face.

Finish it. He demanded.

No, whispered Kean.

Finish it or I will pull this sword out of the wall with my other hand and kill you!

Please, Kean begged. Please, Your Highness, don’t make me do this.

You would understand if you were me, said Johann quietly. Finish it!

He grabbed at his own sword with his left hand and wrenched it out of the wall, then swiped wildly with the blade. Kean shrieked, dodging the blow, and thrust again, and this time his sword pierced Johann through the chest. The Prince’s blood, steaming hot and deep red, spilled out onto Kean’s arm, so horribly warm against the cold of the winter night. Johann slumped over and Kean could see the light vanish from his eyes forever. His lips moved wordlessly and he fell onto the uneven stone pavement.

And with that the Prince died.

Chapter 3: Paradise

Hereditary titles in the Empire generally use male-preference primogeniture, meaning that one heir inherits all titles, men take precedence in inheritance over women, and older heirs take precedence over younger heirs. The title of Emperor uses a modified version of this system. If the Emperor dies with issue, a son or daughter, his eldest son (or his heir) generally becomes Emperor. If he has no sons, his eldest daughter (or her heir) generally becomes Empress. The Emperor’s eldest son is therefore the Crown Prince.

Kean couldn’t say for sure whether he screamed or not, but he quickly clamped his hands over his mouth to stop himself. His vision quivered and swam, Johann’s lifeless body blurring and shifting into and out of focus. He could not recall letting go of the sword that had killed the Prince, but he had certainly done so. Blood was pooling around Johann’s corpse, forming a little puddle that drained down into the ground.

No, Kean whispered. No.

Off in the distance, the town bell rang, again and again. Kean counted them automatically, anything to take his mind off of the hell before him. The instrument chimed twelve times. It was midnight. Or technically, slightly past midnight. So it was tomorrow - that was to say, the day after yesterday - or - in any event, it was the 20th. Something strange, a recent memory, surfaced in his mind.

"Your love of fencing will bring about great change in the Empire, the man had said. The Empire would be a very different place if you just forgot about the whole sport tomorrow."

Kean felt his blood run chill. Had that man known that this would happen? How? He also remembered something else. Trying not to look at Johann, Kean reached into the folds of his rags and drew out the envelope that odd man had given him. It still said in neat, slanty writing on the front, Do not open until the 20th of January.

Well... what did he have to lose? Kean slid his finger across the dry wax and it chipped, cracked, gave way, and opened. Inside was an old-fashioned piece of yellow parchment. Kean drew it out and unfolded it. It read, in the same slanty writing as the front:

"Kean,

You will kill a future Emperor.

It’s okay. It’s NOT YOUR FAULT."

That was all that was written on the front. On the reverse, there was an additional scrawl.

"Come to the Wayside Inn southeast of town as soon as you read this.

If Johann wins/survives, plz disregard this message."

Kean stared at it. Was this real or had he gone insane? He turned it over and over, reading the words NOT YOUR FAULT again and again. Somehow, every time he read it he felt calmer. Whoever had written this, presumably the very strange stranger, had known exactly what he desperately wanted, needed to hear. Maybe it was a trap of some kind, but Kean couldn’t imagine being in a worse situation than the one he was in now, and he knew he couldn’t stay by the still-warm body of the Prince he had just killed. The river ran southeast, from the hills, northwest to the old mill and the fencing academy. If Kean followed it upstream, it would take him