The Profitable Venture docked at Corvus the following morning. Lizanne joined the rest of the delegation as tugs pushed the ship towards the docks. A complement of riflemen was arrayed along the length of the port rail in impeccable order and the warship’s every fitting gleamed with fresh polish. Lining the length of the docks was a full brigade of Imperial Household troops, complete with a musical band playing a bombastic interpretation of the Ironship Syndicate Anthem.
“Quite an effort they’ve made,” Lizanne observed to Director Thriftmor, nodding at the three thousand or more troops arrayed up on the wharf.
“A demonstration of strength rather than welcome,” he said in an unusually subdued voice. Lizanne noted the grim set of his features, an expression shared by the rest of the delegation, save one who appeared to be absent.
“Where is the Electress?” she asked.
“A steward found her in her cabin this morning,” Thriftmor said. “The ship’s doctor identified the poison as arsenic mixed with laudanum, presumably to dull the pain.”
I am as well as I will ever be . . . Lizanne’s hand went to the small box in her pocket. A parting gift, apparently. She clamped down on the upsurge of guilt and regret, choosing instead to regard the Electress’s death as a useful reminder. She had resumed the role of an Exceptional Initiatives agent, a role that had no place for sentiment. “Was there a note?” she asked.
He shook his head. “There was ash on the port-hole in her cabin. It seemed she burned any papers in her possession.”
Commanded to suicide either to silence her or at the whim of her mad Emperor? As yet, there was no way to tell which, but Lizanne fully intended to find out.
“She told me something yesterday,” Lizanne said, seeing little point in concealing the information. “The Emperor is mad and this mission is a waste of time. I suggest you proceed with the formalities as quickly as possible then sail for home at the earliest opportunity.”
He turned to her with a deep frown, his usual air of affable authority replaced by a certain cold calculation. “Thank you, Miss Lethridge,” he said. “But I will decide how best to proceed, the Board having given me full authority in this matter.”
“Not over me, Director.”
From fore and aft came the distinctive rattle and splash of anchors dropping into the harbour waters. Sailors swiftly hauled the gang-plank into place and the ship’s duty officer stepped forward to blow a piercing note from a whistle. An honour guard of Protectorate riflemen trooped down the gang-plank to the wharf. They lined up opposite a company of very tall Imperial Guardsmen flanking a clutch of Corvantine dignitaries in various garish finery.
“Whatever Bloskin sent you here for,” Thriftmor said in a soft murmur as he took a step towards the gang-plank, “if it results in any disruption to this mission, rest assured I will not hesitate to disavow any knowledge of it and let the Corvantines have their way with you.”
“I would expect nothing less, sir.”
? ? ?
They were conveyed to the Imperial Sanctum in a convoy of ornate carriages, each gilded in gold and drawn by a team of white horses. The Sanctum was a sprawling complex of palaces, parks and temples occupying a full one-fifth of the capital. Their route was lined with yet more soldiers, standing two ranks deep in places, usually where the onlooking crowd was thickest or the surrounding buildings less opulent. Lizanne noted clusters of cheering people where the soldiers’ ranks were thinnest, but in the more heavily guarded portions of the route the crowds were quiet and suspicious. Her gaze also picked out the tell-tale signs of recently repaired damage to several houses: patched up roofs and freshly painted walls that failed to conceal the scorch-marks beneath. There have been riots here, Lizanne mused. And recently too. Military failure is never conducive to civil order.
Naturally, it all changed when they entered the Sanctum. It was ringed by a wall of ancient appearance, twenty feet high and fifteen feet thick. The gatehouse through which they gained entry was in fact a fortress equal in size to anything produced during the Mandinorian feudal age. Once inside they were greeted by broad fields of neatly kept grass and copses of maple and cherry blossom.
“The Imperial Gardens,” explained the plump man seated opposite Lizanne. She had been guided to the last carriage in the convoy where the fellow had introduced himself as Chamberlain Avedis Vol Akiv Yervantis. The quatra-nomina indicated he was both scholar and hereditary member of the ruling class, evidenced by the biased historical commentary he delivered during the journey. “Here we see the statue of General Jakarin, victor of the Second Great Rebellion, tragically and treacherously slain by the rebels to whom he had granted mercy on the field of victory.”
Lizanne knew that, in fact, General Jakarin had been stabbed to death in a whore-house. It was an act of revenge undertaken by a prostitute who had seen her brother publicly tortured and executed on the general’s order the day before. The chamberlain was the only other passenger in her carriage and Lizanne couldn’t decide if he was simply the effete, over-privileged fool he appeared to be or might, in fact, be a particularly skilled Cadre agent in disguise.
“This may be hard to believe, my dear,” Yervantis went on, as if her half-raised eyebrow had been a sign of deep interest, “but the gardens, and the entire Sanctum, were constructed on swamp land. Construction of the whole complex was commenced by Emperor Larakis the Good, who decreed that he would not rob his people of valuable land. Instead, the swamps, which had been a source of fever for generations, would be drained. Thereby, glory and duty would both be served.”
“Wasn’t Larakis the one who married his twelve-year-old sister?” Lizanne enquired. “And later had her poisoned when she failed to produce a male heir?”
The chamberlain blinked, managing to maintain the smile on his pear-shaped face. However, she did notice a beading of sweat amidst the sparse hair on his head. “I see you are something of a scholar yourself, Miss Lethridge,” he said with a chuckle of forced joviality.
“Not particularly,” she replied. “But I’ve often found a knowledge of Corvantine history to be useful. Tell me, Chamberlain, did you ever have the good fortune to meet Burgrave Artonin?”
The man’s eyes widened before he blinked again, his eyelids performing several rapid flutters as fresh sweat broke out on his scalp. “Artonin?” he replied in a small voice.
“Yes. Burgrave Leonis Akiv Artonin, late hero of the Imperial Cavalry and a scholar of impeccable repute. I thought, given your shared interests, you may have corresponded with him at some point.”
Yervantis said nothing, his now-unsmiling features wobbling as he shook his head.