“I have not the words,” Lizanne responded, the heat she had felt earlier returning to colour her voice, “to describe the level of my indifference to your disappointment.”
“You should be more appreciative, for I speak only in friendly guidance. Sentiment is not just a luxury for those in our profession, it is in fact a debilitating disease. Take myself, for example. There was a young woman in Morsvale, a member of the Cadre of the Blood, so not under my direct control. But nevertheless, we had formed a close personal attachment prior to her deployment.” The countess paused to smile in fond recollection before continuing in the same affable tone, “After your visit to her safe house, they told me there wasn’t enough of her left to fill half a coffin. And yet, here I stand, without your still-beating heart clutched in my hands.”
The dressmaker, Lizanne recalled, failing to find much cause for regret in the woman’s demise. “From what I saw, you were well suited to each other.”
“Sentiment and moral superiority.” The countess pouted. “Upon finally meeting you I had expected to look upon my own reflection, only slightly younger. The record of your accomplishments paints a very different picture.”
“Nothing I have done compares to anything in your career.”
“Really? Torture and murder are the same, are they not? Regardless of the quantity.”
The memory of that last visit to Burgrave Artonin’s house sprang into Lizanne’s mind; the scholar lying dead in his study, the servants sitting at table, each with a bullet blasted into the back of their skulls. “It depends on the subject,” she replied, her eyes once again fixing on the countess’s neck. It would be so easy, even with no product in my veins.
“Don’t be silly!” Countess Sefka snapped, more irritated than angry.
Lizanne took a deep breath and turned away, shifting her gaze to the lake and its many glittering islands.
“Director Bloskin should have dismissed you,” the countess said. “You have clearly been too . . . modified by your experiences. Whatever mission he sent you on is already doomed, you must know that.”
“My mission is the same as Director Thriftmor’s. Both the empire and the corporate world stand on the brink of destruction . . .”
“Oh yes, your army of drakes and deformed savages.” Countess Sefka shifted her slim shoulders in a shrug. “Just another storm to assail this empire. We have stood against all manner of threats for centuries.”
“Not like this. You imagine this great tyranny to be eternal, immutable. What’s coming cares nothing for history.”
“This great threat of yours is an ocean away, probably busy eating its own followers.”
“You are not foolish enough to believe that,” Lizanne said. “Otherwise, why spend so much time and energy pursuing the Mad Artisan’s device?”
“Largely thanks to Madame Bondersil’s increasingly deranged insistence. Was it you who killed her, by the way? The circumstances of her demise are a little vague.”
“She was eaten, by a Blue drake.” Watching a faint amusement play over the countess’s face, she added, “Tell me, were you really going to allow her to govern Carvenport independently?”
“It was not a decision I was privy to. All aspects of her co-operation were handled by the Emperor in concert with the Blood Imperial.”
A loud upsurge of martial drumming sounded from the open windows, soon joined by a chorus of trumpets. “Perhaps His Divinity will explain it all himself,” Countess Sefka said, Lizanne noting how her jovial tone suddenly seemed a little forced. “It seems he’s about to join us.”
She started back towards the ball-room, then paused, offering Lizanne a smile. “Despite it all, I am glad we finally met, Miss Lethridge. Please accept a word of caution; whatever it is the Blood Imperial wants of you, tell the old vulgarian bastard to piss off and sail home. It’s only going to get you killed.”
? ? ?
“Emperor Caranis Vol Lek Akiv Arakelin!” the page boomed out and every person in the ball-room sank to one knee. “First of his name. Divine Emperor of the Corvantine Empire, High Admiral of the Imperial Fleet, Supreme Marshal of the Imperial Host . . .”
It took at least two minutes for the herald to recite the full list of the Emperor’s titles, by which time Lizanne’s knee had begun to ache quite painfully. When the titular litany finally ended she couldn’t conceal a groan of relief as she rose to watch Emperor Caranis descend the ball-room steps at a sedate pace. He was a tall man, resplendent in a marshal’s uniform of an ivory hue and a long cloak of black fur. The thorn-like barbs of his silver crown glittered as they caught the light from the chandeliers above. Corvantine propaganda often spoke of the Emperor’s handsomeness, court-appointed poets penning lengthy verses praising his impressive physique and athletic accomplishments. Looking at him now, Lizanne concluded it might not all be exaggeration.
An elderly chamberlain stepped forward as the Emperor strode onto the ball-room floor, the man bowing and gesturing towards Director Thriftmor, who stood near by. “Divinity, might I crave the honour of presenting . . .”
“Where is she?” the Emperor cut in, his gaze roaming the ball-room. In contrast to his appearance, his voice sounded weak to Lizanne’s ears. Deep but also discordant, as if he had trouble maintaining an even tone. “Where is the one they call Miss Blood?” he went on, tongue lingering on the final word as if tasting it.
The chamberlain gave another bow and turned towards Lizanne, beckoning her forward. “Miss Lethridge, Divinity,” he introduced her. “Ambassadress . . .”
“I know what title they gave her,” Caranis snapped, causing the chamberlain to blanch and take an involuntary backward step. The Emperor’s attention, however, was entirely fixed on Lizanne as she approached and offered a deep curtsy.
“Yes . . .” Caranis said in a thin hiss as his eyes roamed Lizanne from head to toe. She tried not to return his stare, finding the awe on display highly disconcerting. “It is her. Sethamet’s Bane made flesh.”
Sethamet. She recalled Electress Dorice’s warning. His imaginary dark goddess.
“Rise!” the Emperor commanded with an elevating wave of his hand. “And walk with me.” With that Emperor Caranis turned about and strode back up the ball-room steps, leaving a vast silence in his wake. Lizanne’s eyes flicked towards Director Thriftmor, who replied with a minimal shake of his head. I cannot help you.
Smothering a sigh, Lizanne raised the skirt of her ridiculous dress and followed the mad Emperor out into the night.
She found him striding across a gravelled path on the bank of the ornamental lake, obliging her to adopt an undignified trot in order to come to his side. A platoon of Household Guards patrolled the grounds, each armed with a repeating carbine and never more than thirty yards away.