Emperor of Shadows

  EMPEROR OF SHADOWS

  Book 4

  of the

  Shadow Rogue Series

  By Mike Truk

  Chapter 1

  I walked through the streets of Port Gloom, Iris’s cooling body held against my chest, and felt like the city was mine. Its labyrinthine immensity, its teeming population, its incalculable wealth. The injustices and hopes, the power structures and dead ends. The wharves and docks, the Provost’s Tower, the Star Chamber, Execution Hill--each nook, each cranny.

  Mine.

  They just didn’t know it yet.

  My father’s death had freed my powers, my sense of self. I walked with calm purpose, feeling as if the city shook with each step. I ignored the startled stares of cab drivers at their corner posts, the late-night costermongers who fell back after approaching to see if I’d like to buy a batch of mussels.

  You could get away with carrying a corpse in the Narrows, down in the darkest alleys of the poorest quarter, but here in the Palace District?

  “Hey there, you!” The voice was rough with reproach, gruff with assumed authority.

  I kept walking.

  “Hey!” The sound of a half-dozen men running to catch up with me, the jingling of chain mail, the resentful huff of heavy breathing.

  The guard didn’t like being ignored.

  A moment later they caught up and fanned out around me, dark armored figures with pikes and attitude.

  I stopped, leveling a flat stare at their leader, a heavyset man with a lantern jaw and small eyes under a heavy brow. The kind of man who thought it a good day’s work to rough up beggars, to exact bribes and protection payments, who bowed his head and offered to lick the boots of any nobleman who glanced his way.

  “Hey there! You!” The man seemed nonplussed at my blank expression. “What by the Hanged God’s withered scrotum you think you’re doing, walking around with a… a body like that?”

  I felt nothing. No fear, no nervousness, no doubt. Once, not too long ago, when I’d been a thief aspirant, this would have been my worst nightmare. Surrounded by an elite guard, far out of my territory, without back-up or an alibi.

  But that thief aspirant was long gone. Everyman Jack had cut his throat and thrown him in the Snake Head.

  Now? I wasn’t sure what I was. What I’d become. What I’d forged of myself over the past year or two.

  Oh, wait. No. That wasn’t quite right.

  I guess I knew what I was. There wasn’t any denying it now.

  I was a King Troll.

  The only one in the city.

  The city that was now mine.

  I put some power into my words. “This isn’t any of your concern. Step aside, and leave me alone.”

  The sergeant frowned; then, his confusion growing, he moved aside.

  The city troll next to him, lean, angular, and all predator, frowned deeply and shuffled aside as well.

  I resumed walking. Leaving the guard behind, I hitched Iris higher up my chest, careful that I didn’t spill her decapitated head off her lap into the street.

  The stump of her neck glistened in the moonlight. Tubes and bone, muscle and torn skin.

  The very detail of it made the body seem less and less a part of Iris. The weight, the shape of her. Its physical nature.

  For the further I walked, the less what I held seemed to have anything in common with the woman I’d loved.

  The woman who’d sacrificed herself for me, imprinted her soul upon my father so the Paruko Dream Eaters would steal him away instead. Allowed Baleric the Exemplar of the Hanged God to cut her head from her shoulders.

  Who had faced death as if it was nothing to be afraid of. Who’d whispered those enigmatic words at the very last: “It’s all so beautiful. Don’t fret, my love. I’ll see you again some day soon. Look for me.”

  Madness? Or had she seen through the Hanged God’s veil, finding a way to walk the path to the Ashen Garden, and somehow return?

  My skin broke out in goosebumps and I stopped to gaze down at her slack, pale features. Her eyelids were at half-mast, her skin pallid as candle wax, her hair in disarray. She seemed a cunningly contrived simulacra; not Iris, not any part of her.

  Was she going to return? Had she defeated death itself? Toward the end, I’d lost the ability to understand her insanity. Or wisdom. Her brilliance, her dark, fractured mind. She’d reached depths of understanding I couldn’t fathom.

  And - truth be told - I didn’t feel much grief. Part of me, some primordial, bestial side, something that defied my rational mind, didn’t feel like she was truly gone. I felt shock, yes - remorse, pain for her death - but not grief.

  A crowd was gathering on the far side of the street, murmuring as they examined me. I had to cut a strange figure, I suppose; standing there on the far sidewalk of a grand boulevard, staring down at the severed head of a beautiful woman.

  Ah, well. Time to keep moving.

  I had a singular destination. Despite my calm, my unnatural sense of control, I knew there was much to be done. Or perhaps, more accurately, to be undone.

  The dark city about me was a great glass edifice that I was about to take a sledgehammer to.

  It was all going to come down.

  But first I had to find my women.

  I strode faster. Growing impatient, I stepped out into the road as a handsome carriage came rumbling toward me, and raised a hand.

  “Stop,” I commanded.

  The driver pulled back on the reins, the two magnificent steeds snorting as they slowed, arresting the carriage’s momentum.

  “Hey now, what the -”

  “Be silent and don’t move.”

  The driver shut up.

  I walked around to the side of the carriage and opened the door. A startled young man dressed in a severe military outfit was trying to draw his blade within the cramped confines of the cabin; a terrified young woman in a state of dishabille shrank against the upholstery behind him.

  “Get out, both of you, and find another way home.”

  The man’s face went bone-white behind his handlebar mustache, and he spilled out of the carriage, eyes wild like a startled horse’s. A moment later his mistress followed him out, and I stepped into the carriage, pulling the door closed behind me.

  I opened the slot that allowed me to speak to the driver. “Take me directly to Senator Aurelius’s home on the far side of Execution Hill.”

  The driver cracked his reins and the carriage lurched into motion. I set Iris’s body down on the seat before me, then leaned back, gazing out the window. The city scrolled by. Fine mansions, intersecting boulevards. All the pomp and excess of the Palace Quarter, the greatest concentration of wealth in perhaps the known world.

  I frowned and rubbed my finger across my lips. I thought of my loved ones. If they were in any way harmed. If Aurelius had gone through with his threats.

  Anger arose within me, arose like a dark and turbulent ocean, held back by my will but ready to spill forth and drown the city.

  Cerys. Netherys. Yashara. Tamara. Pogo. Pony.

  People I loved more than anything in the world.

  Aurelius was now far beyond my ability to hurt him, but the rest of the city? The endless hordes of his accomplices, agents, his Aunts and Uncles?

  Oh, they would pay. They would pay for eternity if any of my friends and lovers were harmed.

  The carriage raced through the streets, the driver’s terror causing him to accelerate to near reckless speeds. But that was fine. No carriage accident could harm me now. And something about the wild recklessness of our hurtling passage through the city pleased me. It matched the turbulence and fury that simmered just beneath my iron control.

  I tore my gaze from the manors and estates tearing by and
considered again Iris’s still body.

  “Look for me,” she’d said, but here she was, dead and still. Look for her, where? In my dreams? In the faces of strangers? Would she appear to me, reborn?

  Was she with me now?

  The carriage came to an abrupt stop. “We’re here, milord, but the gates are closed.”

  I scooped Iris’s corpse into my arms once more, kicked open the carriage door, and descended to the cobbled street.

  We’d arrived. Aurelius’s estate was barely visible through the iron bars of the front gate, down the graveled driveway that wound around a fountain to the great covered entrance.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Go and resume your normal activities. Don’t speak of this to anyone.”

  The driver gave no response, but simply cracked his whips and drove on.

  A guard emerged from the gatehouse, lantern held high; drawn forth, no doubt, by the sound of the carriage wheels.

  “Who goes there? My lord Aurelius is not in residence. You will have to return later.”

  I moved up to the ornate gate, making no attempt to hide Iris’s corpse. The guard startled as his warm light fell upon us, and he let out an incoherent oath, hand dropping to his blade.

  “Open the gate,” I commanded, voice firm and inexorable in the cold night air.

  The guard froze, hand on his hilt, and his expression writhed, moving through a variety of emotions before settling into numb acquiescence. Jerkily, he moved forward to unlock the great gate, then pulled it inward, its lower edge swinging soundlessly over the compressed gravel.

  “I am now your master, and you will treat me as you did Lord Aurelius,” I said.

  “My lord,” said the guard, bowing low, voice shaking.

  “Lord Aurelius is dead, and I will be taking his place. My name is Kellik. Tell me anything I should know in order to remain safe and unharmed by whatever awaits me in the mansion.”

  The guard straightened, and for a second he fought my will, wrestling with my commands, but he might as well have struggled against chains of iron. Finally, he coughed and began to speak.

  “There are few dangers, for Lord Aurelius feared little. A dozen guards, myself included, though we are mostly for show. The head butler is Veserigard, and he runs the house itself. You should seek him out and have him explain the workings of the estate, as I just work the gatehouse and can’t advise you much better.”

  Made sense. A King Troll as immune to physical danger as my father wouldn’t need an army of guards.

  “Very well. Remain at your post, and execute your duty faithfully as if nothing had changed.”

  The guard bowed his head, eyes wide as he stared at Iris, and remained hunched over as I strode past him and down the gravel drive.

  How long ago had Cerys and I ridden down this entrance to Aurelius’s party? A month ago? More? Time was slipping through my fingers. Then, the estate had been lit up by countless lanterns, the grounds alive with guests, the gravel crunching under scores of carriages that rolled up to deposit their fabulous charges at the front door. Cerys had worn a sleeve of black lace over a crimson sheath, looking so fine, so beautiful, that I had been disarmed, had fallen in love with her all over again.

  But now, the estate was dark and still. The vast majority of the windows were black and curtained. Two lanterns hung on the main pillars that supported the entrance’s portico, and everything spoke of quiet refinement. The manicured bushes shaped to resemble fantastic beasts; the neatness of the white gravel, which was carefully kept within the bounds of the road and spilled not at all over onto the grass. The fragrance of blooms, the hint of ornate gardens just beyond, the perfect grandeur of the mansion itself.

  My father’s home.

  Mine, now.

  If I wanted it.

  A servant stood at attention beside the huge front doors, watching my approach with confusion carefully hidden behind a veneer of professional discretion. The doors were large enough for Pony to walk through, the portico broad enough to shield even the largest of carriages from inclement weather. I stepped under their protection and the servant startled as he made out Iris’s corpse.

  “Stand still and be silent,” I commanded, and the servant froze, watching with horror as I drew close.

  He was an older man, with a high brow, slender nose, and weak chin. But his gray eyes were alive with intelligence, and he studied me with fierce desperation.

  “Your name?”

  “Beauclaire,” he said, voice a hoarse whisper.

  “Of Port Lusander?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “Your title?”

  “Footman.”

  “Is Veserigard home?”

  “I believe so, my lord.”

  “Then take me to him.”

  Beauclaire gave a curt bow, turned, and led the way through the huge front doors, pushing one open with an ease that demonstrated how perfectly the door was balanced.

  It was strange to enter the hall beyond with Iris in my arms, to remember the area full of revelers, the magic, the red lighting. Now there was a tomb-like silence, and the faces in the gilt portraits watched our passage with stern disapproval.

  Beauclaire moved with stiff formality, striding ahead to take a left before the main hall, and then through a side door that led into the servants’ quarters. The hall became narrower, the decor plain. The house was alive; subtle sounds emanated above, murmurs from closed doors indicated an active wait staff, but there was also a strained stiffness to the atmosphere. The artificial hush of a museum, perhaps, or a patina of fear and restraint over what might otherwise have been the normal business of running a manor.

  Beauclaire led me directly to an unassuming door, and there rapped twice, stepping aside.

  “Who is it?” came the haughty inquiry, and Beauclaire hesitated, unsure as to how to proceed.

  “Open the door,” I commanded.

  He did just that, and I entered the room beyond, Iris held still in my arms. The room was spartan and unassuming; a narrow desk, an equally narrow bed, a few notes tacked to the wall, a slender window that gazed out into a night made opaque by the candle burning on the sill.

  The occupant was short and burly, with lambchops sideburns and a roseate face that reflected a predilection for tippling. Wearing a starched white shirt and gray felt pants held up by suspenders, he turned from the letter he’d been writing with annoyance, his demeanor one of a man used to unquestioning obedience, irate at being barged in on with such little ceremony.

  The sight of Iris’s head quelled his tongue.

  “Sit down,” I said, “and be quiet. Beauclaire, return your post and resume your normal duties, with my interests now replacing those of Lord Aurelius in your mind.”

  The footman bowed gravely, closed the door, and I heard his footsteps retreating quickly.

  Veserigard stared at me in mute alarm, his complexion turning mottled, his hand gripping the back of his chair over which his coat was folded with a white-knuckled hold.

  I laid Iris down upon his bed, catching her head as it began to roll off and setting it under the curve of one arm. Considering the corpse, unsure, I then took up the folded blanket at the foot of the bed and cast it over her body. It settled into a disconcerting series of valleys and peaks over her form.

  “Now,” I said, turning to regard the head butler. “Answer my questions precisely, but add whatever information you think necessary to fulfill the spirit of my inquiries and not just the letter. Do you know where Aurelius kept his prisoners? Namely, a red-haired woman called Cerys, a high elf called Netherys, possibly a brunette Exemplar of the White Sun called Tamara?”

  “I know where Aurelius keeps his prisoners,” said Veserigard, voice husky with repressed emotion - anger or fear, I couldn’t quite tell. “Cerys and Netherys are below. I don’t know about an Exemplar.”

  “Are they hurt?” The question burst from my lips, battling with the desire that he take me straight to them.

  “No,” sai
d Veserigard.

  “Thank the fucking gods,” I said, relief making my knees go weak. “What of the medusa? Those she turned to stone in the underground base yesterday?”

  “Mithasa isn’t in the manor, and I don’t know about her latest victims.” Hesitation on his part, his tongue swiping across his lower lip. “But I could have her summoned.”

  “First take me to Cerys and Netherys. But listen well.” I leaned forward, my gaze boring into his own. “You are to treat me with as much deference and care as you would Lord Aurelius. My well-being is now your primary concern, and you will do everything within your power to keep me safe, informed of anything you think I should know, and to take care of my friends.”

  “Then I must tell you that Lord Aurelius will have you destroyed as soon as he returns home,” said Veserigard.

  “No, he won’t,” I said. “He’s gone and won’t ever be coming back. I’m your new lord. Now lead on. Take me to my friends.”

  Veserigard gaped, then scoffed silently as he stood, clearly not believing me. That was fine. I didn’t need his faith. I just needed his compliance.

  He led me down the hall to a stairway that spiraled down two floors and out into a narrow corridor. A pair of guards startled to attention then stood down at a gesture from Veserigard. To be safe, I paused to address them, commanding them both to treat me as their sole liege from now on.

  But I didn’t have the patience to work them properly. Instead, I motioned for Veserigard to lead on, nearly snatching the keys from his hand when he drew a thick ring of them from his pouch. I watched, impatient, as he found the right one for the keyhole. It took an eon for the lock to snick open, and another for him to swing the door open and reveal Cerys rising to her feet. Face gaunt from her recent convalescence, her crimson hair in disarray, her eyes widening in shock at the sight of me.

  “Kellik?”

  “By the gods,” I whispered, stepping into her arms and pulling her in tight. The sensation of stunned grandeur in which I’d been walking since Iris’s death shattered, and real emotion coursed through me. Terrific relief, amazement, love, gratitude. My eyes burned with tears as I squeezed Cerys tight, buried my face in her hair, and inhaled her scent.