The Lesser Devil Read online

  Also by Christopher Ruocchio:

  The Sun Eater Cycle

  Empire of Silence

  Howling Dark

  As Editor

  Star Destroyers

  (with Tony Daniel) featuring short story

  “Not Made for Us”

  Space Pioneers

  (with Hank Davis) featuring short story

  “A Parliament of Owls”

  Copyright © 2020 by Christopher Ruocchio

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Peter Ruocchio. Book design by Terminal Sigma Type.

  Published through Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  FOR MY BROTHERS, MAT THEW AND ANDREW.

  I’LL SAY IT JUST THIS ONCE: I LOVE YOU BOTH.

  Chapter 1

  Sabine

  Before the first rains fell on Delos with the comets and drowned the low country, the mountain had stood for five billion years. Though the seas filled in at man’s command and drowned the dry lands, still it stood above the waters: a heap of white stone towering a thousand feet above the village whose buildings hewed like limpets to its foot. And as the years marched on and the centuries swam, that village became a town and a city afterwards, and by Imperial decree upon the crown of that mountain was set the cornerstone and thirteen towers of Devil’s Rest.

  Relic of a nobler time was she, formed and fronted of black stone quarried from the volcanic south; her high towers stretching up like pieces of dark space longing to return to the night. The great wall which ringed the acropolis and the greater wall which held back the sea below were defiant challenges to the forces of nature, a reminder that here at least in all the cosmos man reigned supreme. It was a place of deep shadows, of black-leafed hedges and topiary sculptures growing in the silver sun. A place of pointed archways and soaring buttresses, of ancient gargoyles snarling at the sky, and of whispering courtiers forever mindful of the palace and its watchful eyes.

  Cold as it was, Crispin had grown to love it, in its way.

  The young Lord Marlowe hurried along the garden path beneath the fingering shadows of pencil cypresses hundreds of years old. Ignoring the salutes of the peltasts positioned on the stair he took the steps two at a time, hurrying under the cover of a colonnade that ran above the gardens towards the black mass of the great keep.

  He was late.

  “Master Crispin!” came a voice from down the hall as he waited for a lift in the mosaic-tiled lobby. “Why the hurry?”

  The young lord turned and—still catching his breath—found himself face-to-face with a round-faced old man in sky-dark robes. “Father Abiatha! Good morning!”

  The elderly chanter bobbed his head in a slight bow, “Nearly afternoon.” That was just the problem. “Aren’t you leaving for Artemia today? Or was that tomorrow?”

  “It’s today,” Crispin answered, checking his terminal. “That storm’s coming in faster than expected, so they’re moving our flight forward. Where’s Sabine?”

  The old man smoothed his cassock down over his expansive belly, almost as if he were looking for something he’d lost in some pocket or fold. “I’m not rightly sure, young master. We canceled her lessons this morning to give her time to prepare. But had I to guess, I’d say she’s in her chambers.”

  The lift door chimed politely then, its clear tone a better response than anything Crispin might have said. He ducked inside, bowling past the two gray-clad logothetes who’d been about to exit. He gave the old chanter a nod and tapped the lift button repeatedly, as if that might hasten the closing of the doors.

  Despite his haste, he stopped a moment in the hall outside Sabine’s chambers. He hated visiting the old rooms. His old rooms. He didn’t knock, only barged in—not attending to the pale tiles or the plastered ceiling inlaid with jeweled and brass-lined constellations. Even after thirty years, he could still feel Hadrian in the old place; his brother who was gone, fled to the edge of known space. Maybe even kidnapped. No one really knew. No one had heard from Hadrian in over thirty standard years.

  Crispin hoped he was all right.

  “Sabine!” he called, “Sabine, where are you? We need to leave in an hour!”

  Her voice floated back from the washroom, “An hour? I thought we were leaving after lunch?”

  “That storm’s coming in faster than the weather service predicted. Father wants us on our way before it makes landfall.” They could have taken off in the midst of a hurricane if they’d wanted to, but Lord Alistair Marlowe was not the sort to risk his two children when it wasn’t necessary.

  Crispin stood anxiously in the doorway, eyes taking in the two packed trunks stacked at the end of the bed, remembering—as he always did when it came time to leave Devil’s Rest and visit their mother’s family— that last fateful trip with his older brother. He had gone to visit Hadrian that last night at Haspida. He had sneered, mocked Hadrian’s friend—the old scholiast tutor, Gibson. He’d wanted something, anything from his older brother besides his aloof coldness. Any reaction. A kind word, a smile. He’d settled for anger instead, had been glad of any emotion from distant Hadrian, such that a piece of him leaped for joy when the older boy screamed and threw himself at Crispin.

  There had been no smiles in the end. Hadrian had left Crispin with a concussion and two broken ribs. Now Hadrian was gone—had been gone for over thirty years—and Sabine had taken his place more than a decade later, born when at last the Emperor and his High College deigned to approve House Marlowe’s request for a new child.

  Sabine.

  Sabine was nearly half Crispin’s age, more a kind of daughter than a sister. Twenty-five years was a small enough gap in age between palatine siblings, yet Crispin found he could not think of his sister as anything but a child. And yet she was a woman grown: fully thirty years standard, and no longer an ephebe. Not two months past it had been she who slew the first rock lion on their hunting expedition to the southern continent, not Crispin.

  The girl herself appeared a moment after, hair down and dressed in a loose gown the color of arterial blood. She was clearly midway through the lengthy process of preparing herself for travel. “How much time do we have?” she asked, brushing past him towards the closet. Only then did Crispin note the two maidservants standing demurely by the dark wooden doors, trying to appear as nondescript as the red figure vases that held the arrangements of bright flowers—white and violet—whose proper names Crispin could not guess.

  “Less than an hour,” he said again.

  Sensing the urgency in his voice, his sister turned, smoothing down her waving hair with long-fingered hands, “Take a deep breath, big brother. I’m already packed. Who’s flying us to Artemia? Sir Ardian?”

  “Captain Kyra,” Crispin said. “We were on a suborbital launch, but the shuttle won’t be ready before the storm, so we’re taking an air shuttle over the mountains.”

  Sabine’s smile widened. She didn’t have the crooked Marlowe smile at all, and but for the ivory complexion and ink-black hair, she favored their mother, who was of House Kephalos: softer of feature and less severe. She had the eyes, of course. Two chips of amethyst. Always the same, those eyes, no matter the person whose face they looked out of. Always they seemed echoes of their father’s eyes, the Marlowe genetic markers ringing
true. “Kyra!” she said. “Kyra could take off mid-hurricane if she wanted to.”

  “Well, Father doesn’t want her to have to,” Crispin replied. “Can you just get ready, please?”

  “Fine!” she shrugged out of the robe and passed the airy garment to one of the maidservants, seemingly unconcerned with her nakedness. Crispin averted his eyes and walked towards the window. The view overlooked the city of Meidua where it unrolled below the acropolis. Smoke was rising above the verdigris dome of the Chantry sanctum, and fliers wheeled in the air, carrying men and cargo here and there. Over and away where the land rose past the coastal city towards the highlands and the mountains, he could see the start of the construction to build the city its very own hightower. Once it was finished, the lift would carry freight to the Legion and Wong-Hopper ships that waited in orbit. Really, it was amazing the tower had not been built sooner, with demand for the region’s uranium on the rise.

  Sabine raised her voice, “How is Grandmother?”

  There was something in her voice, something fragile that surprised Crispin so much that he almost turned. She sounded like the girl he so often thought she was. But he did not turn, only leaned against the window frame, arms crossed. “About the same.” Their grandmother was Elmira Kephalos, Duchess of Delos and Vicereine of Auriga Province; the sovereign ruler of a thousand star systems. She was also very, very old, and though she was palatine and nearly eight hundred years old, she was dying at last. “Father tells me she’s recovered from the stroke as well as could be expected, but I understand Aunt Amalia is duchess now in all but name. The rest of the aunts are all in line, backing her succession.” House Kephalos had by design bred only daughters, part of some tradition Crispin knew of but did not understand. Their mother had been the youngest of seven. Crispin cleared his throat, answering his sister’s unasked question: “She’s sure to make it until we arrive, but Father doesn’t want us to be late.”

  There was, after all, always the chance the old woman would bestow some gift upon her grandchildren on her deathbed. Some last minute inheritance to be gained. House Marlowe had always ranked high in the esteem of the old vicereine-duchess. Their own father had served as her Lord Executor in his youth when Lady Elmira had been called to attend upon His Radiance the Emperor at Forum. Father had suppressed House Orin’s Rebellion, smashed those treasonous scoundrels from the outer moons and maintained order in her absence. It was for that service that Father and Mother had been married and House Marlowe’s esteem among the houses returned to something like its former glory.

  “It’s good she’s stable, at least,” Sabine said, then murmured something to her maids. “She can speak, right?”

  “Yes,” Crispin replied, “but I’m not certain how well or how much sense she makes. Father wouldn’t say.” He glanced at the dim reflections in the window glass and, sensing it was safe, turned around. Sabine had dressed in semi-formal jacket and white trousers.

  “And Father’s still not coming?” Sabine asked, seating herself on the low stool so her servants could put on her high leather boots. She gathered her hair as she spoke and clasped it with a magnetic silver ring at her right shoulder.

  Crispin put his hands on his hips, “He wasn’t summoned. Grandmother wanted to see us—or to see you, rather. It’s sounding like I was more of an afterthought.”

  Her boots on, Sabine dismissed the serving girls. “Me? Whatever for?” Her eyes had gone wide with equal parts honor and alarm.

  “No idea,” Crispin said, “but grandmother did always favor girl children. Maybe it’s good news.” He smiled, a sly edge creeping into his voice, “Maybe she’s arranged a marriage for you, Sabine. Some Imperial prince, maybe?”

  The girl’s eyebrows shot up. “You think so?”

  “Could be! She’s a vicereine, isn’t she? She must speak to the Emperor a few times a year.”

  His sister was nodding, and her eyes were on some point on the floor, alight with some distant fire. “Princess Sabine …” she mused, still combing her hair with her fingers.

  “And me the lord of this old place,” Crispin said, making it sound a consolation prize for her benefit—which he supposed it was. Compared to marrying a scion of the Imperial house, being the Lord of Devil’s Rest and Archon of Meidua Prefecture was a little thing indeed. Truth be told, he’d expected the remark to prickle his little sister, but Sabine showed no disgust at the thought of marrying some Imperial princeling or other. But she was no fool, his little sister, no idiot girl to think such a marriage a hideous thing. If that were really what the Lady Elmira was planning for her granddaughter—to an Imperial prince or not—a good marriage was a promising opportunity… for herself and for House Marlowe.

  Sabine matched his sly tone. “Or maybe she’s found you a lady, Crispin,” she smiled, “Brought some offworlder in to civilize you.”

  “Small chance,” Crispin said, casting his glance around at his sister’s luggage. He massaged the back of his scalp, banishing thoughts of the slave girls he meant to visit in Artemia: gold chains and perfumed hair. “But come on! Let’s get the stevedores in here and get your things down to the ship, shall we?”

  The younger Marlowe stood, chin thrust upwards as he studied Crispin. She paused a moment—two—just looking him over. So alike they were, just as Crispin and Hadrian had been alike. Both pale, both dark- haired and violet eyed, like a pair of matched knives or chess pieces. Both parts of an ancient family and an ancient family plan. Crispin saw the Marlowe house sigil picked out in metallic red thread on the lapel of her sable jacket, twin to the one on his own: a horned devil capering with a trident in its hands. Though it was his family’s emblem, it filled Crispin with disquiet.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?” Sabine asked.

  Crispin looked away before replying, not wanting his sister to see the shadow that passed over his blunt features. “Father is waiting to see us off.”

  Chapter 2

  The Dark Lord

  It had been raining when Hadrian left Devil’s Rest for the last time, too, Crispin remembered. He clambered down the ramp and un- der a heavy canvas awning to keep away from those drops of rain which were the vanguard of the coming storm. The distinctive shimmer of a Royse field shone beyond the awning, wrapping around and above the covered space and the ranks of black-armored peltasts standing untroubled by the rain.

  “My regards to the vicereine-duchess, Master Crispin,” said Tor Alcuin. The scholiast bowed deeply, viridian robes flapping in the rising winds.

  Crispin returned the bow with less gravity—Alcuin was only a servant. He did not reply, but bowed again more deeply to the man at Alcuin’s left. “Father.”

  Lord Alistair Marlowe did not so much as nod in return. There was a part of the Archon of Meidua—Crispin suspected—which had never forgiven his younger son for growing taller than he. But thus it was. Tall as Lord Alistair was, and he was tall as any true palatine must be, Crispin thought him shrunken by care and the weight of so many centuries of rule. He still stood straight, his chiseled face unmoving and cold as the marble bust he so resembled. Yet there was hollowness in his eyes, a weary coldness like the coldness of candles long burned out.

  “Crispin,” he said, voice deep as hell. “Take care of Sabine, and tell your Aunt Amalia that we here in Meidua are as ever faithful servants to her mother and her house.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  Sabine came out of the flier behind Crispin a moment later and bobbed a curtsy. “Father.” Was that a smile on the old devil’s face? No, only a shadow. But he put a hand on Sabine’s shoulder all the same, a fleeting moment of human warmth from a man cold as the dark side of the farthest moon. “On the shuttle, girl.” He made a gesture with the silvered walking stick he carried, hand glittering with rings. Lord Alistair was not yet given to the infirmity of great age that came only after long and several centuries, and so for him the prop was only an affectation, a practical imitation of the scepter of authority harking back to ancient king
s.

  When Crispin moved to follow his sister down the covered walk towards the terminal down to the runway and the shuttle, Lord Alistair thrust that stick across his path. “Not you.” Sabine threw a sympathetic glance back over her shoulder at her older brother—unseen by the archon or his advisors. When Sabine had been safely led through the door and out of the rain, Lord Alistair said, “Come, walk with me.” And then he took a step out from under the canopy into the coming storm.

  “In the rain, Father?” Crispin said, unmoving.

  Lord Alistair Marlowe gripped his cane with both hands behind his back and turned, eyebrows raised. The Archon of Meidua did not ask for anything twice. The petulant part of Crispin that had not changed much since he was a boy lingered a moment on the edge of the rain, but he obeyed and followed his father out under the gray sky. The double line of household guards parted to allow them past, and Crispin was aware of the static charge of the Royse field all around them. Ordinarily, they’d have been horribly exposed out there on the tarmac, but the energy shield kept them protected from snipers should anyone determine to attack the Lord of Devil’s Rest or his son.

  “There is … something I need to tell you, boy,” Lord Alistair said once they had gotten away from the others. Out here on the landing field they might be certain they were not being overheard. Even in his own palace, the Lord of Devil’s Rest might fear the pricking ears of other agents: those of the various lesser in-system houses, of the various guilds and trade corporations, or of the vicereine herself. Whatever was going on must be a frightful secret for Father to go to such lengths in concealing it. Worse, the Lord of Devil’s Rest seemed almost to be hesitating, as if he were afraid of what he must say.

  But it wasn’t fear, Crispin realized a moment later. Only patience, for when his father seized him by the arm and wheeled him round so that they faced one another, he spoke with the easy urgency of the lifelong politician. “I suspect Amalia means to do away with you and your sister.” Crispin blinked. “Aunt Amalia?” It didn’t make sense. What would Aunt Amalia need to get rid of him and Sabine for?