This is this first chapter of my work in progress, Independence. I’ll be posting at least the first few chapters here. If you have any interest in reading on, leave a comment. Any feedback is greatly appreciated.
Thank you,
Alex Rosenthal
Chapter One
Antony adjusted his lenses, glaring across the carriage at his new bodyguard. Kaermak met the glare, unwavering as a block of wood.
The mercenary was an unknown quantity. Father had assigned him, but mercenaries were notoriously pragmatic. Maybe Antony could reach the man. Today was Beauty’s day, after all. His virtues were prudence and wisdom. Maybe he would smile on a logical plea.
“My father is being completely unreasonable,” Antony said.
Kaermak shrugged.
“His argument makes no sense. What exactly is the danger if I abdicate? Does he think I’ll change my mind and come back to claim the throne? I won’t. I promise.”
Another shrug.
“So, you agree this is nonsense?”
Shrug.
“You’re simply fantastic with conversation, aren’t you?”
Apparently that one wasn’t worth even a shrug.
Another tack then.
He lowered his voice, adopting a calm, slightly pleading tone.
“Just let me get out, Kaermak. There’s no good reason to keep me here. Even if you don’t want me to abdicate, missing this breakfast won’t do any harm to anything. It’s just a formality anyway.”
Kaermak shook his head.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening. He’d planned to sneak out this morning. But when a knock had come at his door, it hadn’t been Loriano—Antony’s manservant and bodyguard, with whom he’d made half a dozen secret trips into the city. Instead, the steward Empello was waiting for him with this hulk of mercenary muscle introduced as Kaermak.
Where could Loriano have gotten to? Empello had simply said that he wouldn’t be coming. Antony hoped he was alright, but if he wasn’t, what could Antony do about it stuck in this carriage?
He leaned on one elbow, staring out of the window. The glasswork was of the highest quality, and the snow falling slowly onto New Remia’s streets was as clear to his eyes as if the glass were not there.
The richer district of the capital bustled with activity, even at this gods-despised hour of the morning. The streets were lined with people hurrying about in and out of shops, merchants of middling means setting up stalls and hawking their wares, and guards surveying everything with an air of grim severity that most likely masked boredom.
The carriage rumbled past the statue of Remus in the center of the Upper Market. The statue was supposedly an ancient thing, brought from the ruins of Old Remia hundreds of years ago. It was well maintained though. Remus’s big hooked nose could have been carved yesterday for all the ware it showed, and that sword bore not a speck of rust.
People said that Antony looked just like Remus, but he couldn’t see it. Maybe the nose was right, but that armor, the dashing pose, Divine Blade held high as the stone horse reared… Antony was nothing like the first emperor, no matter how much his father wanted him to be. He was no warrior, no hero, no king.
But maybe playing the role of one for a moment would help.
He turned back to Kaermak. “I’m your prince, you know. I’m descended from him.” He pointed at the statue. “What if I ordered you to let me out?”
Shrug.
“Ignoring orders from your prince now?”
Finally, Kaermak spoke. His voice was rough, and lightly accented. “I take orders from the king.”
Not great, but at least it was a response.
“Of course you do. What exactly were the orders?” Maybe he could come up with some loopholes.
Kaermak went back to silent shrugging.
Antony leaned back with a sigh. Then he dove for the door-handle, quick as a snake.
Kaermak was quicker. Fingers like iron bars closed on Antony’s wrist, stopping him cold before he even touched the handle. He looked up at Kaermak’s stern, scarred face.
“I had to try.”
Kaermak grunted.
“You can let go now,” said Antony, trying to pull away. The grip remained fast on his arm.
Antony tugged vainly. “You’re going to bruise your prince.”
“First, you’re not my prince.” The accent was more pronounced now that Kaermak was speaking full sentences. He was a foreigner, probably a Keld.
“Second, the king didn’t say not to bruise you. He said you are to have breakfast with Otacilia Vincona, and then you are to sign the engagement papers. I can bruise you all over as long as that gets done.”
“Fine, fine. You’ve made your point. Will you let go?”
Kaermak jerked Antony forward instead. He squawked as he fell off of his seat onto his ass on the carriage floor. The mercenary leaned down, glaring at Antony. He reached his free hand beneath his shirt and pulled out an iron pendant.
“You know what this is?”
“It’s…” Antony’s voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “It’s an Iron Name.” Definitely Keldan. Only they were deranged enough for that particular practice.
Kaermak grinned. One of his front teeth was chipped.
“That’s right, boy. My allegiance is to War and his priesthood. I don’t give a shit about you. You could be a pig instead of a prince for all I care. Your name doesn’t keep you safe. This is the only kind of name that matters.” He shook the amulet.
Then he grabbed Antony’s trapped hand with his free one.
“What are you doing?” Antony jerked back, but Kaermak only slid the signet ring from his pinky, holding it up between them.
“Names are funny,” he said. “Doesn’t matter how the name is written on a document. If it’s sealed with this, it will be treated as the name of Prince Antony of House Remus.”
He slid the ring into a pocket. “You will be betrothed today. I’ll be seeing to that.” He patted the pocket. “Am I clear?”
“Yes,” Antony said.
Kaermak finally released him, and Antony scrambled back into his seat.
That was it. He would be engaged by this evening.
He didn’t want to get married to some stuck up second cousin, barely a woman and painted with so much powder he would probably choke if he tried to kiss her. But his father was insistent. ‘Social unrest,’ he said, ‘increased Tibbish hostility, depleted funds.’ It was all a farce. The king was merely feeling his mortality. He had just turned fifty, after all, and his insecurity meant that Antony had to marry Otacilia Vincona.
Otacilia’s father was rich and her mother was Tibbish royalty, so she made a good match politically, but she was only 14, and Antony barely knew her by the giods! His father must be going deranged if he wished to marry Antony to this girl.
One of Antony’s sisters could marry a Vincona boy for an alliance. There were four of five of them. She could have her pick.
But no, of course not. It was Antony who had to inherit a title he’d never wanted, Antony who had to marry a little girl, and Antony who his father had decided should never be with the woman he loved.
He felt the heat of anger rise in his chest, but there was nothing he could do that he wasn’t doing already. Instead of screaming in frustration as he wanted to, Antony just watched the scenery in sullen silence.
The carriage clattered into the Lower Market, splashing dirty slush as it dropped into the deep ruts worn by hundreds of years of wagons rolling over these cobbles. The driver had to slow them as the crowd thickened. This crowd was of a different sort than the one just up the street. There were a few lords and wealthy merchants, but they mingled with farmers, peasants, craftsman, foreigners. Every sort of person one could imagine and his mother seemed represented somewhere in the market.
As the carriage made its way out of the wide city gate toward Burning Bridge, Antony could see the immense number of barges at the docks. Farther inland, the river must be beginning to freeze. The barges from trade posts up that way were heading south to avoid being trapped by the winter. Meanwhile, merchants were coming up river from the east to get one last shipment before the river froze here, too.
“Get out of the way!” The carriage driver yelled, and Antony heard a whip crack. Just outside, someone fell to the ground, cursing furiously.
The young woman looked up as they passed, directly at Antony, and shouted “Burn your name, lordling!” before the carriage left her behind, jouncing as it rolled onto Burning Bridge. She looked about seventeen, and had a big red birthmark splotched across her face.
Antony smiled wryly to himself. That girl had no idea how much he wished he could do just that.