“Find your Hero there, if you can.” Romey handed him a carefully sorted stack of dispatches.
None of them involved the war on the eastern front—they all told tales of plague laying the troops low, unrest in the capital, uprisings in the mines. Many people had died, none of them heroically.
So a day passed when the Emperor received no news of the young lieutenant. Then another. And another. Every morning now, no matter how early Michkov arrived, no matter that he awoke with the milkmaids and street sweepers to win these battles, Romey was already there, had already read and sorted all the dispatches.
“I do hope he is well,” the Emperor said after a week of this, his face creasing with worry. Michkov’s stomach churned. He wanted to give the Emperor good news, to continue the Hero’s story to a glorious conclusion.
The door closed behind the entourage. “Yes,” Romey said, grinning carnivorously. “I do hope nothing has gone wrong.”
Perhaps if Michkov had remained silent, had never mentioned the Hero again, Romey would have been satisfied, content to merely stifle Michkov’s hopes. But the Emperor always looked so pleased to hear of the Hero, and seemed sad when there was no news.
“We have not heard about him in so long because the Lieutenant is recovering from a bout of the eastern flu. The company doctor is frankly surprised he’s gone so long without catching it. But the Lieutenant is in good spirits. The doctor jokes that this is probably the only way they’d get him to rest after these last hard months.”
The Emperor chuckled at this, for indeed the Hero had been extraordinarily busy all along the eastern front. “Shall I write him a note, do you think?”
“I think it would cheer him immensely,” Michkov said, his stomach knotting. The Emperor was smiling again, yes.
But so was Romey.
The Hero was not the best patient. So much remained to be done. The tide of the war was turning, he could not pause now. A raid on an enemy stronghold was planned for the next week. They’d at last retake the valley that had been lost months before. He assured the doctors he was well, begged them to let him rise, take his horse, and return to the front lines where he belonged, where he could lead his men. He wondered how the sergeant was handling the new recruits. Such young boys they sent him these days . . . .
But the doctors kept him to bed, fed him medicines, told him he must rest until the fever stopped burning. Fever, ha! It was his blood, longing to strike the blow that would end this war.
Until then, he had his love’s letter, scented with her perfume, and in the stupor of a sleeping draught he read and reread her words of devotion.
Michkov feared the worst from Romey’s animosity. The next day, Romey’s report came directly to the point.
“Your Majesty, I have a most dire report of treason, committed in your very presence, by one of your own undersecretaries.”
“What?”
“There is no heroic lieutenant fighting on the eastern frontier. I have letters here from Generals Tanov and Yurivno, and they know nothing of this man. He is purely the invention of Lieutenant Michkov, who has been deluding us all for months with his flights of fancy.”
The Emperor’s expression fell. He aged years, all the sadness that had been kept at bay the last few months crashing on him at once. If his uniform had been any less starched, he would have sunk to the floor.
All the disappointment he turned on Michkov in an expression of betrayal. “Lieutenant Michkov, what do you have to say to this? Is it true?”
“Your Majesty, if I may explain—”
“Please do.”
“Your Majesty. The stories haven’t hurt anything. Look at the reports . . . .” He swallowed. He could plead innocence or ignorance. He could, in effect, lie. He’d all but admitted his guilt. He could defend himself without lying. Try to defend himself. “Look at the reports . . . . Your Majesty, you are winning the war! You weren’t, six months ago. Who is to say there isn’t a Hero behind this?”
His brow furrowed, the Emperor lowered his gaze as he considered.
“You think this change is because of your stories?” Romey, harsh and indignant, interrupted the pause. Michkov stood accused, and he would accuse him, before the Emperor could ponder. “You believe that in telling fables you have succeeded where the vigilance of the Empire has failed?”
In fact, Michkov could, because the Empire’s vigilance had failed. But to say so here and now would be treason.
Michkov stood rock-still beside his desk, hands tucked regimentally behind him. “Morale, good or bad, is a powerful thing. But I claim nothing more than the offer of a spark of hope.”
Romey pitted his vision of the Empire against Michkov’s. The paranoia of one who saw only impending disaster against the idealism of one who still indulged in his childhood daydreams. The one who could make the Emperor and his train of glazed-eyed advisors believe his own vision would triumph.
Michkov waited for the Emperor’s answer to his plea, but once again Romey filled the silence.
“Your Majesty, Michkov has done this only to flatter your fine sensibilities, a deceit to win your favor and his preferment.”
Ah, here was a familiar tale of greed and fraud that the Emperor could well believe. And if Michkov claimed that such a plan had never entered his mind—that would be most unbelievable to the men of court.