The Oaken Throne, where Ma’elKoth now sat, still stood on its broad rectangular dais, twenty-seven tall steps above the vast floor of the Hall; narrow tapestries with the dust- and lampblack-smokiness of age still hung between the soaring buttresses, but this was the extent of the Hall’s resemblance to Caine’s memories.
Ma’elKoth had made some changes around here.
The dusty light from the south windows vanished into the magmatic glow of twelve bronze braziers, each wide enough for a tall man to recline within. Coals of the same sort as the ones beneath the cauldron in the Lesser Ballroom burned there, light and heat without smoke. They did not seem to consume themselves, but their light was not so steady as that cast by lamps might be; rather it shifted and pulsed until the shadows it cast seemed alive, and purposeful.
In the center of the floor a gigantic platform had been built, a square nine feet high and hundreds of feet on the side; it was draped with enough maroon-and-gold bunting to clothe the entire palace staff.
Over it all towered a statue of Ma’elKoth, nude, cast in bronze.
The shining bronze nude stood with arms akimbo and feet spread in a stance of authority and power, its crotch a meter or so above the level of the platform’s floor. Not even the faintest tint of verdigris dulled the shine of its mighty musculature, and the expression on its face was one of perfect benevolence and warmth. From his angle, Caine could see that the statue was double-sided, so that there was another face staring back over the platform.
Caine nodded to himself; he took the statue’s double face as a warning omen.
Between the legs of the statue was a short, angled slide, also of bronze, that led down from the platform to a shallow basin at the foot of the steps to the throne. Caine could just barely make out the shadow of a Herculean penis on the opposite front of the statue; on this side there was only a swollen fold at the crotch that seemed to be a stylized representation of a vagina.
He had a feeling that things were going to get weird.
He sat in a tiny curtained alcove just behind the throne. There were a pair of chairs in this alcove; Caine sat in one, his eye pressed to a tiny judas gate in the wall at Ma’elKoth’s back. Ma’elKoth had installed him here, explaining that he had no desire to forgo the pleasure of Caine’s company simply because the hour had come for Ma’elKoth to give audience.
So Caine sat and watched, while delegation after delegation from around the Empire was ushered into the Great Hall. One spokesman from each group would come forward and mount the steps to the throne to present their supplication. Ma’elKoth would listen and nod, and when they were finished he’d direct the delegation to the platform. The delegations would go beneath the platform, and there remove their clothes.
A line of naked men and women, from humble Squires to Dukes of the Empire, climbed the stairs to the platform.
They joined the growing crowd there, a crowd of naked shivering men and women of all ages, who waited and watched—understandably, a little nervously—while Ma’elKoth dealt with each of their successors.
Through this all, Ma’elKoth kept up a running sotto voce commentary for Caine’s benefit, speaking of this Baron or that Knight, and the troubles in their lands, their past political connections, their current ambitions, and what use Ma’elKoth might find for them in his Great Work. Sometimes the conversation ranged widely, but it always seemed to come back around to Ma’elKoth, to his accomplishments and his plans.
Caine suspected that Ma’elKoth held him here, told him all this, largely because Caine had known the man he’d once been, and thus could appreciate how far he’d come and how much he’d done; the underlying desire for approval this implied might have been his only human weakness.
Caine slowly—and uncomfortably—decided that he really, kind of, liked Ma’elKoth. There was something immensely attractive in his effortless and unlimited confidence; his arrogance was so fully supported by power that it became almost a virtue. Whenever Caine let himself forget why he was here, and what he would have to do, his trepidation dwindled and he found himself drawn to the man; not, perhaps, in the sense of human attraction, of friendship, but rather more in the sense that some men are drawn to the sea, and others to mountains.
How could he not like someone who took such obvious joy in simply being alive, in being who he was?
“I destroyed the crown, of course,” Ma’elKoth was saying. “It was only a key to unlock the gate that restrained the power I now wield, and I saw no sense in allowing anyone else access to this power. And I could use this power—” He passed a hand over his robes as though to say, Voila! “—to remake Myself in any image I chose. First, I made Myself beautiful—recalling how Hannto looked, you might understand why. Then I gave Myself brilliance, an intellect that borders on the omniscient. Next, I gave Myself another form of power: nearly unlimited wealth. Latterly, I have become the Ankhanan Emperor: political power, real authority. But I’m not finished yet.”
“You’re not?” Caine asked. “What do you do for an encore, become God?”
“Precisely.”
And the very next delegation had come from the free farmers of Kaarn; they’d traveled a thousand miles to ask the Emperor to break the drought that was searing their fields. Ma’elKoth gave his word in agreement and sent the men to the platform.
As they walked with stiff dignity under the bunting, Caine whispered, “That’s quite a promise.”
Ma’elKoth answered with his infectious Olympian chuckle. “And I’ll keep it. I’d be a piss-poor god if I cannot even make rain.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Mmm. Perhaps.”
He spent a moment settling a land dispute between two Kirischan Barons. He did it well, so far as Caine could see; both Barons appeared satisfied as they ducked under the bunting below the platform. Then Ma’elKoth returned to the subject.
“Ironically, it was the Aktiri who inspired Me in this.”
Caine was glad to be behind the wall and out of sight; he swallowed and steadied his voice before he said lightly, “The Aktiri? Aren’t you a little old to believe in Aktiri?”
“Mmm, Caine, if you had seen what I’ve seen . . .”
“I thought,” he said carefully, “well, to tell you the truth, I thought this whole Aktir hunt was just a dodge to wipe out your political opposition.”
“And so it was. I am a tyrant, after all: I hold the throne without any legitimate claim of succession. I am, in fact, a commoner.”
He settled back into the Oaken Throne and looked darkly out upon his subjects. “Despite My ability, and My popularity with the common folk of the Empire, the nobility has been arrayed against Me since the day I took power. Denouncing this Count or that Baronet as an Aktir not only destroys the credibility of his opposition, but it gives Me a perfectly legitimate excuse to have him killed. And yes, I thought that the Aktiri were no more than stories, convenient phantoms to shade the features of My enemies.
“Until they tried to murder me.
“Eight men, with weapons such as no one has ever seen, that spit pellets like slingstones in a stream like rainwater from a gargoyle’s mouth; they attacked Me within the very halls of My palace. Twenty-six of My household died in that attack, only seven of them Household Knights, only three others of Armiger rank; the rest were unarmed: servants, men and women, and three pages who were no more than children.”
Caine winced behind his concealing wall. Eight men with assault rifles . . . Kollberg, you’re a real hero.
“I took six of them alive. Three died in the Theater of Truth, under the care of Master Arkadeil; it was there that I learned much of the Aktiri. They are as human as you are, Caine, as human as I once was. Some geas of their masters stops their breath if they attempt to tell of their world, but I learned much from them nonetheless, and more from the other three that I killed with My own hands.”
Learned much? Caine thought. He knew the limits of Studio conditioning very well, the hand-to-his-throat choking
sensation of trying to so much as speak English here on Overworld. The Studio claimed that it was impossible for an Actor to reveal himself or others as Actors, no matter what the duress—they would die if somehow they were forced beyond their capacity to keep silent.
“It was that spell we spoke of, the one I nearly used on you, Caine,” Ma’elKoth went on as though aware of Caine’s thoughts. “I developed and refined it in experiments on a number of enemies of the Empire. When in the mindview trance, holding this spell, I can trap the fading essence of a man’s memories—his soul, if you care to call it that—if his body no longer has the life to hold it within. In this way I learned much of their world.”
A freezing hand stroked down Caine’s spine. I’m one of the most famous men on that world.
“There, humanity is ascendant. They own the world and have only fading legends of the subhumans. They all speak a single language, and have magick that would beggar your imagination, Caine, if I were to try to tell you of it. You would think Me mad.”
He paused, his eyes distant as they ranged over the wonders of this alien world. “And I sought, among their memories, the reason for humanity’s success, there, why they have become so much while we have remained so little, and I believe that I have found it.”
Caine coughed into his hand to clear his throat. “Oh?”
“It’s our gods, Caine. The gods who rule us, they hold us back. Even though they are restrained from direct intervention in human affairs by the Covenant of Pirichanthe, they continue to squabble and fight through their priests and followers; they spark no end of conflict, wasting forces that should be used to defend the race. The Aktiri, though—more than four thousand years ago, a small band of desert raiders on their world originated a stunning idea. They decided that their god was the only real god; all others were either figments of the imagination or demons that had duped their followers. After two thousand years, the followers of this One God became evangelical, but not in our sense; they did not merely persuade folk that following their god would bring them greater happiness or better luck. They would not allow any other gods to be worshiped. They would often murder the priests, and their followers, and destroy the temples of competing gods. Over time, these tactics brought success. The extraordinary thing is, none of these Aktiri were certain that this god had ever existed—! Do you see? If so much can be done with a god who may be only an intellectual concept, how much more powerful would be the concept of a single god who is present, who is potent, who can unite every human soul to stand against the threats we all face? I am that god, Caine. I have become that god, so that I can save the human race from extinction.”
I don’t know if you’re completely fucking bugnuts, or I am, Caine thought, because I almost kind of believe you. He said, “Wow.”
“Wow, indeed.”
“Excuse an impertinent question?”
“I already have. Several times.”
Caine took that for a yes. “Did you become a god because you wanted to save the race, or do you want to save the race because it gives you an excuse to become a god?”
Ma’elKoth’s laugh boomed out through the Great Hall, bringing startled flinches from the crowd and most of the guards.
“This, Caine, is part of why I so value your company. I have pondered that question Myself, from time to time. I have decided that the answer is irrelevant.”
The next petitioners came up the steps with clear reluctance, and no wonder: as far as they could see, Ma’elKoth had been muttering silently for some time, and just now had laughed out loud at a joke he’d told himself.
This wouldn’t improve his reputation for sanity.
He dealt with their request swiftly and neatly, and as they retreated down the steps he went on.
“And perhaps the greatest threat that humanity faces today is these selfsame Aktiri.”
“I, ah . . .” Caine said. “That’s, mm, don’t you think that’s a bit of an exaggeration?”
Ma’elKoth turned his massive leonine head to meet Caine’s gaze through the judas gate, and his eyes burned with righteous fury, with hatred so passionate that Caine felt it in his guts.
“You can have no concept of the evil of these creatures,” he said. “They are deadly enemies of mankind, and of Myself in particular. Tell me—try to guess why they come here, why they kill My people and try to murder Me, why they rape our women and slaughter our children. Try.”
Caine discovered that he had no voice. His stomach knotted.
“It’s entertainment, Caine. They’re worse than demons—even the Outside Powers that prey upon men do so to feed, to sustain themselves upon our terror and despair; the Aktiri do so to divert their idle hours. Just for fun.”
The loathing in Ma’elKoth’s voice hit Caine like a slap. “If that is not evil, I don’t know what is.”
Caine coughed wetly and found his voice. “Well, it seems, I mean, you make it sound like, they’re kind of . . . like gladiators, really.”
“Gladiators do not slaughter children. Gladiators do not murder Kings. And even gladiators I find disgusting. I have banned such pursuits from the Empire.”
There was a disturbance in the Great Hall below, a murmuring among the naked throng on the platform and the few remaining delegations on the floor. A door had been thrown open, and striding toward the throne, boot heels clacking loudly on the marble floor, came Berne.
A large dove-grey plaster spread its wings across his nose, and both his eyes were shadowed with purple bruise; this gave Caine a passing warmth inside.
“Speaking of evil,” he said quickly, grateful for a chance to change the subject, “here comes your newest Count.”
Berne shouldered aside the next delegation and took the steps two at a time. He dropped to one knee before the throne and spoke with low urgency. “Ma’elKoth, I’m sorry, I know I should have been here an hour ago, but—”
Ma’elKoth gave him an indulgent smile. “You are not too late for the Ritual, my lad. What news?”
“I’ve found the Aktiri,” Berne said breathlessly. Caine studied him through the judas gate as he told Ma’elKoth about it. His source had identified the hiding place of the fugitives—an abandoned warehouse in the Industrial Park—and the Cats now had the place surrounded. They were waiting and watching, so far, not wanting to move before they were sure they would snare Simon Jester in their net.
But Shanna’s in the Donjon already, Caine thought. At least, I hope she is—if she walks into that trap, I don’t think I’ll be out of here in time to save her.
And, belatedly: Who the hell is this “source?”
Watching Berne he found that, for now at least, he felt no burning need to rush out onto the dais and beat him to death. Maybe being off-line from the Studio, not feeling the pressure to entertain, made him less reckless; maybe it was a sudden uncertainty, an unfamiliar maybe-I-really-can’t-beat-him dread that dampened the kindling of his blood-lust.
The hate, though—that still burned hot as ever.
As Berne finished his tale, the indulgence faded from Ma’elKoth’s smile, and his voice became paternally correcting. “You have broken a promise, Berne.”
“Heh?” He seemed startled, and puzzled, but then his expression cleared and he touched the plaster across his broken nose with an apologetic hand. He dropped his eyes and clasped his hands before his crotch like a repentant schoolboy. “I know. I know I promised, Ma’elKoth, but . . .”
“But what?”
“When he came at me like that . . . I lost my temper, Ma’elKoth, that’s all. But I didn’t really hurt him.”
That’s what you think. Caine’s whole shoulder still ached where Berne’s preternaturally powerful hand had gripped it, down to the bruised bone.
“You will treat Caine with respect and deference while he is in My service. You would regret making Me remind you again.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’elKoth. I really am.”
“You will also apologize.”
“Ma’elKoth
—”
The Emperor’s chin lifted a centimeter, and Berne’s protest died in the womb.
He lowered his eyes. “I, ah, I heard you caught him . . .”
“Indeed. In fact, he’s watching you now.” Ma’elKoth inclined his head fractionally to his left, toward the judas gate; Berne’s eyes followed the gesture and locked onto Caine’s. His lips pulled back from his teeth.
“He’s . . .” Blood rose up Berne’s neck. “Fuck me like a goat. You put him in my chair?” He strangled this to a throaty whisper.
Caine said with soft mockery, “Hey there, raccoon boy.”
The bruises around Berne’s eyes blackened against the scarlet that surged into his face, and veins bulged at the sides of his neck.
Ma’elKoth said, “Caine, that was childish, and beneath you. Berne, you will apologize.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Berne could barely push the words out through the clench of his teeth. “I apologize. Caine.”
Caine grinned at him, even though Berne couldn’t see his face. “I accept.”
“Caine, you are under an identical restriction. Respect and deference, while you both are in My service.”
“Sure, why not?” Caine said. “I won’t be in your service forever.”
“That, dear boy, is an open question. Berne, take your place at the slide. I shall begin the Ritual in very few minutes.”
“Ma’elKoth—”
“Go.”
Berne turned swiftly and stalked down the stairs. Caine watched him go, then said, “I don’t understand how you can use that sick fuck. He’s barely human.”
“Some would say the same about you, Caine.” Ma’elKoth waved a hand dismissively. “I have made him the, so-to-speak, High Priest of the Church of Ma’elKoth, largely because he is efficient.
He will do whatever I ask of him—he would kill his own mother for Me.”
Heroes Die Page 25
