by Matthew Ward
But not all was ancient and austere. A vast oil painting – as tall as Josiri, and twice as broad again – sat on a series of bowed easels. Curious, Josiri broke off to examine it.
For all he’d been present for the events depicted, it took effort of will to recognise them. The gold and green of Hadari warriors swarming through the plaza, held at bay by stalwarts in King’s Blue. On the palace balcony – here gilded and glorious, rather than weather-stained and forlorn – two giants made contest. One was noble of brow and feature, his face contorted in righteous anger. The other, furtive and cruel – bloody sword dangling from his hand – was frozen in the act of being hurled from the balcony to his death. Tragedy and triumph, captured in oils.
“Who painted this?” For all that the name tormented the tip of Josiri’s tongue, he couldn’t place it.
“Mandalov. Been working on it for years, I gather.” Izack drew up beside. “D’you like it?”
Every one of the hundreds of faces was unique, the emotions of the tumultuous day captured to perfection, the luminous trickery of pigment and varnish lending illusion of a scene one could step into, rather than merely observe. It took but a little effort to hear the clash of blades and the screams of the dying. But the rest? “A shame Mandalov doesn’t have an eye for history.”
Izack grunted. “Bugger’s a charlatan.”
The painting’s prevailing medium was not oil, but artistic licence. There’d been no clash of armies, for Kai Saran had struck with but a handful of companions. As for other details? A dying Malachi Reveque was present, but depicted as a far older man. Constans and Sidara, whom he’d shielded from Saran’s wrath, were depicted as little more than babes, when in truth Sidara had been on the verge of womanhood. Her expression, at least, was apt: filled with resolve, and bereft of fear.
Josiri shook his head. “Viktor commissioned this?”
“He’s spoken of burning it. No one’s had the heart to tell Mandalov. Reckon the daft bastard was hoping for patronage.”
If that was so, then he’d misjudged his mark. For all that flattering portrayals were part and parcel of a noble’s existence, Viktor had never encouraged them. If by chance the painting survived, it would do so as record of a past that had never quite existed. But then, that was par for the course. In Tressia’s carefully curated histories, heroes were made villains, and villains erased or rehabilitated according to prevailing need.
“Am I on there?”
[[Here.]] Anastacia tapped the canvas. Midway between Viktor and Sidara, a bloodied figure confronted a dozen snarling Hadari. [[Aren’t you small?]]
Leaving painting and Privy Council chamber behind, Josiri headed out onto the balcony – a space fashioned for dozens occupied by only a handful of cloaked and coated souls. Beyond the stone balustrade, the snow-clogged plaza stretched towards the treelined mouth of Sinner’s Mile – the long, steep road up to the sacred Hayadra Grove. Where the streets had been busy, the plaza was near empty, and deep with drifted snow.
The cold noontide air banished the palace’s warmth. Viktor’s embrace did much to return it. He stepped away, the personal greeting reinforced by a rather more formal bow. As ever, he wore simple black garb, without cloak or armour, having learned long ago that his height and glower were intimidating enough – and often too much.
“Thank you for coming, brother.” The basso voice that had offered threat to despot and Empress rumbled with affection. “I trust Sidara is resting? Her dedication should awe us all, but she should respect her limitations.”
“Did we?”
Viktor offered a smile – they came easier to him in advancing years. He was now closer to fifty summers than forty, a tally betrayed by grey hairs amid the black. Josiri, who felt forever weary despite being a decade younger, envied his easy vigour.
“And Anastacia, too.” Taking her hand, Viktor pressed porcelain fingers to his lips. “A pleasant surprise.”
She cocked her head. [[Experience has taught me not to leave the two of you alone.]]
Her tone held reserve, as it always did in Viktor’s presence. Though she often claimed to have forgiven the misjudgement by which he’d bound her to clay, absolution was an expensive commodity.
A smile tugged at the corner of Viktor’s mouth, the old scar on his left cheek lending mockery where none was intended. “And who am I to question divine judgement? You’re welcome, of course. Both of you.”
This last, he addressed to Altiris, who lingered on the threshold.
“Thank you, Lord Protector.” Altiris bowed, the tensing of his shoulders betraying courage gathered close. “I regret I wasn’t able to prevent the theft of your possessions.”
“That you failed does nothing to diminish my gratitude,” Viktor replied solemnly. “But we can’t afford to let this go unanswered. I assume you have the constabulary looking into the matter, Josiri?”
“It’s underway.” Now was not the time to remind Viktor that stolen goods vanished readily. For every fence weary constables locked up, another took their place, their wares as often scavenged from merchantmen lured onto the rocks by wreckers’ lights as from common robbery. A booming trade in recent months, and one Josiri was determined to end. “Inventory of what was taken would help, of course.”
“I confess I don’t know. Most of it came from my great aunt’s estate at Margard. She never cared much for order, far less making things easy on inheritors. One or two pieces, perhaps. A sword, in particular.” He frowned in thought. “You won’t mind if I instruct Constans to investigate on my behalf?”
Old discomfort stirred. “Constans? Is that wise?”
Viktor gripped his shoulder. “You mustn’t take it so personally that he’s faring better under my guardianship than yours, Josiri. The boy needed a firm hand, and has one. He’s ready for broader responsibilities, and Tzila will keep him out of trouble. But if you’d rather he not become involved…?”
Josiri sorely wanted to refuse. For all Viktor’s claims of Constans’ good character, his own experiences with the boy suggested otherwise.
Altiris gave a respectful cough. “Might I assist? I’d recognise the thieves. And the sword.”
Viktor nodded. “An excellent idea. Josiri?”
“It’s a lot of effort for a simple theft.”
Viktor shook his head. “It’s not the theft. It’s not what they stole. It’s that they stole. They knew precisely who they were stealing from. They made a point of it. That sort of audacity can’t be permitted to spread.”
Despite the blossoming scowl, Josiri couldn’t escape Viktor’s logic. Stealing from the Lord Protector was either supreme foolishness or open challenge. Better it was ended before others followed the example. With fortune, Altiris might serve as a brake on Constans’ less suitable tendencies. And then there was the matter of the bewitching, half-remembered woman. Altiris, at least, knew to be wary of her should their paths cross.
He glanced at Anastacia, who shrugged, then splayed a palm against the wall to steady herself, seemingly having taken herself by surprise with the motion.
“Very well,” said Josiri. “Altiris? Return to Stonecrest. Tell Vladama he’ll be covering your duties for the immediate future. Then report back here.”
A twitch of Altiris’ eye betrayed worry that he’d overstepped, but he bowed and retraced his footsteps through the Privy Council chamber.
When he’d gone, Josiri at last turned his attention to the balcony’s assembled company.
Izack had scarcely exaggerated when he’d spoken of old times. The gathering was the closest Tressia any longer had to a Privy Council. Men and women Viktor trusted to make sensible judgement and no abuse of authority. In many ways, it made for a better system. The Council’s politics had tangled the Republic in chains of ambition. True, the current arrangement meant Tressia was a Republic in name only, but it had only ever been intended as a temporary state of affairs. And it wasn’t as though others weren’t consulted. Archimandrite Jezek. Eloess Nivar, Matriarch of Se
renity for the church. Konor Zarn and his fractious guild council. Yon Trannar, Lord Admiral of the Navy. All had a voice… it was simply that Viktor was under no obligation to listen to them speak.
Of those present, Josiri knew Elzar Ilnarov well, having shared – and inevitably lost – many a hand of jando to him on idle evenings in Viktor’s chambers. Though stooped of figure and well into old age, Elzar remained a shrewd opponent, and one not entirely above bending the rules of the card game in his favour – though he inevitably denied such behaviour if caught.
In official record, he was Master of the foundry – second only in the Lumestran Church to Archimandrite Avriel Jezek. A stranger would never have guessed as much from his worker’s leathers and dishevelled appearance. Elzar claimed such garb more practical than a proctor’s golden robes – especially as he spent much of his life on the border overseeing repairs to the handful of battered kraikons who held the eastern watch.
The border itself fell under the responsibility of the woman with laughing grey eyes and unbraided blonde hair brushing the collar of her drab coat. She alone of the small gathering seemed to relish the cold. Propped against the balustrade when Josiri had entered the balcony, she now stood and flung her arms tight about him.
“Josiri. It’s been too long.”
He grinned and returned the embrace. Sevaka Orova, Governor of the Marcher Lands, was little given to concealing delight or sorrow, and nor were those in her orbit. “I didn’t know you were in the city.”
Sevaka stepped away, her voice growing nasal. “I arrived this morning. Summoned with nary a scrap of pomp. Most disgraceful. One is appalled.” She arched an eyebrow. For a moment she was the twin of her departed and little-lamented mother, a cruel vision returned from an unmarked grave… save for a mischievous smile that Ebigail Kiradin would never have worn. Fingers splayed to ruffle blonde hair dispelled the illusion completely, though a tightness about her eyes remained. “Are you well?” she said, in her own voice once more.
“I am. Rosa?”
Expression cooling, Sevaka glanced at Viktor, now deep in conversation with Anastacia. “The same. She still won’t talk about it, and believe me, I’ve tried.” She shook her head. “I thought this was just another of their arguments. Her friendship with Viktor has always been… complicated, shall we say? But it’s been a year. Would you speak to him?”
In point of fact, Josiri had several times discussed the Darkmere expedition with Viktor. However, he recalled no details beyond failure to recover Konor Belenzo’s ancient texts. So much took him that way of late. In younger days as a rebellious wolf’s-head, he’d dared write nothing down for fear of discovery or betrayal. Now, he dared not do otherwise. Which was unfortunate, as tired eyes increasingly found reading a strain. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Josiri turned his attention to the third and final member of Viktor’s ersatz council. “Arlanne.”
She offered a stiff bow, dark plaits bobbing behind a surcoat blazoned with the Prydonis drakon. Governor of the Southshires she might have been, but a military past seldom remained entirely so. “My lord.”
Another one riddled with deference. Not quite as bad as Altiris, though it hailed much from the same source. A legacy of old days, when Arlanne Keldrov had been an officer tasked with suppressing the Southshires, and Josiri the imprisoned Duke of Eskavord. History had proved the wrongness of her duty, and for all that she’d since proven capable and fair, she’d never entirely rid herself of guilt.
“You’re also a new arrival?” he asked.
“I’ve been here a few days.” She offered a wintery smile. “Most of them waiting for the world to stop lurching. The passage across Kasdred Mar was not the kindest. Next time, I’ll ride.”
That left one other, though her vantage was as separate as her station. Captain Tzila stood perhaps a pace or two back from the double doors, unmoving and silent as greetings were exchanged, thoughts concealed behind the gleaming steel of a visored sallet helm. A scarf drawn tight across neck and lower jaw hid all expression. Below that, she wore close-fitting contoured plate of finer craft than that worn by other Drazina, softened only a little by the black silks of her cloak, tabard and bases long enough to have been a skirt.
Though her paired sabres were the only weapons on the balcony, she wore no blazon to proclaim allegiance. Tzila – she’d no other name Josiri knew – was Viktor’s seneschal, separate from the Drazina hierarchy Grandmaster Sarisov oversaw, and free to act in the Lord Protector’s stead. The Darkmere expedition had highlighted the necessity. Had Prince Thirava slain Viktor – or worse yet, taken him captive – the result would have been ruinous. Tzila, frankly, was expendable.
As ever, she offered no greeting save a slow nod. Tzila never spoke. Could not, in fact, were rumours true. Those same whispers suggested she’d once been a kernclaw – one of the Crowmarket’s shadowy enforcers – and had helped Viktor scour vranakin sympathisers from the city after the Parliament of Crow’s fall. Certainly, the gallowmen had plied a busy trade in the weeks after their toppling. Reason enough to conceal one’s identity. Old grudges faded slowly.
Viktor crossed the balcony and leaned out over the plaza. “I apologise for calling you away from home and duty in so bleak a season, but what patience I have is a slender resource.” He straightened, the shadows lengthening and the cold air turning ever more chill. “The shadowthorns have held the Eastshires too long. I do not have it in me to allow this state of affairs to continue.”
Josiri winced in discomfort at Viktor’s use of the name shadowthorn – one that suggested the Hadari were born as much of Fellhallow’s tainted soil as Lumestra’s divine light. Old propaganda, taken as fact by too many. Easier to kill an enemy perceived as less than human.
He found no surprise in the declaration itself. Viktor had ever been a protector. As a child, he’d lost his mother to vranakin footpads. Needless guilt had forged that boy into a soldier, and intervening decades had tempered the soldier into a champion. For all Viktor’s strength, a piece of him remained anchored in the past, trapped in a failure for which no other held him accountable. It was the heart of his bond with Sidara, who blamed herself for her own parents’ deaths, and for equally slender reasons. That the Eastshires remained oppressed vexed him terribly.
Izack looped his hands behind his back. “Noble goal. Can’t fault it, but we’re a long way from being ready.”
“You claim your army unequal to the task, Lord Marshal?” Viktor replied without turning, his attention fixed on the gothic finery of Vordal Tower on the plaza’s far edge.
Eyes narrowed. “We don’t have an army. Not yet. We’ve unwilling recruits learning to march under banners they’ve not earned. It’s a wonder the Hadari border isn’t a damn sight closer to the sea.”
“The Hadari border remains along the Ravonn.” Still Viktor didn’t turn. Nor did he raise his voice, though the darkening of his mood was as obvious as it was immediate. He’d never once acknowledged the existence of Redsigor. The Eastshires remained a stolen province – a temporary theft, albeit one that had stretched into years.
Izack’s lip twisted. “There are veterans enough in the regiments who came late to the last war. But the rest? We’ve centuries of experience buried in the sod at Govanna, waiting for the light of Third Dawn. You don’t replace that overnight.”
“You’ve had five years,” said Arlanne.
“And I need five more.” Izack drew himself up, heels together. “You order me to do it, lord, I’ll give it my best. That’s my job. But I’m telling you, we’re not ready. Now, if we had support from the foundry? That’s different.”
“You need five years?” said Elzar, his voice thick with frustration. “I need at least fifty… and the return of Konor Belenzo wouldn’t hurt. I’ve ransacked every archive in the city, and I’m still no closer to learning how to return the smelters to operation.”
“They’re just machines, high proctor,” Izack replied. “We’ve clever min
ds and canny hands enough within the walls, and more for hire out in Thrakkia. I say set them loose.”
“And waving a sword about makes a soldier, does it?” Elzar offered apologetic smile for his sharpness. “There’s a spiritual component to the process, Izack, and we’ve lost the secret. Oh, we kept everything running well enough, but when it stopped? I’m working by trial and error. Clever minds and canny hands will only get in the way, unless they’re blessed with Lumestra’s light, and the Goddess knows that there are few enough of those to be had.”
The foundry’s irreplaceable mechanisms had been destroyed during the vranakin uprising. A handful of the ancient machines had since been coaxed to life, but proctors themselves were not so easily replaced. The numbers of those born with magic had been waning for decades. The handful who remained were needed on the eastern border.
“What about Lady Reveque?” asked Keldrov. “I understand she’s blessed in a way not seen for centuries.”
She spoke carefully, unwilling to suggest that she harkened to rumour. Too many discounted the tales about Sidara as outlandish, or exaggerated. Until they saw for themselves. Then they believed.
“Alas, dear Sidara is untutored.” Elzar shot a wary glance at Anastacia as she skirted Tzila and made her way to the balcony’s northern extent. When she registered no offence, he pressed on. “What she does, she does by instinct – which is impressive, but unhelpful. She’d likely do more harm than good… not that I’m ungrateful for her service.”
The balcony lapsed into silent contemplation of facts and figures that could not align. The army was inexperienced. Of the Republic’s great chapterhouses, Sartorov had seceded. Prydonis had died on Govanna Field, and Essamere had never recovered. The nobility’s hearthguards, once small armies in their own right, had been thinned by privation or else picked clean in Izack’s search for competent officers. Where once the Stonecrest Phoenixes had been remarkable for their sparseness, Josiri’s handful of men and women under arms was now considered grand to the point of luxury.
