by J. B. Lucas
“If you have the balls and the brains you used to, and you now have humility and wisdom, then yes.” Selban again with his bubbling, choleric delivery.
“And what is your recommended next move?”
“Helping our enemies to hang themselves,” stated Darcy, pushing away from Marcan’s armpit.
“They were never friends,” stated Marcan. “So what’s keeping them together now?”
“Your head,” stated the mandarin.
“Loreticus, I presume,” said Marcan with a nod. “Then let’s not give them my head, but rather each others’. Find me a way to break this triumvirate and we’ll have the throne back.”
“Do you want it?” asked Loreticus. “Yes.”
“With all of the problems it brings?”
“Yes. The throne is mine, and all that comes with it.” He scanned each in turn again. “Who else is on our side?”
“Of most importance, the Empress Alba. Your wife.”
“Oh shit.”
“So we need to consider how best to manage that situation,” said Darcy.
“Bring her here where there’s no-one listening?” suggested Marcan.
There was a moment of quiet before Loreticus replied. “She doesn’t leave the palace.”
“Ever?”
No-one replied.
“So a reunion, if she’ll have you,” added Selban. “But that is for Loreticus to arrange.”
Chapter 18
Alba sat, stroking the ends of her fingers as if to wipe powder from them. Only Loreticus thought that he knew her well enough to recognise her nerves. People saw in her what they always wanted to–an emperor’s daughter, in control of her life, a divine and flawless somebody. Her laugh was to be treasured, and a simple few words delivered in her warm voice were treasured for life, and she would often pander to the needs of people she met. She was the wisest of her family, the most logical and the most devious. He had gone through his career with her father and her husband as she had grown in to this impressive politician. It hurt him as he watched her from the shadows by the tunnel, the princess obsessing over the feelings of a man, who was only an imposter of her husband.
Loreticus had once told her in the height of her deafness, she was idolising a man many times smaller than her. Marcan had written terrible poetry and ignorant love letters, more about himself than her, and she had read them in ecstasy. Just as he had resolved himself to his favourite protégé becoming the wife of an ape, the ape disappeared in to petty intrigue. He left her for the minuscule politics of court, a court which had little external threat and so craved its own internal tension.
Loreticus had told her that given who she was, she could do nothing but marry beneath her. She had told him he didn’t always have to prove himself right.
Loreticus had watched as her glowing eyes grew lidded and her heart had stopped. He worried about her depression, worried about how she leapt at the mention of his name in case Marcan had remedied his stupidity.
There was a searing pride in his young friend when she had seen the necessity to save the throne. To cut the apple to get rid of these three, four maggots. But perhaps they had underestimated the rot. He stemmed his nerves; Marcan was back and Loreticus was in control again. In the worst case, he would find a way to massacre those three fools in their shiny armour to stop them hurting her, he thought.
She was his secret weapon. The most underestimated mind in the empire. Given time and influence, she would intimidate even him, he thought.
“I hear that you had your run-in with General Iskandar. Did you tell him who banished Lady Dess?” asked Loreticus as he stepped in to the sunlight. The old spymaster adopted his jolly demeanour, one which implied that all was going to plan.
She nodded.
“Fine,” he said. “Have nothing more to do with her. I went to visit her as part of my investigation to find Marcan. You aren’t a petty lady, but you might have some solace from her imprisonment. Any ambitions she thought would come from this disgusting little act have been cruelly crushed.”
“Horrible little woman,” she muttered.
“Horrible!” he echoed with mock femininity. She squeezed his forearm in rebuke. He gave her the smile that he knew she loved, the great grin that shrank his eyes. Slowly, he drew his expression back to its usual look of mild indifference.
“Did she know where he was?” “No. No more than I did.”
“And what of him?” Her tone drew the conversation to the hidden purpose of her invitation. No the utter lack of logic, she kept an immature hope for reconciliation. She must punish this man, who might not even be the original Marcan, for his transgressions. He might not have been guilty of that night with Dess, but she knew in her heart that he was not close to innocent.
Loreticus was quiet for a moment. She wondered whether he was summoning his dramatic genius or his diplomatic tact.
“He’s well, humbled, still sharp as a button. You know that he has little recollection of the events.”
Alba frowned, quiet.
“Which means that there was likely some drug in his brain,” he concluded.
“Which means what? That he was innocent of everything, or that he was too drugged to make his escape?” “I know him fairly well,” commented Loreticus, “and whilst he is not a perfect man he is no lunatic either, unlike his cousin.”
“You didn’t answer me, my diplomatic friend,” she rebuked. “I know you well enough to know that either you’d lie for your empire or you’d lie for the sake of the brotherly union.”
“You should treat this as a new start. A new version of Marcan is here. Anyway, I don’t think that Marcan was caught mid-adultery that night,” he replied. “In my belief, it was staged and badly so. She waited long enough for you to arrive before she ran.” He held his hand up to silence her interruption. “Antron and his gang were remarkably unsurprised by events. In fact, the vain little Iskandar didn’t show a single jealous pique, which was proof enough for me. He values his status more than his marriage. That means to have been cuckolded should have made him a principal complainant in this matter and he should have punished his wife himself. Instead, he looked more distressed when he learned that Dess was exiled than when she was publicly branded a wicked woman.”
“I took pleasure in telling him myself. Perhaps he knew that she was unfaithful but couldn’t stop loving her anyway?” she mused.
“Doubtful,” responded Loreticus. “I’ve never seen that gentle a spirit in his bones. He’s a man too scared to break.”
They walked a little further in silence.
Her garden always fascinated him. It was pristine, the reward of her own hard work, almost flowerless but beautifully colourful and vibrant. Greens of all shades glistened in this little world, with the occasional purple or black leaves offering a thoughtful depth. Tree trunks were elegantly straight or wound around each other like hand-carved columns, all sitting under manicured branches. The air was light around her on these walks and this ethereal sensation wove itself into his memories and fondness for her.
“You’ve spent time on your garden,” Loreticus remarked. “I’ve had ample time to spend, Loreticus. You gentlemen are busy tidying up your mess.” He nodded.
“When will you be ready to see him?” he asked. “Who said that I wanted to? He’s been a fool.” Loreticus let that pass. It betrayed the chaos in her. “When, Alba?”
“Tomorrow,” she replied firmly. “Any longer simply means more sleepless nights. Tell him you had to try harder to convince me.”
Chapter 19
The palace was a complex labyrinth of disorganised pathways between buildings. It was there to keep all business of state under one roof, and the old emperor had enjoyed its hermetic atmosphere, devoid of the pollution of everyday life.
Marcan had once scurried down the corridors each morning from his living quarters to the administrative court, his royal person the centre of the civilised world, a gaggle of flunkies and clients following behind. No
w Loreticus marched down dusty corridors, trying hard to make the echoes of his footsteps as loud as possible.
As he entered the more remote edges of the court building, he turned swiftly down a smaller tributary passage. It drew to a dead end, stoppered by two giant guards in highly polished armour. The pair examined Loreticus for a moment, scanning his figure for weapons and then parted, opening a door as they did so.
There was such little motivation for Loreticus to have brought a sword into the room. He possessed no weapon or form of physicality which allowed him to win a fight against any one of the generals, let alone all three. Loreticus took stock of the trio, again incongruous in this setting without the emperor with them. They were empty, wooden silhouettes brought shakily to life.
“Ah, welcome,” said Antron. He was becoming more comfortable in his role now, the parvenu on the balcony now a faint shadow. “The tip of my tail,” he said, as if reading Loreticus’s thoughts.
Antron’s intelligent face was cut by his thick nose and framed by an ugly, low-maintenance haircut. He was still overly conscious of his every gesture, as if they had to live up to the splendour of the room. This was the de facto emperor frantically weaving his nest.
Loreticus corrected himself–it wasn’t just the setting, but the juxtaposition of these three together which surprised him. To see Antron communing with Iskandar and Ferran was astonishing. That they pulled this coup off together was unbelievable. He sensed that they had the confidence of winning first blood, but the bonds between them were not yet settled.
Something told him that they hadn’t moved much before he arrived. Perhaps his was the meeting that they were most concerned about. He had avoided them and their envoys for as long as possible, but the demand had been made to visit them and so he had come. The lack of bustle and the stale, cold air devoid of fragrance made the room lifeless as he stood, staring back at them.
To Antron’s right lounged Ferran, effeminate despite his reputation. He was the wrong blend of royal blood, and wherever he was he conducted himself as a celebrity. Ferran’s affected air of boredom was the main characteristic of his long-nosed face, that and his curly blond hair and piglet eyes. But despite the grotesque mind behind the remarkable face, he exuded a tangible sexuality which had most wives in court watching with interest, albeit against their better judgement. He nodded to Loreticus without his usual warmth.
At the far end of the room stood Iskandar, who always shrank into a dull mute when with these two. On his own he could shake rooms with his words but that was a different man. If the other two masqueraded with their breeding, Iskandar impressed with his godly physique. He stood a head higher than Antron, and what skin showed from his brand-new court clothes demonstrated lean athleticism and a graceful movement. With all his humility, he couldn’t hide the intelligence which clipped his words. Iskandar was a young soul, played with by the other two like bullies in the street, and like bullies they both ran when they thought he might hit back.
Loreticus sniffed, more from the discomfort of dust in his nose than for effect, and he sat heavily on the nearest sofa with a thump. Antron lifted two cups of wine from a table and passed one to Loreticus.
“I am not going to wake up with one of your wives, am I?” he asked, sniffing the liquid daintily.
Antron smiled. “Very droll.” He sat down on the same sofa, a prelude to upcoming attempts at friendship. Loreticus found his body wanting to shuffle away from the man. “So, he’s been found?”
“He has,” said Loreticus. “He was with a travelling troupe of actors for the summer. Apparently doing a rather clever impression of himself.”
Ferran laughed. “Isn’t everyone nowadays?”
“Who would hide him from us?” snapped Iskandar. He turned to examine Loreticus. “Why didn’t you just tell us where he was?”
“Do I look like a person who frequents the shows of itinerant artists?” asked Loreticus archly.
Iskandar shrugged.
“You think so? I don’t.” Loreticus had to be careful not to let his mouth run around these three. He was, if anything, dangerously judgemental. “Gentlemen, I understand your dilemma and you know me well enough. I don’t know how I can help your cause, especially as we still have a legitimate emperor somewhere out there.”
Something in the atmosphere of the room shifted, and the generals appeared to relax with the spymaster. Iskandar folded into a chair, moving his attention to his hands. Whether or not it was Loreticus’s admission of Marcan’s existence which settled their resolve, Loreticus didn’t know and he didn’t like it. He kept quiet, his face remaining unnaturally passive.
“What is it that we can do for you?” asked Antron. His guest surveyed him.
“Antron, you invited me here. It’s rather blunt to presume that I walked in with a price in mind.”
“Loreticus, you have this look of highbrow self-satisfaction permanently on your miserable old face. I always expect you to know the right answer.”
“You think so?” repeated Loreticus petulantly. He regretted his poor humour, but his nerves were building in his chest. “Antron, I’ll be open with you. Marcan was no great general, and he was no genius emperor in the making. He was–is–a flawed man, with a tendency to spend hours thinking about only himself. But he wanted to move the empire forward. He can balance our new country better than you three can. Your future for us, your citizens, is constant bloodshed. The fear of military failure. The fear of bankruptcy. A country run by the military will never have an authentic character–it will simply look like every other usurped kingdom. Soulless, paranoid, hellbent on having a fight. We’ve split from the zealots, and we have an incredibly fragile moment in which we decide who we are going to be. I don’t see in this room the people I trust to create that legend.” He spread his palms, smiling with his broad grin, as if he were a grocer saying to an irate customer ‘Sorry, we’re all out of sycophancy today.’
“Loreticus,” drawled Ferran, “you’re a wise man, we all acknowledge that. But your primary problem is quite simple. Your opinions are too fixed and for a politician, you’re too averse to change. You’re the type who watches tradesman produce a work of perfection and then offers advice.”
Loreticus pursed his lips as if wrestling back a comment. The insight had stung.
Antron stood, his flat stomach levelling with Loreticus’s eyes. The soldier was using an old schoolboy trick–the robust athlete intimidating the pudgy scholar. Neither fitted their stereotype perfectly and this lent the general’s action a silliness.
“My friend,” said Antron, “there are two things you already know despite your arrogant little denial. The first is that Marcan is not healthy for the stability of the state, especially in its newly formed borders. We have a threat to our very existence looming over the mountains, brothers keen on our destruction. Secondly, the people need your talents to protect our entire country rather than one spoiled family.” He weighed two empty hands as if they were scales, mimicking Loreticus, and his face assumed an expression of profound and sincere selflessness. The look didn’t fit Antron. “The more this uncertainty continues, the more it hampers our leadership and therefore our very country. An invasion by the fanatics would destroy the privacy that we thrive on in the capital. That goes against everything that you seem to value.”
Yet another clumsy move by Antron. Loreticus started to feel a dread materialise, as he realised his deepest fear–the court in the control of people who simply didn’t have any political wisdom.
“The zealots don’t have an army. They won’t invade. Scaremongering is not healthy, general.”
Loreticus considered the other two sitting patiently with this man. Ferran with his beautiful big nose, and his penchant for kidnapping. The grim Iskandar a prisoner in himself, hirsute as the pent-up pressure drove the hair from his body perpendicularly. There was nothing that these three could offer him which would give him a feeling of confidence.
“Antron, I don’t know whether you�
�re looking to make me your friend or your fearful client. At least keep consistent to one façade and I can pretend to react accordingly.”
Iskandar tutted and turned his head to look out of the window. Ferran and Antron might recognise the strategic advantage of having Loreticus on board, but to a man who had barged and bullied his way to the top, his skills were too intangible for value.
“Your friends said that you are petulant,” stated Antron. “Did they?”
“Yes,” replied the general. “Exactly that word. ‘Petulant’ because you lost your champion.”
“They’re correct in their estimation. I find it hard to believe that they both said that, mainly because Selban is rarely that polite.”
Antron laughed. “You’re right about him. He’s a chatty man with a mouth full of vulgarity.”
“And yet you seem to be keen to charm my people to your cause.”
“If I need your network it will be through you or your people, and until then I shall put on my best smock and dance with you all.” He paused, somehow frustrated. “Would you rather we razed everything from Marcan’s court and rebuilt? That, of course, is the other option.”
Antron glanced at Iskandar, who wore an expression of cynicism.
“Loreticus, your network of influence is necessary to us both at court and in the streets. You were the man the old emperor trusted with his counsel, and ultimately with the smooth ascension of Marcan. That you were unable to keep him out of a scandal is not your fault. He is a waste of your talents. Do you not see that your loyalty to a lost cause is a detriment to the empire?”
“Spymasters always need to keep their loyalty and their wits,” rebuked Loreticus gently. “That was the advice of my mentor. And that’s why Darcy will make a great spymaster and Selban most likely won’t.”
Something changed at the mention of Darcy’s name and Loreticus watched each quietly. So these men felt confident about Darcy’s treachery. The spymaster prayed that he himself wasn’t suffering another extended bout of hubris.
