The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2)

by Joseph Schembrie

  “We have successfully defeated the insurrection of General Irkut,” he concluded, “bringing the Fourth Legion back into the fold and restoring order and stability to the city. With renewed shipments of silver from the mines on Palras, the Imperial Guard has been revived. And so Rome is secure once more. Are there questions?”

  Godant sat hunched in the front row, seemingly shrunk from his last appearance. His face was ashen and he was staring continuously at the floor. He had been mute since arriving in the chamber, and during the speech seemed to have been listening to another world.

  Valarion fully understood. If he had been roused from sleep by the combined force of the Fourth Legion and Imperial Guard and placed in 'protective custody,' he too might be ragged. If his personal bodyguard had been forcibly disbanded, he too might be anxious. If he had tried to escape his house disguised as a servant but was apprehended and brought to the Senate under heavy escort, he too might be despairing.

  It hadn't been a good night for the man who would be emperor, Valarion thought. It won't be a good day for you, either.

  Valarion's sense of amusement faded when he saw the reed-like form of Senator Tarsk wobble upon his cane from the uppermost tier to the chamber floor. Tarsk breathed heavily and his face was full of color as he precariously shook his cane at Valarion.

  “A Session of Examination is supposed to be about the state of the city and empire,” the ancient patrician growled. “Not about how powerful an emperor has become!”

  Valarion smiled blandly. “Insofar as the Emperor is the Empire, I don't see the issue.”

  Tarsk scowled, but he was jeered to sit down by the Senators who were allied with the Sisters of Wisdom – a number that was in the majority these days. And so the chamber drummed with applause as Valarion bowed and exited.

  It was an unseasonably warm, clear morning. The crowds in Victory Square were light, perhaps because the profusion of soldiers before the Senate building brought fears among the populace that civil war might be in the offing. Valarion, however, greeted the assembled soldiers warmly, particularly those of the Fourth Legion whom he had 'waived' into the city with only feeble opposition from the Senate. Their hundreds of voices roared to shake the tiles beneath his feet, and Valarion imagined the effect of the rumble on the Senators still inside the building.

  Valarion took the center of the portico and raised his hand. The cheer faded into an expectant silence. Valarion swept his gaze over the ranks, beaming.

  “Men of the Fourth!” he bellowed. “Welcome to Rome, the jewel of the Empire. You are freely welcome to her wine, women, and song!” He adopted a mock-stern expression and wagged his finger. “But keep her tidy, or you shall answer to me! Rome after all is a respectable lady!”

  The men erupted with laughter and cheered louder. Valarion gave the imperial salute and received in kind, and with more cheers receded from the steps. As he made toward the litter, Maldus slipped alongside.

  “What would you have be done with Godant?” Maldus asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “His time is finished. I'll leave the details to you. Make it seem an accident, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Maldus whispered to a subordinate, who hurried to the Senate's side entry. Godant was thrust into a litter stripped of decor. It departed amid a ring of Imperial Guard. Valarion wondered if he should personally oversee the execution. But no, he had to trust Maldus with the petty details of security, or the business of the Imperium would never be done.

  Valarion hurried into his own litter, which once again openly bore the golden sigils of the Emperor. As he was transported through the streets, he watched the faces of the people. Some read fear, others showed nothing. No one smiled. Well, at least the stink of the sewers was gone.

  A hundred Imperial Guard waited at the palace gates. Valarion sauntered through the rooms with confidence, yet still somewhat befuddled by their immensity and maze-like arrangement. To some degree, though, it didn't matter, for the palace staff, returned from exile, always seemed to know where he was. So it was that when he took repose at a table in a courtyard three times the size of the one at his mansion, they brought breakfast and later conducted Maldus directly to him.

  The General bowed. “I bear tragic news, My Lord. Senator Godant had a riding accident this morning on his favorite horse. Alas, it was fatal.”

  “For Godant or the horse?” Seeing the perplexed expression, Valarion added, “I ask because Godant was a hefty fellow. I'm surprised there's a horse that could take his weight.”

  “It was the Senator who died,” Maldus said flatly.

  Well, I don't pay you for a sense of humor, Valarion thought with resignation.

  He gestured to the gushing fountains and the freshly planted rows of flowers to replace those that had died during the water shortage. “What do you think of the garden, Maldus? Inoldia, of all people, insisted on supervising the restoration. I never would have guessed her preference for yellow roses.”

  “Where has she gone of late?”

  “She has winged her way to Britan.”

  “Where you'll be going soon – leaving me with whoever is hiding in the sewers. The leader of the Sisters, I take it.”

  Valarion gave a solemn stare. “I tell you as a friend, Maldus. The less you know of that, the better.”

  Maldus declined breakfast and as nothing had changed since the morning's security briefing, he was dismissed.

  Clients were waiting outside the door of the Emperor's study, and Valarion admitted them one by one. In the sessions, he took care to never deviate from the affectation of affability, while always watching for hints of disdain. Various officials trooped in and he issued orders and decrees, feigning to study the documents in detail while in fact barely skimming. He doubted that Hadron had bothered to read the bureaucratic minutiae with any greater attention.

  The supplicants dwindled by mid-morning and Valarion took a break for tea on the veranda. Alone by the railing, he surveyed the city. He had once thought that the view from the palace would inspire an emperor to feelings of glory, a sense of purpose and satisfaction. Valarion found that the view caused him to ponder about how a city so large had to be filled with too many enemies to count. No doubt previous emperors had obsessed as much as he did about enemies. A man in this job would be dead if he didn't.

  After lunch he returned to the study and met a delegation from a minor province. They prattled about the need for irrigation canals to increase crop yields, or some-such like that, he wasn't paying attention. Somehow he started rambling and since he was Emperor, no one interrupted him as the topic drifted from canals to retaining walls, to the most famous walls of all – those of the city-state of Kresidala – and the abortive siege he'd participated in as a young officer.

  “We swept them easily from the field, you know,” Valarion said, “but they retreated inside the walls of their city, and after that we made no progress.”

  “Quite understandable,” ventured the head of the delegation. “Kresidala has the highest and thickest walls of any city in the world.”

  “Why yes, it does.” Valarion glanced at the funding authorization papers they had brought. Maybe he would sign. Did seem like a lot of money, though. Enough to buy a squadron of triremes Or a whole fleet of yachts. That would be different. No previous emperor ever had a fleet of yachts.

  Before he could lift the ceremonial Quill of Decree, a servant arrived with a folded note. Valarion suppressed a shiver, for by the plain paper itself he knew who the sender was. He excused himself, hurried to the Great Hall, had the newly emplaced obstacles removed, shushed the sentries out of the way and entered alone into the secret passage to the sewers. Temple guards escorted him through a maze of passages more extensive and bewildering than those of the palace, to the current lair of the Mother.

  “Greetings, Mother,” he said, bowing graciously.

  “You seem irritated,” the Mother replied, lights blinking her inscrutable patterns.
>
  He was irritated at the increasingly frequent interruptions of his imperial affairs, but he knew better than to speak of that. He instinctively sensed that, for a soulless object, the Mother had a very short temper.

  He waved at the dank walls. “I'm concerned that we haven't found a better place than a sewer in which to hold your court.”

  “It suits my requirements, as I am concerned with security and not comfort.” Characteristically, she changed the subject without preamble: “Emperor Valarion, I have received telemetry that you were challenged this morning in the Senate.”

  Telemetry? He assumed from the context she meant 'report.' “You speak of Godant?”

  “I approve of your action against Godant, but that is not why I have summoned you. Before I get to that, however, I am concerned as to why you have taken no action against Senator Tarsk.”

  Summoned? Who did she think she was? Who did she think she was talking to?

  “Emperor Valarion, I sense that you are in a state of rage. Is that because you too are upset over Senator Tarsk?”

  Valarion had noticed how the Box could accurately assess his emotional state without being able to accurately assess the cause. It knows how humans think, he thought, but not how they feel.

  He smoothly replied, “I am again troubled by the inadequacy of these surroundings for such a one as your eminence.”

  “And I again inform you that I am not concerned about comfort or luxury or appearance. Now explain why you have taken no action against Senator Tarsk despite his open defiance.”

  “Senator Tarsk is a very old man who is long past any threat of action. He is also godfather to children in many of the most prominent families of Rome. Keeping him alive generates no harm, while having him killed would stir opposition to my rule.”

  “I see.” With no pause: “I wish to have him executed immediately.”

  “He's in ill health. If we leave him alone, he'll die soon enough.”

  The Box lights blinked faster, then froze.

  “Emperor Valarion, perhaps you are correct about the inadequacy of these surroundings. The poor acoustics seem to have prevented you from hearing what I say.”

  Lights blinked, temple guards stood impassively, and somewhere the Sisters were lurking.

  “I will have him executed with alacrity,” Valarion croaked.

  “I presume your definition of 'alacrity' is similar to my definition of 'immediately.'”

  “Yes.”

  Valarion sought to keep from openly seething. Up to then, he could tell himself that he wasn't really a tyrant, because tyrants suppressed all opposition and yet he allowed Tarsk to freely oppose him. Granted, the opposition in Tarsk's case was literally toothless, but allowing opposition to exist at all enabled Valarion to portray himself – at least in his own eyes – as a 'benevolent despot' rather than the vulgar kind. But the Infernal Box would not even allow him that privilege.

  The Mother continued: “Now onto the matter of Britan. I have received a report from General Bivera. To respond to your expression of surprise, no, Inoldia has not returned to Rome. Nonetheless, I have a report. General Bivera states that at this time he is unable to move his forces from Londa.”

  Valarion wondered why Bivera was reporting to the Mother rather than the Emperor. How had the Mother inserted herself into Imperial communications? Those questions needed answers, but they would have to wait. For the moment, his primary task, if he was to leave the sewers alive once more, was to placate the Mother.

  “I am aware of General Bivera's logistical difficulties.”

  “Inoldia is working with General Bivera to infiltrate the underground resistance organization known as the Leaf. She believes that it will be possible to neutralize the Leaf. The time is approaching for a concentrated effort of conquest. Therefore I require that four additional legions be sent to Britan.”

  Valarion choked: “Four legions? Are you – “

  “You are concerned that the removal of the legions from the provinces may encourage rebellion.”

  “Not 'may.' Will.”

  “There will be no danger of rebellion if you can provide a sufficient show of force as disincentive. That will be accomplished by the Triumph.”

  “Triumph. You mean, the airship? Is that what we're calling it?”

  “I thought that would be an appropriate name. Would you suggest another?”

  Valarion impulsively thought: The Witch of Rome. He shook his head, gritted a smile, and said, “Landar told me that it will be weeks before the airship is operational –“

  “He greatly exaggerates. However, I am not concerned about operational status at this time. The airship is being readied for a test flight today. I want you to be aboard the ship during the test flight, and to have the ship fly over the city, so that you might be seen by the public as in command. I believe it will greatly enhance your prestige.”

  Valarion felt the ground wobble. “You . . . want me to . . . personally . . . . ”

  “Your visible presence aboard the ship will have a positive effect on the morale of the citizenry.”

  At the moment, the idea wasn't having a positive effect on his morale. “Given that I serve a vital purpose in your plans, do you think it is wise to risk my life in an untested flying machine?”

  “You needn't be concerned about that. I have suitable replacement candidates to fill the office of emperor in the event that you become unavailable.”

  And with that, he was dismissed.

  Valarion was in agitation as he returned to the Upper World. He had never realized what a distasteful word summoned was when he was at the wrong end of it! Wasn't the whole point of becoming an emperor to always be the summoner, never again the summoned?

  As he entered the palace's Great Hall, he pasted resolution on his face and walked taller. Servants, soldiers, and stray supplicants greeted him with elaborate deference, and some of his pride was salved. He informed his secretary to cancel his appointments for the day and call for a coach. He went to the entry and paced. He accepted tea from a servant. He drank only a sip and flung the cup at the wall.

  Summoned!

  Barely an hour later, Valarion watched Landar scurry from the airship cavern across the canyon floor as the imperial entourage arrived. Bading the Imperial Guard to remain at a distance as they walked in solitary toward the cavern, Valarion briefed the scientist on the Mother's instructions.

  “The test flight is for testing!” Landar fumed. “Not for showing off! A leak, a fire, and we'll have a show all right – one that will be our last!”

  “If it's any consolation, she has ordered me aboard.”

  “We already have enough ballast!” Landar muttered. He scowled and swore, then saw what Valarion liked to call his 'Execution Face.' Landar bowed apologetically. “Forgive me, my Lord!”

  “I too have a difficult time thinking straight with her on my back,” Valarion replied quietly. “She is becoming ever more intractable.”

  “You speak of the woman who was within the curtains? Is she the ruler of the Sisters?”

  “You may consider her such.” Which was bold as he dared say, seeing that he was being watched from the cavern mouth by temple guard. How many of them are there?

  Landar gazed into the distance and stroked his beard. “After the battle, you know, she had a private consultation with me. She seems to know a great deal about the construction of airships. Not just theory. Practical things, like where to reinforce the bracing, the best alloy for the hydraulics. She even asserts there is an unburnable gas that may replace hydrogen – “

  Valarion found himself impatient to meet his fate. “Is there a reason you are telling me this?”

  “I am conveying that I gained the impression that the Sisters have experience in the manufacture and operation of airships.”

  “Do you see the skies filled with their ships? Why would they need ours if they have their own?”

  “I do not have answers to those questions. I merely observe, the la
dy behind the curtain seemed to have practical knowledge, the kind that only comes from experience. I leave the conclusions to you.”

  “I conclude that it isn't worth thinking about at the moment. Now when can you begin the flight test?”

  “We were about to bring the ship out, My Lord. I'll have it done now.”

  Valarion waited at the cavern entrance. Valarion's guard joined the workers in undoing the securing lines. They towed the ship majestically into daylight. Any sexual innuendo was lost in the sheer size of the monstrosity as its sides of Sarkassian silk slid out of the cavern mouth and gleamed beneath the sun.

  Landar's assistants rolled a wheel-mounted stairway to the entry into the gondola. Captain and crew ascended, then Landar, who nodded to Valarion. His heart throbbing, Valarion climbed on jellied legs into the belly of the ship.

  The first ship was nothing in comparison. The interior of the gondola of the Triumph was bigger than a trireme Without an escort, it would have been easy to become lost within its dual levels and branching passages. The bridge alone was bigger than the entire gondola of the first ship.

  The captain was conferring with his crew, who were standing before various mechanical devices that Valarion understood to control the functioning of the mammoth ship. While the captain smartly saluted, the crew barely acknowledged a few glances and nods toward the supreme ruler of the Imperium. Valarion did not take it as a slight. Intuitively he sensed that a distraction even for a second might be catastrophic here. Let them watch their instruments, and he might survive this.

  “My Lord!” the airship's captain said rigidly. “All stations report ready for launch. At your word.”

  His training as military commander had taught Valarion that hesitation, no matter how fearful he was, had no place on the field. Automatically, he replied, “You may begin your flight, Captain.”

  “Start engines!” the captain said.

  “Start engines!” the watch officer said.

  “Start engines!” subordinates shouted into the speaking tubes that coiled from the floor like metallic snakes.