Best Laid Plans

by D. P. Prior

  Master Frayn opened the lid and peered inside, eyes rolling like a glutted viper’s. ‘So, gentlemen,’ he said, as if he were their equal. ‘What’s your poison?’

  Farian coughed and crossed his arms, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Must I remind you—’

  Hagalle knew they were glancing in his direction. His lips felt dry and cracked, and there was no saliva in his mouth. His heart was sending little shudders through his chest and rippling his shirt. He saw Frayn close the globe and perch on the edge of Zara Gen’s desk. Farian whispered something in the Governor’s ear and Zara Gen nodded gravely. The Duke then pointedly moved the roll of maps he’d deposited on the desk away from Frayn’s backside.

  It’s too darned hot in here, Hagalle thought, turning to open the curtain and then thinking better of it. He fanned his face with his hand, all the while watching the recesses of the office out of the corner of his eye. Too darned dark, too. He shot Farian a look. The Duke caught it and muttered something to Zara Gen, who then stooped to speak in Frayn’s ear.

  The Sicarii slipped from his perch and crossed the room on the balls of his feet, treading as lightly as a dancer. Hagalle’s eyes followed the glint of steel from the ball-pommel of the dagger sheathed at his hip. Frayn fiddled with the valve on the lantern hanging from its elaborate stand beside the door. The circle of its orange light brightened, but still didn’t reach the corners.

  Thump!

  Hagalle started, his hand going to his chest.

  Knock, knock.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. About time, too, he thought. Let’s get this over with and get these people out of my sight. By the gods, it’s stuffy in here.

  Frayn got the door, standing behind it as it opened. General Starn bumbled his way into the office, puffing out his red cheeks. His eyes were bulging from his head as he made a show of wondering how the door had opened by itself. Frayn stepped into view when he shut the door and Starn raised a finger in mock admonition, grunting and coughing beneath his moustache.

  Hagalle pushed away from the wall and Starn came to attention, clicking his boot heels and thumping his chest. He was as ramrod as he could be with such a curved spine and large gut. He looked like a comedy soldier, all stiff and starchy, but with a roly-poly edge to him. If he hadn’t known better, Hagalle would have retired the man as an embarrassment.

  Hardly the image to put the fear of the gods in the foe; but looks weren’t everything. Starn had proven that at the Battle of Sarum.

  ‘General Starn.’ Hagalle clasped his hands behind his back. He towered above the little man and found himself wishing Starn wouldn’t keep lowering his eyes.

  ‘Emperor!’ Starn barked in a voice that sounded like he’d got moustache hair stuck in his throat.

  ‘You know why you’re here?’

  Starn’s cheeks grew redder. His eyes flicked up to the level of Hagalle’s chest and then fell back to the floor. ‘I’ll do better, my Emperor. You have my word on it.’

  Frayn resumed his lolling at the edge of the desk, and Zara Gen hovered behind his chair as if he wanted to sit, but didn’t dare while Hagalle was standing. Farian loomed at Hagalle’s shoulder, but was easily driven back by a glare.

  ‘Better how?’ Hagalle asked, taking a step towards Starn and glowering down at him.

  ‘W-W-Well.’ Starn’s jowls trembled. ‘Hrruh, hmm. I-I-I…’

  ‘Careful, General,’ Hagalle said. ‘You’re starting to sound egotistical.’ That was the word, wasn’t it? Hagalle was sure that’s what that bald sod Aristodeus had once called him.

  To Hagalle’s astonishment, Starn dropped to his knees and bowed his head further, as if he were intending to kiss Hagalle’s boots.

  ‘Forgive me, Emperor. I…Well…Mrs Starn…I mean…’

  Hagalle stooped and laid a hand on the General’s shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You forgive me, General Starn. Forgive me for underestimating you; forgive me for ridiculing you. Your actions during the battle were…’ Hagalle felt a lump in his throat and his eyes grew moist. He forced a cough and nodded to the drinks globe. ‘Master Frayn, would you do the honours?’

  ‘Emperor,’ Frayn said as he dashed across the room and opened the globe.

  ‘Whiskey,’ Hagalle said. ‘And you, General?’

  Starn clambered to his feet, dusted himself down, and then tugged his uniform jacket straight.

  ‘Well, uh, most kind, Emperor.’ He cast a look at Frayn. ‘Don’t suppose you have a brown ale? No? Uhm, well, a stiff brandy then, what.’

  ‘Governor?’ Frayn said. ‘Your Grace?’

  Farian wandered over to look for himself, but Zara Gen waved away the offer of a drink. Hagalle studied him for a second and narrowed his eyes. What’s Gen up to? Trying to impress me with his austerity? Hagalle scoffed and switched his attention back to Starn.

  ‘When we return to Jorakum, General, I intend to have you properly honoured.’

  Starn clasped his hands over his belly and gave a little bow.

  ‘In the meantime, anything you want, anything at all, it’s yours.’ Hagalle was regretting every bad word he’d said about Starn. He only wished he had more men like him; men you could rely on in a tight spot; men who’d never stab you in the back.

  Frayn passed Hagalle his whiskey. Hagalle grimaced and set the glass to one side. Suddenly he wasn’t thirsty any more.

  ‘Anything, Emperor?’ Starn’s eyes widened with hope or desire.

  ‘Absolutely, General. You name it. A new horse, finer armour—you must admit you need a new breastplate!’

  Starn laughed dutifully and accepted a glass from Frayn, taking an appreciative sip.

  ‘What I would like, Emperor, more than anything…’

  ‘Yes,’ Hagalle said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘…is to see my wife.’

  Hagalle stared at him open-mouthed. For a moment his mind was blank.

  Starn went on. ‘An early discharge, Emperor. I’m getting too old for this. I…I miss Mrs Starn…’

  ‘Out of the question,’ Hagalle snapped. ‘How dare you even suggest such a thing!’ He turned and rolled his eyes at Farian, who tutted and shook his head. ‘This is hardly the time, General Starn. Hardly the time. With the news our scouts have just brought, you think my most senior General should be leaving?’

  Starn fumbled his glass, spilling a little brandy on his jacket as he caught it. ‘Forgive me, Emperor.’

  Hagalle sighed and fixed his glare on Zara Gen. ‘Oh, sit down, Governor! You’re making me nervous with your loitering.’

  Zara Gen lowered himself into his chair and twiddled his ponytail.

  Hagalle ground his teeth and then addressed Farian. ‘Is the boy here?’

  ‘Outside, Emperor,’ Farian said. ‘Shall I?’

  Hagalle clicked his fingers and Starn opened the door. The bumbling dolt poked his head outside and beckoned.

  Barek Thomas shuffled into the room, his sandy hair recently washed and combed by the look of it. He still wore the white surcoat of his Order, but it was becoming threadbare and he’d been unable to disguise the bloodstains. Hagalle’s eyes flicked to Barek’s empty scabbard and then to the youth’s face. Something had altered—the tilt of the chin, the glint of the eyes in the lamp light. There was an altogether different air about the young knight from the nervous, pleading boy who’d shaken when he’d knelt before Hagalle asking for help. Hagalle fought to keep himself from sneering at the memory. Infernal impudence. As if he, the Emperor of Sahul, needed some raggedy Nousian to rouse him to the defence of one of his own cities. Hagalle’s eyes drank in the youth’s poise: shoulders back, chest high, heels neatly pressed together. He raised an eyebrow and looked from Starn back to Barek. That’s what had changed: the boy had bearing; he’d come to himself. He knew he’d done well at the battle. More than that, Hagalle bit his lip, the lad had saved his life and was bloody well expecting to be rewarded for it.

  Barek started to say something, but was cut off
by Starn putting fist to mouth and coughing. Hagalle caught himself scowling and swiftly manufactured a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thomas. Thank you for coming.’ His tone was measured and amiable, and he noted the lad relaxed in response. ‘Forgive me, Barek, but I’m not sure of your military title. Perhaps you could…’ Hagalle made a winding gesture with his hand.

  ‘Emperor.’ Barek dropped to one knee and bowed. ‘It is an honour. I am…’

  Starn coughed again and put a hand on Barek’s elbow to help him stand. The fat fool then whispered in Barek’s ear.

  ‘Sorry,’ Barek said, looking down at Hagalle’s boots. ‘I am now Master of the White Order.’

  Hagalle inclined his head. ‘Master? Remind me, General Starn, do we have “Masters” in the Sahulian army?’

  ‘No, Emperor,’ Starn said. ‘Only one master, and that’s your Imperial Highness. Other than that we have…’

  ‘Thank you, General, that will do,’ Hagalle said, his cheeks starting to feel numb from all the smiling. ‘So, Master Barek, there are titular differences in our respective forces. Different worlds, different ways, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Emperor,’ Barek started enthusiastically and then ran out of steam. He was glancing furtively from side to side.

  ‘A man cannot serves two masters, Barek, surely you can see that.’ Hagalle took a step towards him and used his height to cow the lad. ‘Oh, I’m sure we could come up with a new title for the leader of the White Order, but what would be the point? The puppet-master would still remain.’ Hagalle smiled internally this time as Barek looked up with eyes as wide as saucers. Hagalle wagged his finger from side to side in a gesture of mock admonition. ‘You are either for the Emperor of Sahul or for Nousia. You can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘Emperor,’ Zara Gen said, standing. ‘Forgive my interruption, but did you not say this young man saved you during…?’

  Hagalle held up a finger without even looking at the Governor. He waited until he heard the muffled thud of Zara Gen resuming his seat.

  ‘Truly,’ Hagalle said, turning away from Barek and wandering over to the window, where he peered through the crack of the curtains. ‘I am grateful for your intervention. There’s no doubt you are a brave man. Honourable even. But even the best of us can labour under deception.’

  ‘My Emperor,’ Barek said. ‘I am loyal to Sahul. My spiritual practices…’

  ‘Are utterly incompatible with my will,’ Hagalle said in as nonchalant a tone as he could manage. ‘And besides,’ he spun and glared at the knight. ‘How do you account for the presence of a large Templum Fleet in Sahulian waters?’

  ‘Emperor?’ The lad’s jaw hung slack and he glanced around the room for enlightenment or support.

  Zara Gen was looking at his hands clasped atop the desk. General Starn seemed to have found something interesting on the carpet, and Master Frayn was positively statuesque.

  ‘A coincidence?’ Hagalle asked. ‘A new Order dressed like the Templum Elect rides to Sarum, butchers my soldiers, and then shows up at a key stage of the battle with a vast Templum force closing in from the sea. Oh, I have no doubt your presence helped turn the tide. General Starn here commended your intervention in his report, and I remain grateful for the ride away from the thick of it. In fact, that’s why you’re still alive. If I didn’t owe you my gratitude I’d have had the remnants of your Order burned at the stake as a warning to your Templum despot.

  ‘I want to give you a chance, Barek. You’re of Sahulian stock, so there’s still hope for you. General Starn will have you escorted to the old militia barracks where you and your men will do some serious reflecting. I look forward to whatever decision you make in the next few days. Goodbye.’

  Starn ushered the lad outside, where Hagalle noted with satisfaction a contingent of Imperial troops was ready to lock him in chains. The rest of the Order would have been arrested whilst they spoke.

  ‘And now to the other matter.’ Hagalle clapped his hands and shot a broad grin at Zara Gen.

  The Governor looked up and the colour drained from his face. ‘The matter of the enemy within, Governor Gen?’

  Zara Gen pushed himself upright and tugged at his ponytail. ‘My Emperor, I can assure you that I am utterly loyal. My family has served the Zaneish dynasty faithfully…’

  ‘I know, I know, I know,’ Hagalle said. ‘Why does everyone take things so personally?’

  Zara Gen lowered himself back into his chair, but his eyes never left Hagalle’s.

  ‘I was referring,’ Hagalle said, ‘to the Nousian menace that you have allowed to flourish in Sarum: the Templum of the Knot. Yes,’ he forestalled Zara Gen’s unborn protest, ‘I know you think they were a boon during the plague, but do you not recall that saying of the Ancients, Governor? Wolves in sheep’s clothing, I think it was. What better way of lulling us into a false sense of security whilst Daddy sets sail from Aeterna. What do you suppose their real function is, eh? To open the metaphorical gates while the city sleeps?’

  ‘Emperor,’ Zara Gen was back on his feet and leaning over the desk. The colour had returned to his face—it was now as red as his robes. ‘Forgive me, but this is preposterous!’

  ‘Really?’ Hagalle said.

  At that instant, Master Frayn’s hand snaked out and grabbed Zara Gen by the neck. The Governor’s eyes bulged and he flapped his arms around uselessly. Frayn reached inside Zara Gen’s robe with his free hand and withdrew a glittering silver Monas on a slender chain. With a sharp yank he broke the chain and handed the symbol to Hagalle.

  Frayn released Zara Gen, who sank into his chair with his head in his hands.

  ‘I have eyes and ears everywhere, Governor Gen,’ Hagalle said. ‘Were you really so naive as to think your little visit from the most notorious Nousian in Sahul would go unnoticed? How long have we known, Master Frayn?’

  ‘Riders were sent to Jorakum the instant Jarmin the Anchorite set foot in Arnbrook House, Emperor,’ the Sicarii said with a smirk. ‘We were just awaiting your order to take care of the priests.’

  Hagalle narrowed his eyes. The idiot wasn’t supposed to have mentioned that in front of Zara Gen. Frayn licked his lips and started fiddling with his ridiculous oiled moustache.

  ‘A good thing for you that our families have such a long history of mutual support, Zara Gen,’ Hagalle said. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to say any more. Duke Farian will assume your duties. You are free to go—for now. Don’t stray beyond the city limits. And, Zara Gen, we are watching.’

  Zara Gen slipped out of his office scarcely daring to breathe. The instant the door shut behind him, Farian sat behind his desk and Hagalle turned his mind to the next problem.

  ‘You may leave, Master Frayn. And in the future, be more careful with your choice of words.’

  ‘Emperor,’ Frayn said, before giving an ostentatious bow.

  ‘Oh, and Master Frayn,’ Hagalle said. ‘Any news on Cadman?’

  ‘Our best trackers are onto it, Emperor. Believe me, there’s nowhere he can hide. He’ll be dead by morning, along with those priests.’

  Hagalle nodded and waited for Frayn to leave the room. ‘So, Farian,’ he thumped the palm of his hand. ‘What are we going to do about this invasion?’

  The instant the words left his mouth, Hagalle had a revelation. How could he have been so blind? The priests, the White Order, and the coming of the Templum fleet. Throughout all that had happened there was one common denominator, a ringleader. How could he have dismissed all those reports of a Nousian knight showing up in the provinces and training the local youths? A man who’d apparently spent time at Pardes under the nefarious Grey Abbot; a man dressed in the attire of the Templum Elect and sworn to absolute obedience to the Ipsissimus.

  ‘Farian,’ Hagalle said in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘I want men patrolling the streets, scouring the inns, walking the docks. Put the word out. I want this Deacon Shader brought to me. I don’t care if he’s dead or alive, but I want him. Is th
at understood?’

  ‘Deacon Shader,’ Farian confirmed. ‘I’ll alert the militia and reassign a troop of our own men. Should I inform the Sicarii?’

  Hagalle thought about it for a moment. The assassins were becoming indispensable. Already they played a part in more of his plans than anyone else.

  ‘No,’ he decided. ‘I’m sure they have enough on their plate. Let’s handle this one ourselves. Now, Farian, unroll the maps. I want to know exactly where these bloody Nousians are landing.’

  A RETURN TO UNDEATH

  Something tugged relentlessly. A shudder passed through the Void, bringing with it an awareness of the absolute blackness; but awareness nonetheless. A groan escaped and was followed soon upon by a stark realization and the formation of a single thought.

  ‘No!’

  What remained of Callixus’ soul rekindled its dark flame and protested against its unnatural perdurance. ‘Leave me here!’ he screamed silently, for there was no sound in the Void.

  The tugging increased and Callixus felt his reawakened consciousness being sucked violently through the tiniest of apertures in the darkness until he re-emerged in the differentiated world of light and shapes.

  One of the shapes detached itself from the others and came towards him. Callixus’ vision was a kaleidoscope of gyring patterns that came into stark and corporeal focus upon a bulky figure in a velvet jacket.

  ‘Welcome back, old chap,’ Cadman said with that air of false jollity that Callixus despised.

  For an instant he contorted with pain and wondered if he’d been brought back body and soul. Something wrenched at his gut, twisting and mangling. Callixus let out a long hissing groan and stared down at his gaseous hands. Still a wraith, he realized, and in the same moment he knew that the pain had been nothing more than a manifestation of the hatred he held for Cadman, for what he’d made Callixus endure. For bringing him back.

  A grey leathery creature dragged itself alongside Cadman and clung to his leg. It was sharp-faced and horned, with bat-like wings hanging limply behind. Callixus was reminded of the gargoyles that adorned the Ancients’ Templi back in Aeterna. The creature’s black eyes swirled like ink in water, but hardened when they met his gaze.