The Darkness That Comes Before

by R. Scott Bakker

  Conphas was laughing. “I’m afraid I discovered the pleasures of women at an atrociously young age, Grandmother. I had other tutors to attend.”

  Istriya was sly—even flirtatious. The whorish crone. “Lessons drawn from the same book, I imagine.”

  “It all comes to fucking, doesn’t it?”

  Their laughter drowned out the whooshing chorus of the galley’s oars. Xerius stifled a scream.

  “And now with the Holy War, my dear Conphas! You’ll be more, far more than the greatest Exalt-General in our history!”

  What is she trying to do? Istriya had always goaded him, but never had she pressed her banter so close to sedition. She knew Conphas’s victory over the Scylvendi had transformed him from a tool into a threat. Especially after the farce at the Forum the previous day. Xerius needed only to glimpse at his nephew’s face to know that Skeaös had been right. There had been murder in Conphas’s eyes. If not for the Holy War, Xerius would have ordered him cut down on the spot.

  Istriya had been there. She knew all this, and yet she pushed further and further. Was she . . .

  Was she trying to get Conphas killed?

  Conphas was obviously discomfited. “My men would call that counting the dead before blood is drawn, Grandmother.”

  But was he truly uneasy? Could it be an act? Something concocted by the two of them to throw him off their scent? He peered down the length of the galley, searching for Skeaös. He found him with Arithmeas, summoned him with a look of fury but then cursed himself. What need had he of that old fool? His mother played games. She always played games.

  Ignore them.

  Skeaös scuttled to his side—the man walked like a crab—but Xerius ignored him. Drawing long, even breaths, he studied the river traffic instead. With sluggish grace, riverboats eased by one another, most of them heavy with wares. He saw the carcasses of swine and cattle, urns of oil and casks of wine; he saw wheat, corn, quarried stone, and even what he decided must be a troop of dancers, all ploughing across the river’s broad back toward Momemn. It was good that he stood upon the Phayus. It was the great rope from which the vast nets of the Nansurium spread. Trade and the industry of men, all sanctioned by his image.

  The gold they bear in their hands, he thought, bears my face.

  He peered into the sky. His eyes settled upon a gull mysteriously suspended in the heart of a distant thunderhead. For a moment he thought he could feel harmony’s brush, forget the nattering of his mother and nephew behind him.

  Then the galley lurched and shuddered to a halt. Xerius teetered over the prow for a moment, caught himself. He pushed himself upright, looked wildly for the galley captain among the small herd of functionaries amidships. He heard shouts muffled by the timber, then the snapping of whips. Images came to him unbidden. Of cramped and wood-dark spaces. Rotten teeth clenched in agony. Sweat and stinging pain.

  “What happened?” Xerius heard his mother ask.

  “Sandbar, Grandmother,” Conphas said in explanation. “Yet another delay, it would seem.” His tone was clenched in impatience—a liberty of expression he would not have dared a few months earlier, but still minor compared with the previous day’s outrage.

  Cries resonated through the tiled deck. The oars made hash of the surrounding waters, but to no effect. With an expression that already begged for mercy, the captain approached and acknowledged that they’d run aground. Xerius berated the fool, all the while sensing his mother’s scrutiny. When he glanced at her, he saw eyes far too shrewd to belong to a mother watching her son. At her side, Conphas lolled on his divan, smirking as though he watched a fixed cockfight.

  Unnerved by their scrutiny, Xerius waved away the captain’s plaintive explanations. “Why should the rowers reap what you’ve sown?” he cried. Disgusted by the man’s infantile blubbering, he turned his back on him, ordered his bodyguards to drag him below. The man’s subsequent howling simply fanned his anger. Why could so few men stomach the consequences of their actions?

  “A judgement,” his mother said dryly, “worthy of the Latter Prophet.”

  “We’ll wait here,” Xerius snapped to no one in particular.

  After a moment, the whips and cries subsided. The oars fell silent. There was a rare moment of quiet on the deck. A dog’s baying echoed across the waters. Children chased one another along the south bank, ducking between peppertrees, squealing. But there was another sound.

  “Can you hear them?” Conphas asked.

  “Yes, I can,” Istriya replied, craning her neck to look upriver.

  Xerius could also hear it: a faint chorus of shouts across the water. Squinting, he peered into the distance, where the Phayus bent and folded between dark slopes, searching for some visible sign of the barge bearing his new monument. He saw none.

  “Perhaps,” Skeaös whispered in his ear, “we should await your latest glory from the galley’s aft, God-of-Men.”

  He started to rebuke the Prime Counsel for interrupting him with nonsense, then hesitated. “Continue,” he muttered, studying the old man. Skeaös’s face often reminded him of a shrivelled apple dimpled by two shiny black eyes. He looked like an ancient infant.

  “From here, God-of-Men, your divine memorial will be revealed in increments, allowing your mother and nephew . . .” His expression was pained.

  Xerius grimaced, looked askance at his mother. “No one dares taunt the Emperor, Skeaös.”

  “Of course, God-of-Men. Certainly. But if we wait aft, your obelisk will be exposed in one magnificent rush as the barge passes us.”

  “I had considered that . . .”

  “But certainly.”

  Xerius turned to the Empress and the Exalt-General. “Come, Mother,” he said, “let us retire from the sun. Some shade will flatter you.”

  Istriya scowled at the insult but seemed visibly relieved otherwise. The sun was high in the sky and hot for the season. She rose with stiff grace and reluctantly took her son’s proffered hand. Conphas rolled to his feet after her, followed them. Formations of perfumed slaves and functionaries scattered from their path. With Skeaös waiting at a discreet distance, the three paused at tables bedecked with delicacies. Xerius was heartened when his mother complimented his kitchen slaves. Praising his servants had always been her way of repenting earlier indiscretions—her apology. Perhaps, Xerius thought, she would be indulgent with him today.

  Finally they settled in the canopied rear of the galley, lounging on Nilnameshi settees. Skeaös stood on Xerius’s right, his accustomed position. Xerius found his presence comforting: like over-strong wine, his family had to be watered down.

  “And how is my half-sister?” Conphas asked him. Jnan had commenced.

  “A satisfactory wife.”

  “And yet her womb remains closed,” Istriya remarked.

  “I have my heir,” Xerius replied casually, knowing full well that the old crone celebrated his impotence. The strong seed forces the womb. She had called him weak.

  Istriya’s dark eyes flashed. “Yes . . . An heir without an inheritance.”

  Such directness! Perhaps age had at last caught up with immortal Istriya. Perhaps time was the only poison she could not avoid.

  “Take care, Mother.” Perhaps—and the thought filled Xerius with shrill glee—she would shortly die. Damnable old bitch.

  Conphas interceded. “I think Grandmother refers to the Men of the Tusk, divine Uncle . . . I received word just this morning that they’ve raided and sacked Jarutha. We’re past riots and Shrial petitions, Uncle. We’re on the brink of open warfare.”

  To the heart of the matter so quickly. It was inelegant. Brutish.

  “What do you intend to do, Xerius?” Istriya asked. “It’s not merely your shrewish, sometimes impolitic mother who frets over these portentous events. Even the more dependable Houses of the Congregate are alarmed. One way or another, we must act.”

  “I’ve never known you to be impolitic, Mother . . . Only to appear so.”

  “Answer me, Xerius. Wha
t do you intend to do?”

  Xerius sighed audibly. “It’s no longer a question of intent, Mother. The deed has been accomplished. The Conriyan dog, Calmemunis, has sent envoys. He’ll sign the Indenture tomorrow afternoon. He gives his personal assurance that the riots and raids end as of today.”

  “Calmemunis!” his mother hissed, as though surprised. In all likelihood, she’d known this before even Xerius himself. After all the years she’d spent plotting for and against husbands and sons, her network of spies plumbed the Nansurium to the pith. “What of the other Great Names? What of the Ainoni—what’s his name?—Kumrezzer?”

  “I know only that Calmemunis confers with him, Tharschilka, and some of the others today.”

  With the air of a bored oracle, Conphas said, “He’ll sign as well.”

  “And what makes you so certain of that?” Istriya asked.

  Conphas raised his bowl, and one of the ubiquitous slaves scurried forward to refill it. “All the early arrivals will sign. It should’ve occurred to me earlier, but now that I think about it, it seems plain that these fools fear the arrival of the others more than anything else. They think themselves invincible. Tell them the Fanim are as terrible in war as the Scylvendi and they laugh, remind you the God Himself rides at their side.”

  “So what are you saying?” Istriya asked.

  Without thinking, Xerius had leaned forward in his settee. “Yes, Nephew. What are you saying?”

  Conphas sipped from his bowl, shrugged. “They think triumph is assured them, so why share it? Or even worse, give it away altogether to their undeserving betters? Think. When Nersei Proyas arrives, Calmemunis will be little more than one of his lieutenants. The same applies to Tharschilka and Kumrezzer. When the main contingents from Galeoth and High Ainon arrive, they’re sure to lose their pre-eminent positions. As of now, the Holy War’s theirs, and they wish to wield—”

  “You must delay the distribution of provisions, then, Xerius,” Istriya interrupted. “Prevent them from marching.”

  “Perhaps,” Skeaös added, “we can tell them we’ve found weevils in our granaries.”

  Xerius stared at his mother and nephew, trying to smooth the sneer from his expression. This was where their knowledge ended, and where his genius began. Not even Conphas, the cunning snake, could anticipate him on this. “No,” he said. “They march.”

  Istriya stared at him, her face looking as astonished as her prunish skin would allow.

  “Perhaps,” Conphas said, “we should dismiss the slaves.”

  With a clap Xerius sent oiled bodies fleeing from the deck.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Xerius?” Istriya asked. Her voice quavered, as though robbed of breath by shock.

  Conphas studied him, his lips hooked in a mild smile. “I think I know, Grandmother. Could it be, Uncle, that the Padirajah has asked for a . . . gesture?”

  Struck mute by astonishment, Xerius gaped at his nephew. How could he have known? Too much penetration, and certainly too much ease of manner. At some level, Xerius had always been terrified of Conphas. It was more than just the man’s wit. There was something dead inside his nephew. No, more than dead—something smooth. With others, even with his mother—although she too had seemed so remote lately—there was always the exchange of unspoken expectations, of the small, human needs that crotched and braced all conversation, even silences. But with Conphas there were only sheer surfaces. His nephew was never moved by another. Conphas was moved by Conphas, even if at times in mimicry of being moved by others. He was a man for whom everything was a whim. A perfect man.

  But to master such a man! And master him he must.

  “Flatter him,” Skeaös had once told Xerius, “and be transformed into part of the glorious story that he sees as his life.” But he could not. To flatter another was to humble oneself.

  “How did you know this?” Xerius snapped. His fear added, “Need I send you to Ziek to find out?” The Tower of Ziek—who in Nansur failed to shudder when they glimpsed it rising from the congestion of Momemn? His nephew’s eyes hardened for a moment. He had been moved—and why not? Conphas had been threatened.

  Xerius laughed.

  Istriya’s sharp voice interrupted his mirth. “How could you joke about such things, Xerius?”

  Had he been joking? Perhaps he had.

  “Forgive my uncouth humour, Mother, but Conphas has guessed right, guessed a secret so deadly that it would destroy us, destroy us all, if . . .” He paused, turned back to Conphas. “This is why I must know how you anticipated this.”

  Conphas was wary now. “Because it’s what I would do. Skauras . . . nay, Kian needs to understand that we’re not fanatics.”

  Skauras. Hawk-faced Skauras. There was an old name. The shrewd Kianene Sapatishah-Governor of Shigek and the first leathery obstacle to be overcome by the Holy War. How little the Men of the Tusk understood the lay of the land between the Rivers Phayus and Sempis! Nansur and Kian had been at intermittent war for centuries. They knew each other intimately, had sealed countless truces with lesser daughters. How many spies, ransoms, even hostages—

  Xerius shot forward, scrutinizing his nephew. An image of Skauras’s ghostly face superimposed over that of the Cishaurim emissary floated before his soul’s eye. “Who told you?” he asked with abrupt intensity. As a youth, Conphas had spent four years as a hostage of the Kianene. In Skauras’s court no less!

  Conphas looked at the floral mosaics beneath his sandalled feet. “Skauras himself,” he finally said, looking directly at Xerius. There was a playfulness in his demeanour, but that of a game played by oneself. “I’ve never broken off communication with his court. But surely your spies have told you this.”

  And Xerius had worried about his mother’s resources!

  “You must be wary of such things, Conphas,” Istriya said maternally. “Skauras is one of the old Kianene. A desert man. As ruthless as he’s clever. He would use you to sow dissension among us if he could. Remember always, it’s the dynasty that is important. House Ikurei.”

  Those words! Tremors spilled into Xerius’s hands. He clasped them together. Attempted to gather his thoughts. Looked away from their wolfish faces. All those years ago! Fumbling with a small black vial the size of a child’s finger, pouring the poison into his father’s ear. His father! And his mother’s . . . no, Istriya’s voice thundering in his thoughts: The dynasty, Xerius! The dynasty!

  Her husband, she’d decided, had neither claw nor fang enough to keep the dynasty alive.

  What was happening here? What were they doing? Plotting? He glanced at the old, adulterate witch, wanting to want to have her killed. But for as long as he could remember, she had been the totem, the sacred fetish that held the mad machinery of power in place. The old, insatiable Empress alone was indispensable. Those times, in his youth, when she had awakened him in the heart of night, stroking his cock, tormenting him with pleasure, cooing into his tongue-wet ear: “Emperor Xerius . . . Can you feel it, my lovely, godlike son?” She had been so beautiful then.

  It had been across her hand that he’d first come, and she’d taken his seed and bid him taste it. “The future,” she had said, “tastes of salt . . . And it stings, Xerius, my lovely child . . .” That warm laugh that had wrapped cold marble with comfort. “Taste how it stings . . .”

  “Do you see?” Istriya was saying. “Do you see how it troubles him? This is what Skauras hopes for.”

  Conphas had been watching him carefully. “I’m not a fool, Grandmother. And no heathen living could make me a fool, either. Especially Skauras. Nevertheless, I do apologize, Uncle. I should’ve told you this earlier.”

  Xerius looked at both of them blankly. Outside the sun was fierce, bright enough to press the patterns stitched into the red canopy across the interior: animals entwined in circles around the Black Sun seal of Nansur. Everywhere—throughout the sanguine shade of the canopy, across furniture, floor, and limb—the Sun of the Empire ringed by incestuous beasts.

  A th
ousand suns, he thought, feeling himself calm. Across all the old provinces, a thousand suns! Our ancient strongholds will be retaken. The Empire will be restored!

  “Compose yourself, my son,” Istriya was saying. “I know you’re not so foolish as to suggest that Calmemunis and the others march against the Kianene, or that sacrificing all the Men of the Tusk gathered so far is the ‘gesture’ my grandson refers to. That would be madness, and the Emperor of Nansur is not mad. Is he, Xerius?”

  During this time, the shouts they’d heard earlier had been growing nearer. Xerius stood and walked to the starboard rail. Leaning, he saw the first of the barge-towing longboats creep from behind the distant banks. He glimpsed the rowers, like the spine of a centipede. Their backs flashed in the sun.

  Soon . . .

  He turned to his mother and nephew, then glanced at Skeaös, who was wooden in the way of accidental interlopers. “The Empire covets what it has lost,” Xerius said wearily. “Nothing more. And it will sacrifice anything, even a Holy War, to gain what it covets.” So easily said! Such words were the world in small.

  “You are mad!” Istriya cried. “So you’ll send these first outlanders to their deaths, halve the Holy War, simply to show thrice-damned Skauras you’re not a religious lunatic? You squander fortune, Xerius, and you tempt the endless wrath of the Gods!”

  The violence of her response shocked him. But it mattered little what she thought of his plans. It was Conphas he needed . . . Xerius watched him.

  After a stern moment of deliberation, Conphas slowly nodded and said, “I see.”

  “You see reason in this?” Istriya hissed.

  Conphas shot Xerius an appraising look. “Think, Grandmother. Far more men are set to arrive than those who’ve gathered so far—true Great Names such as Saubon, Proyas, even Chepheramunni, King-Regent of High Ainon! But more important, it would seem the vulgar masses have been the first to answer Maithanet’s call, those ill-prepared, stirred by sentiment more than the sober spirit of war. To lose this rabble would be to our advantage in innumerable ways: fewer stomachs to feed, a more cohesive army in the field . . .” He paused and turned to Xerius with what could only be described as wonder in his eyes—or something near to it. “And it would teach the Shriah, and those who follow, to fear the Fanim. Their dependence upon us, upon those who already respect the heathen, will grow with the measure of their fear.”