Those Below: The Empty Throne Book 2

by Daniel Polansky

  Battle was joined.

  It was an awkward and ungainly means of combat, long rows of tightly packed men walking slowly into one another. Bas had been at the front of it often enough to remember the feeling, the growing sense of nausea, those moments before always the worst, thinking that perhaps this was the time that you broke and ran, wanting it to come, whatever it was, death itself better than uncertainty, or at least it might seem so before you met it. And the reek, the smell – that was something the minstrels never spoke of, the furious olfactory misery manifested by the press of thousands of men, their flesh and their sweat and their blood and their shit; shit comes with blood, as any soldier can tell you, after from death and before from fear. The ant-like ignorance of your own motions, the certain knowledge that your own victory or defeat will play no very significant role in the day’s outcome, that your speed and strength and courage carry no more weight than the speed and strength and courage of the man beside you, and the man beside him, definitive evidence of the essential pointlessness of your existence.

  ‘Magnificent,’ Konstantinos said, as the hoplitai began to march forward in even ranks, the valley echoing with the rumbling of their feet. ‘Magnificent,’ he said again, savouring the moment.

  Not so far below, a world away, men shoved metal into the flesh of other men, men screamed, men staunched their wounds and the wounds of their comrades, men suffered, men died. The Salucians had done their best to mimic the tactics of their enemies, long spears and leather armour, but neither their equipment nor the men carrying it were a match for the themas. It had taken a generation to create such a machine, tens of thousands of men working in admirable if imperfect concert towards the shared end of murder. The Thirteenth led the way in the centre, crossing the distance in unison, in rhythm that would have shamed a troupe of dancers, and seen from so far above it did seem beautiful, thrilling, even for those who ought to have known better. Bas felt his heart pump happily and Isaac let out a war-whoop when the Thirteenth struck against an equivalent mass of Salucians, equivalent in numbers though in no other fashion, the vast metal monster straining forward.

  The day was at its zenith, sun blinding bright off the burnished steel of the hoplitai, as if the valley itself had been set alight. Bas wiped a blunt hand across his forehead, came away thick with sweat. Isaac took a long swig from his flask, and Bas waved him over for a sip, and then more than a sip. Konstantinos strutted up and down the line, making pronouncements and observations and exhortations, and his companions, aristocrats and half-nobleman, seasonal soldiers, cheered at everything, at his foolish hiccuped jokes and his predictions of victory, cheered the smell of blood, cheered the sound of their cheering.

  The Salucians had determined to break the Aelerian centre, no very creative strategy but then there were no clearly superior alternatives. What few troops they had who could make any claim towards competence were fed into the middle, pike against pike, steel against steel. It would not have worked against any of the thema and it would certainly not work against the Thirteenth; even without Bas leading them they were still the fiercest array of men perhaps ever assembled, they were still more than any horde of lisping half-trained Salucians could hope to best.

  Who knew how long it was building, a tremor of terror along the left flank? Who knew what had first started it: one weak link in a long chain, the cowardice of some or other farm boy, pressed into service for a cause he neither understood nor cared for. The collapse at Scarlet Fields had come when one hoplitai had pissed himself and an adjoining soldier had mocked him for it, the two both so mad with fear that they dropped their spears and assaulted each other, the terror spilling out like blood from an open wound, all with the Birds massing for an open charge. It was a part of that curiosity of mass combat by which an infinite number of tiny decisions, each irrelevant in and of itself, is somehow transmuted into victory or defeat. Some confusion along the wing, some unit refusing to go forward, and a seam began to open up between the Salucian centre and the Salucian left, a wide chink in the armour, an invitation to rout.

  ‘They’re splitting, by the gods they’re splitting!’ Konstantinos shouted, managed to get word to the signalman, who raised the flag for the cavalry charge, though Bas did not suppose Theophilus fool enough to miss the opportunity. And indeed the alacrity with which his band of cavalry set off suggested his old subordinate was living up to his new position. They struck against the hole in the Salucian line perfectly, and for the first time that day Bas did feel something like joy, for he could have done no better himself, no better than this boy he had taught to kill. Their cavalry plunged into the loose-packed mass of men, rode them down without mercy, long spears useless and less than useless in such a situation, an encumbrance and one that most of the Salucians dispensed with as swiftly as possible, along with their arms and armour and anything else that might slow them down, that might hinder their desperate escape, not a retreat but an outright collapse.

  And above the valley the officers and nobles, hands uncalloused but steeped in blood, whooped and hollered, shouted joyfully, threw hats in the air, embraced each other fiercely, offered loud and fervent prayers to the god of war. Prayers well due him, an easy victory better even than a just one.

  18

  On a dark night half past the hour of the Nightjar, Pyre and Hammer slid down an alleyway on a distant corner of the Fifth. Above. A great width of pipe beat its steady tune, though as children of the slums they gave no more thought to the noise than they would the beating of their own hearts. On either side were bleak walls of faded red brick, tenement houses much like the one that Pyre had grown up in, finger-width walls separating small rooms into smaller ones, the smell of excreta and of cooked cabbage. At the back door of one of these hovels were two Dead Pigeons, nearly obscured by the shadow of the suck. Even back when the Cuckoos had been masters of the Fifth Rung, had strutted down the thoroughfares like capons ignorant of their deficit, they had rarely seen any point in visiting so impoverished and miserable a corner of their territory. These days, with Pyre’s men leading lightning raids on unwary custodians, with Five-Fingered handprints up on every wall from the docks to the Perennial Exchange, there was no Cuckoo brave enough to show himself below the top of the Fourth, and many who would not attempt even that modest feat. There was, in all likelihood, not a single member of the civil guard within a dozen cables, and the only authority was wielded by Pyre himself.

  But still he was wary approaching the back door, gave the parole with one hand on the hilt of his weapon. Caution had become second nature to Pyre; he did not walk into a room without thinking of how he would leave it, he did not meet a man without questioning how they might think to betray him, and what method he would find to return that evil.

  ‘Brother Pyre,’ said one of the guards quietly, a dark-skinned man, short and ugly as a swelling bruise.

  ‘Brother Frost.’ Pyre knew every man in the Dead Pigeons, every man or near to. Knew them and was known in turn. ‘The rest are in attendance?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Make sure their escorts are ready to move before the hour of the Owl. This won’t last as long as they think.’

  ‘Of course, Brother Pyre,’ Frost said, giving the salute, then holding it out in front of him, fingers open. ‘Until the new age.’

  ‘Until the dawn to come,’ Pyre said, the words second nature if truly meant. Hammer came into the corridor but stayed outside the main room, as much to serve guard as because, like most of the Dead Pigeons, he preferred violence to parlay.

  They had knocked down three dividing walls to make enough room for the table and the eleven men who sat round it. For most this was their first time so far downslope, and likely they found the accommodations insalubrious. This was not their fault, and Pyre had learned enough by then – Edom had taught him enough – that he did not hold it against them. They were his brothers, he reminded himself, his siblings, victims of the demons as he was, different in degree but not in kind. They hudd
led round the table, wearing heavy furs and shivering despite them. The walls of these buildings were weak enough to bend with a strong wind, and the cold seemed to leak right through, as Pyre had observed on innumerable nights as a child, sharing his small bed with his three sisters, chilled despite the tight, rank press of their bodies.

  They all stared as he came in, a row of middle-aged men, smooth-skinned and unsmiling. Except for Edom, and that was enough, that smile that sanctified everything. Pyre returned it and moved to the one vacant seat, set next to their leader as was only appropriate. ‘You will forgive my tardiness, brothers,’ he said. ‘It was the result of urgent business.’

  ‘What sort of urgent business?’ snapped Steadfast, ready as ever to give insult.

  ‘It was a matter for the Dead Pigeons,’ Pyre said

  ‘Discussing the delay only exacerbates it,’ Edom interrupted, ‘and we have little enough time as it is.’ Standing with customary grace he offered the Five-Fingered salute. ‘Edom, the First of His Line, calls this meeting to order.’

  ‘Steadfast, the First of His Line, bears witness.’

  ‘Able, the First of His Line, bears witness.’

  They went down the line one by one, introducing themselves unnecessarily, unwilling to dispense with formality despite their claims to haste. It had long since ceased to interest Pyre. Ritual had its purpose in indoctrinating and inspiring the faithful, but ritual was a distant second to action. And in truth this meeting was far from being the most important of Pyre’s tasks that evening. At that very moment, some few cables to the east of them, Badger’s cell was leading a raid on one of the last of the Brotherhood Below’s safe houses. On the Third Rung, two members of Devotion’s cell were getting set to snatch up a particularly recalcitrant merchant, one of the few in the quadrant who had maintained his misguided allegiance to Those Above, who refused the modest tithe required of all humans who wished to see themselves unfettered, which was to say all right-thinking men. In a few minutes there would be an attack on one of the Cuckoo nests up on the Fourth – nothing serious, nothing major, a bottle of alcohol and a lit rag tossed through a window, just enough to keep their enemies wary, frightened, off balance. When the meeting finally ended Pyre would hear the reports of the evening’s activities, would plan the operations to come, would deal with the dozen other tasks yet required of him. Sleep that night would be a few stolen hours, no pleasure but a necessary oblivion, just enough to refresh his mind, just enough that when Hammer shook him awake the next morning he could go about the day with some semblance of reason.

  ‘Pyre, the First of His Line, bears witness,’ he answered when his time came.

  ‘Let’s break to the point of it,’ Wolf said. He was one of their financiers, son of a docker, born on the far corner of the Fifth, one of those rare downslopers who had made good. He had earned a fortune selling cheap things to men and women foolish enough to buy them, and he had given some portion of those riches to the Five-Fingers. ‘I object to the actions of Pyre, the First of His Line, actions that have brought us to the brink of open war, actions that were neither discussed nor agreed upon by the council.’

  ‘We have always been at war,’ Pyre said. ‘Nothing has changed.’

  ‘Nothing has changed? The entire Roost is up in arms. Our beclouded brethren on the higher Rungs walk fearfully, thinking the Five-Fingers their enemies. On the Third Rung, Cuckoos march in lockstep, and there are rumours that the demons themselves lead them.’

  ‘It is time, and past time, that our siblings upslope came to recognise their fetters and their own role in maintaining them. If I had known all that was required to bring them to enlightenment was to slit the throat of an old man wearing heavy make-up, I’d have done it long ago.’

  ‘Had you known,’ Steadfast chimed in. ‘Had you known? Last I had heard it was not Pyre who was in charge of setting policy for the revolution.’

  ‘You overstep your bounds,’ agreed Spectre, a grey-haired man wearing ill-cut robes. He had been a member of the Five-Fingered for long years before Pyre’s own, was one of the first to have heard the truth. As far as Pyre was concerned, seniority was the only virtue he possessed, an ageing pedant who preferred speech to action. This fairly summed up, in his estimation, most of the rest of the council. ‘It is one thing to assault a few guards on the Fourth, or to scrawl graffiti on a downslope wall, and quite another to assassinate the chief human political agent of the Birds.’

  ‘I call for a vote of censure upon Pyre, the First of His Name,’ said Wolf.

  ‘Seconded,’ Spectre said.

  Edom cleared his throat softly, and the conversation stilled. ‘It would be premature to take any such action before first hearing of Brother Pyre’s explanation for the event itself.’

  Though it took Pyre a solid twenty seconds before he felt calm enough to attempt one, willing his pulse to slow, shoving the rage back down into his chest, nor did he suppose the interim did anything particularly to help his cause. Pyre was many things but dissimulator was not one of them, and to judge by the faces of the other men at the table this fact was well appreciated.

  When he finally spoke, his voice seemed calm. ‘For the last six months, the Dead Pigeons have been working to infiltrate the upper ranks of the Brotherhood Below.’

  ‘Why was the inner council not informed of any of this?’ asked Wolf.

  ‘It was felt that a matter of such delicacy was best to keep unknown to any parties not directly involved.’

  ‘Who felt this?’

  ‘Pyre felt this way. Pyre and Edom, the First of His Line.’

  That shut them up quickly enough, by the gods. Though they might all maintain this happy facade of equality, there was no more real doubt in the mind of Wolf or Spectre or Steadfast who was truly in charge of the Five-Fingered.

  ‘You knew of this, Edom?’ Steadfast asked after a moment.

  ‘I was aware that we had … stratagems in place. I had not been informed that they were so near to fruition.’

  ‘There wasn’t time to alert you,’ Pyre said, for the first time feeling some slim sense of shame. ‘Savior, the First of His Line, who brought the coming age closer with his own life’s blood, informed me the very day of the meeting that he would be responsible for security. It was an opportunity which couldn’t be overlooked. In truth, I fail to understand how this can be regarded as anything but a great victory, an accelerant for the fire to come. The Brotherhood Below, the hidden hand by which the lower Rungs have been kept in bondage for centuries, is broken and soon to be eradicated. Even now my men are working to extinguish this plague which has so long choked our people. As for the chancellor …’ He shrugged. ‘I cannot see why his death is of any great importance one way or the other. The demons will install a new man shortly enough, one likely to remember his predecessor’s fate, one who will not perhaps be so swift to hinder the destiny of his species.’

  ‘To reveal our strength before it’s grown to fullness?’ Steadfast asked contemptuously. ‘Before we are equipped to bring it to bear? There are not yet so many of us as to afford retaliation.’

  Pyre’s lip dragged itself up over his teeth. ‘A bared throat, a chink in the armour of our enemies – there was no time to bring the matter to the council. The chancellor had no intention of dealing with us honestly – he was no more capable of seeing the dawn than is the setting moon. He had arranged the meeting to bribe me, and if he could not bribe me to frighten me, and if he could not frighten me then to kill me. With his death, and the death of Ink, the Brotherhood Below has been thrown into chaos, and the custodians along with them. In the last two weeks alone our people have all but overrun the Fourth Rung, and made inroads into the Third. Where I was born, we consider the death of our enemies to be a thing worth celebrating.’

  ‘Bask in your victory,’ Wolf said, sneering, ‘just until the demons come knocking at your door. We are not yet strong enough to make a stand. The chancellor himself, by the Founders—’

  ‘By the gods
,’ Pyre corrected him harshly. ‘And it was by the gods that I did it, that I felt his blood run down my hand and onto the floor, this enemy of his race, this – this – traitor to his species.’ Pyre could tell they were looking at him and he fell silent, worked to contain his anger, chewed it back down, caged it within his broad chest.

  ‘The chancellor’s guilt is not the issue at hand, Pyre,’ Edom said quietly, in that voice like a poultice on a seeping wound, like oil dropped over restless water. ‘Your assault may provoke a response we are not yet prepared to deal with.’

  Wolf chimed in again. ‘The head of the Dead Pigeons is not the head of the Five-Fingers. I say that Pyre has overstepped the authority granted to him by the council. I once again request a vote of censure.’

  ‘Seconded,’ said Steadfast.

  ‘Fine,’ Pyre said. ‘I serve the species at the pleasure of Edom,’ he accentuated the last word firmly, ‘and of the council. Should my behaviour as leader of the Dead Pigeons not meet with their approval, it goes without saying that I would be happy to occupy any role they see fit. Though I suggest you have a suitable replacement in hand before dismissing me. Is there one among you who feels themselves more capable? Brother Wolf? Perhaps you would choose to leave your house on the Second and come live down here in the slurp? Brother Steadfast, how is your knife hand? Swift? Sure? You will have need of it, of that much I can tell you for a certainty.’

  ‘No doubt there are men within the Dead Pigeons who could perform your function adequately,’ Wolf said.

  ‘I’m afraid the members of the Dead Pigeons place a more substantial value on loyalty than the council. And whatever your feelings, among his own people Pyre is considered competent enough. I assure you, you will find no great thirst among the Dead Pigeons for new leadership – indeed, they might find the suggestion insulting.’