The Whispers of War [Wells End Chronicles Book 2]

by Robert Beers

  Milward snorted, “Again? When are you people going to learn the difference? Wizardry is not sorcery! Pfagh!” He dismissed the baffled guards with a wave of his hand as he turned away. The old Wizard was intending to cut across the estate to his right as a flicker of movement to his left caught his attention. He turned toward the movement and saw a figure in a white robe running toward him, full out.

  He looked over his shoulder at the guards. Those who'd been involved in the tangle were now standing. A few had their palms pressed against the shaping, testing its strength. The huge guard Milward had humiliated earlier stood a ways back from the barrier, glaring at him. That one, he thought, will never be a friend.

  The figure in the robe pulled up just a few yards away from Milward and rested his hands upon his knees as he regained his breath. As the Wizard watched, the man gathered his composure and straightened, tugging his robes into a semblance of dignity. “Are you the one? You must be the one.”

  “The one ... what?” Milward reached out and brushed off an errant leaf resting on the man's shoulder. “I've been plenty of things over the years, so you're going to have to narrow your parameters a bit.”

  The man paused for a second to catch his breath, and then drew himself up a bit straighter. “The Wizard? I was told a Wizard was journeying inward to see the Emperor?”

  Milward smiled, “How about telling me something without making it a question, there's a lad. Yes, I am the Wizard, Milward, and yes, I have business with your Emperor, though I am at a loss as to how you became aware of this.”

  The fellow showed sudden relief, “Oh, good, they said you'd be coming by way of the University, though I have no reason why you call yourself a Wizard, as they don't exist. I'm to take you to see his Excellency, if you come with me?” He half-turned and gestured for Milward to accompany him with a sweep of his arm.

  Milward raised his eyebrows and looked back at the still baffled guards. “Is that so? Then how do you explain those fellows lack of success in getting to us and doing rude things to my person?”

  His guide shrugged, “Oh, there's all sorts of explanations, mass hypnotism, the power of suggestion aided by a powerful narcotic introduced into their systems, possibly through a fine powder blown into the air that they breathed ... that sort of thing.”

  “I see,” Milward murmured, turning away from the guards. “You sound like a young man with an education. Did you learn this at the University?”

  “Oh, no Wizard Milward, that is common knowledge among the educated classes in Ort, the University merely added foundation to what was already known.”

  “So, tell me,” Milward noticed, in spite of the young man's acclaimed views, he still used the title, Wizard, “How did this knowledge come to be common? I seem to recall a time when the average citizen of the Empire knew differently. You do know Labad was himself a Wizard, do you not?”

  The young man turned and stared at Milward as if he'd just sprouted horns and a tail, then the expression on his face relaxed into one of embarrassed amusement. “Oh, I see you're jesting with me, haa, haa, very droll, very droll indeed—Labad, a Wizard. Wait until I tell my fellows in court about that one. They'll be beside themselves.”

  Milward nodded. They were walking a gentle, steady upslope past more of the overbearing estates. The guards and the invisible barrier were far enough behind them that he felt he could dissolve the shaping without too much trouble. If the guards were like others of their kind, they'd figure he'd been taken on as someone else's responsibility and go back to their stations. He glanced over his shoulder; no uniformed hulks were in sight, surmise correct.

  “You haven't answered my question,” Milward said, as he shifted his grip on his staff. The young man had kept up a quick pace, and the effort of his past two shapings was beginning to tell on his reserves.

  “What question was that, Wizard Milward?”

  The old Wizard counted slowly to three, the young fellow was taking him to see the Emperor, even if he was being insufferably dense, “I asked you ... how did this disbelief in Wizardry become common knowledge? Hold up here, I need to rest a bit while you answer.” He watched his guide through his eyebrows while he rested by leaning onto his staff.

  The man's thin-lipped mouth twisted into a thoughtful purse while he considered Milward's question, “I'm ... not really sure, as far as I know it has always been so. I mean, why wouldn't it be? As I said before, other than parlor tricks, there is no such thing as magic, Wizards, Warlocks, Witches, or Sorcerers, so why should anyone believe in them?”

  Milward thought, with such circular reasoning, it's no wonder this sprout is dizzy. “Parlor tricks? Are you speaking about those powders and what-not you mentioned earlier?”

  “Exactly so!” Milward's guide emphasized his exclamation with a sweep of his hand, “It is just that sort of trickery that has fostered the superstitious beliefs in the illiterate masses.” He paused and looked more closely at Milward, “Are you a philosopher? I don't mean to pry Wizard Milward, but your unusual title must mean something. Surely, a man of learning such as yourself cannot be one of those charlatans that frequents village faires in the countryside.”

  “No,” Milward smiled as he straightened, “I'm no charlatan, you can be assured of that, young man. Come, let's proceed, your Emperor is waiting.”

  * * * *

  Alford the 23rd, Emperor of the Southern Lands and scion of the House of Labad, stood just inside the alcove that led to his favorite balcony in the palace. The view stretched out southward, looking over Ort's gleaming domes and rooftops, to the deep blue expanse of the southern oceans warm waters. From the height of the tower, all the turmoil inherent in city life coalesced into a vista of seeming tranquility, which was a feeling he desperately needed to have just now. The problem with war was that it tended to become like a living thing, feeding on the lives and property of the innocent as much as the guilty and he was the one that had set the monster into motion.

  Cremer padded up behind him and coughed, diffidently.

  “Yes, Cremer, I know,” Alford sighed. As a rule, Imperial Council meetings were tiresome things, but now, with the fires of war heating up the whole process ... insufferable, as a description would be a kindness.

  Alford took the circular stair to the base of the tower and then followed the path from the Palace to the building that housed the Council Chambers. It stood several stories high, culminating in a gold-leafed dome inset with crystal skylights encircling the dome's perimeter.

  Beginning at a distance of approximately a half-mile, the path wound through a grove of tall Cyprus trees and emptied onto a discrete patio set into the side of the Chamber building. The sentry at the patio entrance imitated a statue as Alford walked onto it.

  “Nice day,” the Emperor said, as he passed the sentry. He received no answer, not even a change in the sentry's body language indicated anything had been said at all. Inwardly, Alford sighed. The creation of life was a miracle, wrought by Bardoc's hand. It would have been a greater miracle if the sentry had broken his stance and said something like, “Yes, it certainly is, isn't it?”

  At the far end of the patio, a foyer led the way to a recessed door of highly polished honey-hued Castell wood. He followed the stair behind it as they curved upward and to the left to another, smaller foyer and another door. This one guarded by a sentry who could have been the first's twin. Alford nodded to this one, expecting, and getting, no response other than a slight stiffening of the man's posture as he pulled open the door. On the other side of the door was a small balcony overlooking the council chamber, a throne-like chair sat before a large slope-topped desk made of the same Castell wood as the doors. The right-hand side of the desk held a drawer, that when pulled out contained the agenda for the day's council meeting. Next to the agenda rested a rock crystal carafe filled with rose scented water. Next to the carafe sat a matching goblet, also filled.

  At the Emperor's appearance, the council chamber erupted into a cacophony of claps a
nd cheers. To Alford's ear, the sound had all of the attractiveness of a roomful of donkeys, braying at top volume. Some of it may have been genuine, but most of the council members had as little use for the imperial seat as a prostitute had for her clientele, and they weren't that good at acting.

  He waited for the requisite fifteen seconds and then nodded in the direction of Lord Portins-Jons, a short, supremely fat man, with the booming voice of a giant. Portins-Jons held in his hand an ornate gold staff, emblazed with the sigils of the noble houses along its length. The top of the staff was crowned with the imperial dragon nestled upon a large ruby, the dragon's tail wound down the staff's length, dividing each house sigil from the other. The portly Lord rapped the butt of the staff against the granite tile of the Council chamber floor three times, as he bellowed at the top of his considerable voice, “Attend! Attend! Attend! Alford, the twenty-third, Emperor of all the known lands, light of Ort, and the Ortian Empire, Scion of the House of Labad, and protector of the one, true faith is entered into Council. Let all who have business with the Empire, for good or ill, speak freely and without fear.” He rapped the staff three more times, and then backed away from where he had stood. Once off the dais, the fat Councilman waddled over to his chair and promptly sat down.

  Alford noticed that, as he sat, Portins-Jons sent a quick wink in his direction.

  Good old Jons, he thought, at least one person in the Council has the proper perspective on Government. Lifting up the goblet, and holding it out before him, he began the traditional response to the Steward's Call to Attend, “The House of Labad is honored once again, to open its ears to the free discourse of its Noble Neighbors. Let no man fear to speak freely here. Let no one fear that their voice will not be heard, nor that their concern be unanswered. Let no idea be held back, for this is the place of ideas. As this water is the gift of Bardoc to this world,” he drained the glass, “so is this Council to the Ortian Empire.”

  He set the goblet down and the Council Chamber erupted into applause once again. Alford swept his gaze across the council chamber. As auditoriums go, it was by no means the largest. The maximum number it could hold comfortably hovered around the thousand mark, depending upon the size of the bodies involved. Beginning at the dais, an elevated platform of polished granite tile, the Council Chamber rose in a series of fifteen concentric rings that allowed the Council members to watch, or partake of the proceedings without their view being interrupted. Entrance to the chamber was through the fifteenth level, as the entire facility was built within a natural hollow discovered centuries before the time of Labad. Six wide aisles separated the sections of seats for Council members, and six narrow for their secretaries. The walls of the chamber were paneled with wood, deep, deep red in hue, and tightly grained, at each joist hung a drape of burgundy shimmercloth, trimmed in gold. The walls reached upwards above the entry to join at the central dome where its circlet of skylights let in the mid-morning sun.

  As the applause died down, Alford nodded, as if accepting the hollow praise, and then he mouthed the next set of prescribed words, “Who has business before the Empire?”

  For a brief, hopeful, second, nothing happened, and then there was a rustling of cloth near the lower left quadrant of the members’ chairs. The movement caught Alford's eye and he turned his head to see a wizened figure making its way slowly down the incline toward the dais.

  “Gods, no,” the Emperor whispered to himself, “not Dowger-Gerins.” The elder member's preferred mode of speech could be used as a sleep aid. There was a story of a time when Gerins was lecturing a class at the University. Half way through the lecture, he heard what he thought were sounds of encouragement; it turned out they were snores.

  Dowger-Gerins reached the dais and looked up to where the Emperor sat. He nodded once, in greeting and then turned his rheumy eyes on the rest of the Council membership. A slow smile spread across his features, and then it vanished just as slowly.

  “A ... hem,” The ancient councilor cleared his throat, “I bring before you fellow members, business of the utmost importance.”

  Oh, no, Alford thought, not this, yet again.

  “When one has lived as long as I have, one tends to store up favorite memories of how things used to be back when one was in the full vigor of youth. As the son of a Council Member...”

  Alford stifled the yawn he felt building. It wasn't so much Gerins’ choice of topic, which varied as often as the ocean horizon line, it was the slight lilt he put into his monotonic speaking voice. The old man should have made his living as a hypnotic in the faires. He stifled yet another enormous yawn with difficulty and set his face into a visage of moderate interest as the old man droned on and on about the simple pleasures of growing up in a family of privilege, without once reaching anything resembling a point or a conclusion.

  “...and in closing, fellow Council Members,” Alford almost applauded at that phrase, a few in the Council Chamber did, though Dowger-Gerins gave them no reaction, “One can only hope that the Empire will continue to flourish as it did in the past, in spite of it's sometimes questionable policies.”

  Alford blinked, what was that? Did he miss it, or did that old fossil actually say something? And if he did, what was it?

  He was given no time to ponder over Dowger-Gerins’ possible point. Another Council member, this one sitting bare yards from the dais, jumped to his feet and occupied it before the ancient Councilor was even half way to his seat, according to Council etiquette, a definite breach in manners. Some of the older members sent disapproving looks his way. He pulled a thick sheaf of parchment from beneath his arm and slapped it onto the dais’ podium.

  Alford considered the Council Member with some interest. This was something new; the man had to be one of the youngest members, if not the youngest. Typically, by consent of tradition, the senior members had first go at the dais. Alford was sure this practice was put into effect to assure that no actual business would be done, while allowing those members a chance to strut before their peers. This young fellow had just made himself several very powerful enemies.

  The young man was slightly overweight, clean-shaven, as were most Ortians, with thinning dark hair cut short in variance with the current style. He peered myopically at the parchment held before him and then began speaking, “Much as I value the wisdom in my learned elder's words,” he paused to look around the chamber, “I believe our purpose as Council Members is to see to the needs of Ort and its people, not to merely fill the hours of an otherwise empty day.”

  Alford started, this fellow was going for blood at the very start. Perhaps it would be good to assign someone to watch his back.

  As if in answer to Alford's thought, a number of muted grumbles came from the council chamber floor as the speaker continued, “I also realize this position may not be popular, as my taking the dais at this time also may not be popular,” He brought the sheet he was holding up to his nose for a moment and then looked around at the seated members once again, “But I have kept silent far too long while certain Council Members have continued to profit from their families’ involvement in this war.”

  His pause brought an explosion of shouts and catcalls from the Council. Some of the members stood to their feet shaking their fists as they shouted their displeasure. The speaker stood there, blandly unmoved by the show of opposition, as if it were wholly expected. Alford nodded, and a guard standing at the back of the chamber stepped out of the shadows and raped the butt of his staff against the floor. He had to do it three times before the clamor died down.

  Alford stood and addressed the Chamber, “May I remind the Members that this is supposed to be a civilized body. If another riot such as the one I just witnessed happens again, the Chamber will be cleared. Now compose yourselves.” Several dark looks, and a few murmurs of discontent were sent the Emperor's way, but the Chamber did quiet down. Alford nodded to the speaker, good man. Struck a nerve, there, this meeting could actually prove interesting. The Emperor had no idea just how inte
resting it was to become.

  Milward's guide pointed to the building on the knoll before them, “That is where the Imperial Council meets.”

  “Um, hmm,” Milward nodded, “Are they in session, currently?”

  His guide turned to look at him, “Of course, that is why I was told to find you right away. The front entrance is around the path over here.” He pointed to the left, where the walkway followed the knoll upwards as it curved around the Council Building. More Cyprus jutted skyward above the line of the knoll.Bright semi-tropical flowers sent their scent into the air as the two passed.

  The door wardens pulled their pikes away from the entrance as Milward and his guide approached. “As you see, Wizard Milward, we're expected,” The young man said quietly as they passed between the wardens and into the main foyer of the Chamber.

  Milward glanced about the foyer, noting with some interest, the sense of great age emanating from the very walls themselves. Double doors, framed with intricate floral carvings, were set into the foyer's interior wall, which curved away from them to the left and to the right. Statues followed the wall along the inside of the foyer, placed on either side of each door. A few of the visages tickled the backside of the Wizard's memory. They appeared to be likenesses of past Emperors.

  “This way, Wizard Milward,” His guide motioned toward the second set of double doors, and then passed through them.

  Heads turned as the old Wizard and his guide entered the Council Chamber. The speaker at the dais turned and flashed a quick grin to Milward's guide. “My Lord Emperor, may I step away from tradition for a moment?” he looked up at Alford.

  And just where have we been stepping, then? Alford thought, as he nodded his agreement. To his eye, at least one quarter of the Council Members appeared to be calculating various methods of permanent retribution over the youthful speaker's words. He leaned back and motioned to the secretary sitting at the desk off to his right, “What is that Member's name?”

  “Gerold-Lyrd, sire Emperor, he sits in the place of his late father who bore the same name.”