by Luke Webster
“We’ve got to follow the main road to the end,” Ghost called over the noise of the streets. Stores lined the way and people hustled along trading and arguing. To Ghost it appeared that there were no houses along the main stretch, the wide lane overtaken by busy shops. Closest to the platform laid the food stores, large shops filled with fish and assorted meats, others specializing in root vegetables. Past these ran stores selling everything that the city produced or imported.
At one point Ghost saw a failed pickpocket running for his life, a small child dressed well considering his circumstances. He wore lacquered shoes, black and shining, and a silk vest over a fine cotton shirt. Two members of the town watch were in pursuit, their chase hampered by heavy ring-mail armour and steel boots. A small crowd cheered on the chase, shouting words of encouragement to the scamp as he slunk through the crowd and out of sight.
People bumped shoulders with Dead, the walking corpse failing to budge, sending several shoppers spinning. Ghost held a mixture of loathing and intrigue for his bizarre friend. If he acted like this in life, thought Ghost, then it was obvious to him why Dead had reached an early end. Yet there was also great power in the man, Ghost could see, enough to rise from the grave. Ghost felt that the longer he stayed in Dead’s presence, the further his own sensitivity and morals were eroding.
Shops gave way to offices and buildings of administration. Tall structures impressed on the street, signed with the names of mining corporations, law firms and banks. As these buildings grew in grandiose they showed less of the building blocks of stone and metal that characterized the city, decked instead in polished woods of every hue.
Every block maintained its own town guard, their presence heavy in Central Ironwood. They wore green vests emblazoned with a shield. Some carried clubs attached to a large battery, designed to release an electrical current into anyone unfortunate enough to be struck with the weapon. Whereas the poorest areas of the city were relegated to policing themselves through established criminal networks, the wealthier suburbs of the city were dictated through strict law.
As they continued their journey Ghost noted a man stationed at a statue in the centre of the road. Unlike the typical town guard he wore a navy blue vest over armour with a symbol of a setting sun over an eye emblazoned on his chest.
“Ask someone what that symbol means,” ordered Ghost.
“It’s the sign of the Patriarcht,” replied Dead.
Ghost halted, yelling out for Dead to do the same.
“How did you know that?”
Dead shrugged, thought for a second and understood the importance of the question.
“It just came to me,” he admitted.
“Nothing just comes to you,” Ghost announced, gesticulating with wild hands. “You couldn’t even tell me why we’re standing on this street.”
Dead looked back at the symbol. He knew it well, but for unknown reasons. He felt a scratching at the back of his mind, too dull to comprehend. It was part of the puzzle, but what piece?
“We need a tattooist,” Dead blurted.
“You’ve got plenty of money though,” Ghost half snarled the snide remark.
“What?” Dead asked, confused.
“Look, if we find a tattooist, promise you won’t murder them.” Ghost ordered.
“Why would I do that?” Dead asked with innocence.
“If I told you, you’d forget. Just promise.”
“I guess,” Dead committed.
“Fine. Don’t ask me where to find one though. Look for a local, I’m sure they’d know a place.”
With a little questioning Dead was able to find a tattooist in the quarter. The equipment and skill of the artist more professional than that found in Poor Man’s Quarter. With higher levels of precision came higher rates and Dead, maintaining a forgotten promise, walked unbloodied from the shop with a lighter pouch. Ghost smiled in victory, pleased to control the beast.
21
“He’s my ward and as such will remain within the citadel under my watch.” Ivan’s voice was stern, facing a consort of nobles. The regent’s hall was packed with them this morning.
With the death of the Goldshore boy there had been an uproar within the court, calls ringing out for hard justice. Ivan had spent the previous evening negotiating a court hearing for the boy. With the morning came a flock of agitators to his throne.
There were three courts in the Ironwood legal system. The regent’s court handled foreign affairs. The noble courts handled matters pertaining to the upper echelons of society, including corporate business matters. The noble courts were notorious for favouring the side of influential families. For a foreigner to be accused in one would be a farce in all eyes except the accusers. The citizens court, the busiest of the three, handled the bulk of legal course in the city, dealing with crimes and issues relating to small business.
“He has murdered a noble child… he should face the full wrath of the proper courts,” lamented a regular court entity.
“He is the son of an important Imperial family,” Ivan repeated for the fourth time. “He will be tried in the regent’s court under international law.”
There were more shouts, drowning out a few murmurs of agreement.
“A noble child was involved,” roared Geoffrey Goldshore, the father of Harmond. “This is no business of the regent.”
The hall was full and bustling, news spreading fast through the channels. Ivan felt besieged, few supporters aiding their voice. He pointed out that foreigners fell under his jurisdiction and could therefore be tried under regent court. The regent’s court differed from the noble’s as jurors were expected to be impartial and could be a citizen of the Imperial Empire. The nobles judged only themselves, a closed dispensment of justice that served personal goals rather than fair justice.
“I will not risk bearing down Imperial wrath by trying Sir Themmond unjustly.”
“You dare call our system corrupt? In the eyes of all the court?” cried Geoffrey. “Here is proof that this regent cares less of his own people and prefers the company of foreigners.”
“It is true that he has them in his council,” shouted an uninfluential noble with a poor estate. “Would he serve to hand over all of Ironwood to these Imperials for the sake of appeasing them.” Murmurs crept throughout the tall stone chamber as the suggestion was passed.
“Enough,” bellowed Ivan, his bodyguards standing close with arms ready. Bryce, the master of the guard, stood on his right. “I will not sit here and suffer the talk of treachery and corruption placed down on my head. The boy will be tried under the regent’s law. If I hear another word lined against me or my desires for the city then that person will be tried for royal defamation.”
Grumblings greeted the threat. There had not been a case of royal defamation since the end of the monarchs, the charge considered obsolete in the absence of kings. The hall filled with questioning eyebrows.
“This is ruinous,” broke out Geoffrey again. “Not only does he betray his own kin, he plans to stand for kingship.” There was a general agreement within the court, the nobles nodding their heads. “Is it time we stripped the regency of its rank?” He called out.
Ivan cut short the uprising, ordering his bodyguard to arms and issuing an arrest order. The hall erupted into chaos as troops stormed in, dressed in heavyset armour, shields tied to backs and swords hanging low. Cries and roars greeted the arrest of Geoffrey Goldshore, demanding his release. Ivan ordered the courts clear, his troops pushing out the discontent rabble, while he escaped through a rear entrance with his councilors and bodyguard.
“Lock down the citadel,” he ordered Bryce who was issuing messages through the running boys. The guard master gave the order. “Make sure my family are under guard at all times. I want the watch running double shifts and kept on high alert until I say so.” He gestured to the councilors present. “Summon the rest of your colleagues and meet me in the council chamber in ten minutes.”
Ivan bit his lip when left alon
e with his personal guard, four of the finest warriors in the compound. He had not wanted to rile the nobles, sensitive about their own role in the city. Years of power struggles meant the regency held a weak position. He summoned a messenger boy, a senior runner with a clear head.
“I want you to make your way to the Grand Temple,” he said, scribbling out a pass and rushing to attach his seal. “Tell them that Ivan Steward seeks council as soon as possible.” He handed the papyrus to the boy, the wax hot to touch. “Take a horse… a fast one.” The boy nodded, scrambling to make good his mission. Ivan collected his guard and climbed the stairs leading to the council chambers.
Master Freeman stood crisp among a sea of disgruntled faces. His sash hung immaculate and he wore the clothes of council. Upon seeing this Ivan had a moment to consider how the old man might have dressed in so quick a time. Had the Master predicted the urgent meeting? Such thoughts were wasted by the pressing need of the council and Ivan, breathing deep, cleared them from his mind.
“I assume you have been brought up to speed,” Ivan greeted them, taking his seat. There was consensus. “The question is how we move from here. I have taken the liberty to seek the church on this matter. They will find out either way and I would prefer to be first to let them know.”
“Will they send an ambassador?” asked Freeman.
Ivan raised his hands in a sign of ignorance.
“It is hard to tell how the church will act. They might send one or they might send six, one for each faction.”
“Or none,” countered Damon Sterling, a scowl permanently set in his features. Ivan surmised that he must have woken him from a late sleep, Damon’s face unwashed and clothes crooked.
“Or that,” agreed the regent. “If they choose to support us then we can hope to challenge the nobles on this matter. If not then we will be hard pressed. As regent I do not have the power to deal with the nobles alone.”
“An external force?” suggested Gehrig. “I could have a stationed force in the city within two weeks if you request.”
“And have the city overrun by barbarians?” asked Maria. “If Lord Steward wishes support externally then common sense dictates that the Imperials be consulted. Fredrick Themmond is of our stock, need I remind.”
“There won’t be one of either,” Ivan stated in a cool voice. “I will not see war over this.”
“If this boy is executed without a fair hearing then you need to expect one,” concluded Maria.
“Let the nobles fight it out with them then.” Damon countered.
“Perhaps consulting our Imperial friends would be a healthy move in such circumstances,” offered Master Freeman. Ivan turned to pass a scowl, unhappy with the lack of support.
“The Imperial and Northane contingents already based in the city will suffice. I will not rely on external factors to survive unless there is no other course. If the church does not support us then I will consider the matter further.”
“We need to draw up a list of those nobles that would support us on this issue and those that will challenge,” suggested Damon.
“What do you suggest?” Ivan asked.
“Consolidate with those that will lend themselves to us. There will always be families prepared to play off each other for the thought of profit. I doubt it, but if there were enough then we might have the support to challenge outright.”
“That would not be likely,” stated Freeman. “There is always another option.”
Ivan ignored the old man.
“Stephen, I need you to organise a law fund. If this becomes too drawn out then lawyer’s fees could drown us. Gehrig and Maria, I need you to go to your respective houses and ask the city contingents to be brought into the citadel.”
“What? Both of them under one roof. Do you wish the castle to be torn apart inside out?” stated Gehrig.
“Inform your houses that you will be stationed with the enemy. I will place them at separate ends of the castle but if they refuse then report back to me.” Maria nodded, Gehrig did not. “Damon, seek out any nobles that will lend us support. Make it clear to them that we want this matter cleared up fast if possible.” Ivan turned to Clarissa, quiet until now. “See if you can find out the leading families setting the charge against us. The Goldshores are not known for their subtleties, I suspect they will relinquish the responsibility to one of the great families.” There was an almost imperceptible nod.
“What of me?” Freeman asked.
“Continue teaching,” Ivan brushed off. “My children’s education is still a most important task.” There was silence as the Master turned burning crimson.
The council cleared, each going to their task. Freeman hung back a moment as if he were going to lend advice or challenge a matter but chose to remove himself without an utterance. The old man stormed from the chamber.
Left alone with his bodyguard Ivan poured himself a healthy draught of wine. Despite all his worries he found himself still thinking of Freeman. The old man was acting like a child in his eyes, pathetic and weak, an ancient figurehead in a world that had surpassed him. Ivan took the wine without water, savouring the strong taste in a moment of respite and draining the cup. With his mind wandering Ivan sought his family.
22
“You do not look at ease brother,” stated Gaius Ipsum, highest knight of Aea-Manit. “Does not all stand well in the kennel of the beast?”
“Not tonight,” Callis sighed. “As all in council saw.” He gestured a hand, swirling it around the empty chamber.
“Brother Gustus’ absence was noted. I take it he does not care for politics?”
“He does not care for voice,” Callis spat the words. “He would rather abstain through absence than allow me a choice on the matter.”
Under council regulations both members of a faction had to be present for a vote to count. Without a sealed letter of approval from the absentee a faction’s vote was considered ‘abstained’.
“It would have been polite for him to be here,” Gaius frowned. The Aea-Manit were a Triingrate faction, a non-coalition member, suppressed under the combined voting power of the coalition. “Unity in the face of the enemy I say.”
“As do I. The old fool has no sense of politics. He is too entrenched in his own games of ‘one-man-down’.”
“Perhaps I could have a word with him,” Gaius offered. Like Callis, he was frustrated by the alliance held in the council. He saw a way forward through a new alliance, shifting the central power of the church.
“Forget it,” Callis huffed. “I’ll do it myself. It is time for reconciliation.”
“Indeed, for all sorts… Have you considered my proposal?”
Callis stretched out, taking a goblet from the table. The council table was a hexagon, six wedge pieces crafted of differing woods. Each piece representative of a faction’s standing. Callis sat at Puervian Oak, the wood of the lowest faction. It was a rich material in the city, considered poor only in factional standings. The highest faction, Aea-Manit, symbolized their position with Gumnut Pine, the rarest wood imported to the city. From there it fell to Charred Willow Bleachwood; Quilted Fellow Oak, Hardnut Pine, Golden Breech and then Puervian Oak. All were expensive in the city, but Callis saw value only in one.
“An alliance amongst the outland sects may work,” he nodded, tasting the black wine. “But I don’t see the Singers switching hands so easily.”
“They will come around when they see the benefit. I believe they would prefer an alliance between three minors and a single major over their current position.”
“You don’t think it serves them well?” Callis asked.
“Only to a point. They are kept in with the expectation that they have no say. They perform in council but are otherwise ignored. A new coalition would give them more say.”
“Or more to argue with,” Callis smiled. “Let it be though, I will pact with the group.”
“And Gustus?”
“I will have it sorted.” Gaius looked hard at the younger
man. They were both knights of the Order and had ascended the bloody ladder of El-Manati. They also understood the church’s reaction to factional assassination. “Do not worry of the manner,” he stated, reading Gaius’ body.
“Just don’t get caught.” Gaius left the chamber, leaving Callis to sip and ponder.
23
“They’re not cheap,” Ghost smiled. “But at least we get good time for our money.”
“Huh?” Dead asked. He had spent several hours staring at the marks on his arms, sitting in the cool marble chamber of The Census Division of Ironwood Proper.
“You don’t realise that we’ve been waiting here for hours do you?”
Dead looked around, unaware of their location or purpose. Ghost spat them out. He knew that if he ever wanted to hold a conversation with Dead then he must reiterate their story over again. Ghost was now good at skimming through their tale at speed.
“There’s nothing else we could do while we wait?” asked Dead.
“I don’t know Dead, you tell me what there is for a zombie and a spirit to do in good old Ironwood?”
Dead ignored him, frustrating Ghost further, and returned to staring at his tattoos.
Another hour passed when a well-dressed woman with short blonde hair and a kind face approached Dead.
“I’m sorry sir, but it’s closing time and we haven’t found your entry yet. If you’d like to come back tomorrow we should have something for you by then.” It was a well-versed line practiced many times.
“Come on then,” Ghost ordered his partner.
Dead was agitated, not at the thought of the lost time, but at the fear of his answer slipping away. He didn’t want to leave and it took some goading from Ghost before he would move. The blonde had taken several steps back, concerned by the big man’s body language, only relaxing when he shifted his weight to the exit.
