The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

The inventor was torn between his critical perspective as a scientist and the hope that something greater than mere human reason existed. Although he tried to analyse the world, he would have liked to believe in something superior, something . . . divine . . . and perhaps to find therein something greater than his own intelligence.

  In the tangled labyrinth of legends he was exploring he had come to recognise certain myths were true: such as the existence of an ancient tower filled with ancient manuscripts. Based on some enigmatic inscriptions on the very earliest maps of the former Kingdoms, he had managed to narrow down the building’s approximate location. But when he had finally been able to go there, full of anticipation, he found nothing but ruins guarded by a disgraced monk called Galapa.

  Long ago, Galapa had lived in the Tower of Fangol, the Order’s first monastery. But he’d been banished shortly before the Saltmarsh rebellion, sentenced to the thankless task of caring for some ruins that no one in the world cared about. Yet here, beneath its wobbling stones, slumbered the immense storehouse of knowledge Aladzio was searching for, including the first great works produced by the Fangolins – tomes which had later been forgotten when they lost their most eminent representatives. For one aspect of the Fangolin Order had survived Kingdoms and Emperors alike: the art of secrecy.

  Aladzio had stayed in the ruined tower to decipher and translate these texts, thereby coming to understand how the Fangolins had recounted history in their own fashion; copying and recopying vague legends until they became accepted as indisputable fact. But it had taken centuries for their official version to outlive dissident voices. And the very earliest written works that Aladzio had discovered preserved liturgies that were markedly different from those practised during the Reyes dynasty.

  Throughout the numerous ancient texts dealing with the Liaber Dest, Aladzio observed a curious correlation with references to a holy blade. Over the centuries, as references to the blade dwindled, one sentence had been preserved and its meaning was discussed repeatedly: ‘In my left hand the Book, in my right hand the Sword, and at my feet the World.’ Over time the Fangolin monks and the more educated members of the nobility all came to agreement about the symbolic nature of this sentence. As the centuries passed, the hypothesis that it might have a more literal sense was dismissed.

  ‘At my feet the World.’

  But if it was a real blade, what sword could it be, if not Eraëd? What other blade was as old as the Emperors?

  For Aladzio, it became a certainty: one could not exist without the other. If the book was real, so was the sword, and the repetition of an unknown symbol – a rectangle crossed by a straight line – became a reference point for him in every document he consulted. It had taken his discovery of a codex, written in the ancient Gueyle script, to make the meaning of this drawing clear to him.

  The codex allowed Aladzio read between the lines. To learn the origins of the Book and the Sword. To uncover the truth: that the sole purpose of the blade was the destruction of the book.

  Driven by their obsession with finding their destiny in the pages of the Liaber Dest, and ignorant of the Fangolian’s lost knowledge, the Azdekis had forgotten about the sword of the Emperors. All that mattered to them was having proof that they were indispensable to the smooth running of the world. If they had founded the Republic, if they had sought to improve the lot of the common people, it was because something dark and mysterious had been feeding their ambitions since the Empire fell. Something mystical. Faith.

  The Book might not give the Azdekis the key to the destiny of men, but it would at least instil respect for them in believers, as well as fear in those who doubted. For the Azdekis would be in possession of the mythical Liaber Dest itself, once thought lost for eternity. They had already earned admiration for overthrowing a tyrant and creating a more just Republic. Henceforth they would also have the gods’ support. But there was a flaw in their plans. A pact whose significance they had overlooked, a secret known only to a few and quietly passed down through the ages, one designed to preserve the balance of power: to the Usters the Book, to the Reyes the Sword.

  The Book and the Sword were linked. True power required possessing them both.

  ‘It’s ironic, don’t you think?’

  The torches in the tower’s cellar created a curious interplay of shadows and light that ran across the councillor’s smooth face. De Page leaned on the long wooden table with both hands, his eyes sweeping over the open books.

  ‘That he should be in Masalia . . .’

  ‘The sword is with him,’ said Laerte, leaning against the wall near the alcove.

  De Page lifted his chin.

  ‘I think so too,’ he agreed with a nod. ‘This . . . Dun . . .’

  He could not help smiling and raising an eyebrow, but he ran aground on Laerte’s expressionless face.

  ‘He wouldn’t have hidden it anywhere but close by him. He’s having a laugh, sending people off to the cold Vershan mountains while he enjoys Masalia’s sunshine.’

  De Page paused.

  ‘“The city of all possible things” . . . It hasn’t usurped its nickname. What are your feelings for him?’

  ‘He doesn’t mean anything to me, de Page. He won’t be an obstacle. He’ll talk, I know him.’

  The duke straightened up with a sigh, abandoning his cordial manner.

  ‘We won’t have any margin for error. Not even once. Aladzio is en route for Masalia to prepare for Masque Night, upon the Azdekis’ orders. He has obtained powder for the fireworks in rather greater quantities than necessary. Certain councillors are about to set sail. At the port, you—’

  ‘I shall satisfy myself with Enain-Cassart,’ Laerte interrupted him coldly.

  ‘Leave Etienne Azdeki for last, that’s important.’

  ‘I drew this plan up with you, de Page. Are you having doubts about me now?’

  For the first time, the duke was unable to conceal his anxiety. His usual serenity and self-control had vanished. Where Laerte was concerned, he was no longer in command. They were going ahead with this mission side by side, as equals.

  ‘No, I have no doubts about you.’

  ‘Why?’ Laerte asked suddenly.

  ‘Wh-why what?’ stammered de Page.

  ‘I want to know your motives before leaving for Masalia. You know what drives me. Are you really acting for the sake of the Republic as you claim? Is that what you’re fighting for?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. They plan to—’

  ‘Why?’ Laerte asked again quietly.

  Since the fall of the Empire, de Page had treated Laerte with kid gloves, providing him with information, deductions and the premises of their plan, but only as the duke saw fit. Now that Masque Night was only a few months away and the warmth of spring was bringing the land back to life, Laerte wanted to be certain he was not simply a weapon in the duke’s hands. De Page’s mistrust of the Azdekis was matched by Laerte’s own anger, to be sure, but what would happen when their mission was completed?

  ‘It is essential that neither you nor I are seen as having any part in the forthcoming events—’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Laerte cut him short.

  ‘If I can’t find out who Azdeki has rallied to his cause, I won’t be able to distinguish our enemies from simple councillors. We need to identify those who are prepared to destroy your father’s dream out of religious piety, and give the Order of Fangol power it does not deserve. They believe the gods have everything. It goes against the very idea of a Republic where men choose which path to take. They will proclaim themselves as the elect, not of the people, but of the gods. And since the people are fearful, and have doubts, they will listen to our opponents and make them new—’

  ‘Why?’ Laerte repeated in a murmur.

  ‘Because destiny isn’t written!’ cried de Page. ‘Anyone who disagrees with them will end up hung or burnt at the stake. It will be done in the names of the gods, without any regard for humanity.’

  The
duke pounded his fist upon the table and then, bewildered by his own anger, ran his hands through his hair, his jaws clenched. Laerte was still, studying him with a suspicious gaze. De Page came round the table to confront him.

  ‘What do you want to hear? That my father used to beat me because he saw in me the degeneration of his entire lineage? How he called me to his deathbed so he could mock me? He laughed at me, Laerte.’

  He spoke coldly, keeping his eyes fixed on the young knight.

  ‘Or I could take of my shirt to show you the scars of the lash upon my back when he sought to drive a demon out of my body,’ de Page proposed. ‘We’ve all suffered, Laerte, all of us. We all bear our wounds and they remind us how necessary it is to act. The Order of Fangol used to hang people like me and if Azdeki achieves his ends, the monks will make their presence felt once again, believe me. There will be no more freedom to choose, they will claim that everything is already written, that everything is immutable, that nothing they don’t accept can be permitted to survive. I’m not just fighting for the Republic or to satisfy your vengeance, no . . .’

  He took another step forward and, nose to nose, he seized the back of Laerte’s neck. The young man felt the duke’s breath upon his face but did not make the slightest movement.

  ‘Everything is a question of faith, Laerte. Everything is a question of the meaning that one gives to one’s acts, of their symbolic importance. I do not believe that the destiny of men is to be found in the Book. One day we will learn how and for whom it was written, why the sword was forged along with it, and what gives them this . . . indestructibility. But, we have this chance, Laerte, this magnificent chance Aladzio has offered us, and to us alone, to reveal the power of the sword. I shall seize this chance. And we will take care of the Book, ensure no ever claims it is divine again. We are only on the first step, my friend. My faith lies in democracy. In mankind, not in the tyranny of gods who set our fates and then wandered away.’

  Laerte lowered his eyes.

  ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’

  ‘Wherever he is, your father must be kicking himself for revealing the secret to you,’ whispered Laerte.

  De Page hesitated for a moment before a chuckle escaped from his pinched lips. Then he moved away, still laughing.

  ‘Indeed,’ he admitted. ‘He never suspected that I might be one of his most dangerous opponents. Just as Azdeki—’

  He reached a half-open trunk and lifted the lid with a yank.

  ‘—has no idea about the ghost which is going to haunt him,’ he concluded in a murmur.

  Laerte slowly walked over to his side, one hand on the pommel of his sword. De Page had not forgotten his request; he had found it and brought it back. It had passed from hand to hand, like a vestige of the Empire saved by nostalgic servants, until the duke had paid a fortune for it in an antique shop. At the bottom of the trunk lay a green cape and, on top of it, the broken mask of the last Emperor.

  Laerte looked at it with tightened jaw and his stomach in knots. He would wear it. He had to wear it, whatever it might cost him. His vengeance required it, for it could not be satisfied with simple assassinations. He wanted each traitor who had destroyed his family to feel fear grip and then choke them. They would each be forced to confront their past, their vile acts, and not one would know peace when Laerte ended their lives. He would hunt them down, just as he had been hunted in the Saltmarsh. He would play on their nerves and goad their consciences.

  ‘Don’t get carried away. Just Enain-Cassart and Negus,’ de Page reminded him as he reached down to pick up the mask. ‘Azdeki will not postpone his great moment, your goal is to scare him so that he acts accordingly. Keep them guessing . . .’

  The glow of the torches drew forth golden reflections from the mask de Page held out to him.

  ‘We’re all set now, Laerte.’

  He would humiliate Etienne Azdeki in front of his supporters and then he would kill him. For the Book was not indestructible, not against this rapier forged from some unknown metal.

  ‘And when the moment comes, plant the sword in the Liaber Dest so that no one will ever see it as anything more than a book. Just an ordinary book. Everthing is in place.’

  And so there he was, in place, just a few feet from the big square in front of the Palatio, hidden in the shadow of an alley.

  There was a big crowd on the streets as the evening began, men and women in carnival costumes wearing a wide variety of masks: smiling faces or expressionless, plain or multi-coloured, decorated with peacock feathers or golden trimmings . . . All of it shiny, superficial and self-satisfied. Fire-eaters breathed tall flames, jugglers entertained bystanders, and musicians tapped their feet, their fingers plucking the strings of mandolins. Pennants and ribbons fluttered over the heads of laughing children. Couples exchanged a kiss and the stars appeared in the dark blue of dusk. And behind the bulging Palatio roof a pale moon was rising.

  Laerte pulled the hood over his head, hiding the top of his golden mask in shadow and then left his position. He knew the Palatio doors would be heavily guarded on all sides. There was only one that interested him, located at the foot of the gardens where he was certain there would be no onlookers. Everyone preferred to stroll up and down the big avenues in their colourful outfits, playing drums, drinking and laughing. And the echo of their revelling could be heard all around the palace.

  There were five soldiers, two of them posted to either side of the small door leading to a stairway lit by torches. Behind them rose the tall wall surrounding the garden, but the street was enveloped in darkness. They heard his footsteps before they saw the gleam of the mask or the crack running across it.

  When one of them ordered Laerte to halt, he obeyed, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword. Gripping his halberd, the guard who had spoken approached him, quickly followed by another member of his team. Behind them, coming down the steps, other soldiers arrived. Soon there were ten in total.

  ‘Don’t move!’

  ‘The mask . . . it’s him!’

  ‘It’s the assassin!’

  Laerte gripped his sword but did not draw it. He didn’t move an inch as he heard blades piercing the coats of mail, the death rattle of the soldiers smothered by the hands of men they believed were their team-mates.

  ‘We’re all set, Laerte.’

  One by one they fell. And then there were only four soldiers, all of whom accompanied Laerte into the heart of the Palatio.

  13

  THE MURMUR OF THE GODS

  For you, I will be more than a murmur.

  I will be a cry.

  Tugging on the leather reins, Rogant slowed the horses pulling the barrel-laden cart. He walked over the dimly lit bridge. Before him rose the Palatio’s imposing dome and, at the foot of the building, he saw some halberdiers supervising the unloading of other carts bearing produce, with a great deal of shouting. As he drove up, several guards eyed him but none showed signs of any particular wariness. Other Nâaga were carrying cases of drink inside.

  ‘What’s this?’ bawled a soldier approaching his cart.

  ‘Wine,’ replied Rogant curtly.

  If his manner was off-putting it was meant to avoid attention. The Nâaga were not known for being sociable and the soldier responded to his surly attitude with a weary headshake. Giving him a thumbs-up he directed Rogant towards the wide-open doors of a warehouse filled with victuals. Inside, servants were busy sorting the supplies before carrying them through a swinging door. Flicking his wrist, Rogant slapped the horses’ croups with the reins. Although a few of the domestic staff on duty were of other origins, Rogant noted with a certain sadness that most belonged to his own people, who were given the most arduous tasks despite the obvious frailness of some. Not all Nâaga were as massively built as Rogant.

  Once he entered the warehouse they started to unload the barrels without waiting for Rogant to descend from the cart. But two guards were quick to interrupt the operation.

  ‘What’s in this load?�
�� asked one with a red cross upon his breastplate.

  Climbing down, Rogant stared at him in silence. The Nâaga was more than a head taller, but the soldier, senior in rank by the look of him, was not intimidated. His partner, on the other hand, avoided Rogant’s gaze and seemed uneasy, keeping a hand close to the sword hanging from his belt.

  ‘I said: what’s in this load?’ insisted the first soldier, stressing each word.

  ‘Everything has been delivered already,’ noted his partner.

  ‘The caterers are already setting up the buffets and nobody said anything about more wine!’ the first said angrily. ‘Who sent you?’

  Around them the Nâaga were setting the barrels on the ground, not knowing whether they should carry on or turn to some other task.

  ‘Who sent you?’ repeated the soldier, becoming more and more aggressive. ‘Are you on the list?’

  ‘An oversight on my part,’ said a breathless voice.

  Aladzio’s tricorne appeared behind the two soldiers.

  They did not require any further convincing. The inventor was a well-known figure here and moreover had a sizeable escort. Rogant accompanied him without having to justify himself and the cart was unloaded. The silent Nâaga followed them, supporting the barrels on their shoulders with bare arms covered in strange tattoos.

  ‘You weren’t going to answer him . . . too forcefully, I trust?’ asked Aladzio in a hushed tone, looking worried.

  Rogant gave him a mean-looking smile in reply. The clichés about his people lingered, even with an enlightened man like the inventor. Weary of being constantly offended, Rogant preferred to make light of them.

  ‘Where do you want them, exactly?’ he asked when they arrived at a large inner courtyard surrounded by balconies bedecked with flowers.

  Here and there colourful festoons decorated the hedges standing in the middle of the grass bed, running between the balconies and twisting around the marble columns from which awnings had been stretched. On either side of the courtyard, double doors gave access to the Palatio’s interior where staff in blue-and-black livery were coming and going. Workers laid out trestles and tables, plates and cutlery, and barrels of wine equipped with wooden spigots.