Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  But Tam Fletcher had warned that cities spat on all notion of freedom. That they trapped men, and turned them into slaves and whores. Ulric had seen how everyone hurried by, ignoring one another. And stepped over beggars with twisted limbs and skin shrunken to their bones. It all warned of the danger of being a stranger in the city.

  Ulric finished the pork and wiped his hands on his leggings, more sweat on his palms than grease. And wondered what he should do now. His auntie had told him that Corianth was the centre of the empire, and all roads led from it. If Ulric needed to find his way, it was the best place to start. Now he’d arrived, he was keen to find the path to leave. The familiar was rare, and the strangeness and size of the city threatened to overwhelm him. If he’d arrived by himself he’d have felt like a cat in a sack, and likely have escaped to the hills by now. Instead, he’d been caught up in Jerine’s hospitality, and obliged to remain. But he wondered if it wouldn’t be better just to go — find somewhere calm and quiet beyond the city walls. He wouldn’t be missed. But it would be too dangerous now to travel alone.

  He picked up his mug again, but it was empty. He drained the last dribbles, his throat still dry. He hauled himself to his feet, and looked for where the drinks were being served from. Dalathos rose next to him. For a moment they both stood too close. Ulric’s skin prickled with the expectation of another confrontation. He thumbed over to a doorway near a staircase. “Need a refill.”

  “I’ll join you.” Dalathos began to follow.

  Ulric pried himself through the crowds, firmly guiding people from his path. The uneven clay tiles of the floor were slippery with spilled drink, even in his fur foot wraps. Dalathos kept a step behind. Ulric wondered if he shouldn’t expect a punch in his back.

  They reached a small, crowded room, huge casks stacked up behind a counter. Serving staff were busy filling kegs and pots and cups. Ulric stopped, unsure how to order in all this activity.

  Dalathos tapped his shoulder. “I wronged you with my thoughts before. You were right, we don’t want trouble. Let me buy you a drink.”

  Ulric shrugged, thankful it’d be poor manners to refuse. “I’ll not say no to that.”

  Dalathos pushed into space near the counter and shouted out to be served. He grinned at Ulric, “We may as well enjoy another, even if the ale here’s watered down.”

  Ulric glanced about the surrounding bustle as they waited. “Don’t blame you for reacting. This is more than I was ever used to.”

  “Same here. I’ve seen towns before. Tulst, even Keiy, but Corianth is something different. I thought I could imagine what a city looked like. Now I know I wasn’t even close.”

  Ulric frowned, recognizing the names. “I lived near a village named Del. There was a Tulst, east along Cumba Dale. Was iron mines north of it.”

  Dalathos eased himself straighter. “I knew a Del. West along the valley. Stood before the woods and hills that rise south into the mountains. Wild country, lived in by hard men. Trouble-makers, holding to queer traditions, and accepting no law but their own. We called it the Glens. Know of it?”

  “Of course.” Ulric pushed his chest out, and readied for a challenge. “I’m from there.”

  Dalathos stared. Then sagged into a laugh. “You don’t seem so strange to me. So far you’re the most familiar thing I’ve seen in this city.”

  Ulric shared that feeling. He dared to relax his posture. “You ever been there?”

  “Del? No reason to. Closest I got was the castle ruins. Some call it Cumba’s, after the berserker-king from ancient times. We called it Del Castle, as it’s on the road to it. Was disappointed to find it just a platform of earth, covered with boulders of weathered limestone. It’s said it was plundered to build Keiy Castle, where Lord Ithron lives. In the camps we called him Tinhead.”

  Ulric laughed — Lord Ithron was routinely mocked back home. He smiled, liking this Dalathos a little more.

  They talked of the lands around Tulst, watered by the Erwen — of Corrie Dale to the north, and Ingle Dale to the east, whose fields of grain were sometimes raided by Phenos Tribespeople — all of it part of the duchy of Corrum. They spoke of the Glens to the south that reached to the distant Allonian Mountains, and Greenhaven beyond. Ulric hadn’t traveled to most of the places, but he knew them by name. So did Dalathos. Their shared familiarity brought meaning to the world again, after the city had snatched it from him. Despite their shared good humor, Ulric didn’t mention his totem name, or Lucira and their cabin. He tried to push both from his thoughts.

  A serving girl came and refilled their cups.

  Dalathos sighed. “We’re a long way from home, Ulric.”

  Ulric found himself more relaxed, despite the crowd and noise. “You know anyone from Del?” He tried to think of someone who might travel between the settlements. “What of Herrian, the headman?”

  “No, but what of Marellus, the marshal for Tulst?”

  “Oh, I remember him. Once took a pair of pheasants to Tulst market, only for Marellus to take them, claiming to find a stall. When I asked later, he pretended he’d never seen me before. I stood up to him, but Marellus called up guards and threatened to put me in the stocks and cut out my tongue.”

  Dalathos tutted as he paid for their drinks. “My uncle warned me to be careful near that man. I’m sorry you didn’t know.” He passed a filled mug over. “Still, who’d have known we were both from the same part of the empire? Del’s only a half-day’s walk away.”

  Jerine appeared beside them. “What’s this?”

  Dalathos explained about what they’d discovered about one another, and the places they both knew of.

  “Greenhaven?” Jerine repeated. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  Ulric frowned at her. “Why?”

  Before she could reply a great cheering flooded the inn. They stepped back into the common hall with their drinks to see the cause of the disturbance. Tables were pushed together, scraping the floor.

  A dark-haired man in a long leather tunic, and scars on his neck, climbed a table. He carried a yellow lute, delicately painted with tiny bluebells. He helped a young woman up, her golden hair flowing over a long dress of forest green. She carried a silver penny whistle, and tapped it to the air for quiet.

  The noise settled down to expectant chatter.

  “Merry meet,” the woman said. “I am Cariana, and this is Alarian. We will perform a few songs for your enjoyment. I do apologize if my voice is not pleasing ... be warned, I am not perfect.” Cariana gave a little cough, touched her stomach, then nodded to Alarian. He rested the lute over a knee, and plucked a rolling melody.

  Then she broke out with her powerful voice.

  Ulric felt the music upon him, like a soft light or a cool air. Everyone listened, as if enchanted to silence. Her voice touched his spirit. It was a gentle, melancholic tune, about people missing home. Ulric fell to thinking about Lucira, and his chest tightened in memory. But then the song turned hopeful, and the last words were about how even those far apart are together, in some way, and will meet again.

  Cariana quietened. The last note from the lute died. For a moment, silence — then an appreciative roar. People thumped the tables and stamped their feet.

  Ulric was moved but satisfied. Dalathos looked shaken. They were both out of place in this city. But they had more in common than most, and needed to find their way here. Ulric had made it this far — it was important to keep moving to find his path, else fall aside to the gutter. Sirath had warned about that. Jerine’s generosity was a gift, and it gave Ulric direction. The question was whether it led the right way.

  A Conspiracy Revealed

  Rodrigan

  Rodrigan entered the Lion Inn, his muscles taut and ready to act. He eased himself against the nearer wall, and watched to see if anyone shadowed him. Though disguised by a heavy cloak with the hood pulled over his face, there remained the danger that agents of Father Dinemetis had discovered and followed him.

  No one came in for
some time. Then just a handful of laborers, boisterously drunk. No one took an interest in him. Daring to relax, he exhaled with relief and allowed his gaze to drift over the packed common hall.

  And noticed him immediately: tall and strong, wearing a mail shirt and a greatsword at his back; speaking to a bearish brute of a man — no doubt a companion in arms — and associates at a table. Rodrigan drank in their faces. There was something compelling about the man that left a foul taste in his throat — somehow familiar, and more than he seemed. That might be a problem, if lodged here, where Molric was in hiding.

  Rodrigan resolved to see the councilor without delay. He pulled his hood lower and strode between busy tables, toward the staircase.

  A ginger-haired lad brushed his side. Rodrigan grabbed his jerkin. “Fair Tomis, come here.”

  “Hey, mister!” The lad smiled. “What can I do for you, today?”

  Rodrigan dragged him to a shadowed corner, and put his finger to his lips. “Quiet. Remember I said I might ask another important duty? I have one for you now.” He pointed to the man with the greatsword. “I want you to find out what you can about him.”

  “The Duke Dalathos? He just came in. What about him?”

  Rodrigan frowned. The man neither dressed nor conducted himself like a noble. More likely it was an invention, to disguise some subterfuge. Rodrigan wanted the truth of it. “Do you know where he’s from?”

  “Sorry, mister. All I know is his name, and he’s here on business. And that he’s tighter with his money than you are.”

  Rodrigan retrieved a half-guilder, and teased it before the boy’s eyes. “Find out where he’s from, and what his business is. Then I’ll give you another coin.”

  Tomis grabbed for it, but Rodrigan held it back.

  “I would also like to speak to one of his companions, in private. That’s worth a whole silver coin.” Rodrigan pressed the half-guilder into the lad’s hand. “Now run along.”

  “I’ll do that!” The lad disappeared into the crowd.

  Rodrigan waited a moment, then strode to the busy staircase. He forced himself to ascend the steps at a casual pace, even though his heart beat fast enough to take three at a time. He kept his head down, and resisted the urge to rest a hand at the sword beneath his cloak, as that might attract attention. He continued up, through the shadows of the stairwell, past the galleries, until he reached the third level. A narrow hallway opened in front, lined with doors to small rooms. He strode to the last one at the left. He stopped, then rapped the coded knock.

  Footsteps approached and the door shuddered, stuck. A harder pull unjammed it.

  Councilor Molric stood in black and purple robes. “Good,” he said, inviting him in. A pair of small brass lamps illuminated the room. Scrolls and books were sprawled over the bed. Molric was only able to close the door properly after a sustained effort.

  Rodrigan frowned. “Aren’t you going to lock it?”

  Molric waved a hand aside. “The mechanism jams tight and is nigh impossible to release. I would rather avoid the embarrassment of being locked in against my will. And before you ask, I do not wish to change rooms with the attention that would bring. The inn is full, my door sticks, but I am resigned to the situation.”

  That was a concern. “Is that safe practice?”

  “No, but it will do.” Molric pulled back his sleeve, revealing his magical bracer. Tiny gems pulsed with light along it. “I do not treat my safety lightly, especially after the attack in Mardin. I remain ever vigilant.”

  “At least keep a guard,” Rodrigan said, “or have servants to help — ”

  “I am militarily trained, and self-reliant. I do not need servants who might gossip, and sell information on me. Despite my powers, I cannot stop wagging tongues. Better to not have them in the first place. Now, is your young niece ready to act?”

  Rodrigan nodded. “She’s mastered your flying device. She’s ready.”

  “Good.” Molric cleared parchments on his bed to seat himself. “Daria and Eira have allowed the bookkeeping matter to drag on. Their street jack should have acted sooner.”

  Rodrigan felt his hackles rise. He’d already argued against giving criminals witchfire. His fear was not that they would blunder to kill themselves, but instead use it in a campaign against his own troopers. He remembered too well how those outbuildings had disappeared in a flash of fire and thunder. The same could happen to barracks, a prison, or a building beside a passing patrol. He realized that he’d begun to pace, chasing disturbed thoughts. Everything depended upon Molric’s safety. He now seemed too vulnerable here. “It would be more prudent to move to your new apartments at Imperial Row.”

  Molric waved this old argument aside. “I am here by necessity, not choice. A public residence would result in all manner of visitors. But familiarity breeds contempt, and if I walk among my peers they will look for my human failings. While I remain hidden, my mystery grows. Let them marvel at talk of my miracles. To remain here but two more days is a small price to pay for victory. What news of Bishop Serannos?”

  “None, yet. I’ve agents at the docks who will inform me the moment he arrives.”

  Molric nodded. “And is Duke Normon also prepared?”

  “I received his message this morning. He readies his ambush.”

  “Good. I do not want the Emperor’s Guard to disperse among the kingdoms. Despite their foppishness, they may yet generate sympathy against our interests, creating ... complications.”

  Rodrigan snorted — he welcomed the removal of the Emperor’s wineskins. He retrieved the red leather scroll case from his robes, and showed it. “All is ready.”

  “And you are sure that the Emperor’s Guard will receive it, let alone believe it? I want that decoy to work.”

  “They can’t fail but to act.”

  Molric clasped his hands together. “Then I shall detain you no longer. I look forward to good news tomorrow.”

  Rodrigan forced a smile and tried to share in Molric’s humor. To hide his own unease. So close to success, the unexpected could still ruin well-laid plans. Seeing the Duke Dalathos had nettled his confidence. Still, if that man and his companions proved to be any threat, he would simply have them killed.

  Blind Faith

  Erin

  Erin sat on the floor, the wooden covers to her Book of Faith open on her lap. Her presentation was just two days away, but she could not concentrate.

  Noise disturbed her from everywhere, the thin paneled walls of the rooms letting through every sound. Footfalls echoed through the floors of the inn. Chatter came from outside on the street. A baby began to cry from somewhere close by.

  Her hearing sharpened at that, listening for any sense of desperation in the tone. The baby wailed a little more, then quickly quietened — probably suckling. That was a relief. She remembered too well how those in Pora has weakened to pathetic gasps. She pushed the memory from her thoughts, forcing herself to focus not on the past, but the future, no matter what that held in store for her.

  She stared at the pages, willing herself to study. Though her beeswax prayer candle provided a warm glow to read by, the letters in the text seemed to whirl into one another.

  Erin sighed and looked up to the small ikon above the door. It was of Blessed Pantocles, the fifth incarnation of Pollos, set against a blue background — his sacred color. Merchant, explorer, and sailor, he was necessarily the patron of travelers. His virtue was bravery, to face the unknown. Erin said a silent prayer for him to inspire her.

  Footsteps approached in the hall. Jerine entered their room.

  Erin smiled meekly, fearing to have been considered rude for leaving their table downstairs. It had disturbed her too much to remain after the confrontation with the merchant, and the sight of Ulric having to restrain Dalathos. “Are the others still in good health and spirits?”

  “They are.”

  Erin remained mindful that another was supposed to join them. “And what of the other person who will share our room
s?”

  Jerine stopped and frowned. “Ezekiel? No, I’ve not seen him since I paid for our lodgings.” She placed her satchel under the bed. “What are you reading there?”

  Erin lifted up her Book of Faith.

  Jerine nodded. “I thought it might be. Else the Book of Laws.”

  Erin patted that on the floor beside her. There was little chance of study now, and it would be impolite to ignore company. As she closed her book she remembered Jerine had spoken of visiting the Great Library in Mardin. “How familiar are you with the Order’s writings?”

  Jerine seated herself on the bed. “The past few years I served as a scribe. I mostly wrote letters people wanted sent home to family, as well as simple merchant contracts. I did copy some books, including the Deidecalion of Eptemian legends. And parts of the Book of Faith.”

  That was surprising. Erin had simply wondered if Jerine might have encountered commentaries on the Blessed. The answer made Erin’s heart rise, gave her a glimmer of hope — that Jerine might provide some insight on the doubts she wrestled with. “And what opinion did you form of our teachings?”

  Jerine paused for a moment. “Would you prefer a proper answer?”

  “If you would be so kind.”

  Jerine retrieved her satchel again. She unstrapped the buckles and removed a book bound in red leather. “This is a guide, of sorts, to the city of Corianth. It was commissioned by Borron II, early last century, and compiled by Vallerios.”

  “The Recent History of the Corianths?” Erin asked.

  “You’re familiar with it?”

  “I am.” Instead of a political history, it documented how the unrest of the Broken Empire affected the ordinary people of the city. Vallerios wrote of the riots and marches that forced the election of a city council. And of the abolition of slavery throughout the empire — agreed to more because the rich found slaves more expensive than hiring labor. He also documented starvation, the effects of the plague, and the beheading of the ringleaders for change. Truly, human tragedy had been captured like no playwright’s pen could accomplish. And yet, Erin had asked Jerine a simple question, but failed to understand the reference. “What purpose does your reply serve?”