Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  The Gallerean was not especially conspicuous. The Lion Inn was clearly patronized by people of good standing, judging by the styles of dress — successful merchants, rich stewards, and expert artisans. Tilirine simply felt irrevocably pulled toward this man.

  She found herself standing before she thought to, as if a current of Atmah swept her to her feet. Tilirine moved almost mechanically to the staircase, reasoning that this could only mean he was the messenger from Councilor Amberlin.

  The Gallerean continued upstairs. Tilirine followed.

  She encountered Dalathos and Ulric, making their way down. She gave them the food dockets, and briefly explained that these could be exchanged to break fast with.

  When she had reached the top floor, Jerine stood in the hallway, outside their rooms. The Gallerean stopped between them. The sisters shared a cautious glance.

  Jerine smiled to him. “Merry meet. May I help you with something?”

  “I am looking for someone named Tilirine,” the Gallerean said, enunciating clearly. “This is her room, is it not?”

  “It is. I’m her sister, Jerine.”

  “And where may I find — ”

  Tilirine stepped forward. “I am here.”

  The man turned. “I represent a certain gentleman you met last night. Do you recall his name?”

  “Councilor Amberlin.”

  “And what was the gift you left for his servant?”

  “A cat.”

  “Good. My name is Pieter. May we speak somewhere ... less public?”

  Tilirine led into Sirath’s room. He remained asleep on the bed. Ezekiel sat anxious and quiet in the corner. As he had done all night. Tilirine closed the door behind them.

  “Ezekiel,” Jerine whispered as Tilirine stepped past, as if in explanation.

  Pieter pointed to the others. “These are men of your party?”

  “They are,” Tilirine said. If Jerine had not yet invited Ezekiel to join, then the offer was now made, and their number was seven.

  Pieter took sheets of parchment from his leather bag. He handed them to Tilirine. “This is a list of seventeen workhouses you are to investigate. These sheets provide further information ... general directions, details on their owners, their purpose and stock, and the number of staff expected. There is space beside each entry for the proprietor to sign, to demonstrate you have completed your inspection. I also have two warrants, to allow unobstructed entry. Just in case a proprietor objects and damages one. Your investigation must not be slowed.”

  Tilirine grappled with all of the documents and frowned. “I had thought ... there would be some element of subterfuge, to our employ?”

  “That remains so. This official duty allows you to search the workhouses for anything unaccounted for. Note your observations in all of them. Once completed, you will be paid one hundred guilders, in total. However, should you discover anything of significance, then you will be rewarded far in excess of that. I recommend an immediate start. Time is truly of the essence.”

  Tilirine looked to her sister, seeking a reaction, but found none. The payment offered was not enough. Jerine had spent nearly that much just on food and lodgings here. It was a necessity to discover something.

  “I have a lead that may make your task easier,” Pieter said. “Last night a bookkeeper was murdered. The five workhouses he had records for are at the top of your list. You may also wish to confer with his employers, Simberlin and Winters, based in Armon Square. Now, if everything is to your satisfaction, I shall leave you to your work.”

  Tilirine felt a deep unease within. Not only did she have to aid Jerine to her destiny, and a conspiracy to uncover, she was now to investigate a murder.

  The Sun Flower Arrives

  Comulos

  Dockworkers had hammered iron stakes into the wharf timbers for dog fighting. Two animals snapped and snarled at each other in a flurry of fur and blood.

  Comulos kept one eye on the dogs, another on the laborers. Their shouting put him ill at ease. He fidgeted with a loose thread on his green sherwani, and readied to let fly with his blades of Bramwami steel, and dance. Should the need arise.

  He shared a wary glance with Barbos and Fench. Both troopers were disguised as common laborers, and seated at the edge of the wharf, swinging their legs out over the water. They shared a jar of small ale, and were as alert for trouble as he.

  The piebald hound flipped the black one onto its back and ripped gristle from its throat. One man yanked the growling victor back on its chain; the twitching loser was unhooked, then discarded over the side. A bucket of water was splashed to wash the fresh blood away.

  It was an inglorious end to a loyal animal. At least its soul now returned to the bosom of Atmah. Comulos prayed for it to be reborn into a more merciful life.

  The bookmaker chained the blood-smeared dog to a thick belt under his belly. Both of them grinned, waddled, and wanted to be everyone’s friend. Coins were handed out to grateful winners. Others muttered at their losses, but settled down to play at dice or tables.

  The moment of excitement had passed without further violence. Comulos allowed himself to relax again — he would not be required to fight and kill in this moment. That was a relief, as against unskilled men it would be an unfortunate slaughter. He lifted his face to the warmth of the sun. The sky was clear, the air rank but cool. A swarm of masts and rigging filled the docks. Towering cranes, like timber dragons, wheeled in rank along a busy quayside thick with warehouses, whorehouses, taverns, eateries, and baiting pits. Seagulls cried raucously overhead. Comulos closed his eyes, and hummed the Gantriya Mantra.

  A shout went up. The prow of a ship broke past the end of the wharf. Dock workers stood and cheered.

  The Sun Flower had arrived.

  Barbos and Fench rose to stand beside Comulos, the jar dropped to plunge into the water. They watched together as a squat tug, its prow covered in thick coils of rope, rowed the ship in to berth. Sailors threw mooring lines from the deck of the Sun Flower, and dockers secured them. The doors to the hulking warehouse opened, and a group of men strode out.

  The gangplank dropped and some of the ship’s crew walked down. Forced pleasantries were exchanged as Emerin the waresmaster met with a Captain Lannas. An old, spindly man in plain wool robes addressed them with authority. Comulos realized this must be Bishop Serannos, his appearance disguised. The men entered the warehouse together.

  Comulos fell into step behind, and signed for the troopers to remain where they were.

  The warehouse engulfed him, cool and vast, a temple to commerce. Casks and crates of every size were stacked around. The odors of spices, dust, and the must of old rope and canvas filled his nostrils. Behind, the doors were pulled almost closed, leaving room only for a look-out to loiter in.

  Emerin whistled a signal. Workers lifted empty barrels from a section in the middle of the floor. Heavy chains dropped from false bottoms. A laborer pulled a lever, and the men took the strain as a concealed ramp was lowered to a hidden lower level. A black hole yawned open, as if to some underworld.

  Two men with glass-covered lanterns appeared by Emerin. He led down, into the darkness, the bishop and ship’s captain following.

  Comulos shivered, not eager to accompany them into a confined space that would be more difficult to fight out from. Offering his services to Serannos was dangerous, especially if the bishop even suspected half of the things that Comulos knew. But this duty was given to him. With a deep breath, he set off down the ramp.

  It was a secret storage area, dark and dank and walled with brick. The air was warm and stuffy. The roof was comparatively low, perhaps only as tall as two men. But it was packed to the ceiling with more cargo, with space only for narrow walkways. To one side stood doorways.

  Emerin gestured around. “Boxes of arms and armour, barrels of oil. And witchfire, more volatile and dangerous than Eptemian Fire. Keep those lanterns covered!”

  Comulos swept his gaze over boxed destruction that hemmed him in
. He stood exposed to the domain of Sindra, Destroyer of Worlds. A sweat trickled on his brow.

  “How much of this do we load?” Captain Lannas asked. “And how long do we have?”

  “Most of it,” Emerin replied. “We have today and tonight, no more. After that, we can’t be certain the duty harbormasters will be in our pay. Don’t worry, captain, we’ll have labor from workhouses to provide cheap hands, and closed mouths, to assist your men.”

  “We need to ensure the cargo is safely loaded on board,” Captain Lannas said. “We have no time for clumsy hands.”

  “And you’ll have none. We’ve pulleys and hooks, and chains in here. They should make for easy loading onto carts. Extra hands need only help with that. And no one will go aboard your ship without your permission.”

  “Indeed, they won’t.” Captain Lannas looked at Comulos. “Who’s he?”

  The statement was almost an accusation. Comulos felt a heat rise in his muscles as everyone stared at him. “I beg your pardons for our lack of introduction. I am Comulos, a servant of Lord Rodrigan, sent to offer any assistance.” He passed a scroll to Serannos — a letter of introduction, to prove Comulos was who he claimed to be. “Your Grace, should you require any assistance, I am to make myself available to you.”

  “I thank Lord Rodrigan for his concern.” The bishop took the scroll, his smile less courteous in the lamplight than perhaps intended. “Comulos is an Eptemian name. You are plainly Bramidian. Competent in arms, no doubt?”

  Comulos held his bow respectfully low. “Your Grace is perceptive. My father is Rajash of Vashnupatnam, and serves in the personal guard to Diocles of Xios. I trained under his guidance. Lord Rodrigan felt that my skills may serve you well, the way things are among the colleges.” It was a plain allusion to the infighting within the Order, and an offer to provide a bodyguard as much as a servant. No doubt Serannos would distrust him — that was to be expected. And, naturally, Comulos would report on Serannos’s actions. The bishop should understand that, but also recognize that Comulos could be useful to him. It was simply a hope that the man did not entertain foolish notions of taking him prisoner, or of torturing secrets from him. Comulos could more than defend himself, and nothing would make him reveal where the Cardinal Pontifex was in hiding.

  Serannos finished reading the scroll, and placed it inside his robes. “I have no need for a guard. However, I may have messages for you to send later.”

  Emerin watched them both keenly. “Good. Your Grace, I extend to you my office and supervision of our accounts. That way you can ensure everything is correctly recorded. The Bramidian could patrol the warehouse. In the meantime, we have work to begin.” He turned and led back up the ramp, barking orders to prepare for loading the ship.

  Comulos followed back to the main warehouse floor with relief. He glanced back into that dank, secret storeroom, and felt a strange dread about it, greater than anything he could ever remember.

  To the Workhouses

  Sirath

  Sirath’s hands were hot and sweaty as he hurried through bustling streets. He had to fight to keep his breathing measured, else draw attention to his anxiety.

  The workhouses. The bloody workhouses. Of all the places.

  He wanted them kept far in the past, forgotten and buried. Now he had to face them again. His thoughts reeled, picking at the scabs of bad memories — things done to him, what happened to his friends, what he did to get out. But, he reminded himself, this was Corianth, not Canalecht.

  He caught up with Jerine and kept alongside her. Tilirine led through a colonnaded market square. Then they turned off onto a lane barely wide enough to spit across. Squat buildings gave way to derelict warehouses that edged them in. Debris from rotted casks and crates lined their way. There was a stink of decay. Rats scattered before their footfalls.

  Jerine talked directions with her sister. Ulric and Dalathos were a step behind. Erin followed after, but not far away enough — he kept glancing at her, expecting to find Father Murrano staring back. And then there was Ezekiel — with his eerie eyes and too pale skin, and face that looked somehow wrong.

  This was all too much — Sirath should just go back for his mules and leave. His life wasn’t worth just fourteen guilders, his share from this work. He could get more selling the animals. Then he wouldn’t even have to look at the workhouses. Or maybe he should have ridden them here, for a faster escape, if required? But they weren’t that quick at the best of times. And here in the backstreets they’d have been forced to dismount, anyway. Besides, bringing them invited the danger of them being stolen.

  Sirath breathed too fast, and struggled to calm himself. He had to trust in Fortune. And prove to the world he’d escaped the workhouses, and there was never any going back to that life. He just didn’t have to like it.

  Erin had repeated the standard argument: that the workhouses took the poor from the streets, and gave them safety, shelter, and opportunity to provide useful work. Better that than starving in alleys, so it went. Sirath hadn’t dared open his mouth to correct her, knowing he’d only start a fight. He sullenly kicked a stone. Part of him hoped it would bounce off the wall and hit Erin. He wanted to mock her, for everything the Order stood for, for everything it had done to him. For the workhouses. For Cal. But the rest of him shut that bit up.

  They came upon a small yard, and the sisters agreed that a low timber building in front was the first on their list. There was a contraption on the roof, like a windmill turned sideways. Sirath tried to brace himself for what they might find inside. He wondered how the others would react. They probably didn’t know what a workhouse was, or what the conditions were like. Most people didn’t.

  Back in Canalecht, each had a specialty — crushing bone for fertilizer, spiking old rope to separate the fibers, and similar heavy work. Jerine had explained that this one drew fresh water from an underground cistern, that was heated and supplied through lead pipes to paying customers around the district. She didn’t mention that workhouses were sometimes so profitable that the owners hired gangs to drag poor kids from the streets. Sirath had known more than one taken from their families that way — they were the ones who wouldn’t stop crying for months. Most others accepted their lot, grateful for food and shelter, no matter the hazards. And just got on with the work to avoid being whipped, even when the machinery they used threatened to maim them. Sirath had never accepted that.

  Tilirine stepped up to a reinforced door, and rapped on a rusted handle. They stood around her, awkward and uncertain, surrounded by industrial buildings and towering tenements.

  Bolts were drawn back, a faceplate opened. “What?”

  “Open up for a city inspection.” Tilirine pushed a warrant against the plate. That received a grumble in reply. More locks and latches clicked and rattled, and the door opened with a metallic squeal.

  Sirath clenched and unclenched his fists — this was his last chance to flee. But he didn’t want Jerine to go in there without him to protect her. He knew the dangers of a place like this, and she didn’t. He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. As the others stepped inside, he dared to follow.

  It took a moment to adjust to the gloom. There were windows, but small and high up in the grimy walls. Great wheels of wood and corroded metal slowly rotated, huge oak vats nearby with sheets of canvas on top of them. Fires warmed the cauldrons and the hot air was filled with whorls of gray smoke. Soot-stained children and adults worked the oily and rusty machinery, their heads shaved to prevent the spread of lice. Sirath remembered how Dierra had bawled to lose her ringlets.

  The man who’d opened the door was an overseer — a thick-necked thug in a thigh-length tunic, a whip and baton at his hip. His hair had been shaved off so that no one could grab it in a fight. The overseer approached a room at their left. Through the open doorway a stocky man tied up his trousers; possibly a steward. There was the sound of a child whimpering. The hairs rose up Sirath’s neck. That was far too familiar. Panic fluttered in his belly. He
stepped back ready to turn and run.

  He stumbled into barrels by the door. One nearly unbalanced and its lid came off. Charcoal, nothing but charcoal inside. Sirath wondered why a workhouse heating water would need fuel so strong as that. Then he recoiled in fear that these were the burned bones of those who’d tried to escape.

  The steward strode out with fury in his eyes. “What do you think this is? We has work to do. Argen, throw them out.”

  The overseer flexed his arms and strode toward them.

  Tilirine stepped aside and gripped the man’s shoulder. Argen the overseer dropped like a sack without even a gasp — and lay out cold.

  Sirath cowered by the barrels and stared.

  Tilirine thrust a warrant into the steward’s face. “If you have quite finished, we have work to do. I suggest you attend to it, immediately.”

  Sirath couldn’t help but be impressed. He’d stepped inside, frightened by the shadows of the past. Now he was protected by the power of writing, of all things. He stood with authority, here in this workhouse. It was so funny he couldn’t even laugh.

  Man Out of Time

  Ezekiel

  Ezekiel followed through streets piled with filth, his first challenge just to survive this primitive world.

  Disease was the immediate danger. So he carried his facilitator like a walking-staff, powered low enough to tackle microbial infection, without inviting further attention. He already attracted too much for being an albino.

  The original Professor Ezekiel Adebayo had struggled to find acceptance in twenty-first century Nigeria. As a later clone, Ezekiel had barely fitted anywhere on forty-first century Earth — where few humans existed physically, let alone with the weakness of a Y chromosome. He was unlikely to integrate on this alien planet.