Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Erin stiffened. “How dare you? How dare you accuse me of that?”

  “Why, what do you care about?”

  Erin pushed her face closer to his. “The suffering of the poor. The inequity of life. The pain of others.”

  “And I’m sure you’re very good at complaining about that. Because you’re nothing but words and self-interest, like everyone else in the Order. You pretend to care — ”

  “Of course I care!”

  “Then prove it! We’ve been here for two days now. Pain and suffering and inequality surround you. What you have done about it? What will you do to change any of it? I’ll tell you what you’ll do ... you’ll ignore it as you already have. And you’ll continue to do so after you’re ordained. Just like everyone else.”

  Jerine pushed herself between them. “That’s enough.”

  Sirath stood back with his hands out. “I’m not trying to make it personal with you, Erin. I’m just telling you the truth. You blame the Order for what it does. But words are nothing, works are everything.”

  Erin felt herself tremble. Sirath’s words had stung, but they were nothing more than she had considered for herself. “No, Jerine, he is ... right. I agree. But what can I do? What can any one person do against the wrongs of the world?”

  “You can think upon that another day,” Jerine said, with a glare at Sirath. “What of you, Ezekiel? Would you object to passing by the First Temple?”

  Ezekiel glanced about nervously, as if fearing attention on himself. He dropped his gaze again. “Somewhere with fewer people ... would be welcome.”

  Jerine sighed, straightened up, and pointed. “This way, then.”

  They traveled out from the market and onto a busy road, under the shadow of grand marble facades — arcades, arches, and painted statues of the dead.

  Erin stared at her feet, not wanting to see another workhouse, just wanting for this day to end in merciful sleep. A true blessing would be to not wake up at all. Tomorrow she faced the consequence of her presentation. After that? The void of uncertainty opened before her. And Sirath’s words haunted her.

  Jerine pointed. “There’s the entrance.”

  Ahead stood a high wall, above which rose mature broadleaf trees, white with blossom. Common, in these cold northern climes. A little way ahead was a pair of bronze gates, opened in. Cardinals’ Men stood guard before them, their bright breastplates worn over red uniforms. Pilgrims, priests, and acolytes went both ways through the gates, in groups, or alone. Erin feared to see any familiar face from the monastery, lest they point and mock her. In her current mood she was likely to shout obscenities in return.

  A reeking wineskin was thrust before her face. “Spare a coin for Barillios, down on his luck?”

  Erin tried to ignore the beggar, and hurried past. There was a crowd of peddlers near the gate, selling incense and charms. Street children loitered close by. After a moment Erin realized that she walked alone. She turned. Jerine had stopped, reached into a pocket, and flipped a coin out.

  The beggar grabbed it, then put his drink down to marvel at the gift. “Pollos bless you! May God give you good life, before he grants mine anew!”

  Erin remembered Sirath’s words. Guilt stung her for trying to ignore Barillios. It was her place to bring comfort to the poor and needy. It should have been her to offer a coin, though she only had the two guilders Jerine had loaned her. At the very least, she could have given a blessing.

  There was a shout. One of the street children grabbed the beggar’s wineskin, then dashed across the road. Before she could look away, Barillios gave chase — and was engulfed under the wheels of a carriage.

  Erin froze in horror, uncertain of what she saw. The driver continued on. Barillios rolled over the cobbles, then came to rest in a tangled heap. Some people stared in shock, but others looked away and continued on, as if not caring.

  Erin straightened and her face flushed hot. She lifted her habit, and hurried toward the fallen beggar. “Jerine, with me.” As Erin approached she realized that she had little idea of what to do next. Her prayers had already shown themselves as useless, but she had to do something.

  She kneeled down by Barillios, his legs twisted and obviously broken. He blinked at her and groaned. She clamped his hand in hers, and fell into the familiar routine of caring. “You have been hurt, but do not worry ... help is here.” Jerine appeared, and crouched down beside her and examined his legs. “We will look after you.” Erin continued, not knowing how she could, only that she should try.

  Sirath dragged street children away as they rifled through the beggars pockets. Jerine stood in the road and called for a carriage, waving her arms, and forced the next one to stop. Before Erin knew it, Barillios had been lifted into it, and she was seated beside his frail, crumpled figure.

  Ezekiel appeared at Erin’s side. Light reflected strangely from the man’s staff. “I can soothe away his pain.”

  Jerine and Sirath leaped in after, and Jerine shouted for the driver to go. The carriage rocked and Barillios shouted out as the movement shook him, then he slumped back.

  Erin held his hand tightly in hers. It was only a little comfort, but it was all she could offer.

  Dead Ends

  Dalathos

  Dalathos impatiently followed Tilirine uphill. This was the rich, ancient heart of the city, filled with buildings of dressed marble. Grand villas stood along wooded ridges. The base of Emperor’s Rock rose just ahead, sheer cliffs streaked white by mewling gulls.

  Behind him spread the sprawl of the city — its rooftops, towers, and temple domes. To the south he caught glimpses of a giant brown river that cut through low plains. Boats of every size littered the water.

  Tilirine turned at a crossroads with a small fountain. “The next workhouse should be just ahead.”

  The buildings on this road were even larger, with small courtyards before them — presumably offices for notaries and scribes, merchants, perhaps even guilds. Some had a carriage or pony-trap waiting outside. Colonnades, garlanded with festival flowers, reminded that the iron camps would be making their own preparations for the Spring Fair. Archery, wrestling, foot-races. Racing the cart ponies. Among other games.

  Ulric stared about beside him. “Surprised there’s a workhouse here.” He was right — they were far from the usual stinking alleys.

  “This one makes linen parchment for books,” Tilirine replied. “They are situated where demand is strong.”

  Horses turned onto the road ahead, trotting two abreast. The six riders wore gleaming breastplates over bright red tunics, and tall polished helms plumed with white horsehair. They each wore white trousers and gloves, and black riding boots. Every horse was chestnut and rippled with muscle.

  These were the Cardinals’ Men for the Order of Omicron. Dalathos had never seen one until he reached Corianth, and — until now — only from a distance, patrolling in pairs or small groups. The spiritual affairs of Lionossus were uniquely conducted by the Order of Sephis, and Dalathos had only once seen one of their knights — his plate armour sparkling like polished silver.

  The troopers in front were no less impressive, in their clean uniforms and burnished steel. They clipped closer. Men and horses alike looked magnificent.

  The Cardinal’s Men pulled into a courtyard before them.

  Tilirine halted. “It appears these troopers share a similar interest.” She strode forward.

  A trooper obstructed her with his mount. “Move along, or face justice.”

  Tilirine pulled out the warrant and held it up. The rider grabbed for it but Tilirine pulled it away; he snatched for her arm, but she grabbed his. The trooper tried to draw back but she held him firm. His eyes grew wide.

  The other riders took an interest. They turned their horses about and looked down on her.

  Dalathos feared that they might reach for their swords and cut her down. “Tilirine,” he hissed, “what are you doing?”

  The trooper’s rage turned to surprise. “You’re a w
oman?”

  Tilirine let him go, but stood where she was. “We are authorized by the city council to search this workhouse.”

  Another trooper nudged his horse over. He waved the other rider aside. “I am Troop Captain Merino, and this building is now under our protection. The Order of Omicron commands that no one may enter or leave.”

  Whatever respect Dalathos had held for these troopers fell away. They stood in opposition to him and his duty to the city. Without being able to inspect the workhouses there would be no payment. It was a bitter realization — he had wasted a day when he could have sought out the smiths’ district instead. He looked to Tilirine, to see if she would challenge it.

  “We will go.” She began to walk away. Ulric shrugged and followed her.

  Dalathos seethed, but bit his tongue. He strode after them. Finally he turned to her, “Are we to do nothing?”

  “Our purpose was to look for something unusual. I should think that qualifies.” Tilirine indicated behind. “The workhouse is stewarded by a Berton Bellinis. His name appears more than once on our list. I think we should find out more about this man. Something, perhaps, to earn our payment.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “I have ... an idea. This way.” Tilirine took them aside, into an alley strewn with rubbish. Shrubs and climbing plants overflowed from high walls topped with spikes of rusted iron.

  The streets became winding — and the familiar poverty of the city surrounded them again. Dilapidated buildings were interrupted by alleys and dead end passageways, filled with stray dogs, and beggars of all ages. Tilirine reached a narrow set of stone steps, old and broken, and led down them. They ended at the foot of a ruined tower and the start of a dirt track, littered with broken crates and boxes. A low wall and walkway in bad repair followed it.

  Dalathos halted and stared. This was a defensive wall, whose weathered stones bore testament to great age. He couldn’t contain his excitement as he realized these might be battlements. “Tilirine, are these the original walls of Eiom?”

  “A section of the Tullian Wall. Others remain in this part of the city.”

  Dalathos felt his heart leap. He jumped onto the walkway, and looked over. He was surprised to see the wall only stood as high as a man, with a short bank of earth that was eaten into by a timber yard filled with logs and wagons. “It’s not very high,” he said, fearing they were wrong.

  “Warfare was different then,” Tilirine said.

  “Not like now?” Dalathos smiled, remembering the huge fortifications at the East Gate.

  “More than one Emperor has been decided by an army at the walls of Corianth.”

  Dalathos grinned. “I wouldn’t like to siege this city.” He greedily drank in the history, his disappointment at the workhouses fast evaporating. He now stood on the very walls Sephis had defended, then laid siege to. Dalathos tried to imagine Sephis riding out to defeat the Ithrayan legions, before returning to find that King Emeris of Eiom had turned against him. In his mind’s eyes, Dalathos saw Sephis set his tents in the distance, and catapults and archers in the foreground. He imagined the Knights of Eiom riding out in their doomed charge, and these very walls cracked by stone and fire. “Ulric, come here.”

  Ulric stepped up onto the wall.

  Dalathos touched stone worn smooth by time, humbled by legend at his fingertips. “This is where Sephis founded his empire. After he’d taken the fight to Irrax and defeated King Minan.” Ulric appeared distracted. Dalathos tried to follow his gaze. “What do you see?”

  “Not enough trees.”

  “I didn’t come to the city to look at trees.”

  “I didn’t come here to look at walls.” Ulric flashed an uncertain smile, then jumped down.

  Dalathos grinned. “I know,” he said, with a glance at Tilirine. He’d come to apprentice himself with a smith. And that wasn’t happening while he followed Jerine’s lead. Still, he could enjoy this one moment of being in the place of his favorite fireside stories — how a man with little to his name had conquered giants. A man who never had to feel weakness, shame, or guilt, for who or what he was. A man who had made his own place in the world. As Dalathos must do, one way or another.

  The wall abruptly ended against the side of a timber building. A rag-tag group of people were camped at the base of the embankment.

  Dalathos jumped back down to the track, and hurried to catch up with Ulric and Tilirine. What he wouldn’t give to tell his uncle about walking in the footsteps of Sephis! Even Alarian must be interested in that. Dalathos felt his blood rise and his heart fall to remember him.

  He hoped there’d be more to see, but there was nothing but loading yards and workshops. A homely smell of hot metal and smoke drifted over high timber fences.

  Tilirine marched through the first open gate.

  She showed her warrant to the nearest laborers, and declared her intention to search the premises of Berton Bellinis.

  After their initial shock, the laborers became bemused, and patiently explained, with nervous smiles, that the man had no hand in this place.

  Tilirine kept up a tone of indignant authority. She indicated to Dalathos and Ulric to enforce her will. Dalathos stood straight and folded his arms, allowing his annoyance of the day to show on his face.

  The laborers conferred among themselves, and were able to suggest a nearby workhouse, another by South Gate, and three warehouses at different docks, that were run by the man she sought.

  As they left the yard, Tilirine smiled wryly. “If this Berton Bellinis is involved with workhouses and warehouses, and we cannot enter the former, then we should look to the latter.”

  Dalathos wasn’t so sure. He’d wasted enough time on this empty employment, putting himself out to pay back Jerine’s hospitality, instead of following his own dream. He’d give her until the end of the day. Whatever happened, tomorrow he would strike out on his own, and seek what he’d come for — the smiths of the city, and a chance to make his own future.

  Demons

  Adoras

  Adoras mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he strode to Chief General Galadon’s office. Another scroll had arrived from Councilor Brannon. The message was unexpected, and vague — new information was coming to the Emperor’s Guard, and Adoras was to speak up for it. No detail was given as to what this might be. And now Galadon had summoned him directly.

  Adoras unbuttoned his shirt at the neck, to allow in air. What if his duplicity was suspected? Was he walking into a trap? Had he already been exposed for the traitor he was?

  Yet all arrangements had been made, and there was no way to escape them. Linnios had his orders. Two days hence, the captain would command the bodyguard. More importantly, he would hand over authority, without question, to a Captain Arellian — who would be their real agent of change. The name was unfamiliar. Was he another conspirator within the guard? If so, would he know of Adoras’s own shame, and speak on it?

  There were too many questions, too many uncertainties. A sweat formed on his brow and a fire burned in his belly. This business ran ahead without him, and he feared he might not have the constitution to keep up.

  Before he knew it, he had arrived at Galadon’s office. Had he hurried, or dawdled? Adoras was no longer sure. He knocked and waited to be called to enter. To be brought to account.

  If they had uncovered his betrayal then there was no point resisting — his own hand condemned him. Brannon would speak to save himself. All Adoras could do was pray for redemption at the Shrine to Sephis. He stood straight and pulled his doublet taut, to present himself to the inevitable. It would be a relief to reveal the truth, and lift the burden of lies from his soul.

  From within, “Come!”

  A dead calm took him. He opened the door. His step was unsteady as he entered Galadon’s office, ready for judgment to take its course.

  Pieter stood beside Galadon, which was a surprise.

  Neither showed specific interest in Adoras. It left him uncertain how to conduct
himself. A penitent man? Contrite? He had no will for a charade.

  Galadon scowled at him. “Sit yourself down. We have serious matters to discuss.”

  Numbly, Adoras did as told. Galadon spoke animatedly with Pieter a moment, but Adoras did not hear what was said. He simply focused on a small pile of books on the chief-general’s desk, and read their lurid titles on leather spines: Second Confessions of a Sardonian Sister, Knights of Passion, and King of all Loins. That toady, young Linnios, had done a full round of visits this morning.

  It was proof enough that Adoras had been justified in his actions. He had been well-intentioned. He should have been made chief-general in the first place, not Galadon. Personal ability should have trumped family connections. Then none of this would have been necessary.

  “What do you think, Adoras?”

  He looked up to see Galadon frown at him. Pieter’s gaze was neutral.

  Galadon looked annoyed. “See? Even he is shocked speechless by the claim. Demons, indeed. Bah!”

  Adoras blinked and shook his head. “My pardons, I did not hear.”

  Galadon sighed. “Last night, a man died in a fire on Silversmith Road. We had a knight on patrol at the time. He says he saw a demon alight the scene. Pah! I should have him discharged. Those who see demons belong to the Order, and only claim so to confiscate property. Pieter, tell him the rest.”

  “Earlier today, bookkeepers aiding my master were attacked. The building is a ruin, the men inside dead, their ledgers damaged by fire. I spent the morning sifting through the wreckage of the first attack, and the afternoon at the scene of the second.”

  Adoras had walked into this room thinking himself a condemned man. Instead, they took no interest in his shame. That was too much to get his thoughts around. “Fire?”

  “Councilor Amberlin suspects that arms are being secretly moved through certain workhouses and out from the city. These bookkeepers and their requisitioned records were our key to exposing it. Without them, we are lost. Somebody is keen to ensure we have no trail to follow.”