Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  “Pfft! Dinemetis is a spider who bides his time. This is not it.”

  “But if Rodrigan’s position becomes untenable, should we consider an offer of help? To force him under our influence — ”

  “How absurd! I will not support that pious butcher. Dinemetis may be foul, but Rodrigan is fouler. If ever there were a choice between protecting my soul from Dinemetis, or the Emperor from Rodrigan, then I know what mine would be. The soul can look after itself. My duty is to the Emperor.”

  Someone rapped urgently at the door.

  Galadon hoped it would be cake this time. While the wine was a wonder, talk of the Order left a sour aftertaste. “Come.”

  General Adoras entered, looking flushed and excited.

  Galadon sagged inside. Of late, Adoras had become anxious, and fretted over every detail of every brief. Galadon hated fuss. It made his day dreary, and even a heady drink was little protection against the man’s recent company. Adoras appreciated good wine. Perhaps it would be a kindness to retire him. Adoras had lands near Irithia. He might finally relax if made to spend time among his own vines.

  Adoras was breathless. “I am told that we have Bishop Serannos in our cells. Is this true?”

  Galadon forced a smile, hoping to infect with his good humor. “Indeed!”

  “What have we learned? Has he said anything?”

  “Nothing at all, old fellow. He hasn’t been questioned yet. Why, do you want a hand in the matter?”

  “No, I am merely concerned ... that I was not told of this.”

  Galadon decided then that Adoras was far too retentive. Here they had an important member of the Order under arrest, ready to face a charge of treason. It should have been a moment to celebrate, and demanded better cheer than Adoras showed. Galadon sighed. “After I found out I went for a celebration drink with Marshall Vim. We had a good natter. He’s bought new prize carp for his pond. That might have slowed the process somewhat.”

  “But what of the Order?” Adoras said. “Surely they will be up in arms over this? Literally so, if we’re not careful. The Cardinals’ Men within the city outnumber us by more than twenty to one.”

  Galadon laughed. “The Order won’t react a jot. We have a ledger with entries in his own hand incriminating Serannos as a traitor. I’ll wager that the Order won’t dare support him beyond a minimum of posturing.” Galadon took a sip and exulted in the taste. “Ahh ... Serannos imprisoned and Rodrigan isolated. All we need now is Dinemetis burned, and I will be blissful.”

  “So long as I never had to see the body,” Commander Mollinos said. “Even when dead, it would probably move.”

  A knock rapped at the door. Now Galadon was sure it must be cake. “Come!”

  Pieter strode in.

  Galadon considered offering the stolid man a drink. After all, this was the person who had brought them Serannos in proverbial chains. But Galadon could already see, with some regret, that Pieter appeared officious.

  Pieter bowed and quickly gave his respects. “I am sorry to disturb you, chief-general, but this is an urgent matter.”

  “Not at all!” Galadon smiled through his teeth.

  Pieter placed a scroll upon the desk. “You must read this.”

  Galadon found it disconcerting that everyone here was given over to nervous excitement. He feigned more cheer than he felt. “This sounds like intriguing stuff!” He sat down and read. He stopped partway through, and forced himself to re-read.

  The note claimed to be from a man who had escaped imprisonment in Athoril, and now traveled by fast carriage to Corianth. He implored for protection, lest Lord Rodrigan’s troopers arrest him on the road. It was signed, Father Nicoras Mendaris, Cardinal Pontifex.

  It was the most astonishing message Galadon had ever read. He related the contents out loud, then said, “If he is alive, do you know what this means?”

  “No one has seen him for years,” Commander Mollinos said. “Wasn’t Rodrigan supposed to have murdered him?”

  “The old debate, indeed,” Galadon nodded. “Yet if he were still alive he would be the most senior member of the Order. He would have the power to decide a new Holy Father.” A grand realization came of what stood before him — this could hand them, plain and clear, control of the Order. Galadon slapped the desk. “Gentlemen! If the Cardinal Pontifex is on the run from Rodrigan, then surely we should offer protection?”

  Commander Mollinos protested, “But ... a moment ago you were against helping any faction in the Order?”

  “Piffle!” Galadon retorted. “Why support a mere faction, when you can draw the unchallenged head as your ally? If we had him on our side, then there is no side for Rodrigan, or Dinemetis. Truly we could dictate terms to reform the Order.”

  Commander Mollinos shook his head. “But what if the letter is a forgery?”

  Pieter leaned forward. “Do we have an example of his handwriting to compare it with?”

  Galadon waved away the question. “Such a thing would take days, if not months, to validate. When was this received?”

  “It was given to me this morning,” Pieter said, “but was received two nights ago. If the carriage rode at speed it could arrive here tomorrow.”

  “Then there is urgency in our task!” Galadon said.

  Commander Mollinos shook his head. “If the Cardinal Pontifex has escaped from Athoril, then which road will he take? We can’t send our knights out in every direction as we’re short on numbers as it is. What about the Inner Kingdoms? Can no one there act for us? I hear Prince Renforth approaches with — ”

  “No, no, no!” Galadon snapped. “This is our secret and should remain so. Otherwise Rodrigan will discover this through his agents, and ensure his troopers arrive there first. Presuming the note is authentic?”

  “We should treat this message in all seriousness,” Adoras said, sweat upon his brow. “If Rodrigan captured the Cardinal Pontifex, he would be empowered to rebuild the Order on his terms. Rodrigan would become the most powerful man in the empire, able to dictate the Emperor’s successor. We are guaranteed it will be no friend to us.”

  There was another knock, and everybody looked. For once, Galadon hoped it would not be cake. “Come?”

  A young captain appeared, his face pale. “Chief-General Galadon, I ... Bishop Serannos has been murdered in his cell.”

  Galadon blinked. “Are you sure?”

  “We think it’s him. We haven’t found the head, yet.”

  Galadon spluttered, outraged that the security of the citadel could have been breached. But there were bigger events in play here. For a moment, they had captured the Bishop of Serrilinus and held him in their midst. Now he was believed murdered before they could interrogate him. And upon his desk, a plea from the Cardinal Pontifex for help. There was a connection to be sure. He dismissed the captain.

  “Perhaps,” Adoras said, “that’s why he was murdered? To prevent him from verifying the note?”

  Sheer anxiety caused Galadon to gulp his drink. He immediately regretted mistreating a vintage. “Well sink me, dear fellows! What shall we do? If Serannos has been murdered in our cells, then how do we explain that to the council? It is a situation of profound delicacy we find ourselves in. We must do something, quickly, before our enemies find use for such information.”

  Commander Mollinos waited calmly. “What do you suggest?”

  Galadon recognized that here, for the first time in his career, he faced a moment of decision. This was a crisis that demanded leadership. And lead he would. He looked to General Adoras, who nodded to him. Then he looked to Commander Mollinos and his patient expression. Galadon stood. “We need to take this message seriously. If the Cardinal Pontifex is alive and in danger then we need him, to speak for us against Rodrigan, and return the empire to stability. Commander, you bring together as many men as we can spare without endangering the Emperor’s immediate protection. We shall make preparations today. At dawn tomorrow I want patrols sent along every road south from the city, to seek out th
is carriage. No servants, grooms, squires, or pages are to accompany. We move in good military order. More importantly, in all haste. And if they find nothing, to return by evening.”

  Mollinos protested, “But we’ll never be able to raise numbers for multiple search and escorts. Only half our number are ever present in the city, let alone fit for military duty.”

  “Then commission more from elsewhere!” Galadon realized then that this was his job. The guard had a list of waiting candidates, but there would be no time to enroll any. He needed able men, and quickly. He turned to Pieter. “Do you know of anyone who may enjoy the honor of serving the Emperor’s Guard? I could offer temporary commissions for tomorrow, and the Emperor rescind them the day after. Would that appeal to anyone? What about those your good master hired? They proved themselves capable when they captured Serannos.”

  Pieter nodded. “There may be one or two.”

  Commander Mollinos looked horrified. “Surely you won’t commission commoners?”

  “Yes, man, this is important.” The officers of the guard wore blue to match their noble blood. Allowance had already been made for exceptions. Galadon glared at one, then faced Pieter. “Send whomever you can. I want everything readied. We have sat around long enough. Now it is time to act.”

  Pieter bowed. “I have a few other contacts I can call upon. I will provide what details you need. Then I should return to my office. Councilor Amberlin must be informed of these developments.”

  “Then move, gentlemen. Here lies urgency!” Galadon no longer felt like drinking fine wine and eating cake. Inexplicably, he wanted to be atop a horse, riding out into danger — like the Knights of Eiom of old. He could not do this thing himself, but his men could, and that gave Galadon a surge a pride in the Emperor’s Guard. He wondered, almost ruefully, why he had never felt this way before.

  A Crust of Bread

  Sirath

  They rested on stone steps, at a corner overlooking a place Jerine called Publicos Square. Government buildings surrounded, all built in white marble and painted bright colors. In the centre stood a small market with baskets of eggs, sacks of grain or flour, tall jugs for milk or cooking oil, and chickens and ducks in cages. Wandering officials in their fine robes ignored it, but a crowd of women in mantles and gowns gathered around with wicker baskets.

  The farmers looked as out of place as Sirath felt.

  This whole place was a monument for the rich, built by the rich — to enforce the rich man’s justice, and his authority to rob the poor. Dedicated to the sort of people who took a fee of twenty crowns for honoring a bond from the city council.

  Sirath had spent his life hating the rich. Yet now he was one of them. And that was the strangest feeling. How was he supposed to act now? Laugh with bankers and spit on beggars, instead of the other way around?

  It wasn’t as strange as being so full he couldn’t eat any more.

  He’d treated him and Jerine to a shank of smoked ham between them, and a couple of tankards to wash it down with. It was the least he could do in thanks for her generosity, especially for the regular food she’d provided. The eatery owner had refused to sell it at first, protesting that this was a day for Pollos — no meat was to be eaten. But a flash of gold, and they were exempted as foreigners. Nothing said rich living like a big hunk of meat, with no maggots in it.

  They’d stopped at a bakery after, and Sirath had bought a couple of second-batch bread rolls, made from fine white flour. He’d planned to save them to travel with, but they smelled so good, still warm and steaming, that he’d nibbled away at them anyway. He’d already eaten one, but was too full to finish the last.

  Most of his life had been about surviving the day, and you didn’t ask for more than that. Now he’d something to look forward to — money bought him a future. The question was, what would he make of it? He’d never really had any dreams, other than not dying. Now he could live and thrive, instead of just trying to survive. Having gold meant opportunity.

  But it still felt too unreal. Sirath with riches? It was too good to be true. At any moment Pieter could return with guards, demand the money back, and put him into debt bondage. Then he’d be back at the workhouses, this time in chains.

  Sirath glanced about warily, then looked down on the market. A lifetime ago he would have waited for the traders to pack up, then he’d sift through the rubbish and dung for dropped coins. Now he could buy all their stock if he wanted to.

  He thumbed the crust of his last loaf. Normally he’d tuck it into his cloak, and eat it over the next few days. Now he had money he didn’t need to. It was a revelation to know he was rich enough to throw food away. He sat there, the uneaten bread in hand a profound symbol of his ascent in the world.

  Jerine pointed to where a couple of sparrows watched them. “I think the birds are after your food.”

  “Well, they’re not having it.”

  Jerine lifted her voice up to the birds. “I think you’ll have to ask more nicely than that. He’s in a bad mood!”

  Sirath laughed. “I am not in a bad mood! I just won’t give them any. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Don’t ask me, ask them. Besides, I thought you were full?”

  “I am. But I’ll be hungry tomorrow. Just because I have money now doesn’t mean to say I trust to keep it.” Sirath forced another bite and bit something hard. He poked a finger into his mouth and rolled a piece of grit along his cheek, and spat it over the steps. “I spent too long being hungry to take food for granted. And this time I didn’t have to cut a purse and run like hell to have it. Nah, I know the value of things. Good food, something to drink, a warm room and a roof over your head. Maybe some company. That’s what’s got real value in life. Everything else is just luxury.”

  And he’d enjoy none of it if he stayed here too long. He was nervous enough just being out in the open, let alone with a fortune. The sooner he bought clothing and left Corianth, the better.

  He was about to rise, when a patrol of city watch entered the square. Two men, walking out of step. Sirath slipped back into the corner. He wouldn’t want to attract their attention, especially when they were likely to be irritable. He faced away, but watched them the way Jessa had taught him: staring forward, but pushing his attention to the side of his gaze. She’d said that’s how women looked at men when they didn’t want them to notice. Whereas men just stared at whatever they were thinking about. Jessa said that’s why they always talked to her tits.

  One of the guards spent too long glancing over.

  Sirath pretended to ignore it. Still, it left a bitter feeling. A moment ago he’d felt privileged. But he still wore poor clothes, and here he didn’t just feel out of place, he looked it, too. “I’m going to buy me a new outfit ... get out of this tatty shite I’m wearing, before I leave.”

  Might Jerine come with him? She still hadn’t said anything. He looked at her, and remembered how she’d stiffened up before when he’d joked about being his wife. He was curious at that. “About your destiny ... why can’t you marry?”

  Jerine looked at him, but said nothing.

  “Does that mean ... well, that you wouldn’t go with someone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sirath’s cheeks flushed hot. “I mean ... be with ... lay with anybody.” He decided against subtlety. “Fuck anyone.”

  Jerine snorted and creased over with laughter, her face completely red from embarrassment.

  Sirath was glad at least he’d not offended. “I only meant in general. I wasn’t trying to pry.”

  Jerine finally calmed down. “I have no interest in any of that.”

  “Why?”

  “I love good food, but I don’t want to couple with it. It’s the same with people.” She shrugged. “I don’t have the urge. I find the whole business ... distasteful.”

  Now Sirath laughed, because her comment was unexpected. Especially in a city celebrating fertility. That was the one reason to rue leaving. With all this money he could buy ever
y pleasure he desired. Even though he wasn’t fooled by the illusion of glamour.

  It was all scabs and crabs when you looked beyond it. He’d seen enough used oiled plugs and honeyed cotton in his years on Cheap Street, under the care of Amalia. Tall and slender, when she dressed up she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. Even if she’d joked too often about gelding him and selling his backside to pederasts. Sirath had cleaned rooms, mopped floors, and kept the chickens in the little yard. Amalia led them, firm but fair: bubbly blonde Sarana, and cynical Jessa with her huge assets. And sweet Summer, who looked plain by comparison, but had always been kind to him. She’d even let him steal kisses on her cheek when she wasn’t working.

  His spirits fell to think on that. It only reminded of when they’d found Summer in the alley, under the back staircase, all twisted up and inside out, and more blood than he’d ever seen in his life. It was all downhill after that. The Bishop of Canalecht sent Ramiro’s gang in, and they beat Amalia to make her girls work for him. Sirath had tried to stop them, but he’d been forced to run for his life. He wondered what they were doing now. Were they still alive?

  The city watch had taken no interest in Summer’s murder. He checked to see what the ones here were doing. They’d bought something to drink at the market, and started to leave in the opposite direction.

  Sirath stared at the bread in his hand. Cal had looked after him, as boy and man. Amalia had shown kindness in between. And look what had happened to all of them. What had Sirath done to deserve all this wealth? He’d simply followed Jerine’s offer of employment — after necessity — then walked around workhouses, then fled a burning warehouse. That wasn’t worth the obscene amount of money he’d gained. But he wasn’t going to refuse the gift of a new life.