by Jon Monson
“At that point, it wouldn’t be overly difficult to instigate rioting,” Aydiin added. “Throw in a few hundred crazed followers to get people going, and the city could tear itself apart.”
“Am I the only one who thinks we should be finding the first ship out of Genodra we can?” Seb asked.
“We can’t just abandon my country to the will of the Order,” Byanca replied. “We know their plan – or guessed much of it at least – that gives us an advantage.”
“You’re forgetting that we’ll be going up against a group that’s well-versed in subterfuge,” Seb said. “I don’t know if there’s anything we’ll be able to do that will be more than just an annoyance.”
“But we have to try,” Byanca said. “We could make the difference.”
“There’s something else,” Aydiin said, his eyes glued to the letter. “They’re discussing a plan to ‘remove the head of the serpent’. Byanca, I think they’re going after your father.”
◆◆◆
Marcino set down the latest report, adding it to the hefty stack forming on his desk. The pile threatened to topple over, the flood of bad news coming in over the past week piling up. He sat in his chair and began rubbing his throbbing temples.
The past few days had been a firestorm of terrible events. The threat of a rebel army marching from the south and assassination attempts – some of them successful – on various members of the Senate were beginning to take their toll. Yet he worried this last piece would be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
All thirty-six food warehouses in the city had been burned during the night. All of them. Gone.
The mild summer had led to a bumper harvest, and the city’s merchants had spent fortunes purchasing the crops from farmers with plans to sell the food throughout the winter. Spread throughout the metropolis, the food was enough to sustain the population for over a year. Yet now it was all ash.
Speculation raged throughout the city, with the varying newspapers spreading the blame for the sabotage. Some of the opposition newspapers blamed the government while others pointed to a conspiracy among foreign merchants looking to raise food prices. A newspaper sitting on his desk – one of the least reliable in the city – claimed that a warlord from Pilsa was readying his forces for an invasion in the south.
However, the broad consensus followed what made the most sense – that Field Marshall Diaz and his rebels were responsible. Laying siege to a well-provisioned city ringed by forts would be difficult at best. However, a city without food could fall without much of a fight.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Marcino called out and the door opened.
“More reports for you, My Doge,” the monotone voice of Venesius, his silver-haired butler, sounded from behind.
“Anything new?” Marcino asked as the man placed the reports on his desk.
“I’m not in the habit of reading the missives from your eyes and ears,” the man droned. “However, there is talk among the staff of a strike among the general labor force.”
“A strike? That’s exactly what we need,” Marcino sighed.
“There are also talks of a rally planned in Republican Square,” Venesius continued. “One that you should probably avoid. I have a feeling any members of the current government would be less than welcome there.”
“Doesn’t any of this seem strange to you, Ven?” Marcino asked, rubbing his hands through his hair.
“All of this seems strange to me, sir,” he responded.
“The most logical explanation is to blame that rebel army,” Marcino said. “But there are a few things that just don’t make sense. I know the Field Marshall, and he’s anything but short-sighted. Burning the granaries might make his conquest easier, but then he’ll have two million hungry mouths to feed.”
“It’s possible that Diaz didn’t command it personally,” Venesius responded. “The man knows how to delegate – it’s possible one of his commanders took it upon himself to destroy the warehouses.”
“That’s a good point,” Marcino replied, rubbing his chin. “I just have a hard time imagining the rebels being able to muster that kind of expertise. They hit all thirty-six warehouses in a single night, without a single saboteur being caught or even seen. I don’t think the rebels have that level of skill within their ranks.”
“Are you suggesting that one of the other theories potentially has some merit, sir?” Venesius asked.
“No, I’m just thinking out loud,” Marcino said, turning back to his reports.
Field Marshall Diaz was a brilliant military commander, but subterfuge was neither his style nor point of strength. There was, however, another group that did specialize in this type of behavior. If the fires were in fact lit by their hands, then Palmas was in even more trouble than anyone knew.
“I’m going out, Ven,” Marcino sighed, standing from his desk.
“Into the city, sir?” the butler asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I can only take so much of these reports,” Marcino said, rushing to the wardrobe he kept in the room for just these occasions. “Besides, it’s always better to gather intelligence first-hand.”
“Ah, it’s good to see you haven’t changed,” Venesius said.
Marcino only laughed in response as he exchanged his suit for the brown coat and trousers of a common laborer. Even after all these years, he still felt uncomfortable in a suit. There was something about the rough clothing that made him feel alive.
He often wondered what his eighteen year old self would think of the stuffy aristocrat he had become. Of course, he wasn’t nearly as bad as so many of his peers. Yet he still had the feeling that young Marcino would have punched this old man in the face, title or no title.
“I wonder what the people of Palmas would say if they knew their fearless leader enjoyed walking among them this way,” Venesius said.
“It wouldn’t be such a novelty if the upper class didn’t work so hard to forget the plebian class even existed,” Marcino said, ruffling his hair to make it seem as if he’d spent the morning hard at work.
“That’s the problem with the Senators,” Marcino continued. “They sit in their mansions and meeting halls, making decisions for the nation and its people. Yet they don’t truly understand common Genodrans. They never walk among them. They never go to the market to buy a mango from a fruit stand and just breathe in the city. They never visit the hospitals to comfort those whose time in this life is coming to an end. They never truly experience life at all.”
“I don’t disagree with your sentiments,” Venesius said. “Just be careful, sir. These are dangerous times.”
“I won’t disagree with you on that point,” Marcino said, moving towards the door and putting on a fraying cap to go with his jacket and trousers. “That’s exactly why I had Lissandra and Cael sent up north away from this mess.”
“A wise move, indeed,” Venesius replied, giving the clothing a rather indignant sniff.
Venesius was the best butler he could ask for. The man was trustworthy and dependable. Yet he also liked things to be very clean and orderly – a very admirable trait in a servant. Yet the very existence of Marcino’s dirty work clothes seemed to be an affront to the man’s delicate sense of refinement.
“Oh, and Ven, when this is all over, don’t tell Lissandra I did this,” he said with a wink before bounding down the stairs towards a small back door.
His excitement took him through the palace grounds and onto the street. He walked, trying his best to look like a common laborer, although he knew he couldn’t fool anyone who decided to give him a thorough examination. His features were too soft from spending his days inside at a desk instead of in a factory.
Even with that, he still felt free. For at least a few hours, there would be less expected of him. He could wander through the streets, enjoying the life that thrived there.
Of course, the experience would be infinitely more enjoyable if the city weren’t on the brink of
starvation and conquest.
It didn’t take long to get a feel for the general attitude among the citizenry - a housewife talking to the baker, a shop keeper yelling at his clerks, a blacksmith taking an order from a nobleman. These told the story of what was happening in the city better than any intelligence report ever could. Unfortunately, everything was telling him that tensions were high.
This wasn’t a surprise. A rebel army the size of the one headed by Diaz was enough to unnerve the people all by itself. Add onto that the threat of a winter with little food, and the threat suddenly seemed much greater.
He had sent the order to mobilize the local militias, and the army was amassing a few days south of the city. Marcino was still hoping to avoid any real fighting, but if it had to be done, it should be away from Palmas. He would rather give up his position than see the city destroyed.
As he came closer to Republican Square, he could hear the rally Venesius had mentioned. The crowd assembled would likely be less than sympathetic, demanding answers he couldn’t provide. He just hoped the protestors would stay peaceful.
As he rounded the last corner, the obelisk in the middle of the square became visible. The tall granite spire had been constructed in the first year of the Republic to commemorate its victory over the Royalists. Up until the construction of the city’s first skyscraper, it was by far the city’s tallest structure.
However, it wasn’t the obelisk that begged for his attention today. A large crowd – well over twenty thousand - was packed into the square. Just as he’d feared, the mood was not a happy one.
Standing on the base of the obelisk, three spans above the gathered crowd, a man dressed in the brown smock of a steel worker addressed the gathering. However, just like Marcino, the man was not of the working class. He did a fine job of acting like one of them, but Marcino could tell at first glance that this man came from wealth.
“Do you think they’re going to starve this winter?” the man yelled, his voice nearly growing hoarse with vitriol. “Do you think they’re the ones who will suffer?”
As Marcino entered the crowd, he could tell that the men and women were hanging on his every word. They cheered when he wanted them to and responded with loud jeers when required. At this moment, the speaker could do what he wanted with them.
This could get dangerous very quickly, Marcino thought to himself in awe. In a city of two million, this crowd was only a small percentage. However, if the man were to rile these people up into a frenzy, unspeakable damage could be done.
“They tell us that we rule ourselves, that we’re free,” the man continued, spitting on the ground at the last words. “I say we’ve been deceived!”
Marcino elbowed his way further into the crowd, trying to get closer. There was something in the man’s voice, and he had to get close enough to really see that face.
“If we’re free, why are we the ones working day and night just to put bread on the table? Why do they get to spend their lives in luxury and excess?” the man yelled in between shouts of assent from the crowd.
The anger was growing palpable. Police lined the square, watching to make sure the rally stayed peaceful. Yet there were so few compared to the possibly violent rage that the speaker was producing.
Marcino finally grew close enough to make out the man’s face, and he squinted in the morning’s light. The man’s brown hair, slicked straight back and bristly mustache didn’t seem familiar. Then he looked into the man’s eyes.
His stomach fell sharply, and adrenaline rushed through his veins. He could feel his heart begin to pound in his chest, the sound reverberating through his ears. Shaking, Marcino turned back towards the edge of the square with much less elbowing and cajoling than it had taken to get to the center.
Those eyes. He could recognize those eyes in the middle of a crowded marketplace. Those eyes meant his greatest fears were coming true.
His shaky legs carried him back to the palace. He was too nervous to take a cab, yet the entire trek back to his home felt unnerving. He kept looking back over his shoulder at the mysterious figures who must be waiting for him behind every corner.
He swung around the back of the palace grounds, to the same servant’s entrance he had used to make his exit only an hour ago. Walking through the grounds, he began to feel safe once again. He was home, and now it was time to make preparations for the fight ahead.
“Ven!” Marcino called out, removing his laborer clothing as he made his way towards his study. “Get the car, we’re going out.”
He was already undressed by the time he reached the study, his clothing littered along the hallway. Grabbing his suit, the necessary preparations began running through his mind.
I can’t fight this, not on my own, he thought to himself as he rushed to the desk. There were so many reports he could use, but he grabbed only the most essential. Snatching his wallet along with several thousand crowns in bank notes, he stuffed as much as he could into a leather briefcase before turned away from the desk for what could be the last time.
“Ven!” he called again. “Let’s get going!”
The only option was to get out of the city as soon as possible. A food shortage – that was child’s play. A rebel army was an annoyance to be dealt with. Riots among the general populace didn’t even seem beyond his ability.
But this, this was beyond even his skills. With his briefcase full of papers and bank notes, he began to head down the hall towards the garage.
“Ven, where are you?” he called again, unsettled by the lack of the man’s customary “yes, sir”.
The house is too quiet, he thought. The usual noise and bustle of a house full of servants was absent. He hadn’t seen anyone since returning.
Another jolt of adrenaline rushed into his veins as he dashed into Ven’s room, spacious quarters adjacent to his study.
Venesius stood against the wall, impaled and kept upright by a long sword. The blade had been rammed through the man’s heart and into the wall, keeping the man on his feet, even in death. Blood covered Ven’s uniform, his head slumping forward unnaturally.
Marcino backed away, his legs buckling. His mind struggled to comprehend his new reality. The only thing he knew was that he was no longer safe in his home. He was no longer safe anywhere.
A creak on the hardwood floor behind him brought him whipping around. Dressed in a robe of deep violet, another set of familiar eyes peeked out from underneath a dark hood. A bone chilling voice to match the eyes croaked.
“Well, well. The prodigal son returns.”
Chapter 31
This can’t be my home,” Byanca gasped, her face growing pale.
Aydiin was unsure how to respond. He could see the distress in Byanca’s face, hear the worry in every word she spoke. Yet he was at a loss.
He had never been forced to witness the destruction of his home. He had never looked down on the city of his birth to see half of it burned to ash. Yet that was exactly what Byanca was experiencing.
The group sat atop one of the many hills surrounding the once-thriving metropolis of Palmas. No other word was uttered, a somber mood seeping into their hearts at the sight below.
A thick smoke hung over Palmas like a shroud. Indeed, the city looked as it were about to be laid into a tomb. Large portions of the metropolis were reduced to black ash, the burnt-out shells of buildings standing defiantly amid the carnage.
“They did it,” Seb finally whispered. “Those Stone-blasted fools actually brought down the mighty city.”
“The refugees certainly weren’t exaggerating,” Byanca said, wiping a tear from her eyes. “Palmas is in a worse spot than I could have possibly imagined.”
They had passed several groups fleeing the carnage. Scared refugees running from something they could barely comprehend – destruction waged on the city by its own inhabitants. They were running from their own neighbors and friends.
“It’s amazing what a food shortage and an advancing army can do to civilization,” Aydiin
said, motioning for the group to descend from the hill and into the suburbs surrounding Palmas.
The destruction looked to be far from over. Flames continued to burn in various sections of the city, signs of the continuing riots. It still seemed strange that the city’s own inhabitants had done this.
“I’m going to wring Barrick Fortescue’s neck if I ever catch him,” Byanca said, guiding her horse down the hillside. The beast was still wary of Askari and was having a difficult time focusing both on the kerton and the slope.
“I don’t think he was personally responsible for this,” Aydiin said, immediately regretting the words.
“Well, if I meet any other members of the Order, I’ll wring their necks too,” Byanca said. “Until then, his will have to do.”
As they entered the first neighborhoods surrounding the city, Aydiin was surprised to see that the deserted streets were even more eerie than they had been from atop the hill. There were signs that life had been thriving here just days ago - food left to rot in market stalls, a smashed can of preserved food on the road. Occasionally, Aydiin would see a head poke out of a building, only to be followed soon after by the crack of a window slamming shut.
“I still can’t believe this is happening,” Byanca said. “I know the city has always relied on its food warehouses to feed itself through the winter. Having all of them destroyed would certainly cause panic, but this? I didn’t know my people were capable of such self-destruction.”
“I’m not really surprised that the Order came up with an elaborate plan to overthrow the Republic,” Aydiin began. “I am, however, surprised to see it work so well.”
Before today, he had considered Genodra to be the most stable and resilient nation in the world. In places like Salatia, the common people seemed to tolerate a tyrant as long as they had enough food. Yet a government built on the idea that the people ruled themselves should have been better able to withstand a grain shortage and the threat of an approaching army without implosion. Apparently, he’d been wrong.
