by David Hair
Silence fell like a collapsing tower and every eye fixed on him.
Yes, he thought, I am the true power here and I’m not afraid to state that fact. He glared around him, seeking dissenters. There were more than a few, but no one said a word.
They love me or they fear me and I don’t care which. He felt an almighty swelling of glory as he stroked the carved wooden arms and thought of all the men – and one woman – who’d sat here. Sacrecour scum, mostly, but by Kore, they’d been powerful.
And I’ll be the greatest of them all.
‘Pallas belongs to me,’ he began, stating a fact. ‘The insurrection is broken. This morning my legions crushed the Mob, seized their supplies and burned their barriers. Their leaders are being rounded up as I speak.’
They’d better be, he thought, watching the reactions in the room.
‘The true hero of the day,’ he went on, ‘was the young man who retook Tockburn. It will be no surprise to you that I am speaking of Nestor Sulpeter, the son of my dearest counsellor, Lord Rolven. The best men breed the best sons. Lineage is the only reliable pre-determinant of greatness. I tell you all: young Nestor here is destined for the highest distinction. He broke the barricades with his Kore-given gnosis and faced down the Mob almost single-handed. When assassins sought his life, he took theirs. He is a true hero of Rondelmar!’
Nestor, his eyes shining, took the plaudits, and Solon let him savour the moment, then added, ‘Such are the men who serve me.’ Because this was still his moment, after all.
‘Where’s the queen?’ a spindly mage-noble of the Pallas Imperocracy called.
Who’re you? Oh yes, Lord Sisam.
Solon fixed him with a firm look. ‘The queen is distressed that the clemency she once showed the rabble was thrown back in her face. She’s asked me to deal with the matter while she concentrates on her natural role as a mother.’
‘Are you legally our emperor now?’ Lord Sisam dared to ask.
Space began to clear around him.
Solon mentally added Sisam’s name to his list. ‘We’re in a state of emergency, Lord Sisam, and the queen has granted me executive power. The legalities will catch up in due course.’
‘But could she at least attend this court to endorse—’
He’s heard the rumours about Lyra being in hiding and he suspects they’re true. ‘When she feels able, perhaps she can allay your doubts, Milord.’
‘I, er, have no doubts,’ Sisam stammered, suddenly noticing that he stood alone.
Solon let him squirm, then turned to face the room. ‘Today, we have reclaimed Pallas-Nord. Our remaining enemies are in the Celestium, cowering behind the skirts of the Grand Prelate. Dubrayle, Wilfort, de Sirou, Excelsior and the rest of those traitors are surrounded, and if they don’t surrender, I shall have no choice but to march in and take them. I will not let the clergy shelter my enemies.’
Even knowing him, he saw the disbelieving, fearful looks, the furtive hands making the Sign of Corineus over their chests. Yes, I’m prepared to storm the Holy City. Lyra did, and you all cheered.
‘Let me make myself clear, my Lords. This empire has new leadership. My queen has done all she can, but now a man’s strong hand is on the tiller. I will regain all she lost – starting with control over this city. Then comes the Kingdom of Rondelmar. Dupenium and Fauvion will be brought to heel, and the rest will follow. Secession will be met with war. There will be no “republic” and no break-up of this Kore-given empire.’
He glared around the hall, letting them see and feel his certainty – then, abruptly, he was sick of them.
When I’ve broken the clergy, I’ll start on these sycophants. I’ll sweep them all away.
‘Lord Rolven, Lord Oryn – attend me. The rest of you, be about your affairs. We have an empire to save.’
He strode through the bowing audience, found a conference room and stalked to the window. Rolven and Oryn, behind him, avoided looking at each other. They were an ill-suited pair, the haughty and conservative noble and the diffident military man – and neither were irreplaceable in the longer term.
‘I need to appoint a council,’ he told them. ‘Oryn, you’ll continue as the Lord Commander – but military only. I want a new position – head of security – and I’m going to appoint Roland de Farenbrette. The Volsai will be his – when we have some. Rolven, I want you as my Imperocrator. Find me a man who’s good with numbers for the Treasury – one of those bankers from Dubrayle’s Bank of Rondelmar. No clergymen. Let the priests stick to praying.’
The two men shared troubled looks. ‘The Grand Prelate has been a fixture on the Imperial Council since the dawn of the empire,’ Rolven said in a troubled voice.
‘That’s because the Sacrecours lacked the balls to cast them out. I don’t.’
‘But the people—’
‘The people don’t matter – do you really think they care about councils and suffragium and all that shit? Frankel was delusional and the queen was weak. The mob just want bread and beer and to know a strong man is looking out for their security. Basic needs are all basic people aspire to. I want this empire run like a legion: a known hierarchy, each in their place. Accountability. Rules. Order.’
Rolven smiled thoughtfully, while Oryn wavered, then nodded.
Solon scowled at his initial hesitation, but went on, ‘Wurther probably thinks I need time to consolidate before turning my attention to him – that I’ll negotiate first. Rukk that! I want the captured Sacrecour barges readied upstream of the city. Oryn, you’ll fill them with rankers and storm the Celestium while we bring Rolven’s legions up overland from the south to prevent anyone escaping. We’ll give Wurther’s rats nowhere to run.’
‘What about the city?’ Oryn asked uncertainly. ‘The ringleaders are still in hiding.’
‘We’ve got Tad Kaden’s sister, yes? Braeda? Announce her execution will take place in three days – she’s to be hanged, drawn and quartered, then beheaded. That’ll draw Kaden out of the woodwork.’
‘But she’s a woman—’ Oryn gasped.
‘She’s played a man’s part and she can die a man’s death,’ Solon snapped. Lumpy’s getting softer by the day.
‘It’s unheard-of . . . it’s dishon—’
Solon slammed his fist down on the table. ‘These scum have no honour. Let the punishment fit her manifest crimes. And when her brother raises his head to plead for her, we’ll take him too. They can share a scaffold.’
Oryn went quiet, but Rolven nodded approvingly. ‘This realm has been too lax of late,’ he said. ‘Thank Kore you’ve returned to take control.’
It sounded like flattery, but at least it showed Rolven knew which direction the wind blew. ‘Tell me of the Treasury, Milord,’ Solon invited.
Rolven coughed, suddenly awkward. ‘Er . . . Milord, the Treasury is empty.’
Solon felt his eyes go wide. ‘What? What about the Church raids? The formation of the Bank of Rondelmar – the loan . . . Dubrayle said we were solvent . . . I heard him say it . . .’
‘When Dubrayle went to ground, somehow, if there was money, he made it vanish, the slimy prick.’
Rukka . . . rukk-rukk-rukk. Solon balled his fist and slammed it down on the table again. ‘Two days – no more than that – I want those barges here and I want my people in the fucking Celestium in two days. We’ll get that bastard’s money if we have to disembowel him to find it. We attack in two fucking days – understood?’
Seething now, he stamped away, almost breaking the door as he slammed it shut. The guards blanched and stepped back, but he didn’t care about being seen angry right now. Dubrayle and Setallius have all that blasted gold – I know they’ve got it. They could be buying support right this rukking minute. I’ve got to move fast. No delays.
He strode through the Bastion, the look on his face sending anyone who saw him fleeing in the opposite direction, until finally he found himself in the royal suite. Brunelda was being readied for him, her wig teased into some elaborate coi
f. A pair of maids squealed in surprise and then curtseyed as he entered.
‘Out, out,’ he rasped, and they fled. He poured a large Brevian, then sprawled in an armchair. ‘Come here,’ he told Brunelda, ‘and earn your keep.’
But when she came to him, he found that all he really wanted was someone to listen, so he let her sit at his feet while he told her what he faced. ‘Once they know me, they’ll understand that I know what they need,’ he concluded, through clenched teeth. ‘I can’t be weak: it’s only my strength that’s holding back the chaos.’
She looked up at him and stroked his knee. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Sometimes your eyes shine as if you see something none of us can.’ Only I see this in you, her expression added wordlessly.
But she was only a whore, so how could he trust even that?
Pallas-Nord
‘Wake up, girl,’ Sister Virtue’s harsh voice urged, tugging Brunelda up from a deep, dark dream. Wake up, wake up, wake up . . .
She realised the nun had been speaking for some seconds, that in her dreaming, she’d been repeating the same thing – Wake up, look around, see . . . She rolled over, groaning as all the aches hit her, from her chaffed, raw nipples to the bone-deep bruising in her groin.
Surely pleasure shouldn’t hurt, she thought blearily, looking up to face the nun. He knows it’s hurting but he won’t stop until he’s done. Why don’t I hate him . . .?
‘I don’t want to know,’ Virtue said drily.
Oh, Kore, did I speak?
‘I’m sorry,’ Brunelda mumbled, staggering naked from the bed and teetering to the garderobe to piss. She didn’t care what the holy sister saw. ‘What time is it? I thought I could sleep today.’
‘No, you’re needed in an hour,’ Virtue said. Was that a hint of sympathy in her voice? ‘The emperor wants you to be with him on the dais in the Place d’Accord while he executes Garod and Cordan Sacrecour.’
Oh Kore, Brunelda thought. Her stomach rebelled and her bowels gushed liquid.
‘Garod’s an old snake,’ Virtue mused, ‘but poor Cordan’s just a boy. Your predecessor rather liked him.’
‘I’m too sick,’ Brunelda moaned, staggering to a chair and collapsing into it, dizzy from exhaustion . . . and maybe morning sickness?
‘Cordan’s just fourteen,’ Virtue went on absently. ‘He likes playing with toy soldiers and talking about the jousts – he idolised Takwyth – but his Imperiousness is going to lop his innocent little head off.’
‘Shut up!’ Brunelda groaned, thinking of her womb. She’d only missed one course and it wasn’t certain. Another child . . . Where was the daughter they took away? And do I really have to cheer on the taking of a boy’s life, while carrying his executioner’s baby?
Sister Virtue stood, walked to the wardrobe doors and swung them open to reveal the glittering dresses that didn’t quite fit Brunelda.
‘How about red?’ the nun called. ‘That’s a good colour for executions.’
Brunelda almost made it back to the garderobe before she vomited again.
*
Solon waited impatiently in the vast reception hall of the Bastion. The marble monstrosity was hung with banners and shields and icons designed to overawe visitors. It was almost empty this morning, cleared so that he could make his grand exit to the podium overlooking the Place d’Accord, two hundred yards east. Outside, a carriage awaited him and his queen.
‘Where the Hel is she?’ he grumbled to Roland de Farenbrette again.
Roland shrugged and resumed admiring his new state robes. Rolven Sulpeter stood beside Nestor, both still basking in the son’s new-found glory. Thinks because he waved his sword at a few rebellious burghers, that he’s some kind of hero, Solon sneered inwardly, remembering Corani heroes of the past. There’s no one left but me fit to lace those men’s boots.
The city had been sullen overnight, with only a few arsons to disturb the night watch. The armies were moving closer, the barges sliding down the Bruin. The day after tomorrow, the Celestium would fall.
But first, this . . .
‘Damn it, where – ah, finally!’ he exclaimed, as Brunelda appeared, clutching Sister Virtue’s arm. He ran his eye over the nun – she was plain and stocky, not at all to his taste, but apparently she was a strong mage and she did her duties well. Anyway, she’s a nun; she doesn’t have to be pretty.
He walked thrice around Brunelda, making sure that she resembled Lyra as closely as possible today. ‘Don’t speak,’ he told her, ‘just wave and smile.’ He pinched her cheek. ‘You’re too pale, even for Lyra.’
‘I’m not well,’ Brunelda said weakly.
‘The child?’ he whispered, and she nodded.
If this was the real Lyra, he’d be trumpeting his virility, but he was told boasting of a child out of wedlock with the empress would alienate certain conservative supporters. Old men with limp cocks. Yesterday’s men.
When he took her arm, she blurted, ‘Please, I don’t want—’
‘Lyra would attend,’ he interrupted. ‘There are too many whispers already.’ He pinched her cheeks again, to make them ruddy. ‘Don’t you want to live in luxury? Don’t you want our son to rule after me?’ At her nod, he said, ‘Then do this, for me – for us.’
He took his ‘queen’ to the carriage and they drove the short trip to the gates in silence. Brunelda was silent, but she hardened her face as the doors were opened and they were hit by a wall of noise. She even managed to look regal as she joined him below the imperial dais.
He’d taken care to ensure only his most rabid supporters were here: those Corani families, nobles and soldiers who’d cheer him to the hilt even if he declared himself to be the Lord of Hel incarnate. As he appeared they roared his name: ‘Takwyth, Takwyth.’
‘Wave, girl,’ he muttered, raising his own hand, and Brunelda did too, then he escorted her up the stairs, using subtle kinesis to impel her. She looked overwhelmed to be standing before so mighty a crowd in such a vast place. The giant statue of Corineus the Saviour towered over them and the sound smote them like waves on the coastal cliffs. He fed her energy so that she didn’t faint, comparing her unfavourably to Lyra’s quiet dignity when in public.
His men closed in around him as they climbed to the top of the dais and waved to their supporters. The plaza could hold a hundred thousand people . . . but now he noticed it was only a third full and his smile faltered.
Rolven told me it’d be packed – he’s let me down.
But he forced another smile and waved again before taking his queen to the thrones and seating her in the lower one with a fine show of gallantry, hissing, ‘Don’t you bloody faint, Brunelda. Remember what’s at stake.’
Striding to the front of the dais, he pointed to the gallows he’d had erected in front of the thrones. A hooded headsman waited at the top of the aisle roped off for the prisoners to walk between the ranks of watchers.
‘Today marks the end of the Sacrecour rebellion,’ he shouted, and paused to take the cheers that rose in response. ‘Today, we chop the head off the snake who wished to rule us!’
‘Takwyth – Takwyth—’
‘Today we end the threat of tyranny!’
‘Takwyth – Takwyth—’
‘I take no pleasure in this,’ he shouted, quite untruthfully. ‘But justice must be seen to be done. My men and I are labouring to make you safe. We must purge this empire of traitors – and this is just the beginning. We will expose the disloyal wherever they are and root them out.’
The cheers died momentarily as the people below took in his words. Then they returned: ‘Takwyth – Takwyth—’
The echoes bouncing off the stone walls surrounding the giant plaza made the chorused voices sound oddly hollow. Irked, Solon turned to Roland. ‘Bring them out.’
Roland signed and from the lesser gate to the Bastion rolled two prison-wagons, the first bearing Garod Sacrecour and the second, Cordan. Garod was sitting with bowed head, but the boy was clinging to the bars, crying uncontrol
lably.
Damn it, they’re supposed to have given Cordan something to calm him . . .
He gritted his teeth, wondering who was at fault, watching the wagons ploughing up the aisle. His supporters among the crowd were venting their hatred, hammering on the cage bars and hurling rotten vegetables – but too many were hanging back for his liking.
He glanced down and saw that Brunelda was white as a sheet, clearly not far from fainting. He spied sour-faced Sister Virtue among the flock of aides and sent tersely,
The first wagon reached the steps, the cage door was pulled open with a screech and burly soldiers pulled the compliant Garod from the cage and marched him up the stairs.
The second carriage stopped, but Cordan was left inside the cage, which had been Rolven’s suggestion.
Solon strode down and ascended the gallows, probably offending some tradition or other, but he wanted to witness Garod meeting his end up close. He towered over the duke as he was hauled up the steps, his legs barely functioning. His robes were torn, his visible skin scabbed and his lank grey hair matted. At close quarters, he stank.
‘Loser,’ Solon jeered softly.
Garod gave him a hollow stare as he was shoved towards the executioner’s block and the headman, who was hefting the massive axe. The two men holding Garod turned him to face the crowd for the customary final words. Tradition allowed such speeches to be as long as the condemned wished, but the headsman, a mage, was under orders to stop Garod after a few words.
The duke raised his head. ‘House Sacrecour . . . true rulers of Urte,’ he tried to call out, but his jaw was broken, so not much was understandable. The crowd murmured derisively, then Solon flicked a finger.
The guards pushed the would-be ruler of the empire to his knees, the axe rose and fell and the head thudded into the basket in a spout of blood that sprayed the skirts of Solon’s robe. He grimaced, remembering finally that as ruler he should be on the throne above, not down here on the gallows. But he was here now and it would look foolish if he were to leave. Impatiently, he signalled to the men on Cordan’s wagon.
