“Meaning?”
“This democracy… experiment.” She spoke with a smile but the toxicity was positively palpable, as if a cloud of acid hung over his head. He sighed. Grey was right. Arabelle cared more about keeping her people under the yoke than one day becoming a slave herself.
“Let me reassure you that we are quite busy with our own affairs and there will be no one under our control exporting anything.”
“That is good to hear.”
“Well thank you again for coming,” he said, rising to his feet and offering his hand. She took it, rising, and as they were heading toward the door, he could not help himself. “I am very glad you came to continue the friendship between our nations. Pienza has always been known for its friendship, has it not? And its hospitality. Why, I believe that your country has a new guest?”
The Duchess of Amteth didn’t break stride. “Are you referring to Master Eden, perhaps?” Mareth was impressed that he hadn’t flustered her, or that she hadn’t fallen into the trap of using his revoked title. “He is a personal guest of the Duke of Northfield, who, between you and I, is a doddering old man. Do you wish me to talk to him?”
“Oh, no. That will be fine. I bear the man no ill will.” The egotistical coward. “Banishment is punishment enough. Well it was a pleasure to meet you. Until the state dinner tomorrow night.”
That afternoon there were also delegations from Skaria and the city state of Tigro.
Ambassador Vissok, who represented the northern Sapphire Sea country, was around Mareth’s age and she perched on the edge of her seat as they talked, like he was the most interesting thing in the world. She would touch his knee and laugh at things he said, even when he wasn’t trying to be funny. There was no frilly dress for her, she wore tight fitting traveling clothes of trousers and blouse, buttoned very low, with a green leather coat that hung down to the floor.
Vissok said all of the right things: Skaria was concerned about Pyrfew in the Sapphire Sea; Skaria would stand by Edland; Skaria formally invites the Lord Protector for a state visit. But Mareth wondered if King Hansen was playing games with him. Vissok understood less of the region’s political concerns than even he did (though he had been studying for weeks now), and Mareth found himself explaining much of it to his guest. His confidence was rising as he demonstrated his knowledge in response to Vissok’s simple questions, before it struck him that this made no sense. This wasn’t a woman he had just met in a tavern; this was a King’s envoy from a military nation.; And either the Skarian monarch had plucked Vissok from life as a bar maid or Mareth had fallen into a trap. From the moment he realized this, no matter how much she flicked her hair or touched his hand, he endeavored to hurry things along to an exit.
The Skarian ambassador may have confused him with her intentions, but he had no such problems with the ‘delegation’ from Tigro. She was young, dressed completely inappropriately for the autumn weather of Edland, the cold clearly having a stimulating effect through the partially transparent silks and chiffon, and she presented herself as a ‘gift’ from the Nonagon, the ruling body of Tigro.
Mareth sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Was this normal? Or was this just the way people were used to doing business with King Roland? Or had some rumor of him being a tavern bard lusting after women gotten all around the four corners of the Jeweled Continent?
Mareth thanked the young girl and immediately sent her to Chancellor Grey to deal with. He twiddled his thumbs while he lounged in his chair, waiting for Percival to bring in what would likely be the next poorly disguised effort at seduction.
The door opened and Percival stepped through. “The, er, Branching Tree, my lord.”
Ducking through the doorway came a giant.
As he stood up straight once more, he was at least eleven feet tall and of slender proportions, wearing a long grey robe that could likely have been a knight’s tourney tent in another life. His hair had been coated with some substance and twisted into clumps that stuck out from his head at different angles, the tips painted a vivid green. Branching Tree seemed a very appropriate moniker.
Mareth realized his mouth was hanging open and rushed to get up and meet his guest. He reached to shake the giant’s hand, and with some difficulty they managed it, given his guest’s mitt was three times the size of his own. Mareth offered him a seat before realizing that it would be completely useless, and so sent Percival off to find something more appropriate.
“Branching Tree. Thank you for coming.” Now his day was getting more interesting. He had never met one of the giants of Wespar before. They lived in the forests, shunning anything one would consider a city, and his travels had never taken him through their wild land before.
“You are welcome,” said Branch. He had a peaceful face; long, with sagging jowls and drooping eyelids. Mareth waited for more but the giant didn’t say anything else. Percival arrived with a couple of footmen carrying a chair that Mareth recognized as usually sitting at the head of the long dining table, arriving in the nick of time to save the uncomfortable silence with industry. Once his guest was comfortably seated, Mareth resumed his chair.
“So, Branching Tree, what would you like to discuss? I know I am eager to see how we can be united against the threats to our respective countries.”
The giant blinked. Slowly. Like a tortoise. Mareth wondered if the giant’s great size made the human world seem like a buzzing hive. Or if the poor man was having some kind of slow-motion seizure in his office. That would be just his luck.
“Singer-King,” began the giant, his voice slow and measured; deep, like the sound Mareth imagined roots would make as they pushed the earth aside to grow far beneath the surface. Mareth politely held his hand up to stop him.
“Pardon? What did you call me?”
“Singer-King. This is the name that our Matron has called you. Is it not true? Are you the wrong person?” The giant started the long process of getting back to his feet.
“No, that’s me. Well kind of. I’m a singer, but I’m not a king. Just the Protector.”
The giant sat down again. “Your titles confuse us.”
Mareth shrugged in apology. “These are changing times that sometimes confuse me too.” He paused, hoping for some reaction to his self-deprecation but the giant was implacable. “What about Wespar’s help against Pyrfew?” Mareth was imagining an army of giants, hopefully a little faster moving than this one. Surely that would be a deterrent to Pyrfew?
“We do not have armies. And we do not fight. I am sorry. But we will chant for you.”
“Oh, well, thanks.” Mareth suddenly wished for the successive temptation of flirting women, unsure where this was going. “So, why are you here?”
“The Matron wishes for you to visit. She has seen what may come and you must know.”
“So what is ‘to come’?” he asked, eager to see if he was finally going to get some augury of the future that could be a good guide. He had asked Neenahwi if she could see the future and she hadn’t stopped laughing for five minutes.
“She said, ‘it is happening again’.” The giant paused as if letting his words sink in.
“Did she elaborate on that? By chance, did she give you a note with maybe a little more detail?”
“We do not write. She needs for you to see this for yourself. You would join her visions.”
He sighed a masterful sigh, one that only comes with a great deal of practice. It was most definitely time for a drink.
“Well, thank you very much for your invitation. I will have to speak to my advisers to determine when I might be able to do that.” He was blathering now, and even though all he could think of was that he probably sounded like a manic pyxie to the giant, his mouth wouldn’t slow down. “But rest assured that this is very close to the top of my to-do list. Was there anything else? No? Well, I look forward to seeing you at the state dinner.” Mareth guided Branching Tree to his feet, waving Percival to hurry in and escort his guest out.
He smiled. Shook hands again, and waved as the giant was led away. In moments Mareth was alone once more, and he slumped into his chair.
“I do believe,” he said, to no-one other than himself, “that I warned everyone that I would not be good at this job.”
Chapter 6
Family Life (One)
“Iob! Dillie! It’s time for school,” called Gwil, standing by the front door of their modest home. They needed to leave otherwise she would be late to her desk, and she didn’t want Tynir Giffen to comment.
“Have a good day, darling,” said her husband, Owen, kissing her on the cheek as he tried to maneuver past her to the doorway. He stopped before he rushed out into the city to ask his customary question. “Do you have a busy day today?”
“More planning for the pilgrimage,” she sighed. “Still so much to do and time is ticking away.” Gwil turned away from her husband to call up the stairs. “Kids, time is ticking away for you too!” She tapped her foot as she waited.
Owen smiled, kissed her once more and slipped out into the street outside. “I’ve got to go. Good luck!”
Gwil didn’t turn to say goodbye again. She was preoccupied. She knew that. She was dangerously close to being preoccupied with how preoccupied she was. This pilgrimage to Fymrius promised to be the biggest ever, and she knew it would be the last one she ever organized. Gwil wanted to make sure it went off without a hitch so she could actually enjoy it with her family.
A moment later, the more rambunctious elements of her family appeared. A boy, Iob, and a girl, Dillie, were twin twisters sweeping through the house, scattering belongings as they slowly closed on their mother. She glared at them, but one of her good-natured glares, half a smile on her face, until they finally noticed the attention and stopped their game of tig. They instantly looked sheepish, and focused on collecting their homework in some semblance of calm before Gwil ushered them out of the house in front of her.
Closing the door behind them, she walked her children through the small vegetable garden that Owen tended with such love, and out onto the street. Her neighbors were in similar states of morning disarray, shepherding their children down the street or still trying to get them out the door. The morning was crisp and she knew it wouldn’t be many moons before her breath steamed in the winter chill.
The walk to school was not a long one, further for her march to the Imperial Hub and her waiting desk, but she enjoyed these moments in the morning. Iob and Dillie saw one of their friends in the street ahead and asked if they could run to catch up with her. She nodded her assent and picked up her own pace a little to catch up with the child’s father.
“Good morning, Kazhmir,” she said to the man who beamed from ear to ear as he turned. “You are looking well. And so is Opal.” She said this last with a little surprise in her voice. They’d all been terribly worried when the bright little girl had taken with the wasting-green a few moons back. Her heart broke for poor Kazhmir and Gethin. She could hardly bare to imagine what it would be like to go through that.
“Yes! She does look well, doesn’t she,” he said proudly. “She’s back to her old self. I can’t tell you how excited she is to get back to school.”
“That’s good. It’s a shame I can’t say that about my two,” she said, laughing. “But, how?”
“The Emperor! He heard about Opal and had me bring her to see him. He healed her. Completely took away the sickness.” Kazhmir beamed a proud smile though Gwil could see his eyes were misty with emotion as he watched his daughter skip down the street, deep in conversation about who-knew-what with her own children. Kazhmir worked in the building next to hers, the Department of Expansion, and it was not uncommon for the Emperor to meet with those officials. She knew first hand that expanding the empire was of utmost concern to him, probably second only to a successful pilgrimage, but that happened only every three years. The Department of Expansion had itself expanded in recent years, now that the empire was split across two continents.
Gwil congratulated Kazhmir on his daughter’s regained health, and she inwardly said a prayer of thanks; how lucky they were that their Emperor was their god made real and capable of looking after his people. Once they had reached the low building of the school, she planted a kiss on the foreheads of both her children and wished them a pleasant day, before they ran off to play with their friends. She said her goodbyes to Kazhmir—he wanted to talk to the teacher personally about Opal’s restored health—promising that their families had to get together again as they used to before Opal’s sickness, before she continued her journey, her mind already sorting through the day’s tasks that faced her.
Fymrius was laid out like a wheel. In many ways the whole of the empire was laid out like a wheel, at least with a little creative interpretation on behalf of the cartographers. But Fymrius in particular was most definitely built in radiating segments around the Emperor’s Tower and gardens. The Emperor was figuratively and literally the center of the empire. The six main spokes were wide gravel roads lined with places of industry. Craftspeople, such as Owen, worked in long white-daubed buildings, developing what the empire needed. Intermixed were warehouses and artists’ studios. The latter worked hard on creating the stories and songs, paintings and statues, that celebrated their love for the Emperor—it was a role such as this that as a child she had hoped she would be chosen for, but this was before her natural ability for organization had been discovered. The former housed the crops that came into the capital city, wagons led by drallis, their twelve legs moving in rippled step, coming in from the provinces; while other carts wheeled out onto the streets to deliver provisions to all the families. She looked forward to seeing what would await them on their doorstep when they all returned home that evening, and what wonders Owen would create for them to eat.
She waved hello to people she knew as she passed them, but she did not stop to talk or pass the time of day. There was work to be done.
The Imperial Hub was a series of five immense buildings that almost completely encircled the Tower of the Emperor. Only one segment was left vacant for the triennial pilgrimage, and the campgrounds needed to handle the many people arriving in the city. The Department of Pilgrim Affairs shared a building with the Department of Schooling, and as she walked up the grand entrance stairs, she passed green and gold garbed imperial guards standing proudly and pleasantly in the morning sun. Those brave men and women came from all over the empire, their faces and features making it easy for her to recognize their place of origin. She was, after all, responsible for bringing people like them here to the home of the empire and celebrating their lives. There were even Alfjarun guards, recent graduates of the academy of the past few years, men and women taller than the typical human of the empire, with a complexion that reminded her of the honest earth, people from the farthest corner of the empire across the ocean in Alfaria.
Gwil hurried through the marble-floored halls to her office, other officials doing likewise, eager not to be late. Her desk was neat and orderly—she was careful to leave it in such a state each night or it would bother her the whole time she was home—and as she sat, she was already reaching for a progress report on the latest Hall of Heroes that was under construction in Baraceau. The halls had a special place in the hearts of the people of Pyrfew. This was where those who had joined with the Emperor were interred, one day ready to rise for him again. The practice had gone on for as long as the empire existed, all the way back to the first Hall of Heroes that the Emperor had built with his own two hands, interring the elves who had died to protect him and their lands. This hall that was under construction would not be ready in time for this year’s pilgrimage, but still, she wanted it to be perfect.
“Gwilenhin?” asked a polite voice looking to get her attention. She peered up from the report. It was Tynr Giffen, the head of the department and one of the Ancients. “A word please. The Emperor has had some new ideas for this year’s pilgrimage.”
She forced a smile. Typical. Just when she thou
ght she had everything in hand.
Chapter 7
The Caretaker
“I don’t see anything,” agreed Trypp.
“What do you mean?” asked Neenahwi, turning and pointing, arm outstretched behind her. “That big fucking tower, right there.”
Motega looked out across the odd patch of derelict land right in the heart of the city. The quiet was disturbing. He squinted. He opened his eyes wide. He winked. He blinked. All of this was really for show as he still did not see any tower. Motega turned to look for Per, thinking to use the bird’s eyes to put paid to Neenahwi’s crazy. But two things happened.
First, he wasn’t sure where Per was. Which was strange as Motega could always sense him.
And second, as he turned, he saw a great tower out of the corner of his eye.
Switching his head back around in a double take—his forehead a topographical relief of hills and valleys—there it was still. A tall thin round structure, like the other towers of Redpool in many ways but different in so many others. It wasn’t built of red brick, it seemed to be made from the very earth—the soil and clay packed hard but stones and smashed shells visible in the surface. And it completely lacked windows, unlike all the other towers—after all what was the point in a big phallic building if you couldn’t look down on your neighbors?
“Shit,” muttered Motega, still in a state of disbelief. “Where did that come from?”
“What?” said Trypp, his head whipping back and forth between Neenahwi, Motega and where the tower was. “I don’t see anything. You two are taking the piss now.”
“Try looking away from it, and then looking back quick.”
“Oh, I got it,” said Midnight, the woman from Morris’ squad who they’d met on their arrival in Redpool, her ropes of white hair tossing around as she nodded her head. She knew Florian from his time in the brigade called the Ravens, before he had met Motega; and, strangely, to Motega’s irritation, she and the rest of Morris’ squad insisted on calling him ‘Twins’.
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