A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  Planting his own feet, he reversed direction, rushing the slender boy, who leapt to meet him.

  The treble of tortured wood filled the court. The watching students stood unmoving, except for their eyes darting back and forth to track the vicious exchange of blows. There was a meaty retort as wood found flesh. Another dull smack as it rebounded off abused muscles. Wood whistled through the air. There was a grunt as knees banged into the boards. A seirin rolled, skittering, out of the circle.

  He stared in stunned incomprehension at the tiered ceiling of the court, the planking cool and welcome beneath his back. An offering hand reached into his field of vision and he grasped it instinctively, catching his breath as its owner drew him up. In that moment of closeness, a voice, pitched for his ears alone, drifted to him.

  “You belong behind a spade, not a sword.”

  He turned his head to meet a pair of icy blue eyes where contempt and malice burned merrily. The hand that held his squeezed painfully.

  “Go back to the farm,” the noble smiled at him.

  He received a parting slap on his sore shoulder. It probably looked comradely. And then the nobleman’s son had swept past him and was walking away.

  “Alright,” the master called from the front of the class. “That’s enough for today.”

  “This one looks like a butterfly.” Lokus squinted, turning his head. “Or maybe an acorn that’s caught fire. See?”

  “Ow!”

  He slapped at his friend’s hand where it prodded his bruised ribs.

  They sat at the top of the court steps. Marco cross-legged, with his robes parted down his front, Lokus kneeling beside him to see whether they should bandage him before attempting the walk back to the dormitories.

  “You’ll survive,” his friend observed, unrepentant.

  “That hurt!” he accused.

  “You’d be dead if it didn’t.”

  “He almost was dead,” a voice observed.

  The twins strolled from the door. He hastily rearranged his robes.

  “Taking Jeral head-on?” said Sera, or maybe Gena. Their heads shook in perfect unison at his folly.

  “Insane,” the other added. They bounced to a stop in front of the pair of boys, their inky hair bobbing.

  “You think he should have just let Jeral herd him out of the circle?” Lokus queried, fine eyebrows arching and not even a little disconcerted by the combined attention of the twins.

  “Or just ran out,” the one who’d spoken first supplied. The other nodded agreement.

  “What would have been the fun in that?” Lokus returned.

  “That doesn’t look like fun,” the agreeable one pointed to Marco’s ribs, where his robes hid the already purpling discolorations.

  “Certainly you jest? My friend here had the time of his life,” Lokus clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.

  Pained breath hissed between his clenched teeth and Lokus hastily snatched the hand back. The twins gave voice to their signature, lilting laughs.

  “Help me up,” he growled at Lokus. He wanted to get away from the two girls and their giggling at his expense. His friend pulled him to his feet, his mistreated muscles making their protests keenly felt. He started to take a step but Lokus apparently wasn’t done conversing with the twins.

  “Could you have beaten him?” his friend asked the two, seeming genuinely interested.

  “Of course,” the girls chorused.

  Lokus’s eyes narrowed.

  “Separately? Fighting one on one?

  Slight frowns marred the searching glance the sisters shared.

  “No.”

  “Probably not.”

  Brilliant smiles followed this pronouncement.

  His breath caught – and not just because breathing hurt.

  “You didn’t do badly, though,” one consoled him.

  “We might even have to watch our backs,” the other sister finished.

  Djenja stepped from the court then, drawing his eyes like a lodestone. Seeing them, the top student halted in the doorway. The twins glanced over their shoulders to see what had captured his attention.

  “Anyway, we’re off,” said the one.

  “See you later,” echoed the other.

  “Gena, Sera,” Lokus nodded to them in turn. They paused.

  “I’m Gena,” one said, pointing to herself. “She’s Sera.”

  Lokus’s mischievous smiles were so all encompassing they tended to spill over onto the faces around him.

  “No, you’re not,” he stated with certainty.

  The sister he’d addressed smiled brightly. The other scowled but neither said anything. They turned away, looking less like sisters and more like one person and a mirror.

  He didn’t watch them stroll away. His attention was all on Djenja. Her expression could have been stolen straight off Master Crysopher’s face. She weighed him with her eyes, giving no clues as to her thoughts. His airway knotted uncomfortably under her unreadable regard. After another moment, she dismissed him, starting down the stairs. The twins trailed her, chatting with each other and at her, seemingly unaffected by her reticence. At the bottom, they turned toward the girls’ dormitories.

  Lokus loosed a long, low whistle, breaking the spell.

  He hunched in pain. Under Djenja’s scrutiny, he’d forgotten to breathe carefully. Lokus caught him under the arm, helping him towards the stairs.

  “They’re right, you know,” his friend said when they’d struggled about halfway down the stairs.

  “About what?” he wheezed, trying not to turn his hips as he made his way down.

  “About whatever you did in there today. If you can do it again, they might have to watch their backs.”

  “It’s a streaming trick,” he said, trying to distract himself. “I’ll teach you.”

  “You were using magic?” his friend sounded a lot more intrigued and a lot less horrified than he would have liked.

  “No. Can’t,” he grunted, biting his lip. The remembered hardship of his failed days at the seminary returned to him and his thoughts turned further and further inward as they neared the bottom. Sensing his mood, Lokus also fell silent but couldn’t remain so for long.

  “You’re not yourself today.”

  That was nothing but the truth. It had been a difficult day. Apparently deciding on the hot baths rather than the dormitories, Lokus led them down a side path. The scalding rock pools would help his bruised flesh.

  “I know,” he confirmed morosely.

  They slogged onwards.

  “It’s a great improvement.”

  He hurt his shoulder hitting Lokus.

  * * *

  “You’ve heard?”

  “Along with half the city, it seems. The Imperial court’s abuzz with the news.”

  He fell into step beside Cyrus, picking up the pace. For all that the elderly priest used his staff of office more and more as a walking stick, he set a brisk pace.

  “Any idea as to the Emperor’s reaction?”

  “No,” growled Cyrus, clomping along the vaulted passage. “Apparently he hasn’t said a word about it. Yet.”

  “He won’t be able to avoid the issue this time,” he mused aloud. “What of the militant wings?”

  “Predictably divided,” Cyrus scoffed. “Half of them are nobles, after all. While they all agree the Renali kingdom presents a unique opportunity, they’re at odds as to how to exploit it. Half are hoping for a Renali offer of trade.” Cyrus scowled. “The others are straining at their leashes, eager for a new war.”

  “No doubt the Chapter Houses have added their own voices to the fray?”

  “As you might imagine.”

  He nodded. Just the suggestion of peaceful relations with the Renali had the capital of Tellar in disarray.

  “It promises to be an interesting time.”

  “Ha!” Cyrus snorted humorlessly.

  They entered the Iris through the great double doors. Cyrus banged the butt of his staff loudly on
the tiles to clear them a way through the gathered crowd.

  “One side! One side! Old man coming through!”

  The buzzing mass of robed priests and priestesses parted around them. The two masha’na either side of the inner door, holding the crowd back with their flat regard, nodded the two senior priests through.

  They made their way down the carpeted stairs and he followed Cyrus when the old priest turned down one of the tiered rows of padded seats.

  “You’re not joining your fellow sitters today?”

  “I can procrastinate well enough from here,” the elderly priest grunted himself into a chair. He was forced to duck as his friend maneuvered the golden staff under their seats.

  “Stupid thing,” Cyrus growled.

  A lot of the front seats nearer the central disc were already filled and the master of ceremony stood in the middle of it, watching people file in. Behind the man rose the high seats of the archons, empty as yet. Looking over his shoulder, he noted that the galleries were near to bursting, as the overcrowded hallway outside had suggested. Every junior priest and initiate who did not rate a seat in the hall proper jockeyed for position near the railing. The tension in the room was palpable, even to a non-empath.

  Next to him, Cyrus tutted irritably. “What a spectacle,” the old priest disapproved, arms folded across his scarecrow chest.

  “It’s the biggest news the Empire has had since the Tamorian capitulation,” he rebuked mildly.

  “We’ll see,” his friend muttered darkly. “How fares your boy?”

  “Better every day,” he answered truthfully. Marco’s progress had been nothing short of remarkable. The boy had rediscovered his zest for life, made new friends and was well on his way to becoming a linguist – if not a scholar. Most importantly, the memory block held.

  In his darker moments he worried that he had steered the boy onto a path to violence. To his shame, whenever he thought this, an image of the eviscerated street toughs assailed him. But it only took an evening’s tutoring to remind him what a gentle soul Marco was. So naïve and forthright. And his fears would be allayed. If anything, the work with the masha’na was instilling an impressive discipline the boy hadn’t had before.

  None of which meant he would relax his vigilance. Violence and bad luck seemed to follow poor Marco. But so far the goddess seemed inclined to shield the boy from the worst of it, sending errant priests, goodhearted urchins and even wild dogs to his defense.

  “And your own… experiment?”

  “Progresses,” Cyrus supplied, chewing at his lip. “Your book has been of some help,” the healer admitted as though it were a confession given on the rack.

  The realization that another had beat him to his discovery, years before – and written a book about it no less – irked Cyrus greatly. But the old priest was too much the pragmatist to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “Oh,” he smiled, aware of the renewed surge of irritation in his friend. “Glad to hear it.”

  “O, hush,” Cyrus grumped.

  In the center of the disc, the master of ceremony rung his staff on the gilded marble twice, cutting through the noise and interrupting his thoughts.

  “Help me up,” his friend wheezed, extending a hand.

  “Please rise for the High Archon,” the master of ceremony intoned.

  The hall rose to its feet, falling silent all the way up to the galleries as the archons filed from their private door, fanning out to take their places on the high seats.

  “Mmm…” Cyrus echoed his surprise. “Must be serious…” he mused.

  He nodded mutely, eyes holding on one figure in particular. Emion Hallet took up his position on the High Archon’s left. One did not often see the Emperor’s spiritual advisor away from his charge’s side. If he were here, the confusion in the palace must be worse than they’d heard.

  High Archon Prelace stepped forward, the curved pauldrons of his office obviously weighing on him. But he wore them and his bronze mitre, engraved with the symbols of an earlier era, with weary familiarity.

  “Join me in prayer,” his voice rolled across the silent hall, cracked with age but heavy with authority. A sea of heads bowed.

  “Holy Helia, guardian mother,” the high archon intoned, switching to the old Temple tongue, “look upon us this day, your faithful children. Grant us your strength to see us through the perilous times ahead–”

  He frowned at this, hoping it didn’t bear relation to the day’s subject matter.

  “–bless us with your wisdom so we may better serve your will. Instill us with calm so we may perceive the tasks you set us and gift us your mercy, for we know ourselves to be unworthy. Unity through faith.”

  “Unity through faith,” echoed the chamber. The high archon reclaimed his seat. A brief rustling filled the hall as everyone did the same. The master of ceremony needlessly rapped his staff on the marble again.

  “This gathering is now in session,” he boomed in Common. “The assembly recognizes Archon Emion Hallet.” Symbolically surrendering the floor to the Emperor’s advisor, the master of ceremonies inclined his head.

  The parched man with the severe mouth straightened from his high seat.

  “Is it true the Renali have sent an emissary?” someone called from the back of the hall, breaching proper protocol. The archon’s mouth thinned further at being forestalled. At length, he nodded gravely.

  “It is,” he confirmed.

  The hall erupted. Surprise, anger and fear ran in loud rumblings along the crowded walls. The master of ceremony rapped his heavy staff on the floor, demanding silence and scowling around the room. The excitement gradually subsided until the last mutterings died away.

  “A Renali diplomat arrived at Fort Bearox the day before yesterday, requesting safe passage to the capital.” Hallet spoke over the renewed upsurge of voices. “The party now heads for the capital with all possible speed. They should arrive within the next two or so weeks.”

  “Is it a new declaration of war?” someone shouted, against all propriety, from the gallery, setting off a new wave of cries. High emotions, too many to count, washed up against his senses.

  The master of ceremony swung towards the invisible speaker, turning red around the jowls.

  “Please, brothers and sisters,” the archon entreated loudly, holding up his hands, “respect the traditions of the assembly.”

  The noise fell towards a more acceptable level and a flurry of hands shot up among the foremost seats, like impatient beanstalks. Calming himself somewhat, the master of ceremony scanned the bobbing appendages.

  “The assembly,” the master boomed, echoes of irritation still evident, “recognizes Sitter Zusia Sillen.”

  The elderly speaker did not bother to rise to her feet.

  “How did we come to hear of this so quickly?” she queried, lowering her hand.

  Having politely given her his attention during her question, Hallet now addressed the assembly at large.

  “We have a monastery not far from Bearox,” he explained. “The etrigan there sent word via carrier pigeon.”

  “The assembly recognizes Speaker Rees Tel Loosia.”

  The younger woman rose.

  “Archon,” she formally addressed Hallet, “is there any indication as to this diplomat’s purpose?” She remained standing, signaling that she had another question.

  “As yet, we are uncertain what his mandate is, except for the fact that it comes directly from the Renali ruler. The diplomat carries with him a sealed quiver of documents, bearing the Renali royal crest.”

  “And,” Tel Loosia continued, using her second question, “is it fair to assume those documents include an offer of peace?”

  A low rumbling sounded at someone’s finally voicing this opinion. The tension in the room took an upshot. The archon pursed his lips, considering his next words.

  “I do not wish to speculate,” he said carefully. “But it does seem likely.”

  A brief flurry of louder voices and e
xcited whispers drowned out the sound of the speaker sitting back down.

  The archon chose the next questioner himself.

  “Sitter Animosi,” he pointed out.

  The stout man rose to his feet.

  “The Assembly recognizes Speaker Animosi Rendle,” the master of ceremony rushed as the large, balding man opened his mouth.

  “Yes,” the speaker said when the master had finished. “What is the Emperor doing about all this?” he directed at the archon, encompassing the entire situation with a wave of his hand. The hall fell silent. As his advisor, Hallet was the most qualified person, besides the Emperor himself, to answer that all-important question.

  “The Emperor prepares to meet the foreign ambassador with all the necessary courtesy and gravity the situation demands,” the archon hedged.

  There was a muttering of dissatisfaction at this uninformative answer.

  “Come now, Emion,” the speaker continued, pushing the bounds of decorum, “certainly you have more for us than that? You are the Emperor’s closest counsel. Have you no idea how the Imperial court will meet this new development?”

  Half-voiced agreements sounded throughout the hall, peppering the archon.

  “As I said,” Hallet reiterated, the perfect acoustics of his vantage overriding the murmuring, “I do not wish to speculate. We will all know more in a fortnight’s time.”

  “Or when it starts to smell.”

  Under the rippling mutters and scattered jeering, only he heard Cyrus’s cynical remark.

  “Interesting times,” he reaffirmed.

  His friend turned a jaded eye on him.

  “Bah! I’ll take dull and boring every day of the week.”

  Around them, the questioning raged on.

  The simple wooden door, such a contrast to the grandness and pomp of the Iris’s main entrance, finally opened to admit the archons into the quiet passage. The hubbub of the hall squeezed in behind them. Down from their high seats, the old priests and priestesses seemed themselves much less grand. Walking in two’s and three’s, wrapped in quiet discussion, none paid attention to the shadowed alcove where Inquisitor Torvan Mattanuy stood unmoving.