by Darren Joy
‘No, no,’ she cried, flinging her hands up in a haze of dust. ‘I meant the clay tablets. The cuneiforms under that stack, over there.’ She sneezed, twice. Her knees cracked the underside of the desk. ‘Yes, yes, there in front of that knobbly thing you call a nose.’
Close to quitting, she shoved several of the documents away, including a stack of rolled vellum maps, bound with twine.
The scribe approached, bare feet slapping the stone flags. His arms were laden with the heavy tablets.
‘Forget it. A waste of time. Cuneiform script is too old, from the year of the heathen, from before that holy bastard Matrod Ral managed to mess everything up. If I could find a precedent among those, it would be deemed irrelevant by all accounts.’ She noticed the scribe’s blank expression. The hapless mongrel couldn’t know how precarious things were. ‘It was a longshot to begin with, Nip.’
The coup had been executed with precision. The last member of the Todralan Family had to take the throne, out of necessity. However, Aiyana was officially missing, thanks to her Darken’s efforts, but her enemies had known this would happen. They would have planned for it. Had she declared for the throne she would now be dead, but if she remained missing, she might as well be.
Her life was in danger, but she couldn’t just run and hide. A precedent to delay proceedings might help. Clever woman, she thought, thinking of her Darken. Disappearing like that had been the only option. It would keep her enemies off balance, not knowing if she lived, if she would reappear.
However, her Darken had gone too far, and Aiyana had given her the slip too, just to get the information she needed. No one else would know what to look for. She didn’t have long though. No doubt, Cathya was having all libraries in the city searched. There were a dozen, this not the foremost or largest, but it did hold the oldest records.
By law, on the imperator’s death the conclave ruled, until they established the rightful heir. That was tradition, of course. The rightful heir was well-known and declared as such beforehand. Due to the actions of one Liviana Avitus, a misogynistic harlot by all accounts, tradition had become necessity. The conclavists could prevent Avitus’ usurpation, but no doubt, she would seek to undermine them. The woman already controlled the legions within the city, most of them under an Avitus commander. She’d heard rumours of arrests and interrogations. Thus far, her vanishing act seemed to be helping Avitus. It had to change. Aiyana was the true leader of the imperium. She had to regain control, somehow.
Idiot, she thought. You’re just going to march into the conclave with a precedent, and demand what? That she back off? She needed other conclavists, and support from high in the legionary ranks. At least on that latter point, she believed she had the upper hand, perhaps. If only she could discover what that witch had brought back with her. Rumours of a strange object like a stone or a sphere had filtered through the palace and beyond. They even suggested it might be the fabled Shathra Stone, an object of mysterious power from children’s tales. She’d set two of her spies to finding out.
Stubbornness and duty kept her within the library tonight, not to mention an imposed curfew by the high exemplar. Paytor Nims had snapped at her to get out of his way, not even recognising her in her dirty clothing and cloak. He’d fled through the oaken doors, bundles of vellum spilling from his arms. Anyone who’d shown loyalty to Aiyana Todralan, anyone who’d loved her, were at risk. Those who didn’t flee kept their heads low, hoping they might survive to serve the new imperatrix, whomever that turned out to be. Aiyana despised those more than the ones who fled.
‘Nip, bring me that stack there. Yes, yes and what’s left of that one. Hurry now, before death and ruin descend on us.’
The mongrel dumped the new stack on her desk. It raised more dust. She sneezed and toppled half of the vellum sheets onto the floor. The scribe’s cowl hid much of his face. Still, Aiyana could make out his scarred features, which remained meek. Nipper did move with an air of stubbornness. Was he trying to irritate her? No, it wasn’t him and the way she’d been treating him tonight, she deserved it. She just couldn’t find it.
‘I don’t suppose there’s a cup of green tea in this forsaken place,’ she said, glancing at the scribe, who gave another flat stare. ‘I would offer you a cup too, you know.’
She stared at the papers littering her desk, defeated. More dust trickled from the ceiling. The building shuddered. Plebs and patricians, both, huddled indoors waiting for the coup to run its course.
Then she spotted a document at the bottom of the pile. The Church kept records of all citizens. She scattered them until she came on the year 356YC and the birth of Pedrana Augusta Todralan. The then imperator had exiled his eldest to the village of Leech in the borderlands, making Pedrana the heir. This she held up to the dim light, scanning it. The vellum was old, discoloured.
She scattered her way through the pile of documents, huffing with impatience. The list was three hundred pages. Much of it was scattered across the floor, thanks to Nipper. Historical notes had been added over several pages.
‘My Lady,’ said a voice, which she ignored.
It was then she found it. Upon the imperator’s death from an unknown malady, Princess Pedrana Augusta Todralan had fought off opponents in the conclave who’d deemed her too young and inexperienced to rule. Her uncle, who supported her, had just happened to be the imperial marshal. After a short civil war, she disbanded the conclave and assumed the throne. It wasn’t until Pedrana’s grandson that matters returned to normal. The conclave consisted of the original nine ruling Families from when the imperium was nothing more than a dream. Pedrana’s grandson had recognised their importance, and reinstated the conclave. Yes, this was what she’d been looking for.
‘My Lady, I have word.’
She glanced at Turol in the doorway. In normal times, the captain would’ve worn armour, but his latest mission was information gathering. He wore common brown breeches and a torn grey shirt beneath a dirty blue cloak. A short sword was in his hand suggesting matters had worsened. A gash marred his cheek. There’d been limited fighting confined to the palace grounds as Greencloaks resisted. Liviana wanted to obtain power without alerting the masses. Seeing his wound brought home to Aiyana how real it was. Both she and Conclavist Saelos had spies and informants deposited around the city, and a good number of soldiers loyal to them both.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘The conclave is being brought to session.’
‘Under whose order?’ As if, she didn’t know.
‘Avitus ... and she also gave the order to gather all conclavists, by force if necessary. Certain names, however, were listed for arrest, yours among them. This is not a safe location.’
‘Thank you, Turol, for pointing out the obvious. Well, perhaps I should attend conclave.’ Now was good a time as any to implement her plan.
‘I would not advise that, my lady.’ The soldier appeared shaken at the suggestion. ‘Certain conclavists and their families are missing, and as I said, you are marked for arrest. It’s all done quietly, but it is happening. If you enter that chamber, you will not leave.’
She thought of those other families and felt the urge to help them, to make certain they remained safe. She fought the impulse. She could do little right now, and her duty was to all, not to a few families. She thought of poor Misla. She swallowed her guilt.
The captain’s face showed genuine concern and an eagerness to be gone. ‘There are several patrols moving in this direction. I will escort you.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she muttered, grabbing the papers on Pedrana. She stood, towering over the scribe, considering him. She bent and cupped his scarred face in her free hand. ‘It’s time to go, but I have one more task for you, Nip.’ She placed a note, the contents encoded in a script known to but a few, into his stubby fingers. ‘Make sure you place it straight into his hand.’ She expected to see him in conclave. He would not run. She could’ve delivered the message herself, but there were too many eyes in Icarthya.
Nipper nodded, stuffing the sealed note within his robes.
‘Now, get your scabby hide out of here. Once you’ve delivered it, find a hole and hide in it.’ She would hate to see anything happen to him. The mongrel wasted no time in hurrying past the captain. She couldn’t help wondering if she’d see him again.
Aiyana gave the soldier a long stare, as she considered what to do. He seemed on edge, and she couldn’t blame him. He also risked his life. Much would be risked before all this was over. ‘Captain, how many men have you that can don armour, and be ready within the hour? Men you trust.’
‘If you are planning what I think you are, not enough.’
‘I seem to remember a time, when you answered questions and followed orders, captain, without comment.’
He looked abashed, but to his credit didn’t look away when he spoke. ‘Your safety is my first concern. It is my duty. I will do and say what I must to that end, but I will always obey your direct commands, as long as they don’t interfere with that duty.’
Aiyana nodded. She knew he was a good man, if a bit motherish. That seemed a common malady these days. ‘I’ll find my own way. An armed escort, even one dressed as you are, might alert them to my presence. I can be discreet.’ I managed to fool my own Darken to reach this library, didn’t I? ‘I want you to find Conclavist Saelos and secure any soldiers he can spare. He won’t like it, but there it is. Oh, and you will steal some conclavist robes, and bring me water and a hairbrush. You know where to find me.’ She quickly filled the captain in on the rest of her plan. Ornias Saelos would have a fit, as would her Darken.
Afterwards, at a safer location, having combed her hair and braided it neatly, she checked herself in the small mirror. As she left for conclave, she couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t deluding herself. Would she make it out of that place alive? To find that out, she first had to attend.
Chapter 9
Squabbles
IN HIS HASTE to escape, Threadfin had become lost. He stumbled through a forest of birch and elm. Tarl Forest stretched across a vast territory, but he thought he’d been heading east, and should’ve met the River Corb. He’d planned to follow it south to where it joined the Noy. A bit out of his way, but that second river would’ve guided him most of the way home.
There were villages and towns along the Noy. He might’ve acquired a mount along the way too. Instead, he’d found endless rows of trees. He trudged through layers of dead leaves and moss, the earth wet and slippery. There was little life save noisy crows in the canopy. A white-feathered lizard, two foot in length, raced across his path and disappeared into the undergrowth.
That shrivelled organ, which was his excuse for a heart, ached. At one point, he knelt in the mulch of leaves and earth, begging for Tezcat’s forgiveness. He’d failed her and as if further proof were needed that he was worthless, she’d given up her existence for his. It took time before he could gather himself enough to continue. If not for the danger to his sister, he might’ve lain there, and waited for his end.
His mind wandered with his feet, and distracted, he tripped and fell down a muddy slope. Now on his back, he spat out lumps of dirt and leaves to find six faces glaring down at him. Each was twenty foot tall and made of limestone. They had wings and held blades or staffs. Many were weather worn, pockmarked and moss covered. The sweeping wings suggested angels. For years, he’d wanted to see the Shathra, and then he went and fell on top of it. Perhaps it was a distortion of light, but the faces appeared deformed. They glared in judgement.
He fingered the misshapen crucifix about his neck as he stared up at them. There were also graves in the clearing. A soggy blanket of leaves covered most, amid clumps of tall ferns. The statues stood guard over the weathered green-tinged headstones. To call them headstones was laughable. Many stood askew, but each was eight-foot tall and four wide. Odd markings, faded by weather and time, marred their surfaces, which were splodged with moss and discolouration.
A noise startled him, and he froze.
Beneath the treeline, a figure emerged from the gloom.
FACE HIDDEN WITHIN the cowl of her conclavist robes, Aiyana Todralan marched along an open arcade, lined with marble columns. Two conclavists, also in the striped robes of office, walked ahead, whispering. Exemplars flanked the men. The soldiers behaved as though mere escorts, but they were more than that.
She was taking a tremendous risk, but no one would see past the robes. She hoped. Torches cast shadows across the ornate ceiling. She studied the figures twisted in battle. The fresco was a record of Icarthian history, the scenes echoed throughout the palace in silver, gold, jade, and vermillion.
At the end of the corridor, arched doors opened inward. She entered behind the others, passing between two red-cloaked guards in polished laminar armour. More conclavists and guards entered behind her. She hoped to blend in unnoticed. Imperial politics meant that not all conclavists got along. There was no need for her to speak to anyone. Still, even the most irascible of politicians had their little cliques. It was perhaps best not to announce her presence until the right moment. There was no sign of that heathen termagant just yet.
Beneath the rib-vaulted ceiling and high arched windows, white haired Polius Augustus had the floor. He strutted half bent at the waist, across the vast expanse of patterned tiles, interrupted by numerous tall torch stands he needed to manoeuvre around. Yellow tongues of flame flickered as he passed by. His arms wide and uplifted, Polius’ voice echoed through the cavernous chamber. Bordered with pillars, the chamber was windowless and dim, with a seldom used upper balcony. Mounted on the pillars were more torches.
At one end was an apse covered by a semi-dome. Within the recess was a seat on a dais accessed by several broad marble steps. She thought of the conclave as a chamber, but it was more alike to the interior of a church. The walls swept back into shadow beyond pillars carved with the faces of the Todralan dynasty, or of angels with stone wings. Aiyana hated the Imperial Church and had done everything possible as a child to avoid attending those death-inducing sermons. Eyes on the Imperial Seat, she fiddled with the ring on her left hand, tracing the silver wings with her finger, as she pretended to mingle with other arrivals.
Polius’ peers sat on marble benches to one side, with each row higher than the next one. The lesser families of the minorum class sat on the uppermost tiers. There were numerous gaps, perhaps little more than half of the usual one hundred and fifty present. Not that it mattered, their role merely to nominate the regent fulfilled. The final vote of the patriarchal families on the lower benches was what counted.
Guards stood hidden in the gloom. Since her father’s death, the Imperial Quarter was in lock down, soldiers everywhere and all wore red. This was the first opportunity for the conclave to gather and discuss their predicament.
Polius continued speaking, while those seated shouted, hammered on their knees in agreement, or chatted among themselves. She felt both relieved and irritated that none noticed her. Several glanced in her direction as she took her seat, but Polius’ oration had the attention of most.
‘... and where is our presumptive leader, eh?’ sputtered Polius with hoarse gusto. His stick-thin arms waved about from voluminous striped sleeves, his robes of office oversized, or perhaps their occupant underfed. ‘Oh, don’t glare at me like that, Davard. You know what she plans. We all do, or why are we here? She demands attendance, soldiers dragging us from our homes, from our beds. Demands that we each support her ludicrous claim, and then she makes us wait upon her for two hours?’
‘And what would you have us do?’ demanded Davard Tystrus. He was a fat balding man of sixty-five years in damp robes, beads of sweat lining his forehead. He attacked his face with a cloth as he spoke. There was always a space to either side of him. His reek was legendary. ‘Avitus hold ten seats and therefore ten votes. It is beholden on us to obey her summons. Avitus holds the majority.’
‘Perhaps it has more to do with the high exemplar and his swords t
han the number of seats,’ suggested Lucius Aidarius, a man with a long nose. One finger probed a nostril as though he’d lost something up there and was determined to root it out.
‘Ten seats,’ shouted Polius pacing, waving his arms as though scaring off an imaginary flock of crows. ‘Ten seats and is there one Avitus here in conclave this day? Is there?’ A handful looked about as though an Avitus might pop out of hiding. Aiyana bowed her shrouded head lower. Several others still had their hoods up too, she was glad to see.
‘The number of seats is irrelevant,’ Polius continued, ‘if they are not present. Shivar holds as many and my own family hold seven, giving us as much.’ He gestured his flailing arms towards his relatives who appeared either embarrassed or indifferent to his words. ‘What gives Avitus the right to treat us this way?’
‘I thought I already pointed that out,’ said Lucius, ‘and since when does seven equal ten? Sit, you old fool. You’re making me dizzy with all of your prancing and prattling.’
‘There are no Shivars present, anyhow,’ announced Markus Cipius. He was a man, younger than others with iron-grey hair and a square jaw, who once served in the legions. His family held but four seats. His sister Rylana and his aged father and uncle sat around him. ‘Sit down, Polius and rest your bones. You’ll give yourself heart failure and me a headache. Avitus will show and we will put this business to rest.’
‘No, no,’ said another conclavist, standing up. It was Polius’ elderly father, Cicero, who’d appeared asleep until that moment. The man must’ve been a hundred years old and scrawnier than his son. ‘Polius is right. Why have we been gathered here? We should send word to the imperial marshal. We need Sarscha Todralan.’