Percepliquis

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Stop it!

  The idea was a discord. An off note. A broken thread.

  Stop it! Pull back!

  A distant voice called to her, struggling to be heard over the crescendo of the music she played.

  Regain control!

  She didn’t want to listen; she didn’t like the sound. It clashed with the melody.

  You’re killing them!

  Of course I’m killing them. That is the whole point.

  The Ghazel are gone. That is not who you are killing! Stop!

  No. I can’t.

  You can!

  I won’t. I don’t want to. It’s too wonderful to stop, too incredible. I have to keep going. I love it so—

  Arista woke with a wrenching headache. It was so painful her eyes hurt just from opening. She was in the cabin, lying on the bed where they had found Bernie. A lantern hanging from a hook on the ceiling swayed back and forth, casting shadows that sloshed from one wall to the next.

  She turned her head and pain swelled behind her eyes. “Ow,” she whispered.

  Arista raised a hand and found a bandage wrapped around her head. There was stiffness at the back of her head where the bandage pulled at her hair. Drawing her hand away, she found blood on her fingertips.

  “Are you all right?” Myron asked. He sat beside her on a little stool and took her hand in his.

  “What happened?” she asked. “My head is killing me.”

  “Excuse me a moment,” the monk said, and opened the door to the deck. “She’s awake,” he called.

  Immediately, Hadrian and Alric entered, ducking inside and dodging the lantern. “Are you all right?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that? And yes, I’m fine… mostly. But my head hurts.” She sat up slowly.

  Hadrian looked pained. “I’m sorry about that.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, which made her head hurt even more. “You hit me?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “He had to,” Alric put in, his expression grave. “You—you lost control, or something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Arista saw him glance toward the doorway. “What is it? What happened?”

  She stood up, weaving a bit, her head still not right, and she felt tired to the point of being groggy. Hadrian extended a hand and steadied her. She ducked her head, careful to avoid banging it against the doorframe, and stepped out onto the deck.

  “Oh dear Maribor!” she gasped.

  The Harbinger was in shambles. The mast was gone; all that remained was a splintered stump. The beams of the deck were warped. One board was cracked to the point of splintering, and on the starboard side near the bow there was a gaping hole that revealed the hull below. The topsail was gone, along with the topsail yard, but the mainsail lay across the bow, torn and tattered. The railing on the port side was missing as well, sheared away.

  “I did this?” she asked, shocked. “Oh my—is anyone…” She looked around, searching for faces—Gaunt, Magnus, Mauvin, Alric, Hadrian…“Where’s Royce, Wyatt, and Elden?”

  “They’re okay. They’re working on the ship. Everyone’s okay,” Alric told her. “Thanks to Hadrian. We tried talking to you, shaking you. Wyatt even poured water over your head. You just stood there mumbling and fiddling with your fingers while the ship came apart.”

  Mauvin was smiling at her and nodding. On his forehead a deep cut stood out, and his cheek was red and blotchy.

  “Did I do that?”

  “Actually a flying pulley did that. I was just too stupid to duck.” He was still smiling at her, but there was something behind it—something terrible—something she had never seen on Mauvin’s face before: fear—fear of her.

  She sat down where she was, feeling the strength melt out of her legs. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s all right,” her brother told her, again with apprehension in his voice. They made a circle around her, but no one came near.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Her eyes filled with tears and she let them run down her cheeks. “I just wanted…” Her voice gave up on her and she began to weep.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Hadrian said. He came forward and knelt beside her. “You saved us. The Ghazel are gone.”

  “Yeah,” Mauvin said. “Scariest thing I’ve ever seen. It was like—like what they said Esrahaddon could do, only he never did. It was—”

  “It was what we needed,” Hadrian broke in over him. “If she hadn’t, we’d all be dead now, and trust me, it would have been a very unpleasant death. Thank you, Your Highness.”

  She looked up at Hadrian. He appeared blurry through her watering eyes. He was smiling. She wiped her face and peered at him again carefully. She studied his eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  His hand reached out and brushed her cheeks dry. “What?” he asked again.

  “I—I don’t want—” She hesitated and took a breath. “I just don’t want people to be afraid of me.”

  “That arrow’s already flown,” Degan Gaunt said.

  “Shut it, Gaunt,” Alric snapped.

  “Look at me,” Hadrian told her, and putting his hand under her chin, he gently lifted it. He took her hands in his. “Do I look frightened?”

  “No,” she said. “But… maybe you should be.”

  “You’re tired.”

  “I am—I’m really very tired.”

  “We’re going to be drifting here for a bit, so why don’t you lie down and get some rest? I’m sure things will look better when you wake up.”

  She nodded and her head felt like a boulder rocking on her shoulders.

  “Com’on,” he said, pulling her to her feet. She wavered and he slipped an arm around her waist and escorted her back into the cabin, where Myron had the bed ready.

  “Myron will watch over you,” Hadrian assured Arista as he tucked the blankets tightly around her. “Get some sleep.”

  “Thank you.”

  He brushed her wet hair from her eyes. “It’s the least I can do for my hero,” he said.

  She walked swiftly up the Grand Mar, the broad avenue beautifully lined with flowering trees. The rose-colored petals flew and swirled, carpeting the ground, scenting the air, and creating a blizzard in spring.

  It was festival day, and blue and green flags were everywhere. They flew over houses and waved in the hands of passersby. People clogged the streets. Wandering minstrels filled the air with music and song. Drums announced another parade, this one a procession of elephants followed by chariots, prancing horses, dancing women, and proud soldiers. Stall keepers called to the crowd, handing out cakes, nuts, confections, and fermented drinks called Trembles, made from the sweet blossoms of the trees. Young girls rushed from door to door, delivering small bouquets of flowers in the imperial colors. Noblemen on their chariots wore their bright-colored tunics; gold bracelets flashed in the afternoon sun. Older women stood on balconies, waving colored scarves and shouting words impossible to hear. Boys who dodged and slipped through the crowd carried baskets and sold trinkets. You could get three copper pins for three piths, or five for a keng. There was always a contest to collect the largest variety of pins before the day was out.

  It was a beautiful day.

  She hurried past the rivers of people into Imperial Square. To her right stood the stone rotunda of the Cenzarium and to the left the more brutish columned facade of the blocked Hall of Teshlor. Before her, at the terminus of the boulevard, rose the great golden-domed imperial palace—the seat of the emperor of the world. She walked past the Ulurium Fountain, across the Memorial Green, to the very steps of the palace—not a single guard was on duty. No one noticed. Everyone was too busy celebrating. That was part of the plan that Venlin had laid well.

  She entered the marbled hall, so cool, so elegant, and scented with incense that made her think of tropical trees and mountaintops. The palace was a marvel, large, beautiful, and
so sturdy it was hard to imagine what she knew was happening.

  She reached the long gallery, the arcade of storied columns, each topped with three lions looking down from their noble perch at all who passed that way.

  Yolric was waiting for her.

  The old man leaned heavily on his staff. His long white beard was a matted mess. “So you have come,” he greeted her. “But I knew you would. I knew someone would. I could have guessed it would be you.”

  “This is wrong. You of all people should see that!”

  Yolric shook his head. “Wrong, right—these words have no meanings except in the minds of men. They are but illusions. There is only what is and what isn’t, what has been and what will be.”

  “I am here to define that value for you.”

  “I know you are. I could have predicted it. My suspicions, it would seem, have weight. This is the second time now. It has taken a long time to find, but there is a pattern to the world. Wobble it and it corrects, which should be impossible; chaos should beget chaos. Order should be only one possibility and drowned by all the other permutations. But if it corrects again, if order prevails, then there can be only one answer. There is another force at work—an invisible hand—and I think I know what that force is.”

  “I don’t have time to discuss this theory of yours again.”

  “Nor do I have need of you. As I said, I have finally worked it out. You see, the legends are true.”

  She was irritated with him; he barred her path but did not attack. He merely babbled on about unimportant theories. This was no time for metaphysical debates about the nature of existence, chaos versus order, or the values of good and evil. She needed to get by him, but Yolric was the one person she could not hope to defeat. She could not take the chance of instigating a battle if it could be avoided. “Do you side with Venlin or not?”

  “Side with the Bishop? No.”

  She felt a massive sense of relief.

  “Will you help me? Together we could stop him. Together we can save the emperor. Save the empire.”

  “I wouldn’t need your help to do that.”

  “So you will let it happen?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “I need the wobble. One does not a pattern make. I need to see if it will correct again and, perhaps, how. I must find the fingerprint, the tracks that I can trace to the source. The legends are true—I know that now, but I still want to see his face.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about!”

  “I know you don’t. You couldn’t.”

  “Are you going to try and stop me or not?”

  “The wobble, my boy. I never touch it once I have it going. You go, do what you must. I am only here now to watch. To see if I can catch a glimpse at the face behind the invisible hand.”

  She was confused, baffled by Yolric’s unconcerned attitude, but it did not matter; what did was that he would not interfere. Her greatest obstacle was gone. Now it was just between her and Venlin.

  “Goodbye, then, old master, for I fear I shall never see you again.”

  “No, you won’t. I would wish you luck, but I do not believe it exists. Still, I suspect you have better than mere luck on your side—you have the invisible hand.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE COLD

  The ceiling of the grand imperial throne room was a dome painted to mimick the sky on a gentle summer’s day, and Modina still thought it beautiful. Dressed once more in her formal gown, she sat on the gaudy bird-of-prey throne with the wings, spread into a vast half circle, forming the back of the chair. The throne was mounted on a dais that had twelve steps to climb. She could not help remembering the days they had forced her to practice before it.

  “Do you remember the board you ordered sewn into my dress?” she asked Nimbus, who looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  “It worked,” he replied.

  “Who’s next?”

  Nimbus studied the parchment in his hands. “Bernard Green, a candlemaker from Alburn.”

  “Send him in, and get another log on the fire. It’s freezing in here.”

  Unlike the great hall, the throne room was rarely used, or at least that had been the case until now. When the empress had been a mythical creature, the room had been sealed. Now that she existed in the flesh, the room was opened once more, but it always felt cold, as if it would take time to recover the warmth after those years of neglect.

  Nimbus waved to the clerk, and a moment later, a short, soft-looking man entered. His eyes were small, his nose narrow and sharp. Modina immediately thought of a squirrel and recalled how she used to remember the court of Ethelred by similar associations before she learned their names.

  “Your Grand Imperial Eminence,” he said with a shaky voice, and bowed so low his forehead touched the floor.

  They all waited. He did not move.

  “Ah—please stand up,” she told him. The man popped up like a child’s toy, but he refused to look at her. They all did that. She found it irritating but understood it was a tradition and it would be even more unnerving for them to try to change. “Speak.”

  “Ah—Grand Imperial Eminence—I, ah—that is—ah—I am from Alburn, and I—am a candlemaker.”

  “Yes, I know that, but what is your problem?”

  “Well, Your Grand Imperial Eminence, since the edict, I have moved my family here, but—you see—I have little means and no skills other than making candles, but the merchant guild refuses to grant me a license of business. I am told that I cannot have one as I am not a citizen.”

  “Of course,” Nimbus said. “Citizenship is a prerequisite for applying to a guild and only guild members are allowed to conduct a trade within the city.”

  “How does one obtain citizenship?” Modina asked.

  “Usually by inheritance, although it can be granted to individuals or families as recognition for some extraordinary service. Regardless, one must be a member of a guild to gain citizenship.”

  “But if you need to be a guild member to apply for citizenship and you need to be a citizen to be a guild member, doesn’t that make it extraordinarily difficult to become a citizen?”

  “I believe that is the point, Your Eminence. Cities guard against invasions from outside tradesmen that might disrupt the order of established merchants and reduce the profitability of existing businesses.”

  “How many citizens are there?”

  “At present, I believe about ten to fifteen percent of the city’s population are citizens.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. It’s also a drain on the treasury, because only citizens are required to pay taxes. Also, only citizens have the right of a trial in a court, or are required to serve to protect the city walls in the event of attack.”

  Modina stared at him.

  “Shall I summon the city’s merchant council and organize a meeting in order to review the guild policy, say, tomorrow?” Nimbus asked.

  “Please do.” She looked back down at Bernard Green. “Rest assured I will address this matter immediately, and thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  “Bless you, Your Grand Imperial Eminence, bless you.” He bowed once more with his head to the floor.

  Modina waved her hand and the master-at-arms escorted him out. “I don’t so much mind the bowing—that’s actually nice. It’s the scraping I can’t stand.”

  “You are not just the empress,” Nimbus told her. “You are a demigod. You must expect a little scraping.”

  “Who’s next?”

  “A fellow by the name of Tope Entwistle, a scout from the north,” he replied.

  “A scout? A scout follows the candlemaker?”

  “He just has a status report—nothing urgent,” Nimbus told her. “And the candlemaker had been waiting for three days.”

  A stocky man entered wearing a heavy wool tunic with a little copper pin in the shape of a torch on his breast. He also sported wool pants wrapped i
n leather strips. His face was blotchy, his skin a ruddy leather. The tip of his nose was more than red; it was a disturbing shade of purple. His knuckles and the tips of his fingers were a similar color. He walked with an unusual gait, a hobbled limp, as if his feet were sore.

  “Your Imperial Eminence.” The man bowed and sniffled. “Sir Marshal Breckton sends word. He reports that there has been no confirmed movement by the elves since the initial crossing. In addition, he sends word that all bridges and roads have been closed. As for the lack of movement on the part of the elven force, it is his estimated opinion that the elves may have gone into winter quarters. He has also sent several quartermaster lists and a detailed report, which I have here in this satchel.”

  “You can give those to the clerk,” Nimbus told him.

  He slipped the satchel off and sneezed as he held out the bag.

  “And how are things in Colnora?”

  “Excuse me, Your Highness.” He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. “I’ve been fighting a cold for a month and my head is so clogged I can barely hear.”

  “I asked, how are things in Colnora?” she said louder.

  “They are fine in Colnora. It’s the road between that gets a tad chilly. Course I can’t complain. I’ve been up on the line in the wilderness and there it is colder than anything. Not even a proper fire allowed, on account of not wanting to give away our positions to the elves.”

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “Me? Oh, I don’t need much. I already had me a good hot meal and a sit near a hearth. That’s all I need. Course a soft, warm place to sleep awhile before I head back would certainly be appreciated.”

  Modina looked at Nimbus.

  “I will inform the chamberlain,” he told her.

  “Thank you, Your Eminence,” the scout said, and bowed again before leaving.

  “I never really thought about how it must be out there for them, waiting,” Modina said.

  “Next is Abner Gallsworth, the city administrator,” Nimbus said, and a tall, thin man entered. He was the best dressed of the lot that morning, wearing long heavy robes of green and gold draped nearly to the floor. On his head was a tall hat with flaps that drooped down the sides of his head like a hound’s ears. His face was long and narrow, qualities made more noticeable by the sagging of age.