by J. B. Lucas
He smiled to change the expression on his face.
“They are worried about you,” she said and he felt the petulant urge to chastise her for her innocence.
“They are more worried about their politics,” he grumbled. “I’m just their ransom.”
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“I’m entitled to say that.”
“Not when you’re wrong,” she castigated. “These four men all have their influence and authority. What they have in you, Marcan, is a leader by right and by talent.”
“I think that you misunderstand,” he replied.
“What do I misunderstand? That you don’t know who you are, or that you don’t think that you’re ready for the throne yet?” She sounded smug in her rationale.
“I think that you misunderstand their plans for me.” “How so?”
“I don’t think that I’m destined for the throne,” he said. “I don’t think that I’ll be around long enough to even see the capital again.” He opened his eyes, looking at her face for a response.
She was older, settled in her looks, seemingly happy. “You’ll see your family again,” she replied. “Have some faith.”
“I’m a broken man,” Marcan said slowly. “Can I trust them?”
“Yes.”
“Can I trust your judgement of them?”
Another laugh. “Yes, you can. I’ve always judged my husband and his friends more critically than anyone else.”
They considered each other’s faces for a moment, then he smiled purposefully.
“Thank you,” he said. She nodded and put the rags in her wooden bowl.
Chapter 25
The hellish mountains bled into dry savannahs, and Loreticus felt relief and hope when he saw space. He felt he had made a pact with the mountains in exchange for their hospitality, and every crossing was to take a toll from his inner balance. When foothills came to a sudden stop, harder on this side than that of the empire, they cast a beautiful profile which belied their danger.
Ahead was Palova, the new capital of the religious territories. It was easy to enter; there was no major gate, no soldiers, no paranoia of imminent attack.
The city was still being built, a generation after its foundation. The roads ran straight into the centre, at which point the structure broke down into the sprawling chaos of the ancient trading town. Everywhere the architecture was the same: flat fronts with flat roofs, colourful doors the only sign of individuality. Sectors of the city were painted to reflect what types of buildings were allowed–blue for residential, red for trading, green for administration, yellow for the military. The streets were empty at this late hour and Loreticus rode slowly, the hooves of his horses clattering softly in a comfortable patter on the sandstone flags. He wore his hood down on his shoulders, as was the custom and the law in Palova.
A sloping, narrow path, so narrow that his tired and clumsy horse occasionally knuckled his knees on the sharp bricks, led him down to a nondescript arched door. This had retained the same colour as the walls–marine blue to three-quarters up the ground floor and then a lighter sky blue above, which ended unevenly as the second storey grew. He dismounted, stretched as much as he could and rapped on the door.
A spyhole slid open, followed soon after by the whole door. Before him stood a tall, stylish youth with a heavy moustache. His pale skin had absorbed the sun and shone golden, blending into a thin hairline high above a cultivated forehead. Blue eyes sparkled, white teeth quickly flashed and Loreticus was engulfed in a tight bear hug.
“My apostate friend!” roared the young man in a stage whisper. “So happy to see you! You’re early.”
This new accent always jarred unnaturally on Loreticus’s old ears. It had been purposefully cultivated by the Palovans, worried about the lack of their own unique history. But there was something in their commitment to this accent, ugly as it was, that reflected their overall enthusiasm for life. They had created a community described only by superlatives amongst buildings of the deepest anonymity. It was the opposite of his home town. Just walking into Palova, Loreticus felt his emotions more readily and more deeply, as if a button had popped on his imperial costume.
“Javus,” Loreticus returned warmly. He ignored a twinge in his back and simply squeezed his friend with all his strength. They stepped through the blue door, which led into a dishevelled courtyard with two doors, one for the house, and one to the household stable.
Javus turned and clicked his fingers twice. A small man came to his bidding, taking Loreticus’s horse and leading it through to the stables. Loreticus had first been mildly shocked by the vicinity of the animals in the city, even though they slept in a different building. But after his first night in this chilly, half-built environment he realised that the animals acted as company, warmth and security. There was also a humility in their proximity which took away from the established order and compartmentalised lifestyle of the empire.
The other door was already open, and through it Loreticus could see the kitchen, the family table and a seating area at the far end. It was a linear, open room divided into three by narrow arches between columns, keeping the shape and atmosphere of the storage vault it had once been. Figures sat at the end, both female.
“Where’s your father?” asked Loreticus.
“Out scaring the peasants,” laughed Javus, flashing his big teeth again. Loreticus wondered how wide his smile was without that awful facial hair. They walked through the arches, Javus bolt upright whilst Loreticus dipped, constantly aware of the curves in the roof despite being shorter than his host.
“We have an apostate here,” chuckled Javus, swinging his body to one side to reveal Loreticus to the others. Before him sat Javus’s mother and sister, a woman without pretence or worry and her matching daughter. Unlike Javus, both were dark, with narrow noses and eyebrows that curved above happy, wise eyes. The mother rose, kissing Loreticus on both cheeks.
“You need tea, you poor man.” She smiled.
“Thank you, I do. It’s been a long ride and a longer season.”
“I’ve heard. You must tell me everything when we are supping.”
He sat down at a broad, round table which had an elaborate candlestick in its centre. The daughter pored over him, examining his pale face.
“So you’re my brother’s pet apostate?” she joked. “And you’re the zealot sister?”
She extended a hand. “Camina.”
“Loreticus. And don’t call me an apostate too quickly, my lady. I’m friends with my gods, but it’s the men on this earth that I have issue with.”
She exuded a confidence which he found refreshing and which was probably deserved. If she had the intellect which pervaded every other member of her family, then she was someone to pay attention to.
“Are you going to be getting my flighty big brother into trouble?”
“Very probably.”
“Am I allowed to tell my father about your visit?”
“Um . . .” Loreticus looked to Javus, deferring the answer to him.
“I’ll deal with Father.”
Camina rolled her eyes. “Because you’ve had such a great success to date. Just let me know when you’re going to ‘talk’ to him and I’ll excuse myself to the library in advance.”
They smiled at each other, a family joke. Their mother sat down.
“Xania, how are you?”
Very well, dear Loreticus.” She leant over and wiped some dust from his tunic. “How long have you been travelling?”
“For a while,” he said. “A brief stay before the mountains, but otherwise directly from the capital.”
“Your capital,” remarked Camina gently. “Indeed,” he chuckled. “The original capital.”
“How is Felix?” asked Javus, pulling his moustache with his bottom lip.
“He’s well,” he replied. Javus had never met the old man, but he was one of the legends from the time of the exodus, or “Establishment” as they called it here. Javus want
ed to be involved in something other than his modest life and for now he lived vicariously.
“How is our little prince?” asked Xania. Camina turned, showing more attention to this thread of conversation.
“Fine, although dazed and a little adrift,” replied Loreticus. “But then I think we all are.”
“It’s healthy for him to get some of his own medicine,” sniped Camina.
“Shut up, little sister,” growled Javus. “You’ve got no idea of the background.”
“How is this going to work?” asked Loreticus. “Camina here is not the only one in the house who we need to be wary of.”
“Talio knows that we’re expecting a guest and who it is.” Xania looked calmly at Loreticus, who shook his head in shock. “He won’t be a concern. He will abide by our religious code not to put a guest in peril.”
“And as soon as your guest leaves the front door to go back to assume the throne?”
“He’ll be safe–you have my word,” she said.
He couldn’t challenge either Xania’s belief or her honour. He had presumed that there was a hidden room or complex of rooms in which he could stow his contraband. He had tasks to perform in the capital without needing to worry about Marcan being strung up.
Loreticus stood.
“Sorry that my visit was so brief,” he said. He registered their faces as they realised he was beginning to cut them out of his plans. “Javus, if I could ask a favour. I must get back now but my horse is spent. Could I take one of yours? It will be a more than fair swap, I promise.”
“Of course,” smiled Javus, quickly back in control. “Let me walk you to get prepared.”
He let him say his farewells, then draped his arm over the older man’s shoulders.
“Your temper might be the result of your hard journey or something else,” started Javus.
“Temper, no. Sensible risk aversion is more like it. This isn’t something that can go wrong.”
“Let me finish. You forget a few simple things. You forget my father. His reputation as an angry man with a bloody blade is his public face. You know that. Nowadays, he’s got stiff joints and he sees himself more as a persuader.”
“He is an important man in a zealous country.”
“He is a persuader,” Javus repeated. “He will see–he sees–our guest as someone who should be talking with our leaders face to face. We need a truce. We live in constant fear that Iskandar or Ferran will come pouring out of the mountains with their cavalry one morning. It’s the story we tell our children, our ‘end of days’. This is my father’s chance to create a strong link with the empire, not to make a demonstration.”
“This is his chance to hold the empire to ransom.” “No.” Again, Javus was gentle and calm. “I am not a religious man, you know that. I am here because my family is here. I am here despite my father. Why did I volunteer my home and my beliefs unless I thought it safe?”
They stood and watched Javus’s horse being saddled. Loreticus turned and hugged his friend.
“I trust you,” he said to Javus and examined his face as if remembering the details.
“I know,” replied Javus. “You should.”
But I don’t trust your logic, I’m sorry. Come to Felix’s in a few days and I’ll introduce you to him.”
As he rode back out of the town, with night setting, the clouds darker than the sky behind them, Loreticus reflected on how some sons trusted their fathers too much. Every one of those three family members he felt a connection with and trusted on some level. But the family itself–the unit it created–he instinctively disliked and he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the father who poisoned the well. Perhaps they had grown twisted and knotted around his warped view of the world like the roots of an old tree around a broken fence. Whatever the cause, Javus was now the last resort for Marcan’s sanctuary.
Chapter 26
“Did you trust your father, Marcan?” asked Felix. “I honestly don’t know.”
The pair stood on the small mount behind the hall, watching Demetrian and his men run drills, cook, and groom their horses. Selban rarely rose from his bed before early afternoon and so Felix and Marcan had sat together through necessity rather than enthusiasm.
“I knew your father well and I didn’t trust him at all. He was a predictable man, as most generals are, but he was a creature of his audience. He often agreed with the last person he spoke to. A disingenuous man,” observed Felix.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I was thinking about fathers today,” he said somehow conveying a deep melancholy. “I got up, saw soldiers in my house with swords on their belts and felt ashamed. It took me a while to work out why but then I realised. My father always insisted that weapons be removed before people entered the house. It was such a rigid rule that even bodyguards had to abide by it. I quickly noticed that I was angry that these guests were wearing their weapons without a thought for my father’s etiquette. That of course was swiftly followed by a sense of embarrassment.” He spent a moment sucking something from between his grey teeth. “Fathers and childhoods leave long, shadowy legacies. Your father was a manipulator and I wonder how much of him is in you.”
“I am completely my father,” replied Marcan calmly. He wanted to somehow shock this arrogant old man who thought he could insult his late father. “Of course, I am. But I’m not dishonest or scheming, if that’s what you are so bluntly implying. I’m my own person who has lost more battles than he has won. I am a simple wooden figurehead for the likes of Loreticus and Selban to play around with.” “Oh, I’m not saying that,” interrupted Felix. “You’re still the emperor, albeit in exile. You’re still married to the imperial daughter and you’re still the ruling head of the country.”
“So I’m nice and valuable for Loreticus and his chums.” “And you think that you are better off with the generals?” “Wouldn’t you, if you were in my shoes?” He gestured to the damp scrublands around the base of the cold mountains.
“Hardly a triumphant return for a lost emperor.”
“True. But you owe your life to Loreticus. You know that?”
“No, I don’t,” muttered Marcan petulantly. “There are two scenarios in my mind. Either he screwed up and let me get into this mess, or he is not sharp enough to influence a headstrong emperor. Either way he doesn’t look like a success.”
“You’d be a peasant actor still without him,” said Felix. “You know, one trick that you should have learned on stage was honesty. Once you’ve learned to fake that, you can be an actor or a politician.” Felix took a deep breath in, and Marcan understood it to be a judgement of his poor character. “Loreticus is far too keen to play jigsaws with other people’s lives, and we let him. His brains and his charm are his downfall in this respect because no-one challenges the value of his plans or their logical outcome. He’s the best you’ve got, mind.”
“I’m fairly sure that the only person I need is Demetrian. He’s the action to Loreticus’s warbling. I certainly don’t owe my life to Loreticus,” he repeated.
“Why don’t you like him?”
“I don’t like schemers,” Marcan said flatly.
A pause. Marcan didn’t like the subject of the conversation. They were a breath away from discussing the blood-soaked return to the throne that they had planned over those rough peaks.
“Which drug did they give you that night you didn’t shag the girl?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t wait around to chat with her.” “So you think that she did it? Not a slave’s sleight of hand and the Lady Iskandar was an innocent bystander?”
Marcan observed him. His change in posture must have already signalled to Felix that he disliked him and the conversation that he was forcing.
“I don’t hold to that theory.” “Which? The guilty slave?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It implies that Dess was there with other intent than to create a damning scene. That implies my guilt
somehow.”
“Which is?”
“That she and I were involved.” Marcan stood. His chest was getting tighter, his breathing shallower and he needed to suck in the dank mountain air to fill his dry airways. It was dawning on him that perhaps his confusion before his fall from grace had not been an unintentional distraction. Perhaps it was his own quiet mind making sure that he never attempted to fill a role for which he was unqualified. That was ever more the case now.
Perhaps his dislike for Loreticus was based on the fact that the old man could read him so easily. He could command immediate obedience from anyone around him, with that devilish smile and smooth charm, or the frightening ice that lay in his blue eyes. What kind of man denied himself the throne when he had such tangible power? A schemer. A puppet master, making Marcan the puppet.
“There’s another issue which is concerning,” stated Felix in an unnaturally informal tone, typical of a pompous advocate anticipating the deadly blow to his opposite’s logic. He waited for a prompt, bringing his companion back on to his ground.
“And what is that?” Marcan asked, forcing civility into his tone.
“I don’t know of any drug which has such a strong effect as the poison did on you. Normally you are knocked out for a night or a day perhaps, but after you wake up you have only lost that time during which you were unconscious. To lose your own name seems severe.”
“Your point?”
“Do you think that witchcraft was involved?”
The suggestion was mocking and Marcan wondered again about the old man’s agenda.
“I didn’t realise that you knew the details of every drug in the world in every different mixture,” his words laced with sarcasm.
“Oh, I don’t,” replied Felix. “You’re right. I’m stuck up here and might well have missed a new concoction.”
“I need to piss,” Marcan said. He stood up and started walking down the slope.