by Stan Nichols
The chieftain could feel it now. A bass sensation in his bones; a sound too low to be audible. The distinct impression of events about to collide. He gazed stupefied at the warlord. ‘Who…
what
are you?’
‘I am Doubt, made flesh,’ Zerreiss proclaimed.
And the Earth began to shake.
The royal palace in Merakasa was a vast bubble of tranquillity in an ocean of foaming disorder.
Away from the city’s glamoured chaos, inside the palace’s innermost walls, another world turned. Paths wound gently through sumptuous grounds which were thick with trees. The colour of every bloom delighted the eye. But no birds ever sang there.
Nearer the palace itself, the pastoral met acres of white marbled courtyard. Here there were arbours, arches, and benches no one ever sat on. Where grass ended and flagstones began the tradition of marking subterranean power channels was respected. Coloured lines, unerringly straight, homed in from all compass points. A spider’s web of red, black, peach, blue and a dozen other shades, all kept freshly tinted.
The vivid stripes continued inside the palace itself, running the length of corridors and under walls, cutting across the floors of rooms. They intersected deep in the palace’s heart, in the
sanctum sanctorum
which only Gath Tampoor’s ruling dynasty had ever entered. A massive vaulted chamber, ringed by impossibly tall pillars, lit by radiances whose source could not be seen. Quietly opulent in its decoration, sparely but tastefully furnished, it was perfumed by rare essences smouldering in iron braziers.
Entering from every direction, the lines gave up their rectilinear courses, curved, intermingled and flowed into an enormous circle upon the floor. Their colours blended too, and became glistening silver. Within the circle, and linked to it, shimmered the burnished emblem of Gath Tampoor: the pyramidal teeth of a stylised sunburst, enclosing a magnificent dragon. Permanently glamoured, the coiled, scaly beast belched sheets of orange flame.
One of the dragon’s great eyes was a hollow cavity. A smooth-sided pit large enough to comfortably drop a stagecoach into. The content of all the channels fed the pool at its bottom. Magic’s chariot, quicksilver with the consistency of honey, coursed and blended there. The pool’s shining surface, agitated as the liquid ebbed and fluxed, would often settle and take on the properties of what might best be described as a window. A window that showed images from a myriad elsewheres.
Not that most people would recognise the images as such, or indeed the window.
A small group clustered around the eye. One of them held the most powerful position in the empire. The others had blood ties to her. They dressed in spectacularly expensive glamoured raiment, and several were accompanied by chimera companions. These were beautiful or repulsive in the extreme, as dictated by taste.
Empress Bethmilno XXV was very old. Though assuming she was senile could prove fatal. She wore thick white face powder. Her lips were a scarlet wound, her eyes and lashes heavily lead blackened. Artificially dark, her hair was piled up and lanced with long silver pins. Her garb was light-coloured and delicately glamoured, so that its continuously shifting display of patterns changed subtly.
The group studied the recess, seemingly untroubled by the intense cold it gave off.
‘There!’ the Empress exclaimed, pointing to a stir of shadows in the quicksilver. ‘And again, there.’
‘Does it have the same source, Grandmother?’ a young man asked.
‘Yes, the barbarous lands. Though not so far north this time.’
‘These disturbances in the grid grow stronger and more frequent,’ an older man remarked. ‘It beggars belief that one human being could have such an effect.’
‘Yet it appears so,’ Bethmilno said, ‘for all that he’s an ignorant savage.’
‘Is there any precedent?’
‘None.’
‘This should have been nipped in the bud,’ another grumbled. ‘It’s past time this upstart was dealt with.’
The Empress viewed him sternly. ‘You can’t honestly believe the warlord could endanger us in any way. When has any threat from the people ever done that? To interpret this as some kind of hazard to the imperium would be to take it too seriously.’ She paused, and added, ‘We have not come this far, however, by being incautious. And there are considerations beyond the problems a single warlord may bring us.’
‘Rintarah,’ the grandchild supplied dutifully.
The Empress smiled indulgently. A sight which, to an outsider, might appear grotesque. ‘I could wish others were as focused on realities as you, my dear. It should never be forgotten who the true enemy is.’ She looked to them all. ‘Rintarah. Of course.
Always
Rintarah. An alliance between them and the barbarian could seriously upset the balance.’
‘As could a union with the insubordinates,’ the first man suggested.
‘We are alive to that possibility. Although for my part I consider them more a nuisance than a threat. A disorganised rabble.’
‘Not everyone holds that opinion.’
‘I am aware of that. We take every precaution.’
‘But still they strike at us.’
‘The way a gnat might attack a buffalo.’
‘Surely the real danger is the possibility of the Resistance and Rintarah uniting against us?’ another of her kin offered. ‘It would make sense, backing one side against the other.’
‘I consider that the least likely option. The insurgents are equally opposed to both empires, and their movements in both are linked. No, Rintarah wouldn’t unite with them any more than we would.’
‘The Resistance shows signs of greater organisation. That must be a cause for -’
‘There’s something you should try to understand about them,’ the Empress stated, every inch the condescending matriarch, ‘however long it takes you. And it applies to all our subjects. Anarchy is their natural state. Look at how they treat the magic we permit them. They resent control, yet, save a minority, have never marshalled themselves sufficiently to oppose it. They are cattle, and cattle don’t have the imagination to run the farm.’
‘True. Though some are of hardy stock.’
She waved away the qualification. ‘The bulk of their fellows can be relied on to drag them down. Don’t underestimate the power of apathy. Overwhelmingly, the people are too preoccupied with the baubles we throw them to bother us. But don’t take that to mean we ignore the so-called Resistance. Steps are being taken against them, and this renegade warlord.’
‘What steps?’
‘We’re continually tapping the essence,’ she nodded at the pit, ‘for a clue to the nature of his power. In addition, there’s the fact-finding expedition to the northern wastelands we’ve decreed, under the Bhealfan flag. As a precaution, the crew will be allowed higher grade glamours as part of their arsenal.’ She noted her family’s apprehensive expressions and made to reassure them. ‘That’s not a matter for concern. The magic will be supervised by trusted servants, and is sorcerer-specific and non-renewable. There’s no chance of it proliferating.’
‘And the Resistance?’ someone prompted.
‘I’ve ordered that action against them be more draconian. The paladins are proving a useful tool in this respect, and they’ll be given greater overall control of strategy. We’re increasing infiltration of the dissidents’ ranks, too, and that policy is already paying dividends.’
‘What if things come to a head with the warlord despite these efforts?’
‘I grant we may well have to meet him in open conflict. Be assured, that would be a long way from our borders, and the outcome would not be in doubt.’ As she spoke, the Empress absently worried a tiny scab on the bridge of her nose. The flap of skin detached. She looked at it, flicked it away. ‘As far as our own subjects are concerned, that could be a bonus. There’s nothing like a war to distract the populace.’
Someone who hadn’t spoken before cleared his throat and vent
ured, ‘There is one possible aspect to all this we haven’t considered.’
The Empress raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘The Qalochian,’ he replied hesitantly.
Her gaze narrowed at mention of it. There was a general shuffling of feet. One of the chimeras, emotionally linked to its owner, briefly transformed from comely to hideous.
‘What of him?’ she asked tightly.
‘You know that our intelligence indicates he may have fallen in with the insubordinates. Potentially, that’s the most perilous development of all.’
‘I know that. The situation is under review.’
‘But this isn’t as straightforward as our other problems, is it? Given the rules of engagement that must be followed in respect of this man, our hands are tied.’
‘It’s time that was re-examined, too,’ someone muttered.
‘You know that’s impossible,’ Bethmilno snapped.
‘So we’re to let him run loose and do as he pleases? Until he realises the real extent of the havoc he can cause?’
‘No,’ the Empress stated flatly. ‘Reeth Caldason will be dead before we allow that to happen.’
The quicksilver pool swirled darkly.
At the core of Jecellam’s regulated, well-policed streets, there was an extensive walled compound. In its outermost ring of joyless buildings the distribution of food, laws and lies was overseen. The structures forming the complex’s nucleus were devoted to governance and power. It was here that the Central Council met, in chambers only they frequented.
Where Gath Tampoor followed the western tradition in choosing a dragon as their emblem, Rintarah drew on its eastern heritage. Its symbol of state was a shield embellished with an eagle in flight, wings outstretched, lightning bolts playing in the background. The image was everywhere: on flags, mosaics, public transportation vehicles and the stained glass of temples.
But its most striking manifestation was reserved for the few. This was to be found in the grand council chamber, a cavernous hall where sunlight never intruded. As in Gath Tampoor, the colour-coded lines of power were here too, penetrating the inner sanctum from every bearing. Each of the lines ran to one of the sturdy legs of a mighty table, big enough to seat forty with ease. The table was fashioned in the shape of the Rintarahian shield, with the eagle and lightning motif etched into its surface. Glamour energy animated the portrait, so that the bird’s immense wings slowly flapped as the lightning rippled.
On this occasion the council was not seated at the table; their deliberations were taking place at a far end of the room. This section housed an aperture not unlike the one in Merakasa, except it was plainer, the sole concession to ornamentation being the waist-high brass rail surrounding it. In every important respect, however, it was the same: a smooth-sided well into which the channels bled liquid metal that made a churning pool.
In styling themselves a council, the rulers of Rintarah may have given the impression that some kind of equitable process was involved in their selection. This was not so. Every councillor was related, and there was no nonsense about democracy. This day, perhaps a quarter of them were in attendance, staring down at the agitated quicksilver.
The council’s Elder, a position matched in power only by Gath Tampoor’s Empress, was Felderth Jacinth. In common with Bethmilno, he was of very advanced years. He was tall and rangy. His skin was unblemished and he retained a full head of hair, though there was more than a hint of the unnatural in these assets. The richly coloured brocade he wore lent him a touch of the grandiose. It was certainly a counterpoint to the severity of his surroundings.
‘I have grave suspicions,’ he announced, studying the disturbance in the matrix, ‘that Gath Tampoor could be behind this.’
‘How can they do something we can’t?’ a kinsman wanted to know.
‘Some breakthrough, some new application of the Craft…Who knows?’
‘One we haven’t discovered ourselves? How likely is that?’
‘I find it easier to believe than the idea that an ignorant conqueror’s causing this. These events are becoming increasingly recurrent, and they’re growing in strength. Something more powerful than a lone man has to be involved.’ He was gripping the rail, white-knuckled. Although that was probably due to thin blood.
‘Perhaps another alliance is responsible,’ somebody suggested.
‘Those who style themselves the Resistance, you mean.’ The Elder snorted derisively. ‘How could that be? What power do the citizens have beyond what we gift them? No, the people are sleepwalkers. If it weren’t for the fact that their usefulness to us marginally outweighs their annoyance value I’d advocate a cull.’
‘Who’s going to keep the lawns trimmed for us then?’ a wag opined.
There was laughter at that.
Elder Jacinth remained sour. Almost to himself, he said, ‘These fluctuations in the energy could be a ploy, of course. Some ruse on the part of Gath Tampoor.’
Another of his kith was sceptical. ‘A trick that can affect the essence? That’s just as hard to believe. And to what purpose?’
Frustrated, the Elder sighed. ‘This isn’t getting us any nearer to dealing with the warlord, whoever he may or may not be allied with.’
‘What about the expedition our spies told us about?’ the sceptic pressed. ‘From Bhealfa to the northern wastelands? If it really is exploratory, doesn’t that indicate the Gath Tampoorians know as little about this Zerreiss as we do?’
‘
If
it’s exploratory. It could be a bluff, misinformation to throw us off the fact that they already have a pact with him. Or it could be the aim of this expedition to forge one.’
‘But if they’re as much in the dark as us, sending such a mission is exactly what they’d do, isn’t it?’
‘I concede that as a possibility,’ Jacinth replied, stony-faced.
‘In which case, shouldn’t we mount our own expedition, and with all speed?’
‘I confess I’ve been thinking about doing just that. Up to now I’ve been reluctant to do so on the basis of rumours about a Bhealfan expedition. But in view of these ever more violent disturbances to the essence, I think perhaps you’re right about this. I’ll order preparations at once.’
‘That means we could find ourselves in a race with Gath Tampoor,’ a councilman mused.
‘There’s more than one way to win a race,’ the Elder reminded him. ‘Whatever they may have offered the warlord, we’ll top it. We can always renege later, when he’s served his purpose. He’s only a barbarian who’s been lucky, after all. Let’s not forget that.’
‘Bhealfa seems to come up a lot these days in terms of problems.’
‘It’s one of the hotbeds for dissidents, there’s no denying that.’
‘I was thinking more in terms of a specific problem,’ the councillor said. ‘The last sightings we have of Caldason are in Valdarr. If he’s linked up with the Resistance -’
‘He’s not demonstrated a leaning towards them before.’
‘As far as we know.’
‘Are you suggesting some connection between the Qalochian and the warlord?’
‘I don’t know. But look at the sequence of events. Caldason turns up in Valdarr, and apparently begins associating with known dissidents. That’s what the paladins tell us, at any rate. At more or less the same time, the warlord’s power reaches new heights.’
Jacinth pondered the idea. ‘Hmmm. Caldason is the only individual we know of who just might be able to affect the matrix in the way we’re seeing.’
‘Can he really do that?’
‘Should he come to an awareness about himself, he possibly could, yes.’
‘If ever there was a neck worthy of stretching on a rope, it’s the Qalochian’s.’
‘Him and his whole damned race. I’d love to be able to take the gloves off and deal with Caldason. I’ve often been tempted to go against the protocol and have him killed.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Which proposition?’
‘Both. Can the protocol be breached and is it possible to kill him?’
‘Ending his life would take special measures. As to the protocol… well, that would prove a lot harder.’
‘But not impossible?’
‘Who can say? These are uncharted waters. Though it might be prudent to see what steps could be taken to that end.’ There was a nodding of heads all round. ‘But for the time being, more immediate matters require our attention. The hour has come to contact our principal agent in the Resistance ranks. Make ready the grid.’
With a fluidity that came from ample experience, two of his cohorts swiftly enacted a silent conjuration. Instantaneously the essence made connection with some other node elsewhere in the matrix. A spume of cold fire erupted from the well, shaped like an enormous candle flame and made up of a billion vivid sparks. Slowly at first, a shape began to form in the boiling flame. In seconds it solidified and became the image of a recognisable human figure.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-44e01c-3185-6f44-dc9b-c059-7f3a-d58369
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 15.03.2010
Created using: Fiction Book Designer software
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