by Simon Brown
‘You mean you choose your own fate? You mean you are apart from destiny?’
‘There is no destiny apart from that we make for ourselves.’
‘So you are walking along a mountain trail and a rock falls down and kills you. How is that destiny?’
‘Accidents will happen,’ he said lightly. ‘I allow for that. Falling in love with Englay Kevleren was an accident.’
‘Such a cold word for such a warm passion,’ she said, now walking in front of him and somehow facing him at the same time.
The thing that was Englay brushed against the iron weight at the end of a curtain cord. There was a faint, almost imperceptible flash of blue sparks. Englay’s form wavered slightly around the edges, then corrected itself. She went on as before, seemingly oblivious of what had just happened.
*
Rodin came to Mycom’s rooms in the chancellery.
‘How was she today?’ Mycom asked despondently.
‘As charming as ever,’ Rodin said, sitting down in his usual chair. His face was covered in a fine patina of sweat caused by the humidity in the aviary with a good dose of fear thrown in. What they recognised as human in Lerena seemed to shrink day by day, and one of the hardest things was ignoring the expressions of her Axkevleren and servants, pleading for escape from the aviary, from Lerena, from Omeralt itself, where once they had been among the most loyal and devoted.
‘The thing that most irks me, you know,’ Rodin said, taking off gloves and slapping them on the floor, ‘is that there is no smell of blood.’
Mycom blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on, Chancellor. She uses up one or two of those poor bastards in the pens every day – I’m a Kevleren, so I can feel it when she sacrifices – and yet I cannot pick up a trace of it. I detect no blood, no sign of the Sefid, there are no bodies there . . .’ He looked ashamed. ‘I can no longer Wield. It’s as if there is nothing left for the rest of us.’
‘How many, exactly, is the rest of us?Could someone else be Wielding, perhaps without Lerena’s knowledge, helping to use up the Sefid that way?’ Mycom asked.
Rodin shrugged. ‘I don’t know how many there are. I have a nephew I see occasionally in the palace precinct, but he’s in hiding most of the time. There’s Paimer, of course, in Beferen, but he never could Wield. And we now know that Maddyn died more than three years ago in some stupid battle for that ridiculous colony on the other side of the world. Besides, Lerena is so steeped in the stuff now that if anyone tried to Wield I’m sure she’d know about it and do something to . . . correct . . . the situation.’
‘Does she have any instructions for us?’
‘She wants to know if the navy has sent anything to Kydan. She’s determined to prick them.’
‘And has anything been done?’ Rodin asked. Military matters he left in Rodin’s hands.
‘The order only went yesterday, and probably wouldn’t even be in Somah yet. We’ll find out soon enough.’
‘What have you recommended?’
‘That a small flotilla should be sufficient, say four or five ships. The admiral there, someone called Agwyer, is a bit of a buffoon if memory serves correctly, but all he has to do is get his force to within shooting distance of Kydan, lob a few shells towards it, sink some coastal traders and skedaddle back to Somah. I suggested the Hetha be his flagship.’
‘The Hetha? She’ll sink in the first puff of a storm!’
‘They’ve done a lot of work on her to make her more stable,’ Rodin countered. ‘Besides, all it does is sit in Somah’s harbour rusting away. It’s about time we got some use out of all the money that was spent on designing and building her. A steamship, by the Sefid! No wonder the empress is suspicious of your engineers.’
Mycom bristled, but kept his voice under control. ‘It’s my engineers that built the steam carriage that will get your message to Somah in two days.’
‘We’d have no need for a steam carriage to carry messages if there were Kevleren enough to go around. Lerena could have sent the message to one of us in Somah in no more than a moment’s casual Wielding.’ He looked down at his gloves and said sullenly, ‘She touched them, you know. I should burn them.’
Rodin froze as soon as he spoke the words. He suspected that the chancellor, like himself, had followed the same path, regarding the empress’s evolution, from awe to disbelief to barely repressed revulsion, but the two men had never openly spoken about it, partly from their sense of duty as the empress’s men and partly from a growing fear of her abilities and power. Over the years they had worked together, Rodin had grown to accept, at least subconsciously, that they were on the same side, at least in their opinion of Lerena.
But up to now neither of them had ever expressed such an opinion, not given voice to their fears.
Mycom stared at Rodin for a long moment, as if deciding what he should do or say next. Then he said quietly, ‘Did she want anything else?’
Rodin swallowed.
‘General?’
‘Yes,’ Rodin said, sounding exhausted. ‘She wants us to send someone to the county north of Koegrah.’
‘What? The hills? Whatever for? There’s only a few cows and sheep and lonely farmers up there.’
‘She seems to think something’s awry. Have you heard anything?’
Mycom shook his head. ‘But if there was something wrong way up beyond Koegrah, we would not necessarily hear about it. Not for years.’
‘What about tax? Who collects up there?’
‘There’s not much wealth to tax. Most of the big landowners belong to your family, and lived here, so there was no need to send collectors all the way up there.’
‘And now that most of my family’s been killed off there’s no one to worry about it one way or the other. I suppose Lerena could be right.’
‘Do you want me to send someone from the university? I’ve got some student physics and a grammarian or two who could do with some extracurricular work.’
‘No. Better send a soldier, just in case. In fact, I’ve got just the man. Young officer making his way up the ranks. Performed well in Rivald, and on the frontier before that.’
‘Well and good,’ Mycom said, glad not to have the responsibility for it. He nodded to the gloves on the floor. ‘I don’t care particularly if you do burn them, but I don’t want them left on my floor if it’s all the same to you.’
*
On his way to his office and out of the corner of his eye Paimer noticed an aged, bald man with an aquiline nose and rheumy eyes in the line outside his office. At first only the seed of recognition set in his mind because he was carrying a list of twenty urgent tasks that had to be seen to by him personally after the afternoon’s interviews, and he was trying to set them into some kind of priority. Then he entered the office, closing the door behind him, discussed the problem of wood rot in some nearby buildings with Avenel, took his seat and only then asked his secretary to let in the appellants one at a time. When Avenel opened the door to admit the first, Paimer caught his second glance of the man.
‘By the Sefid,’ he whispered, feeling himself flood with memories and guilt. ‘Wait!’ he shouted to Avenel. ‘That man! Fourth along!’
Avenel went to stand by the man the duke had recognised.
‘Yes. See he is taken immediately to my rooms and given whatever refreshments he requires.’
Avenel did not hesitate. He called a guard across, repeated the order, waited long enough to see it carried out and then went back to the start of the line. He looked up questioningly at Paimer, who nodded, and told the first appellant to go on through.
The afternoon went painfully slowly; Paimer spent as much time with each interview as he thought warranted, but wished fewer had come with complex and detailed arguments in support of their respective cases rather than saying straight out what they wanted and what they would do if it was granted. The sun was low and the light seeping away when he felt he had done his duty and sent the rest of the appellants home.
Avenel took their names so they would be first in line the next day.
Paimer almost ran to his rooms and burst in upon his guest, who was sitting with a bent back in front of a fire and sipping delicately from a small glass of wine. As soon as he saw the duke he put down the wine and stood up.
‘Dayof Axkevleren!’ Paimer declared, went straight to him and took him by the shoulders, his face beaming.
‘Your Grace!’ the old man said, more than surprised. ‘You remember me!’
‘Of course I remember my own household’s chamberlain! How could I ever forget?’
The expression on Dayof’s face brought Paimer up short, and he recalled what he must have been like when his illness was at its most severe, just after the massacre of the Beloveds. ‘I am sorry, Dayof. Of course. Those days when I was ill – four years ago – must have been terrible for you.’
Dayof swallowed. ‘Your Grace is . . . better?’
Paimer laughed. ‘Oh, so much better, my faithful Dayof. You would not believe what I have been through! But yes, I remember everything now, all my crimes and mistakes.’
‘I am more than glad to hear those words. I have been hoping since leaving your estate that I would find you repaired, sir. And now here you are. You are Lord Protector, I hear. That’s even grander than a duke, is it?’
Paimer nodded. ‘I think so. At least, I have no intention of ever giving it up.’
Dayof seemed uncertain.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Does that mean you’re not returning to your estate, your Grace?’
‘Not immediately; but I sent instruction to you for its running.’
‘I received them, and acted on them. But you will not come in person?’
‘The empress ordered me here, and she does not look like releasing me in the near future.’
Dayof looked abashed.
‘What is wrong?’
‘Your family is afraid to leave the estate and return to Omeralt. There are stories, sir, stories travellers bring us about goings-on there.’
‘My family? And what are these stories?’
‘You do not remember, your Grace? After the death of all the Beloveds, her majesty sent many, including you, to your estate so you could recover. Well most of them have, although one or two will never be what they were, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Paimer had gone pale as snow. ‘I just assumed they had returned to the capital. How many?’
‘Well, there’s two nephews and a niece from your mother’s side, y’know, Atemann and Bayer – it’s sad about him, sir – and Beremore, and then six cousins within third rank and another three who are further removed, so to say,’ Dayof counted on his fingers. ‘That’s a clean dozen, your Grace. And many of their Axkevlerens.’
‘And you say none want to return to Omeralt? What has happened?’
‘We hear about sacrifices, sir, all the time. Great pens in the palace holding people from all over the empire, all ages and conditions. And it’s all for Lerena. One a day at least, sometimes two. And they say her aviary is changing, growing, and that no one likes being there anymore. It’s a terrible place, your Grace. I wish you could come back to the estate. Your family needs you more ’n’ ever.’
‘Come back?’ In that instant Paimer could imagine returning to his home, to being alone and untroubled once more in his own estate, without responsibility except to family and servants.
‘We could sit in the study together,’ Idalgo said, ‘and drink wine and look out over your father’s gardens.’
I could be the old duke again, Paimer thought, the arrogant conniving fool who cared for nothing except his own survival and the occasional compliment thrown him by his niece.
He looked at Idalgo, and his Beloved smiled at him.
‘Or I could stay here,’ he said aloud, ‘and behave like a real duke, still arrogant, but no longer a conniving fool.’
Idalgo’s smile disappeared, and then so did the rest of him.
Dayof was looking at Paimer as if the crazy duke had returned.
Paimer took his hand and patted it. ‘Don’t worry, Dayof. I am not returning to my illness. Indeed, I am finally shaking it off.’ He put a finger to his lips in thought for a while, and then said, ‘Instead of my returning to the estate, I have a better idea. Why doesn’t the estate come to me?’
15
There was a gush of steam from the engine and the councillors in the carriages behind it all jumped in the air, including Poloma who had been half expecting it. But it was such a sudden whoosh of energy, such a spitting, hot white plume, that he could no more help his reaction than his fellows.
‘By Kydan and Frey!’ cried Rodan Semjal, who was sitting on the bench next to Poloma. ‘Is it going to explode?’
Poloma actually laughed, although he tried hard not to. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it is just releasing . . .’ he racked his brain for the right term, but it had been so long since he had been on one of these he was having trouble, ‘. . . up steam or steam up or steam in or something.’
‘It already has steam up, begging your pardon, sir,’ said the coachman, leaning over from his seat in front of Poloma. ‘What’s happening is that there are valves that let excess steam out.’ Despite originally being from Hamilay, the coachman spoke in Kydan. The Hamilayan accent was still strong, but for Poloma the evidence of assimilation was strongest in the way the new Kydans had picked up the native language to such an extent that many of them now used it between themselves; too, children born to new Kydan families in the last three years were learning and using Kydan in preference to their parents’ mother tongue. In exchange, Kydan had adopted a whole raft of Hamilayan words, particularly in areas where Kydan had no equivalent, such as ‘steam carriage’ and ‘empress’.
‘Ah, see, Rodan?’ Poloma said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘What happens if the valves don’t work?’ Rodan nervously asked the coachman.
‘You don’t want to worry about that now,’ came the reply. ‘It’s such a lovely morning, why spoil it with gloomy thoughts?’
Poloma laughed even louder, and some of the councillors viewed him with irritation. They were uncomfortable, not a little afraid, and here was their prefect having a jolly good time at their expense.
Heriot elbowed Poloma in the ribs.
‘Ow! What was that for?’ he asked, rubbing his side.
‘I agree with them, Prefect Poloma Malvara. Last time I was in a steam carriage it was like a cattle pen on the way to Somah. I was terrified.’
‘But this is perfectly safe,’ Poloma argued.
‘If it’s so safe, where is the strategos whose fault all this is?’ Rodan demanded.
‘Waiting for us at the other end,’ Poloma explained. ‘There wasn’t room for any of the advisors with all the councillors aboard. Besides, back in Hamilay she caught more steam carriages than you’ve got hairs on your head.’
‘Then one more time wouldn’t have hurt her,’ Rodan shot back, patting the hair on his head.
‘I agree,’ Heriot said consolingly.
The coachman let out the brake and the engine lurched forward. The councillors all gasped as one, sounding like an explosion of steam themselves. The carriages bumped along the rail, following the engine as the slack in the tow lines was taken up. The councillors grasped the nearest railings like terrified children as the engine pulled them along the main street of Herris, then up and over the newly completed iron bridge linking Herris with Kayned, the twin of the one that likewise linked Herris with Karhay. Dark puffs of smoke from the engine trailed over the carriages and slowly fanned in a strong northwesterly, the trade wind of spring. At the bridge’s highest point they were almost level with the tallest mast of the Kitayra Albyn, Kydan’s latest and most powerful warship. The councillors forgot their fear and looked on in a mixture of admiration and awe at what their city had wrought in three years. Beyond the Kitayra, anchored in the bay, were the Sorkro Malvara and the Prince Maddyn, all three ships named
after those who had shown courage and defiance against the Kevlerens. They looked something like the old schooner Annglaf, but writ large, and with as many square sails as fore-and-aft. Along their sides were nailed sheets of iron, and along each of their two upper decks sprouted the mouths of longgons. Kydan made longgons. More importantly, they were Kydan-designed longgons.
And it was not just the ships. Plumes of smoke like grey columns lifted into the sky from the foundry and armoury at the western end of Kayned, producing iron and weapons in a manner never seen before in the New Land. Across the channel on Herris there was the start of a university, small but growing with four engineers and a physic halfway through their course. Finally there was the steam carriage itself, only just completed and the latest example of the new technology the Strategos Galys Valera had brought them, seemingly out of thin air, and which represented the city’s only chance against their huge, slumbering foe across the Deepening Sea who might even now be waking from its long sleep.
*
Almost a city, Arden thought, standing on the nearly completed second dock for Sayenna. This one was not as long as the original, but broader with deeper water around it and easier access to new warehouses that lined the foreshore near its footings. As well, new roads, deeply set and filled with finely crushed blue stone, now connected the docks and joined with Sayenna’s main street, which in turn left the city from the north and headed inland for a good longmile, accompanying The Wash and easing the last day’s travel for merchants and trappers and craftspeople making their way to the sea.
Trade had picked up with inland tribes and communities all the way along The Wash and the Elder and Younger rivers, continuing on to the Walking Mountains, and by sea with Kydan and the villages that dotted the coast in between, and across the Deepening Sea with the empire through its great ports of Somah and Bowtell and increasingly Beferen in the south. Money and people were coming in, and with them the resources Arden needed to improve the common lot. He knew in his heart that this was more than city-building, it was state-building. It would only be a matter of time before Kydan recognised Sayenna’s growing influence and wealth, and so either created some kind of confederation that allowed room for both to grow cooperatively, or artificially limited Sayenna’s growth to maintain Kydan’s clear pre-eminence. The last would be a tragedy for all, not least the New Land. With both cities strong together there was a chance for a new civilisation to be created without Kevlerens and recourse to the Sefid, a civilisation that did not rely on slavery but on machines for its strength and wealth.