Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  The floor filled with raucous laughter as a dozen more young lords and ladies called out to second the motion. Muted laughter passed through the gallery overlooking the floor, the bubble of their rapt attention popped by the unanticipated mirth.

  “Order, order in the hall.”

  The steel-clad soldiers snapped to attention, a small thunderclap that silenced the room.

  “You will excuse me, Lord Lemais, if I table the motion without putting it to the floor.”

  The young lord bowed with a flourish, accepting his defeat, and retook his seat, met with a round of backslapping from nearby fellows.

  “Perhaps we can resume with council business?” The steward coughed as he arranged the papers on the lectern, raising a hand in the direction of the gallery with a beckoning gesture. “Our next petitioner is the Honorable Master Kellon, here at the behest of her ladyship Racine l’Euillard, daughter of the esteemed Marquise l’Euillard of the colony that bears her name, absent from this council to attend to private matters. Bailiff, if you would kindly escort Master Kellon to the floor.”

  A man rose from his place seated behind her in the gallery, drawing the eyes of the other petitioners as one of the soldiers escorted him down through a rear exit. A lull on the floor provided opportunity for more private exchanges between the nobles, whispers and gossip passing between them, unchallenged by another call to order. It seemed the wiry man at the head of the chamber opted to pick his battles. She wondered what the steward must have been like as a youth. Not so very different from Donatien, she suspected: all progressive philosophy and love for the law. And now he was a shepherd for the indolent children of the nobility. He’d have made a good candidate for a sketch, if she’d had her pack. One of the sort she saved for herself, even while other sketches showing the opulence of this chamber would sell quick as apple cakes on a summer afternoon.

  “Now,” the steward began, “Master Kellon, you’ve come before the Lords’ Council on a matter of redress for the exigencies of war along the southern border, is that correct?”

  The petitioner stepped forward, sparing a nervous look around the chamber before he replied. “Yes, my lord.” That drew a snigger or two from the nobles, as the steward halted the man before he could continue.

  “I am a steward, Master Kellon, in service at the pleasure of the Duc. Not a lord. Resume your account, if you please.”

  “Yes, my … steward.” A few more choked-back laughs at that, though the man carried on. “I was chosen to speak for the farmers of the village of Alès, to plead for hardship. We had stocked our stores for the coming winter, but with the quartering of the army over the past season, we have little left for the cold months. I had hoped to—”

  “You plead hardship on account of being asked to feed our own soldiers?” one of the lords called, from the far side of the chamber. The speaker rose to his feet, drawing eyes away from Master Kellon.

  “The chair recognizes Lord Courtenay.”

  The lord made a half nod toward the steward, then turned back to address the room. “What are we to make of this? I’d expected a grievance to at least include some tales of border raids, an atrocity or two for spice. Instead we hear the lament of a farmhand fretting that he might be asked to do his share during a time of war.” Murmurs of assent passed through the room. “At least entertain us, if you mean to ask for our largesse, good master. And besides, this sounds a matter for the Council-General, to me.”

  Master Kellon’s eyes went wide. “My lord, I … I mean only to—”

  The steward spoke, cutting short the man’s protest. “The chair concurs with Lord Courtenay’s sentiment that this matter seems best heard by the Council-General. Might we hear from the petitioner’s sponsor for extenuating circumstance? Lady l’Euillard, if you please?”

  A girl stood, seated only a few paces away from the rostrum. She could not be more than ten or eleven years old, yet bedecked all the same in fashions and jewels that could fetch gold enough to feed the poor man’s village for a season by themselves.

  “My lords and ladies.” The child’s voice quavered. “Forgive me if I have erred in judgment. Master Kellon lives on my family’s land, and so he came to us. My household chamberlain was moved by his plea, and asked me the favor of endorsing the request. I fear I have made a mistake, and I beg the council’s forgiveness.”

  Another young lord stood at once. “I cannot bear to see a child so moved, especially one as lovely as the Lady l’Euillard. I move to support this claim, trusting to the virtue of innocence to decide the merit of our charity.”

  A lady’s voice called out a second, and the room soon shared murmurs of assent.

  “Very well,” said the steward in a tired voice. “We have a motion, and a second. Lord Courtenay, will you maintain your opposition?”

  The first young man stood once more. “My lords, my ladies, I could not in good conscience stand against such worthy sentiment. House Courtenay stands with the motion.”

  “Will any other houses champion an opposition?”

  When none came forward, the steward nodded. “Then the motion carries. Look to the clerks for remuneration of your claims, Master Kellon.”

  The man stammered a bewildered protest that he hadn’t named an amount before evidently thinking better of it and accepting the bailiff’s escort from the chamber.

  “Our next petitioner is the Honorable Master Stevren, at the behest of Lord Petreuil Forbin, son of the Lord Admiral the Comte de Forbin, away from this council serving honorably in the crown’s navy.”

  So it went, for another petitioner, then another. There seemed little rhyme or reason to the order they were called; one might ask for the council’s blessing for a mining venture into the southern hills, the next for sanction against a neighbor’s encroachment of the property boundaries of their townhouse. A sure enough bet that none of them had a matter half so urgent as news of a violent group seeding weapons caches in the sewers, intent on bloody revolution. It took no small measure of self-control to restrain herself from taking to the floor and demanding their attention. She’d almost reached the end of her reserve, and never mind the consequences, when the steward finally shuffled a paper and intoned the words for which she’d been waiting.

  “Our next petitioner is Madame Sarine Thibeaux of New Sarresant, at the behest of Lord Donatien Revellion, son of his lordship the Marquis Revellion, away from this council serving the crown as diplomatic envoy to the Thellan colonies in the south.”

  No sooner had she risen from her seat than Zi’s voice sounded in her head.

  Yellow.

  Good. Someone else might have cared about persuading the council by the force of their argument alone. For her, it was enough that they listen, and if that took Zi’s gift, so be it.

  She walked through the back of the gallery, descending the steps with one of the steel-clad soldiers at her side, and presented herself on the floor of the council, every eye crawling over her, weighing her, whispering to their neighbor without diverting their gaze. An unsettling feeling.

  It took the laughter of the chamber to snap her back to the moment. A harsh sound, cruel and mocking.

  The steward coughed. “Madame Sarine? Must I repeat myself? I said the nature of the matter you wish to bring before the council is a garment maker’s subsidy, is that correct?”

  “No,” she said.

  “No?” The steward wrinkled his nose as he looked down at his sheaf of papers. “Am I mistaken somehow—?”

  “No, honorable master, you are not mistaken. I deceived the Lord Revellion as to the nature of the matter I wished to bring before this council. I bring information too sensitive, too dire to share with any but the collected nobles of this city.” The room stirred at that, with most of the looks directed toward where Donatien sat, near the entryway.

  “Irregular,” the steward said. “Most irregular. Realize you risk imprisonment for insulting this council. I would hear from Lord Revellion as to whether he wishes to press—”


  She cut in. “I bear news of a plot to seize power in the city, to foment revolution of the commonfolk against the crown.”

  A mantle of silence thick as a springtime fog settled over the chamber, the quips of the young nobles dying on their lips, unspoken.

  “You offer proof of this allegation?” the steward asked.

  “Search the sewers,” she said. “The east-side tunnels beneath the Riverways. They’ve stockpiled weapons and supplies there, with men prepared to act on their orders in all quarters of the city. They are led by a man called Reyne d’Agarre, a member of the Council-General.”

  Murmurs around the room at that, heated whispers and glares that seemed … angry?

  “Why should we listen to this nonsense?” one of the young lords demanded, rising from his seat. “She comes before us under false pretense, dishonoring one of our own with every word she speaks, and slanders an elected member of the commoners’ council.”

  “I concur with the sentiment,” came another voice. “Her very presence offends this chamber.”

  More nobles made to rise, a tide of anger surging through the room. It hit her like a wave, an affirmation of the voice inside her that cautioned against boldness.

  “Order,” the steward called, evoking another steel crash as the soldiers came to attention.

  The steward continued, looking down on her with a neutral expression. “You understand the severity of this claim, Madame Sarine. Master d’Agarre is a respected member of the Council-General.”

  She took a steadying breath. She hadn’t come so far to wilt beneath a few withering glares.

  “Honored Steward, there is more. The conspiracy extends further, all the way to the highest ranks of the army, to—”

  A trumpet blast smothered her words in brass, and at once the nobles throughout the room rose to their feet. She turned, cut off mid-sentence, to see the crier march through the entryway of the chamber.

  “Presenting His Royal Highness, the Crown-Prince Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon, third in line to the throne of Sarresant, Prince of the Blood and trueborn son of the King Gaurond, may his reign last a hundred years.”

  Even before the crier had finished, a pair of guards in slick leather and purple tabards entered the chamber, casting looks in every direction. The way they flicked their eyes shut confirmed for her they were binders, looking for errant connections. Just as well she hadn’t panicked herself into a Life binding, or some other ill-advised comfort.

  Evidently satisfied, the purple-tabarded guardsmen nodded toward the crier as he finished his announcement, and the Crown-Prince made his entry.

  He was tall, an imposing figure, all the more so for the lavish cloak of blue velvet trailing behind him. The nobles of the council bent the knee together, casting their eyes to the ground as Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon strode toward the dais. In a rush, the steward vacated his seat, doubling over with papers falling loose to the ground around him. The Prince affected not to notice, taking the high seat in a single smooth gesture.

  “So,” the prince said, “this is what passes for a Lords’ Council, on this side of the sea.”

  The nobles retook their seats, with nervous glances for one another and a tenuous silence otherwise.

  “Your M-M-Majesty,” the steward began, his eyes still downcast beside the rostrum. “We had heard testimony of a r-r-rather shocking nature, before—”

  “Who is this wretch who dares speak to his prince unbidden? I will hear no more of your bleating.”

  “B-b-but your M-M-Majesty—”

  “Aegis-Guard Fiorain, if this man speaks again in my presence, kill him.”

  One of the purple-garbed guardsmen stepped forward, interposing himself between the steward and the prince, even as the steward threatened to choke on his own tongue. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The Prince raised his eyes to sweep across the chamber, passing over her as if she were not standing at the petitioner’s mark. “I am not here to listen to your nonsense, nobles of New Sarresant.” He put venom into the last words. “I am here to command. I am here because once, long ago, your ancestors did service to the glory of Sarresant, glory you seem to have forgotten.”

  His speech continued, but she didn’t listen. Inwardly she despaired. Perhaps coming to this council was folly. Even without the damned fool of a prince choosing this moment to extoll the nobility on the virtues of their birthrights, she wouldn’t have convinced them to do more than arrest her, at best. And she knew better than to tempt Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon. That would earn her no better than a death sentence, and a fight to escape his binder guards when she refused to lie down and accept fate meted out by the hands of her betters. A bitter thought. Wasn’t that at the heart of this struggle, in the end? But no. Reyne d’Agarre had murder in his heart. And time was running short, if she was to stop him from the violence for which she knew he yearned.

  In a heartbeat, her instincts snapped her out of her reverie.

  Movement. She’d seen movement, a blur at the edge of her vision.

  The chamber slowed as Zi bestowed his gift, and a Body tether slid into place. She cast a searching look about the chamber. There. One of the soldiers, clad head to toe in polished steel plate, was moving toward the prince from behind. Too fast to be unaided. Either he was a Body fullbinder or he had some other gift at his disposal.

  Two more of the soldiers began to move, the ones to the left and right of the first, all three stationed along the far wall of the chamber behind the rostrum where the prince made his speech.

  Red, came the thought from Zi as she began her sprint toward them.

  Moments flickered past. She’d covered half the distance before anyone in the chamber reacted, but react they did. Drawn-out screams or cries of alarm from most, slowed down but still audible, with fingers raised to point where she’d been moments before. Only the two purple-garbed guardsmen moved toward her, each one speeding up to double the speed of a normal man the moment they noticed her approach. Still half what she could bring to bear. It wouldn’t be enough. Her movement had drawn the room’s attention away from the three steel-clad soldiers surging toward the prince from behind. They were mere steps away from Louis-Sallet’s unarmored back.

  She needed more. In mid-stride she called upon lakiri’in, a gift too new to be triggered by reflex. She hadn’t used it yet, and certainly not in conjunction with Body and Zi’s Red. With the boon of all three at once, she flew. Leaping up to the rail surrounding the front of the rostrum, she sprang into the air, sailing over the purple guards, who now seemed to be moving as if mired in a deep bog. She landed on her feet between the prince and his first assailant, lashing out with a Body-enhanced kick that sent the soldier sprawling back. No time to watch him fall. She spun and went after the soldier to her left, delivering an equally powerful blow that dented the steel of his breastplate, pushing the man off balance. Good enough. Another pivot to the last man.

  Draining, came the thought from Zi. Black. He’s taking it.

  The world sped up as one of her boons left her in a sudden shock. Zi’s Red was gone.

  Even so, she crashed into the final soldier, pushing him away with a two-handed shove. But not before the long knife he carried had been buried in the Crown-Prince’s back.

  She stared, eyes wide with horror, as the screams from the room hit her in a crash. The remainder of the steel-clad guardsmen who had ringed the chamber began to move. And blood spilled to the floor as the prince fell sideways from his high seat.

  The third soldier, now lying on his back a few paces away from the prince, reached up to raise the visor of his full-helm, a twisted look of pleasure on his face. A look she’d seen before. Reyne d’Agarre. He met her eyes, and smiled.

  She screamed in a fury and flew toward him.

  Only, she crashed into a swirling ghostly barrier that had sprung up around her on all sides. Shelter. One of the purple guards came into her view, hands raised as he worked the shield.

  D’Agarre
scrambled to his feet and called out, “Assassin! Seize her!”

  “Zi, I need you!” she cried.

  A black haze stirred at the edge of her vision, and the Shelter barrier around her shimmered, growing thin as Zi worked.

  Then the purple guardsman’s barrier snapped back to strength. Black, came the thought from Zi again. Concentration writ on d’Agarre’s face suggested the cause. How? Had he managed some way to subvert Zi’s gift, to drain away his energy? She felt a rising surge of panic.

  Snapping her eyes shut, she found the tiny cloud of Death beneath the prince. It had to be enough. She tethered it into the Shelter barrier, even as Zi’s power wavered. The inky blackness enveloped the shield and tore a small opening. She dove for it, scraping the edge of the barrier as it closed behind her, throwing her to the ground with thunderous force. Springing to her feet, she rounded on the purple guards. Without Zi’s gift, she’d not get another chance if they managed to enclose her again.

  She drew on Mind and a half-dozen copies of herself sprang into place, each one moving of its own accord. Let them roll the dice and guess which one was right.

  Before she could strike, the world sped up again. Body had run out. How? Was d’Agarre behind this, too? It had not been a deep supply, and the purple guards had tapped it as well, but it should have held longer than this. Still, she had lakiri’in. And the purple guards had nothing now.

  All seven Sarines ran toward the purple guard who had held the shield around her, and another shield sprang into place around one of them. He guessed wrong. A split second later she landed a full-force punch in the middle of his nose, bone-searing pain spreading through her hand. Without Body she was just a slender girl without training for fisticuffs. But bolstered by the momentum of her speed, it was enough to lay him out flat, his tabard ripping as he crashed backward into the railing.

  One problem solved. She whirled about and felt her heart sink. D’Agarre and the other two soldiers who had assaulted the prince were making their way toward the exit. Almost she sprang to pursue, and then she saw what was happening in the rest of the chamber.