The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “Stop!” a voice yelled from the other side of the crowd. “This ground is sacred to the Order. You will not desecrate it with your violence. Stop!” Ipid looked up to find Di Valati Wallock standing on the top step of the temple. Dressed in brown robes, he did not look like much except for the rising sun talisman that marked his position as the voice of the Order for the Unified Kingdoms.

  “Hold!” Ipid yelled in Darthur. The warriors looked back at him. They had the man now. Two held his arms as the other prepared to drive his great knife through him. The man sniveled and begged, eyes pleading, fear overwhelming. “Arrest him,” Ipid declared in the Imperial tongue for the crowd. “Tie him and bring him,” he added in Darthur. The warriors scowled but did as they were told, pushing the man’s face hard to the ground and crushing him with a knee as they bound his wrists.

  Ipid looked to the valati and scowled though he saw now the favor that the man had done him. “Di Valati Wallock is correct,” he called. “Today is sacred to the Order, so I will stay the hand. But not even the Order can protect you from the invaders. It could not save Chancellor Kavich or Di Valati Rylan. Even now, on this sacred day, in this sacred place, I am the only one who could stop more blood being spilled. I am the only one that can protect you!” He paused and watched the crowd, eyes blazing, hand a fist to emphasize his cruel words.

  “Kavich is dead because he was too proud to listen. Do not repeat his mistake. If you obey, if you do as you are told, you and your city will be spared. If not, the invaders will burn this entire city to the ground and leave you to the crows just as they did in Thoren. This is your final warning. There is no Parliament, no Bureau, no counselor that you can turn to. I am the law. I am your only hope. Call me traitor, call me tyrant, but know that I am the only thing standing between you and annihilation.”

  He paused, stared at the stunned crowd, fought the shaking that threatened to take him. They were as silent as the dead. He was not even sure if they were breathing. No one had ever heard anything like this. The Kingdoms had been a republic for the entirety of these people’s lives. They had never known tyranny, had never known war or destruction. If Ipid could finish the job, they might not recover in time to oppose him.

  “In the coming days, there will be edicts. You will do exactly as they say. There will be no discussion, no negotiation, no order advisor to present your case. You will not leave this city. You will stay in your homes. And you will work.

  “After tomorrow’s Teaching Day lesson, every able-bodied man will register his skills and be assigned a job within the city. You will report to those jobs on First Day and do them without question. Food will be rationed. Those who do not work will not eat. Further, any man with a good writing hand, bookkeeping skills, or training as an order advisor will report to Stully Manor today. Those who are accepted will be guaranteed work in their field of training. Those who do not come willingly will be assigned to clearing rubble.”

  Another pause and a deep breath. Ipid glowered at the crowd, made himself stare into their stunned eyes, forced his fists to clench and teeth to grind. Almost there, he told himself to keep the pounding in his chest from taking him down. “To mourn will be to guarantee more sorrow. Go home. Be with your families, relish the fact that you are alive. Remember how lucky you are, how quickly that can change. This is your last day to weep. Tomorrow we work.”

  He stared out at the crowd, sought as many eyes as he could, and forced them to the ground. His stomach churned, his mind swooned, his hands shook, his chest ached, but he forced his face to be hard, his eyes to be death. He found the closest Darthur. “Uhurrump!” he yelled. The warriors echoed him, thunder exploding from their mighty chests, and the crowd stumbled back in shock.

  Before they could recover, Ipid climbed into his coach. He found a seat but shook so that he could barely sit. Someone, he could not see who with his head buried in his hands, slammed the door shut. He felt a hand on his back. Someone whispered in his ear, but he could only hear the words he had just said, could only see the crowd’s fear, disgust, hatred, and shock. This is how they will remember you, he told himself. This is what you will be. This is what you have become.

  #

  “You have all seen what the Darthur can do. You understand their willingness to do it. You know that we have no hope of defeating them. You have seen the terms of surrender. Captain Tyne was there to witness the agreement.” The big soldier nodded as Ipid reiterated his words. “I have brought you here because I believe that the four of you represent the best chance these kingdoms have of delivering these terms and avoiding further destruction.”

  Ipid paused and caught the eye of each man – the di valati, the captain, the knight, and the administrator – ending finally on Eia sitting at his side in the same shimmering blue dress she had worn to the inauguration. They were arrayed around an inlaid table that was large enough to house three times their number. The dark wood in its center shone until it nearly reflected the image of each man. The paneled walls were equally fine as was the rug beneath their feet and the portraits that stared down at them on either side, but the windowless room was hot and stuffy so that Ipid felt lightheaded and tucked away so that he did not even know where he was in the great manor. It all left him feeling agitated and unsure even as the Order seemed, finally, to be smiling on him.

  The sun had not even set on the day of his inauguration, and Ipid had already gathered the four men he most needed to rule, had brought them to his side, given them directions and time to turn those into plans. They had returned here, gathered together for the first time, to finalize those plans. By all accounts, everything was proceeding exactly as it should, but Ipid could not dismiss his nagging uncertainty.

  His eyes crept across the men. Wallock was with him, had already given his commitment and done his part. There was no reason to believe he would not do everything required – at least until the mobs came to end it all. Tyne was every bit the soldier. He would do what he was told because he didn’t know what else to do. The other two, however. . . .

  Ipid looked at Jon Cubbington, now his Chief Advisor, the man who would administer it all. He had known Jon since the first year of Ronigan & Galbridge, had hired him to run his third and largest mill. He had proven himself time and again. By no means the smartest, most imaginative, or most aggressive manager Ipid had hired, he was all the more valuable for his lacking in those areas. Ipid had plenty of ideas and ambition. Jon brought stability, organization, tenacity, focus, and loyalty. He was never rattled, never deviated from the plan, never failed to deliver. He had every quality that Ipid needed.

  But did he have enough of them? This was going to be very different from running a mill. The scale of it was immense, the responsibility overwhelming, the timeline insane, the margin for error a razor. There was no room for sentiment or second guessing. Jon would have to be every bit as ruthless as Ipid, would have to accept that sacrifices must be made, that people were going to die, that he could not save everyone. It was a nearly impossible task, and Jon already looked like he might collapse under the weight of it, like he might throw up on the middle of the table or run screaming from the room.

  Ipid suspected that his words to the crowd that morning had started it. Jon had come looking for his friend and found a monster in his place. He had looked like he might jump from the moving coach after listening to Ipid’s terrible speech, and all of Ipid’s attempts to describe what had happened, what they had to do, and how he planned to do it had only made it worse. When he’d finally asked him to serve as chief advisor, Jon had stood as frozen and blank as a statue, mumbling and sputtering like a halfwit. It had taken another hour to get the man to accept, to talk him through the details, convince him that he could do them, and impress upon him their importance. At the time, Ipid had hoped that it had been enough, that he would take up the task and run with it as he always had at the mill. Now, he wondered if he had finally found a job that not even Jon Cubbington could manage.

  And that broug
ht him, finally to the other end of the spectrum. Commander Illich Landon of the Chancellor’s Own had needed no convincing to take the position Ipid had reserved for him. Ipid had barely entered the room before the commander was on his knee swearing his allegiance. After the struggle with Jon, Ipid had accepted immediately and promoted the man on the spot to Field Marshal, commander of all the Kingdom’s military forces.

  At the time it had seemed perfect. A tall, handsome man in his early forties, Commander Landon had all the appearance of the noble families he represented. His face was shaved clean, dark shoulder-length hair pulled into a tail that seemed to heighten the arc of his sharp cheeks and long nose. His teeth, showing in a serious smile, were straight and white, his skin unblemished and tan. His uniform was somehow stiff and straight, showing not a wrinkle or crease. And Ipid had no doubt that all his men looked like him, that they were all handsome, smart, confident, and able. They were all from important families, were revered throughout the Kingdoms, could travel anywhere and bring authority with them. But even more, they had felt the invaders’ power first hand, were true believers, knew exactly how futile it was to fight. They would do anything the invaders asked, would not dare defy them again. But they had also never been hungry, had never been deprived, had never felt powerless. Their only experience with the workers in the streets and fields was of their cheering as they paraded past. The common people were, to Illich Landon, a faceless mass meant only to praise him and his men.

  And Ipid had only reinforced their arrogance by placing them in charge of everything outside the capital. Their confidence, their resolution, would know no bound, and maybe that was what the Kingdoms needed. But Ipid still feared the backlash that would result the first time that resolve was questioned.

  Too late now, Ipid told himself. The pieces have been set; the game has started. Already, it is largely out of my hands. I can only nudge them and hope that they respond. The ambitious valati who supports me only in as much as he can be the first at the scraps when I leave the table. The soldier who will do whatever is asked, but only when asked. The administrator with too little confidence. And the knight with too much. By these four men will we live or die.

  Ipid let out a long sigh, received a nod of agreement from each man, then drew the breath to continue. “You have each been brought here for a specific purpose. You each have a vital role to play in the weeks to come. If any one of you fails, everything will be lost. The mobs will claim our heads, the invaders will destroy our cities, the Unified Kingdoms will cease to exist.

  “Wallock,” Ipid turned to the valati first because he was in many ways the easiest. “Your lesson tomorrow will encourage the people to follow their leaders, to maintain order, to do as they are told. After the lessons, your counselors and acolytes will work with Jon and Commander Tyne to register the people of the city. Jon is creating a list of work crews. Every man in the city will be assigned to one. They will report to these jobs on First Day, or they will receive no rations.

  “Jon, you will create the list of tasks and rosters for Di Valati Wallock. You will also complete a survey of the food stores throughout the Kingdoms and create a rationing plan that takes into account what must be given to the invaders. All food will now flow through you and your bookkeepers. You will take the invaders’ portion and pass the remainder on to purveyors in exchange for the ration chits they have collected. Workers will be paid only in those chits and only those chit will be able to be exchanged for food and basic supplies. Those chits will become the currency of the Kingdoms. People should be encouraged to place their gold and valuables in the banks for safe keeping. The banks will provide receipts and store valuables for free. With the watches stretched to their limits, this will be the best way to ensure against theft and looting.”

  “Sir,” Jon interrupted, voice timid. “That is all fine, but it will take us a few days to create ration chits in sufficient numbers.” His eyes shifted, and he licked his lips. “I have men looking for metal presses that survived the destruction. I’m not hopeful, but even if we find something that will do the job, it will take days to create a decent supply.”

  “Use paper,” Ipid answered in a moment of inspiration.

  “Sir? It won’t last. It . . . .”

  “It doesn’t have to. Destroy it when it is turned in for foodstuffs. Issue new each week. The machines at the mill can make more than enough. I believe there is even a printing press there.”

  “Yes, sir. Two, in fact. And I know of at least three others in the city.”

  “Commander Tyne, have them seized. Jon, put them to work. Any other concerns?”

  “It will be tight, sir,” Jon mumbled, looking down at a stack of papers before him. “The grain harvest is just beginning. Beans are another month away as are apples and other fruits. The livestock are still fattening. They won’t reach maturity until the fall. If we slaughter now, we’ll be trimming the yields by a third. And the Darthur demands, sir. . . . I thought it was a misprint.”

  “No misprint, Jon. And it will be tight, but only for a while. The sooner we get the invaders out of here, the less they will eat. Once they are gone, we can fall back on the beans, apples, and late vegetables. It will be a hard year, no doubt, but the Darthur will have what they demand either way, and a lot fewer people will die if we give it to them rather than making them take it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jon sighed and rubbed his bald head. “We will do our best.”

  “No, Jon,” Ipid leaned forward and brought his hand to the table. “Your best isn’t enough. If it doesn’t happen, the city will be destroyed, everyone will die. Failure is death.”

  “Of course, sir,” Jon nearly moaned and turned an even darker shade of green.

  Ipid took a long, deep breath, looked at each man to ensure that had gotten the message, and turned finally to Field Marshal Landon. “Marshal, you and your men will ride out tomorrow. Your officers will take control of every district and major city and enact these same directives.”

  “It will be as you say, Lord Chancellor,” Marshal Landon announced, cutting Ipid off as he drew a breath. “I just finished briefing my officers. They understand their duties and the importance of success. The Maelstrom itself cannot deter us.”

  “Thank you, marshal,” Ipid said with all the patience he could muster. “You will need to find competent administrators to keep everything moving. Jon will provide you with work orders, rationing plans, and quotas of goods and men to be sent to the invaders.” Beside him, Ipid thought he heard Jon gag. He ignored it, keeping his attention on Marshal Landon. “It will be up to you and your men to ensure those are implemented and followed. The same provision should be made for people to store their valuables in the local banks. Finally, you will create a means for communication. I will expect daily reports, and Jon will need to be in almost constant contact with his subordinates. It will require a network of couriers ready to carry messages night and day. We must not fail because we do not know what is happening.”

  “As you say, Lord Chancellor,” Marshal Landon answered. “We will do whatever is required.” He paused and looked over at Jon with passing unease. “As regards communication, nothing like that exists now, but I have seen it done in Liandria and am confident that we can replicate it here. I have already written orders to conscript the private services. We will start with that, streamlining, redistributing, and supplementing as required to create a network that can meet your needs.”

  “Very well,” Ipid conceded. “Di Valati, after tomorrow, I want every temple in the Kingdoms to deliver the same lesson on Teaching Day. You will write and distribute them. I want the people to see that the Church is firmly behind us. Field Marshal Landon will ensure that the lessons are received and delivered.”

  Wallock sat back in his chair, raised fingers tapping his nose. “That is fine, Lord Chancellor. It may buy us some time, but don’t count on it as a solution to all our woes. The lessons a man hears on Teaching Day are easily forgotten when his stomach rumbles
on First.”

  “A little time is all we need.” Ipid looked at the men arrayed around him one last time and tried to summon some confidence that all this would work. He found little.

  Finally, he took a deep breath. “There is one last thing. My son, Dasen.” He paused, and Eia placed a cold hand on his arm. It summoned a memory of what she had said just a few days before and made the cold seem to extend all the way to his chest. “I tell you this because I trust you. But know that I am talking about my son. He is more precious to me than any power or wealth. Still, I see no other way.” He let out a long breath and stared at the table. “My son, it appears, can use the magical powers of the invaders.”

  Carefully controlled, barely audible gasps answered the admission. Ipid held up a hand to cut them off. “I have only the slightest understanding of how these powers work, but I have been told that he must be trained or he could do terrible harm to himself or the people around him. Thus, for his own good and that of the Kingdoms, I have decreed that he must be handed over to the invaders.”

  The men around the table were too well versed in politics of one kind or another to react to such an admission, but Ipid could see their thoughts depicted in the shifting of their eyes, clench of their fingers, quickening of their breaths.

  “To this end, I am offering a reward if Dasen is captured and brought to me. The man or men who bring him to me unharmed,” Ipid paused to emphasize the word, “will receive his body weight in silver from my own treasury. The same reward applies to his wife, Tethina. Fliers are being prepared that you can place here and throughout the cities. He was last seen outside Thoren but is thought to have escaped the battle down the Orm. He could be anywhere by now. Know that this demand is as important to the Darthur as any on their list. You and your men will do everything within their powers to find Dasen and bring him to me. Do you understand?”