The False Martyr

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  “Is there anything that won’t make you lose sleep?” Eia cooed. “Trust me. Tomorrow, Vontel will return, and you can spend the rest of the day stewing on his words. There is no use in spending the night on them as well.”

  “It cannot be worse than what my imagination will muster.” Eia had forced him back all the way to the bed. His legs bumped against it. He nearly fell. “I am wide awake. I might as well start thinking on it. Then I might have an answer in the morning. And that is not the . . . .”

  Eia stepped into him, put her hands on his hips, standing close enough as to be touching. He tried to keep his distance, but there was nowhere else to go. “He is not one of your subjects,” she interrupted, voice a whisper, mouth in his ear. “Your authority with him derives from the request of his Emperor, which in turn derives from the Belab.” Eia’s hands had somehow found the tie to his robe. It opened. Her lips brushed his chest, hand moved down to feel him. “And you should be happy you found me talking with him rather than in the room of someone who truly is your subject. Now that would undermine your authority.”

  Ipid could not help the thoughts that came into his mind. He imagined Eia again with one of the other men, and for some reason, his body responded.

  “Hmmm,” Eia smiled. Her lips found his. He could not help but kiss her. “Apparently, I needed you more upset, not less. I’ll remember that for the future.”

  As his desire grew, Ipid found it harder and harder to maintain his anger. His robe had somehow fallen away. Eia’s joined it on the floor. She went to her knees, and the concerns of his beleaguered nation became trivial.

  #

  “The news can’t all be good,” Ipid fumed. He glowered at Jon, convinced the man was part of Eia’s conspiracy and no longer willing to keep quiet about it. “What are you keeping from me? Why are you lying to me?”

  “Lord Chancellor,” Jon stammered. He looked down at the papers before him with fear and confusion, nearly wincing as if expecting to be struck. Ever since they’d toured the work in the Capital District, Jon had been like a beaten wife around a drunk husband. Beyond that, he was clearly exhausted and nearly failing under the stain of his innumerable responsibilities. “I . . . I have told you everything. These are all the reports I have.”

  “How dare you?” Ipid’s fist hitting the table. “You have never . . . .”

  Eia placed a hand on his arm. He glowered at her, but she just smiled. “It is not Jon,” she explained in Darthur. “He is perfectly loyal.”

  “Then what was last night about?” Ipid’s attention stayed on Eia, but she just looked at him. Finally, Ipid realized that he had fallen back into his own language. He repeated himself in Darthur – they’d told Jon, Tyne, Wallock, and Landon about Eia’s true identity but still used the invader’s language when secrecy required it. Across from him, Jon watched the door, clearly wondering if he should remain for what was, by all indications, a martial dispute and desperate for an escape even so.

  “Vontel can tell you when he arrives,” Eia responded calmly. Her hand caressed his arm. She was a model of composure and watched him as if she might transfer some of that composure to him. “Now, apologize to Jon. You are scaring him.”

  Ipid just barely kept himself from growling. He bared his teeth, and Eia patted his arm like a mother calming an overworked child. “He is telling you everything he knows,” she tried again. “The transfer of power, the work on the roads, the take of food have all met or exceeded expectations. He is doing an excellent job and should be commended. So apologize and commend him.” She squeezed his hand, face turning from disappointment to command.

  Across the table, Jon looked like he wanted to disappear. He could not have understood their conversation, could only imagine it was some lovers’ spat that he wanted no part of. He was clearly exhausted, stressed, overwrought, but he was here. He kept coming back. His own family, wife and four daughters, were safely outside the city. Did he miss them? Undoubtedly. And he could have gone with them. He did not need to show himself at the inauguration, did not need to take the risk, did not need this aggravation. And he really had done a remarkable job. The rationing system was working far more smoothly than Ipid had any right to expect. The work crews were efficiently organized. Life was far from ordinary, but the city still worked, maybe even more efficiently than it had before – granted with three-quarters of its previous population for all the people who had fled. And Jon had organized it all, had created a staff from nothing, had implemented Ipid’s directives, had seen that they reached every corner of the nation, and nearly worked himself to death to do it. Certainly, Eia was correct. He deserved better.

  “I am sorry, Jon,” Ipid said with a sigh. “You have done a remarkable job, far better than I ever would have thought possible. You have done so well that it is difficult to believe. It is beyond cruel for me to defame your success. You deserve my and the Kingdoms’ thanks.”

  “Thank you, Lord Chancellor,” Jon smiled stiffly but continued fidgeting nervously. “I have simply implemented your edicts. As always, you have provided the blueprint. I simply turn it into reality. Yet. . . .” He cut himself off as if unsure whether to continue.

  “Yet, what?” Ipid pounced. He knew there had to be clouds behind the silver linings. Nothing was ever this easy.

  “It is . . . well . . . it is not really for me to say, sir.”

  “Speak, Jon. I need to know the hard truths. We will never make it through this if you withhold your opinions from me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jon looked at the table and picked at the already bleeding skin around his thumb. “I don’t know how long things will continue this way. I have no numbers or official reports to back my words, which is why I hesitate to share them, but I fear this is as good as the news will get.”

  Ipid sat forward, eyes boring into his chief advisor. Jon was notoriously cautious. He almost never spoke without clear evidence to back his words. At the same time, he knew exactly how to get the most out of his people, how to organize them, how far and hard to push them. “Tell me,” Ipid demanded.

  “I have no proof,” Jon demurred. “No one has reported anything, but . . . .“ he paused and seemed to change direction. “At the mill, we paid the workers far more than they would have made in the fields.” Ipid nodded, thinking back on his arguments with Dasen, at his son’s allegation that more was not the same as enough. “The men were always happy when they first came, but it never lasted. Too often, that extra money went to drink and gambling. They ended up grumbling that they needed more, that their children were hungry, even though they earned far more than they’d ever had. Sometimes, their gripes would become more than that, and we’d have to fire them, but it was easy to get rid of the discontents because there were three others waiting to take their jobs.”

  “Where’s this going, Jon?” Ipid looked at his hands, growing impatient.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to see the same thing here,” Jon blurted. Ipid looked up. He suddenly understood, but Jon misinterpreted his expression. “Let me explain,” he said quickly. “Right now, people are just happy that no one’s blowing up their homes. Most of those that stayed stocked up on food before the attack, so they’re not even hungry yet. The work is hard and dangerous, but it’s still better than war. But it’s not going to be long before their children are hungry, their backs ache, they see the man next to them die in one of those accidents, and they start thinking. Most men only see what’s right before them. They never see the danger over the hill or how much worse things could be. They are either happy or unhappy now.”

  “And you fear that this is as happy as they will get?”

  “I do, sir. And that is not to say they are happy, just that they are . . . compliant. Men who come to the mill from the field aren’t usually happy, just happier than they were. Soon the memories of the fields fade, and they just think about how much their backs ache that day.”

  “I see.” Ipid appreciated the insight but had already anticipated such dissati
sfaction. If anything, Jon had explained why it wasn’t arriving as quickly as he expected. Was that the message from Ambassador an’ Pmalatir? The question jumped into his mind, setting his every nerve on edge.

  “There’s one other thing, sir. At the mill, we sacked the grumblers. If men were causing trouble, the foremen let us know, and we got rid of them.”

  “You want to know how we will get rid of the troublemakers?” Ipid asked.

  “No, sir.” Jon wrung his hands. His eyes clouded as his mind clearly went to Ipid’s inauguration when he’d seen exactly how his employer-turned-Chancellor planned to deal with dissent. “I . . . I don’t . . . I mean, you’ll do what you have to do. What I mean is . . . how do we find the troublemakers?”

  #

  The answer to Jon’s question withheld his presence until the day was almost complete. With every passing moment, Ipid’s irascibility increased. By the time he finished his afternoon tea, he was so tightly wound that he could barely swallow. He knew now that Eia had planned this, that Ambassador an’ Pmalatir had the answer to Jon’s question, that she was keeping it from him on purpose. Why, was the question. Did she want him to fail? He could think of no other reason for her to have secret meetings, no reason for her to keep their content from him. And if he had not happened to have woken? Would he ever have known that they were withholding information from him?

  If the ambassador knew the names of those stirring resentment, Ipid needed to act immediately to remove them. Every passing moment allowed them to infect more minds, to solidify their support, to foster rebellion, to be tipped off and hide. He could not help but think that the previous night would have been perfect. The traitors would have been asleep, easy to find, and gone before their supporters rose to start their day. And now the moment was gone. By the time it reached him, the news would be stale and worthless. His hands would be tied, dissent would organize and spread. Like weeds, iis seeds would spread with each passing day until the only way to remove it was to plow the entire garden under.

  As desperate as he was, he could not get anything from Eia. He had tried cajoling in the morning, demanding after breakfast, ignoring before lunch, threatening as they ate, yelling and screaming at tea. None of it had swayed her in the slightest. If anything, she seemed to enjoy his anger and met each outburst with increasing attempts at affection, leaving those who served him to bear the brunt of the anger that she deflected. Though it was in no way their fault, every aid, advisor, and servant who had walked through the doors of his office had been abused in some way. It was to the point that they now entered the room cringing.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Eia placed a cool hand on his. He looked at her with hard eyes, wanting more than anything to strike her. “Soon,” she mouthed.

  He shook off her hand and turned back to the bookkeeper standing on the other side of the desk. “The Darthur don’t eat hogs,” he snapped at the man. “Why are they included here? I’ve told Jon that time and again. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Lord Chancellor, I . . . I am sorry . . . I . . . I thought we were still to send the hogs because the other peoples will eat them. I . . . I will remove them at once.” The bookkeeper – a younger man than Ipid might except, wary and nervous at the best of times – stammered and fumbled with his papers.

  Ipid gave a great sigh. The man was correct, of course. The other peoples who accompanied the Darthur would gladly eat the hogs even if the Darthur would not. His mood and inability to concentrate were only making an already difficult task harder for the people around him. “No,” he yelled. “Don’t remove them. We’ll never meet the invaders’ requirements if we withhold the hogs. There aren’t enough cattle and sheep in the country. The other groups of invaders will eat them.”

  The bookkeeper’s mouth bobbed up and down. He stared at the papers before him. With some effort, he swallowed his words and accepted that his ruler might not want his inconsistencies pointed out. “Of course, Lord Chancellor.”

  “Is there anything further?” Ipid growled. The Order help the man should he answer in the affirmative.

  He looked down at his papers, mouth working – clearly there were more items to discuss – and made a wise decision. “Nothing for now, Lord Chancellor.”

  “Very well then, off with you!”

  The bookkeeper did not even bother to stack his papers before backing toward the door, bowing all the way, a mangled pile of paper pressed to his chest, wet ink staining his jacket, conical hat precariously close to tumbling.

  “It’s not his fault,” Eia whispered from behind. Her hands found his shoulders, and her mouth lowered to his ear. “That poor fellow has done nothing to draw your ire, and now he is so traumatized he may not make it through what little remains of the day.”

  Ipid was too riled to feel any regret. He was the Chancellor and a tyrant at that. He would be angry at anyone and everyone he chose. He was just about to tell Eia exactly that when the office door opened – nearly hitting the bookkeeper in his haste to be away. “The esteemed Ambassador to the San Chier Empire has asked for an audience, Lord Chancellor,” the butler said from just inside the door, his deep baritone effortlessly filling the room.

  Around the room, men looked up from the books and papers where they were diligently scribbling. Ipid had no idea what many of them were working on or why it needed to be done in his presence, but he also wasn’t in the mood to ask. As his eyes scanned them, the men returned to their work, scratching with a fervor seldom seen and shrinking into their desks as if hoping to disappear. It was the first time Ipid had paid any of them the slightest attention, but they had clearly seen the fate of others who drew his eye this day.

  “What does he want?” Ipid asked. He glared at Eia. She just rolled her eyes, consigned to his petulance.

  “He did not say, Lord Chancellor. Would you like me to inquire?”

  Ipid thought about sending him away, making him wait, having the fat bastard arrested. “No, I will meet him in the study. Send him in.”

  He stood and walked to the side chamber without waiting for Eia or the ambassador. The room was dim and windowless. After the brightly lit main office, it was a dungeon. Refusing to stop long enough for his eyes to adjust, a chair caught his toe as he maneuvered around the too large table he’d had placed in the room. He pitched forward, barely recovering before his head met another chair.

  Behind him, Eia giggled. “Careful. You might knock the indignation right out of yourself. What would you do then?”

  Ipid threw back the padded chair at the table’s head – nearly toppling it in his fury – and sat. His fingers drummed the table as he glowered at the door, waiting for the ambassador. Eia found a seat at the far end, facing him – keeping her distance, no doubt. She matched his expression with a mock scowl. Ipid wanted to slap it from her face.

  “There you are,” Ambassador an’ Pmalatir announced as he strode through the door. He looked around the room. “My goodness, do you think you could have found a bigger table? I don’t know if I’ll be able to fit.” He held his great belly, tented again with a purple tunic and scanned the room. His eye caught Eia, and he smiled as if to an old friend. She returned his smile and examined the room as if actually considering his question.

  “Shut the door,” Ipid demanded.

  The ambassador did as ordered, but without any sign of subservience. “Is that any way to address a representative from a potential ally on the eve of a war with the largest, most powerful nation on this side of the Clouded Range? It is the hope of the Most Holy Empire as established by our Great Savior Xionious Valatarian that we might find common cause with our rightful western kingdoms in this pending war against the fallen rebels that occupy the lands between us. However, if you cannot show proper respect to those who speak on behalf of the Final Arbiter of the Order’s Will as ordained by our savior, the Emperor of the Rising Sun, we will be forced to reconsider the terms under which we will provide our aid.”

  Ipid released a long breath. He
had neither the time nor patience for these games. “Sit!”

  “Oh my, you do have a lot to learn about diplomacy. First, you should recognize that in matters of state, I represent the Emperor and all his peoples and should be respected as such. Given that our nations are on friendly terms, you should greet me as a relative equal. Stand, shake my hand, greet me warmly, say something like, ‘Ambassador an’ Pmalatir, I am pleased to see you. Thank you for coming. The people of these Unified Kingdoms want to extend our warmest regards to our fellows in the Empire.’ You could then give us a pleasant, easy topic to discuss, preferably something that shows your regard for my nation. ‘I am so looking forward to this year’s vintage. How is it progressing?’ is a good entry. That allows us to talk about a topic of mutual interest before the real negotiations begin. Now, would you like to try again?”

  “What was it that you were discussing with Eia last night?” Ipid asked, ignoring the ambassador’s advice entirely.

  The ambassador was unflappable. “I’m sorry, Lord Chancellor. I think you misunderstood. I know it is tempting to address the most pressing topics early, but controversy should always be left for the end. That way, even if I become offended and storm from the room, you will have accomplished something.” He looked from Ipid to Eia and back with a rise of his shoulders. Finally, he addressed Eia, “He really is taking the tyrant thing to heart, isn’t he?”

  She watched him cautiously then smirked. “I’m afraid we have expended the Chancellor’s limited patience. He is convinced that we are conspiring against him.”

  The ambassador looked indignant. He stared from Eia to Ipid and back again. “Why of course I’m conspiring. I’m an ambassador. That is one of my most important duties. How else can a nation be expected to conspire except through its diplomats? I am horribly offended that you might think otherwise. That, however, is no reason to be rude. Conspiring is what people do, but we still maintain our manners. It is what separates us from the animals for the Order’s sake.” He pulled back a chair and lowered himself slowly into it. “I was waiting for a proper greeting, but I see it is not coming, and my old legs are about to give out.” He pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped at the sweat dripping from his face. His purple tunic was already stained dark at the line of his neck and under his arms. He removed his hat to show dark hair plastered to his head around a poorly hidden bare patch.