Veil of the Deserters

by Jeff Salyards

  Several streets later, we eventually emerged into a more open space where the buildings gave way, across a plaza from a massive structure larger than any castle or citadel. Straight ahead of us, up several stone steps, was the rounded frontage to an immense building that looked to be much longer on two sides. It was a dozen or more stories tall, the bottom level replete with hundreds of columns, the middle with arched spaces between still more columns, and the upper level with thinner columns still.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  Hewspear answered, “This, my young scholar, is the Imperial Hippodrome. There are a few smaller hippodromes on the outskirts of Sunwrack, one of them Jackal, but none remotely approaching the size and grandeur of this one.”

  It was an extraordinary sight, I had to admit. There were two towering freestanding columns in the plaza in front of the Imperial Hippodrome that were impossible to miss, rising nearly as high as the hippodrome itself. As we got closer, I saw that both columns were carved with elaborate bas reliefs from top to bottom. Starting at the base and spiraling up, the frieze on each column told a different story of some military campaign, with incredibly detailed images of Syldoon warriors, some mounted and charging their way across a plain, others in tight infantry formation marching toward Anjurians in some epic battle, astoundingly ornate. There had to be thousands of figures on each one—soldiers primarily, but also Memoridons, sailors, engineers, builders, camp followers, and on and on.

  The left column had a statue of a golden sun flaring at the top, while the one on the right had a golden statue of a leopard roaring.

  When I asked about that, Braylar replied, “The statue on the left is dedicated to the imperial seat itself, with the sigil of the blazing sun; the one on the right is replaced each time a new emperor claims the throne, in this case bearing Cynead’s emblem, as he hails from the Leopard Tower.”

  Imperial guards flanked the main entrance to the hippodrome, splendid in their alternating obsidian and gold enameled scale corselets and gleaming helms, crowned with the black horsehair plumes, each with the finely worked quiver and bow at their hips, long embattled shields at their sides, and spears with oddly spiraling spearheads on top.

  The bas relief motif was continued on the columns supporting the hippodrome proper, though on a much smaller scale, with the carvings of each column depicting the animals or objects that correlated to the various Towers: cranes or eagles in flight, lions lounging, a boar charging out of the brush, a chariot thundering over the ground, horses rearing, a galleon cresting a wave, goats navigating a slim cliff on a mountain, griffins battling in midair.

  We passed between the largest exterior columns and into the Imperial Hippodrome. It was open to the sky, though there was some kind of canvas cover at the top that extended out to provide some relief from the sun or rain for those seated in the top section. There was a vast oval field in the center, rich dark earth, nearly black, and on either end, several smaller rectangular sections, fenced off. But only smaller in comparison—they were still much larger than any list the Anjurians jousted in.

  Vendurro saw me staring and laughed. “The middle there, that’s where they hold the holiday races. Well, any old races they want, really. And mock pitched battles.”

  “And those other fenced off sections, on either end?”

  “Training. Grappling. Archery. Drills.”

  Commander Darzaak led our small group up the stairs between the rows of benches. There looked to be roughly three-quarters of the Towers accounted for already. They were assembling in the same general area of the stadium, but leaving rows between each group. Some men glanced around suspiciously, a few from various Towers that had alliances of some sort exchanged greetings and small talk, but most simply ignored the fact that there were any other Towers in the immediate vicinity.

  We chose a row further up from the field, with only a few Towers filing in behind us. The Emperor was nowhere to be seen yet. Even with the distance between them, and some Towers still entering, the hippodrome could have seated a hundred thousand spectators, so the hundreds of Syldoon were still dwarfed by the space.

  After the last of the Tower Commanders and attendants were seated, I was surprised to see the Memoridons enter and move to the highest rows, sliding behind the assembly like silent shadows, witnesses but separate even from the Towers they served.

  I was about to ask if that was strange when the broad wooden gates on the far end of the hippodrome opened inward. Four Imperial soldiers led the procession, leopard skin cloaks hanging from clasps on their lamellar cuirasses so they draped on the ground behind them. They bore large brass horns, so slender near the mouthpiece they looked like something floral and fragile, gently widening as they curled under the arm and back up over the shoulder until they ended in a broad bell. Four horn blasts silenced the Towers and announced the arrival of what could only be the Emperor.

  Several men followed the hornblowers in, a pair each carrying huge wooden drums with skins so large they must have been sewn from the hides of several beasts. The horns kept blowing as the men set the drums up at an angle on wooden stands near the center of the hippodrome, directly in front of the assembled Towers.

  The hornblowers took positions on the outside, the blasts coming until a bare-chested man stood behind each of the drums, and they ceased as the drummers began to play, booming their instruments until they were slick with sweat and then suddenly ceasing. The horns broke in again immediately with three quick bursts before stopping as well. The silence stretched on until I nearly whispered a question to Vendurro. But as I was leaning in to do so, it was suddenly broken.

  Two chariot teams burst through the gate on the far end and raced in opposite directions. They passed each other once, wheels spinning so fast the spokes were a blur, dark earth churned up in their wakes, spitting long trails, the drivers hunkered low, reins in one hand, tall conical brass helms flashing, the long Imperial double standard whipping behind held aloft by a second man in the chariot.

  As they continued another pass, I leaned over to Vendurro as they passed a second time. “Do the Syldoon still use chariots in battle?”

  Mulldoos overheard and answered first. “Nah, ain’t seen a battlefield in centuries. Pompous bastard likes his history and tradition though. Like a dog likes its balls.”

  Well. That clarified things.

  After a third pass, the chariots slowed and came to rest on either side of the dais, the horse’s sides pumping like bellows.

  The curved horns blared again, and all eyes went back to the gate as the Emperor entered the hippodrome on a huge dappled stallion, a long white cloak draped from his shoulder covering the horse’s hindquarters. On either side, he was flanked by a slave holding a long chain leading a leopard, a thick leather collar around the animal’s neck. The large cats moved languidly.

  The Emperor had dark hair, almost perfectly black, which made the single round patch of white on his crown stand out like alabaster. His face looked lined, but not excessively so, and he appeared a man of middle years, holding himself exactly as I imagined an emperor might: erect, confident, head high, at ease. The sort of man who felt in command of any situation and was likely right.

  A long column of Imperial Syldoon followed him in, enough to deter any threat from the assembly. The soldiers were all armed identically, long shields with the crenellated tops and tapered points bearing the charges of leopard heads on one side of the field and sunbursts on the other. Each soldier bore the slightly twisted conical steel helms, and their mail hauberks were broken up in the front by several iron bands. Brass bazubands on their forearms, brass greaves covering their shins, long spears balanced on their shoulders with those spiral heads, and on their left hips, quivers with composite bows and arrows. And of course, the requisite long surokas.

  The horns blew one last long, strong note together and the Emperor dismounted and strode up the small dais, his cloak trailing unceremoniously behind him in the black dirt. I was surprised he did
n’t have attendants carrying it. I expected the Emperor to slowly take the stairs, appreciating the moment, the attention. Instead, he ascended quickly—not rushed, but purposeful, as if he couldn’t wait to stand before his people and deliver whatever message he had summoned them far and wide to hear.

  The members of the various Towers were silent in anticipation. But it was the kind of silence that still spoke tension, frustration, discontent. Several groups did not appear overly fond of their Emperor, at least anywhere near us.

  A herald stepped forward and began intoning, “All assembled at this Caucus, pay tribute to his illustrious Emperor Cynead, first of his name, Sovereign of the grand Empire, Lord Protector of Principalities, Premier Prince of—”

  The Emperor put his hand on the herald’s shoulder. “Bah. They know who I am, Isquinn. Spare us all, please.” He projected loudly enough that everyone in attendance could hear—this wasn’t meant for the herald’s ears only.

  Isquinn turned ten shades of red, but bowed and stepped back, leaving Cynead in the center of the dais alone.

  The Emperor called out, voice clear, strong, powerful. “What you do not know, of course, is why you have been called here today. It’s been some time since our last Caucus. Since I was sworn in, if I recall, or just thereabouts. So, it was high time we had another. Well, presuming we had something worth discussing. And as it happens, we do.”

  Though I had only just seen the man for the first time, I found myself captivated, despite the ill feelings bubbling everywhere around me.

  Cynead continued. “As you all know, our Empire not only survives, but thrives, because every Tower Commander, every Tower soldier, embodies the same qualities—ambition, courage, cunning. And of course, the willingness to strike fast and hard, to make enemies in order to achieve ends. We battle each other endlessly for position, for power, for wealth. Of course, this is true of other kingdoms as well—the Anjurian barons squabble and stab each other in the back, the fieflords scheme with their brethren to unseat each other. But our culture not only allows for this kind of brutal and pragmatic maneuvering… it fosters it, encourages it. Demands it, even. That is the Syldoon way. It is what brought me to my throne, and every conniving and bloodthirsty emperor before me.”

  There were some mumbles and rumbles of disapproval, but Cynead raised his hand. “Oh, do not mistake me. I acknowledge some have come to power by exceptional guile and diplomacy, entreating rather than defeating. But no matter how an Emperor managed to secure the crown from his predecessor, you all must admit: very, very few have died of old age while occupying the throne. That simply is not our way.”

  Someone in one of the front rows shouted, “An Emperor holds the throne as long as he is able, no longer!”

  I expected guards to rush forward and seize him for the outburst, or at least for Cynead to rebuke him. But the Emperor only smiled. “Exactly so. And still, even the strongest, most competent, and savvy of Emperors only sit the throne for a short time. The Syldoon way is to seize, to overthrow, to manipulate and orchestrate. They do not call this place Capital of Coups for no reason.”

  There were a few chuckles, and Cynead continued. “But therein lies our greatest problem as well. Not solely of our age, but of every age that has come before. Our strength is our greatest weakness. We are so busy constantly jockeying, bullying, trading, and making secret exchanges in the name of seizing power, that we are unable to achieve as much as we could. Our own system limits us.”

  Another Syldoon two rows down stood and called out, “We are the mightiest empire the world has ever seen! I’ll take that kind of limitation!”

  Several around us laughed and murmured agreement. Emperor Cynead handled the rebuttal with aplomb. “That is what we tell ourselves. But we have stagnated, my brothers and sisters.”

  One Syldoon a row behind me hissed and Mulldoos said, so loudly I was worried it would carry to the Emperor’s ears, “Shit rhetoric!”

  Always a way with words.

  But Cynead maintained the smile and easy command as a few others hissed or openly booed. “When was the last time our borders moved outward? And don’t tell me about the plague. No one conquers during a plague. But think back—when was the last time our neighbors trembled, fearing our advance, or paid tribute to keep us from storming into their lands and simply doing what we do best—seizing?”

  Someone cried, “The Empire is large, vast. Bigger than any two kingdoms combined. The wealthiest as well. How else would you define might?”

  “And that size, that vastness, was all achieved long before our lifetimes. In the last hundred years, we have done nothing save maintain our borders and trade routes, survive our various coups and assassination, and tread water. History does not remember stagnation. It remembers greatness, achievement, growth, power.”

  One Tower Commander stood long enough to say, “Growth or not, every kingdom the world over covets the kind of power we have.”

  “Do we measure ourselves by what other kingdoms think, or want?” the Emperor asked. “No. We are the Syldoon. And we deserve more than to simply clutch onto the lands our forefathers gave to us. We deserve far more than that. But our very nature prevents us from achieving it. I took the throne myself three years ago. Before that, Thumaar held it for longer than usual, but had the plague to contend with, so was lucky not to lose more than he did. Before him, every rule has lasted less than a handful of years. Not time enough to put serious plans in place, let alone carry them to fruition. Our rulers come and go, the power shifts, and our sons do not inherit it. Everything about the Syldoon is short-lived, finite, and limited. Even our greatness, such as it is. Unless we are brave enough to do what must be done to change. To grow, ourselves. To not only solidify what we have and who we are, but to extend our borders, our influence, our might. And that is why you were summoned here today.”

  Several Syldoon stood up, shouting one thing or another, impossible to figure out as they spoke over each other. I was surprised the Emperor didn’t try to silence them, demand their acquiescence, but it seemed clear that the Syldoon handled things much differently than Anjurians. The Syldoon might have plotted against each other in the shadows, but here, there were no apparent repercussions for speaking plainly or giving voice to dissent.

  Cynead waited the storm out, let them shout, and finally raised both hands. The hippodrome quieted again, and he said, “I will explain my plan to you. In time, and in detail. I have mapped out a way for us to all move forward, to achieve what we most need. But for today, I wanted to share one thing with you. I have discovered a way to save us from ourselves. To give us the time to build something, something that history will never forget.

  “Our ambition is our greatest strength, as I said, but it all too often results in a dead or exiled emperor. And a new regime. And plans and counterplans from various Towers to undermine that one. And so on. It just won’t do. While the kingdoms around us are not our models or inspiration, there is one thing that they have that we do not, that creates stability, allows for far-reaching enterprise. They have monarchs who rule for life.”

  There was booing and hissing from several quarters, longer and more pronounced than before.

  Again, Cynead nodded as if he expected this, waited it out. And then he raised his voice. “Our culture, our rule, our very way of life rewards ambition and ruthlessness, ability and drive. But at the same time, our lack of stability prevents us from accomplishing all that we are able. Today, a new era begins. You see, today my rule is permanent.”

  One Tower Commander stood and yelled, “You presume too much! Three years on the throne! Three! Call a Caucus after you’ve had it a tenyear!”

  There was some laughter and another ruddy-faced Commander stood. “Let’s hear him out. What changes do you propose, Your Imperial Majesty?”

  “Of course you want to hear him out, you halfwit lackey!” the first shouted.

  Others stood and had their turn, those who supported the Emperor, and those who vehemently dis
agreed, though more often directing it toward the supporters than the Emperor himself. Still, I was amazed by the freedoms these once-slaves were afforded in expressing themselves. If they were in a kingdom assembly hall, some would have been branded traitors and clapped in irons.

  I quickly figured out that hissing signified disagreement, whistling, consent.

  Cynead raised his arms and held them aloft until the hippodrome fell silent again. “The Syldoon power has always been too equally dispersed. I’m not talking about our soldiers, you see, but the Memoridons. Every Tower, allotted their share. But until now, even I hadn’t been able to bring more of them into the fold. It was impossible. But no more. Today, anything is possible.”

  And with that he clapped his hands once. And somewhere a gong sounded, or something like it, but muffled, as if it were behind several walls and far away. But there was no mistaking something ringing, reverberating, heavy, like brass or copper. I suddenly felt something strange, like a wind moving over us, though no breezed stirred. It was a hot gust that didn’t shift a single hair or ripple the canvas shade above. Several other Syldoon had felt it as well, as they sought the source, eyes wide in surprise or narrowed in suspicion. But they felt it.

  In every pocket of Tower men around the hippodrome, each Commander suddenly reacted in much the same way as if violently struck in the head by some unseen thing, some falling into their comrades, others off their benches, and a few standing and teetering long enough for one of their captains to catch them.

  And then the Memoridons who had been sitting in the back rows were slowly walking down the aisle between the benches, toward the dark earth and hippodrome track below. Some cast glances at their stricken Tower Commanders as they passed them. But most of them were staring at Cynead, many with faces blanched or jaw muscles bulging, some with open fear.

  Mulldoos saw Soffjian as she passed and said, “Knew that bitch couldn’t be trusted. From the start.”