Imperial Black

by David Bishop

  Another of the parliament's members dared to speak up, his face pale and perspiring, his hands nervously rubbing together. "If we co-operate, do you promise to let our families live?"

  "No. Why should I? The reprisals against your kin, your noble houses and all you hold dear will be as savage as they are swift. All you can be assured is the manner of your own passing will be briefer if you help us. That is all traitors such as you deserve." Zhukov looked down his nose at the man who had spoken. "It will probably be of no comfort for you, but the Tsar had not expected the venture to bear fruit so soon. He was prepared to play the long game and let your trust in me build until you were ready to reveal your identities. It was his idea that the Parliament should meet in secret, so that none of us knew each other's faces. Happily, the arrival of Dante gave me the chance to force events along."

  "So, he was part of this conspiracy?"

  Zhukov snorted at such a notion. "His hatred of the Tsar is even greater than yours. No, Dante was merely a pawn, a means to an end. His mission to the Himalayas is a fool's quest, an errand that shall lead inevitably to his death. Just as his appearance here has led, inevitably, to your deaths."

  The sound of marching became audible, heavy footfalls growing louder and louder, echoing around the council chamber.

  "Ah, that will be the Raven Corps. Right on time." Zhukov smiled. "I would like to say it's been a pleasure knowing you all, but I consider each member of this so-called Parliament of Shadows a disgrace to the Empire. None shall mourn your passing, nor should they. Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen."

  SIX

  "The heart hath no window."

  -- Russian proverb

  "Most people have only the slightest knowledge of the Himalayas. Fewer still possess any first hand experience of this remote region of the Empire. Ask any citizen in St Petersburg or New Moscow and they will know it is a mountainous area. To them the Himalayas are a vague concept, a far away place made up of snow-capped peaks and little else. They might have heard of the Sherpa, a people of Mongolian origin who live on the mountain slopes and are much sought after for their climbing prowess. The region in which they live has been fought over for centuries and remains one of the few unspoiled parts of the Empire.

  The Himalayas are actually a vast mountain system in South Asia, extending one and a half thousand miles from Kashmir, in the west, to Assam, in the east between the valleys of the Rivers Indus and Brahmaputra. This system covers most of the lands once known as Nepal, Sikkim, Bhutan and the southern edge of Tibet. The Himalayas are the highest mountain range in the world, with several peaks over twenty-five thousand feet."

  - Extract from Secret Destinations of the Empire

  by Mikhail Palinski

  The girl sat alone in her room, listening to the world beyond the windows. She was allowed to leave the temple-residence a few times a year, as part of the key religious festivals observed by the followers of her religion. But even then, she was not permitted to play with other children her own age. She was special. Those who looked after her could not risk her to be injured. Besides, she was forbidden to laugh or even smile in public, as it was believed it would bring great misfortune upon the country. Her family were a distant memory and the laughter of other children in her village barely an echo in her thoughts.

  She sat on a throne of exotically carved wood, with clusters of cinnamon-scented candles alight on either side of the raised dais. Lamps burned yak butter for illumination, adding to the heady aromas in the room. Discarded nearby was a plate laden with fresh fruit, while a carved wooden elephant rested alongside, its trunk pointing up to the wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling. The room was filled with the richest treasures: statues of elephants and lions made of pure gold; glittering gemstones and bejewelled icons; tapestries with the most intricate designs and finely woven fabrics, the most impressive of which, a simple white material interwoven with threads of gossamer-thin silver, hung on the wall behind her throne. The effect of the design was so subtle, it was only apparent when seen from precisely the right angle. Otherwise it was close to invisible - a nagging peripheral vision. The girl knew that design well. She knew its significance better than anyone alive. Such was her burden, one of a thousand she had to bear.

  Like the walls around her, the girl was dressed in red and gold. Her long, black hair was held back from her face by a golden tiara. It was merely the frontispiece for a grand headdress, made of the finest plumes and spun gold, encrusted with stones of crimson and black. Painted on her forehead was a vermilion third eye, on a black backdrop of mustard oil and soot. The monks had told her that this was the divine eye that saw everything. She could look through every individual's mind, and fathom things beyond a common person's understanding. This responsibility hung heavy upon her, like the numerous beaded necklaces strung round her neck.

  If a stranger walked into her throne room, they would have been struck most of all by the sadness of her countenance. Her eyes were dark and expressive, a gorgeous contrast to the pure whiteness of her teeth. Her skin was unblemished, her hands and bare feet soft and delicate to the touch. But nobody touched her, nobody hugged her, and no strangers were allowed into her throne room: not even the other members of what had once been her family. She was caught in a life of utter seclusion.

  Soon it would be time to pray. The monks would return, Khumbu at their head, as always. They would bow as they entered, prostrating themselves at her feet, worshipping her presence, always reverential. Then she would eat. Then she would sleep. Then another day would begin, much the same as before. How much longer would this life continue? But the girl already knew the answer to the question. That was another of her burdens. She pushed it away.

  Outside, children were playing, chattering to each other. They were careless and joyful. The girl eased herself forward on the throne until she could put both feet on the floor. As she slid off the high seat, the elaborate headdress, which was fixed to her hair with a dozen tiny pins, tilted and almost fell free. She hurriedly pushed it back into position. It would not do to drop the headdress; Khumbu would disapprove. She heard the distant thunder outside, as if giants were calling from one mountaintop to the next, wistful and angry, searching for their lost loves.

  The girl was only seven. She had been living in the crimson chamber for three years. Her old life seemed an eternity ago. It was like an old dream. Back then she was just another child among the many of her village, living high up the mountain slopes, unaware how hard her family fought to survive in such an unforgiving environment. It took a special kind of people to cling on here. They required both resilience and acquiescence to the whims of the mountains. The tall peaks were forces of nature, unbound and unbroken by man. You lived among them, but you never conquered them - she knew that now.

  The girl sighed.

  Since then the room had become her home. She had known what was to come - it was her talent. She knew that something was almost upon them and still there were no answers, no insight and no wisdom to solve the riddle. She had to go on and play out her part. She had to fulfil her destiny. Whatever comes of that, will come, in darkness or in light, she thought. Beyond that, not even I can see. I must be content with that.

  She hitched up her ceremonial garb high enough so she could walk without tripping over the hem. Picking her way carefully over the ancient rugs that covered the black-stained floorboards she walked to the doorway of glass and wood that led out on to the balcony. Her left hand clasped the heavy golden handle and twisted it, pushing against the door. After resisting her temporarily, it opened with a sigh. The girl stepped out of the room, thick with incense and dust, into the cold autumn air.

  A riot of aromas filled her nostrils. Meats and spices fought with animal dung and burning wood for precedence. Beneath the balcony was a quadrangle, filled by the monthly market. Merchants and farmers, from villages on the mountain slopes, made the trek up to the citadel, bringing their crops and belongings to sell or exchange. Children ran excitedly betw
een the makeshift stalls and carts, while beasts were fed and watered in a quiet corner of the stone courtyard, straw laid down beside the trough for them. I wonder if my family is among them, the girl thought? Should I even know them if I saw them? Her parents had been present at the ceremony to confirm her as the chosen one, but that was long ago.

  The holy men had spent days testing her, asking questions and seeking answers beyond the knowledge of any four year-old. Even when they decided she possessed the required twenty-seven noble virtues, there had been one final trial to undergo.

  A dozen buffalo were sacrificed in the courtyard. Their heads were gathered onto a bloody pile. At the urging of the monks, she had walked around the grotesque display, while a man in a hideous mask danced nearby. Somehow, she had not flinched. Perhaps terror kept me still, she thought. It did not matter. Khumbu and his brethren had taken her inside. Their chanting filled the night for hours, calling for the goddess to come down and enter her body.

  The next morning she was dressed in the garb befitting her new status and they led her back out into the courtyard. A huge crowd - her family amongst them - watched as she walked across a white cloth, the last rite of passage. From that moment onwards, the monks called her Mukari. But the truth of what was to come had already claimed her. It lived inside her now, a constant companion.

  The girl looked down at the quadrangle once more. I see the courtyard as it was, the joyful faces of my proud family, the others applauding and cheering. I see the courtyard as it is now: the running children, the villagers trading goods for grain and bread. I see the courtyard as it will be: blood running along the cracks between the stones, the dead bodies piled like unwanted rags. Beyond that? I see only darkness and sadness and nothing else, nothing more.

  She sagged against the wooden rail around the edge of the balcony, her feet nudging a smooth pebble over the side. It fell on the shoulder of a plump man passing below, his arms full of vegetables. Startled, he looked up and smiled, his face coming alive at seeing the girl. "Mukari, Mukari," he called, his voice echoing around the stone walls of the quadrangle. Other merchants and villagers turned towards him. A crowd formed quickly beneath the balcony, dozens of people lifting their hands to the girl in supplication, their sun-bronzed faces creasing into smiles, their narrow eyes sparkling with excitement. Each raised their voice and chanted. "Bless us, Mukari! Bless us!"

  The girl waved at them shyly, careful not to let any expression show on her face. You must never smile, Khumbu had told her a thousand times. Never laugh before your people.

  Another cry came from inside the chamber of crimson and gold behind her. "Mukari!" It was Khumbu's stern voice. "You should not be out on the balcony. You know it unsettles the people, when you make an unexpected appearance like this. Come back inside please."

  The girl sighed and returned to her room, a sudden gust of wind closing the doors once she was inside. Khumbu was on his knees and bent forward to kiss the floor in genuflection. Sunlight filtered through the windows and reflected on his smooth and hairless scalp. The saffron colouring of his monk's robes accentuated his Himalayan tan. He waited until the girl was seated on her throne before looking up. When he did, his sightless eyes stared past her, an admonishing cast about his features. "Please, goddess. You must not look upon your people without protection. These are troubled times. Rumours fly between the villages of Imperial troops that are massing in the valleys below."

  The Mukari already knew about the soldiers; how could she not? "Don't worry, Khumbu. I have seen what is to come. I have nothing to fear from my own people. It is the outsiders who bring death to this place. The gates of the Forbidden Citadel shall fall-"

  "Never! It is impossible!" the monk protested, before realising the temerity of his outburst. "Forgive me, goddess, I lost control of my tongue. You are all seeing and all knowing, if you say something is true, it must be so. But how can outsiders find the citadel? My brethren and I protect these walls day and night. Only those who have been here before can find the way back, and they would never willingly betray us."

  "There is another, one who bears the symbol of the Mukari. The gates shall open. They shall walk inside. When they do, the cataclysm will be almost upon us. The gates of the Forbidden Citadel shall fall and there is nothing any of us can do to stop that, Khumbu. I have foreseen it."

  The monk slowly rose to his feet, joints in his legs clicking. He collected a bowl of broth from outside the doorway and carried it to the Mukari, along with a simple ceramic spoon. "I have brought food to soothe your worries away, goddess. You must eat."

  The girl shook her head. "I am not hungry."

  Khumbu smiled slyly. "Gylatsen will be disappointed, he made it specially for you. There are shiitake mushrooms at the bottom of the bowl, grown on mahogany wood. Gylatsen said to tell you it's what gives the broth its smoky flavour."

  The Mukari looked at Khumbu shyly. "He made it for me?"

  "Yes, goddess. Please, you must eat."

  She took the bowl from him. Among all the monks that were her constant companions, Gylatsen was her favourite. The others were so serious, but he had mischief in his eyes and joy in his heart. She could not help smiling when Gylatsen was around. He made her burdens lighter. The Mukari dipped her spoon into the steaming broth, careful to scoop some shards of mushroom up with the liquid. She blew over the spoon's rounded bowl, then tipped the contents into her mouth. It tasted just as Gylatsen had said, smoky and warm, comforting to the body as a blazing wood fire on a cold winter's day. Before she knew it, she had finished the broth, eagerly spooning the last morsels into her mouth.

  Khumbu smiled as he took the empty bowl away. "I'll be sure to tell Gylatsen how much you enjoyed that, goddess. He will be pleased."

  "Thank you, Khumbu."

  The monk dropped to his knees and kissed the floor again before leaving, pulling the thick wooden door closed gently behind. Once she was alone, the Mukari leaned back in the throne and closed her eyes, feeling the pleasant warmth of the broth spread through her body. Being so aware, so alive, could be an overwhelming experience. But it was half her lifetime since the Mukari had known any other way of being. It had become natural to her.

  The Mukari let her spirit escape its mortal cage of flesh and bone, slipping out through the heavy stone walls to float effortlessly above the market. Even old Khumbu could not stop her going outside like this. No one could see if she was smiling or not. She flew away from the citadel, through the surrounding clouds and then went into a dive, her spirit scudding along invisible zephyrs, passing mountainside villages and ice-covered ravines. Soon the snow on the slopes gave way to the detritus of erosion from many millennia. At last she found them, the killers, the butchers, the bringers of death. To her eye they were no more than human, despite the terrible wrath their gathering would bring upon her people.

  I pity you, her spirit whispered, the words becoming a cold breeze from the mountaintops, blowing down to chill the soldiers' bones and put out their fires. The Mukari turned away, the approach of a familiar presence intriguing her. She wanted to get closer, but he was yet beyond her reach. All in good time.

  On the throne a frown crossed the girl's face, wrinkling her nose. There was so little time left before the darkness came, and not much of it good.

  SEVEN

  "The wheel of fortune spins

  faster than a windmill." -

  - Russian proverb

  "When in residence at the Imperial Palace, Tsar Vladimir Makarov favoured the holding of daily assizes in the Chamber of Judgement. This vast space, with its enormous vaulted ceiling and intimidating architecture, had a seating capacity approaching five thousand people. However, these places were rarely full, except for special events such as the trial of Nikolai Dante in 2668, for allegedly engineering the kidnapping of the Tsar's daughter, Jena. It was this case that helped accelerate the onset of war between the Tsar and the Romanovs. Few trials have had such far-reaching consequences for the Empire at large.


  In the Chamber of Judgement criminals ranging from the pettiest thief to the most treasonous of curs were brought before The Ruler of all the Russias to have their case heard, make a plea of mitigation and receive sentence. Such phrases as "due process" and "innocent until proven guilty" had little currency in a court of law. All were guilty in the Tsar's eyes. The only thing in question was finding a punishment to fit their crimes.

  Before the war, Count Pyre often acted as chief accuser. After the war, Lady Jena was sometimes used to fulfil Pyre's former function at proceedings. In cases involving matters sensitive to the security of the Empire, the Tsar chose to hold proceedings behind closed doors. Few accused delivered to the Chamber of Judgement in such circumstances ever left it alive."

  - Extract from The Law of the Tsar

  by Johann Grissholm

  Zachariah Zhukov was surprised, and not a little disturbed, by the frosty reception he received on returning to the Imperial Palace. Was he not the brains behind the Parliament of Shadows, a covert operation that had successfully accounted for close to a dozen leading dissidents? Had he not masterminded the scheme from the first, persisting with the plan when others had predicted its utter failure? Most importantly, was he not carrying the names of more than a hundred members of the aristocracy, all of them identified as co-conspirators by the Parliament's members before they died?

  I must not be too proud, or too demanding Zhukov told himself. I must remember my work has been carried out in secret. He doubted there were more than a handful of people at the Imperial Palace who knew what had transpired beneath the Romanov Necropolis. Once the coup against the plotters is made public, then I shall bask in the adulation of my peers, warm myself with the Tsar's gratitude. Until that moment I must be patient.