Chapter 7
Office Politics
The general of the 31st army strode down the corridors of the under palace with determination. She wore her simple battle uniform and not the ornate dress one from the court assembly. Her quick pace was measured by the percussive beat from her military nailed boots. The sound echoed up and down the empty corridors.
Her black eyes glowered at no one in particular, but those that knew her saw it as her normal expression. Her black hair was cut in bangs over her forehead and the rest was held out of the way by a white headband. Her copper skin was adorned with a solid red band from her eyebrows to the bridge of her nose. Traditionally this was painted on for ceremony or war. But for modern convenience it was now generated by the magics of her standard issue uniform. So that any Amazon would be ready for war at any time.
On her way she passed a servitor, taking laundry from one area of the complex to another. He paused, seeing her speed and determination, but did not bow, grovel, or perform obsequence as had been required in the later days of the first empire. He just wheeled his linens into an alcove to permit her passage. She stormed past him with an equal lack of reaction, but he did not leave her mind.
When Scioni overthrew the self-serving republic that had formed in the void after the fall of the first empire, one of his first acts was against the incipient movement to reinstate slavery in place of the common practice of indenture as “more humane”. They claimed that a slave was property, and had to be well cared for. While an indentured servant was not, and suffered neglect. Instead he, under the mantle of the state, took on the welfare and wellbeing of all members. He set his army of mages to devise mass producible artifacts to dole out near limitless supplies of basic staples and distributed them in all major cities. It was a popular move, at least amongst the lower classes, and gave him a wide spread support base that the oligarchs found hard to counter. The fact that this nameless palace servant could merely stand aside for her, a General of an Army of the Empire, and not lose his head, was the ultimate result of that movement.
Although that base of power swept The General to government easily, unfortunately the oligarchs proved harder to eliminate. Wealth they had, and with it they could buy an army. But mercenaries do not fight with the same vigor as well motivated troops. And The General was an amazing tactician from an earlier age. A never clearly explained accidental gift of a magical vortex. The battles were largely token and it was clear which way victory was going.
But then something changed. She ground her teeth thinking about it. These rebellious mercenaries fought on despite casualty rates that would have caused all but the most elite armies to rout. Desperate tactics were used at every turn. Repeatedly. Despite no emergent charismatic leader, or obvious motivating factor, their conscripts fought like zealots. The oligarchs were known to be reaching the bottom of their purses. Although they could not avail of the magical advances Scioni's new magical college had wrought, they could afford the best of their classical schools. She was sure that they had worked some devilry. The war was becoming long, drawn out, and threatened to destroy through fatigue everything they had fought for. She knew it would only take one push to finish it for once and for all. But no one knew what that push was.
She arrived at an unmarked nondescript door. She drew a deep breath, and then let it out. Then drew it in again, threw the door open, and marched in.
“General Ainia”, said the Dwarven spymaster from his desk, without looking up. “I heard you coming. Traps are disarmed, you can approach.”
She stomped forward, temper rising, despite herself. She hated the Spymaster. Most did. His provenience was dubious, his methods were repellant, and his advice was always double edged. She's almost gutted him on at least a dozen occasions. “You have a lot of nerve speaking up at the assembly like that” she threw out at him.
“Yes”, he said simply.
“It was the Queen's assembly, and it was her agenda. You have no place trying to steer it in your own weaselly grab for power.” She continued to glower at him. He continued reading the papers on his desk. “She was not speaking to you. She was not addressing you. You should keep silent. You should not be saying anything in court.”
“You are right”, he said, stacking his papers. “You should be.” He finally looked up straight at her. “But you didn't.” Her eyes narrowed. “So I did.”
“I'm a general of the Queen's army. My first duty is to the Queen...”
“Except”, said the Dwarf, cutting her off, “when she asks, nay begs, for someone to succeed her.” He gave her a nasty look. “Don't complain to me when you don't have the balls...”
“I'm an Amazon warrior”, she said, bristling, and putting her hand on the pommel of her sword. “I'll caution you to remember that.”
“You were born in Amazonia. You were a town guard who killed her wife, fled, took refuge in Romitu amongst the ex-pat and Amazon wannabe community.” Ainia clenched her jaw and gripped her sword; white knuckled, but didn't say anything. “A mediocre mercenary you just happened to be in the right place in the right time to end up in Scioni's inner circle and now you find yourself a general.” His eyes challenged her to deny anything he had said. “Don't get all high and mighty with me.”
There was a long pause as Ainia fumed. Of course the little bastard knew all her secrets. That was the sort of scum he was. He probably told Scioni and Jesca in her turn. Probably begged them to cut her loose, and let her end up a nameless corpse in a corner. But she caught on that. Of course he had. So Scioni knew but she was still a general. So none of that mattered to them. And so it shouldn't matter to her. Other than the dirty feeling of him knowing it.
“Not much different from you, patchwork man”, she said finally. “At least my mind is my own. My history is my own. I haven't been stitched together by some criminal artifact.” She sneered. “I wear my loyalty on my sleeve. You don't have to second guess my motives and whether they are my own, or some god's plaything's whim, Mackheath.”
He stood up and leaned on the table, glaring back at her levelly. “Mackheath was the sword” he said in a low tone. “I name myself Jack. Yes, I'm as artificial a construct as you will ever find. It found me, twisted me, and bent me into the Will it wanted. I don't know who I was before. Some street urchin, as far as my investigations reveal. My memories are not my own, my skills are not my own, but, thanks to magical intervention, my Will is my own. Never, ever, in my mismatched memories of my life or the other lives of that sword have I ever served another. Not me. Not the sword. Never before. Never till Scioni. He was the first, and he'll be the last. To my dying day I will follow the agenda he set, even though he is not here to lead it. I wish he was. I miss him.”
There was an even longer pause. She knew his dark secrets too. Many knew them. But, by the same logic she used for herself, Scioni and Jesca knew them too, but still accepted his service. Ainia unclenched her jaw but did not relax. Her glare softened, but she continued to watch him suspiciously. “Nice performance”, she said.
Jack sat again, his face a mask. “Take it as you wish.”
“I hold you responsible for his death”, said Ainia calmly.
“So do I”, said Jack, as calmly. “He died because of a failure in intelligence. That's my responsibility.”
“But was it you, or was it Mackheath?” she asked, watching him closely.
“I do not know”, said Jack. “As long as that cursed blade is at large we can never know exactly what it did to me, or if it still has hooks in me.”
The general tossed a black leather courier bag onto his desk.
“What is this?” he asked, looking at it suspiciously.
“A gourd”, she said simply. He would know what it meant. Mackheath had struck again. Whoever it controlled hired out for service and gave the contractor a gourd full of water. This held all of its memories of the incident. When the job was concluded, the contractor could empty it, and be assured that all knowledge of the crime (specificall
y who contracted it) was gone.
“One of his?” Jack's suspicion changed to excitement. He picked up some tools and gingerly worked the drawstring? “Intact? Unhandled?”
She shrugged. “Once I knew what it was, I ordered it bagged. I do not know if it was handled previously.”
He peered into the dark interior. “If whatever body he's using now touched this, we'll be able to trace it. It's been years since we had a good lead.” He looked up at her. “Thank you.” She nodded. “I should get this to the Academy right away.” He pulled the draw string closed and stood up.
She let him cross the room and stood behind him at the door. “If the results ever go against you, count on my sword in your back”, she said.
He turned and looked up into her eyes. “Yes. I am relying on you for that.”
Red Queen Page 7