“The Resistance shows signs of greater organisation. That must be a cause for –’
“There’s something you should try to understand about them,” the Empress stated, every inch the condescending matriarch, “however long it takes you. And it applies to all our subjects. Anarchy is their natural state. Look at how they treat the magic we permit them. They resent control, yet, save a minority, have never marshalled themselves sufficiently to oppose it. They are cattle, and cattle don’t have the imagination to run the farm.”
“True. Though some are of hardy stock.”
She waved away the qualification. “The bulk of their fellows can be relied on to drag them down. Don’t underestimate the power of apathy. Overwhelmingly, the people are too preoccupied with the baubles we throw them to bother us. But don’t take that to mean we ignore the so-called Resistance. Steps are being taken against them, and this renegade warlord.”
“What steps?”
“We’re continually tapping the essence,” she nodded at the pit, “for a clue to the nature of his power. In addition, there’s the fact-finding expedition to the northern wastelands we’ve decreed, under the Bhealfan flag. As a precaution, the crew will be allowed higher grade glamours as part of their arsenal.” She noted her family’s apprehensive expressions and made to reassure them. “That’s not a matter for concern. The magic will be supervised by trusted servants, and is sorcerer-specific and non-renewable. There’s no chance of it proliferating.”
“And the Resistance?” someone prompted.
“I’ve ordered that action against them be more draconian. The paladins are proving a useful tool in this respect, and they’ll be given greater overall control of strategy. We’re increasing infiltration of the dissidents’ ranks, too, and that policy is already paying dividends.”
“What if things come to a head with the warlord despite these efforts?”
“I grant we may well have to meet him in open conflict. Be assured, that would be a long way from our borders, and the outcome would not be in doubt.” As she spoke, the Empress absently worried a tiny scab on the bridge of her nose. The flap of skin detached. She looked at it, flicked it away. “As far as our own subjects are concerned, that could be a bonus. There’s nothing like a war to distract the populace.”
Someone who hadn’t spoken before cleared his throat and ventured, “There is one possible aspect to all this we haven’t considered.”
The Empress raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Oh?”
“The Qalochian,” he replied hesitantly.
Her gaze narrowed at mention of it. There was a general shuffling of feet. One of the chimeras, emotionally linked to its owner, briefly transformed from comely to hideous.
“What of him?” she asked tightly.
“You know that our intelligence indicates he may have fallen in with the insubordinates. Potentially, that’s the most perilous development of all.”
“I know that. The situation is under review.”
“But this isn’t as straightforward as our other problems, is it? Given the rules of engagement that must be followed in respect of this man, our hands are tied.”
“It’s time that was re-examined, too,” someone muttered.
“You know that’s impossible,” Bethmilno snapped.
“So we’re to let him run loose and do as he pleases? Until he realises the real extent of the havoc he can cause?”
“No,” the Empress stated flatly. “Reeth Caldason will be dead before we allow that to happen.”
The quicksilver pool swirled darkly.
At the core of Jecellam’s regulated, well-policed streets, there was an extensive walled compound. In its outermost ring of joyless buildings the distribution of food, laws and lies was overseen. The structures forming the complex’s nucleus were devoted to governance and power. It was here that the Central Council met, in chambers only they frequented.
Where Gath Tampoor followed the western tradition in choosing a dragon as their emblem, Rintarah drew on its eastern heritage. Its symbol of state was a shield embellished with an eagle in flight, wings outstretched, lightning bolts playing in the background. The image was everywhere: on flags, mosaics, public transportation vehicles and the stained glass of temples.
But its most striking manifestation was reserved for the few. This was to be found in the grand council chamber, a cavernous hall where sunlight never intruded. As in Gath Tampoor, the colour-coded lines of power were here too, penetrating the inner sanctum from every bearing. Each of the lines ran to one of the sturdy legs of a mighty table, big enough to seat forty with ease. The table was fashioned in the shape of the Rintarahian shield, with the eagle and lightning motif etched into its surface. Glamour energy animated the portrait, so that the bird’s immense wings slowly flapped as the lightning rippled.
On this occasion the council was not seated at the table; their deliberations were taking place at a far end of the room. This section housed an aperture not unlike the one in Merakasa, except it was plainer, the sole concession to ornamentation being the waist-high brass rail surrounding it. In every important respect, however, it was the same: a smooth-sided well into which the channels bled liquid metal that made a churning pool.
In styling themselves a council, the rulers of Rintarah may have given the impression that some kind of equitable process was involved in their selection. This was not so. Every councillor was related, and there was no nonsense about democracy. This day, perhaps a quarter of them were in attendance, staring down at the agitated quicksilver.
The council’s Elder, a position matched in power only by Gath Tampoor’s Empress, was Felderth Jacinth. In common with Bethmilno, he was of very advanced years. He was tall and rangy. His skin was unblemished and he retained a full head of hair, though there was more than a hint of the unnatural in these assets. The richly coloured brocade he wore lent him a touch of the grandiose. It was certainly a counterpoint to the severity of his surroundings.
“I have grave suspicions,” he announced, studying the disturbance in the matrix, “that Gath Tampoor could be behind this.”
“How can they do something we can’t?” a kinsman wanted to know.
“Some breakthrough, some new application of the Craft…Who knows?”
“One we haven’t discovered ourselves? How likely is that?”
“I find it easier to believe than the idea that an ignorant conqueror’s causing this. These events are becoming increasingly recurrent, and they’re growing in strength. Something more powerful than a lone man has to be involved.” He was gripping the rail, white-knuckled. Although that was probably due to thin blood.
“Perhaps another alliance is responsible,” somebody suggested.
“Those who style themselves the Resistance, you mean.” The Elder snorted derisively. “How could that be? What power do the citizens have beyond what we gift them? No, the people are sleepwalkers. If it weren’t for the fact that their usefulness to us marginally outweighs their annoyance value I’d advocate a cull.”
“Who’s going to keep the lawns trimmed for us then?” a wag opined.
There was laughter at that.
Elder Jacinth remained sour. Almost to himself, he said, “These fluctuations in the energy could be a ploy, of course. Some ruse on the part of Gath Tampoor.”
Another of his kith was sceptical. “A trick that can affect the essence? That’s just as hard to believe. And to what purpose?”
Frustrated, the Elder sighed. “This isn’t getting us any nearer to dealing with the warlord, whoever he may or may not be allied with.”
“What about the expedition our spies told us about?” the sceptic pressed. “From Bhealfa to the northern wastelands? If it really is exploratory, doesn’t that indicate the Gath Tampoorians know as little about this Zerreiss as we do?”
“If it’s exploratory. It could be a bluff, misinformation to throw us off the fact that they already have a pact with him. Or it could be the aim of this expedition to forg
e one.”
“But if they’re as much in the dark as us, sending such a mission is exactly what they’d do, isn’t it?”
“I concede that as a possibility,” Jacinth replied, stony-faced.
“In which case, shouldn’t we mount our own expedition, and with all speed?”
“I confess I’ve been thinking about doing just that. Up to now I’ve been reluctant to do so on the basis of rumours about a Bhealfan expedition. But in view of these ever more violent disturbances to the essence, I think perhaps you’re right about this. I’ll order preparations at once.”
“That means we could find ourselves in a race with Gath Tampoor,” a councilman mused.
“There’s more than one way to win a race,” the Elder reminded him. “Whatever they may have offered the warlord, we’ll top it. We can always renege later, when he’s served his purpose. He’s only a barbarian who’s been lucky, after all. Let’s not forget that.”
“Bhealfa seems to come up a lot these days in terms of problems.”
“It’s one of the hotbeds for dissidents, there’s no denying that.”
“I was thinking more in terms of a specific problem,” the councillor said. “The last sightings we have of Caldason are in Valdarr. If he’s linked up with the Resistance –’
“He’s not demonstrated a leaning towards them before.”
“As far as we know.”
“Are you suggesting some connection between the Qalochian and the warlord?”
“I don’t know. But look at the sequence of events. Caldason turns up in Valdarr, and apparently begins associating with known dissidents. That’s what the paladins tell us, at any rate. At more or less the same time, the warlord’s power reaches new heights.”
Jacinth pondered the idea. “Hmmm. Caldason is the only individual we know of who just might be able to affect the matrix in the way we’re seeing.”
“Can he really do that?”
“Should he come to an awareness about himself, he possibly could, yes.”
“If ever there was a neck worthy of stretching on a rope, it’s the Qalochian’s.”
“Him and his whole damned race. I’d love to be able to take the gloves off and deal with Caldason. I’ve often been tempted to go against the protocol and have him killed.”
“Is that possible?”
“Which proposition?”
“Both. Can the protocol be breached and is it possible to kill him?”
“Ending his life would take special measures. As to the protocol… well, that would prove a lot harder.”
“But not impossible?”
“Who can say? These are uncharted waters. Though it might be prudent to see what steps could be taken to that end.” There was a nodding of heads all round. “But for the time being, more immediate matters require our attention. The hour has come to contact our principal agent in the Resistance ranks. Make ready the grid.”
With a fluidity that came from ample experience, two of his cohorts swiftly enacted a silent conjuration. Instantaneously the essence made connection with some other node elsewhere in the matrix. A spume of cold fire erupted from the well, shaped like an enormous candle flame and made up of a billion vivid sparks. Slowly at first, a shape began to form in the boiling flame. In seconds it solidified and became the image of a recognisable human figure.
Elder Jacinth stepped forward and greeted his spy at the heart of the Resistance.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was said that, outside of the empires, the paladin clans owned more property than anyone else. They kept lodges wherever they operated, and they operated everywhere bar the northern wastes. Often these properties were fees or rewards from their governmental clients. Not uncommonly, the provision of land in perpetuity in exchange for their services was part of the clans’ covenant. This was a contrary situation for a supposedly stateless fraternity, albeit a very lucrative one.
In Bhealfa, the paladins’ headquarters occupied a prime slice of Valdarr real estate. A fortress of some grandeur, it was no less impressive than the state buildings surrounding it.
As dawn broke, golden light glistened on its stone facade, damp from a recent shower.
A labyrinth of tunnels riddled the belly of the fortress. Two men, one nearing old age, the other no longer a youth, made their way through the echoing passageways. They walked close together, conversing in hushed tones, occasionally passing guards who stiffened to attention.
“We’ve had too many sightings for it to be beyond doubt,” Devlor Bastorran insisted. “He’s here, in the city. What do you find so difficult to understand about that, Uncle?” His tone was exasperated.
Clan High Chief Ivak Bastorran would normally resent being spoken to in such a way, but devotion to his nephew moderated his irritation. “He may well be here; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s entered Valdarr. All I’m trying to say is that going against him without sufficient forces and planning is extremely dangerous.”
“That’s part of our job, isn’t it? Dealing with outlaws.”
“Caldason’s no ordinary criminal, you ought to know that much by now.”
“He’s been a thorn in our side for years. I’d have thought you’d be eager to have a reckoning.”
“I’m keener to punish him than you know. But this is one outlaw we have to capture, not kill. He has to be engaged only under certain special conditions.”
“Where’s the sense in that? Why treat this scum with kid gloves?”
“You don’t understand, Devlor.”
He scowled petulantly. “Too right I don’t.”
“You’re not leading the clans yet, boy. When… if you do, you’ll be privy to more than you are now. Perhaps you’ll understand better then.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we hire out our services to clients, and in Caldason’s case those who pay us, handsomely, I might add, have laid down certain rules in relation to him. The clansmen he’s killed have died because they’ve gone against him not knowing who he is, or because they thought they could best him and were insubordinate. They paid with their lives.”
“We’re the clans. We can do anything we choose. Why should we abide by other people’s rules when they’re so nonsensical?”
“We have a great deal of autonomy, but there are limits even for us. If we try to get too big for our boots certain parties will feel threatened. That could put our independence at risk, and I don’t want that to be my heritage. If you want to succeed me you’ll have to curb that impatient nature of yours.”
They carried on in silence for a moment. More guards snapped to attention. They turned a corner.
“Tell me about the new intelligence reports,” the uncle asked.
“The dissidents are cooking up something. I don’t know what it is yet, but it looks to be important.”
“Who are you thinking of delegating it to?”
“I’d like to handle this one myself.”
Ivak thought about it. “All right. But play it by the book. It’d be a feather in the dissidents’ bonnet if they were to bring down somebody of your status. Not to mention a blow to the clans, and to me personally.”
“I’m not a fool, Uncle.”
“I know. But you can be headstrong. I made certain promises to your parents, the gods keep them, and your safety was one of them.”
“Do you honestly believe anybody could better me?”
“With a blade? I doubt it. But there are other ways a man’s life might be put in peril.”
“Have no concerns for me. I can look after myself.”
The passage they trod was sloping upwards. They were approaching a set of open doors and daylight.
Bastorran the elder moved the conversation to more mundane matters. “How many are there today?”
“Oh, a score or so.”
“I do find this a tedious chore,” he sighed.
“I’ll send them away if –’
“No, don’t do that. We’ve occas
ionally reaped benefits from granting these people an audience. I suppose it’s the usual motley bunch?”
“More or less. There’s one who might be of real interest though. A sorcerer called…’ He took out a folded parchment and consulted it. “…Frakk. I’m told he’s come up with some useful innovations in the past, of a minor kind.”
“Any idea what he has this time?”
“No. But he says…’ He looked at the parchment again. “He says it’s something revolutionary and potentially of great use to us.”
“They all say that. We’ll have him up first, see what he has to offer.”
They emerged into a large courtyard with high walls on every side. Clansmen were combat training, their clattering swords ringing crisply in the morning air. Others fought with staffs, or loosed arrows at straw targets.
The group of postulants had been kept well away from these activities. They sat on benches at the far end of the quadrant. As the Bastorrans came into sight they got to their feet, and some tried to push forward. Guardsmen held them back, blocking their way with staves.
“Let’s get through this as quickly as possible, shall we?” Ivak said.
Devlor nodded. He called out to the guards, “Send over the sorcerer Frakk!”
The man in question came out of the crowd. A short, plump individual with a red face, he looked discomposed. He was accompanied by a skinny youth, taller than him and no more than a third of his mass. Some of the others waiting grumbled under their breath.
Guards shoved the pair forward. The sorcerer approached the paladin leaders diffidently. He respectfully whipped off his wide-brimmed floppy hat, revealing a bald pate and nearly tripping on his overly long cloak in the process. The boy came after him, struggling with a large, obviously heavy leather bag.
Reaching the Bastorrans, the wizard performed an ungainly bow. “Gatleff Frakk at your service, masters.”
The boy stood open-mouthed, until a swipe from Frakk’s hat had him bobbing too. He dropped the bag.
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