Trial of Intentions

by Peter Orullian

  Within the hour, the leaders of each of the four Jurshah factions arrived, and each from a different direction.

  From the east came Nama Septas, leader of the League’s political agenda; from the south rode Wadov Pir, the League’s finance and commerce secretary; from the north, leader of justice and defense, Bellial Sornahan; and out of the west rode Tuelin Cill, master of history.

  Riding in from the four corners had always seemed prudent to Roth, giving their detractors less reason and ability to worry or follow; but Roth also liked its symbolism. It pleased him to imagine his men and women, adorned in clean, pressed, chestnut-colored cloaks, walking the streets in the four corners of the Eastlands, models of civility.

  The League leaders tied up their horses and exchanged quiet greetings. Then they came inside, each nodding to Roth before sitting on one of several stones set in a broad circle at the center of the room.

  Roth began to pace the outer circle, small plumes of stone dust rising around his boots and further hazing the light. He did a full circuit before beginning.

  “I’ve given the order, and all the right leaguemen now watch for an opportunity … the regent will soon be dead.” He paused, allowing the declaration its moment to breathe. Each of his leaders nodded, generally pleased. “There will be an outcry, a call to find the villain. They’ll marshal Recityv resources to investigate. Helaina’s friends will suspect us. We’ll deny. All the while, they’ll be forced to plan for her successor. Amidst this chaos, we will act.”

  Nama Septas spoke first. “The High Council will need to replace the regent quickly; the Convocation of Seats is set to begin.” She then offered a thin, lawyerly smile. “The Council will call for immediate nominations to replace her.” Looking at Roth, she finished, “How many of them do you have in your pocket?”

  Roth thought a moment. “Securing the Regent’s Seat may prove somewhat more challenging than I thought.”

  “Perhaps not,” Wadov Pir chimed in. “I’ve just come from her treasury office. There were … discrepancies. I’ve agreed to a mutual silence with her treasurers, which should be worth their support.”

  Roth nodded his thanks to Pir, a master at introducing digit falsehoods to a tax ledger. The man’s mousy accountant’s smile hid deceptively sharp teeth where pecuniary matters were concerned.

  “But what of the vacant Council seats?” Nama asked. “We were going to see them filled with the right kinds of people.”

  Roth continued to pace around the outer circle of his Jurshah leaders. “The authors won’t be joining us,” he announced, frowning. “They’re loosely organized anyway. And their unofficial leader is a cantankerous old fool who won’t be persuaded.”

  Roth stopped behind Tuelin Cill, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “But I learned something about this disorganized guild of scribblers.” He bent forward and pretended to write, as if on a chalkboard. “They seem to have an alchemy that gives them the ability to write on the air. Cill, we need to know about this. What are they capable of? And if they turn that sorcery against us, how do we stop it? Go to your archives. Enlist your brightest historians. We need answers.”

  Cill nodded. “The moment I return.”

  “But not having Author Garlen’s support may not harm us, since I doubt he’ll cast his vote for anyone,” Roth concluded. “I’d say he’s hidebound, but I think he mostly just wants to be left alone. We have more work to do where authors in general are concerned, but we’ll make do without his vote.”

  “You won’t have the vote of the Church, either,” Nama added. “They may not be able to prove you burned Bastulan, but they believe it anyway.” Nama’s voice grew strained with impatience. “And why, may I ask, did you find it necessary to add arson to the list of allegations against the League? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to convert the Reconciliationists to some better purpose after we’ve assumed control?”

  Roth stood straight, and began again to pace. “You know the myths about Bastulan, its hidden relics. Its destruction will help many look for different answers to their questions. Answers the League can provide.”

  “And if the relics are real?” Tuelin interjected. “The simplest rule any historian worth his binder’s glue will follow is that anything recorded by more than three chroniclers has some basis in fact.” She gave Roth a slightly judicial look. “The relics qualify.”

  He nodded patiently. “Of course. And Bastulan is half stone, isn’t it? I imagine anything of great value is kept in—or was moved to—some safe place where fire’s no threat. So, let us tally. Bastulan’s pews are now ash. That’s a meaningful start.” Roth got Nama’s attention. “And it has the wonderful result of helping us gain control, don’t you think? Reconciliationists will need a new touchstone.” He then narrowed his gaze. “If it makes you squeamish, perhaps you and I need to reconsider—”

  Nama stood. “I’m not squeamish. But it would have been wiser, politically, to avoid raising the ire of Bastulan adherents until there was nothing they could do to affect our ruling position.” She pointed in the direction of Recityv. “It could galvanize them. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Roth smiled and nodded. “Noted.”

  “What of Van Steward?” Bellial Sornahan asked. “Have you spoken with him yet?”

  At the mention of the general’s name, Roth began to pace more quickly, his excitement mounting. This got to the heart of why they met today in Calaphel. “I did. Van Steward, as you might have guessed, is absurdly loyal to the regent. What is more, he’s said that our own efforts at policing civil conduct in Recityv must cease.”

  “We can contest that,” Nama offered quickly. “There are laws that we could cite—”

  “Indeed,” Roth said, “but it won’t be necessary.”

  Bellial held up his finger, as he often did when making a point. “Your Leadership, I beg to differ. They need to know we can enforce law and correct misconduct when we see it. If the people no longer fear—”

  “Respect,” Roth corrected.

  Bellial made a sly grin. “The enforcement of civil standards relies on the people’s respect. If Van Steward’s men alone have the authority to keep the peace, I’m afraid civility is at risk.”

  Roth smiled, but said nothing, waiting. Soon, the sound of hooves rose from beyond the cracked and ruined walls of Calaphel. An unseen rider came to a stop, the horse chuffing beyond the doorway. And, momentarily, into the ruins strode a fifth man—Losol Moirai, Roth’s surprise for his other Jurshah leaders. In tow, Losol brought another, who was bound and gagged and had obviously been beaten. He settled the captive on a vacant stone around the circle. Recognition lit in the faces of the Jurshah leaders. They knew the prisoner, but said nothing.

  Then, Losol stepped forward, his tunic and trousers close-fitting and made of countless, tight braids of sylph thread—a rare fiber that grew stronger the more it stretched. It was a variant of banded mail, running in tiny vertical lines. His blackened boots and gloves covered his ankles and wrists as closely as the rest of his armor. And over his shoulders hung the chestnut-brown cloak of the League, though dyed a shade darker, to set him apart. Losol wore two weapons, on one hip a sword with a handle of black ivory, and a trishula on the other. His head and face were cleanly shaven. A line of neat scarification ran in a vertical column of symbols up his chest and neck and onto his cheek beneath his left eye.

  In every respect, Losol was Mal, the pattern of his face marking him from Mal Reeve Lux, specifically. The scarification was part of a lifelong Mal tradition called Talenfoier, a ritual of pain and constant humility. And yet, because of it, and their devotion to the art of battle, the Mal were almost myth. Some even considered them Quiet, or at least sympathetic to those who lived inside the Bourne. A common children’s rhyme stated, Every Mal worth masal men. Masal was the Ebon word for “five.”

  “Gentlemen,” Roth announced, feeling rather pleased, “let me introduce you to Losol Moirai.”

  Losol received the appraising gaze of each fa
ction leader. He returned the stares evenly, with just a hint of challenge. Good, Roth thought. But he would wait to explain the intrusion, letting the men also wonder at the prisoner seated among them.

  “Once my letter of succession as regent is written and placed in the vaults of Solath Mahnus, I will call the Convocation of Seats to order. I will eulogize Helaina, and announce a great celebration of her life and contributions. I will thank kings and rulers for leaving their homelands and journeying to Recityv to answer a call that would bind us all in a common cause. But…” Roth paused, making sure each of his faction leaders attended his words closely, “that cause will have nothing to do with old gods and their dire creations. Not even as a child’s rhyme to inspire the obedience of curfew. No, I will focus them on the important work of education in our slums, new kinds of trade to take whores off their backs and children out of workhouses. And a creed that ties together the knowledge we have with our pursuit of the knowledge we don’t. Through inquiry, not entreaty.” He looked up at the deep blue sky above, as his leaders applauded, the sound of it resounding in the ruins of Calaphel and ascending into the open air above.

  “I will begin to unify the nations,” Roth continued, his voice growing strident, his pace quickening. “The Convocation of Seats will not be an event only once every several ages. It will be a perpetual ruling body, and I will lead it in the formation of a confederacy, founded upon our own creed, and maintained by our own diligent stewards.” He looked down at his faction leaders. “We will walk the streets in League brown and answer the call to assist and chasten.”

  Roth didn’t bother to tell his Jurshah leaders that some of his vision he’d stolen from Helaina.

  His practiced words echoed about them until silence came again to the abandoned remains of the outpost. He liked the way the resulting quiet lent his speech a touch of the historic. There was some bombast in his delivery. There were appropriate moments for bombast.

  It was Nama who broke the silence, doing so with a question, no less. But Roth was grateful for the woman’s endless, critical probing; it kept him sharp. “Kings are not often inclined to relinquish authority to a ruling body. How will you compel those that would sooner return to their homeland and reject your vision as political opportunism?”

  Roth pointed at Losol Moirai. “There is your answer, Nama.” Roth strode now into the center of their ring and motioned Losol to join him there. He then walked a tighter circle around the Mal, capturing the gaze of each of his old friends as he went, drawing the attention of a few away from the captive.

  “The instrument of change, my friends, is war. Some nations will join us immediately. Those who need our help and protection, I suspect. And there are a few where we already exercise influence.” He softened his voice, filling it with inference. “Others will need help seeing what we have to offer them.”

  Tuelin Cill, master of history, spoke with the reluctant tone of one who hated to be a reminder. “Your Leadership, superstition or not, the annals and archives mostly support the rumors of what lies beyond the Pall and in the far west past the Rim.” She swallowed, looking around at her colleagues.

  “Speak up, Cill. Let’s hear your concern,” Roth said, reversing direction as he paced back toward her.

  Cill blew a long breath out through her nose, buying herself a moment. “We’ve called for an end to the Song of Suffering as a backward practice. I only want to raise the question: If the histories are true, and there are races and legions long spurned in the unmapped lands … and if this Veil that is spoken of ceases with the end of Suffering…”

  Roth stopped in front of Cill, unsmiling now. He hated the lack of vision, but maybe he could forgive it in one who looked only into the past. No matter. Roth had considered the options.

  “My friends,” he began, focusing on Cill, “let us first remember who we are and what we stand for. It isn’t the reality of races beyond the Pall that we object to. Why would we think there aren’t people there? I’d actually be surprised if there weren’t. No, it’s the myth and fable that has grown up around these distant places that we challenge. It’s this business of dark gods—any gods—of reliance on others for things you and I aren’t blessed with.” Roth waved his hand back and forth between himself and Cill. “Singers and Sheason and Veils. They’re allegories, morality plays, childbook rhymes.”

  Bellial cut in, his voice deep and rough from endless pipe smoke. “I don’t know about singers and veils. But I can vouch for Sheason conjury. Seen it myself. Mostly helping folks. I don’t like to think of it turned against us.”

  Roth forced himself to wait before replying. It tired him to remind his faction leaders of League cornerstones. “Again, my friends, it’s not the existence of things. It’s people feeling dependent and incapable because of them. It’s the fear they inspire. It’s the idea that anything is a foregone conclusion. It’s irrational.” He paused, looking around at each of them. “It cheapens us. We deserve better. We are better.”

  The prisoner shifted on his stone, his eyes more alert now, wider, as if from hearing Roth’s words.

  Roth turned back to Cill, fixing her with an iron glare. “I don’t need any special sorcery before I lend a hand to one who needs it. I don’t need a fairy tale to force me to behave. If in the reaches beyond our maps there are hordes whose sole aim is to do us harm … then let them come. I’ll wager their motives are more selfishness than anything else. And that’s not so strange a thing.”

  He stopped and took a long breath, looking around at the crumbling walls of Calaphel. “A war like that would hasten our plans, actually. And so much the better, my friends, that the League of Civility be the force that puts a literal end to the origin of such foolish worries.”

  He nodded at his own logic. “Regardless; as I said, the instrument of change is war. I would rather change come through discussion and treaty. But I’m not naïve. And we’ve been patient long enough. And so, just as the League will lead Convocation once the regent is dead and we’ve assumed her seat, we will also be its shield and sword.”

  Those seated around him all looked at Losol. Roth nodded and thought again, Good.

  “Today I announce the formation of a fifth faction of the League, an equal part in the formation of any Jurshah. Today, my friends, the League begins a new era … with a leader of war.”

  And perhaps a Mal alliance at some point. But one thing at a time.

  Roth put his hand on Losol’s shoulder in a gesture of endorsement. One by one, the others stood and crossed the circle to the new man, taking him in the League handshake. No words were exchanged, and Losol’s eyes remained hawkish as he appraised each of his new colleagues. This, too, was good. The League’s instrument of war would keep them all honest.

  Each of them eyed the captive nervously as they retook their seats.

  Roth directed Losol to join the circle, and once all were seated and attentive, he began. “Cill, I’m actually glad to hear you have a solid working knowledge of the Bourne. We’ll have need of that. You’ll spend time with Losol on some very specific questions, where his unique history will play a helpful role.” He looked at Bellial with a knowing grin. “The results of those inquiries, my friend, could put to rest your fear of fighting the Sheason.”

  His leader of justice and defense raised his brows with interest and nodded as he began preparing himself a pipe. “And what history is that?”

  Roth didn’t know it all himself. And what he did know, he held close. But he offered this much: “Losol has an understanding of how things are on the other side of the Rim.”

  That fetched several concerned looks, but no further questions.

  The prisoner’s feet shuffled, as though he were preparing to run.

  “So now, Calaphel,” Roth said with some satisfaction. “We will rebuild it. And a hundred more just like it, near and far. To provide protection and warning.” He smiled openly. “I hope you appreciate the symbolic progression: a Recityv military outpost. Brought to ruin when
the League negotiated a trade treaty with the Dominion. And now, a League military outpost.”

  Of course it was Nama who was the one to ask, “What is the symbolism?”

  Roth gave her a patient look. “What is old can be made new. What we tear down, we build back up.” He became more serious, and finished, “That tolerance has a price, nor are we always tolerant. Especially when our own regent decides to try and spy on us.” Roth nodded toward the captive.

  Losol stood, walked around behind the captive, and casually inserted a knife up from the base of the man’s neck into his brain. He rotated the weapon, then pulled it free. An incredibly efficient attack; there was remarkably little blood. The spy’s eyes were closed before he hit the ground.

  “But not just a spy,” Roth added. “Look close.”

  His Jurshah leaders eyed the body, the same recognition in all their faces.

  “He was one of us. A leagueman in good standing not long ago.” And now a good example. “Be sure your people understand where their allegiance should remain. Share the fate of our guest here with them.”

  With his own house now in order, he could give his full attention to Convocation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Parchment War

  To win, you must be willing to do what your enemy will not.

  —First Precept of Conflict, from Himshawl’s Art of War

  Thaelon knocked softly at his daughter’s door. Softly, because such a knock could be ignored, since he’d come to her in the heart of after-dinner study hours. Ketrine was his only child, and well on her way to becoming Sheason. But she hadn’t been given the gift of rendering yet. And for the Sulivon—those who studied but couldn’t yet command the Will—the hours after dinner were spent reading, rehearsing, and taking private instruction from Sheason mentors.

  “Come in.” The voice was muted by the door, but seemed distracted even so.

  He gently depressed the latch and eased into her room. Several lamps burned. His “little girl”—a term he didn’t even bother to shake loose—liked it bright. She sat at a table against the far wall, setting up a test of some kind. Whenever possible, Ketrine created practical demonstrations of the things she needed to learn. Seeing the effects of what she studied was her way. And it put her ahead of most of her peers.