Trial of Intentions

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Trial of Intentions Page 74

by Peter Orullian


  I won’t suffer it, he decided.

  Giving each of his children a last look, he quickly began to roll toward the edge of the courtyard that dropped away into the chasm. By the time either Stulten or Lliothan realized what he was doing, they were too late. Their commands to stop followed him as he tumbled into the open air and fell gratefully down. The black crags of the Bourne and its slate-grey sky turned in his vision as he dropped. He thought of the many losses and horrors that had brought him to this. He found himself impatient in his fall toward a death he deserved and welcomed. His last hope was that the fall would, in fact, kill him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Broken Will

  Aye, but there are many prisons. One of bars, sure. But also of wit, or the lack thereof. Then expectations—yours and others. And by every silent god, reputation. That one’s tight, she is.

  —From a written entreaty for relief sent to King Bomaan of So’Dell by a dockworker in the years following the War of the First Promise, when it was said, “all the city’s a slum”—required League reading

  From his balcony high above the rooftops of Recityv, Ascendant Roth Staned looked down with a heart both heavy and full. Fires burned here and there across the cityscape, where civil unrest and fighting had resulted in arson and accidental infernos. While some of the rebels still fought, others scrambled to control the blazes. Distant shouts could be heard—cries of defiance, orders to comply, and the agonized shriek of the wounded when steel entered flesh.

  Then came lulls in the faraway sounds, leaving the blanket of night to cloak the unrest that Roth had forced at the break of day. Though some clashes rose up in pockets, and the fires lifted their smoke in dark streams against the starry night, the tumult that swept Recityv had fallen into relative slumber. For a time, anyway.

  It was a victory. One that left him with the sense of completing a path begun a lifetime ago on a wharf in Wanship. He’d scraped by, earning plug-coin for gutting fish.

  He’d trodden over estimable things, sanctified things, to bring about a new understanding. He’d have to do so again. He meant to give confidence to every street-laborer. He would be sure every drudge could feel pride in his own contribution to his community, if that drudge just observed the proper civility. It was worth the breakage of estimable things. Sanctified things.

  In real ways, conflict, war, would be his catalyst for change. He would continue to work his politics, but he knew sometimes diplomacy failed. The Civilization Order and other maneuvers were part of his social engineering; they’d likely eventuate in full, outright war. And he was preparing.

  A door opened into the chamber behind him, and hard boots approached, stopping at the doorway to his balcony. “Your Leadership, I have the accounting.”

  “Please,” Roth invited.

  The captain strode forward to Roth’s side and attempted to hand him a bit of parchment.

  “Read it to me,” Roth said.

  The captain faltered a moment, then lifted the parchment into the light shining from the chamber behind them, and read.

  “Initial and incomplete counts confirm two thousand eight hundred forty leaguemen dead or missing. Only eight of thirteen complements have reported in so far.” The captain licked his lips.

  “And how many of our opponents, Captain?” Roth asked, looking to the far, dark horizon where Recityv faded and the night sky began.

  “Nearly sixteen hundred recorded deaths from Van Steward’s ranks.” The League captain joined Roth in looking out over the ravaged city.

  “How many citizens?” Roth braced himself.

  “It’s hard to say with certainty, Your Leadership. We believe it’s best to wait until dawn and then take a proper count—”

  “How many?” Roth repeated. “Don’t mince words with me.”

  The captain settled himself, swallowed. “We think the number is upward of four thousand.”

  Roth shut his eyes, a wave of grief sweeping over him. These were the people he had done all this for. The husbands and sons who barked in the streets to make a life for wives and children. Not that some civilian loss wasn’t expected, but so many …

  “There’s more,” the captain said softly, finding the need, it seemed, to be thorough.

  Roth waited a moment before nodding for the man to continue.

  “There’s no easy way to say it, Your Leadership.” He put the parchment away. “The fighting is chaotic, close quarters. Our leaguemen are defending themselves as much as they are rooting out insurgents.” The captain paused, readying his next words. “The nonmilitary dead are not men alone.”

  Roth finally looked over at the young captain, anger beginning to simmer inside him.

  “Explain,” he said coolly.

  Seeming to find some inner strength, the captain said quickly, “Women stand beside men, armed, fighting us. Boys, many years before their Change, likewise raise steel.… They are part of the accounting.”

  “You’re telling me that we’re killing wives and sons.” Roth began to feel and see the blinding white that flashed in his mind when his wrath came upon him.

  “I’m telling you that your League is defending itself against every insurgent,” the captain said politically.

  Roth looked away into the night again, high above the Recityv rooftops. He’d known death would accompany his plans. But it wasn’t how he’d envisioned this change in Recityv rule. These losses could undermine what he sought to establish, tainting the new era he meant to usher in before he’d even begun. There would need to be accountability, but it couldn’t belong to the League.

  Without turning, Roth issued the orders. “Pull all leaguemen back. Disengage the fighting everywhere. Send word into the streets of a temporary truce. Every pair of hands we have will begin the immediate removal of the dead from the streets of Recityv. Contact their kin when you can. Involve them in where and how they’d like their dead buried. Any we cannot find kin for, take them just outside the city and give them a proper burial. Grave markers, too.”

  “Yes, Your Leadership,” the captain replied, and turned to go.

  “Captain,” Roth called, stopping the young man in his haste to leave.

  “Yes, Your Leadership.”

  “Start with the women and children,” Roth added, hating the sound of the words from his own lips. “Take care with them. Be quick, though. By dawn, every fallen Recityv citizen must be buried. Is that understood?”

  The captain nodded, his face ashen at the very prospect of the task.

  “On your way, send in my Jurshah leaders. They’re waiting beyond the door.”

  The captain nodded again, and hurried out. Roth composed himself, preparing now to strategize the second part of his plan with his closest fellows.

  Presently, Nama Septas, leader of the League’s political agenda; Wadov Pir, the League’s finance and commerce secretary; leader of justice and defense, Bellial Sornahan; and Tuelin Cill, master of history, all entered Roth’s chamber. Last came Losol Moirai, leader of the new war faction, a stern look on his face and blood on his clothes.

  Roth took one last look out at the darkened panorama of Recityv, then joined his advisors.

  “Nama, what’s your assessment of the day’s events?” Roth asked.

  “I was surprised how easily the regent fell,” Nama said first. “But it makes tomorrow’s bid for the regent’s seat a simple matter. Convocation, on the other hand, may not be so easy. There are letters of inquiry from several of the seat holders. They expect a reply.”

  “Get word to all those here for Convocation. Ask them to assemble in the hall at meridian hour.” Roth nodded at his own plan. “By then, we should have the regent’s seat secured, and I’ll address them as Recityv’s new leader.”

  Nama nodded with him. “But your challenge is with Van Steward and the Sheason. There’ll be some rising sympathy for the Sheason after the public executions, particularly after a day where the dying had no recourse to Sheason arts to heal them.”


  Roth had considered all this.

  “Van Steward has the right,” Nama went on, “to declare military law when the regent is incapacitated. If he does so before you claim the office, we’ll have to either stand down or declare war against him. I don’t think the latter would be wise.”

  “Because we cannot win?” Bellial asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.

  “No,” Nama replied. “Because declaring war on a government will earn us enemies of every nation where we now have a garrison. Kings and councils won’t like the suggestion that the League is willing to take control by force. They’ll see it as a threat to their own thrones.”

  “We need to tread lightly here, gentlemen.” Tuelin Cill, Roth’s historian, spoke as he stared into the carpet. “The choices we make will brand us for generations. How the League is perceived here in Recityv, and throughout the known world, could well be decided in the next few hours.” He looked up at Roth. “Your Leadership, I’m not simply talking about how these events will be recorded. I’m talking about whether or not these events will describe a League that exists only in written histories.”

  Roth looked back at Tuelin, the oldest of his advisors. “You’re saying that our actions could bring an end to the League.”

  “Public outcry, the might of armies beyond Van Steward’s, they could all force a conflict we can’t sustain. Yes, Your Leadership, the League itself hangs in the balance.” He repeated, “We must tread lightly.”

  No one spoke for some time. Then Losol strode to the center of the makeshift circle in which they sat. “Roth,” he said, looking directly at him. Roth made a note of the familiarity his newest advisor assumed. He would later correct him. “I don’t disagree that our next actions will have lasting consequences. But those actions should be decisive. We shouldn’t have gathered Sheason to die this morning if we didn’t intend to finish that work tonight.”

  Roth smiled. His leader of war might be rough—and need to better understand his place—but he shared much of Roth’s spirit.

  “Take a seat,” Roth said, pointing for Losol to rejoin the others.

  Losol’s brows rose, but he complied. Then Roth stepped into the ring of his closest confidants, so he could pace. “I have ordered the bodies disposed of,” he began.

  “But we should leave them. They will discourage others—”

  “Losol,” Roth cut in. “It’s decided. But I also agree that we mustn’t lose our conviction. The right choice requires boldness once it is made. We have a few powerful detractors who may yet complicate things for us. We’ll see to them.”

  Roth then strode to Losol and reached down, drawing the man’s sword from its sheath. He watched a look of worry and resentment cross the war leader’s face. Good, he thought, we will strike the proper balance yet, Losol. Once he had the sword fully in hand, Roth held the blade straight out from his body, twisting it in the lamplight.

  “But we must do so carefully. These aren’t ordinary men who oppose us.” Roth smiled again, coming to the second part of his plan. “Tuelin, Losol, have you validated the existence of more of these Talendraal weapons?”

  Roth listened as first Tuelin then Losol spoke of their unsuccessful efforts to locate any more of the apocryphal armaments known only to archivists and historians. He’d learned of the Talendraal from Tuelin when Roth had first conceived the Civilization Order. Opposing the Sheason would require more than a political document. And considerable League resources had been committed to determining if the Talendraal were anything more than an author’s tale, and then following ciphers to try and recover the fabled weapons.

  Over more than a decade, they’d succeeded only once. Roth stared at the culmination of that success as he turned it back and forth in his hand, catching light in the blade’s edges. A weapon crafted deep inside the Bourne, as the histories told, to repel the effects of a Sheason’s rendering of Will. Their search would continue. Such weapons would suit Roth’s more far-reaching plans. But for a few hours, he needed to get out of his offices. He needed to see the streets where the people were.

  * * *

  Roth walked the Recityv working quarter. Their worst slum. His lieutenants assumed it was a political maneuver, to put him close to the people he purported to serve. He didn’t bother to correct them. He’d long since learned that changing someone’s opinion was usually a waste of energy. The truth was, he liked coming here. He liked strolling through the bars and hostels and workhouses of the cathedral district. It lit new fire in his belly for the League and its creed. He could help these people. He knew he could.

  The Cathedral Quarter apparently hadn’t been a place of fighting that day. So there were no body removal operations taking place. Part of him was glad of that. But it was still rather desolate. The music and activity that usually thronged here was softer tonight by half.

  Citizens nodded in his direction. He held no delusion that they did so from anything but a baseless fear. He knew the art of pandering, of quick glances to evaluate pecking order: threat, rube, or competition. He’d once strolled the wharf slums in the city of his birth. A place like the Cathedral Quarter. He was at home.

  He ducked into the cool environs of a local tavern, the Hemlock. This liquor hole doubled as a gambling pit. A rare place in this district for its lack of music. The bar had been situated against the back wall, putting everything in line-of-sight for the drink tenders. Tables had been inscribed with various patterns denoting games of chance. Late as it was, the Hemlock was light with patrons. Stalwart gamblers were in their routine chairs. A few men with billowy shirts dealt placards or gathered dice or spun wheels. Gambling had been provisioned as a taxable entertainment. Roth knew men would gamble anyway, were he to strictly outlaw it. This way, those who ran a profitable parlor sent seventy percent to League coffers. The arrangement strengthened the League and kept seedy men from profiteering.

  Roth sauntered to the bar at the rear of the Hemlock. “So’Dell wine in a tankard,” he told the barkeep. He had no palate for ale or hard liquor, but wouldn’t use a glass in a place like this.

  With the mug in hand, he turned to survey the drinkers and chancers and the few women working the room for men with money.

  Eventually, he would find a way to shut this down, too. But he reminded himself that things happen in due course. It was by degrees that a screw is turned and a knot tightened. His real hope was that the gradual strengthening of trade and commerce would naturally change the balance of activities in a place like the Hemlock.

  Give men real work for real coin, and they lose the need to hope on a roll of dice. Let a woman decide for herself if her flower can be bought, and most will choose another way, many to be honest wives and raise honest sons.

  As he relaxed into his drink, a man brushed his arm with a strange familiarity. “You’re looking well, my boy.”

  Roth turned, not perturbed by the prospect of a little bar banter. He nearly dropped his tankard when he looked into the eyes of Malen Staned. His father.

  “What in hells are you doing here?” he asked, losing his composure.

  “Released from debtor’s prison. You remember. Got rather deep into it trying to escape the wharf in Wanship.” The old man winked.

  “What I remember…” Roth motioned to his highest in command in this detachment. With the aid of his fellows, the leagueman cleared the Hemlock entirely, even the barkeep scampering out without a protest. “What I remember is you selling me to pay a gambling marker. I’m fortunate I wound up in the service of a leagueman.”

  “You’re all upside down. No one sold you.” His father showed him a patient smile.

  Roth reached behind the bar and took the So’Dell wine bottle. He poured a glass and pushed it over to his father.

  “No, son,” his da said, and pushed it back. The man proceeded to pour a cup of water from a decanter and take a long drink. “Love water that doesn’t taste stale.”

  “You say I wasn’t sold?” Roth pressed. “I remember you making a deal—�
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  “No one tried to sell you, Roth.” His father shook his head, a hint of regret in his face. “I was going to prison, remember, after trying to turn your mother’s nice things into some coin.” Malen’s gaze seemed far away. “I hated doing that. We just had no other way.”

  “But you lost them, didn’t you?” In his mind’s eye, Roth could see his mother’s nice things even now.

  “I was cheated, and nearly did a fool thing to get even. Nearly stole something that didn’t belong to me.” His father turned to face Roth straight. “But I staightened up before doing that crime. Turns out, though, the city guard was going to pin it on me anyway. They were in on the theft. All I did was a quick negotiation to get you placed with the League.”

  “In payment for being let off,” Roth finished.

  “Didn’t turn out that way, did it?” the man said. “I wound up in prison anyway. But you…” He looked Roth up and down. “I was right about the chance the League would give you, wasn’t I?”

  Roth smiled at that. “Yes, Da. You were right.” Then he looked at his father’s shabby clothes and scraggly beard. “If you’ve come expecting money … I won’t put coin in your pocket just to see it gambled away.” He nodded toward the empty tables of chance.

  “I see,” the old man said, a disappointed look in his eyes. “Kind of forgotten how hard it was for me to take your mother’s nice things to the river in the first place, haven’t you? Or that you begged me to teach you the art of chance so you could put it to use on the wharf, running your rook and flimflam cheats.”

  “And you said no,” Roth said, smiling at the memory.

  His father smiled, too. Seeing the man again … it made Roth’s heart thump in his chest. Much of the code he expected his men to live by had been born from the memory of this man.

  His father took another drink from his cup. “The girl … she came back to Wanship.”

 

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