Best Laid Plans

by D. P. Prior

  A stool spiralled its way up from the floor and Sektis Gandaw sat upon it with a satisfied sigh. One step closer. Even after all these centuries the desire burned strong. It was the only desire remaining to him, and that’s as it should be, he reminded himself. Once you have everything, you have no need for anything else.

  He was close. Closer than he’d been in centuries. The dwarf, Maldark, was out of the way, so there’d be no repeat of what happened the last time he’d harnessed the power of Eingana.

  The idiot who had two of the other pieces of the statue had gone quiet. At first their power had been used carelessly and Sektis Gandaw had drawn near. The other piece was with the Templum fleet, on its way to Sahul. The mawgs had been decimated by Maldark’s attack and would never be able to take it from so strong a force.

  Think, he told himself. Reason. Three pieces so close together, so close he could almost touch them. Maybe he didn’t have to do anything. After all, the wheels had already been set in motion. Armies were gathering in the vicinity of Sarum, presumably in response to the recent uses of the statue. War was coming, of that you could be certain. From what he had observed of Sahulian Emperors, there was no way a Templum force was going to be tolerated on their soil. Conflict was bound to arise, and conflict leads to desperation. Desperate men make mistakes, Sektis Gandaw reasoned, and he’d be watching, biding his time. He’d waited this long; he’d mastered the art of patience. Nothing good came quickly. He could wait as long as it took. After all, he was Sektis Gandaw, the Technocrat; the Übermensch they’d called him during his rise to power on Earth. The over-man. They couldn’t have been more right. Man was nothing more than a beast, the biological bi-product of chemical reactions and random fluctuations. Nothing but an ape, and yet to most men the idea was seldom entertained. To think of themselves as apes was preposterous; but no matter how much higher they considered themselves than primates, humans were always bound to their intrinsic flaws, their status as brutes. The Übermensch, though, he was something more. He wasn’t just a development of man, he was over and above him. Humanity was a pitiful laughing stock to him. The Übermensch was lord of his own destiny; he was self-made; there was nothing he couldn’t do. They had known that and disapproved. Monkeys withholding their consent from a god.

  For a moment, Sektis Gandaw was struck by the fact that he couldn’t remember who “they” were. Machines had preserved his body all these centuries, enhanced his senses and ensured his survival, but they’d failed to halt the erosion of his memories. Little pieces of his past crumbled away like melting icebergs year after year. He’d saved clusters of them, partitioned them away, sealed the organic memory nodules as best he could, but it was a patchy defence. Huge gaps of emptiness lay between the preserved recollections. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hop from one set of memories to the next as if they were stepping stones above an abyss, but there was no continuity.

  They, he focused on the thought. Who were they? And then it came to him with a sharp realization. “They” had been his rivals, all dutifully disposed of. “They” had been the wastrels behind the Global Garden Festival. “They” had been the alternative-lifers who’d made their last stand in Sahul, or the ignorant Dreamers who’d rejected his vision and brought about the Reckoning. There had always been a “they” dogging his movements, thwarting his progress, ever since he’d started on the path of perfection. Ever since he’d taken his first steps under the tutelage of Dr Dee in London, when he’d learnt to scry upon the world of Aethir.

  Sektis Gandaw stopped as a buried memory burst into consciousness. That was when it had all started, when he’d come to the conclusion that the world was a mess, that it needed fixing. There hadn’t been a “they” until that moment. He hadn’t been dissatisfied until the whisperings had started.

  His head was pounding with the implications, but mercifully the sedatives kicked in and he could look at it more objectively.

  Everything changed the day the voice had called to him. A voice from somewhere he no longer believed in; refused to accept. Somehow, his scrying activities had aroused the attention of a being trapped in a very dark place. He’d walled the memory off, he realized, beaten it back with the tools of his science.

  More drugs surged through his veins, dampening down the rising feeling that he might have been mistaken, might not quite hold all the answers. There had been something back then that science couldn’t account for. Not just the rudimentary science of the alchemists of his day, but the science he now worshipped at the altar of.

  Another shot of tranquilizers entered his bloodstream. Memories are buried for a reason, he told himself. Especially childish memories of hell and bogeymen. Just part of the collective unconscious, he reminded himself, as his rational mind locked down the hatches against his flawed human nature. That’s why everything has to be put right, why the Unweaving needed to happen. Then “they” would thank him for creating a universe that made sense. A universe without skeletons in the cupboard.

  Sektis Gandaw almost allowed himself a smile. Almost, but not quite. Equanimity had been restored. He was back in control. The Übermensch.

  But no matter how he tried to deny it, he could still feel the niggling presence of that dark memory haunting the shadows of his awareness. More of a sound, than a presence; the muffled echo of the voice that had revealed the existence of the homunculi and opened up to him the possibilities of their technology. It was the voice of his erstwhile mentor, speaking to him from the Abyss. It was the voice of Otto Blightey, the Liche Lord of Verusia.

  THE COMING CONFLICT

  Shader watched the plumes of black smoke rolling off of Maldark’s boat as flames consumed it, erasing the evidence of the dwarf’s regurgitated remains. Tears streaked his scratched and bloodied face. Something about Maldark’s ending had touched a nerve, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The minute flaming arrows had arced from the Templum flagship he’d gasped and stumbled as if they’d pierced his heart.

  The archers had then turned their bows on the surviving mawgs as they’d fled the flames, howling and leaping into the sea. Not a single one had made it back to the reavers. At least that was something to be thankful for. Perhaps Maldark’s attack hadn’t been completely in vain. His intervention had saved the Templum fleet, but nevertheless it had still been a failure.

  Shader raised his eyes to the spot in the sky where the black hand had appeared and let out a long and anguished cry. The remnants of the Aura Placida’s crew turned their heads towards him, but he was beyond caring. Podesta was slumped beneath the mainmast knocking back a bottle of rum. Rivulets of blood ran down the wood and, as Shader watched, a fat glob dropped from the crow’s nest to spatter the Captain’s hat.

  ‘Ship ho!’ someone called; someone who was not Elpidio.

  Podesta tried to stand, but before he made it to his feet, Cleto tore himself away from the spectacle of flame and strode over to him, followed by the rest of the crew. Shader didn’t like the way Cleto was standing with arms folded across his chest, nor the way Podesta had eyes only for the rum. He flicked a look to the sea where a longboat was bobbing towards the Aura Placida. He lifted his gaze to the Templum flagship and saw a white-robed figure peering through the smoke like a ghostly sentinel. Shader turned back to Podesta as Cleto barked angry words and a chorus of growled agreements passed through the crew. There were only a score of men left, all of them drawn and looking bloodless. Gutless, Shader thought as he realized what was happening. Sliding the gladius from its scabbard with a ringing scrape he advanced on the mob.

  Cleto turned on him and scowled, raising the barrel of an Aeternam weapon and levelling it at Shader’s chest. Shader had seen what the weapons could do, but he couldn’t have cared less as he stalked towards Cleto. The sailors parted for him, eyes darting uncertainly.

  ‘Stay out of this,’ Cleto said. ‘This is crew business and none o’ yours.’

  ‘Funny that.’ Shader’s voice was a parched whisper that split the air like
the crack of a whip. ‘Seeing as it was you that said I was one of you now. Not just you,’ he added with a flick of his head towards the crow’s nest, ‘but Elpidio too; and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you Quilonians, it’s that you’re…what’s the word you use?…democratic. So, whatever business you have with the Captain is my business too.’

  Cleto tensed, his finger twitching over the weapon’s trigger. Shader pressed on until the barrel was touching his chest, directly over his heart. He opened his mouth to yell at Cleto, tell him to do it, but before a sound came out Podesta lurched to his feet and stumbled, steadying himself with one hand on the mast.

  ‘Bravely done, my friend.’ He wagged the bottle in Shader’s direction. Podesta’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot. He forced his lips into a wide grin, but the rest of his face didn’t comply. ‘Cleto’s right,’ he said. ‘Captain’s job is to protect his crew, not lead them into slaughter. I…I… caused this.’ He swept the bottle around to encompass the blood-stained decks. ‘My obsession. My fear.’

  Cleto lowered the barrel of his weapon and turned his eyes on the Captain. Podesta met his gaze with a forlorn nod.

  ‘I was just a kid,’ Podesta’s voice quavered and tears fell freely down his cheeks. ‘Just a boy, like Elpidio, when they came. Blood in the water,’ his voice cracked. ‘Blood, blood, blood…’

  Shader sheathed his blade and went to embrace him, but Podesta drew back.

  ‘I failed you,’ Podesta said to the remnants of his crew. ‘And for that I will be forever sorry.’

  He removed his tricorn, rubbed at the spatter of blood, and handed it to Cleto.

  ‘She’s yours now.’ He slapped the mainmast. ‘Treat her well, Captain.’

  Cleto accepted the hat and wiped something from his eye as Podesta turned away and staggered towards the cabins.

  ‘But what…?’ Shader started to ask.

  Cleto interrupted him. ‘Don’t you worry about him. We’ll see he’s all right, won’t we lads?’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ The sailors saluted him.

  Cleto fixed Shader with a narrow-eyed stare. ‘And what about you? What happens now?’

  Shader was spared from answering by a shout of ‘Ho!’ from behind.

  The Aura Placida’s crew turned to look towards port where a head was poking above the rails. For an instant Shader didn’t register the clipped grey hair, the chiselled face, and the stiff deportment as the man climbed aboard. Chainmail sparkled in the resurgent sunlight, and the red Monas symbol seemed to have burst and spilled its own blood across the once white surcoat.

  ‘The least you could do is salute, soldier,’ Ignatius Grymm, Grand Master of the Elect, said.

  Shader’s eyes filled with tears, but whether it was from the shock of seeing his old commander or from the losses he’d suffered he could not say. He was awhirl with unnameable emotions and could only stare blankly back. Ignatius cocked his head, a look of concern passing across his blood-streaked face. Shader dropped to his knees and bowed his head. He could think of nothing else to do.

  ***

  ‘His Divinity is very impressed with your actions,’ Ignatius said, leaning with his back to the rail as the Templum flagship rode the waves. ‘Personally, I thought it was suicidal.’

  Shader searched Ignatius’ eyes for any hint of a reprimand, but all he saw was the sparkle of fondness. It did nothing to quell the conflict raging within him. If anything it just increased his guilt at deserting the Elect.

  ‘I suppose it was in the spirit of the Order,’ Shader said. ‘Give no quarter and all that.’

  Ignatius clapped him on the back. ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure songs will be written about it. The lone knight taking on a hundred mawgs.’

  ‘More like a thousand,’ Shader said with a half-hearted chuckle.

  ‘A million then.’ Ignatius was watching him like a concerned parent. ‘Might as well save the poets the trouble of exaggerating the tale.’

  Shader dipped his head, grasping the rail and staring into the sea. ‘Only I wasn’t alone,’ he said as the faces of Sabas, Elpidio, and Osric flashed before his mind’s eye. ‘And it wasn’t even my idea to attack.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ignatius said, turning to join Shader’s study of the waves. ‘What on earth possessed the Captain to such an act of valour? Hardly the sort of behaviour you’d expect from a smuggler.’

  ‘You know he smuggles for the Templum, don’t you?’ Shader said.

  Ignatius chewed his top lip, his brows furrowing in thought. Finally, he pushed away from the rail and straightened his surcoat with a sharp tug. ‘A good man, nevertheless. Brave. Fearless.’

  Shader lifted his eyes to the horizon half expecting, half wishing to see the Aura Placida racing towards them. Ain only knew where Cleto would take the crew. Some port no doubt where they could make repairs. Shader had felt like he was watching the slow death of an old friend as the carrack limped away.

  ‘He was terrified,’ Shader said. ‘The mawgs tore his crew apart when he was a kid. He was so scared he did the only thing he could: he faced his demons head on.’

  Ignatius was nodding his understanding.

  ‘The only problem was,’ Shader continued, ‘he dragged the crew into his own nightmare. I don’t suppose they’ll ever forgive him.’ He couldn’t see how they could; not with so many of their friends among the dead.

  Shader winced as he pictured Elpidio’s face again, and then his thoughts turned to Osric. Poor doomed Osric. Shader didn’t know whether to be relieved that Osric’s curse had been lifted, that he’d finally found the peace of death. He felt an icy knotting in his stomach, as if all his hopes, all his Nousian beliefs, were being sucked into a void at its centre. Araboth. Shader shook his head with bitter recollection of his time in the illusory realm. That’s where Osric should be now, but something about that last desperate look the wraith had given him told Shader there was no heavenly paradise waiting for him. It had been a look of utter horror, as if at the last Osric had glimpsed the madness of the Abyss, or worse still, the absolute emptiness of the Void.

  He started at a tap on his shoulder and looked up into Ignatius’ grey eyes.

  ‘His Divinity is here,’ the Grand Master said, dropping to one knee.

  Shader did the same as the Ipsissimus, accompanied by a black clad exemptus in a red biretta, approached. The exemptus hobbled ahead, tapping the deck with a walking stick. His cheeks wobbled as he walked, and his paunch rippled beneath his robes. Shader recognized him from his consecration, and from that fateful day at the tournament.

  ‘Deacon Shader, knight of the Elect,’ Exemptus Cane said through a spray of spittle. ‘Keeper of the Sword of the Archon.’ Cane looked pointedly at the gladius scabbarded at Shader’s hip and then shuffled around to indicate the Ipsissimus.

  Shader couldn’t help staring. There was something different about the ruler of the Templum: he no longer had the pallor of death about him. His face shone with a vitality that matched the sparkle of his eyes, and he seemed taller somehow, less emaciated. The hair beneath his biretta was brown with a healthy sheen, whereas before it had been as grey as his bloodless face.

  ‘Bend your knee and bow your head before His Divinity, the Infallible Ruler of the Nousian Theocracy, the Supreme…’

  ‘They’re already kneeling, Cane,’ the Ipsissimus said, ‘and their heads are bowed. I think we can safely say they know who I am, so please, let’s not go through all that pomp and ceremony.’

  ‘But, but, but…’ Cane’s jowls shook, but he sealed his lips and dropped his chin to his chest at a withering look from the Ipsissimus.

  ‘Please stand, Deacon Shader,’ the Ipsissimus said, holding out his hand.

  Shader rose and planted a kiss on the Ipsissimus’s golden ring. His eyes flicked to the gleaming Monas hanging above the white robe, its single amber eye glinting as if it held a miniature sun at its centre.

  ‘You have my thanks,’ the Ipsissimus said. ‘And my forgiveness. No one has ever left the
Elect before, particularly with the Sword of the Archon, but your actions today have more than atoned for that little… blip.’

  The Ipsissimus threw an arm around Shader’s shoulders as if they were old friends and led him away from Cane and Ignatius. They received some strange looks from the crew and the scores of battle-weary knights who stood to attention as they passed.

  The Ipsissimus pulled open the door to a large cabin and gestured for Shader to enter. Shader cast a look back at Ignatius, but the Grand Master merely shrugged.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ the Ipsissimus said. ‘I was going to offer you a drink.’

  Shader ducked inside the doorway. He was a little disoriented by the absence of gold and crystal, velvet drapery, and artistic masterpieces he’d come to expect from the highest echelons of the Templum. Instead he was confronted with a low bed without a mattress, a single threadbare sheet, a chipped and scratched wooden chair that looked as if it would collapse if a cat leapt on it, and an upturned crate upon which stood a carved Monas, a burned-down candle, and a prayer cord. A string line had been tied across the back wall, and from this hung a couple of pristine white robes and a stained and patched nightshirt.

  ‘Can’t stand all the tawdry trappings that are supposed to go with the Office,’ the Ipsissimus said, easing past Shader and stooping to reach under the bed. ‘Have to go along with it in Aeterna, but here,’ he stood with a bottle of wine and a couple of goblets clutched to his chest, ‘here things are a little more as Ain prefers, don’t you think?’

  Shader stuck out his bottom lip and nodded.

  ‘Oh, don’t say anything,’ the Ipsissimus said, setting the bottle and glasses on the deck and feeling around under the bed until he located a corkscrew. ‘I know your type quite well; I know the sort of judgments you’ve secretly been making.’

  Shader opened his mouth to protest, but the Ipsissimus jabbed the corkscrew in his direction and continued.