The Darkness That Comes Before

by R. Scott Bakker

  The Prime Counsel looked to Xerius, who nodded.

  “The time has come,” Skeaös called, gesturing to the far side of the Imperial Audience Hall.

  Great stone doors, Kyranean relics salvaged from the ruins of Mehtsonc, ponderously opened.

  “His Eminence,” a voice cried, “Lord Nersei Calmemunis, Palatine of Kanampurea.”

  Feeling curiously short of breath, Xerius watched his Imperial Ushers lead the Conriyan entourage down the concourse. Despite his earlier resolution to remain motionless—men who resembled statues, he was convinced, exhibited wisdom—he found himself tugging at the tassels of his linen kilt. He had received innumerable petitioners in his forty-five years, embassies of war and peace from across the Three Seas, but as Skeaös had said, he had never hosted an audience such as this.

  The Empire itself . . .

  Months had passed since Maithanet had declared Holy War against the heathens of Kian. Like naphtha, the fiend’s summons had ignited the hearts of men in every Inrithi nation—pious, bloodthirsty, and covetous alike. Even now the groves and vineyards beyond Momemn’s walls hosted thousands of these so-called Men of the Tusk. But until Calmemunis’s arrival, they had consisted almost entirely of rabble: low-caste freemen, beggars, non-hereditary Cultic priests, and even, Xerius had been told, a band of lepers—men with little hope outside of Maithanet’s promise, and even less understanding of the dreadful task their Shriah had set for them. Such men did not merit an emperor’s spit, let alone his concern.

  Nersei Calmemunis, however, was a far different matter. Of all the great Inrithi nobles rumoured to have mortgaged their birthrights for the Holy War, he was the first to reach the Empire’s shores. His arrival had thrown Momemn’s populace into an uproar. Clay blessing tablets, purchased from the temples at a copper talent apiece, had been strung across the streets. The fire-altars of Cmiral had burned an unending procession of victims donated in his name. Everyone understood that men such as Calmemunis, along with their client barons and knights, would be the keel and rudder of the Holy War.

  But who would be its pilot?

  Me.

  Stung by a momentary panic, Xerius looked from the approaching Conriyans to the flutter of wings above. As always, sparrows wheeled and jousted beneath the dim vaults. As always, they calmed him. For a moment he wondered what an emperor was to a sparrow. Just another man?

  He thought it unlikely.

  When he lowered his gaze, the Conriyans were kneeling across the floor below him. Several of them, Xerius noticed with distaste, had tiny flower petals lodged in their hair and the oiled ringlets of their beards—marks of Momemn’s adulation. They stood in unison, some blinking, others shielding their eyes against the sunlight.

  For them, I’m darkness framed by sun and sky.

  “It is always good,” he said with surprising decisiveness, “to receive a cousin of our race from across the seas. How are things, Lord Calmemunis?”

  The Palatine of Kanampurea stepped from his entourage and paused beneath the monumental steps, thoughtlessly choosing Xerius’s long shadow to block the glare. Tall and broad of shoulder, the man cut an imposing figure. The small mouth pursed in his beard suggested some defect of breeding, but the rose-and-blue finery he wore was worth even an emperor’s envy. The Conriyans might look brutish with their beards, especially amid the clean-shaven elegance of the Imperial Nansur Court, but their dress was impeccable.

  “Good. How goes the war, Uncle?”

  Xerius nearly bolted from his seat. Someone gasped.

  “He means no offence, God-of-Men,” Skeaös quickly murmured in his ear. “Conriyan nobles often refer to their betters as ‘uncle.’ It is their custom.”

  Yes, Xerius thought, but why does he mention the war? Does he bait me?

  “What war do you refer to? The Holy War?”

  Calmemunis looked narrowly at what must have been a wall of silhouettes above him. “I was told your nephew, Ikurei Conphas, marches against the Scylvendi in the north.”

  “Oh. That isn’t a war. Simply a punitive expedition. A mere raid, in fact, if one compares it with the great war to come. The Scylvendi are nothing. It is the Fanim of Kian who are the sole object of my concern. After all, it is they, and not the Scylvendi, who desecrate Holy Shimeh.”

  Could they hear the hollow in his belly?

  Calmemunis frowned. “But I’ve heard that the Scylvendi are a formidable people, that they’ve never been overcome in the field.”

  “You’ve been misled . . . So tell me, Lord Palatine, your journey from Conriya was without incident, I presume.”

  “None to speak of. Momas favoured us with kind seas.”

  “By his grace do we travel . . . Tell me, did you have occasion to confer with Proyas before you left Aöknyssus?” He could fairly hear Skeaös stiffen beside him. Not three hours earlier, the Prime Counsel had informed him of Calmemunis’s feud with his illustrious kinsman. According to their sources in Conriya, Proyas had ordered Calmemunis whipped for impiety at the Battle of Paremti the previous year.

  “Proyas?”

  Xerius smiled. “Yes. Your cousin. The Crown Prince.”

  The small-mouthed face darkened. “No. We did not confer.”

  “But I thought Maithanet had charged him with marshalling all of Conriya for the Holy War.”

  “You were misled.”

  Xerius stifled a laugh. The man was stupid, he realized. He often wondered whether this was not the true function of jnan: the quick separation of wheat from chaff. The Palatine of Kanampurea, he now knew, was chaff.

  “No,” Xerius said. “I think not.”

  Several members of the Calmemunis’s entourage scowled at this—the stocky officer to his right even opened his mouth in protest—but they held their tongues. They knew better, Xerius supposed, than to suggest their Palatine had actually missed something.

  “Proyas and I do not . . .” Calmemunis paused, as though realizing mid-sentence that he had said too much. The small mouth gaped, baffled.

  Oh, this one is art! A real fool’s fool.

  Xerius waved a dismissive hand, and watched its shadow flutter across the Palatine’s men. The sun felt warm across his fingers. “But enough of Proyas.”

  “Indeed,” Calmemunis snapped.

  Afterward, Xerius had no doubt, Skeaös would find some slavish way to chastise him for mentioning Proyas. The fact that the Palatine had offended him first would count for nothing. As far as Skeaös was concerned, they were here to seduce, not to fence. The old ingrate, Xerius was convinced, was becoming as bad as his mother. No matter. He was Emperor.

  “The provisions . . .” Skeaös whispered.

  “You and your contingent will be provisioned, of course,” Xerius continued. “And to ensure you’re kept in a manner befitting your rank, I’ve appropriated a nearby villa for your comfort.” He turned to the Prime Counsel. “Skeaös, will you please show the Palatine our Indenture.”

  Skeaös snapped his fingers, and an immense eunuch plodded from drapery to the far right of the dais, bearing a bronze lectern. A second followed, a long parchment scroll resting like a relic in his walrus arms. Calmemunis backed in astonishment from the steps as the first eunuch placed the stand before him. The second fumbled with the scroll for a moment—an indiscretion that would not go unpunished—then smoothly unrolled it across the sloped bronze. Both withdrew to a discreet distance.

  The Conriyan Palatine squinted quizzically at Xerius, then bent to study the heavy document.

  Several moments passed. Finally, Xerius asked, “Do you read Sheyic?”

  Calmemunis glared at him.

  I need to be more careful, Xerius realized. Few things were as incalculable as men who were at once stupid and thin-skinned.

  “I read Sheyic. But I don’t understand.”

  “That will not do,” Xerius said, leaning forward on his bench. “You are the first man of true rank, Lord Calmemunis, to grace the gathering Holy War. It’s crucial we understand each ot
her implicitly, no?”

  “Indeed,” the Palatine replied, his tone and expression frigid in the manner of someone trying to maintain dignity in the midst of bewilderment.

  Xerius smiled. “Good. The Nansur Empire, as you well know, has warred against the Fanim since the first Kiani tribesmen rode howling from the deserts. For generations we’ve battled them in the south, even as we’ve battled the Scylvendi in the north, losing province after province to their fanatic ardour. Eumarna, Xerash, even Shigek—losses purchased by the sacrifice of a thousand thousand Nansur sons. All of what is now called Kian once belonged to my Imperial ancestors, Palatine. Since who I am now, Ikurei Xerius III, is but the face of one divine Emperor, all of what is now called Kian once belonged to me.”

  Xerius paused, moved by his words and thrilled by the resonance of his voice across the distances of polished marble. How could they deny the force of his oratory?

  “The Indenture before you, Lord Calmemunis, merely binds you, as all men must be bound, to the truth. And the truth—the undeniable truth—is that all the governorates of Kian are in fact provinces of the Nansur Empire. By marking this Indenture, you swear to undo an ancient wrong. You swear to return all lands liberated by the Holy War to their rightful possessor.”

  “What’s this?” Calmemunis asked. He almost trembled with suspicion. Not good.

  “As I said, it’s an indenture whereby you swear to—”

  “I heard you the first time,” Calmemunis barked. “I was told nothing of this! This is sanctioned by the Shriah? Has Maithanet commanded this?”

  The feeble-minded fool had the gall to interrupt him? Ikurei Xerius III, the Emperor who would see the Nansurium restored? Outrage!

  “My generals tell me that you’ve brought some fifteen thousand men with you, Palatine. Surely you don’t expect me to host and suckle so many for nothing, do you?” The world “suckle” caught his fancy, and he couldn’t resist adding, “The Empire has only so many teats, my Conriyan friend.”

  “I-I’ve heard nothing of this,” Calmemunis stammered. “I’m to swear that all heathen lands I conquer will be given away? Given to you?”

  The stocky officer at his side could bear no more. “Sign nothing, Lord Palatine! The Shriah, I wager, has heard nothing of this either.”

  “And who would you be?” Xerius snapped.

  “Krijates Xinemus,” the man said briskly, “Lord Marshal of Attrempus.”

  “Attrempus . . . Attrempus. Skeaös, please tell me why that name sounds so familiar?”

  “Certainly, God-of-Men. Attrempus is the sister of Atyersus, the fortress that the School of Mandate leases to House Nersei. Lord Xinemus, here, is a close friend of Nersei Proyas”—the old Counsel paused for the briefest of instants, no doubt to allow his Emperor time to digest the significance of this—“his childhood sword trainer, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Of course. Proyas wouldn’t be so foolish as to allow an imbecile, especially one as powerful as Calmemunis, to parlay alone with the House Ikurei. He had sent a wet nurse. Ah, Mother, he thought, the whole Three Seas knows our reputation.

  “Lord Marshal,” Xerius said, “you forget your place. Didn’t my Master of Protocol instruct you to remain silent?”

  Xinemus laughed and ruefully shook his head. Turning to Calmemunis, he said, “We were warned this might happen, my Lord.”

  “Warned what might happen, Marshal?” Xerius cried. This was beyond all tolerance!

  “That House Ikurei would play games with what is holy.”

  “Games?” Calmemunis exclaimed, whirling to confront Xerius. “Games with the Holy War? I came to you with an open heart, Emperor, as one Man of the Tusk to another, and you play games?”

  Funereal silence. The Emperor of Nansur had just been accused.

  “I have asked you—” Xerius stopped, struggling to purge the screech from his tone. “I’ve asked you—in all good courtesy, Palatine!—whether you’ll sign my Indenture. Either you sign it, or you and your men starve. It is as simple as that.”

  Calmemunis had adopted the stance of one about to draw his weapon, and for a moment, Xerius grappled with the mad urge to flee, even though the man’s weapons had been confiscated. The Palatine might be an idiot, but he was a frighteningly well-proportioned one. He looked as though he could leap the intervening steps seven at a time.

  “So you would deny us provisions?” Calmemunis cried. “Starve Men of the Tusk in order to twist the Holy War to your ends?”

  Men of the Tusk. The phrase made Xerius want to spit, and yet this prattling fool spoke it as though it were the God’s secret name. More dull fanaticism. Skeaös had warned him of this as well.

  “I speak only of what truth demands, Lord Palatine. If truth serves my ends, then it’s because I serve the ends of truth.” The Emperor of Nansur could not resist a wicked smile. “Whether your men starve or not is your decision, Lord Calmemunis. Your—”

  Something warm and viscous struck his cheek. Stunned, he slapped at his face, then studied the muck on his fingers. A premonition of doom struck him, gouged his breast of all breath. What was this? Some kind of omen?

  He looked up to the bickering sparrows. “Gaenkelti!” he shrieked.

  The Captain of his Eothic Guard hastened to his side, bearing the odour of balsam and leather.

  “Kill those birds!” Xerius hissed.

  “Now, God-of-Men?”

  Rather than reply, he snatched Gaenkelti’s crimson cloak, which the man wore, according to Nansur custom, thrown forward over his left shoulder and hooked to his right hip. He used it to wipe the bird shit from his cheek and fingers.

  One of his birds had defiled him . . . What could it mean? He had risked everything. Everything!

  “Archers!” Gaenkelti cried to the upper galleries where the Eothic Bowmen were hidden. “Kill the sparrows!”

  A short pause, then the twang of unseen bowstrings from above.

  “Die!” Xerius roared. “Treacherous ingrates!”

  Despite his wrath, he grinned at the sight of Calmemunis and his embassy scrambling to avoid the falling shafts. Arrows clattered to the floor throughout the Imperial Audience Hall. Most had missed their mark, but a few twirled to the ground like maple seeds, bearing small battling shadows. Soon the concourse was littered with felled sparrows, some flopping like speared fish, others lifeless.

  The archers relented. Beating wings punctuated the silence.

  An impaled sparrow had plopped onto the steps midway between him and the Palatine of Kanampurea. On a whim, Xerius pushed himself from his throne and trotted down the steps. He bent, scooped up the arrow and its thrashing message. He studied the bird for a moment, watched it convulse and shudder. Was it you, little one? Who bid you do this? Who?

  A mere bird would never dare offend an emperor.

  He looked up at Calmemunis and was seized by another whim, this one far darker. Holding shaft and sparrow before him, he approached the dumbstruck Palatine.

  “Take this,” Xerius said calmly, “as a token of my esteem.”

  Words of mutual outrage were exchanged, then Calmemunis, Xinemus, and their escort stormed from the Imperial Audience Hall, leaving Xerius alone with his thundering heart.

  He scratched at the memory of bird shit upon his cheek. Squinting against the sun, he looked up to his throne, to the burnished silhouettes of his servants. He vaguely heard his Grand Seneschal, Ngarau, cry out for a basin of warm water. The Emperor had to be cleansed.

  “What does it mean?” Xerius asked numbly.

  “Nothing, God-of-Men,” Skeaös replied. “We fully expected them to initially deny the Indenture. Like all fruits, our plan requires time to mature.”

  Our plan, Skeaös? You mean my plan.

  He tried to stare down the insolent fool, but the sun confounded him. “I speak neither to you nor to the Indenture, you old ass.” To accentuate his point he kicked over the bronze lectern. The Indenture swung like a pendulum in the air before skittering to the floor. Then
he gestured to the skewered bird lying at his feet. “What does this mean?”

  “Good fortune,” Arithmeas, his favourite augur and astrologer, called out. “Among the lower castes, to be . . . ah, shat upon by a bird is the cause of great celebration.”

  Xerius wanted to laugh, but he could not. “But being shat upon is the only fortune they know, isn’t it?”

  “Nevertheless, there’s great wisdom to this belief, God-of-Men. Small misfortunes such as this, they believe, portend good things. Some token blight must always accompany triumph, to remind us of our frailty.”

  His cheek tingled, as though it too recognized the truth of the augur’s words. It was an omen! And a good one at that. He could feel it!

  Again the Gods have touched me!

  Suddenly revived, he climbed the steps, avidly listening as Arithmeas expanded on the way this event coincided with his star, which had just entered the horizon of Anagke, the Whore of Fate, and now stood upon two fortuitous axes with the Nail of Heaven. “An excellent conjunction,” the portly augur exclaimed. “An excellent conjunction indeed!” Rather than resume his place on the high bench, Xerius strode passed it, bidding Arithmeas to accompany him. Trailing a small herd of functionaries, he walked between the great rose marble pillars that marked the missing wall and out onto the adjoining terrace.

  Like a vast fresco chalked in smoky colours, Momemn spread out below him, stretching toward the setting sun. His palace, the Andiamine Heights, occupied the seaward quarter of the city, so that he could, if he wished, see Momemn in her labyrinthine entirety simply by turning his head from side to side: the square turrets of the Eothic Garrison to the north, the monumental promenades and structures of the temple-complex of Cmiral directly west, and the congested bedlam of the harbour along the banks of the River Phayus to the south.