Those Below: The Empty Throne Book 2

by Daniel Polansky

  And perhaps, also, Bas had some dim idea that he was not likely to come back from this mission. Perhaps he did not want to. Perhaps the thought of his best friend living on past him was not entirely an unpleasant one.

  ‘What are they like?’ Nikephoros asked.

  ‘You saw the Caracal’s, didn’t you?’ Hamilcar asked, smirking, never knowing to leave well enough alone.

  But Bas was in no mood to speak that night, it would have required more than a snide remark to draw him out of silence – a naked blade, perhaps, or a sudden earthquake.

  ‘Only from a distance.’

  ‘Big,’ said one of the other men, a tagmatarch who had been present that day when the two of them had sparred. ‘As tall as the Strategos, though not as broad. Not that it did any good – the Caracal made short work of her, didn’t you?’

  Bas drank more.

  ‘I’ve heard it was close,’ said one of the other men seated round the fire. Bas did not bother to look, the dark and the liquor conspiring to render them faceless and indistinct, and what was the point of looking at them anyhow? One soldier was as good as another, so long as he would carry steel and go where he was told. ‘And that only a female – what must their boys be like?’

  ‘They say their men are the same size as their women.’

  ‘Imagine one of those riding down on you, heavy plate thick as your hand, all of that strange metal they use?’

  ‘No horse could carry that much weight,’

  ‘Their horses aren’t like our horses. Twice as big they say, with claws instead of hooves and hooked teeth. Say they eat nothing but flesh. Say before battle they slaughter a child and feed it to them, one for every horse. Say the Birds take part as well.’

  ‘They say they can shit lightning,’ Hamilcar interrupted, ‘and piss blue flame. You boys will believe damn near anything.’

  ‘You know an awful lot, for a man that’s never been within a hundred cables of the Roost.’

  ‘I was born knowing more than you,’ Hamilcar answered. ‘Came out of my mother twice as bright and half as strong again.’

  ‘I never knew a Dycian who didn’t talk,’ said the tagmatarch. ‘And I never knew one to speak anything worth hearing. The cleverest, strongest, bravest set of people ever found themselves the slaves of the Aelerian Commonwealth.’

  ‘Numbers,’ Hamilcar said. ‘Sheer numbers, and nothing else. Get enough of anything together they’ll manage to prove half-lethal. Ten years I’ve had to listen to you talk about the bird men that broke your line, watched you piss yourselves from the memory, been woken up in the night by your screams. Now I finally get to have a look at these creatures that turned your livers to jelly.’ The Dycian was talking to talk, talking because that was what he did when he didn’t want to think, the same way Isaac drank. ‘Every man who ever lost a fight lost it to the toughest son-of-a-bitch that ever walked on two feet. You Aelerians are unused to defeat, and so any victorious foe must be tougher than stone and fiercer than a one-eyed whore.’

  Isaac was seated on a squat travelling stool, though only barely. The conversation had seen him slide continually further into inebriation; indeed many evenings seemed to find him in such a state, and though Bas knew that he ought to have made an issue of his adjutant’s drink, he had not yet done so, nor had he any immediate plans. Far from the only one these days, after all. ‘You talk so much shit, Dycian, it’s a wonder you can tell your mouth from your arsehole.’ Isaac’s eyes were red-rimmed against the firelight, and he spoke in a dull monotone that belied the words, the bitter evenness of a frequent drunk.

  ‘Is it now?’ Hamilcar asked, his voice deceptively soft.

  Isaac shoved the top of the bottle into his sneer, popped the cork out between crooked teeth, spat it onto the ground and took a long, hard swallow. ‘You want to know about Those Above? I can tell you. I’m the man to ask. Me or the Caracal, and you know he won’t speak on it. From a distance you might not see a difference, two legs and two arms and a head that won’t take well to an arrow or a knife blade, not so different from a man. And how many of those have I killed, going back to that first one that took me here?’ Isaac seemed to lose himself for a moment then, in the memory or from the drink, but he started up again. ‘Then they come riding down on you and they get bigger and bigger and bigger, giants every one of them, bigger than the Caracal, bigger than any man you’ve ever seen, armour as heavy as an anvil, sun blinding bright off of it. The horses they ride – you call them horses but do you call a boy a man? Thirty links at the shoulder, I watched them measure the corpse of one, had to make a corpse of it because you couldn’t ride them, couldn’t even get close, not without losing enough flesh to turn a man a cripple. Nasty beasts, horrible things. And when their masters ride down on you the sound they make is the same as thunder on the Marches, the lightning about to come, making the night sky bright as noon. Oh you can kill them, the Dycian is right, all it takes is three spears in their chest and a sword-blow to the face. I’ll tell you something else, and though it may sound mad every man who faced them will tell you the same. They feel no pain, or they do not show it – they hold their hatred until the very last beat of their heart, straining to take you with them, to carry you down along into hell.’

  Isaac fell silent finally, and for a long time no one spoke.

  ‘But the Legatus killed one, didn’t he?’ asked a soldier soon to die.

  ‘Aye, killed him dead, three strikes with a war-hammer hard enough to turn iron into pith. Rode straight out to meet the man, answered a challenge in single combat, bold as you please, fearless. But the question to ask yourself now, boy, is this – are you the Caracal?’ He swivelled his head across the assemblage, one by one, eyes cold in the firelight. ‘Are any of you?’ When no one answered he tossed his empty bottle into the darkness, nodded. ‘Nor I. There is only one God-Killer, but there are many thousands of gods.’

  32

  Eudokia descended from her palanquin, Jahan forming a pair of steps with his hands and lowering her to the ground with a grace that belied his brutish form. It was obvious Calla hoped for a second passenger, obvious from her dress, which fit snugly and presumed much of the sun, as well as the cast her face took when the curtain was shuttered and Leon had not descended from it.

  ‘How kind of you to take the time out of your hectic schedule to accompany me on this little expedition. Between you and the custodians, I confess to feeling nearly drowned in compassion,’ Eudokia said, nodding to the four Cuckoos who had accompanied her down from the Second Rung.

  ‘They are for your safety,’ Calla answered. ‘Given the … state of affairs at the moment, the Lord has thought it best to make sure that no … overly enthusiastic Roostborn seek to do you injury.’

  Around them the Perennial Exchange hummed with its customary intensity, stalls and stands and storefronts extending out in every direction, a metropolis of commerce, a city within a city. Two men – Chazars, Eudokia thought, though she had not met enough to be certain – exchanged abuse with one another in their guttural tongue, poked fingers, shouted, came to some arrangement or reconciliation and hugged each other close and without shame. An old woman stirred a thick iron pot of stew that smelled of cinnamon and pork. Next to her, a whip-thin youth with a stand full of housewares attempted to make up for the deficiencies of his stock with exaggerated demonstrations of friendliness, calling to Eudokia in terms of uncomfortable intimacy. Boys in dirty robes and hemp slippers carried tea services through the packed commercial thoroughfares, glassware piled on silver trays.

  ‘Indeed,’ Eudokia observed, ‘the mood seems very tense.’

  ‘Was there anything in particular you hoped to see, Revered Mother?’ asked the captain, the same officer who had escorted them to the docks long months past. Leon’s dearest friend, though Calla might have disputed the point.

  ‘I am told that the tailors in the Perennial Exchange are second to none in the world.’

  ‘Unquestionably the truth,’ he said, smili
ng white teeth. ‘The silkman’s strip, along the north-western quadrant, is where the finest goods are sold. They have been known even to sometimes take the commission of the Well-born.’

  ‘Then that is where you must bring us, Captain,’ Eudokia said, fluttering a smile and waving him onward.

  The Perennial Exchange had thus far lived up to its name. Whatever tension or violence was present within the city, whatever fears might be felt downslope and even in the surrounding neighbourhoods, they seemed to have no effect on that vast engine of commerce. If anything, in fact, these last weeks had seen a flurry of activity, vast sums gained and lost, wagers even madder and more wasteful than might usually be seen, as if it was hoped that sheer vigour would be sufficient to maintain the happy position they had long enjoyed, that excessive optimism would prove a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  They promenaded through the corner of the market dedicated to fine clothing, to silk and linen, furs of sable and silver fox and black squirrel, long rolls of Dycian dyed cloth and of the curiously patterned Parthan robes. Here in the wealthier section of the exchange the stalls were wide canvas tents, and Eudokia stopped into one of these that caught her fancy, Calla accompanying her while the custodians remained outside. The proprietress was a handsome woman halfway between the two of them in age, and she performed the Eternal greeting and offered them tea. Eudokia returned the first and declined the second, then made her way through the collection of robes and dresses, shawls and silk gloves and, in a back corner, an elaborate selection of lacy undergarments.

  ‘The stitchwork is fabulous,’ Eudokia said, holding for a long moment a skimpy black half-dress. ‘Though these days I can’t imagine they would receive much use. Perhaps Calla might have some interest?’

  Though Calla did not, and so they moved on to the rest of the shop.

  ‘I had not supposed you a seamstress, Revered Mother,’ Calla said.

  ‘Busy hands are happy hands. I spent the winter knitting socks for our themas. Salucia can get quite chilly, so I’m told.’

  ‘You’d think it would be best left to the Salucians.’

  Eudokia laughed. ‘Your wit gets buried so deep beneath that facade of yours that sometimes I forget to see it.’ She pulled at a stretch of fabric and turned abruptly to the proprietress. ‘These are marvellous.’

  ‘The Revered Mother is too kind,’ the woman said. ‘Though I admit that we have the use of some extraordinarily skilled workers. We have even been known to do pieces for the Well-born – small things, of course, no Eternal would think to wear anything sewn by a human, but still. The Lord of the Sidereal Citadel commanded our assistance in providing tablecloths, and we have a steady patronage in the finer bladders of the aeroships.’

  ‘An admirable accomplishment,’ Eudokia said, inspecting a robe between her thumb and forefinger. ‘The craftsmanship is singularly impressive, though I confess I find ochre an unutterably unattractive hue. Perhaps something in blue or green?’

  The proprietress bowed deeply, and with grace. ‘Allow me a moment to check my stock,’ she said, disappearing towards the back. Eudokia continued on with her perusal, the captain waiting by the door looking some long way from fascinated.

  ‘You might think to visit him,’ Eudokia said

  ‘Who?’

  Eudokia rolled her eyes.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. His wound is a source of pain and embarrassment. The former can be assuaged with narcotics, though the latter remains piquant.’

  ‘I was unsure whether my attentions would be appreciated.’

  ‘In my day, a man’s willingness to sacrifice life and limb in your service was taken as ample evidence of interest.’

  ‘I had not meant with Leon.’

  ‘Surely you don’t suppose I have any objection to your union?’

  ‘Have we not reached the point that we might dispense with this pretence that you are a simple tourist, taking in the splendours of the Roost? With your army marching on my home, and all your long plans come finally to false flower?’

  ‘Reached and passed it. Fate has rendered me the implacable and perhaps even the fatal enemy of the Eternal. But whatever does that have to do with you or my nephew?’

  ‘How long can you trace your line, Eudokia Aurelia?’ The girl had a magnificent figure for pontification, Eudokia had to admit, and she used it to its full effect just then, stiff-chinned, high-necked. ‘Mine have served the Prime for seven generations, and his line for five centuries previous. I can name them, should you wish – it was the first task my father set me as a child, before I could sum or even read. Before your ancestors first reached the southern shores, when your Empty Throne yet held a king, my family resided on the First Rung and owed our fealty to the Red Keep. An enemy of the Prime is my enemy as well.’

  ‘There is a woman back in Aeleria who has changed my chamber pot for fifty years without word of complaint. She is quite the most loyal thing that ever existed, but I would not ask her to wield a sword in my defence. This curious pride you have taken in the length of your subjugation notwithstanding, you have no role to play in what is to come. You are an observer, a privileged one perhaps, but nothing more, and I certainly cannot see any reason why my strategems should be any barrier towards your paying a visit to my nephew’s bedside, nor, for that matter, slipping beneath the covers. You are clever enough, and of course your beauty is without dispute. Admittedly, you share that curious sort of naivety that is a hallmark also of my nephew, though I can only suppose that is part of the attraction. All in all, I think the two of you a fine match,’ Eudokia confessed. ‘I daresay, as a side note, should you ever wish your relationship to extend beyond the purely amiable you would do well to grasp the reins. He is younger than he sometimes seems.’

  The proprietress came back then, carrying a pair of dresses that matched Eudokia’s specifications, meriting an elaborate series of compliments and, after a friendly but spirited dispute, eight solidus and three tertarum, to be paid upon delivery to Eudokia’s home on the Second.

  Calla managed to stay silent through it all only through a fierce act of will that could be read across her scowling face, and as soon as they were outside she snapped back. ‘You cannot know your nephew’s feelings, and less so my own.’

  ‘For the sake of the gods, girl,’ Eudokia said, pushing onward through the bazaar, ‘am I really expected to believe that you’ve exposed half your breasts to sunlight in hopes of a tan?’

  The captain had, in a demonstration of wisdom, chosen to walk far enough away from their conversation as to at least feign ignorance of its subject, the rest of his men doing the same. Jahan laboured along behind Eudokia, though as usual he gave no indication that the ongoing conversation was of any interest to him, nor indeed for that matter, anything else that was going on around them. That portion of the Perennial Exchange which focused on garments gave way to one selling jewellery and metalwork, precious stones, objects of art and foreign relics. At one of these, looking to Calla or the custodians no different from a dozen others along the same stretch, Eudokia pronounced herself interested and made to enter, the captain swift to open the door, displaying his characteristic gallantry.

  There was much to be said about the grace and merit of the Eternal, but as regards their capacity for dissimulation they were rank amateurs, Eudokia thought, and their human agents little better. The labyrinthine subtleties of the Salucian court, the endless buried plotting that was the chief preoccupation of the Aelerian Senate, these were utterly alien to Those Above. Perhaps this was to be expected – they were, after all, a species with no conception of dishonesty, or perhaps whose conception of dishonesty was so subtle and so all-consuming that they had long ago ceased even to realise they were practising it. Adding to this difficulty was the general sense that nothing a human could do was seriously worthy of consideration, a belief that, perversely, had spread to their five-fingered subjects as well. To the best that Eudokia was able to determine, they had
no intelligence service as such, and their attempts to constrain her own operations consisted of little more than posting custodians outside of Eudokia’s house, and ensuring that they followed her wherever she went. The basic tricks of spycraft – dead drops and false fronts and the like – seemed quite utterly beyond their ken. With the exception of the brief period after the death of the Shrike, there had never been a period during Eudokia’s stay in the Roost when she had not been more or less entirely capable of running her network of spies and agents without meaningful hindrance of any kind.

  Indeed, as was so often the case, it was not the wiles of her enemies that Eudokia needed most to fear, but rather the incompetence of her allies. She would never learn why Steadfast was in the stall that day – perhaps he was confused on the timing, perhaps there was some problem with his agent that demanded his presence. Whatever it was, as Eudokia and her entourage were entering he was just about to make egress, and there was a discomfiting moment when they nearly bumped into one another. Of course, Eudokia gave no inkling of recognition, no hint or suggestion, just smiling the wax smile she gave to everyone, stepping aside to allow him passage. Steadfast, equally true to his nature, went pale, mumbled some distracted greeting, looked as conspicuous as a bruise on a stepson.

  The shop sold jewellery and curious bits of steamwork, minor creations of Those Above, little more than toys but worth more than a bolt of silk or a flawless diamond. Calla followed in after Eudokia but turned back to stare at Steadfast, eyes narrowing. Near the entrance a knee-height vase of fine porcelain held a number of fresh-cut roses, or at least did in the moment before the tip of Eudokia’s cane overturned the inoffensive flowerpot, shattering it loudly. Calla turned towards the noise, and Steadfast, in a rare and happy moment of competence, took the opportunity to make his retreat. By the time Calla thought to turn back he was gone.

  Eudokia’s display of lamentation regarding the destruction of the vase was, even to her own ears, rather exaggerated, but the proprietor matched her in melodrama.