by Tom Lloyd
'Then tell us plainly what your intention is,' Vesna said.
Temal scrutinised the Mortal-Aspect for a while. 'I will do so,' he said, 'but now I see you' – he gestured towards Vesna's face and left arm – 'well, I have questions of my own.'
'They will be answered,' Vesna promised him.
'Very well. First, let it be clear I am not acting alone today. I've been in correspondence with many like-minded peers and I represent them here.'
The statement prompted raised eyebrows, but nothing more; Torl and Vesna were content to wait to hear something of substance before commenting, and Lahk had pointedly pushed his seat back from the table to indicate the other two were speaking on his behalf.
'I assume you know of Lord Isak's decree regarding his successor, ' Temal began hesitantly. 'Perhaps you do not yet realise the extent of the outrage this has provoked.'
'If you are going to suggest insurrection,' Torl said sharply, 'I would suggest you stop all thoughts down that path. However much they might dislike it, the Ghosts wouldn't disobey an order to slaughter your troops to a man.'
'That's not what I mean,' Temal said, raising his hands placatingly. 'I mean only to set the ground for my words.'
Vesna stared at the man's expression and realised some spark of suspicion had flared inside him. Reading a man's face was important to any duellist, but the intent was not so clearly marked on Temal's face. There was something he wasn't saying, some agenda running behind the truth of his words.
'What you probably don't know is that High Cardinal Certinse was murdered by one of his own clerks. I'm told the man was a fanatic who couldn't accept Certinse's decision to ratify Lord Isak's decision regarding his successor.'
Interesting, he's been careful to avoid saying the name Fernal – either to avoid having to speak his title, or to avoid having to refuse to.
'Cardinal Veck has taken his place?' Torl asked, his face grim. Veck had been among the worst of the fanatics when they left the city, and this could lead only to more trouble.
'He has, and his first act was to rescind the Synod's approval. Now while – '
'Wait,' Vesna broke in, 'first tell me this: do you and whoever you claim to represent accept Lord Fernal's appointment?'
Temal sighed. 'We believe the decision has no basis in law, and on this point alone we are in agreement with the cults.'
'An edict by Lord Isak was not legal?'
'The law states the title Lord of the Farlan is for the Chosen only, and an appointed regent must come from the nobility. Lord Isak cannot simply nominate a successor; that invites the creation of dynasties.'
There was a moment of silence. The point was valid; the Synod approval had been vital to shore up an uncertain claim. It was an irony that the move intended to provide a rallying point to the tribe had instead sparked fresh divisions within it.
'And you think to make this point with an army at your back?' General Lahk asked suddenly. 'The politics are not my concern but I'm General of the Heartland, with orders enshrined in law that go beyond the current ruler of the tribe. If any army crosses this boundary into Tirah territory, I am bound to respond.'
'You did nothing while mercenaries ruled the streets of Tirah!' Temal said angrily, 'and the new High Cardinal has been consolidating his power since the entire Palace Guard left.'
'My duties are unclear regarding troops gathering on Tirah's streets,' Lahk said, unconcerned by Temal's tone, 'so Chief Steward Lesarl guided my actions and Lord Isak approved them. There is no issue of clarity regarding troop units exceeding a regiment crossing that border without permission.'
Temal stood. 'Unlike some suzerains I have heard of, military action is not our intention. We will only act if we hear reports of the cults breaking the law – but permit me to make this very clear: the power of the Farlan has always resided in the hands of the nobility, and that's always been kept apart from the cults. No court-ranked nobleman may take holy orders; no cleric may hold command rank – this is the law that has kept our tribe strong, and we will defend that position against all who threaten it.
'Inform the creature Fernal of our position. There are some who may intend insurrection – both for and against the cults, make no mistake about that – but I believe I represent a majority opinion among the nobility. We are willing to fight to stop the cults gaining any further control over the tribe, and we expect Fernal to withdraw his claim on the title of Lord of the Farlan.'
Interesting, Vesna thought, listening to the measured tone of Temal's voice. I think this one's trying to be nice to all sides, and come out as the suzerain who helped avoid bloodshed. The more he smoothes things over now, the more useful he'll appear to any future leader desperate to keep peace.
'Who would you have take his place?' Torl asked in a horrified voice, as though he was already expecting the answer.
'You, my Lord Suzerain,' Temal said stiffly, 'to be regent of the Farlan until our Patron God chooses one to take Lord Isak's place. You can unify our tribe, Suzerain Torl – perhaps you alone can prevent civil war.'
Desultory drizzle welcomed the remaining regiments to Tirah; the faint patter wiped out by the sound of hooves on cobbles. Vesna rode at the head of the cavalry, watching the faces of those they passed and trying to gauge the mood of the city. There was no hostility in the faces he saw, but no celebration either. The citizens of Tirah looked tired to him, worn down by the struggles of the different factions, and the fear that accompanied those struggles. They waited impassively for the soldiers to pass, but as worried as that made him, the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn saw other things to concern him more.
The presence of priests on the streets was no great surprise – their bile and fury would have dissuaded many from attending temple, so it had always been likely the priests would eventually follow – or chase – their flocks into the street. That every major street corner had a priest preaching was troubling, as was the venom with which they harangued passers-by – and even the cavalry, until their attendants hushed them.
Every preacher had at least a handful of penitents guarding them, a necessary precaution considering the raised hackles their words were causing among the people. Vesna knew that folk wouldn't go against armed troops, but angry words were being exchanged all over the city. He couldn't help but be put in mind of Scree in the days before the population lost its sanity completely. He shuddered.
When the procession reached the lower end of the Palace Walk, Vesna saw a crowd up ahead and called a halt. The people were blocking the street and he didn't want to lead the cavalry close enough to spark either a panic or a riot. As he edged nearer however, he realised this was no mob, but a crowd listening intently. Vesna looked over the heads to see what was happening and blinked in surprise.
There was what had to be a Harlequin standing on a makeshift gantry on the left. The diamond-pattern clothes and white porcelain mask were unmistakable, as was the entranced hush over the crowd.
'Now that's something I've never seen before,' he commented to Suzerain Torl beside him. 'A Harlequin preaching?'
He'd spoken too quietly to be heard by anyone else, but all the same the Harlequin broke off from what it was saying and stared straight at him. Vesna felt the air grow cold as faces turned to follow the Harlequin's line of sight. Their expressions were more annoyance at the interruption than anything else, but Vesna also smelled resentment in the air.
He started to turn his horse away from the crowd when the Harlequin called out over the tense quiet, 'Brothers, there you have the embodiment of war – sitting so proud with blood on his cheek, stained and burdened by the life he has led. Pity him, fellow children of the Gods, for men of war have lost the path of peace and pain fills their soul.'
Vesna checked behind him to ensure his soldiers hadn't instinctively drawn their weapons.
'I fight in the name of the Gods,' he called back, aware that he needed to respond in some way. 'I fight with the blessing of the Gods.' Death's cold rattle, why is a Harlequin startin
g an argument with me?
'You are as lost as the cults. It only remains to be seen if you wish to seek peace, or continue to add to the pain sickening this Land,' the Harlequin retorted.
'You claim greater wisdom than the Gods?' Vesna demanded.
The Harlequin gave a slow, pitying shake of the head. 'NotI – all I claim is a desire to fill my heart with peace, to be as a child and free myself of the burden of years that cloud a mind.'
I don't think I'm likely to win an argument about the merits of peace, Vesna thought, tugging his red cloak a little to ensure it completely covered his armoured arm. But I'll find out nothing by backing off.
'What of the wisdom that comes with age?' he ventured.
'That too is clouded by the fear driving the actions of men. It is only by letting the baggage of life fall away that men ensure their decisions are not tainted or swayed.'
'Let me guess: you have a suggestion for how to do that?'
'Not I,' the Harlequin intoned; 'I do not appoint myself arbitrator for the deeds of others. Every man and woman must choose their own path in this life. I offer no ritual for absolution, no mantra to cleanse the soul of its stains. We must all find innocence in our own way – we must all serve innocence in our own way.'
Before Vesna could think of a reply the Harlequin raised its hand, pointing at the part of the crowd that was blocking the centre of the street. 'My siblings, we cannot hope to find the path to peace just by blocking the path of war,' it called in a laughing voice, diffusing the tension in the air. 'Please, allow the men of war to pass; a child would not be so prideful as to mind standing in the gutter and nor shall we!'
A smattering of laughter accompanied the shuffling of feet and in moments the street was clear enough for the troops to pass. Gesturing for the column to advance, Vesna rode on slowly, giving the Harlequin a respectful nod as he passed. It did nothing in response, but he felt its eyes on his back until he crossed Hunter's Ride and started on the last stretch leading to the Palace. As he neared that Vesna realised there was another unpleasant surprise waiting before he made it inside the walls.
'Gods, I've got enough to worry about, haven't I?' he muttered under his breath.
'Soldiers?' Suzerain Torl said, casting Vesna a questioning look. Torl was older than the men under his command, and he had to rely on their eyesight for anything in the distance.
'Aye, they're penitents,' Vesna said grimly, 'but maybe this is one argument today I can win.'
'Are you going to reveal your full authority, my Lord?'
'How long would I be able to keep it a secret in any case? It's a surprise the city didn't all know before we arrived.'
Vesna spurred his horse into a canter and broke away from the column, covering the ground quickly. A regiment of penitents had formed up around the fountain-statue of Evaole at the centre of the Barbican Square. Vesna took in the whole scene with a single glance: the Palace gates were shut and archers stood ready on the battlements above. The rest of the square was deserted.
The penitents looked nervous, shifting restlessly while the priests in charge of them bristled at his arrival – or one of them did at least; the other was a priest of Karkarn, of middling rank by the hems of his scarlet robes. His reaction had been one of opposites; stepping boldly forward, then faltering, most likely when he saw the teardrop on Vesna's face.
'Count Vesna, the city rejoices in your return,' announced the other priest, somehow contriving to sound disapproving of what he'd just said. He was a man of Nartis, and as tall as Vesna, though he lacked a warrior's muscle. His features were small and rounded with cheeks like a baby's, but his expression was rapacious.
'Really?' Vesna said in a dead tone and looked around. 'I didn't notice anyone celebrating. Is that what you're doing here?'
'No, my Lord, we are here on the orders of the High Cardinal himself – '
'To besiege the Palace?' Vesna broke in, recognising the pious tones of a fanatic; it was easy enough these days.
'To ensure the rule of law and the will of the Gods are done,' the priest snapped back. 'The abomination Chief Steward Lesarl has installed in the Palace must be driven out, along with the Chief Steward himself. The impious ways of that wicked man have forced our hand, and we stand here in defence of the entire Farlan tribe, against the machinations of inhumans and all outsiders.'
'Last stand of the faithful, eh?' Vesna growled. 'I was present at one of those in Scree. I can tell you: it brought us only hurt.'
'Unmen Dors!' hissed the priest of Karkarn, 'perhaps it is time we left?'
'Leave?' Dors shrieked at his fellow unmen, 'and disobey the orders of the High Cardinal, the voice of our Gods himself?'
'Enough,' Vesna shouted, loud enough to make even the fanatic hesitate. The penitents were staring at Vesna with increasing apprehension. He knew his reputation as a warrior wasn't the cause; it was the effect of Karkarn's blood flowing through his veins. Time to use that divine authority.
'Unmen Dors,' Vesna continued in a quieter voice, 'you will lead your troops away from this place and instruct the High Cardinal they are not to return. You will do this now.'
'You do not issue the cults with orders,' Dors squeaked with outrage, 'you have no authority over us! It is our duty to see the abomination is removed from the seat of power and prevented from issuing his monstrous orders!'
Vesna didn't bother to respond; there was no reasoning with a fanatic. He felt something flicker inside him, something stir and grow. A coppery taste bloomed on his tongue and the Land grew suddenly sharper, each line and shadow more defined. He felt shadows spill from his shoulders like a mantle of boiling darkness and a sudden surge of rushing power flowed through his limbs.
The shadows cascaded all around and flooded the cobbled square around his horse. Vesna took a slow, deep breath and twitched back his red cloak to reveal the iron-clad arm. Tight, twisting energies snaked around the black-iron plates and Vesna saw Unmen Dors' eyes widen.
'Get out of my way and take your mercenaries with you,' Vesna snarled, feeling his face flicker as he spoke – the spirit of the God of War was coming closer to the surface. The ruby teardrop blazed with crimson light and cast a bloody corona around Vesna's head.
He felt the reverberations of his voice in his mortal bones; the whole of Barbican Square appeared to shudder with every syllable. The unmen's resolve collapsed and he staggered backwards, his hands raised as though to protect himself from a physical blow. The priest of Karkarn sank to his knees, white-faced and terrified.
The penitents, all mercenaries, no doubt, shrank back. Those among them who prayed would pray to Karkarn, and none would doubt the God's presence now. They began to shuffle away while Dors still cringed under Vesna's stare, but the tall priest was stirred to action when he heard the scrabbling footsteps of the penitents racing away.
'You may tell the High Cardinal he is not to send troops to the Palace again,' Vesna called after them. 'If he wants to debate religious authority with me he can come alone.'
He looked up; the archers were staring out over the battlements, the same look of horror on their faces as the fleeing penitents.
'What do you lot think you're waiting for?' he called. 'Get that damn gate open before your commander arrives or you'll wish it was a bloody prince of daemons waiting down here!'
CHAPTER 16
Count Vesna rode out from the tunnel beneath the Palace Barbican and hesitated. Nothing had changed except for the thinned lines of recruits assembled to welcome the Ghosts home, but, quite unbidden, his mind cast back to the day he first arrived here. The sights and smells had changed little in the intervening decades. While this return was a somewhat muted affair, Vesna felt his heart ache as the clatter and clamour of that day filled his ears, swamping his senses as completely as they had a young provincial noble on his first trip to Tirah Palace.
Not long past his seventeenth birthday and newly raised to his title, it had been a wary and angry youth who'd ridden into that massive he
mmed space and looked around in wonder. Sotonay Shaberale had been at his side: a whiskered veteran of sixty summers who'd spent much of the previous two years teaching Vesna sword-craft. To Vesna's surprise, they had barely arrived when a bellow echoed out over the training ground.
All eyes had turned, first to the hulking figure of Swordmaster Herotay as he roared 'Shab!' followed by a stream of inventive, anatomically impossible obscenities.
The Swordmaster had run from the crowd of nervous youths he'd been inspecting – hopeful farm-boys and proud young nobles alike – who watched with alarm as Herotay dragged Vesna's mentor one-handed from his saddle and enveloped him in a bearhug that made the older man gasp.
'What have you brought me then, you whoring old bastard? How long are you staying?' Herotay had demanded, casting his appraising eye over Vesna. Vesna had slid from his saddle and offered the Swordmaster an awkward bow while Shab battered the man away.
'Just long enough to get you drunk and yer wife in bed,' Shab said with a levity Vesna had never heard before. 'I made the journey to show the faith I got in this boy, but he don't need me here to hold his hand.'
'All the way from Anvee? Death's bony cock, boy, you must be good!'
Vesna hadn't known how to respond to that; Shab had made it clear this wasn't the place for pride. The veteran had told only part of the truth in any case: the death of Vesna's father had hit him harder than he then realised, and Shab had come along as much to keep him out of trouble as to recommend his pupil.
'I realise the honour Master Shab does me,' he had stuttered, 'and I will endeavour to live up to it.'