Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  “The albino? Surprisingly, no.”

  The serving lad finished filling their mugs. Sirath grabbed his and greedily gulped it down. Jerine thanked the lad, and gave him a small wooden docket in exchange for a basket of bread rolls, as part of the board she’d paid for.

  The lad grinned, and Sirath realized she’d slipped him a tip. “Anything else I can get for you, just ask for Tomis! I knows people, I do. If you need anything I can get you the best for the cheapest price. And I mean anything. I knows folks what can sort you out. I’m well-connected, me.”

  Sirath grabbed two bread rolls — one for now, the other for later. A small pot of honey lay in the basket to dip the rolls into. This was fine living indeed. But this lad had sniffed money and wouldn’t leave till he got some. Better if —

  “This is my table now. Be gone.” A merchant with a puckered face and trimmed gray beard stepped up close. A skinny, greasy-haired assistant accompanied him — his expression severe, as if someone had wedged a broom up his backside.

  “This isn’t your table. Find another,” Sirath said. A leather glove slapped him across the face. Sirath’s eyes watered from the sting of the blow.

  “Don’t answer back, boy. Respect your betters.”

  Jerine spoke up, “Excuse me, but I believe this is our table.”

  The merchant looked down at her. “My pardons, but be a good girl, and be seen and not heard. Move along, children, or I’ll have you all whipped for poor manners.”

  Sirath flashed with rage, especially at the treatment of Jerine. But what could he do? The weight of the law would crush him if he dared challenge his low standing in the world. But Ulric and Dalathos had almost reached them, and they had the authority of muscle. Better if Sirath exaggerated their social status, too. “My lord doesn’t allow common rabble to command his servants,” Sirath said, pitching his voice lower to sound more authoritative. “If I were you, I’d leave, now. Before he teaches you a lesson in manners, with his sword.”

  The merchant’s face flushed red and he spluttered his outrage.

  Sirath stood up as Ulric and Dalathos arrived. “My lord, this tosser here says he’ll have your table, and that there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Dalathos stopped, and narrowed his eyes.

  The merchant stared up at Ulric and Dalathos, and appraised their bulk. He paled fast. Then bowed as he stepped away. “My mistake, my good lords. We shall remove ourselves elsewhere.”

  Sirath laughed to see the merchant and his assistant beat a hasty retreat. It was a rare pleasure get away with insulting the rich to their faces.

  “You’re a lord?” Tomis grinned like his cheeks would crack. “Well, I’ve got some right special deals for you!”

  Sirath had forgotten that the lad was still at their table. His own patience had already been rubbed thin by the interruption. Now he just wanted rid of this boy and his touting. But how? Dalathos wore wealth by his mail, and Sirath had just called him a lord. The only reason such people didn’t have money was when they had debt. “The Lord Dalathos is here to pay off his debtors,” Sirath said, pointing to Jerine. “Until she sees her coin back, he can’t buy nothing from you. Understand?”

  Tomis stared. “What sort of lord?”

  “A duke.” It was the first title that came to Sirath’s mind. “This here is the Duke Dalathos.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Cor! A duke? Well, I really can get you the best deals in the city!” The lad cocked his head, as though he’d heard something above the general noise. His expression became pained. “I’m being shouted for. But if you need anything, just ask for Tomis. I’ll be right back to check.” With that, the boy scurried into the crowd.

  Sirath snorted, simply glad to be rid.

  Dalathos glared at him. “What in seven hells was that all about? Telling them I was a lord. Why?”

  “I figured I had to say something, so he’d stop pestering us. No harm done.” Sirath pushed the basket of bread toward Dalathos, to emphasize that he didn’t plan to explain further. Just to be sure, he directed conversation away from himself. “Jerine, where’s Tilirine?”

  “She’s set out to meet Councilor Amberlin, to see what work he might offer us.”

  The music stopped, and cheering broke out. After only a short pause, it drummed up again.

  Sirath scoffed down his second roll and drained his ale, knowing he couldn’t expect Jerine’s generosity to last forever. Or rely on the Tilirine’s offer of work. Though it was good to have food and shelter tonight, he could be back on the streets tomorrow.

  An Audience with Councilor Amberlin

  Tilirine

  Tilirine stamped along the Avenue of the Emperors — the sister she had known and loved had grown into a foolish girl.

  Lampmen with ladders lit lanterns upon statue plinths. The towering gold emperors shimmered, and the glow spread across the road. Tilirine kept to twilight’s shadows, past rowdy crowds outside of taverns, and couples rutting in doorways.

  She had spent every waking moment anticipating reunion with her twin. Only to face sour disappointment as she failed to appear. When Jerine finally arrived it was without an apology. The excuse she offered revealed a wasted life.

  Tilirine clenched her fists as rage balled in her gut.

  Jerine had been given every opportunity to rebuild their house and name, while Tilirine had been sent away like some unclean thing. She had always clung to a single desire — of one day returning to a family, and the life stolen from her.

  But instead of reclaiming their birthright, Jerine had frolicked with actors and lived among thieves. She even dressed like a boy. There was no husband or children — no home to return to.

  Tilirine always felt angry, but now Jerine made her furious.

  The barnyard stink of the city gave way to breezes of incense. She passed the small circular Temple to Fortune, attended by hermaphrodite priests in their embroidered red tunics. Then the avenue opened into the vast Imperial Square, busy with city officials, and magistrates with their oak staves of office. Huge buildings surrounded, lit by brass lamps above marble stairways: a mixture of grand Eptemian and intricate Ossienic styles — thick, fluted columns and delicate arcades, painted and patterned in bright, gaudy colors.

  Tilirine fought down her passion as she sought bronze plaques fixed to the buildings. One at the wall of the council hall mentioned Councilor Amberlin by name. Another provided directions to his chambers, deeper within the city.

  The hour grew late, and he might not even be present. No doubt there would be functions and events to attend during the Spring Fair. How might that affect Jerine’s plans if Tilirine could not find him? Though loath to continue this farce, she resigned herself to her duty — she would be the responsible sister.

  She followed the directions given, and traveled north into the darker and quieter residential heart of the city. Wood smoke, and the smell of cooking stews, drifted through narrow streets. Few people traveled here, but she could still feel the cacophony of emotions behind walls — joy and fear, love and grief.

  Night settled upon Corianth. Broken cloud covered the sky. With only weak moonlight to travel under, it was a good place for thieves to lay in ambush. She hoped to avoid such follies, and centered herself. The Song of the World was a far distant beat — she was in no danger. Yet she moved through the charayanas of Laughing Tiger and Little Scorpion to warm her muscles. Just in case.

  A pitiful mewling disturbed her. A white cat, kicked and beaten, discarded in an alley. Death was the nature of life. Left alone, its soul would return to Atmah for rebirth. But all life was sacred. Tilirine stopped. She sensed where it hurt, then lifted the cat gently so that no wound would chafe. It made no protest, and Tilirine cradled it.

  She walked on, the cat in her arms.

  The roads became cobbled, with lamps at the crossroads. Large buildings stood in poor repair, some with glazed windows. This must once have been a quarter for nobles. She found a house with a brass plaque
, announcing Councilor Amberlin’s chambers.

  Three armed figures stood across the road. She felt their being: servants or guardians, waiting for their master; hoping to leave soon and safely. They would not trouble her.

  Tilirine pulled a bell cord at the door, and waited.

  An old servant, dressed in a simple black coat, opened it. He raised a brow.

  “I am sent with a message for Councilor Amberlin, from his estates in Castea.”

  The servant held out his hand, to accept a bribe for admittance.

  Instead, Tilirine pushed the cat into his arms. The animal hissed, and the servant stumbled back in surprise.

  Tilirine stirred up feelings of dread from her being, and pushed them onto the servant. “Care for this creature. You share its fate.”

  She strode past him, into a tall hallway of stained plaster. Light danced from ornate brass lamps. There was a musty smell of age and damp.

  The servant hurried past with the cat at his chest, his fear of Tilirine greater than his disgust for the animal. He indicated through an open door, then disappeared.

  The room was empty, and surprisingly lacking in decoration. A wooden bench lined each wall, a small oil lamp at one corner. Another door stood closed, muffled voices and a sense of agitation coming from behind it.

  Tilirine seated herself, and waited.

  At least the councilor was present and receiving guests. It remained to be seen how he would answer the message she carried. He might not want to hire anyone at all, let alone her sister’s companions. What would Jerine do then? If Tilirine’s path was joined to her sister’s, should she speak up for them?

  No, Tilirine had done more than she should. She emptied her mind, and sought to meditate. She envisioned her body as a fountain of light, and focused on that.

  Eventually, voices approached. A door clicked.

  Tilirine opened her eyes, and returned.

  A silver-haired woman briefly entered the room, a rich cream gown and a sable stole upon her. She left, anxiety following her like a wake.

  The old servant returned, scratches on his reddened face. “My master will see you now.”

  Tilirine stepped into a paneled room. One wall was dominated by lavender curtains, behind a large desk. A thin man was seated behind it, robed in a lilac gown, a coif over his short, gray hair. His expression was of restrained severity. Tilirine bowed.

  “Do sit,” Councilor Amberlin said.

  Tilirine seated herself on the lone stool provided.

  “I prefer to see the face of the person I speak with.”

  Tilirine wanted to protest, but the councilor twitched a finger to underline that it was not request, but a command. She sensed two guards behind the curtains, who could try to enforce it. She resigned herself to obey, for the sake of her sister.

  Hesitantly, she pulled away her veil. Then her hood, revealing the scars of her burns. She trembled to be so exposed.

  To his credit, the councilor barely flinched. Instead, he frowned. “You are a girl?”

  “I am a monster.”

  The councilor snorted. “Cover yourself, if you will. Now, you bring a message?”

  Tilirine gratefully returned her hood and veil, to hide her shame. She took the scroll from her robes and placed it on the desk.

  The councilor began to read. “So, you assist the marshal for my estates in Castea. Did Toberil give you that position because you are a girl, or a monster?” The councilor smirked, as if he had made a joke.

  “I was trained in Bramaputra.”

  Councilor Amberlin’s smile dropped. He squinted at her. “That place is known here as Bramidia. Its warriors are renowned for their mastery of mind and body, and highly prized as personal guards.” He put the scroll aside. “This message is of a trifling matter. My staff on the estate must deal with it.”

  Tilirine frowned, agitated. As Toberil had wasted away he had written for a replacement steward to be appointed, and more hands to protect the estate, fearing intrigues from without. Tilirine had presumed the stewardship might interest her sister, only for Jerine to extend employment to all she met. Yet if the councilor did not wish to hire, then Jerine’s promises became worthless. If Tilirine exposed them as so, that might destroy any chance of the sisters having any relationship. “I have, by circumstance, rather than planning, become associated with a group I could recommend to deal with — ”

  “I am afflicted with many concerns, the least of which are my estates.”

  “But — ”

  “Do not speak over me. I have greater matters to consider here.” Councilor Amberlin leaned back in his chair. He toyed with his fingers in front of his face. He stared at her. Then flicked a scroll and a quill from his desk. Tilirine caught both with barely a movement. Not wanting to be accused of stealing, she returned both.

  “How many guards are in this room?”

  “Two,” she replied.

  “What weapons do they carry?”

  An image flashed in her mind of a small cut to the pad of a thumb. “Sharp blades. Even the most minor of wounds can bleed more than expected.”

  The councilor’s lips formed a thin smile. “Where in Bramidia did you train?”

  “The Temple of Agadesh, in Anwallapur province ... ruled by the Rajindar, who claim to be incarnations of Lord Sindra herself.”

  That caught the councilor’s attention, and she felt approval escape his self-control. “You are a death monk? You serve a dark master.”

  “Agadesh is but the mover of worlds, from one life to the next.”

  “And you are acquainted with persons you consider suitable to address Toberil’s fears?”

  Tilirine nodded at her chance to speak for her sister. “Yes.”

  “How many people?”

  “Seven.” Tilirine froze, with no idea why she had given that number instead of six. Had Jerine already invited someone else into this business? Whom? The other man who would share their rooms?

  “Do they have letters of recommendation?”

  Tilirine had no opportunity to correct herself. “No. They are masterless, from outside of the city. Like myself.”

  “Bramidian trained?”

  “No.”

  Councilor Amberlin frowned, and fell to a brooding silence. Eventually, he spoke, “Are they strong and capable, yet able to follow clear orders? And use their wits, where required?”

  “Yes.” Tilirine was unsure of what skills Jerine’s new companions might have, let alone describe them. And what of this seventh person, if there was one?

  The councilor continued to wrestle his fingers. Finally, he sat forward. “I have a new proposition. Find me a traitor.”

  Tilirine blinked with surprise.

  “I know weapons are being secretly shipped out from Corianth, to arm rebellious factions across the empire. I need someone to discover this treason, so I can terminate it. Success will result in a reward to exceed all other employment.” The councilor leaned back again. “The fact of the matter is that I need people outside of any ties to this city. I can provide guidance and a cover of sorts ... some matter for the council. All that I ask for is accurate information. Do I make myself clear?”

  Tilirine nodded. Jerine had freely promised employment. Tilirine was forced to accept whatever was offered. “You do.”

  “Good. When you leave this room, provide my servant with the names of your party, and where you reside. I will send an agent with a brief. You may go.”

  “My thanks.” Tilirine’s heart fluttered as she approached the door.

  “One more thing,” the councilor added. “If asked in any official capacity on the motives for your actions, I will deny everything. Do you understand?”

  “I understand — ”

  “And no more cats, thank you. Goodbye.”

  Tilirine stepped back into the waiting room, understanding only that Jerine’s promises led them all into certain danger.

  Dreams and Fortune

  Ulric

  Ulric sh
ifted uneasily on the bench at their table, his shirt sticking to his back. The common hall was a crush of shadows and noise. The air was hot and thick with greasy smoke, and the sour smell of stale ale and sweat was everywhere. Darkness had fallen some time ago, and he wanted to find somewhere to sleep. However, Jerine had ordered more food and his growling belly said he should wait. It was taking some time to arrive.

  Someone stood on a table nearby and wailed a mournful melody. The singer looked like a man, but was dressed and painted up like a woman. Ulric rubbed his eyes and looked away in confusion. Musicians played different songs from their corners. Drunken people stumbled between tables. One fell across theirs. Erin yelped, and Sirath jumped aside. Dalathos shoved the drunk away, then swung his fist back.

  Ulric grabbed it, and held firm.

  Dalathos whirled around to face him.

  “Don’t,” Ulric said, meeting his stare. “We won’t want trouble.”

  Dalathos tried to shake his hand free, but Ulric had the greater strength. They remained locked together. Then Dalathos snorted and loosened his muscles. Ulric eased his grip open. Dalathos glared at him, then turned aside.

  Ulric sighed, regretting the need to have acted. He glanced about, wary of another intrusion to spark hot tempers.

  A serving boy finally arrived at their table with food and drink — he poured a pot of ale into mugs of carved beech. Ulric gratefully gulped his down, trying to quench his thirst. A platter of cold sliced pork was passed around. Ulric touched the prayer charm of wolf fur at his belt and said a quiet thanks to the animal’s spirit, to avoid bad luck for eating meat he hadn’t killed.

  He ate quietly, alone in a crowd.

  Herrian had said that the city of Corianth was a place of dreams and fortune, where any man could make a life for himself. Ulric had passed many people outside who were dressed in fine clothes, and he’d walked beneath grand buildings so tall they drew his eye to the sky. And there had been statues that looked like giants turned to metal. Each time he’d wanted to point it all out for Lucira — only to feel punched in the gut to realize she wasn't there.