Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

  Jerine replied, “Oh, I could help with that.”

  “You?” Sirath asked, in chorus with Dalathos.

  Jerine nodded. “I trained as a page in Mardin. Singing, dancing, reading. And sword play. I’m a better performer than fighter, though.”

  Dalathos snorted, and looked up ahead. “Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, thumbing to where the road was blocked.

  The Cardinals’ Men sat agitated in their saddles. There was a rattle and rumble. Memories of last night’s thunder came too quickly to Sirath’s mind.

  Jerine grabbed onto Ulric’s shoulder, and lifted herself up, standing on the rim of a new boot. “An armored wagon’s going past.”

  Sirath stretched on his toes to look.

  Troopers pulled their horses about, and clattered into order to follow it. Able to move freely now, the crowd surged forward.

  Jerine stepped down and gave Ulric a friendly slap. Ulric smiled back at her.

  Sirath felt a flash of jealousy. Annoyed with himself and Jerine, he put his hands to his hips. “Well?”

  Jerine shrugged, and began to walk with the crowd. “I suppose it must have been gold bullion, coming from the docks. Once loaded, the wagon won’t stop until it reaches its destination.”

  Was it possible that’s all it was? Sirath could almost believe it.

  Jerine led into the side road to the Lion Inn. Deep, cool shadows fell upon them. Sirath’s step faltered. The Order may have gone, but the place could be filled with city watch, waiting for them.

  He stared up at the inn as it loomed closer.

  He’d felt the same yesterday — fearing to step into the first workhouse, in case he didn’t leave. He’d dared face his fear then. And been rewarded for it.

  Only, it was harder now because he had something more to lose — his gold, and the hope for a future.

  Sirath had to remind himself he was no longer a street rat. He touched his new clothes, the smell of cleanliness upon them. He no longer looked like someone to despise, hunt. Or suspect. He was now a man of class. Someone who might belong to a guild, who could loudly object if one of its members was spat at in the face, punched in the neck, or tortured in holding cells. He was a New Man.

  Jerine opened a door to the Lion Inn.

  Sirath would have to think fast on what his trade might be, if challenged. Something ordinary. And in season. Grain? Ale? No, wine. Cheap stuff from Poraddin, for the Spring Fair. He would’ve had sacks of it lashed to the mules.

  He dared to step through the door, fearing to be confronted with hard glares and spear points. Instead, the common area was half-empty. Sirath slouched with relief. He could check the mules were equipped, as instructed, and go. With everything he owned. The problem was, who would leave with him?

  Ezekiel ran past, stopped, and stared about with wild eyes.

  That forced Sirath to look for trouble. There was nothing but a few curious glances from other patrons. Sirath bit his anger. “Have you lost something?”

  Ezekiel blinked and stared at him.

  There was obviously nothing down here for the man. “Maybe it’s upstairs?”

  Ezekiel’s expression dropped. He slowly looked up. Then ran to the staircase and up it, out from sight.

  Sirath challenged his own body to relax. There was no way that man was coming with him. But who of the others? Jerine, for certain. Probably Ulric. But not if he was going to paw Jerine. Dalathos? No.

  If someone wanted them badly, they could watch the outgoing traffic and pull out anyone who matched their description. Dalathos would be easy to recognize. That would put them all in danger. Beside, the man was a prat, more likely to start a fight than stop one.

  Jerine found a table for them, and called out to be served.

  Tilirine ignored her and carried on to the stairs.

  Dalathos could stay here, holed up with her, and enjoy the last couple of days of paid-for hospitality. Tilirine would make for a good guard companion, but with icy relations between the two sisters, better to just journey with the beautiful one.

  A serving boy took their order, and they waited. Sirath stood by the table, wondering how he could broach the subject of leaving, without causing offence to Dalathos. Whatever it was, it would have to be said quickly.

  Raised voices caught his attention — there was a commotion at the foot of the stairs.

  Michalas Harolmeyer strode toward their table with a grim expression. “My masters, a matter of some urgency.” He leaned in and whispered, “Someone has been murdered. I think it’s your friend, Erin.”

  Fields and Rhythms

  Ezekiel

  Ezekiel rushed up the staircase.

  He’d detected a powerful energy surge as he returned to the inn — a sure sign of Molric’s presence inside. But the reading indicated the common area, and there had been nothing unusual there. That hadn’t made sense.

  Until Sirath mentioned upstairs.

  The realization dawned — Ezekiel had been scanning in only two dimensions. He’d expected to pinpoint a more precise location after he’d found a signal. He could never have expected it to be within the same building.

  He ran up one set of stairs to the next. Something of that magnitude must have left a visible sign. Yet everything looked ordinary.

  Shortly, he was panting. He stopped to rest his hands to his knees, trying to catch his breath. In the hallway ahead, a door stood open with boots sticking out. From the room below his. He remembered the reading he’d dismissed as an echo ...

  He began to slowly approach, but was running by the time he reached it. A foul, soiled stench hit him. And the metallic smell of blood.

  Two bodies lay inside.

  One was a serving boy, crumpled over himself. He bled from his nose, ears, and eyes. Ezekiel fought revulsion and giddiness to scan him — the boy had been killed instantly, every organ hemorrhaged.

  The other figure lay prone, blood pooled about the head. He detected a serious wound across the upper torso and neck. The robes looked like Erin’s, the hair like hers ...

  His readings said Erin would bleed to death within minutes.

  Ezekiel’s stomach knotted up. He’d studied exoplanets, not medicine. He hadn’t even dared heal the beggar’s legs yesterday, for fear of leaving the bones misaligned. But inaction here was not an option.

  Where to start? First, stop the bleeding.

  He focused on the injury, and used his facilitator to seal a major blood vessel. He hoped that would be enough, but his readings said Erin was in circulatory shock — her blood pressure had dropped and her heartbeat increased. Her whole body was shutting down.

  Ezekiel’s brow perspired with growing anxiety. What was he supposed to do now? Vital seconds were lost in indecision.

  Her collarbone had been severed, on her left side. He aligned and knitted the pieces together, presuming that he should focus on local damage. But Erin’s pulse continued to weaken.

  Then her heart stopped.

  He panicked. This was too far beyond his abilities. How could he have imagined he could save her? He was out of place, out of time, lost, and useless. He stood back and stared, awed and helpless before her mortality. It was too complex a problem.

  Yet ... it was a truism of physics that every complex problem can be broken into simpler parts, and solved individually. Could that work here?

  He’d already recorded Erin’s electromagnetic signature. Then, it had been for idle curiosity’s sake. Now he mapped it to her, but found her blood to be flooded with alcohol, changing its electrolyte signature. What remained of her field was dissonant and there was nothing he could do about that.

  But each failing organ still held a residual signal. If he amplified that, and remapped them all to the pattern he’d recorded ... that should create an electromagnetic framework for her body to heal itself around. It was an old-fashioned medical procedure back on Earth — he’d just never imagined attempting it himself. His facilitator could provide the energy required throu
gh induction. If he was careful, he could restore Erin’s fields and rhythms, thus stabilize her, and accelerate her healing.

  Ezekiel could save her. It would be difficult. He needed time. And it might not work. But he must try.

  He began to work through each organ, leaving the heart until last so as not to strain it. He visualized the process, and saw lines of force connecting between bright nodes. It looked remarkably like the process of mapping stellar energies.

  The work became familiar, easier.

  He boosted each organ’s field. Together, they were greater than the sum of their parts, forming an electromagnetic signature, unique to each individual. On Earth it had once been used for security access. In ancient times, animists had called it a person’s spirit energy, or life force. They were not far from wrong.

  He worked to a frantic pace. Erin’s brain activity weakened, and there was nothing he could do to stop that. Every second dragged. Every second saw success. The nodes connected up like galactic clusters. With most of the organs now rebuilt, he stopped. He’d done it! He dared to allow an exhausted smile, and checked her brain activity.

  He froze — there was nothing there. Erin was clinically dead.

  He had to restart her heart, and now — his last chance to save her. He sent pulse after pulse of energy through her body. She convulsed with each shock. Her arms flailed, and splashed her own blood, pooled on the floor. Her heart failed to restart. Ezekiel refused to give up. And then a lone beat. And another. A pulse.

  It was weak, but something from nothing. He checked on her brain activity — a basic wave function re-appeared, and settled into a restful theta-pattern.

  Ezekiel sagged with relief, his own muscles aching from the intense concentration. But he couldn’t stop and be satisfied with what he’d achieved so far. Although the healing process was accelerated, she remained in a critical condition. If he held her field steady, she had a chance to recover. But the wounds would need dressing, and she must be moved to a place of recovery.

  He could reverse her polarity to the planet’s electromagnetic field, and float her up the stairs. But he might not be able to keep her steady on the ascent. Besides, he couldn’t concentrate on that and her healing.

  Tilirine stepped into the room.

  He could only mouth wordlessly and point down.

  Tilirine’s voice seemed far away. “You have done your part? Then I shall do mine.” She grabbed a purple sheet from the bed. Carefully, she wrapped Erin in it, taking special pains to keep the head steady. She lifted Erin as if she weighed nothing. “Upstairs?”

  Ezekiel nodded.

  Tilirine carried Erin smoothly up the staircase, with no adverse motion. Ezekiel hurried to keep pace, monitoring Erin’s biometrics. Everything remained stable, but dangerously weak.

  People gasped in fright and ran out from their way.

  Tilirine continued up to the fourth level, and crossed the hallway. She carried Erin to the last door at the right, into the room that Erin had shared with Jerine. Tilirine laid her in the bloody sheet upon the bed.

  Erin’s vibrancy of color was gone from her skin, replaced by a gray undertone. Some of her signals fluctuated. And a little blood leaked from the gash across her neck. But she lived, and her body was responding to treatment, starting to rebuild itself — blood clotted, bruising developed.

  Ezekiel sighed with relief and dared to relax.

  Tilirine spoke with quiet urgency, “Something blocks her air.”

  He checked — the tissue around the wound swelled against her trachea. If that continued she would suffocate. The recovery was killing her! Ezekiel became flustered, unable to imagine a solution.

  Tilirine’s robes fluttered. She knelt over Erin with a knife. Ezekiel looked on, almost fearful that Tilirine might stab the girl. But surely she wouldn’t —

  Tilirine plunged her knife into Erin’s throat.

  Ezekiel shrieked, flapped his arms, and lost concentration.

  Tilirine withdrew the knife, waved her other hand for calm. She pushed her finger into this new wound. There was a gurgle and rasp.

  Ezekiel stared, bewildered. Then realized that Tilirine helped — she’d cut a hole in the trachea, below the swelling.

  It wasn’t enough for Erin to breath, though. She’d need something to keep the airway open — a tube — and prevent blood leaking into her lungs. He realized he’d exclaimed his thoughts aloud.

  “A tube?” Tilirine leapt across the floor, grabbed under the bed, and ripped out Jerine’s satchel. She undid the straps, and pulled out Jerine’s penny whistle. “A tube?”

  Ezekiel could only point breathlessly as he tried to regain his connection to his facilitator.

  Tilirine pushed the whistle into the hole she’d made in Erin’s throat. A sharp note began to rasp rhythmically through it.

  Erin’s pattern now settled into its normal harmonics. Her electromagnetic field remained weaker than in the original copy, but retained the same shape. That was positive. Erin would take a long time to heal. But at least she was able to draw breath, if through somewhat macabre means.

  Ezekiel had succeeded at something in this world. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  Tilirine shrugged. “I felt that I should be there, though I had no idea what to expect. I also sensed that Erin should be moved. I only hope she survives the experience.”

  Erin wasn’t out of danger yet. She’d lost a lot of blood and he didn’t have the means to replace it. The only thing he knew about blood transfusions is that attempting one in this period was liable to kill her. The best he could do was try to stimulate production of new red blood cells, and encourage fatty tissues to break down to produce some water. It was a pitiful thing, but there was no other option. At least his facilitator could provide the energy for that, so not to strain Erin’s weakened body. Then there was the danger of infection to the wound, and the problem of pain management.

  However, the worst was behind. So long as Ezekiel kept his facilitator on her, for the moment at least, Erin might live.

  The Election

  Molric

  “The ayes have it.”

  A restrained cheer echoed through the council chambers. Members rose from their benches as the Lord Speaker stepped back. A few catcalls and shouts pierced the air but were ignored.

  The Officer of the Division opened both boxes. This demonstrated the one with white pebbles was clearly more full than the box of black pebbles. It had been one-hundred and four votes for, with fifty-six against. Molric’s campaign had paid off.

  He made every effort to look gracious. Even though he still shook with adrenaline from the confrontation at the Lion Inn, and the weight of dark tidings that had assailed him through the day.

  When he had reached his new apartments, he had thrown open his study doors with a fury, and wanted the flames in the hearth to roar like his own anger. But they had been too gentle. He had wanted the lamps to glare and blind, to match his pain and confusion. But they had been too soft. Molric had been entirely discordant with his surroundings.

  The worst of it was that his Vox recording showed the intruders as nothing more than a serving boy and an acolyte. Molric had reacted with instinct, then scolded Rodrigan for acting when they could have at least interrogated her. It was unfair to do so when Rodrigan only sought to protect him, but Molric wanted answers. If Councilor Amberlin had further plans then he needed to know them. Should they encounter any more of this Duke Dalathos’s party, Molric would speak to them personally.

  The whole incident had been a shambles. He had risked bringing attention to himself over nothing of substance. It was yet another annoyance from Councilor Amberlin.

  Now Molric looked to him across the council chambers. And could only gloat that Amberlin and his allies had been unable to gain any advantage from their meddling. Even with news of the death of Serannos, the councilors speculated more on the iniquity of the Emperor’s Guard for killing him, rather than why the bis
hop might have been held there in the first place.

  Still, it was difficult to retain self-control after being enslaved to base emotions through the day. It was an effort to unknot his tension, to enjoy this moment of glory.

  He waited for the Lord Speaker to approach and guide him, in short procession, to the chancellor’s chair. Molric had been disturbed by the day’s events, but nothing could prevent the completion of his grand plan. Ultimately, he had been faced with irritations rather than insurmountable problems. His enemies had played their last hand, and failed to stop him. Molric now took the steps he had longed to take, toward that polished, dark, hardwood chair.

  He seated himself when directed. Each of the councilors filed by in their robes. They gave their respects by kissing his new ring of office. Most congratulated him by word, a nod, or a smile. Some frowned. Others were indifferent. How they felt did not concern him.

  Rheumy-eyed Councilor Martellus asked how Molric could pay for his promised public works — not least improvement to the empire’s roads — when so much of his money was tied up in a contested will with the Angelleri. Molric thanked him for his concern, replied that he still had sufficient funds, but that he looked forward to a contribution from Martellus. That wiped the smug expression from the old man’s face.

  Aged Councilor Scouros, tall and perhaps proudest of all, bowed slightly. Molric met his eye. Later he would more personally thank the leader of the chamber for championing his cause, and pushing his faction behind it. Molric had healed the man of ringworm, and tomorrow would cure the son of leukemia. Molric returned the bow with a sincere smile on his lips and nodded, as clear a signal as he could give, that their agreement still stood. Councilor Scouros’s eyes echoed that hope as he stepped away.

  Councilor Pinnius followed after. Normally leading an opposition to Scouros, this time he had voted the same way, and had spoken of Molric’s virtues. Encouraging his allies to follow his own example, Pinnius had reflected on how Molric had rebuilt the fortunes of the Angelleri in Mardin. He had added generic comments on the subjects of mercy and love. Molric took these as allusions to the fact he had blinded the man’s wife with a touch of his Vox and a word for effect, and threatened the man with the same. Molric promised only to reverse the process, after he had won the vote. A man of his word, he would re-grow her optic nerves on the morrow, as promised.