Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1

by Daniel Polansky

  From the small end table beside her she removed a ball of twine and sewing needle and continued her work on the tunic she had begun. Eudokia averaged two articles of outerwear a week, depending on size and complexity, two a week since she had been a young woman: a hill of trousers, a mountain of socks. It played well with the image she liked to portray, and it was a good way to buy a few seconds of time if a conversation turned awkward. Of course, her work was every bit as good as any professional seamstress. What Eudokia chose to do, she excelled at.

  She’d barely got started on the sleeve when her steward knocked twice on the door, entered smoothly and announced a visitor.

  ‘Revered Mother,’ Irene said, adding a quick curtsy to the term of endearment. ‘How does the afternoon find you?’

  ‘Busy, Irene, as ever.’

  Eudokia had taken Irene on as a handmaiden because her mother had been a childhood friend, or at least an acquaintance, and because a woman in Eudokia’s position was expected to be surrounded by pretty young things, and because it occasionally gave her pleasure to gossip and play as if she were still a girl. Irene was only the latest in a long slate of women Eudokia had brought under her wing, tended and nurtured and married off.

  She was stop-short beautiful. Her hair was a black so dark it seemed almost blue, her skin white as alabaster. She had sparkling eyes and a bosom that demanded attention, even when she wasn’t wearing something cut to show it off, which she almost always was. Her one flaw – physically, at least, since morally the girl was very much as rotten as a sewer – was her tremulous, high-pitched voice, like a hinge begging for oil. Eudokia knew that she had never been so lovely as Irene, not even in the very prime of her youth, but at least when she baited a lover she didn’t sound like a eunuch.

  Not that Eudokia had any doubt as to whom the average man would prefer. It was good practice, she found, trying not to hate Irene on general principle. Mostly, she even succeeded.

  ‘How goes the day’s work?’

  ‘Well enough, dear child, well enough.’

  Irene’s gown had all the fabric of a hand towel, and when she took the seat across from Eudokia her chest strained the cloth. Overdone, Eudokia thought, particularly as she would return home and change before the evening’s entertainment. ‘I’ll never understand,’ Irene began, ‘how you bear up under so heavy a load.’

  Eudokia smiled. It wasn’t that she enjoyed the flattery, particularly – true pride does not require affirmation – but she was a strict believer in upholding the hierarchy. Irene was her creature, and it was well that she gave frequent evidence of it. ‘How was your evening?’

  ‘Dull to the point of madness. Of course we had to make an appearance at the Hypatos’s little amusement, and with him living out towards Broad Hill it took our palanquin an hour to get there and an hour to get back. By then there was nothing to do but stop in at the Second Consul’s, and the Second Consul being the Second Consul he was less than sober and more than willing to try his hands with any girl foolish enough to let him.’

  Irene continued in this fashion for a while, light gossip that Eudokia had long since ceased to cause but still enjoyed hearing. The surrogate sins of an adopted daughter, red meat for a mother now used to softer fare. Jahan leaned against the far wall, chewing betel nuts and groping the girl with his eyes. The Parthan lacked the most basic social graces, though Eudokia had no intention of improving them. It was the effect Irene had intended, after all, and a woman who could not deal with a man’s attentions was no such thing at all.

  Irene was midway through an amusing little piece of calumny when the steward interrupted her apologetically, announcing an arrival. Without anything being said, Irene stood, curtsied and left by the side exit. A moment later the main door opened and Gratian Eyconos, senator, walked in.

  What was it that made a man powerful? Eudokia often wondered. Birth, first and foremost. Gratian came from a family that could trace itself back to the foundations of Aeleria, back to the first ships that had come north to the Tullus Coast hundreds of years prior. His ancestors had helped carve out a kingdom amidst the human nations that had long lived there, sheltered beneath the protection of the Others. And they had died in droves at the Lamentation, when the demons had ridden down Aeleria’s last king and slaughtered his line, leaving the throne empty and giving birth to the Republic.

  Apart from that, there wasn’t much to recommend him. Whatever looks he’d once possessed had long retreated against an onslaught of working lunches and second helpings. He had a basic education, could quote the more popular poets and philosophers, though not understand them. He had never commanded a thema, and Eudokia felt confident in asserting that he was as lacking in physical courage as he was moral. He dressed well, and was a deft if unspectacular hand at cards. Eudokia didn’t rank either of these qualities as relevant to being a leader of men, but then Eudokia was not a man.

  All things considered, what had brought Gratian to the forefront of the Senate was that he spoke in a pleasing baritone and said what she told him to say. One would think, given the commonplace nature of these traits, Gratian would do everything possible not to cause her any undue difficulty. But in fact barely a week passed without him begging a concession or favour, assistance in erasing some self-created misfortune.

  ‘Senator,’ Eudokia said, presenting her cheek. ‘How goes things among the great and good?’

  ‘I’m not sure that the Senate is either of those things, Revered Mother,’ he said ruefully, after planting a kiss a paper’s breadth from her skin. ‘But in a state of something close to chaos, regardless.’

  Eudokia gestured to the opposite chair, ‘You say that every time I see you.’

  ‘And I’m right every time. The west seethes with rebellion – the March lords will chase us back to the Pau River, for all the vaunted skill of the Caracal. The Salucians continue their programme of economic warfare, and every day we accept it we show ourselves unworthy of the duties of our fathers. And of course the Anamnesis draws close, with all its attendant concerns.’

  ‘The Commonwealth can be grateful for your leadership in these times of woe.’

  Gratian shook his fat face back and forth, rotund cheeks quivering for a half-second before falling still. ‘This is my last term as a senator, I swear it by the Self-Formed. This time next year I’ll be on my estate, free of the nattering of fools and ingrates.’

  It would be a neat trick to escape himself, though Eudokia doubted the senator would attempt it. He aired the possibility of retirement with all the frequency of a refrain in a drinking song, but Gratian couldn’t last half a month away from the fleshpots and eating houses of the capital. ‘Then we can only be grateful for the time you’re willing to spare us.’

  Gratian took that as his due, barely seemed even to hear it, so caught up was he with the problem he was about to lay at Eudokia’s feet. ‘Though in truth, it’s not politics that has brought me here today, but something more personal.’

  That he imagined there was a distinction between these two realms was one of the many things that made Gratian a fool. ‘Do continue.’

  ‘You’ve heard, I imagine, that I have grown very … close to Helena Comatus, daughter of Zeno who was once Strategos?’

  ‘If one paid attention to rumour, one would hardly have time to attend to anything else.’

  ‘In this case the gossips have the truth of it.’

  ‘She’s a fine woman. I can only hope she brings you the joy you deserve.’ In fact Helena was one of the single dullest people Eudokia had ever had the misfortune to be seated next to at a garden party, lacking in any virtue except for the cosmetic.

  ‘An angel, I assure you. The most exquisite creature. To find, in these days, such a storied innocence, such taste, such refinement—’

  This needed to be ended, or it would continue till sundown. ‘And what might I do for this half-divine?’

  ‘For her, nothing. For her cousin, however …’

  ‘Cousin?’
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  ‘Justinian. She’s terribly fond of him, you see. A fine young lad, though he’s had some trouble finding his way in the world.’

  Justinian Comatus had trouble finding his way in the world because he was virtually an imbecile – indeed a difficult burden to labour beneath. Rumour also suggested that he and Helena shared bonds more than cousinly, and though as a rule Eudokia did not believe any gossip so piquant, somehow this one smacked of truth. ‘And what might I do for the young gentleman?’

  ‘The elections for Consul are coming up next month, and Justinian is on the ballot.’

  ‘Then your problem solves itself. Certainly the great esteem the people hold for his line should be sufficient to find him comfortably carrying the rod of office.’

  ‘One would think that, but in fact it seems a long shot that he’ll be called to serve.’

  ‘I shall light a candle to Terjunta. Undoubtedly the Sun Lord will look with favour on a man so similar in bearing and conduct.’

  Gratian exhaled a slow round of breath. ‘I had hoped you might take a more direct hand.’

  Eudokia smiled her empty smile. ‘How so?’

  ‘Please, Honoured Mother. With your connections, it would be a small thing to ensure Justinian’s … many virtues are given their proper account. He seeks appointment in the Third District – I thought, perhaps …’

  Eudokia waited for him to continue. Normally she preferred to smooth over the naked selfishness that lay at the heart of most of her relationships, but the sheer sordidness of Gratian’s request had perturbed her. Justinian wasn’t fit for any task more rigorous than cleaning out his asshole, and Gratian would have him made Consul, put in charge of maintaining order in the capital, ensuring the good behaviour of the rabble.

  It was nearly enough to bring one to anger. Eudokia’s smile remained bright and wide, and her stitching constant as ever.

  After longer than it should have taken him, Gratian realised he wasn’t to be let off the hook. ‘If you could perhaps say a few words to your man there, explain how much benefit Justinian’s leadership might have for the area.’

  Narses was the man she had in the Third District, one of those civic leaders more thug than businessman. But between violence and the largesse his violence allowed him to offer, he could command enough votes to get a corpse elected to sit on the Empty Throne. Eudokia let Gratian’s request hang in the air, watched him crumple in the face of it. ‘Truly, you exaggerate my influence. My acquaintances have all forgotten me, an old woman, only steps from the cenotaph.’ Gratian blanched, but she continued before he could turn to begging. ‘Still, let it never be said that an Aurelia is forgetful of her friends. I’ll make what efforts I can.’

  Gratian was so overcome with emotion that he half stumbled getting out of his chair, had to right himself awkwardly before crossing to her seat and taking her hand. Helena must have riled him near to madness – how any man ever got anything accomplished, attached to that mad, desperate beast that was his cock, Eudokia could never fathom. Indeed, few overcame the handicap. ‘Your kindness is as boundless as your beauty, Revered Mother. Your name will perpetually find praise on my lips, and be etched for ever on the innermost lining of my heart.’

  Eudokia slipped her hand back from his, returned to her knitting. There was an awkward silence while Gratian tried to determine why he hadn’t been dismissed yet. He sat back down finally, unsure of what else to do.

  ‘My nephew tells me that Andronikos and his people have been quite active in the Senate of late,’ Eudokia said.

  Gratian licked his lips. ‘Our misguided opposition. The noise they make is nothing but a cover for their lack of support, and a poor cover at that.’

  ‘Still, though. It would be wise not to let their provocations go unanswered. Perhaps a strong display of reason is in order, to clarify the situation for those misguided unfortunates yet to swing round to our way of thinking.’

  It took more than a few beats for Gratian to wrap himself round the subtext, but when that first gleam of enlightenment finally reached his eyes, he was quick to move on it. ‘As it happens, I’ve been preparing a devastating brief in support of our eastern policies. I should be ready to present it any day now.’

  ‘I anxiously await reports of its success.’ She extended her hand for Gratian to kiss, which he did quickly and without embarrassment, then scampered to the exit.

  Irene returned to take his spot shortly thereafter. ‘What did the senator want?’

  ‘To wet his dick, like every other member of his sex. Sometimes, dear, I despair over the fate of the Commonwealth, with such … tiny little men running it.’

  ‘But they don’t run it,’ Irene said, smiling sweetly. ‘You do.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Eudokia said, though she did not bother to contradict the girl.

  3

  Calla woke just past the hour of the Crake, as the night gave gradually before the dawn. She shifted aside the curtain of the window that hung above her bed, stared out at the water below. The descendant moon denuded the scene of pigment, grey waves breaking against grey rocks, the grey tower scraping the surface of a grey sky. Of course, Calla had been staring out of the window for her entire life, could repaint the panorama with the colours daylight would soon provide. She spent a moment toying with the luxurious blasphemy that she might not get up at all, sink back into her feather bed and return to sleep, rocked by the sounds of the waves she could hear far below, or imagine she could hear.

  But only for a moment. Then the sheets were cast aside and she was up, moving smoothly but with speed through the dark. There was a steam chamber attached to her bedroom and here, more so than beneath her covers, she had to be careful not to allow five minutes to become ten, ten to become twenty, twenty to become a short eternity. Calla towelled herself free of damp and returned to her darkened bedroom, kindling the beeswax candles by her bed more from custom than necessity.

  A timid knock at the door signalled the arrival of the day’s troubles.

  ‘Enter,’ Calla said.

  ‘I’ve come to wake you, mistress,’ Tourmaline said. Tourmaline was twenty but looked five years younger, the product of having no chest to speak of and the haircut of a prepubescent boy. At half their size her eyes might have been fetching, but their current diameter overawed the rest of her features, gave one the unpleasant impression of staring at a giant insect.

  In the three years since she had assumed the position of seneschal, Calla had never once required a wake-up call. It was a small source of pride to her, the discipline and self-control she maintained over her mind even while lost in the realm of slumber. Still, better certain than sorry, and it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that one morning the aid of a human alarm would be needed. Knowing Tourmaline as she did, Calla felt that would be the one day the poor, stupid little thing would muck it up, falling asleep herself, or tripping down a staircase and breaking both legs.

  ‘You’re not here delivering dinner?’

  Two blinks of blue eyes not far from idiocy. ‘No, mistress. It’s barely morning.’

  Calla gave no outward sign of annoyance. ‘Not everyone has your advantages,’ her father used to tell her, after she had left one of the other children of the Keep in tears. ‘And you ought not be so proud over something you had no hand in creating. You owe your mind to an accident of birth. As soon praise yourself for growing tall.’ A wise man, her father, a good deal wiser than Calla knew herself to be.

  Though she tried to follow the example he had left her. ‘Thank you for your service, Tourmaline – you may return to your quarters now.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress,’ Tourmaline said, bowing and bowing and then bowing again, as if Calla had saved her from the gibbet rather than sent her off to bed.

  With the girl gone, Calla turned her full attention to her mirror. She had never taken any great pride in her beauty, though she couldn’t help but recognise it. She had long legs and a flat stomach and a nose that mostly didn’t even bother her an
y more. Strawberry-blonde locks curled down below her shoulders, shoulders that led into a round bosom. Starting at her wrist and ending just below her neck was her brand, a cast of hawks shadowing the noonday sun. All human residents of the Roost, apart from those unfortunates living on the lowest Rung, were marked at adolescence, though it was only here at the summit that tattooing had been elevated to an art. The markings of the lower Rungs were crude things, proof that the bearer was allowed to remain within a certain proximity to Those Above, each Rung and section of a Rung having different symbols – three variously sized stars, twisted lines on an oval. By contrast Calla’s own brand was a minor masterpiece, the red sun a composite of garnet-based ink, the hawks outlined in gold leaf. At a glance, anyone living on the First Rung could tell by the colour scheme that she owed obedience to the Aubade, and from its intricacy that she was a servant of the highest rank. She hid it beneath blue robes that accentuated her features without drawing overmuch attention to them. Checking herself in the mirror one final time, Calla decided that she liked what she saw, or at least accepted it, and slipped on her house shoes as if to leave.

  But before doing so she walked over to one of the bookcases and lifted a volume off the shelves. She took a long look around the room before she did so, knowing it was foolishness, that there were no peepholes hidden in the walls, that her sanctuary was inviolate. And even if someone had walked in on her, what would they have seen? Most of the rest of the servants were illiterate, or nearly so, and of course the Lord and his kind had no books, did not entirely understand their purpose even. Still, it paid to be careful – what she held in her hands might get her killed, and not swiftly. A quick flip through to make sure the words hadn’t run away since the night before, then she buried the book back in with its siblings. For years she had kept it hidden beneath a loose stone in the floor, before realising it was far more conspicuous to constantly be moving two clove of stone than for one more tome to join her collection.