As it turned out, the Hall’s facade, which she could view any day of her life and had on many, was far and away the most impressive thing about the building. The inside itself was draughty, strangely designed and not nearly as clean as she imagined it ought to be. Built some three hundred years prior, it was designed in imitation of the Conclave, the centrepiece of the Roost. Eudokia had never been to the Roost, so she could not say with absolute certainty, but she suspected that it was a very poor copy indeed. Or perhaps the Others’ reputation for engineering was, like so many other things in these sad days, no more than myth.
To Eudokia’s eyes, the only bit of the panorama that could have any claim to grandeur – and she included the participants in this – was the Empty Throne itself, which had priority of place in the centre of the building, on a raised dais that no one seemed ever to go near. It was a magnificent thing – polished ebony twice the height of a man, straight-backed with golden trim and inlaid with precious gems. In the three hundred years since the last king had been slain, he and all of his line, it had remained vacant. Supposedly, at least – though you had to figure after three centuries one of the cleaning slaves must have worked up the nerve for a brief lounge.
Regardless, it was empty now, and Eudokia stood at the foot of it, dressed in the ceremonial robes of her office, which were ugly and cumbersome and immensely uncomfortable. There were many reasons that Eudokia had decided it was to her advantage to become head of the Aeleria’s official cult, but a love of the accoutrements had not been one of them.
The last Archpriest had been the son of one of the Commonwealth’s oldest lines, a bloviating, tiresome windbag. Already ancient when Eudokia had first taken up her mantle fifteen years past, she had enjoyed the dubious pleasure of watching his onward march into senility. During the last decade of their partnership he had become consistently incapable of remembering her name, calling her Euphemia or Eilexia or even, occasionally and for no reason she could perceive, Dafne. Beyond that he had the unfortunate habit of passing wind during the more elaborate portions of the ceremony, and falling asleep during the quieter bits.
Which was to say that Eudokia had not greatly mourned her partner’s death, a sentiment that seemed to be shared by the larger portion of the gentry. Not that this lack of despair was to any particular degree a consequence of his incompetence. Rather, as Archpriest was a position elected by the Senate, every member of that august body could look forward to a healthy gratuity passed their way by one or more of the claimants.
This time, at least, the outcome seemed all but certain. It was well known that Senator Manuel had set his eyes on the office long ago, the result of the strong sense of piety that the rest of the Senate feigned but that he seemed actually to possess. You couldn’t tell it from his robes, but Manuel had as much money as anyone in the kingdom, though in fact he hadn’t needed to spend much of it to secure his position. Manuel was a valued part of Senator Andronikos’s coalition, and no one would be fool enough to go against the two of them. For almost ten years effective control of the Commonwealth had been split between their faction and that collection of politicians, soldiers, bankers and merchants who were, unbeknownst or not, Eudokia’s own. A balance had long held; for her part, Eudokia encouraged Aelerian expansion towards Dycia and the Marches. Andronikos and Manuel had encouraged peace with the Salucians, which meant peace with the Others, and left her designs on the outskirts of the Commonwealth more or less unhindered.
One might have thought it a curious marriage: Andronikos, the man of culture and learning, a gallant as a youth, a libertine in old age; Manuel, austere and humourless. The curious constellation of beliefs and policies that had led to their coalition seemed ramshackle at the very best. But then, all alliances are ramshackle, and built upon convenience.
All alliances are also temporary, a fact of which Eudokia was doubly aware, and which explained her attendance at the Hall that day, and much of her work before that.
The ceremony itself was not due to begin for another few minutes. Manuel himself was standing amidst a crowd of admirers, and Eudokia crossed the floor to add her premature congratulations to those he was already accepting.
‘Revered Mother,’ Manuel said as she approached, and he even managed something like a smile, the joy of the day enough to overpower his traditional misogyny. ‘How blessed this must be for you, to stand for the first time at the very altar of freedom, the heartbeat of ancient and noble Aeleria.’
‘I confess to mingled feelings of awe and discomfort,’ Eudokia answered, bowing deeply. ‘Truly, Honoured Father, it is every bit as majestic as one could ever hope.’ She put her hand to her mouth as if she had made a slip.
If she had, it wasn’t one that offended Manuel. ‘Not quite yet, not quite yet.’
‘Forgive me, of course. The announcement has yet to be made. All the same, if you would allow me to say what a joy it will be to give worship to the divines in the company of a man whose piety and wisdom are a byword across the Commonwealth.’
‘I can only hope that the gods see fit to grant your prayers,’ he answered, though his smile expressed confidence in their favour.
And why not? If there was one thing Eudokia had learned about the gods, it was that they could be expected to side with whoever carried the heaviest purse, or the largest stick, as the case might be. Manuel was the second most important member of the Senate’s leading political coalition, and had spent no inconsiderable fortune on bribes and gifts assuring his ascension. If under such circumstances a man could not have some hope of reward, then what was the point of righteousness?
At that moment Eudokia caught sight of Gratian out of the corner of her eye, standing alone in another part of the hall and looking somewhat the worse for wear. She excused herself and went to make sure he wasn’t about to embarrass her.
He looked pale as wax, and there was the sour scent of sick on his breath. Eudokia managed to keep herself from grimacing as he gave her a kiss of greeting, but it was an act of will.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Revered Mother,’ he said as he pulled away.
‘I always know what I’m doing. And when I don’t, I fake it very competently.’
‘Manuel is a bad person to get on the wrong side of.’
‘Who speaks of sides? Of factions? Of camps, cliques or circles? My sole concern is for the future of the Commonwealth, and the betterment of its people – I would never think of insulting Senator Manuel by suggesting he feels differently.’
‘If you imagine sweet words are enough to make the man ignore the injury you’re about to do him, then you’re not who I took you for.’
Eudokia adjusted Gratian’s robes, speaking only when she was close enough to ensure that her words would be lost before travelling past his ears. ‘I am exactly the person you took me for, and you’d be wise not to forget it.’
Gratian went from looking like a man who had just been sick to a man who was about to be so. It wouldn’t do to have him vomit here on the floor of the Senate, and Eudokia moved quickly to try to calm him. ‘Be easy, old friend,’ she said, resting her hand on his. ‘Things will work out as we’ve planned.’
‘They’ll see our fingers in it.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve slipped one on a scale.’
‘This is not a provincial governor we’re appointing, or a stolen consulship. This is the highest religious office in the land, and one Manuel has been lusting after for the better part of his sixty years.’
‘If you had such concerns you’d have been better off airing them when there was still some hope of altering our course.’
‘I did air them – vigorously, and more than once.’
Eudokia sighed, removed her hand. There was no point in trying to grow a man a backbone through reason. A coward’s motivation was fear, and that meant you needed to be the thing that he feared most. ‘Then I suppose I must have ignored them, as I’m doing now. You don’t need to have an opinion on what I do – you don
’t even need to know why I do it. All that’s required of you, at the moment, is to smile when it happens. So …’ she traced an upturned semicircle in the air in front of them, ‘smile.’
The grin Gratian managed held very little in the way of jollity, but it was the best of which he was capable. One of the priests was signalling to her from the foot of the Empty Throne. It was time to get started. ‘And for the sake of the gods,’ she said, turning one last time to Gratian, ‘have something to drink. You reek of vomit.’
The ceremony took the better part of an hour, lengthy invocations to each of the high gods, jugs of wine decanted in libations, silent moments lost in prayer. Eudokia had very little to do except stand silently and occasionally hold aloft some relic or another, and she managed to fulfil her role adequately. Throughout it all she kept an eye on Manuel, who was perhaps the only person who actually seemed to be paying any attention.
Though if the remainder of the congregation seemed to be only very casually involved in the proceedings, who could blame them? The fix was in, there was no mystery or surprise to any of it. In solemn procession that morning each had cast their ballot in the brass cask that had been preserved since the very birth of Aeleria. From there, following ancient practice, it had been carried into the chambers beneath the hall by the black-robed acolytes of Tolb. Safe from foreign eyes and outside intrusion, they had carefully tallied the votes. A centuries-old tradition, upheld when the Empty Throne was filled, inviolate since before the birth of the Republic.
Not that there was much need for such secrecy. Only Manuel had made any serious attempt at winning the position – no other counter-claimant had arisen, and it would have been impossible to mount a rival campaign without drawing attention to the fact. As for the acolytes themselves – cloistered members of one of the holiest and most ancient religious orders, sworn to silence and poverty – how could one even dream of corrupting them?
To do so would have required a silent, tireless campaign, years and years in the making. One would need to have been quietly inserting or twisting personnel for decades, introducing candidates as apprentices, shepherding their promotions through the ecclesiastic ranks, ensuring that these men, who had made devotion to the gods their life’s work, put their loyalty to – or fear of – you above even divine mandate. Who was capable of such foresight? Of such intricate and subtle planning, of silently building contingencies without any certainty that they would ever be of use, just one of a thousand, thousand, malfeasances, subversions set aside for a rainy day, tendrils stretching throughout the body politic? Who would be capable of accomplishing such an immense task, or be audacious enough even to consider it?
Finally, mercifully, the ritual came to an end. A blank-eyed acolyte brought Eudokia a clay vessel, which she broke against the base of the Empty Throne. From the wreckage she drew a small slip of vellum, stared at it, blinked twice and brought her head back, as if having difficulty making out the words. Finally, she announced in a voice loud and sonorous, a voice that echoed out to every corner of the great hall, ‘Senator Andronikos Narses.’
Manuel managed not to cry or break into a rage, but his eyes expanded to twice their usual size and he turned a distinct shade of pink, neither of which she thought sat well with his reputation for unflinching stoicism. It took the new Archpriest a few seconds to adjust to the unexpected honour. He blinked several times and looked about the audience, as if supposing a second Andronikos was about to leap up from his seat and claim the honour.
When that didn’t happen, however, he managed to get to his feet and cross over to the dais. Midway his expression changed from shock to good humour. He had not sought the office, but since it had come to him of its own accord, who was he to deny the will of the Senate? Clearly the representatives of the people, in recognition of the great love their constituents felt for him, had decided to do him this honour. It is an easy thing for even very clever men to believe better of themselves than they warrant.
Eudokia embraced him, watching over his shoulder as Manuel simmered, twisting at the end of his worn robe as if he meant to tear it off and run screaming naked through the hall. ‘My congratulations on your assumption, Honoured Father,’ she said quietly.
To make Andronikos Archpriest of the Cult of Enkedri, and to do it quietly, had taken Eudokia twenty thousand solidus in bribes and a far more sustained and subtle campaign than she had been required to wage on her own behalf. To judge by the smile that she wore while greeting her new colleague, she seemed happy to have paid the price.
17
Calla was quite sure she had never seen an individual as terrified as had been the Marshal of the Seventieth District when late that morning the Aubade, the Shrike, the Wright and the Prime herself had appeared suddenly on his doorstep. There had been no warning of their arrival – on that point, the Aubade had insisted. He wanted to see how the Roost’s administration ran under normal circumstances, rather than be presented with any artificial pageantry. Two hours previous, Calla and the Aubade had embarked on one of the swift oared vessels that Those Above used to traverse the city’s waterways. They had met the rest of the party at the intersection to the south canal, and begun their long, slow descent. It was a strange and uncomfortable journey – though the waterways across the city were reserved exclusively for the use of the High, in practice few Eternal ever bothered to venture below the First Rung. At the boundary to the next the ancient but still functioning system of locks had lowered them twenty links to the Second Rung, and after that they had been alone. Alone on the estuaries themselves, though the unexpected passage of an Eldest downslope drew the attention of innumerable humans, standing and gawking in wonder.
Calla thought it was wonder, at least, though certainly by the time they had reached the Fourth Rung those humans who had bothered to halt their bustle for a moment and take a look at the assemblage seemed distinctly more terrified than enraptured.
‘The festival was continuing as normal until the trunk was opened, yes?’ the Prime asked.
‘Well, that, that was when we noticed the … the …’
‘The dead bird,’ the Aubade supplied.
The marshal flinched. ‘The carcass, yes. That was when we noticed the carcass.’
Unlike the Constable for the Fifth Rung, the Marshal of the Seventieth District seemed to be a native of the territory that he nominally controlled. An old man, light-skinned, though at the moment he maintained a rose colour that Calla did not suppose a sign of good health.
He was wise to be nervous. The interview had not gone well.
To begin with there had been some difficulty in arranging seating for the four High and their human companions – apparently there were not twelve functioning chairs in the whole of the building. Calla found herself wondering seriously if there were twelve functioning chairs in the entirety of the Fifth Rung. That matter had only been settled by bringing a bench in from a different room and stuffing Calla and Sandalwood and the rest of the humans onto it.
It was an inauspicious opening, and things improved little once they were all seated. The marshal had never spoken to an Eternal before, struggled to understand the strange tempo and style of their speech, a task made no easier by the fact that he seemed little brighter than a radish. For Calla’s part, she was hoping simply to get through the morning without falling asleep upright. She had spent the previous evening at Bulan’s, and she was avidly regretting her nocturnal recreations. Foolish to have slept anywhere but her own bed what with all there was to do that day, but lately Calla had become a bit of a fool for the Chazar merchant, found he occupied her spare thoughts – jokes he had made, evenings they had shared, a peculiar trick that he had learned to perform with his tongue.
‘And what was it that led you to your suspects?’ the Aubade asked.
‘Well … they confessed, didn’t they?’
‘But before they confessed – what was it that tailored your investigations in their direction?’
‘They was … they wa
s just the sort of people that liked to make trouble, like that,’ the marshal said lamely. ‘Troublemakers, they were.’
‘Not any longer,’ the Shrike said in the High Tongue. For all he had insisted on being a member of the commission, the Shrike had so far treated the entire episode as being unworthy of the time and attention required.
‘Who had access to the cabinet?’ the Aubade asked.
‘Supposed to be just the mummers themselves,’ the marshal said. ‘But they didn’t know anything about it. The casket is kept in storage during the rest of the year.’
‘And these … mummers,’ the Shrike broke in, deigning to use the human tongue, ‘what form has their punishment taken?’
Calla felt confident that if the marshal could reverse time by eight hours he’d visit the most heinous and unpleasant torture upon the unfortunate mummers, so as to have an answer to this question. His salvation came from the Wright, who had not yet spoken. ‘Surely, sibling, you don’t imagine that these men would be so foolish as to commit a crime which would leave them the prime suspects whilst simultaneously ruining their livelihood?’
‘I put nothing beneath the intelligence of a human,’ the Shrike responded, using human speech.
‘And the marks inscribed beneath the dead bird?’ the Aubade continued, as if the Shrike’s aside had never happened. ‘These five-fingered prints? What do you know of them?’
‘The Rung has no shortage of graffiti, my Lords,’ the marshal said. ‘It would be an impossible task to run down every symbol and picture.’
Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1 Page 20