Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1

by Daniel Polansky

‘The water claims everything if you wait long enough.’

  The Prime didn’t say anything for a time, nor did the Aubade, though Calla somehow felt that both wished the other might break their silence.

  Finally, the Prime said simply, ‘You’ve had my answer.’

  ‘I have,’ he replied, and allowed her to enter the Conclave ahead of him. Afterwards Calla followed the Aubade to his usual spot directly in front of where the Prime sat on her chair of sterling, the silent eruptions of the Source framing her. It was still a few minutes before the hour of the Eagle, and Calla waited while Those Above and their human servants trickled in desultorily, in the same languid manner in which they attended every meeting – those that chose to attend at least.

  The hour of the Eagle chimed from the great clocks set across the city, and the Prime called the meeting to order, a brief and formal invocation asking the attendees to display the wisdom of the Founders. By custom it was her right to set the agenda, but she hesitated in doing so, allowed the Aubade his opportunity.

  He was not slow in taking it. ‘I ask forgiveness of my siblings for interrupting our usual protocol,’ he said. ‘But at this moment of crisis I believe my haste appropriate.’ Everything that the Aubade did was an exhibition in decorum, in grace and quiet dignity, and the fashion in which he stood and addressed the audience was no exception. ‘Our reports from the Sentinel of the Southern Reach are clear and unequivocal – the Aelerians prepare for war. They will find some pretext on which to launch themselves at Salucia, and by the autumn their forces will have marched north to subdue their enemies.’

  ‘Has the Lord of the Red Keep added prescience to his list of abilities?’ the Glutton asked.

  ‘No, brother, though I have a talent for logic that some others in this Conclave seem unwilling to display.’

  ‘Should everything my sibling predict come to pass,’ the Prime said, even at this last moment pushing for reconciliation, ‘there will be time to move against Aeleria, as we have in ages past.’

  ‘I am afraid, Prime, that you too fail to appreciate the gravity of the situation beneath which we labour. If we wait for the Aelerians to arm themselves, to crush the Salucians as they did thirty years past, they will be able to turn the full force of their war machine against us. We do not have the luxury of time. The reports we have received indicate that the Commonwealth will march towards Salucia with thirty thousand men, and certainly by the time they have entered Hyrcania, they will be able to put a far larger number into the field.’

  ‘And what would the Lord of the Red Keep have the Roost do?’ the Prime asked, as if laying a trap.

  ‘I would have us send an emissary to the Salucian Empress, arrange a stratagem. While the Aelerians break themselves against the border cities, I would have our armies ride south to their capital, and bring the rebellious humans to heel.’

  There was no gasp of surprise from the Eldest in attendance, no shouts or murmurs, nothing to indicate that what the Aubade had just suggested was just short of blasphemy. But Calla knew the temper of the species she had long lived among well enough to appreciate how deeply shocking was the Aubade’s proposal. Those Above did not ally with Those Below; they subjugated them, had done so since the first Four-Finger had come from the east, in the forgotten morning of time.

  ‘Join forces with the Locusts, sibling?’ the Shrike asked. ‘Why not join forces with the rats? Is there no embassy from the cockroaches available to speak with? You shame yourself.’

  ‘There is no indignity I would not suffer, if I supposed it to be in the interests of the Roost,’ the Aubade said. He pointed to his missing stalk of hair, penalty or sacrifice for his time spent abroad. ‘I have always put personal pride below the future of our nation.’

  ‘We are well aware of your time among the humans, sibling,’ the Glutton said. ‘Though today you have demonstrated that it has dulled your wisdom, rather than sharpened it.’

  ‘I find myself in agreement with the Lord of the House of Kind Lament,’ the Prime said. ‘For too long, this Conclave has allowed the Lord of the Red Keep to speak words of agitation and unrest.’

  ‘For too long, the Lord of the Red Keep has allowed this Conclave to ignore the danger that grows daily, and to take the steps required to fend it off.’

  It was common custom to rise while speaking, and so the Prime was already on her feet. But she seemed to grow taller then, taller and more terrible. As if you were staring, not at a living being, but at the very essence of some great and arbitrary force, the personification of a mountain, or the wind. ‘The Lord of the Red Keep will retract his statement.’

  The Aubade stood with his arms folded, gazing at the fountain itself. He did not speak for a time but remained as he was, impassive against the fury of the Prime, and against the waves of contempt that the rest of the Conclave radiated in his direction. ‘My sibling knows that I will not.’

  ‘Indeed she does,’ the Prime said. For a moment she too seemed to be gathering her strength for the trial ahead, or pushing past some internal stumbling block. ‘I accuse the Lord of the Red Keep of acting contrary to the interests of the Roost. I accuse him of ignoring the will of the Founders, of seeking crisis to fulfil his own lust for glory.’

  ‘I accuse the Prime of failing to uphold her responsibilities,’ the Aubade responded. Calla felt suddenly as if she were standing on top of the Red Keep and staring down at the sea below. ‘I accuse her of ignoring threats to the Roost, of allowing dangers to fester and grow, rather than face them head-on.’

  ‘Siblings,’ the Wright said, standing abruptly and gracelessly, perhaps the first physical manifestation of the horror of the events unfolding. ‘This rash talk ill-befits both of you. I beg of you, take a moment and consider your words, before—’

  But the Aubade continued right over him, a terrible breach of etiquette, one that Calla could not remember ever having seen an Eternal commit. ‘The Prime has failed in her trust to ensure the continuance of the Roost, has closed her eyes to the danger that is in front of us. All of you have,’ he said, swivelling his eyes back and forth across the assemblage, perfect and terrible, unbent against the crowd’s fury. ‘But the Prime most of all.’

  ‘I request that my sibling meet me at the courses,’ the Prime said, ‘that we might arbitrate my failures as in days of old.’

  Calla realised then that she was near to weeping; she closed her eyes as tight as she could and bit back down the lump that had risen in her shapely throat. Had anyone cared to look at her then there would have been no doubt that she understood the proceedings, understood and was horrified – but no one did. The attention of the entire hall, four-fingered and five, was occupied exclusively by the Aubade and his lover.

  ‘I accept,’ he said simply.

  33

  Shortly after noon a shooting pain began to develop in Eudokia’s left leg, a pain severe enough to contort her thoughts and make work troublesome. It happened every day at about that time, every day since the fire, and like every day she ignored it.

  ‘It would be difficult,’ the physic had told her when she’d asked him if she would ever again be able to walk unassisted. He recommended massage and a particular rite of sacrifices to be given to Siraph and Terjunta, respectively. She only agreed on the first – the result of her recent adventure suggested that either the gods were little concerned with her well-being, or alternatively that they had already done more than could reasonably be asked of them, in which case Eudokia thought it better not to push her luck.

  The rehabilitation of the estate progressed more swiftly than her own. The main wing had been damaged irreparably by the fire; the greater part had had to be torn down and rebuilt entirely. Happily, this gave Eudokia an opportunity to indulge her own tastes in architecture, tastes she had been forced to ignore over thirty years of living in Phocas’s ancestral home. Unhappily, even with her vast resources the buildings could hardly spring from the ground overnight, and in the interim Eudokia and her household were cramm
ed into the east wing. Eudokia thought rarely of the evening itself, was too busy to allow the events to scar her. Still, when she filed into the east wing in the evenings, with its draughts and vague smell of mildew and absurd, hideous features, she sometimes wished she had not allowed Jahan to dispose of her assailants quite so comfortably.

  But mostly, despite the leg, and despite the inconvenience of her new environs, Eudokia felt the attempt on her life to be one of those strokes of luck that occasionally arise as evidence of fortune’s favour. Never in her long history had she been more popular, more beloved. People she had imagined her inveterate opponents seeped from the woodwork to ask after her health, to offer their support. Her enemies, even those without any clear hand in the thing, were excoriated, could barely go out in public without being berated. The week before, one of Andronikos’s supporters had had his jaw broken by a pack of sailors for making an ill-timed joke about her misfortune. Poor man, she had heard that he would never again be able to speak quite right. A terrible loss for the Commonwealth.

  A few words to Andronikos in the days after the attack had withered him away to very little. In fact it was hard to see his attempt on her life as anything but an admission of defeat – having been bested on his preferred battleground, he had been forced into areas of which he was less certain. He had shot his last bolt, would now buckle beneath the pressure she applied against him, fall gently into line. Had he not swiftly shuffled himself off to Salucia, and did not her spies report that he was doing as he was bid, pushing forward intransigently the maximalist Aelerian position? No, Eudokia felt confident that the danger from that quarter had passed – there was nothing more to worry about from Andronikos.

  Well, even Eudokia, Revered Mother, scion of the house of Aurelia, was not right all of the time.

  She knew there was something wrong when they were announced together. Because there was no reason for their association; they had no connection except through her. Heraclius would have needed to be blind or impotent not to have paid Irene some interest, and while it would not have shocked her to discover that he, being a red-blooded man in the prime of his youth, which is to say a child controlled almost exclusively by the bit of flesh swinging between his legs, had found occasion to supplement the love she gave him, she could not imagine even he would be foolish enough to choose his paramour from within her own household. And even had he been, Irene at least could be trusted to act with more discretion. Besides, she had the pick of the court at her disposal, did not need to go grubbing about with Heraclius.

  Of course Eudokia made no show of worry, lounging back in her chair with her leg propped up on some pillows, adding slowly to the scarf she was knitting. Jahan’s hooded eyes drooped ever so slightly less than usual, quick to catch trouble.

  Irene looked as stunningly beautiful as always, perhaps even more so. Her hair and her eyes were black as fresh coal, a length of green ribbon held up her tresses, a pearl the size of a finger-joint hung down into the cleft of her neck. She was trying, without success, to hide a glorious smile.

  Heraclius, by contrast, seemed barely able to hold himself together. It was generally within even his meagre powers to dress himself, but today his sash was knotted incorrectly, there was mud on the cuff of his robes and his hands, normally manicured, were bitten to the quick.

  ‘Revered Mother,’ Irene said, leaning down to kiss Eudokia’s cheek.

  ‘Darling,’ Eudokia said.

  ‘Revered Mother,’ Heraclius half stuttered, bending over to do the same.

  ‘Dear,’ Eudokia replied.

  For a time there was no sound but the soft rustle of thread on thread.

  ‘May we sit?’ Irene asked.

  ‘I’d think you’d be more comfortable offering the blow while upright – though of course it’s to your preference.’

  But they were slow to deliver it, Irene looking long at Heraclius as if for support, though whatever the endeavour in which they were involved, she would find him a weak reed. ‘We’re worried about your health,’ Irene said eventually.

  ‘How thoughtful of you,’ Eudokia said. ‘I do have a bit of a tickle in my throat – you might fetch me a cup of tea.’

  ‘I think it more serious than that.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Serious enough that perhaps it would be wise for you to remove yourself from the whirlwind, as it were. I am told the springs at Elfi have wondrous recuperative powers.’

  The springs at Elfi were three weeks by carriage from the capital. ‘From what sort of ailment do you think me suffering?’ Eudokia asked.

  ‘One that will prove fatal,’ Irene said flatly, ‘unless swift effort is made to correct it.’

  Heraclius shuddered, began to stare at the courtyard outside with the sort of longing that suggested he would give a very great deal to be outside among the hedgerows, rather than in here with two she-wolves.

  ‘What have you told her?’ Eudokia asked, her voice carefree as a kite on a sunny day.

  But Heraclius didn’t answer, just kept gazing out towards the gardens. Irene was happy to speak for him, however, which really was all to the good, otherwise they’d be waiting around for the rest of the afternoon. ‘Would you like to guess?’

  ‘I’d never dream of spoiling your fun.’

  ‘It would cause quite a scandal, were it ever to come out that Senator Andronikos had been taking money from the Salucians. I don’t imagine it would be much less of one if it ever came out that you were giving it to them.’

  If this was intended to elicit a response, it was an abject failure. Eudokia’s eyes did not flutter, the even set of her mouth did not curl. Perhaps her heart beat a bit faster, but to know that you’d have needed to put your hand against her chest, and no one was doing that.

  ‘The game is up,’ Irene hissed, unable to maintain her pose of indifference any longer. ‘Heraclius told me about Phrattes, and I told Andronikos. The senator has been in touch with him, convinced him his interests lie in other directions.’ Irene shook her head. ‘You really ought to know better than to trust a Salucian,’ she said. ‘They’re an irredeemably dishonest people.’

  ‘They’ve no monopoly on betrayal,’ Eudokia said smoothly.

  Heraclius flinched, opened his mouth, realised he hadn’t yet thought of anything to say, closed it again.

  ‘Surely you don’t think to take the high ground?’ Irene asked. ‘You’ve been skewered on the same lance you hoped to wield – it’s sheerest hypocrisy to pretend otherwise.’

  ‘I had not invited Andronikos to sit beside me at tea,’ she said, ‘nor to share my bed.’

  Irene shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose I can expect you to be neutral on the matter, though if you made the attempt you’d see that we’re the better party. The Commonwealth gets peace, the senator gets out from beneath your thumb.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I?’ Irene shrugged. ‘I get to be you.’

  ‘Setting unattainable goals,’ Eudokia said, ‘is a sure path to misery.’

  Irene laughed. ‘I’ll never have your wit,’ she agreed. ‘But I will have money, and status, and power. And I suppose I’ll have to settle for those.’

  ‘You’ll find that last leaves you little time to enjoy the first two. And you, Heraclius? What is it exactly that you’ve been promised, in exchange for listening at keyholes?’

  Irene was enjoying herself immensely, seemed positively glowing. By contrast, Eudokia thought she had never seen Heraclius look so desperate – though she promised herself that she would not be able to say that for ever.

  ‘You were getting ready to leave me,’ he said finally, lamely, the first words he had ventured since his greeting.

  ‘She told you that?’

  ‘No,’ he said, than recanted. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was right,’ Eudokia said, ‘but I’d have taken care of you, as an act of kindness.’

  Irene spent a silent moment enthralled by Heraclius’s discomfort. How she must hate Eudokia, to have made su
ch an effort to bring the poor fool over to her side! How much it must have galled her to seduce him, to stand his fumbling touch and inane flirtations! ‘I admit,’ Irene said finally, ‘I hadn’t thought you’d bend knee so easy. Won’t you raise your voice, even just a little? Call me a sluttish little whore, or break a nail on your stolen lover’s face? Remind me of all the things you’ve done for me, berate me for my betrayal?’

  ‘Is that what you imagine strength looks like?’ Eudokia shrugged. ‘I’m afraid you’ll leave disappointed. We’re past the point of recrimination. You’ve made your choice.’ The tenor of her voice remained as friendly as ever. ‘We’ll see what it gains you.’

  Heraclius seemed to lose three links in height, and even Irene half shuddered at this last. But she caught herself and came back more forcefully, as if to erase the stain of her fear. ‘Empty threats from an old woman. All you’ve left is a graceful exit, and you’ve only that because of my kindness.’

  ‘How magnanimous.’

  It was an exhausting thing, throwing punches at the Domina. Twenty minutes of beating on her and Irene was ready to go and lie down. ‘As always your composure is exemplary,’ she said. ‘It will be one of the many things that will be missed, after you retire from court. Which, by the way, Andronikos insists you do within the next few weeks. After that, I’m afraid, it will be necessary to force your hand.’

  ‘I see,’ Eudokia said.

  ‘Are there any questions?’

  Eudokia looked back and forth between them, apparently unruffled, her face a mask of benign indifference. ‘One only. Did Senator Andronikos not wish to take part in this discussion? I’d think him loath to miss the opportunity to gloat.’

  Irene smiled, happy to see that Eudokia’s last card wouldn’t ruin the game. ‘In fact, he was most unhappy to be deprived of the pleasure. But duty keeps him in Salucia. It’s no easy thing, stopping the war you’ve nearly started.’

  Eudokia dropped her head slightly, acknowledging the information though not commenting on it. The sun eased in through the garden windows, along with the soft scent of things growing. A song bird trilled. The breeze blew. Time passed.