by Daniel Casey
“Maybe. But things change, memories fade, and reason…”
“Can be manipulated.” Landico stopped and looked at his protégé with a grave countenance, “We cannot allow The Blockade to continue, we cannot leave those people to die, we cannot murder those people, and we cannot allow The Cathedral to dominate them.”
“Certainly so,” Tamas put his hand on either shoulder of Landico, “We can change course, we can save everyone; we just need to be patient.”
Landico smiled, “Beware the wrath of the patient man.”
25th of Lammas
The corridors leading to the Spires from the Great Hall were surprisingly tall and unusually wide for just how few Kyrios there were a result of whittling away representatives and the solidification of the ruling class. From each Spire now came at most fifteen lords whereas originally there had been close to two hundred from each. The vast passageways opened into the even more cavernous space that was the Great Hall, where the Assemblage gathered. Kyrio Tamas stood in the antechamber to the Great Hall in a small circle with his fellow Spire lordlings. They were rehashing some insufferably banal point of order, so Tamas was only half-listening and scanning the space for the other Kyrios he would need.
Kyrio Harcour’s spire had come to be synonymous with the agrigy, the farm folk of Silvincia, yet Harcour had never set foot on any plantation. In fact, he had never really left the city except for trips to Elixem via luxury shallop. Still the agrigy would routinely back his family to election and although he was certainly of the same station as the other Kyrios, he was seen as the voice of the rural workers. Such was hardly the case and Harcour was looking for a way to break away from the bias. The chance to heighten his profile, to break away from the dirt merchants he constantly grumbled about, would be the way to sway him.
Although she was of the most martial spire, Kyrio Alois could be his most valuable ally. She held enough influence with the referendary to get the bookkeepers on his side. With them, he’d have enough leverage on the others. His mentor, Kyrios Landico, was already primed to fall in line with Tamas’ plan, and between the two of them, they could certainly turn the hawks to their line of thinking. Just then, Kyrio Matias, the young blood hawk, entered. The headstrong fool was surrounded by his clique of blue bloods each itching for war more than the last. Fortunately, they were dimwitted, only Matias had any rhetorical skill. Yet there were more martii in the other Spires than one would suspect and they were more than willing to get on-board with the elimination of Essia. The trick would be making them think that what they were doing was not just virulent but necessary, inevitable even.
Matias and his coterie brushed past Tamas’ group with more than a few schoolboy smirks and mumbled insults. Tamas despised them more for their childishness than anything else. The notion that this masturbatory twit was a lord infuriated him, an obstreperous adolescent constantly demanding praise. Yet, he always kept it in check and although no one thought him a friend to Matias’ spire, no one suspected that he loathed him. Landico had made no bones about his contempt for Matias, had almost nothing good to say about Harcour, and though a close friend to Alois did not consider her politics adequately magnanimous. Tamas was going to have to thread the needle here.
“You’ll excuse me lords…”
“But Tamas, we need to reach a consensus here.”
Walking away, he nodded in accord, “I certainly believe we do and I am with those who are in the majority.” His fellow lords unsatisfied but unwilling to pursue his departure fell back into their bickering.
“Kyrio Alois,” Tamas nodded in deference.
A mature but by no means old woman with an air of absolute authority, smiled warmly at him though her eyes maintained a certain playful skepticism, “Tamas, I have been wanting to speak with you since your speech at the last assembly.”
“Oh? I do hope I’ve not earned too much criticism, though I realize that my reasoning should have been more tightly worked.”
“I’m no schoolmarm, so I haven’t graded your performance, but I will say that I found much of what you said in accord with my own views.”
“And the views of your Spire?”
She smiled wryly, “They may need a bit more convincing.”
Tamas feigned surprise, “Is that so? Well, then would you allow me briefly before we enter to address any of their concerns?”
“You needn’t try to charm me,” Alois gestured for her companions to go and they made for the Great Hall, “And you needn’t debate with me, I have no interest in war with The Cathedral or war on Essia.”
Tamas nodded, his expression going from his standard obsequiousness to one more sober, “It is imperative that we avoid imperial ambitions or, at least, the appearance.”
“I would not feel the need to qualify that assertion.”
“I realize that but I am asking you outright to back my play in the chamber.”
Alois raised an eyebrow and was momentarily stunned by Tamas’ honest demand, “Doing so would mean making enemies of the children.”
“I can sway Matias’ faction, in fact, I will not merely sway them but I will have them believing it was their idea in the first place.”
“If you were so confident you wouldn’t be here talking to me,” she scoffed, her eyes narrowed and she leaned in close to his ear, “The bold win over girls, women care nothing for the brash.”
Tamas could see why she and Landico were such friends, both never shied away from gentle upbraiding. He pulled back slightly so Alois could see his face, “I’m not looking for conquest; I’m not interested in flirting with power or coaxing some kind of future favor. I mean for us, all of us, to make a genuine, authoritative move. One that will not merely stabilize the realm or extend our dominion, one that will enshrine our beliefs into the deep history of the world.”
Alois held his gaze and waited, “I need you to make that happen. I am asking you to help.”
“And the reward for my spire? Aside from the majesty of the future? My kin will need something tangible for the immediacy.” He had her, she only need some morsel to give her faction, “Light only knows what my kith will clamor for.”
“You don’t need coin, you don’t need influence, so what would you have?”
“Ah, young man, if only you had come prepared.” Her laugh was airy and as she spoke she floated by Tamas toward the Great Hall, but as she went she turned to him one last time and winked. He betrayed no outward pleasure, but he was wildly excited.
“That looks like it went well.” Landico was suddenly at his side.
“She is with us.”
“At what price?”
“What that I knew.”
Landico chuckled in a cheeky manner and patted Tamas on the back, “You have traded quite a lot, son, quite a lot. I hope I’m there when she comes to settle the account.” Landico withdrew jocund and went to the Great Hall, Tamas reckoned that this was the first time he had ever seen his teacher enter the assembly in a good mood.
But there was one last thing to do. Looking around he spied Kyrio Andrass, Harcour’s lieutenant, but no Harcour. He could work Andrass and Andrass would replay it all to Harcour, the man was essentially a shill. But even a shill needed to be inveigled.
“Good Andrass.” He smiled and held out his hand, Andrass took it but with a stunned look upon his face.
“Kyrio Tamas, you do me a rare honor.”
Tamas looked taken aback, “Good lord, hardly, I’ve been meaning to discuss with you the matter of…”
“The Rikonen siege, certainly so…”
“No, no” Tamas waved his hands dismissively, “That issue will certainly occupy the majority of the day and will be the most dramatic, but I know where you and your Spire stand and I wouldn’t dream of trying to haggle and hound you like some of the others. I know that agrigy see no value in hollow promises.”
Andrass was obviously surprised and relived, “Yes, well, our allegiances and community have a certain ethos.”
&nb
sp; “Entirely fitting. No, what I wanted to talk over with you were the plans for the Elixem canals. We, the true legislators once the dramatists, glad handers, and grandstanders leave after the Rikonen business, will be left to make decisions that immediately affect the lives of our people.”
Andrass nodded in glad agreement, “Absolutely, Tamas, I am quite glad to hear you say that. Too many think the day-to-day business of the assembly to be beneath them. I and Kyrio Harcour often talk…”
“And just a few moments ago,” Tamas took his elbow and started to lead him slowly toward the Great Hall’s entrance, “I was coming to a consensus with my fellow lords about how we feel an expanded canal system would not only increase the trade and travel between our great cities but create work for those agrigy whose cropland has not turned well this season.”
“It absolutely would, that work would flush a good many people who are just scraping by as it were”
“We thought as much. I know that Kyrios Matias was planning on dedicating his spire to that work but I am certain that between the two of us,” Tamas spoke conspiratorially and gesturing that the two men of the same mind, “we can vote as a block to put that work in the hands of those that need it most.”
Andrass smiled, “We certainly can.”
“Superb,” they had reached the door, Tamas gave him an affable slap on the back, “Let your lieutenant Harcour know as well, I’m sure he’ll be quite glad to hear that soon the journey to the pools of Elixem will be made that much quicker.”
Andrass smiled widely and Tamas returned it, “I certainly shall let him know…at my leisure…”
“Of course.”
“…and we shall not waver in finding a way to repay your support.” Andrass attempted to sound furtive but he was anything but.
“Think nothing of it. We know that your Spire will always back what is right.” And with that, Tamas gave the man a little push into the Great Hall.
Chances are it would be enough. Andrass would parrot everything to Harcour, who would then believe that either he, Tamas, was genuinely his ally to be backed for further aid or that he was trading the canal project for his backing today. Both would serve. He had hedged his bets by pulling Alois to his side and roping in Harcour. Now the trick would be to land Matias’ spire and this would require a good deal of rhetorical flourish and cunning. Or just dumb luck to draw them in.
Tamas entered the chamber and found his way to his spire’s section. Waiting for him at his seat’s plinth among the scrolls, donations, and codices of the session were signet coins of the spires of Alois and Landico. Harcour would do it, but he wanted, needed, more than a simple majority. The Parmentier spire always stayed back until it knew for sure which way the wind was blowing and the Kendzior spire would probably dissent but only as a formality to maintain the air of opposition. All was reliant upon turning Matias’ faction, in winning over the Bertrand Spire’s young hawks. He would need to perform today.
Rikonen, 27th of Lammas
Wynne had been at the top of the lighthouse since the small hours. At night, The Blockade was a twinkling span of random braziers littering the decks of the ships. Many in Rikonen had already accepted the flotilla as a permanent part of life. All he knew was that he was sick of keeping watch, of staring at this chain of ships refusing to attack or retreat. He thought about how he used to love watching the bay. Hundreds of new ships coming and going every hour—sad cogs of privateers seeming to drift into port haphazardly, huge cargo barges from Wick laden with bithumin, pristine white yachts of the elite, rickety longboats of the fisher folk, and even the occasional passenger barques with extravagantly colored sails. He used to love to watch the bay. Now, nothing entered, nothing left. The water stood still, becoming more rancid with every day.
The only break in the monotony was the occasional attempt to break the line. Some local militia, traders, or (and this was happening more frequently) ordinary folk would fill up a skiff and try to challenge the Silvincian marines. At first, the marines let these tantrums come all the way to meet them. The would-be saviors would get close enough to the warships to realize just how puny their own was, just before a shade of arrows came down on them. Sometimes all it took to break their spirit and have them turn back was seeing just how puny they were. But the marines were just as bogged down in the monotony and the chance to have some sport was never ignored. Sometimes the flotilla would send out a tender of marines. Restless, young and angry, they were always itching to fight. Few ships ever made it back, what ships did were often bloodied husks. As the siege wore on, the Silvincian marines didn’t even bother to meet the oncoming ships or launch a hail of arrows, rather they lobbed tarfire charring those in the boats and leaving burning husks that sent a smoke blacker than the night itself. The marines had lights in the bay that they could crow about for the evening.
Now when a run to break the line happened, the Rikonese looked on it as a suicide run. Many and most saw it as a bit of sport to watch from the usually abandoned pier, a fact that made Wynne ill. Each ship destroyed had become an exhausting ritual for Wynne. He’d collect the remains—charred wood, burnt bodies that by the time they made it within his reach were water-logged and bloated—then bury what he could giving the proper rites. He was soul sick from it all. When he saw a ship heading out, he couldn’t help but become enraged. For more than a year, he had been doing this. Fortunately, such attempts had gotten fewer and fewer over the recent months. After three years, The Blockade was entering its endgame.
He thought of his own home in the city. Ransacked so many times now, he could barely remember what the villa had looked like before The Blockade, before the roving mobs desperate for any kind of food or fuel had begun scouring the city. He had been at the municipal when the first mob swarmed through his ward. On the roof of the hall with the other civics surveying the damage out over the city, he saw the first strand of black smoke rise from only a couple of boroughs away. The black strands came closer and closer accompanied by a hard bitter growl, a cruel wave. It wasn’t long before it was joined by several other tendrils and it was clear that the mobs were rampaging in the sixth, his ward.
The mobs arose after last winter; it had surprised many of the civics that something like them hadn’t already happened. Birds didn’t fly over Rikonen, the bay was fetid and near fishless, and even rats had become scarce. What had begun as the frustration of a few random gangs grew and soon there were riots in the second ward, the market district. Soon after the first hospital was burned down in the aftermath of the mobs looking for supplies, panic spread through the city. Rumors circulated that the mob had stormed through the hospital looking to kill the sick and dying for their meat. It sounded extreme at first but as the mob grew, more and more wards reported desperate stories.
When Wynne saw the fires in his ward, he hadn’t thought much of it. He made his way home that night with a few guardsmen finding the villa’s gate torn down, the chest high wall around it smashed in at various places. Getting closer to the house the doorway was a black gaping hole and the windows shattered like gouged out eyes, black stains marked the walls where flames had burned. Walking through his home, he saw everything overturned, shattered, smashed, and thrown aside or seemingly pushed through the halls to the back garden. The mob, a human flood, had swept through his villa leaving fire in its wake. His daughter wasn’t there. There was no blood. There wasn’t anything. It was as though his home had always been a ruin or an abandoned slum.
There was no sign of Fery or of the three personal guardsmen that Wynne had left with her. None of his neighbors could tell him anything useful—their own homes sacked by their brethren. He held out hope that she had escaped, but children were seldom seen in the city now, most starved or killed by the mob violence. Still, he gave himself hope. At twenty, Fery wasn’t a child or some delicate flower, but she had no skills for surviving on the streets. Wynne doubted he even did; he was barely hanging on himself. His hopes had dimmed every day there was no news of her a
nd more detailed accounts of other wards being burnt and ransacked.
His home was a husk so he had no reason to leave the municipal; they needed him there more than ever. What few resources were available had to be defended as well as rationed. His men and the stragglers from other wards were wasting away, their own families barely hanging on. Keeping communication open with the other wards of the city was becoming more and more difficult. News became scarce and soon Wynne was holding together four wards by sheer force of will with the rest completely blacked out. Finally, the mobs were larger than the civics. Pushed off the streets, then forced out of their homes, and now cowering behind the walls of the municipal, Wynne had guided his people into a corner. It had become a simple waiting game. When the mob came, the civics he commanded were too weak to hold them back. Wynne’s civics broke ranks and lashed out at their rabid brethren but to no avail. Half attacked the mob, and the other joined it. Control was lost; all was fire and blood. The fourth ward fell with little resistance, the survivors scattered.
Wynne cut his way through the mob with their red eyes and blackened hands. He had tried not to permanently harm any of them, but soon gave over to rage. They clawed at him. No matter how fiercely he struck out or pushed them back, they surged. He had nothing but they didn’t seem care; he saw skeletal hands and wild eyes coming towards him like some kind of nightmare. He hacked his way through the great hall of the municipal and down the hundred stairs to the thoroughfare. When he finally made it through the mob, he was alone in the middle of the great road surrounded by shattered buildings. He turned, hobbled backwards slightly, and saw his ward’s municipal burning down. He froze for an instant, and then he ran.
Wynne had made his way south to the harbor, where he saw the great eastern lighthouse that had been an unblinking eye watching over the bay The Blockade. It stood empty but had become a target for the Silvincian, who pelted it with tarfire out of boredom but also to let the city know they could strike out at the city whenever they wanted. Nevertheless, it had given him an idea. Across the bay, on the western shore was the original lighthouse. Smaller, older, and abandoned since the creation of the great lighthouse some sixty years ago. Few Rikonese even remembered it. Therefore, he had made his way there. Two days through the city and a day waiting for the tide to recede enough for him navigate at night the thin jetty that attached the old lighthouse to the shore. Here he was now, surviving but just barely.