An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  With his thoughts on Smalltown, Sycarus tried to fall asleep. He remembered himself back in Abelbrooke’s manor, helping the lord with his writings, whenever he would return from his stewardship duties at Rivermark, from liege lord Mandon’s court. To the old man, the smell of parchment, paper, and ink was more refreshing than the scent of flowers. Alder Abelbrooke was going about his work of something he called the assiduous society. Abelbrooke had tasked him to write down his ideas.

  As always, Sycarus was quick to obey. Abelbrooke’s thoughts concerned the matters of money and prices, of ownership and labor. Sycarus remembered some of those notions, the most important... The biggest buyer of wares was the nobility, and the biggest hoarder of gold was the Holy Temple itself. Such facts were clearly out of proportion with the rest of society, the smallfolk owning so little of everything; but being entrusted with all the toil – while too few citizens of the empire owned land and wealth, enough of these things to enjoy special privileges.

  At one time, Abelbrooke confessed that he had urged lord Birus Mandon, second of his name, to enact a decree upon the holy houses that stood within the hawk’s sphere of influence – to confiscate all their items of gold and silver, have them melted and sent to the imperial mints in exchange for proper coin. Coin not meant to be hoarded or loaned out to collect interest for Rivermark’s coffers... but coin to be spent on public works. Alas, given the rise of the civil war, such wealth was used for martial means.

  On the matter of foreign trade, Abelbrooke was of the opinion that while the Crown’s money remained recorded into gold and silver – it was better for the Empire of the Sunborn to practice equal moderation in both sales and acquisitions. Too much of one thing or the other produced dire consequences within the five realms; for the profits of merchants and craftsmen alike. Of course, it was better to consume more goods from abroad than to sell in exchange for metal; no matter how precious that metal was, it could not sate one’s thirst or hunger, one’s need for warmth, clothes, and roof.

  Yet, given our circumstances, moderation of entrance and outgoing of coin is what every household should strive for; if a fall in employment numbers is to be avoided, if dramatic price increases are to be suppressed. Abelbrooke has the right of it...

  The lord complained of other things as well. For instance, the knowledge collected from the accounts of temple houses, guilds, villages, towns, and manors many a time proved to be inconclusive. Ledgers were often incomplete, either out of incompetence or corruption.

  In spite of that, Abelbrooke was adamant. The way in which the many factions within society bargained for or against each other – those were the true key elements in price changes, in the creation and consumption of wealth. It was certainly not an invisible force of divine will which controlled such things. The gods had better things to think of, so many celestial matters to keep them occupied. They surely know it’s tedious business. The surety of numbers is always a concern; and there are other problems as well. The usual creeping error, the stray subtotal. And I know what I’m talking about...

  After remembering all of that, he yawned. Sleep came to take him. He didn’t have any nightmares or dreams during his two days and nights spent in the desert; however, this night proved itself different. Sycarus dreamed a good dream. A dream of peaceful meadows, of rivers and branches of white scattered across the blue sky above the world. Shepherds watching their flocks with their dogs about, crops which promised to be bountiful, and the soothing music of a flute somewhere out in the distance.

  But soon enough, that pristine vision turned into a nightmare. A blackness flooded his mind – and he felt a deep sting on the left side of his chest. He turned and twitched, wanting to scream and wrestle at the void around him... But the gift of sight had left him; he could hear only footsteps and voices. When Sycarus opened his eyes, he did not know if he was dreaming or not. A sharp pain spread through his chest, just below his armpit; and as he struggled, the pain got sharper. Now, he also felt a wetness spreading outward, and the voices became clear.

  “I’m sorry, lad. But you didn’t think this through, did you? That wooden chest of yours is mighty heavy, heavy with coin…” Sycarus recognized him – it was Manyo. The old zjialaan guide had a proud grin on his face, and he took the key from his neck.

  Sycarus wanted to shout at him, at him and Jodser; to curse them to hell itself. But all his lips managed to utter was an indiscernible hatred of strange words.

  At his failed effort, Manyo laughed. “What was that? Eh… never mind, boy. Don’t try to speak. We’re not savages; you’ll die quickly enough without any real pain.” The bearded man held out a long needle for him to see. It was red with blood. “It’s a knife actually,” he said. “A narrow knife… It’s called a misericorde. It’s used on the battlefield on the dying soldiers... as the mercy stroke. It’s a lot better than leaving you here alone to die of thirst. Breathe, boy. It will be over soon.”

  With that said, his murderous guides mounted the camels, and left him to his fate.

  “Fucking pigs! You fucking pigs! Fate piss on your souls!” Only the still air heard Sycarus speak those words, shouting them with hatred and fear. While under oath of agreement, to betray another’s faith was to betray the gods. It was a selfish and irredeemable act of treachery; a sacrifice of honor and life in exchange for profit and perdition. If the holy laws were true, then damnation awaited those two vile souls, Jodser and Manyo. At the end of their days, they would be punished in consequence.

  Should I live to see the morrow, the sun will scorch me to death. He tried to cry, but no tears came. He tried to pull himself from the ground, to send purpose into his knees and arms; but he could find none. His wound was deep and bleeding without cease. “Cold, gods it’s so cold…” Empty musings came all at once; they tormented him. Sycarus thought of the emperor and the stolen chest. He thought of old man Abelbrooke, who’d been the father he never had. He thought of his age, one and twenty… he had experienced so little of life, and now he was destined to die alone in a sea of empty sands. Sycarus tried to breathe, a heavy effort it became. And he gazed up at the sky. The strange clouds had passed; and only the faraway stars remained.

  He discerned the constellation of the Maiden, and tried to think of something pleasant and soothing. I would have liked to die in the hands of a fair virgin with milky-white skin. She would have smelled like wet roses, she would have… His thoughts were now weak, just like his body – weak and numbed by a cold pain. Frustration and despair were now absent emotions; in their stead, indifference came. Sycarus closed his eyes, and he could swear he heard laughter in the winds. An impression of his fading senses? Or the cackle of death’s minions? He couldn’t be sure, for each breath became harder to take. The blood stain beneath his arm grew. The thirst in his neck for water began to swell, the pain in his chest to spread. His life was slowly fading...

  Chapter VII: Birus

  The great halls of Castle Spire were made of white and sienna marble, the rock being encrusted with beautiful grey veins. Those thin waves and lines made the edifice a splendour to look upon. The stones spoke nothing of the recent past, however; that a blood gods worshiper sovereign had ruled from within such marvelous a construct.

  Vivid tapestries adorned the walls, unfolding scenes from distant times; scenes of glorious battle, of triumph, and icons of the Sunborn. The arched ceiling depicted the twelve constellations in strokes of amber and silver on the backdrop of a dark blue. And behind the Sun Throne, a glittering disc of many jewels stood high upon the wall – a symbol of fortune and destiny.

  It was said to be the most precious part of the royal wealth of house Mero, second only to the throne itself. A plate wrought at the very command of the Unnamed Sunborn himself. That great disc was a sparkling wonder of sapphires, jade, amethysts, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and many other precious stones. Below the great disc, two crossed spears, long and gilded, stood as a symbol of martial quality and heritage. The inside of the castle was warm and maje
stic, but the souls of those beneath its roof were much colder and less noble. At least, that’s how Birus felt.

  The emperor had invited the most prominent lords in the five realms to his banquet, to the betrothal ceremony of his only son and heir, prince Yoffis. Of course, the maiden chosen by the emperor for his son had remained a secret. The lady would be revealed at the feast. And the surprise was more than what Birus Mandon could have expected, or indeed, any other lord present for that matter. The girl who would marry the prince, once he would come of age, was a proposition that would leave those guests, with daughters unmarried and unpromised, very discontent to say the least. And there were many such guests.

  When emperor Hagyai presented the prince’s betrothed, Castle Spire’s great hall fell silent, and everyone turned still as rocks. Though, rocks didn’t murmur as these did. Even the court fool had bit his tongue when the mystery maiden was revealed to them all. A savage Aharo girl for the Empire’s heir? Has Rovines taken leave of his senses? Birus was incredulous, and felt ice inside his stomach. After so much bloodshed of ruinous madness and failed ambitions, why hadn’t the emperor accepted a proper alliance with one of the great houses? Why had he chosen to emulate a dead custom? One which almost ended the great line of Mero. Has he forgotten about the infamous Aharo empress? About those she murdered in cold blood, babes, children, suitors and guards alike? For now, such questions would not receive an answer. But he wouldn’t leave the capital without first having a word in private with his imperial majesty.

  Sir Raymon Rorck, his household knight, being a cheerful spirit as always, was the first to applaud and shout out blessings of good fortune for the young couple – thus, breaking the uncomfortable silence. After a brief moment, everyone in the hall was doing the same. Birus looked with narrowed eyes, studying the expressions of those lords and knights about him. From what he could read, few smiles were honest, and many others were not. Some conflict is sure to follow; I can feel it in my teeth.

  Birus Mandon had arrived in Sun’s Helm, the capital of the Empire, in the company of the most prominent stream lords, his vassals – Latten Reed of Stonerunner Creek, Wolfgar of Byrnehold, Anton Merrick of Wellmoat, and Bellworth of Rainhall. Having spoken with them on the road, Birus had few things to say to them now at the emperor’s feast. He was more interested in studying the other lords and knights; many of whom he did not know, or did not remember.

  And a few souls caught his attention... The southern high lords were the easiest to spot on account of their lavish finery. Crimson was their colour of choice, it went well with the fine gilded chains about their necks. The lords of Griffin Height, Heart’s Gift, and Sunderbridge – Valdez, Krasus, and Cryhorn. Their fealty was owed straight to the emperor; unlike the other realms, the Southlands had no warden.

  The eastern lords, however, appeared unconcerned and in fewer numbers. The master of Findar’s Keep was absent. And the Patriarch’s brother, Jean-Baptiste Ceryl of Oldmoons Gate seemed rather vexed by the company around him. And there was only one northern lord attending the banquet, the young ram of Sodomis. Other than expressing his grief for his late father, Jorghel, the hawk paid him no mind.

  Sir Ruppert Manheim of Palatine Rock – one of the most powerful landed knights in the Westlands – was present also. The man wore a green doublet, dashed with yellow lines. And his grey-black cloak, trimmed with raven feathers, covered him all the way to his ankles. Another man of note was Edmund Blackway, the lord of Rogfort and warden of the west. His uncle from his mother’s side.

  Though they were related, they were like strangers. Birus had clasped forearms with a few of the prominent black knights, but not with his lord uncle. After the civil war’s end, the ties between their families had remained utterly severed.

  Blackway’s attire was the least lavish of all those present, adorned with no jewels, gold or silver. A simple chain of black iron hung about his neck. And his black doublet bore no pearls, no strident marks of colour. It went well with the man’s humours – stern, judging, impassive. Edmund Blackway was bald, and a long scar covered his right side from his brow all the way to the ear. His left side bore some remnants of hair; but they were whitish-grey and some patches grew longer than others. He had another scar, a shorter one, on the left corner of his mouth. They were marks of battle – a testament to his failure of invading the Streamlands during the civil war.

  He doesn’t look anything like mother, Birus thought. The eyes of Isabel Mandon had been a deep blue; her brother’s eyes were pale. Where she had been a tall woman, the lord was of average height. Where she had smiled pleasantly in the presence of many a different company, Edmund Blackway did not smile at all. Birus had never seen the man smile once; not even when all those around him laughed noisily, pints of ale in hand, red-cheeked, over the music of flute, drums, harp, and lute. They are so different, he reflected. And to think they were family... to think I share some blood with him.

  The hawk banished such thoughts from his mind and found his place at the table and seated himself. He looked to the food in his plate – pheasant breast braised in cider sauce with garlic and onions. His stomach tied even harder into a knot, and he pushed the dish away. He broke a stump of warm bread, got up, and left the table. Sir Raymon Rorck refilled a wine-cup and followed his liege...

  Above their heads outside the keep, the night sky was clear. One moon was half, the other a quarter, and a warm wind blew from the south. The outer expanse of the emperor’s seat of power was empty and silent. Only a few guards stood there and there, on the battlements and at the inner gates. Castle Spire was indeed worthy of its name... From the inside of its walls, one would think the immense spires scratched the very surface of the heavens. But from without, the castle looked as mighty as any stronghold, and most beautiful – a majestic erection of stalwart rock. Its proud spires looking with impunity upon all beholders; built by the master artisans of the masonic guilds at the behest of the great Gaius Marius Mero, during the Age of Glory. And so magnificent it was, a fortress made gracious; necessity made art.

  “My lord,” sir Raymon spoke, “is there anything amiss? You seem troubled.”

  Birus turned his gaze towards him. He took a bite from the bread stump, chewed, swallowed, and grabbed the knight’s wine-cup. He was thirsty…

  “Oh, please do. I wasn’t going to finish that anyway.”

  Birus chuckled. “My good sir, things are more complicated than you’ll ever know. Remind me the names of those lords who offered the hands of their daughters to the emperor’s son and heir.”

  The knight paused, thinking. “Sir Manheim offered his gracious daughter, the young Saleena. Then there was lord Cryhorn offering his daughter, the fair redhead Julyane. Hmm, let’s see now, ahem… ah, there was lord Krasus who offered both his girls, lady Maria the freckled beauty and his younger one, Lucienne. And of course, the lord of Findar’s Keep offered his many girls. Then there was...” Raymon scratched his head. “Ahem, I don’t recall any others at this time, my lord.”

  “Neither do I.” Birus gave a shrug. “But you can be certain that all the lords with proper daughters to marry have uttered their proposals to the emperor through words of air and ink. Hear me well, no good will come of this betrothal. Rovines is playing a dangerous game.” Those last words he uttered in a low voice.

  Even with an empty bailey around him, the lord of Rivermark still had to be careful about what meanings sounded from his mouth. It was said that in the capital, more eyes and ears were employed in the service of one lord or the other, than anywhere else in the Empire’s five realms. And the hawk didn’t want to be the subject of nefarious gossip.

  “My lord Mandon,” a voice called out from a dark corner near the ironwork.

  When Birus turned, he saw a robed figure. “Who goes there?”

  The shady soul took a few steps back and opened a thin wooden door. A small light came from it. Though the forge was dormant, the man’s purpose with the stone structure was not. “Is that any proper
way to greet an old friend?” The man fumbled beneath the cloak, at his chest, then held out an object. In the door’s warm light, the silver chain looked familiar.

  Birus drew closer, and in a few strides he recognized the three way chain with the silver rhombus circumscribed in the golden sun – the office chain of the Imperial Chancellery. The man in black was lord Erasmus Verwick, the right hand of the emperor. I was wondering about Verwick. “We’ve missed you at the feast, lord chancellor.”

  “I have thoughts to share with you, my lord Mandon. Indulge me, if you will.”

  The hawk nodded in agreement. “Sir Raymon, go back inside and rejoin the banquet. Try not to drink too much. And if someone asks of my whereabouts, tell them I went in search of a privy.”

  “Aye, my liege.”

  After dismissing his household knight, Birus made to follow the hooded chancellor. It was only natural curiosity driving him forward. Though no true ties of friendship linked Rivermark and Findar’s Keep, the respect between their two houses was great. Him and Verwick slipped through the doorway, and with a dozen or so paces they reached a cramped hall. Birus made out two crummy chairs, arranged to face each other. And between them, a torch hung from the wall; it’s modest flame flickered nervously, as a faint breeze passed along the narrow way.

  “We have much to discuss, my stream lord. Please, take a seat… any seat.”

  In the bad light of the torch, lord Erasmus appeared much older than last he’d seen him. There was something in the man’s tired pale-blue eyes, something that wanted to escape. Birus could only frown as to what that was.

  “What have you to tell me, lord Erasmus?”

  “I bear most grievous news...” The chancellor paused to regain his voice. For but a moment he had lost it. “No doubt rumors from the Lowlands have reached your ears. If not, you’ll be enlightened this eve.”

  “I sense you are about to reveal a great many things, lord chancellor. I’ve heard news from the lands east of the Alpians, from Laraven. News of war and rebellion, a despot leader of the black skins naming himself king. But such knowledge is good to my heart, as it should be for any honest dweller of the Empire. As for the said grievous rumors from the Lowlands, however, I confess I know nothing of them.”