Crimson

by Warren Fahy

  “Nil, such idealism is as admirable as it is foolish,” Hallot said, echoing something his predecessor had told him. He looked over his shoulder. “We live in uncertain times. You have no wife or children. It is easy for such a man to be simple in the midst of what is complicated. I have heard the rumors, too. But rumors about wives and children may not concern you as much as they do us husbands and fathers.”

  “If I had a wife, and she had borne me children, I would fight against Blox with my own strength ten times the lion if I heard such rumors, Hallot! Do not look hither and thither for a sympathetic eye or ear, my old friend. My fight, always, is for Ameulintians. If you are ready to be a delegate today and not a toad then buck yourself up and stand ready! You have that right from proud Ameulintians who need you to use it today.” Nil stared at Hallot for a moment before leaving him gaping after him.

  Nil stopped on the verandah by the skull of Knot. The monster’s cranium had been cast in bronze and mounted on a polished malachite plinth donated by Bulgar Bedrosium to the city. Nil touched a serrated tooth and wondered what might lie ahead of him on the sea.

  “Hello, Nil!”

  A thin, black-haired man, whose height did not quite match the mariner’s, smiled, his pale face beardless with features sharp and clever. He wore robes of spotless white.

  Nil greeted him in his humble black boots, trousers, tunic and leather greatcoat before the regal Lord Rishen. “Hi, Ree-Ree.” Nil used his childhood nickname.

  “Blast this rain, anyway,” Rishen said good-naturedly, turning to look over the bay. “The hunting will be rough-going through the underbrush next season. The forests will be thick.”

  “The game will be rich. Well worth the struggle.”

  Rishen cocked his head, a wry gleam in his pale green eyes. “More bears will come down from the mountains. An added risk.”

  “When the incentive is great, a bear can be dinner. With a good team of Ameulintian dogs.”

  “A bear is more powerful than a dog. I have heard of a bear dashing a dozen hounds in five minutes.”

  “The bears will be fat. The dogs will be hungry.”

  A cold wind whipped over them from the sea.

  Rishen smiled. “Come, come! I have not even congratulated you on your election to the Congress, Nil. You are evidently held in great esteem by your fellow mariners now.”

  “It is with their voice I speak today.”

  Rishen nodded. “I am sure! As it is with the voices of the downtrodden and uneducated and hungry and shelterless that I shall speak today. For if the High Congress members do not remember them they are sadly voiceless here.”

  Nil nodded. “Many of my constituency is now yours.”

  Rishen smiled. “Is it not very dangerous these days in the southern waters, where the King’s terrors crowd the seaways, Nil?”

  “A quick tongue to name what is a mystery to the eye, and quicker still at the expense of the King,” Nil marked.

  “Seven years do not fit inside ‘quickness,’ Nil, although they might with you. With each successive year our southern waters have become more treacherous. How many seafarers have been lost to those hellish sentinels that surround our suspicious King?”

  “What suspicious thing might keep us from him? You doubt him first. I do not. He fears some great evil and keeps us away to spare us. Does evil refuse power? I think power is evil’s aim, since without it it would perish.”

  “My, we are staying up nights,” Rishen said. “With Artimeer, perchance? I see that our old teacher is here today. I hope the strain is not too much for the old man.”

  Lightning flickered in the sky and thunder rolled over the bay.

  “It’s pouring,” Nil said. “Let’s go inside.”

  The cloudburst cleared the long verandah and, once inside, the crush of people elbowing each other as they peeled off cloaks, topcoats, mufflers and hats made continuing their discussion impossible.

  Rishen tapped Nil on the shoulder as the mariner regarded the historic hall with awe. “We’ll talk later!” Rishen said over the hubbub. “Welcome to the Congress, Nil!” Then he disappeared through the sea of delegates.

  The Congress members hung their rain-sprinkled garments on the Olix horns that ornamented every part of the walls as the Mayoral Guard bulled through the crowd, rudely checking everyone to make sure they also hung their swords and put aside all weapons before coming to the table. This was a new measure never implemented before and stirred cross comment among the members.

  Nil gazed at the ochre-and-black Olix horns patterned in the mortar between the beams in the ceiling and ringing the two stained-glass domes through which violet rays beamed.

  In the wall overlooking the bay was a broad window of many panes of fine glass. Almost all of the bay of Gwylor and most of the city could be seen in this clear mosaic, though the distant points of the gulf of Gwylor were hidden in mist. In the center of the window rose the marble back of Gieron carved by Poladoris Martharr, washed and glimmering white.

  Though this hall hosted the Congress of Ameulis every two years, it was the City Hall of Gwylor the remainder of the time. It was traditional that the ancient Gwylorian Guard, now five thousand strong since Blox had been elected Mayor, guarded this place. As he glanced around the room Nil was angered to see how plentiful red-and-silver uniforms were in this room of Ameulis’s representatives. He felt another hand on his shoulder and turned to see Bulgar Bedrosium winking.

  “All is provided,” Bulgar said. “We met before the Hall. All except for you and Lelinair.”

  “Where is she?” Nil asked.

  “We thought she was with you until we saw you talking to Rishen. That was a fright, son! I trust you stepped smartly. He’s sly, that one!”

  “He has not a wit. The power of these policemen is all he has.” Nil looked around the room.

  “He has wit enough to know that is enough, Nil. Remember that we’re not here to confront but to forestall confrontation long enough,” said Bulgar.

  A dull tone from a ring of bronze was struck by two guards simultaneously, drawing all to their seats.

  “That’s the first bell. We needn’t sit yet. But it’s always best to know where you’re going.” Bulgar winked.

  Nil nodded and followed him, looking for her over the tossing heads.

  Rishen did not slow his step as he approached the doors of the Mayoral antechamber to the west of the Hall, and the guards sprang to open them.

  And when they did he was stunned to see Lelinair Martharr having tea with the Mayor himself.

  Lelinair and Blox were seated in two of the ubiquitous Olix bone-and-fur chairs before a small fireplace in the ante-room. Blox laughed gleefully. “You should see your expression, Lord Rishen! Surely it is uncouth to show such surprise at our lady’s fealty. She has come to see, as do we, the futility of loyalty to royalty. Aren’t I poetic, my dear?”

  Lelinair smiled at Blox’s banality and blinked demurely at Rishen, whom she had always disdained in favor of Nil when they were schoolmates. She knew that Rishen had not forgotten it.

  “Indeed?” Rishen studied her eyes that had scorned him so many times. “I thought you a Loyalist, Lelinair.”

  She laughed.

  “Well,” he said, “if I show surprise it may be because I just spoke with Nil.” He looked for a sign of what he had always envied in her eyes, but there was none. “It is clear Master Ramesis is a fierce Loyalist. It appears he is, indeed, dangerously so. I tell you, good Mayor and fair Lady, too, since we may now trust you on pain of death as all trust is based, that Nil Ramesis will make trouble if he is given the slightest chance today. I put it to you, Lord Mayor, that he could be a lightning rod. What say you, Lady Martharr?”

  “I say that Nil Ramesis intends to captain a vessel on a voyage to rescue Trevin and bring him back to wreak vengeance upon Blox and yourself.”

  Blox was delighted by his aristocratic lackey’s shocked expression, and he laughed deliciously.

  “Even
now,” Lelinair said, as though it were old news to her and Blox, “Nil constructs a wondrous sea-craft with which he plans to rescue the King.”

  Blox nodded, giggling and clapping his hands. “You see?”

  “Lelinair has been the bringer of much news,” Rishen said, amazed.

  “What we have caught a whiff of but not seen for days now, Rishen, she has delivered to us,” Blox said. “We can trust the beautiful Lady Martharr. In fact, she will sit at my side today. What a powerful signal it shall send that a Martharr should show her support for Nekkros, the King who shall come so soon now to Ameulis to fill our empty throne.” Blox grinned at her with clenched teeth. “She might make a fitting future queen, eh, Rishen? I approve of your raiment, my dear. I can plainly see you conceal no weapons,” he smiled, crudely.

  “Indeed.” Rishen stared at Lelinair, who had dressed in a bolt of gossamer silk that revealed her beauty, a form of dress not unprecedented or frowned upon in Ameulintian society unless the aesthetic result was less than pleasing. As Lelinair employed it the effect was as devastating as a weapon. “Your devotion intrigues, milady,” Rishen stammered. “I shall look forward to working together to lay a path for the coming King—and to ridding Nil Ramesis from his path.” Rishen pinned her gaze with his green eyes.

  “Surely any voyage Nil plans can simply be forbidden,” Lelinair said. “Now that it is known.”

  “And surely any traitor can be executed,” Rishen said, “now that he is known. For it is not deeds but the people who do them that are dangerous, or beneficial.”

  “Very good, Rishen! You are learning.” Blox nodded approvingly, sensing that he was showing off.

  Rishen noted the fleeting promise of pleasure in Lelinair’s eyes, an impossible thing that suddenly swayed him from the relish of revenge.

  “Yet why martyr a lightning rod, my lord?” she said.

  “Of course, my dear.” Blox took Lelinair’s hand in his invisible hand as he rose. She felt the ghostly fingers of his right hand as he pulled her to her feet. She covered her surprise with a smile as she strode between the Mayor and Rishen. “Let us convene this Congress. We shall kill Nil Ramesis after it is concluded. His horse will spill him on the way to Gwylor. Preparations to strike his shipyard are underway.”

  Lelinair missed her footing but recovered, gracefully.

  “My lady looks pale,” Rishen whispered as he walked at her other side. “Or is it just that your skin is not used to so much cloud?”

  Lelinair looked at Rishen and pouted. “You find my complexion unappealing?”

  “I find it lucent as the purest alabaster.”

  She smiled, reaching out for his hand and taking it. And so each of Lelinair’s hands was clasped in one of theirs as they walked toward the ornately carved double doors to the Congress Hall.

  The 80 delegates were swept into separate currents toward their seats as the last bell tolled. Their attendants left, the great doors were closed, and the bolts were thrown.

  Nil found his seat was to Artimeer’s right. He knew that Artimeer had switched the seating cards all around the table to suit his own purposes, as he always did. He greeted the old philosopher and looked over the triangular expanse of polished wood that was inlaid with green abalone and curiously grooved. Three high-backed chairs rose at the western point of the mahogany pyramid. If the King were present, he would sit in the center chair at that point with the Mayor of Gwylor to his right and Artimeer to his left. These three chairs remained empty as all other seats were filled.

  Nil regarded Artimeer in whom so many here today were placing their hope. He was now a very old man. During the last year his features had taken on the razor-edge of those nearing a natural end, his face delicate and weathered like fragile stone arches over his eyes thinning and nearing collapse. He was conserving his energy these days so he could focus only on things of great importance. It was said that he responded to no courteous conversation of any kind anymore and only spoke when a single axiom could resolve a plethora of dilemmas.

  Artimeer studied the scene inside the Congress Hall, recognizing faces and reflections of faces that he had known over eight long decades. The houses of Rentallen, Veniciud, Dynuk-Tull, Ardile, Edo and Nop were represented, all having harbored those displaced and persecuted by Blox. It was the House of Ardile that had issued forth Queen Conilair, Trevin’s mother, though Trevin’s grandparents on that side of his family had died centuries ago.

  The family of the Red Lion of Tunce was represented by his red-haired daughter, the tall, imposing Senthellzia, whose distant grandmother Apricia was Elwyn’s queen and whose distant ancestor was Gieron himself. The fiery Senthellzia was more fierce than usual in the absence of her father, who was rumored to be gravely ill. On her hard shoulder sat Harm, her falcon.

  Most of the Nekkrosites at the table were individuals without friends, accomplishments or names to their credit, achieving influence through numbers and promises, instead. The Nekkrosites had grown markedly among the children of the great, Artimeer noted. These rebellious youths, with shorn hair and sackcloth robes, depressed their haggard parents who represented the dwindling Loyalist faction.

  Artimeer’s heart brightened as he noticed the young prince from far-off Norlania, who had traveled a great distance with Captain Skylar on his famous ship, the Green Ghost. The eldest son of Norlania’s Queen, Prince Rollum Ryndillym Skyaarmindu-Kaaryn, wore a mantle of woven gold over a shirt of green silk, something from Norlania and something from Ameulis, a gesture toward the land with which his country was once united.

  “Where is she?” Nil asked Artimeer.

  Artimeer shook his head forlornly.

  The double doors at the west end of the hall opened, and Blox entered as a collective moan of dismay filled the room. For between Blox and Rishen, holding their hands, strode Lelinair.

  At first, many supposed she must be Blox’s captive, and Nil, fists clenched, made to rise. But Lelinair smiled, coolly, and many quailed in grief.

  Nil leaned back in despair as Blox reached the head of the table. Rishen sat on his right and Lelinair sat on his left.

  Blox did not sit yet, but stood before his chair and surveyed the dumbstruck faces in the hall. He was not tall compared to most Ameulintians, but his garb was rich. For one devoted to the poor, Blox wore his wealth with imposing boldness. His face was different to each person who saw it. His eyes seemed to ward off the timid, leaving his features shrouded in regal distance. Only his closest allies and bitterest enemies saw him as he truly was—a gray, lumpy creature with red stubble on his blotched head and mud-gray eyes. He did not mind that his most intelligent enemies could see him truly; it made them seem overly fearful and hysterical to the majority of Ameulintians who could not. And the majority was all that mattered in a democracy, Blox knew.

  The Mayor smiled as he glanced indulgently at Artimeer who, Blox knew, could see him most clearly of all.

  Then he noticed Poladoris Martharr, who was being assisted by those around him, so stricken was he by the betrayal of his daughter.

  Next to Poladoris, Senjessi Tillow’s fierce eyes turned bleak at the sight of Lelinair, to Blox’s delight.

  Then Blox caught the eyes of Nil Ramesis, who stared at him with the unflinching gaze of a wolf.

  Blox raised one of the Voice-Stones and convened the 512th Congress of Ameulis.

  “Voice-Stones” were white opals that shined a cool radiance when held. They were ancient and had been carried with Gieron’s people from the land before Ameulis. To speak at the Congress, one must hold one of the three Voice Stones. Artimeer and Poladoris held the others, according to custom.

  “As we open this Congress, my dear friends,” Blox said, “a matter most dire has been brought to my attention by the devoted Lady Martharr, a matter to which we must all pay attention immediately.” Blox raised his invisible right hand. Suspended over its stump floated a red minnow at which those close enough to see exclaimed in astonishment, for they had heard of his invisibl
e hand but had never seen evidence. “Trevin has contacted Ameulis!”

  Artimeer felt the room darken as the delegates gasped and groaned. He squeezed his Voice Stone as he squinted down the table at Blox, whose true face smiled hideously at him.

  “Trevin,” Blox continued, “our King who would not be King, whose evil eruptions scar our southern waters and threaten our trade, writes on the skin of these bewitched messengers a tale. He claims himself trapped by his own wicked devices in the ruin of the Dimrok at the bottom of the sea! But that is not the most incredible thing he asks us to believe. The poisonous King of the Tintilisair, after forsaking us so coldly, asks that we travel through his evil maze to save him.” Blox laughed heartily. “Methinks he wants a trial run so he can watch his monsters perform! O, Ameulis, he asks us to risk those horrors in order to rescue him and restore him to the throne. I, for one, am insulted. Even if it were true that Trevin is trapped and cannot escape his fate, is this not cause for celebration at this Congress? Prepare the feast and light the torches! For if the King should die, might not our southern waters finally live again? Might not the storm clouds lift and the way be lighted for Nekkros, who shall come when the sun returns to Ameulis? So shall He come, and make no mistake. As Mayor of great Gwylor, our capital city, I declare to those who still deny it that much of Ameulis has already sworn fealty to Nekkros, and wisely so. For Nekkros shall be the great equalizer. Those righteous in His eyes shall ascend as surely as those unworthy shall be cast down. The law of Nekkros will be manifest very soon, Ameulintians! If this Congress were to condone a rescue of King Trevin, who bears the mighty Cronus Star that he bloodied, there would be such a battle of giants over Ameulis as to rend Hala in two. For Nekkros will see the need to destroy our renegade king, along with those who defended him, if we do not let Trevin perish now when nature herself would serve our purpose. Consider, then! How much grief will Ameulis know, added to the loss of those men who might attempt such a voyage, if we should elect to rescue Trevin? Let the Congress declare itself!”

  With Blox’s first stroke, he had called for a vote.