by Philip Hamm
“Go on,” he replied reluctantly.
4 - Rimmon’s story
Rimmon was born and grew up in a shanty town known as Ervil, outside Barras City. Nothing is known about his parents but it’s assumed they died in poverty. He spent his first years in an orphanage but as soon as he could walk, he was cast out and forced to search the rubbish tips for anything he could sell.
Ervil, designated District 59 by the Tax Collectors, was a very dangerous place to live and life was precarious and cheap. Most humans are nothing more than vermin to the Rickobites, useful for nothing except their labour, and those unable to work are simply ignored and left to die. The best job a human could hope for was to be chosen as a Tax Collector and to be sent to another world in the Rickoby Empire to enforce its tax laws. But back then, those opportunities were very few and hard to achieve. For most, what little money its human population could earn was used to buy dragon-dust or alcohol to make the pain of their existence fade away.
Along with thousands of other children, Rimmon searched the tips for bottles, rags or metal cans to sell to the local gangs. It wasn’t pleasant work; the stink of rotting meat attracted scavengers of every shape and size, even lions from the surrounding desert. And very occasionally, they found the body of a man or a woman corrupting in the heat.
But on one particular day, when he was just seven, Rimmon found a book. He knew it must have value because the binding was made of leather and the letters on the front were embossed in gold. He didn’t take more than a peek at first but tucked it inside his shirt in case one of the bigger children spotted his treasure and took it for himself. Later, when he returned to his hovel, he opened up the book and looked inside. The pages were not made of paper but vellum and, though he couldn’t read, he could see the letters were different from standard Evigonese.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sell the book for anything near its proper value; the local gangs were not much richer than the people they extorted money from and may have killed him rather than parted with a penny. Instead, he took the book to the only authority he knew, the District Tax Collector.
There are high penalties for corruption among the Tax Collectors; it is a strange paradox that men commanded to tax the poor beyond their means are prohibited from breaking the law in other way. They are not allowed to murder, rape or steal. If they’re caught trying to enrich themselves through bribes or other crimes, they face years in prison or indentured slavery.
When Rimmon showed the book to his local District Tax Collector, the man didn’t try to take it from him. Instead, he recognised its value and realised, when he saw the writing inside, that it probably belonged to somebody of significance. Pending an investigation, he told his men to lock Rimmon in a cell in case the boy had stolen the book, discovered he couldn’t sell it and was trying to claim an undeserved reward. If, on the other hand, he had found the book by accident, any reward would be liable to a tax.
The guards, offended by his smell, made Rimmon scrub his body with soap and water until every speck of grime was gone. They burnt his clothes in the yard and made him wear a clean shirt five-sizes too big. It seemed a wasted opportunity to leave him in a cell so they made him serve their meals and, as a joke, forced him to eat the scraps. It was the best food he had ever tasted. Over the next few days, he washed the floors and polished their buttons. He kept their guardhouse tidy and did other menial tasks.
Rimmon was an attractive lad; he had long blond hair and big eyes in his thin face. He did as he was told and they may have kept him permanently if events had not taken a different turn.
It didn’t take long to find the book’s owner. It had been sitting on top of a stack in the study of Procurator Ynch when the pile had tipped over and toppled onto the floor. By some evil will, that particular volume had fallen into the wastepaper basket and buried itself under some papers. Its absence went unnoticed until long after the basket was emptied. By a process of deduction, Ynch realised, to his horror, that his copy of the Diary of Zagan, one of the most important books in his collection, was probably on its way to the dump. Frantic to get it back, he sent his servants to Ervil and other districts to pay the local guttersnipes to search among the rubbish. They made enquiries and offered rewards. Rimmon’s Tax Collector soon heard about their search and was able to give them the book. His honesty and dedication were duly noted by the Rickobites and in later years he enjoyed a successful career as the Metropolitan Tax Collector for the whole of Barras City.
The book was returned to Ynch and he was extremely relieved. When he asked how it had been found, the servants told him a child had handed it into the Tax Collector’s office. Surprised by the boy’s honesty, he asked to meet him and Rimmon was soon summoned from Ervil to the Rickobite towers in the centre of the city.
Rimmon had only ever seen Barras City from a distance. He was taken there by air-taxi, another new experience, and the pilot let him stand at the front to gawp at all the magnificence. The towers stood in a line beside a great river; all concrete, glass and shining chrome, gold and polished marble. They glittered in the sunlight and it seemed to Rimmon that they must have been made by the Lords of Evigone.
The air-taxi landed on the roof of one of the towers and Rimmon was taken down to Ynch’s study. He found more wonders; more books than he ever imagined could exist, more paper, more furniture and there was a soft carpet under his bare feet. Everything was clean and there was a beautiful smell of leather and beeswax. He thought he had died and passed into the meta-world.
“You found my book,” said Ynch, climbing down from his stool to take a closer look at the finder. Even then, the Procurator was shorter than Rimmon was. But he was dressed in a fine silk shirt and he had a gold chain around his neck with a large jewel.
“I did, my lord,” Rimmon replied.
“I’m not a lord,” said Ynch, walking around him and noting his bare feet and spindly ankles. “I’m a Procurator – do you know what that is?”
Rimmon shook his head, “No, sir.”
“It means I serve the Councillors of Rickoby – I assume you’ve heard of them?”
“They make the laws, sir.”
“That’s a good answer.” He stopped in front of the boy and looked up at his face. “In particular, I serve His Fiscal Majesty, Sagapenum. The book was a personal diary written by one of his children and he would have been deeply offended if I had lost it forever. You have saved a piece of history, my reputation and probably my position as a procurator too.”
“I’m pleased you didn’t lose your job, sir.”
Ynch smiled, “I would have lost more than my job. In return for my life, I want to offer you one of your own. I will to send you to school and you will be educated. When you have gained proficiency in the Seven Levels of Attainment, you will work for me. This is not a gift but a loan, you understand? You will pay your debt by serving on my staff in whatever capacity you become fit for, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rimmon, his eyes wide with amazement.
“You can refuse if you wish. I will pay you a reward for the return of the book and you can go back to Ervil without prejudice. What do you say?”
“If I accept your offer, may I make a request?”
Ynch was slightly amused, “You’re not in any position to make requests; I could send you back to Ervil with nothing. But go on, what else do you want from me?”
“When I have learnt to read,” he began, glancing at the shelves around them, “May I come and read your books?”
Ynch burst out laughing, “My books...?”
“The diary was the first beautiful thing I have ever seen – I want to know more about the person who wrote it because surely anyone who could make such beauty must be very great indeed.”
Ynch stopped laughing, “Is that really what you want? To read the works of the tsars and to understand their culture?”
“If they’re the ones who wrote these books then, yes; that’s what I want.”
The p
rocurator thought for a moment and then nodded. “Perhaps it’s time,” he said to himself. “Go to school, come here as soon as you’re able to read, and we will see how far you can go.”
The school was in a better part of the city and its students lived in a dormitory under the roof. The lessons were in a plain room with just benches to sit on and rudimentary tables for their writing. Almost immediately, Rimmon negotiated with the teacher, Mr Scholium, for extra reading lessons. He used his debt to Procurator Ynch as leverage. “If you help me,” he argued, “I will be able to help you when I’m grown up.” He got the extra lessons and it took him less than a year to learn Evigonese and then the Zarktek language. He was still only nine when he returned to Ynch’s study and began reading his books.
Rimmon made good on his promise to his first teacher; many years later, Dr Scholium was given a position at the Fiscal Institute on Arroba. And the boys who helped him with his other lessons also benefitted from his connection with the Procurator; many rose higher and faster than they might otherwise have done and became Senior Tax Collectors or held other prestigious roles in Rickoby’s empire. Despite his many faults, Rimmon never forgot a debt.
Ten years later, he was master of the Seven Levels of Attainment; he knew the Tax Laws backwards, he was adept at Mathematics, Government and the intricacies of Fiscal Management, his knowledge of Cosmology was excellent and he could speak the standard Languages. But he knew the History of the Zarktek better than any other human.
For a whole decade, he had immersed himself in the books, scrolls and coda of the tsars plus those humans and quasi-humans who were good enough to write for them. Ynch guided his reading, beginning with stories, literature, myths and legends, before progressing to the great works of science and discovery. Rimmon absorbed them all like a lizard basking in the sunlight.
He learnt to love the Zarktek with every fibre of his being. He admired their nobility and their achievements. He baulked slightly at their profligacy; they spent too much money unwisely for a boy raised in poverty to fully understand, but he was astounded by the great cities they had raised. He sat for hours looking at plans and diagrams of their vast palaces and public buildings. He examined every detail of their art.
He also learnt about the many battles they had fought and their generals became his heroes. He cried real tears when Tsars Orias and Oze were forced to retreat from the Firelands after the quasi-humans betrayed them and joined with the Penti. He cheered when Amaymyon held the Ulupans back at Penumbra. He wished with all his heart he could have stood beside the Cizer legions at the Battle of Old Aegina and swore vengeance against the Enoth cowards who failed them in the final days that ended at the great naval battle in the Variola system.
He never seemed to notice that it was always ‘cowards’ and ‘betrayers’ who let the Zarktek down rather than their own ineptitude. To him, they were the greatest race to have ever existed and he covered their faults with love.
When he was twenty, Ynch sent him to Arroba to finish his education at the Fiscal Institute. He did as he was told but he knew he could never become a Tax Collector. He had a feeling, deep down, that he was meant for something better. As a result, he began to rebel against his teachers; he questioned their values and attitudes and he made fun of their complicated pie-charts. He spent too much time in dimly-lit bars in the bowels of the city. His tutors wrote a letter of complaint to the Procurator.
Ynch came to Arroba City to demand an answer and Rimmon replied, “Why are we content to let the memory of the Zarktek fade? Taxes and fiscal management are like the strings on a harp; they’re nothing without a proper tune. Why are we not trying to find the Zarktek and put them back into their positions of power?”
Ynch should have been angry with his protégé. As a Rickobite, he was bound to the Councillors of Rickoby and it was his duty to make sure his staff upheld their values and principles. But he shared Rimmon’s doubts.
During the Age of the Zarktek, the seven Councillors had been the bankers for the seven Zarktek empires. For nearly five hundred years, they managed their accounts, financed their building projects and paid their armies. It was their perspicacity that had prevented Rickoby from falling after the war was lost. At the peace conferences, the Rickobites had argued they had simply facilitated the flow of money and were not guilty of the war-crimes levelled at the Zarktek and their other allies. They had also offered substantial bribes. The human empires had let them go free and everything they now had was owed to that decision to distance themselves from their former clients. And yet Ynch believed, like Rimmon, the Third Sphere would be a better place if the Zarktek had not been defeated.
He asked his protégé, “Would you do anything to see the Zarktek return?”
“I think you know I would.”
“Then come with me to Megaron.”
Together, they travelled to the Southern Hemisphere and on the way, Ynch told him they had a powerful ally; alone among the seven Councillors, Sagapenum agreed with their opinion. He believed the Zarktek should be found and helped back into power. One of the reasons Ynch had so many Zarktek books was to find clues as to where they might be hiding. Sagapenum had given him the secret and sacred task of locating the tsars, especially the most important of them: the seven Princes and the father of all the Zarktek, Apollyon.
Rimmon wanted to join the search. In fact, there was probably nothing else that he wanted more. So, when they arrived on Megaron, he was taken to Zagan’s Ziggurat and there he joined the Cult of Adramelech.
*
Before the boys asked, Faam said, “Adramelech had been the Tsar of Barras but the cult has little or nothing to do with him. It was just a name they used to cover the true nature of their activities.”
“To find the Zarktek,” said Fratris.
“And to prepare the way for their return. But they needed allies among the other empires. For most humans, even the word ‘Zarktek’ is anathema. But Quill has always had a more ambiguous attitude towards them. The Zlativa-Zarktek gave them the benefits of Pavonine and other technologies that enabled them to expand their empire and in the early stages, they were allies against Zamut and Saron. They didn’t think of themselves as human and had few connections with the human race. Therefore, when the Quill delegation arrived on Megaron, Rimmon was chosen to try and bring them back into the fold, beginning with Nacyon.”
Crotal asked, “Did he really believe the Third Sphere would better under the Zarktek again?”
“With all his heart...”
“But he’s wrong, isn’t he?” said Fratris. “The Zarktek were evil...”
“That’s how we think of them but if you look around at some of the rulers in the Third Sphere today, are they any different? The tsars were greedy and vain and selfish but you can’t say any of those faults disappeared after they were defeated. And for some, like the victims of Tun’s White Hussars or Zamut’s Secret Police, life is actually worse now than it was fifty years ago.”
Fengtai, looking thoughtful, said, “But there is an alternative, isn’t there?”
Faam nodded, “People can be weak but laws can be strong. If the Council of Empires had worked properly and not for the benefit of the dominant members, the peace might have lasted longer. Quill, for example, wouldn’t have felt excluded or badly treated by the decision to give Sapadilla to Zamut and Nacyon wouldn’t have been so ready to accept Rimmon’s offer...”
5 - Zagan’s Ziggurat
Nacyon thought Zagan’s Ziggurat was probably the biggest building he would ever see even if he travelled the length and breadth of the Third Sphere. It was certainly the most impressive of the three monuments to the Zarktek on Megaron. It stood like a mountain among the dunes; a great pyramid of three tiers with lines of smaller pyramids on each level. Though abandoned, it had not been harmed by the Zamut navy during the war or by the Tun Empire during the peace.
“This was Tsar Zagan’s private palace,” Rimmon said as they landed on the middle tier. “He surrendered rath
er than let it be knocked down by the IZN. Zamut sailors stole his furniture and his personal possessions but we can still view the murals and the mosaics.”
There was a small opening in the massive wall and he led Nacyon into the interior of the palace. The scale was overwhelming; shafts of light shone down on long corridors that seemed to stretch forever, on floors covered in millions of glass and ceramic tiles, and on the empty niches where statues of the Zarktek had once stood. They passed great rooms that echoed from their footsteps and moaned as the dry wind blew through them. There should have been sand everywhere but, either for the tourists or out of respect for their former tsar, caretakers were keeping the place clean.
In the centre there was a great hall with walls that sloped to the apex of the ceiling. On the floor was a mosaic of pink marble with seven black bars depicting the symbol of the Rickoby-Zarktek.
A dwarf was waiting for them. His head was bald and he was wearing a long black coat that reached to his feet. Around his neck there was a gold chain with a ruby the size of an egg hanging at the end. He had large, dark eyes and a wide mouth.
“This is Procurator Ynch,” Rimmon said. “He is lieutenant to Councillor Sagapenum and my friend as well as my master.”
“I’m honoured to meet you,” said Nacyon.
The dwarf nodded, “And you must be the Rao of Sapadilla. I hope Rimmon has been taking care of you.”
“He’s been an excellent host,” he acknowledged.
“And what do you think of our offer?”
“I like it very much. Rather than taking out an expensive loan with the bank, I believe supplying you with Pavonine generators makes better sense.”
Ynch smiled and glanced at Rimmon, “And we thought the Quill were naïve when it came to business – and yet this one seems fully aware of a financial opportunity when he sees one.”