Cry of the Newborn (23 page)

But it was done now and the papers awaited him once his audience with Praetor Gorsal from Gull's Ford was at an end. She waited for him to respond to her latest plea even now. He took a moment. The throne room bore Estorean marks. White columns had been raised on which to mount busts of great Atreskan rulers and they managed to look completely out of place in the tapestry-filled room with its vaulted stone roof.

The original throne had been destroyed, a symbol of a government dismantled, to be replaced by a wide, low uncomfortable seat of office. And the uniforms of his guards all bore deep green trim, as did the Atreskan crest of a crenellated tower crossed by swords. Right now it all stood for very little. Genastro had come and the raids would begin again in earnest.

He looked across at Gorsal whom he had bade sit though it was against protocol. She was shivering from her journey, sick with fever and fear for her people whom he had been so unable to protect from the Tsardon.

'I wish I could promise more than I already have. Already, I am dragging too many away from their lives and damaging our economy to fight a war we do not want and to protect borders we should not have to protect. Unless the Gatherers outside my door now have news which surprises me, I can offer you no security barring that within the walls of this city.'

'We will not leave Gull's Ford,' rasped Gorsal, coughing violently enough to double over with the effort. 'So we will burn when they return and the deaths will be on your head. The end of the cycles of so many under God. Can you live with that?'

Yuran bit back his retort. He thought nothing of the Conquord religion, only agreeing to his Marshal Defendership when it was clear Atreskan religions, which had more in common with the Tsardon than Estorean, would be allowed to continue. The civil strife over which he presided made him wonder if that too had been a mistake. No wonder he returned to his shrine every night to beg for direction from the lords of sky and stars.

'What would you have me do? There are fifty villages in your position. I cannot defend them all, or one above another. We must hope for an end to the Tsardon campaign. Pray for that at your House of Masks.'

Yuran cursed himself for the look of contempt that crossed Gorsal's sick, pale face.

'I have hope,' he said. 'Really I do. Though I can give no more, I feel the Advocate will agree to staff the border forts with Conquord legions.'

'Another empty promise from the luxury and decadence of Estorr,' sniffed Gorsal. 'As empty as Jhered's.'

'Then come here to Haroq until the trouble is over. Rebuild when our soldiers return to the countryside,' he said.

He felt so torn. Estorea still held his respect though it diminished by the day. Its officers and politicians haunted his corridors. What choice did he have but to remain in step? Yet, at the same time, he tasted the emptiness in the words he spoke. Platitudes, no more.

Gorsal shook her head. 'We are strong in the outlands,' she said. 'We have pride in our way of life. All we ask is that the Conquord returns the loyalty we have shown in it. Defend us. Defend your people. Or one day we too will listen to the rebels and be lost to the Conquord.' She stood up. 'And we will not be alone. Bring us hope, Marshal. It is all we have ever wanted.'

Yuran sighed as he watched her go. He smacked his palm on the arm of the throne and leant forwards, wiping the stinging hand across his brow. Around him, his advisers were silent. He suspected them all of being Estorean spies. He had appointed none of them, after all. At least they could report back on his continued loyalty.

Footsteps echoed through the throne room. Three walked towards him, two men flanking a woman. Gatherers. He waved them forwards, examining their expressions. Unreadable.

'So,' he said. 'What of my books? And what of the decision of the Advocacy to grant my desires.'

The woman, a Gatherer Appros, a senior accountant and soldier, handed him a single sheet of parchment sealed with the Del Aglios crest.

'This is word from the Advocate,' she said. 'Meanwhile, our report on your books is being studied by your own accountants. It reveals little that can be construed as negligence.'

He spread his palms before accepting the parchment. 'I told you that you wasted your time, Appros Menas. I give all I can. Presumably, therefore, I will not be asked to raise more soldiers or pay more taxes.'

'Indeed not,' said Menas, her tone neutral, her face severe, scarred from an attack years before. 'Though you will also not be surprised to learn that a country that cannot give in taxes, cannot expect defence raised by the taxes of others, particularly when the Tsardon campaign is such a drain on the exchequer.'

Yuran sagged. 'What? Surely that is precisely the reason for the Conquord. Central taxation for the good of all. Neratharn is not under attack. Its people can defend mine while we need it. Are we not a family?'

'Yes, Marshal Yuran, we are. But it is the decision of the Advocacy that the remaining military budget to be spent on raising further legions to assure us of victory in Tsard. That is where the Neratharnese will go, among others.'

'Then I am back exactly where I started,' he said. 'My people will die at the whim of the Tsardon raiders.'

'Your country's defence is not my concern,' said Menas.

Yuran didn't respond. He feared arrest for what he was liable to say when his temper broke. He cleared his throat and dragged open the parchment. It was a short message. Actually it was an invitation, one of those where there was no option to decline. He read it as if from over his own shoulder, such was the disbelief and the thundering in his head. He let it drop from his hands and fixed his eyes on Menas, who flinched visibly.

'Is this some kind of a joke?'

Chapter 19

848th cycle of God, 1st day of Genasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

The palace was busy, far busier than the Advocate would normally allow. The halls bustled with civil servants and local specialist businesspeople going about tasks handed down to them by the organisers. The hum of activity in the wide corridors and public audience rooms only served to deepen Jhered's anger.

He had meant to bathe, having just stepped off ship from Gosland, but the banners on the streets, the air of fervour in the city and the industry on the Hill had given him a sick feeling. Instead, having discovered the reason for it all he slapped his gladius on to his desk, threw his filthy cloak across the office and strode into the palace, looking for the Advocate.

Decorations adorned every column and insulted the statue of every general who had ever brought victory to the Conquord. Worse, they insulted every legionary and cavalryman out in the hinterland of Tsard facing the enemy. His boots echoed darkly off the marble floors of the great entrance hall, which had been converted into a makeshift project office. Heads turned towards him, people so drunk with their own importance they looked on him with something bordering on condescension.

Nodding curtly at palace guards, he swept along the central gardens, down the colonnaded passage to its left and up the stairs leading to the private levels, where the Advocate and her inner sanctum lived their lives away from public gaze.

His expression as much as his rank granted him access up the huge sweeping white marble staircase with its balustrades carrying busts of former Advocates and its walls a mosaic of the defining battle of Karthack Gorge. A stunning victory where the Avarnese were finally

defeated, to give the Conquord total dominion over the south of the continent and opening up the northwest to the legions. Jhered had had ancestors in that battle. One was a decorated general who had died for the Conquord in the gorge.

It was a magnificent sight but Jhered had no time for it now. He took the stairs three at a time, all but flattening two people on their way down. All fine weave togas, bright colours and garish headwear. He pulled up just in time, recognising them. Rich landowners, grown fat off the efforts of others and with no sense of the world beyond their luxurious, cosseted existence. Poison in the Advocate's ear.

'You'd better not have any part in this stupidity,' spat Jhered.

They smiled at him indulgently as one might a miscreant child. 'Ah, the magnificent Exchequer Jhered,' said one, voice affected by wine. 'Box up your temper. We are saving the Conquord from implosion, reminding ourselves of our glories.'

'You and your kind will bring us to our knees, turning a blind eye even while you burn.'

He stalked past them, shoulder connecting heavily with the speaker who stumbled against his friend.

'Beware, Jhered, lest your star should wane. Your friends may be powerful but they are few.'

Jhered stopped and turned. He was a step above them and used his height to glower down at them, pleased by the paling of their stuffed cheeks.

'Go ahead and threaten,' he said, voice cool and soft. 'It is a long while since I exercised my right to examine the finances of named individuals. Perhaps I should take time to enjoy that pleasure once more.' He leaned over them. 'Go.'

He shook his head as they hurried down the stairs, no doubt to scribe letters to the Advocate about his brutish ways. At the top of the stairway, a galleried landing made up three sides of a square. Passages and rooms led off each. Guards stood at every corner, armour bright in the multiple lanternlights, spears held at ease, eyes front.

'At least some here are still capable,' he muttered to himself. 'Where is the Advocate?' he asked of the nearest guard. He hardly need have bothered. From an open door halfway up the first mosaic-laid corridor, laughter spilled through an open door on a gentle tide of stringed music. He recognised Herine's voice.

The guard nodded in that direction. 'She is entertaining the sponsors, Lord Jhered,' he said.

'Then my face will bring welcome relief,' he said.

'I have no orders to keep people away, sir,' agreed the guard.

'Lucky for you.'

Jhered smoothed his hair and rubbed at his face while he walked the short distance to the reception room. Guards moved to attention, spears snapping in front of their faces. He stood in the doorway for a moment. Herine was lounging on a banked pile of cushions in the centre of the room. Men and women, eight at a quick count, were spread around her. Some were standing and others were too close to her feet for his liking. Sycophants.

One, a young man barely out of his teens, was draped in front of her. Her fingers traced a course over his finely muscled torso while in her other hand, a goblet of wine hovered near her mouth. Servants stood around the walls, stepping in to offer fruit and more wine. Musicians were seated to the right of him playing delicate melodies on kitharas and lutes.

Jhered shook his head, something he seemed to do a lot in the palace these days. He felt like spitting on the stone between his feet. Instead, he walked in slowly, letting his presence fill the room and silence the twittering conversation as gradually as it might. He came to rest a few paces from the scatter of stools and cushions. Those standing moved reflexively away. He didn't fit. His trail clothes clashed with their finery, the dirt and dust of the real world an affront to their fantasy.

The Advocate swivelled her head to him and smiled. She raised her goblet, spilling a little wine down the chest of her consort. Her fingers trailed in it and she sucked the end of each one in turn.

'My Lord Jhered, arrived from the wilds. What news of our far flung territories?'

She was drunk, her words a better fit for the heroic stage than to address her most senior soldier. He ignored the question.

'Games?' he said, the word like a mouthful of rotten meat. 'Which of these cretins persuaded you of that? Or was it one of those bloated mannikins I met on the stairs?'

Herine's face fell in mock distress. 'You mean you don't like the idea?'

'Don't like it? My Advocate, this is a folly more grand in the making and damaging in the execution than the building of the new arena during the rule of your grandfather. And we have all read of the lingering effects of that decision.'

A ripple of dissention ran around the sponsors. He spared them a contemptuous glance. All middle-aged, all sodden in the mind and puffed up by their closeness to the Advocate. Herine caught their mood and her expression sobered. She made to speak but Jhered got there first.

'Party's over,' he said. 'Time to go and lay heavy on someone else's hospitality.'

It upset them, as he knew it would. The self-appointed great and good of Estorr, and thereby the Conquord, spluttered and made protest to the Advocate. The wash of wine through her head had apparently cleared and she was glaring at Jhered, embarrassment mixed with annoyance. He met her gaze squarely.

'Unless you want this conversation to be more public than it should, clear the room, my Advocate,' he said into the mounting furore.

‘I
don't remember granting you an audience, Exchequer Jhered.'

'And I don't remember my Advocate being prey to such blind recklessness. Please,' he said. 'Now.'

Herine weighed him up. He saw the most delicate of nods.

‘I
will recall you all in the morning,' she said. 'My apologies for the ill-tutored interruption of my Exchequer.'

A relieved titter ran around the sponsors. Jhered bit down hard on his temper, holding Herine's gaze instead. The consort moved reluctantly from the playful embrace of the Advocate and stood up, petulant expression fixed on Jhered as he passed.

'The Advocate makes no decisions but for the benefit of the Conquord. It is right we celebrate our triumphs,' he said, voice wavering and lighter than his frame suggested. 'You should think abou—'

Jhered grabbed him under the lower jaw, pushing his mouth shut. He drove the consort backwards towards the door, speaking as he went.

'There will never come a time when I take advice from a half-man destined only to lose his balls should he surprise us all and prove fertile. I wonder if she has not made a mistake choosing you. It sounds as if yours have already been taken. Out!' He thrust the consort through the door to sprawl against the wall opposite. 'Out!'

He swung away and slammed the door, catching a poorly disguised smile on the face of a guard. The look of the consort was murderous. Let him try. He marched back towards the Advocate, expecting vitriol but seeing instead an amused expression. He knew this tactic of old and steeled himself to retain his mood.

'Oh Paul, you really shouldn't treat my new love like that. So delicate of mind.'

'He demonstrates no mind at all,' growled Jhered. 'And I will treat those morons with whom you surround yourself exactly as they deserve.'

'You'll make more enemies,' she said, a smile across her face, the wine glass by her mouth again. Jhered shrugged.
‘I
know, I know. Add them to the list, eh? Now, have you calmed down at all, or must I call in the guards?'

‘I
am not as much a danger to you as you are to yourself with this ridiculous decision. Celebratory games? What possessed you? Has that coven of empty-headed flab put something in your wine?'

'Paul, I would—'

'And as God-embraces-us-all, celebrating what?' Herine took a deep breath. 'Sit down, Paul.' 'No, I think I'll stand.'

'You will do as ordered by your Advocate, Exchequer Jhered.'

Jhered cleared his throat. 'Aren't we past such displays, you and I?'

'You can seriously pose that question after your grand entrance?'

Jhered paused, taking a deliberate deep breath. This was why he would never settle down with a woman. Something in them burned his fuse painfully short painfully quickly. He held up his hands and sat down.

'Wine?'

'No, thank you,' he said. 'Herine, I have not come here to argue with you or to have you pull rank on me. I just want to know what on God's great earth makes you think that celebratory games will do anything for your position or the position of the Conquord in the wider world.'

'During the deeps of dusas, while you were gone, we—' 'We?'

Herine gestured at the empty cushions. 'We. It was not just the chill of the weather but the chill of the people. Spirits are low. We have been fighting Tsard for five years and have not yet struck the decisive blow. It was decided that ten days of games as solastro dawns would lift sagging hearts and remind our citizens of the glory of the Estorean Conquord.' Jhered frowned. It was clear she believed it, or thought she did.

'Paul, the battle for the Conquord must be fought in our own streets first. What use is there if our own closest citizens do not love and respect us? They need something to cheer and they shall have it. These games will be a triumph.'

Jhered nodded, fighting in vain for the words to describe how he felt. He scratched the bridge of his nose and wiped at the corner of one eye with a dusty finger.

'I disagree. In time of major campaign, austerity must hit everyone to make them feel they are sharing in the effort. And how will the treasury pay for all this? Games are a dreadful expense. Your sponsors cannot hope to raise all the funds for the scale of events I assume you are suggesting.'

Herine laughed, a light sound as if he had asked the simplest of questions.

'Oh, Paul, the treasury is deep. We have the funds.'

'No, dammit, we do not!' he thundered, temper snapping at last. He crashed a fist down on to a salver, catapulting its remnants of fruit into the air, and surged to his feet. 'I and my Gatherers have just spent dusas dragging ourselves from one frozen province to the next to wring any small levy we could to fund the raising of more legions. And small was our return. Nothing could be taken from Atreska or Gosland, nothing from Tundarra, Easthale or Gestern. And you will not ask Vasselis for more though he would probably find it. The money is not there. You and I both know it.'

'Then find it for me, Paul,' Herine shouted back. 'You're my Exchequer. It's your job.'

Jhered paused. 'You don't really expect me to respond to that, do you? You know what I'm getting at.'

'You've become blinkered by the war, Paul. The treasury has budgets for every part of Conquord business. Others can spare funds for this.'

'With respect, my Advocate, you are missing the point.' He saw Herine bristle but ploughed on. 'If you can afford to divert money for the games, you can afford to divert it for the war in Tsard or the security of Atreska. It is that simple in the minds of every general, including your own son, and I am amazed that you cannot see it.

'Admit it. You are pandering to the whims of a dozen bored rich citizens who need something new to play with. And all the while, your legions fight and die in your name. Every coin you waste on these games could have gone to helping them win. This money could secure Atreska's and Gosland's borders.'

'I'm sure Marshal Yuran will see the value of the games once he is here.'

Jhered gaped. 'You are inviting him?' 'Every Marshal Defender is summoned.'

'Dear God, that is like showing the condemned the forging of the sword that beheads them. Are you trying to start a rebellion?' 'He will not rebel.'

'No? You have not seen the look in his eyes recently. The Atreskan civil war haunts him daily. He knows how thinly we are stretched on the Tsardon frontier. One reverse and their armies will march unopposed to Haroq City.'

'Paul I—'

'And when they get there, who will stop them marching all the way to Estorr?'

'Lord Jhered, you will be silent!' roared Herine. 'I do not care who you are, I will not be spoken to like this in the heart of my own palace.'

Jhered made to respond but the look in her eyes stalled him. He settled for folding his arms across his chest and giving a curt nod.

'Oh, thank you so much for your agreement,' said Herine. 'Now you listen to me. I will not have such wild talk in my palace or in my streets. You speak as if the Conquord is under threat. It is not. You speak as if we are on the verge of bankruptcy. We are not. I have sixteen legions and fourteen alae in Tsard and I am reinforcing them with more, as you well know. This is an army larger than any the Conquord has sent on campaign and one that every right-minded citizen knows will be victorious.