The Darkness that Comes Before (37 page)
Read The Darkness that Comes Before Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
Conphas looked up from his handwriting, dropped his quill in his inkhorn. “Already? They said tomorrow.”
“An old trick, my Lord. The Scarlet Spires is not above old tricks.”
The Scarlet Spires. Conphas nearly whistled at the thought. The mightiest School in the Three Seas, about to take up residency in the Holy War . . . Conphas had always possessed a connoisseur’s appreciation of life’s larger inconsistencies. Absurdities such as this were like delicacies to him.
The previous morning had revealed hundreds of foreign galleys and carracks moored in the mouth of the River Phayus. The Scarlet Spires, the households of the King-Regent and more than a dozen Palatine-Governors, as well as legions of low-caste infantry had been disembarking ever since. All High Ainon, it seemed, had come to join the Holy War.
The Emperor was jubilant. Since the departure of the Vulgar Holy War weeks earlier, more than ten thousand Thunyeri under Prince Skaiyelt, the son of the infamous King Rauschang, and at least four times as many Tydonni under Gothyelk, the bellicose Earl of Agansanor, had arrived. Unfortunately, both men had proven immune to his uncle’s charms—violently so. When presented with the Indenture, Prince Skaiyelt had ransacked the imperial court with those unnerving blue eyes of his, then wordlessly marched from the palace. Old Gothyelk had kicked over the lectern, and called his uncle either a “gelded heathen” or a “depraved faggot”—depending on which translator one asked. The arrogance of barbarians, particularly Norsirai barbarians, was unfathomable.
But his uncle expected better of the Ainoni. They were Ketyai, like the Nansur, and they were an old and mercantile people, like the Nansur. The Ainoni were civilized, despite their archaic devotion to their beards.
Conphas studied Skeaös. “You think they do this intentionally? To catch us off balance?” He waved his parchment to dry in the air, then handed it to his dispatch—orders for Martemus to resume the patrols south of Momemn.
“It’s what I would do,” Skeaös replied frankly. “If one hoards enough petty advantages . . .”
Conphas nodded. The Prime Counsel had paraphrased a famous passage from
The Commerce of Souls,
Ajencis’s classic philosophical treatise on politics. For a moment Conphas thought it strange that he and Skeaös should despise each other so. In the absence of his uncle, they shared a peculiar understanding, as though, like the competitive sons of an abusive father, they could from time to time set aside their rivalry and acknowledge their shared lot with simple talk.
The Commerce of Souls,
Ajencis’s classic philosophical treatise on politics. For a moment Conphas thought it strange that he and Skeaös should despise each other so. In the absence of his uncle, they shared a peculiar understanding, as though, like the competitive sons of an abusive father, they could from time to time set aside their rivalry and acknowledge their shared lot with simple talk.
He stood and looked down on the wizened man. “Lead on, old father.”
Caring nothing for the fine points of bureaucratic prestige, Conphas had installed himself and his command on the lowest level of the Andiamine Heights, overlooking the Forum and the Scuäri Campus. The hike to the Privy Chamber on the summit was a long one, and he idly wondered whether the old Counsel was up to it. Over the years more than one Imperial Apparati had died of “the clutch,” as the palace inhabitants called it. According to his grandmother, past emperors had actually used the climb to dispose of aging and quarrelsome functionaries, giving them messages allegedly too important to be trusted to slaves, then demanding their immediate return. The Andiamine Heights was no friend of soft hearts—literally or otherwise.
Prompted more by curiosity than malice, Conphas pressed the man to a brisk pace. He’d never seen anyone die of the clutch before. Remarkably, Skeaös did not complain, and aside from swinging his arms like an old monkey, he showed no signs of strain. With easy wind, he began briefing Conphas on the specifics of the treaty struck between the Scarlet Spires and the Thousand Temples—as far as they were known. When it seemed clear that Skeaös had not just the appearance but the stamina of an old monkey, Conphas grew bored.
After climbing several stairs, they passed through the Hapetine Gardens. As always, Conphas glanced at the spot where Ikurei Anphairas, his great-great-grandfather, had been assassinated more than a century before. The Andiamine Heights were filled with hundreds of such grottoes, places where long-dead potentates had committed or suffered this or that scandalous act. His uncle, Conphas knew, did his best to avoid such places—unless very drunk. For Xerius the palace fairly hummed with memory of dead emperors.
But for Conphas the Andiamine Heights was more a stage than a mausoleum. Even now hidden choirs filled the galleries with hymns. At times clouds of fragrant incense fogged the corridors and haloed the lanterns, so it seemed one climbed not to the summit of a hill but to the very gates of heaven. Had he been a visitor rather than a resident, Conphas knew, bare-chested slave girls would have served him heady wines laced with Nilnameshi narcotics. Pot-bellied eunuchs would have delivered gifts of scented oil and ceremonial weaponry. Everything would have been calculated to hoard petty advantages, as Skeaös might say, to distract, ingratiate, and overawe.
Still unwinded, Skeaös continued regurgitating an apparently endless train of facts and admonitions. Conphas listened with half an ear, waiting for the old fool to tell him something he didn’t already know. Then the Prime Counsel turned to the topic of Eleäzaras, the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires.
“Our agents in Carythusal say his formidable reputation scarcely does him justice. He was little more than a Subdidact when his teacher, Sasheoka, died of unknown causes some ten years ago. Within two years, he was Grandmaster of the greatest School in the Three Seas. That speaks of daunting intelligence and ability. You must—”
“And hunger,” Conphas interrupted. “No man achieves so much in so little time without hunger.”
“I suppose you would know.”
Conphas cackled. “Now that’s the Skeaös I know and love! Surly. Seething with illicit pride. You had me worried, old man.”
The Prime Counsel continued as though he’d said nothing. “You must exercise great caution when you speak to him. Initially, your uncle thought to exclude you from this meeting—that is, until Eleäzaras personally requested your presence.”
“My uncle what?” Even when bored, Conphas possessed a keen ear for slights.
“Excluded you. He feared the Grandmaster would exploit your inexperience in these matters—”
“Exclude?
Me?
” Conphas looked askance at the old man, for some reason reluctant to believe him. Was he playing some kind of game? Fanning the fires of resentment?
Me?
” Conphas looked askance at the old man, for some reason reluctant to believe him. Was he playing some kind of game? Fanning the fires of resentment?
Perhaps this was another one of his uncle’s tests . . .
“But as I said,” Skeaös continued, “that’s all changed—which is why I’m briefing you now.”
“I see,” Conphas replied sceptically. What was the old fool up to? “Tell me, Skeaös, what’s the point of this meeting?”
“Point? I fear I don’t understand, Lord Exalt-General.”
“The purpose. The intent. What does my uncle hope to secure from Eleäzaras and the Ainoni?”
Skeaös frowned, as though the answer were so obvious that the question simply had to be a prelude to mockery. “The point is to secure Ainoni support for the Indenture.”
“And if Eleäzaras proves as intractable as, say, the Earl of Agansanor, what then?”
“With all due respect, my Lord, I sincerely doubt—”
“
If,
Skeaös, what then?” Conphas had been a field officer since the age of fifteen. If he wanted, he could make men jump with his tone.
If,
Skeaös, what then?” Conphas had been a field officer since the age of fifteen. If he wanted, he could make men jump with his tone.
The old Counsel cleared his throat. Skeaös, Conphas knew, possessed administrative courage in excess, but he had no pluck whatsoever when it came to face-to-face confrontations.
No wonder his uncle loved him so.
“If Eleäzaras spurns the Indenture?” the old man repeated. “Then the Emperor denies him provisions, like the rest.”
“And if the Shriah demands my uncle supply them?”
“By then the Vulgar Holy War will have been destroyed—or so we . . . assume. Leadership, not provisions, will be Maithanet’s primary concern.”
“And who will that leader be?” Conphas had spat each question hard on the heels of each answer, as an interrogator might. The old man was beginning to look rattled.
“Y-you. The L-Lion of Kiyuth.”
“And what will be my price?”
“Th-the Ind-denture, the s-signed oath that all the old provinces will be returned.”
“So
I
am the linchpin of my uncle’s plans, am I not?”
I
am the linchpin of my uncle’s plans, am I not?”
“Y-yes, Lord Exalt-General.”
“So then tell me, dear old Skeaös, why would my uncle think to
exclude
me—
me!
—from his negotiations with the Scarlet Spires?”
exclude
me—
me!
—from his negotiations with the Scarlet Spires?”
The Prime Counsel’s pace slackened. He looked to the florid whorls stitched across the rugs at their feet. Rather than speak, he wrung his hands.
Conphas grinned wolfishly. “You
lied
just now, didn’t you, Skeaös? The question of whether I should attend his meeting with Eleäzaras never even arose, did it?”
lied
just now, didn’t you, Skeaös? The question of whether I should attend his meeting with Eleäzaras never even arose, did it?”
When the man failed to respond, Conphas seized him by the shoulders, glared at him. “Need I ask my uncle?”
Skeaös matched his eyes for moment, then glanced down. “No,” he said. “There’s no need.”
Conphas released his grip. With sweaty palms, he smoothed the front of the old man’s silk robes.
“What kind of game are you playing, Skeaös? Did you think that by wounding my vanity, you could provoke me to act against my uncle? Against my Emperor? Are you trying to incite me to sedition?”
The man looked positively panicked. “No. No! I’m an old fool, I know, but my days on this earth are numbered. I rejoice at the life the gods have given me. I rejoice at the sweet fruits I’ve eaten, for the great men I’ve known. I even—and I know you’ll find this difficult to believe—exult because I’ve lived long enough to witness
you
grow into your glory! But this plan of your uncle’s—to deliver a Holy War to its destruction! A
Holy War!
I fear for my soul, Ikurei Conphas. My soul!”
you
grow into your glory! But this plan of your uncle’s—to deliver a Holy War to its destruction! A
Holy War!
I fear for my soul, Ikurei Conphas. My soul!”
Conphas was dumbstruck, so much so he utterly forgot his anger. He’d assumed Skeaös’s insinuations to be yet another of his uncle’s probes and had responded accordingly. The possibility that the fool acted on his own had never occurred to him. For so many years Skeaös and his uncle had seemed different incarnations of the same will.
“By the gods, Skeaös . . . Has Maithanet ensnared you as well?”
The Prime Counsel shook his head. “No. I care nothing for Maithanet—or Shimeh, for that matter . . . You’re young. You wouldn’t understand my motives. The young can never see life for what it is: a knife’s edge, as thin as the breaths that measure it. What gives it depth isn’t memory. I’ve memories enough for ten men, and yet my days are as thin and as shadowy as the greased linen the poor stretch over their windows. No, what gives life depth is the
future
. Without a future, without a horizon of promise or threat, our lives have no meaning. Only the
future is real,
Conphas, and unless I make amends to the gods, I’ve no future left.”
future
. Without a future, without a horizon of promise or threat, our lives have no meaning. Only the
future is real,
Conphas, and unless I make amends to the gods, I’ve no future left.”
Conphas snorted. “But I understand all too well, Skeaös. You’ve spoken like a true Ikurei. How does the poet Girgalla put it? ‘All love begins with one’s own skin’—or
soul,
as the case may be. But then, I’ve always thought the two interchangeable.”
soul,
as the case may be. But then, I’ve always thought the two interchangeable.”
“Do you understand?
Can
you?”
Can
you?”
He
did
understand, and better than Skeaös realized. His grandmother. Skeaös conspired with his grandmother. He could even hear her voice: “You must bait both of them, Skeaös. Poison them against one another. Conphas’s infatuation with my son’s madness will wane soon enough. Just you wait and see. He’ll come running to us, and together we’ll force Xerius to abandon his mad plan!”
did
understand, and better than Skeaös realized. His grandmother. Skeaös conspired with his grandmother. He could even hear her voice: “You must bait both of them, Skeaös. Poison them against one another. Conphas’s infatuation with my son’s madness will wane soon enough. Just you wait and see. He’ll come running to us, and together we’ll force Xerius to abandon his mad plan!”
He wondered whether the old drab had taken Skeaös as a lover. Likely, he concluded, and winced at the accompanying image. Like a prune fucking a twig, he thought.
“You and my grandmother,” he said, “hope to save the Holy War from my uncle. A commendable undertaking, save that it verges on treachery. My grandmother I can understand—she has him bewitched—but you, Skeaös? You know, as few others do, what Ikurei Xerius III is capable of once his suspicions are roused. A bit reckless, don’t you think, trying to me pit me against him like this?”
“But he listens to you! And more important, he
needs
you!”
needs
you!”
“Perhaps he does . . . But either way, it’s immaterial. Your ancient stomachs may find his fare too undercooked, but my uncle has laid out a feast, Skeaös, and I for one do not intend to gainsay it.”
No matter how much he despised his uncle, Conphas had to admit that provisioning Calmemunis and the rabble that followed him was a move as brilliant as any he himself had made on the field of battle. The Vulgar Holy War would be annihilated by the heathen, and in a single stroke the Empire would cow this Shriah, perhaps compel him to demand that the remaining Men of the Tusk sign the Imperial Indenture and demonstrate to the Fanim that House Ikurei bargained in good faith. The Indenture would ensure the legality of any military action the Empire might take against the Men of the Tusk to retrieve her lost provinces, and the deal with the heathen would ensure that such military action would meet with little resistance—when the time came.
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