Markan Throne Page 8

  "Ale, sir?" The sylph looked at him, earpoints slanted forward.

  "Please."

  The sylph blinked at the pleasantry. She busied herself pouring the ale.

  "Half a parta, sir."

  Stanak passed over a full parta and waved away the offer of change. He looked for and found the innkeeper.

  "I'm looking for a man named Marlen," he said.

  All conversation ceased. The innkeeper looked terrified. "Know nobody by that name, good sir," he managed.

  "Who's asking?" The man with pale blue eyes joined them.

  Stanak drank half his tankard. "Word on the street is you're looking for swords," he said. "I'm available."

  "Word on the street is wrong." Marlen looked him up and down. "Try the City Guard."

  Stanak snorted. "Some of us are known to the Guard for the wrong reasons."

  A smile ghosted across Marlen's features. "Why you looking for work?"

  "Two wives and eight children murdered by raiders." Stanak's voice caught in his throat. The memory fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

  "My commiseration, but I have no work."

  Stanak nodded, drained his mug and walked out. This time, he ignored the sylph beggar across the road.

  ***

  "You're sure it's Marlen?"

  Stanak nodded. "I asked for him by name. Used the murders as cover."

  "You asked for him by name? I trust you didn't leave yours."

  "I may do foolish things, but I am not stupid."

  Sandev sighed. "Marlen. A promising student. The Gift flowed strongly in him. I never found out why he threw it all away. The Malefic Sephiroth always makes its proposal seem so much better; their way looks easy and appealing. The Father selects those humans He blesses with the Gift, but anyone can learn sorcery. They never learn its true cost until too late."

  Stanak decided to keep to the subject in hand. "It doesn't matter what may or may not have been," he said, gently. "All that matters is what we decide to do about him."

  "He is a powerful sorcerer."

  The bodyguard nodded. "Working for Hingast."

  Sandev shook her head. "Not Hingast, though he would prefer you to believe that. Marlen works for Dervra."

  "Dervra?"

  "Another of the Ten. Well, once. He went over to the Malefic Sephiroth and made a pact with Andromech. They want to subvert the Ilvenworld for their own ends. Marlen is dangerous, but only a child compared with Dervra."

  "But these are Hingast's men," protested Stanak. "They're working to make his claim possible."

  "Hingast and Dervra are probably working together, though perhaps Hingast does not yet know he's the junior partner."

  "There are plenty of reasons for them to be here," pointed out Stanak. "Gain intelligence for more raids, cause trouble in the city, or even assassinate the Vintners."

  "Let's see what the sylphs discover," said Sandev.

  Stanak did not share his employer's faith in sylphs. "If anything," he grunted.

  ***

  Eyes shut, Sandev sat at her desk. She had no need for the books lining the walls of her study tonight. She ignored the gurgle of the clepsydra as her hand hovered over the contents of the desk drawer. Evidence of Dervra's involvement mounted daily. Which in turn meant Nicolfer was not far away. They always worked together.

  One of the Ten she could handle, but not two. Not when they had the Gift and sorcery to draw on. Only one way she could even the odds, only one member of the Ten who would help.

  Grayar.

  She prevaricated.

  If she put her mind to it, could she force herself against Dervra and Nicolfer?

  Grayar had helped found Marka, but had spent the last six hundred years nurturing a still-expanding land named Skorin. That it lay thousands of milas across the ocean to the east was no problem for the Gifted. With what others saw as magick to carry her there, they could meet tonight.

  She had always liked Grayar, even before they became members of the Ten. She hoped they remained firm friends, despite their differences of opinion. Grayar would never approve of the school she had founded within Marka, with the aim of progressing the human race. He claimed progress always caused more trouble than it was worth, but Sandev believed in its inevitability. Far better to channel and control it than let it run unchecked. None of that caused her prevarication.

  When they had become the Ten, Grayar was the oldest and Sandev the youngest. That had always remained, though after the passing of so much time any age difference had paled to insignificance. Sandev did not want him to think she feared dealing with another member of the Ten without holding his hand.

  She reached a decision. She would wait a little longer and see what happened. She could always reach Grayar if things worsened. She opened her eyes, stared at the small stones packed into the drawer and slammed it shut.

  ***

  Olista stared at the worn Throne of the first Mark. At last, it stood where it belonged on the plinth in Coronation Hall. It shone golden in the low light, glistening with fresh varnish. The Supreme Councilor was alone in the chamber, at his ease in one of the seats used by the Supreme Council. The old padded seat was gone for the moment, a replacement due tomorrow. The Throne had a stumpy appearance, because the upper back had been removed, the missing part boasting the heraldic arms of the first Emperor, a golden eagle clutching a sword. That would be repainted with the arms of whichever Vintner took the Throne and only then replaced.

  The flags were not out yet, but Olista knew two would flank the Throne. The Royal Flag, with Mark's gold eagle and sword on a black field to one side; the People's Flag, gold over green over gold, on the other. A permanent reminder of the Emperor's obligations to State and People.

  Olista knew the Vintners were unrelated to the dynasty of the First Empire, but everybody else believed they were. Even so, he needed all his political skill to persuade the Senate to choose the right man. Marcus Vintner. The problem of his father still being alive would be solved easily, but the problem of his cousin, Branad Vintner, was not so simple to overcome. Both men were descended from Emperor Evlander: Branad Vintner from Evlander's son and Marcus Vintner from his grandson.

  On the face of it, Marcus boasted the stronger claim, but Rono III had ruled for only days before disappearing, presumed murdered. His younger brother, from whom Marcus was descended, had never been declared Emperor.

  Sandev had filled in the gaps. Evlander's second son, uncle to Rono III, had become Preceptor of Marka and the family held this title until expelled from the city sixty years later. Many believed this man's descendant – Branad Vintner – should therefore take the Throne. But, during all his canvassing, Olista had never passed on what Sandev had revealed about the last Emperor, Rono III himself.

  Still only sixteen, Rono had fled in the chaos of the collapsing empire. He wandered for years before marrying a peasant girl, who gave him three daughters before a fourth birth killed mother and child. Slave raiders attacked the village where Rono lived, killing the former Emperor and taking his daughters. Two died but the toughest survived to marry her former owner. Hingast was her direct descendant and – in theory – had the strongest claim to the Throne.

  Olista sighed. Any thought of having that monster as Emperor made his blood run cold. He looked again at the Throne, sniffed and turned to leave.

  A dream had been fulfilled: the Empire was reborn.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  Zenepha's Day Off

  Zenepha had long ago decided that the way some owners treated their sylphs set them apart from the majority. Olista allowed his slaves a day off each week. Free days were spread out, so some were always available for work. Most spent their free day taking a lie-in, or mending clothes, or chatting. Zenepha preferred to spend part of his free day walking around the city.

  He accepted he would never be allowed out of the city gates without a permit from his master and smiled as he remembered his early attempts. Fortunately, Olista had n
ever insisted on punishment for sylphs over any small infringement of rules and Zenepha took the hint long before matters got that bad. Even now he doubted he would return if he got outside and discovered a way to reach the Key. Nowadays, he contented himself wandering the streets, learning all he could of Marka's ways and people. Olista insisted he do this, though Zenepha wondered why a slave needed to learn anything more than how his owner wanted things done.

  Selkina never understood either, and she had long ago stopped coming into the city with him, spending her free day with her mother. Initially disappointed that his wife preferred to be elsewhere, Zenepha quickly learned to enjoy his solitude. Even surrounded by people and sylphs, he could be gloriously alone.

  Unless anyone recognized him. Two City Guardsmen walked around the corner and eyed the sylph with neutral expressions.

  "Run away again, Zenepha-y-Olista?" asked one, while the other checked his collar. It was all show; Zenepha had friendly terms with most guardsmen, who knew him and his owner well.

  The sylph could not hide a smile and his earpoints twitched. "So long as I am back for the evening meal, I may run free."

  The guardsmen chuckled while one affectionately ruffled his long silvery gray hair. "We won't keep you from your freedom any longer. Keep your earpoints up and your eyes open; today might be interesting." The guard who had spoken winked conspiratorially.

  The streets heaved with humans and sylphs dashed everywhere. Knots of freemen and freewomen gathered to speak in low voices. Where he could, he eavesdropped.

  "Hundreds of rumors fly around the city."

  "They should be here sometime today."

  "Perhaps tomorrow."

  "Eylan was certain. Today."

  The group became aware of his presence and gave him glances that hinted he should take his long ears elsewhere. Caught, Zenepha happily obliged.

  The broad boulevard along which most of Marka's traffic traveled had trees along the center. Some long forgotten Senator had paid for benches under the foliage, so citizens could rest and watch the world pass by. Zenepha used to worry that slaves were forbidden to sit here, but nobody ever bothered him, so he made use of the benches.

  He always perched at the very end of a bench, so freemen could sit if they wished. He picked his way to his favorite, which was unoccupied, and made himself comfortable.

  Carts rumbled past continuously, some leaving and others entering Marka. Completely dependent on surrounding farms for food, all the city's trade moved by cart and caravan. Some carts had armed guards, others no guards at all. Dusty sylphs traveled with some caravans, staring open-mouthed at the city. Not all the gawpers were sylphs of course. A goodly number of humans were also seeing the city for the first time. Whether coming or going, all the carts were full. They carried news – and rumors.

  Zenepha tried to ignore the rumbling carts and stared across the street.

  Opposite stood a row of shops owned by the same family: bakery, goldsmith, clothier, carpenter and a tavern. Zenepha liked to watch the goldsmith, who owned several sylphs. Their deft fingers were better adapted to using the small tools that jewelry sometimes demanded. He admired their skill.

  The obligatory sylph beggar waited outside, in this case a small infertile he used to assume was still growing, until passing years showed that this sylph had no more growing to do.

  Zenepha felt sorry for beggars. They left him alone of course: pointless to beg from slaves, who had no money, or just enough for their errands. Most beggars were sylphs. Few humans lasted long on the streets, the girls and even some of the boys falling into prostitution or foul of the law. Most sylph beggars had fled from now abandoned farms raided by bandits, or dumped by owners who could no longer afford to keep them.

  Groups of itinerant performers – known as taynors – were not regarded as beggars by the authorities, but they tended to remain within the city walls, not daring to wander for fear of attacks. Any who left usually traveled in company with caravans lucky enough to have guards.

  The true beggars had Zenepha's wholehearted sympathy. They were collared, to remind them of their slave status, but also so the authorities could track them. Nobody stopped them from entering the city, but they were no freer to leave again than Zenepha. Only the taynors could leave if they wished. He glanced again at the infertile outside the tavern.

  She would know that the alehouse was called the Vintner Shield, but unlike Zenepha, she could not read the letters. He watched her catch bread thrown her way, snatching it out of the air and stuffing half into her mouth and smacking her lips in satisfaction. She ate the other half more slowly.

  She looked around, saw Zenepha, gave him a cheerful wave and smiled. Picking her moment, she darted across the boulevard, earpoints twitching in pleasure.

  "Hello, Nata." Zenepha smiled at her.

  "Morning, Zenepha-ya," replied the beggar. She looked at him expectantly.

  He ignored that she wore very little beneath the blanket wrapped around her small frame. He was pleased that the thin wind had dropped, replaced by bright sunshine that heralded the start of the dry season.

  "Anything exciting happening?" he asked her.

  Nata nodded. "A fight outside the tavern early last night. Many coins were dropped. Tonight, I will get new clothes."

  "That will be nice." Zenepha knew – and disapproved – of the "system". Humans, usually gangs of adolescent boys, divided the sylphs between them and, in exchange for "care", all coins the beggars managed to accumulate during the day went straight into their so-called protectors' pockets. And if a beggar failed to bring in enough, trouble followed. He suspected that Nata's "new" clothing would be little more than rags cast off by someone else.

  "You don't need to hand everything over to them. You would be much better off if you begged alone."

  Nata scowled. "You have an owner," she countered. "You cannot understand, but I prefer the security they offer to freedom."

  Zenepha found it incredible how sylphs refused to pull free from their human controllers; even fertile sylphs fell into the arrangement. Perhaps fall was the wrong word: sylphs actively sought it out, the racket endemic throughout Marka. Zenepha believed that the Supreme Council ultimately controlled the gangs in some way, but he had no evidence to back up that belief.

  "Nata, it is exploitation." Time to change the subject, judging from the look on her face. "Any news or rumors?"

  "The Senate has recognized the Throne," she replied. "And they will put a Vintner on it."

  Zenepha smiled. "News travels fast on the street," he remarked. "They do not know who will sit on the Throne."

  "The carters say there is an army in the hills. Maybe two or three armies."

  "It is true an army is close to the city."

  "They will bring the Emperor here. It will be good to have one again." Nata's expression firmed. "Everything will be put right when he takes over. There will be no more beggars, because people will farm again and need sylphs to work for them." Her eyes gleamed as she spoke and her earpoints twitched upright for the first time.

  "That is what should happen." Zenepha found her hope touching.

  Born into one of the poorer sylph owning families, Nata had never worked on a farm. She remained unsold and, with many other young sylph mouths to feed, her owners eventually showed her the door. Every sylph craved human ownership, infertiles such as Nata even more so than breeders. No doubt she felt the shame of her expulsion, instead of blaming those who had kicked her out. Had shame helped her decide that negative attention offered a better alternative than no attention at all?

  "You had better get back over the road, Nata," continued Zenepha. "You will miss the best opportunities. Oh, almost forgot." He passed over the dark bread he always brought for her. "There is more fruit in it this time."

  "Mutydo, Zenepha-ya."

  Nata grinned and almost snatched the bread from his fingers, a hint she was still hungry. She took two bites and tucked the rest away. She touched Belaika's knee in grat
itude and scampered back across the boulevard, forcing the surprised driver of a carriage to slow down. He swore at her, but she did not respond.

  Zenepha spent a little time watching the sylphs inside the goldsmith, but soon moved on, giving Nata a small wave as he walked away.

  Returning to the crowds, he watched sylphs on their errands. Zenepha also watched humans about their daily business, but he liked to observe his fellow sylphs more. They darted everywhere, rushing to complete their tasks as quickly as possible. The same urgency permeated Olista's household; the quicker chores were finished, the sooner a sylph returned to whatever she or he wanted to do. He unashamedly watched everybody around him.

  Some were quite well dressed – a few even better dressed than him – but most were not. Many were almost as ragged, if considerably cleaner, than the beggars. Quite in keeping with the times; with many more poor humans, their poverty would affect their slaves too. Despite sylphs' well-refined sense of shame, he noted many ragged slaves were often cheerful and, if not exactly sleek, certainly fed. On the other hand, he saw as many miserable smartly-dressed sylphs as miserable ones in rags. Having a wealthy owner made no difference to sylphs: a slave was a slave and better a decent poor owner than an evil rich one. Some owners – rich or poor – were not always kind to their sylphs.

  Zenepha's owner was not only decent and wealthy, but also the most powerful man in Marka.

  Which, if Olista had his way, would soon change.

  He regretted not paying so much attention to the bustling humans the moment his eyes focused again. He put his head down and tried to hurry past without being noticed. Being a sylph, this was usually easy.

  The man Zenepha tried to avoid had his back to him and leaned forward to inspect something in the shop window. The sylph had instantly recognized Sandev's bodyguard. Either Stanak had a day off – which the sylph doubted – or Sandev herself was somewhere near.

  He worried about the attention she lavished on him. Her obvious great age awed and her power terrified him. He had no wish to meet her on his free day. He preferred avoidance, assuring himself that only the Gift frightened him, not Sandev herself. She served the good side, and the Father. He almost managed to convince himself. He failed to slip past unnoticed.

  "Good morning, Zenepha."

  The sylph's spirits dropped. Stanak's gaze was on him. The human must have seen his reflection, or turned at exactly the right moment. Or else he had been seen before he spotted the bodyguard. "Good morning, Stanak-ya," he replied. "Is Sandev-ya with you?"