* * *
Captain Tazal, career soldier, of no famous family, newly installed, marched up to the Throne room of Unta, helmet under one arm, hand on the grip of his sword, and sweat slick on his brow. Guards opened the doors and entering he bowed just within the threshold. Raising his head he saw the throne empty, draped in a white satin cloth – of course, fool! He glanced about. Aside, rinsing his hands in a washbowl, he saw the current authority in the absence of the Empress, Mallick Rel, spokesperson of the Assembly.
Mallick turned from the bowl, dried his hands in a white cloth. ‘You have news, Captain, of this barbarian stain offending our lands?’
Our lands? But Tazal carefully held all emotion from his bearded face. ‘Fortress Jurda has capitulated. Insufficient garrison to withstand an assault.’
The Assemblyman held out the cloth and a servant took it. He clasped his hands across his wide stomach. He glanced down as if studying them. ‘I see. And whose decision was this to make?’
The captain sought to disguise a frown. What was this? Retribution? ‘The commander, the current Lord Jurda.’
‘Competent?’
‘In my view? Yes.’
‘Unfortunate …’
How so unfortunate? Unfortunate that the fortress has capitulated? Or unfortunate for the commander that he capitulated without permission? Or unfortunate for you that thousands of Wickan were now storming down upon you howling for your blood? Or, to give the Assemblyman some credit, unfortunate that a competent military commander viewed the situation so hopeless he capitulated? The captain wiped a sleeve across his brow, striving to keep his face flat. The man did appear admirably calm given the hole he'd dug for himself. Made of strong stuff, this fat conniver.
Still lowered, the Assemblyman's gaze slanted aside to the unoccupied throne. His pale round face appeared even more bloated. The Sword of the Empire has left for the west, Captain. What advice would you offer us?’
Us? From all accounts the captain had heard of this self-proclaimed Sword it was damned lucky the man was in the west and not with them. Then the captain realized the enormity of what had just been requested. Good Soliel! Here he was, a mere garrison commander just raised to captain, never dreaming of seeing the inside of the throneroom, being asked for advice from the most powerful man in the Empire? Well, at least his wife will be pleased. Yet what on Burn's Earth should he, or could he, say to the man? Perhaps, as his father used to say, if you're going to get drunk, might as well throw in the whole deck. He coughed into a fist to clear his throat. One war at a time, sir. Their timing is exquisite. We can't beat them. We must negotiate. Buy them off. Deal with them later.’
Sallow eyes still on the throne, the Assemblyman's thick lips pursed. His fingers, entwined across his stomach, stirred restlessly, reminding the captain of some sort of pale undersea creature. The urge to lash out is almost overwhelming,‘ the man muttered almost as if he'd forgotten the captain's presence. ‘Exterminating these vermin from the face of the world my most dear wish …’ Tazal wondered if he ought to hear any of this yet he dared not say anything, or even breathe. Mallick announced more loudly: Tactical frankness is like a smooth clean cut in battle, captain – much appreciated. I cannot dispute the straight thrust of your thinking. Ruthless cold pragmatism. Refreshing.’ He nodded to himself as if what he'd heard confirmed his own thoughts. ‘Yes. We will send an envoy to open negotiations.’
Tazal clashed a fist to his newly fitted cuirass. The envoy, Assemblyman?’
The fingers stopped weaving. ‘Why, yourself, of course. Promoted under my authority to the rank of Fist.’
After the captain exited the Throne room and the doors closed Mallick also left, but by a small side door, leaving behind the court functionaries, clerks and servants for a small private audience chamber. After a moment Oryan entered the room by another door. Mallick fixed the dark-skinned, tattooed man with a long hard stare. ‘Why, servant of mine, are you still here?’
The old man remained unperturbed, his long dark face impassive. The Wickans are not important enough.’
Tight-lipped, Mallick grated, ‘I gave you strict orders.’
‘Your problem in the past has been your nurturing of grudges and your predilection for vendetta.’ The slim old man, limbs no more than bone and writhing, faded blue tattoos, made a casting away gesture. ‘You must learn to abandon such urges if you wish to actually succeed.’
Mallick's eyes bulged his outrage, hissed splutterings escaped his lips bringing spittle with them. He brought his pudgy fisted hands to his face. ‘You would dare!’
Again, unperturbed, the Seven Cities shaman's eyes remained bland. ‘Which do you wish? Petty satisfaction or achievement of your ambitions? Choose!’
Mallick sucked in a great shuddering breath, forced his hands down. ‘Past failures would indicate flaws in my choices, yes. Though I dearly wish them utterly destroyed they are currently no dire threat, true. No fearsome Wickan curses winging my way. Yes, Oryan. At this time attention to them would be counter to productive, yes? Very well. Annoying distractions, they are, from the main stage. Like a loud man at the theatre. An irritation to be endured by us – the more cultured.’ Mallick crossed an arm over his chest then propped his other upon it and pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead. ‘And so further insult is to be endured from these unwashed illiterates, as my advisers suggest.’
An insouciant shrug. ‘As I say. They are of no importance.’
‘Very good. So, the west, then. And speaking of the west – any word from our beautiful murderess?’
‘None since she left with the fleet. I believe she secured a position as an officer's whore.’
‘Careful, Oryan. Your biases are showing. No doubt she has the man enslaved.’
‘As I said – a whore.’
‘Yes, well. You may have a point there.’
A discreet knock at one door. Mallick gestured Oryan out, crossed to it. ‘Yes?’
‘Matter of a property dispute, Assemblyman,’ a voice quavered through the door. Mallick pulled it open. ‘A what?’
A court clerk bowed extremely low. ‘As the authority present in the capital, sir. A property dispute has arisen out of the rebuilding efforts
Mallick stared at the man, his bulging eyes blinked. ‘And this is a matter you bring to me now?’
‘The parties involved are most insistent, and of the highest rank and most prestigious families …’
‘Then perhaps a city magistrate would no doubt be appropriate.’
The clerk bowed again. ‘Sadly, said magistrate's family has been proven to be distantly related to one of the claimants …’
Mallick clasped his hands at his stomach, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘Very well, court clerk. Here is my judgment upon the case that said self-important appellants are so keen to bring before me to the exclusion of all else I may have to attend to. Said plot of land or property is to be divided exactly in half and fifty per cent given to each party – even if said property constitutes a slave. Am I understood?’
The clerk bowed deeply again – perhaps to hide the tight grin that he fought to disguise. ‘Excellent, sir. I shall write up the papers immediately.’
‘That should winnow the line of petitioners, do you not think?’
‘Most drastically, sir.’