The parley took place in a large ruined theatre occupying one side of Pitch-Blende Square. The building featured an ornate and mostly untouched frontispiece that mixed granite and marble to accomplished if overly elaborate effect. The words Constellation Theatrical Emporium were carved in classical Eutherian on a large marble lintel above the doors. According to Makario it was Scorazin tradition for negotiations to be held here, partly because the interior space was large enough to accommodate each party along with their escorts, but also due to the rats. “The place is riven with them,” the musician explained. “It’s why no one’s ever claimed it.”
Lizanne soon realised he hadn’t been exaggerating. A large black rat sat on the front steps as she followed the Electress into the theatre, Anatol and Melina on either side with ten hand-picked Furies following. The rat continued to sit as they drew closer, regarding them with baleful disdain until Anatol stamped a massive boot at it. Even then it seemed to saunter away rather than scurry.
“Too much corpse meat in the diet,” the Electress commented to Lizanne as they ascended the steps. “Makes ’em less afraid of us than they should be. Probably time we had another grand hunt. Have to every few years or they get too large in number, and too bold.”
They proceeded through the doorless entrance into a foyer where a pair of once-opulent staircases ascended on either side, ready to convey an audience to upper floors that no longer existed. Beyond lay the auditorium with its long rows of seats, once plush with velvet and now grey with ancient mould. The stage and its massive curtain had subsided decades ago into a pile of decayed wood and fabric where a dozen or so rats moved about, apparently uncaring of the intruders. A thin drizzle fell from the occluded sky visible through the criss-crossed beams above, all that remained of the roof.
Lizanne saw that the Electress had timed her arrival well, as the other three delegations were already in attendance. Chuckling Sim and a retinue of Verdigris occupied a position parallel to centre stage. King Coal had placed himself off to the left and stood flanked by Julesin, his tall pale-faced lieutenant, with a dozen Scuttlers at his back. The leader of the Wise Fools stood to the right. Lizanne was surprised to find that Varkash had come alone, standing cross-armed with beads of rain shining on his thick muscled arms and the pyrite nose he wore.
“Fashionably late, my dear Electress,” Sim said, offering a fair imitation of a courtly bow. He wore a well-tailored suit of dark cotton, his greying hair slicked back by oil and his face rendered white by a fine dusting of powder. Lizanne knew that powdered skin and oiled hair were both affectations of the Corvantine nobility that had fallen into disuse over twenty years ago. Had the leader of the Verdigris found himself in noble company his appearance would have made him a laughing-stock. Here, however, he was anything but.
Electress Atalina came to a halt halfway down the auditorium’s aisle and replied with a polite nod of her head. “I’m sure you’ll excuse a lady for exercising a time-honoured prerogative, Jak.”
“Always, my dear.” Chuckling Sim straightened from his bow, maintaining a welcoming grin as he surveyed the Electress’s party, his gaze soon coming to rest on Lizanne. “And who is your delightful companion?”
“Krista,” the Electress replied. “She kills people a lot, so best not to develop too much of an interest.”
“Oh, at least let an old fool indulge a dream or two.” The leader of the Verdigris came closer, Lizanne sensing her companions’ sudden upturn in tension as he halted before her, bowing lower than he had for the Electress and extending his hand. “Jakisil Ven Estimont, at your service, my dear,” he said, slipping into Eutherian that was a little too coarse to be the product of a noble upbringing.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” Lizanne replied, placing her hand in his so he could press a brief kiss to it. She noticed a slight twitch in his composure as he released her, possibly due to the fact that her Eutherian was decidedly more refined than his.
“So accomplished a young lady,” he said, his smile becoming sad. “Consigned to a place such as this. The capricious nature of the world never ceases to amaze, don’t you find?”
“We are but leaves cast afar by the gales of life,” she replied. It was an old Corvantine adage from the pre–Imperial Era, one clearly beyond Chuckling Sim’s knowledge judging by the flush of annoyance he failed to keep from his gaze.
“Quite so,” he said, reasserting his smile as he turned and strode back to his retinue. “We are called to parley by Electress Atalina, recognised leader of the Furies,” he said, slipping back into Varsil and raising his voice to strident formality. “The rules of parley were in place long before any of us came through the gate, yet remain unbroken to this day, a tradition all present are expected to observe. Failure to do so will result in the other parties allying against them. Before proceeding we must agree on a moderator. As two of my brothers lie dead due to the agency of one party here present, I cannot claim impartiality in this matter.” He turned and bowed to the leader of the Wise Fools. “Therefore, I nominate you, Brother Varkash.”
“Seconded,” Electress Atalina stated promptly.
All eyes turned expectantly to the leader of the Scuttlers, who stood frowning in silence for several seconds before shrugging. “What the fuck do I care?”
“Eloquent as ever, my liege,” Chuckling Sim said, switching to Eutherian once again and casting a wink at Lizanne.
“And enough of that noble-pig talk,” King Coal growled, hands shoved into a leather overcoat, presumably to conceal bunching fists. Seeing him at such proximity for the first time, Lizanne noted how the flesh of his face seemed possessed of a continual quiver, betraying a constant inner rage that threatened to erupt at the smallest provocation.
“Eloquent or not, he makes a fair point, Brudder Sim,” Varkash said. He spoke in a low yet commanding voice that would have been much more impressive but for the nasal squeak that accompanied every hard consonant. Lizanne found it noteworthy that no one present felt inclined to utter the slightest sign of amusement as the Varestian spoke on. “Every word spoken must be clearly understood by all parties. Rules of parley.”
“Of course, brother. I crave forgiveness.” Chuckling Sim offered a florid bow to all present before moving to stand with his retinue.
“First order of business,” Varkash said, striding to occupy the centre ground and turning to the Fury delegation. “Electress Atalina. You called dis parley. State your grievance.”