The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (3 page)

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“Anything?” Rullio asked, arching his brows.

“Anything,” Ehandar repeated.

“OK, let’s suppose he wants you to do homage, in public, before the Amirathan Provincial Council for instance. It would be humiliating in the extreme.”

“Yet, if that is what he wants, I will do it.”

“Yes, I can see that it might be necessary in certain circumstances,”

Gorth drawled. “Still…”

“Necessity has nothing to do with it. It would be enough that he wants it.”

“Oh, come on, Ehandar,” Rullio said, ”you can’t be serious. Do you really mean he can ask—”

“No,” Ehandar interrupted him.

“Ah, That’s what I thought. You almost had me worried there.”

Gorth smiled.

A moment later neither Gorth, nor Rullio smiled anymore.

”No, you misunderstand. He doesn’t have to ask me. He can just order me, no matter what, and I will obey.”

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The senator stood at the far end of the luxurious garden of his villa.

It was almost October, but the weather was still very clement. He lived on the plateau of the highest hill, like most of the Rhonoman nobility.

His house stood at the very edge. He liked the view. Wild shrubbery grew up to the border and sprawled over the steep decline. Beneath him he could see part of the city and the lush plains.

The racket of the city was only a faint buzz this high up. The smell of so many sweating bodies and the stink of refuse was chased away by a mild, fresh breeze. It was a dangerous feeling, he reflected. This was the view of the Gods. A simple mortal could all too easily feel far, dangerously far, elevated above the masses.

He was expecting visitors. He had invited some trusted colleagues for a light dinner and an exchange of thoughts. It was how policies were decided. Not in the formal sessions of the Senate, but in the corridors of power. During informal gatherings, like this one, where views were aligned and common interests identified. The Senate was the place where they were voiced, not formed.

There was much to discuss.

For all that Rhonoma looked down upon Lorsanthia as effeminate and over-cultured, in reality it remained a formidable force. One that could overrun the divided city states one by one in a single season of warfare if it wanted to. That it hadn’t done so was thanks to the fierce resistance of the last royals of Trachia. The grandfather of the current king had conquered most of the territory of his neighbor Trachia and transformed it into a province, fully expecting that the dynasty of Ynnocas would bow to the inevitable and let itself be reduced to mere governors of their former kingdom. It had worked many times enough before. The vanquished leading family retained its lands and possessions, but as a gift of His Divinity, the king of Lorsanthia.

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In the past, most of the defeated rulers had complied, not always

willingly. Everything remained the same for them. Well, there was of course one humiliating trip to Tyleme, the capital of Lorsanthia, and the even more humiliating act of subjugation the former independent king had to perform. He had to approach the throne barefoot, in a loincloth, a noose around his neck, and prostrate himself before His Divinity and implore his mercy, before the full court. It was always given. The supplicant then received rich clothes and was invited to a banquet. He returned home minus his dignity, a slave of his master, just like all subjects, from the lowest to the highest, and stripped of his independence. He consoled himself with the thought that he was just one out of dozens who had undergone this ordeal, and that life as a satrap of His Divinity would not differ all that much from his former one as a sovereign king.

The king of Trachia, however, didn’t see it that way. Together with his two sons, he managed to hold on to part of his kingdom, fighting one desperate battle after another, gradually losing ground and being driven more and more to his borders. His field of operation shrunk week after week. After his youngest son of not yet fifteen had fallen in-to Lorsanthian hands after a pitched battle and was hanged, all fight seemed to have gone out of him. His oldest son, aided by two hardened generals took over. Eventually the king himself was killed in a skirmish, and the forces that stayed loyal to the dynasty of Ynnocas dwindled to a mere thousand or so.

The Lorsanthian government simply annexed Trachia, gave it a military governor and declared the last scion of the House of Ynnocas a rebel, a robber headman and a dangerous delinquent. A price, a lavish price, was put on his head and in addition titles were promised to whomever laid hands upon him, or could give information that would lead to his capture. The prince on the other hand, was promised an ig— nominious, public hanging as a common criminal. When he had only two hundred soldiers left, and seeing himself in danger of being 2
surrounded and captured, the last descendant of the House of Ynnocas

decided to make a dash for the frontier, into the territory of the independent city states. Nothing had been heard of him ever since.

A house slave came over to announce the arrival of his two guests.

“Bryma, Meri,” he greeted them with an affable smile.

“Tembar,” Dronno Bryma Verohang said, equally pleasant.

Senator Quastell Meri Noridann only nodded, looking in the direction of the luxurious dining room with its view of the gardens.

“Come, my friends, follow me,” Nectall Tembar Brannicall invited his friends.

Once seated, a house slave brought pitchers with wine and water, preserved fruits in honey, roasted nuts and spicy meatballs. Senator Meri looked disapprovingly at the silverware the appetizers were served on.

“I know, Meri,” Tembar said, ”the forebears would disapprove.”

“They surely would. What’s wrong with glazed earthenware?” Meri answered, wagging a long, bony finger.

“Nothing, but these have been in my kinship for more than a hundred years. You know that, Meri. Ever since my great-great-great-grandfather led the siege of Tanava and brought it into our Influence.

They’re spoils of war. My forebears would disapprove if I would dishonor them by not using those plates.”

“Very laudable sentiments, I’m sure, Tembar,” Meri replied grudgingly. “All the same, the old Rhonoman values of simplicity, tem— perance and fortitude are being more and more neglected.”

For all his protests, he drank deeply from his cup of barely diluted, expensive wine and put a meatball into his mouth. Pearls of sweat 2
appeared on his bald scalp, which he wiped away with a hand that

looked remarkably like a chicken claw.

“Meri, shut up,” Senator Bryma said good-naturedly. “We have other things to discuss. The war between Lorsanthia and Ximerion, for instance.”

“You both have heard the news, of course,” Tembar said matter-of-factly. “Frankly, I’m worried.”

“As am I, as am I,” Meri concurred. ”Do we know where the son of the barbarian king stands in all this?”

“Half barbarian, at most,” Bryma said. ”And don’t forget the royal family actually hails from these parts.”

“So the legend goes, anyway,” Tembar added. ”I wonder if the dynasty of Tanahkos is really descended from the Danachaos kinship?”

“Could be,” Meri said, ”though probably from a junior branch. Let’s suppose for a moment that the legends are true. That would mean the youngest son of the king would have old Aranquorian blood in his veins from his father’s side and Nyamethan from his mother’s, since she is a Mekthona princess.”

“It doesn’t matter much what his descent actually is, does it?” Tembar replied. “What’s important is how he will react when he hears the news. They say he is shrewd and headstrong. We know he is not afraid of a fight.”

“Humph. You mean that skirmish at the Zinchara River?”

“Skirmish?”
Tembar thought.
“We reverently recall every year the
mighty struggle at Firmosilla, where the foundation of our Influence
is reputed to have been laid. With five thousand men we defeated seven thousand Aranquorian allied troops. If you call the battle of the
Zinchara a skirmish, that was just a mere brawl.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t underestimate him just yet,” Bryma smiled.

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He held a shiny gold coin between two thick fingers. Meri arched

his brows.

“A new rioghal. So?”

Bryma handed him the coin.

“See that bust on the obverse? And what it says?”

Meri squinted his eyes.

“Anaxantis Orloranga,” he read. “Anaxantis, Warlord.”

“The other side?”

“Venre Dal Terundar. I Shield My Influence.”

“Yes. I will stand between you and what is mine. Look also at the emblem on the reverse.”

“A dragon. And what is that behind it?”

“The crossed swords of Ximerion. Mark how the dragon stands before them, almost obscuring them.”

“Aren’t you reading too much into a small coin?” Meri asked.

“I don’t think so. We ourselves use our money as a means of propaganda. Why else would we melt all foreign coins we can lay our hands on and replace them with our own? Why else would we picture a sheaf of corn and a plow on them, with the motto ‘Rhonoma, Peace, Prosperity’ engraved around them? And a sword-carrying lion rampant on the other side. Just to remind our friends and allies where their best interest lie.” Bryma gave his colleagues a dry smile.

“Gentlemen, let’s return to the matter at hand, interesting though this numismatic discussion may be,” Tembar said. “What does it mean in case the rumors prove to be true?”

“Obviously, whichever way the conflict between Lorsanthia and Ximerion ends, it doesn’t bode well for us,” Bryma said. “We have our

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friends and allies of our Influence, and we could easily forge new alliances, even with most of the Nyamethan leagues. We could claim the leadership of the united forces. But will it be enough?”

“I doubt it,” Meri stated evenly. “That’s why I asked if we knew where this… this orloranga stands.”

“Let’s not dally about,” Senator Bryma said, putting a cooked chestnut in his mouth with a little silver two pronged fork. “Maybe it’s time we sent an embassy. Mind you, only with the aim to get to know each other. Without powers to conclude pacts or treaties.”

“It could be interpreted as weakness,” Meri said, rubbing his chin.

“Too soon. Besides, the barbarian prince should send an embassy to us. Propriety has to be maintained, after all.”

“I think I have the perfect compromise,” Tembar said. “What if we were to send a trade mission? Oh, not an official one, mind you. No dignitaries. Just a delegation of the trade unions, looking for new markets.”

“Yes, yes, that might work,” Meri said slowly. “A trade mission.

Nothing to do with us. You know someone, Tembar, who we could entrust with such a delicate task?”

“I think I have just the man we need.”

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“And where do you think you’re going like that?” Ehandar asked.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Anaxantis had almost made good his escape, but stopped in his tracks, just as he was opening the door to their apartments.

He frowned.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, his face lightening up.

He ran over to Ehandar, dropping one of the maps he had clamped under his arm, gave him a flighty kiss and turned around again.

“That’s very nice, thank you,” he heard behind him, “but it’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Oh, Ehandar, don’t fuss—” Anaxantis started.

“You’re not going out like that. It’s October and we are near the sea here, if you hadn’t noticed. Cold winds. You’re wearing a mantle.”

“Oh, love, no—”

“Yes. And a scarf. I know you. You’ll go riding, just like that, to the training grounds and arrive all sweaty, and this evening you’ll return sniveling and snottering.”

He went over to the wardrobe and returned with both garments.

Anaxantis let him drape the mantle over his shoulders and fasten it, and then lifted his chin to let his brother put the scarf on.

“Will you be joining us at the training grounds?” he asked.

“Tyrant,” he added under his breath.

“I heard that. And yes, but first I’m going for a ride with Gorth and Rullio.”

“Have fun. See you,” Anaxantis said, running out of the door with a smug smile.

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It was a fine day. The sun was shining, but without giving off much

warmth.

“You’re keeping poor Tomar quite busy, I hear,” Hemarchidas said.

“Well, it’s his own fault, isn’t it? I have to fight him all the way to get anything done.”

“To get your way, you mean,” the Cheridonian smiled.

Anaxantis grinned.

They were sitting in the tent on the training grounds in the wood.

The broad flaps were still raised, although the days were getting chillier.

“Yesterday I had to talk for almost an hour before he would accept that the army should pay double the Dermolhean price for grain in the Plains.”

“Whatever would you do that for?” Hemarchidas asked.

“That’s exactly what he said. I want to stimulate migration to the Plains, you see, and what better way than making sure people know there’s a good living to be made there.”

“While draining the army treasury?”