Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1 (44 page)

For once even the languid Parthan seemed agitated. He leaned forward and whispered a warning into the ear of his mistress. Bas added one of his own, ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, Domina.’

‘Nonsense,’ Eudokia said, as her Parthan, obedient against himself, lifted her neatly off her feat, placed her gracefully on to the bridge beneath them. ‘What have I to fear from the people of Aeleria?’ And indeed the crowd, which had been close to maddened a moment before by the heat of the day and the drink they had taken to withstand it, by the packed dust, by the thrill of the coming war that the announcement of the peace embassy had done nothing to curb, by that instinct for chaos that inevitably arises when men gather in large enough numbers to make individual punishment impossible, grew still. The hoplitai, stunned as much by the crowd’s turn as they were by Eudokia’s unexpected descent, pulled aside to allow her passage. Before moving forward, Eudokia turned back to offer one final word. ‘A conduit of their will, nothing more.’

On the Marches it had been possible for Bas to suppose himself the agent of some impersonal force, no more responsible for his actions than a bolt of lightning or a falling clump of hail. A foolish conceit, one impossible to practise any longer. It had been Bas’s sword, his army, his skill that had brought the surrounding nations into the Aelerian fold, or beneath the Aelerian boot. But he had not directed it, had not chosen where to point it. It was clear to whom that distinction must be given, for better or for worse.

Eudokia Aurelia, the Revered Mother, walked slowly into the swarming mass of her followers, into the deluge of meat and sweat and fervour, her head perfectly level, a smile benevolent and imperturbable, soothing them with her voice and very presence – and even Bas could not help but marvel at her bravery.

T
he Aubade had taken particularly exquisite care with his wardrobe this morning, managed, after spending twice as long with his tailor as usual, to assemble a costume that rivalled the sun for grandeur and the stars for subtlety. That was the first sign Calla had that something was very wrong. The second was that they had left for the Conclave earlier than was required, mid-morning, halfway between the hours of the Starling and the Eagle; and upon arrival had remained on the steps of the edifice itself. Not for very long, though, because after a few moments the Prime showed up, early as well, and the Aubade approached her at a rapid clip. ‘I would speak with you,’ he said simply.

The Prime nodded, as if she had expected just such an occurrence. She and the Aubade walked off a distance, till they were out of earshot of anyone but their human servants. She wore a tight-fitting mantle of pale cerulean that blossomed out at the hips. Her hair was dyed sterling and pinned up like a wasp’s nest, showcasing the gem set above her forehead. ‘And what is it that my sibling wishes to discuss with me?’

‘I will make a request of the Conclave, this morning. I would ask that you support it.’

‘I can hardly promise assistance in an endeavour of which I remain ignorant.’

‘You know what I plan to ask – or at least you can guess.’

‘And you can guess my response. We are paying proper attention to the situation between the Aelerians and Salucia. To move forward at this juncture would be extreme.’

‘You remain blind to the rising tide.’

‘Is that one of the witticisms that you learned in your time among the humans? We long ago tamed the waters, or had you forgotten?’

‘The water claims everything if you wait long enough.’

The Prime didn’t say anything for a time, nor did the Aubade, though Calla somehow felt that both wished the other might break their silence.

Finally, the Prime said simply, ‘You’ve had my answer.’

‘I have,’ he replied, and allowed her to enter the Conclave ahead of him. Afterwards Calla followed the Aubade to his usual spot directly in front of where the Prime sat on her chair of sterling, the silent eruptions of the Source framing her. It was still a few minutes before the hour of the Eagle, and Calla waited while Those Above and their human servants trickled in desultorily, in the same languid manner in which they attended every meeting – those that chose to attend at least.

The hour of the Eagle chimed from the great clocks set across the city, and the Prime called the meeting to order, a brief and formal invocation asking the attendees to display the wisdom of the Founders. By custom it was her right to set the agenda, but she hesitated in doing so, allowed the Aubade his opportunity.

He was not slow in taking it. ‘I ask forgiveness of my siblings for interrupting our usual protocol,’ he said. ‘But at this moment of crisis I believe my haste appropriate.’ Everything that the Aubade did was an exhibition in decorum, in grace and quiet dignity, and the fashion in which he stood and addressed the audience was no exception. ‘Our reports from the Sentinel of the Southern Reach are clear and unequivocal – the Aelerians prepare for war. They will find some pretext on which to launch themselves at Salucia, and by the autumn their forces will have marched north to subdue their enemies.’

‘Has the Lord of the Red Keep added prescience to his list of abilities?’ the Glutton asked.

‘No, brother, though I have a talent for logic that some others in this Conclave seem unwilling to display.’

‘Should everything my sibling predict come to pass,’ the Prime said, even at this last moment pushing for reconciliation, ‘there will be time to move against Aeleria, as we have in ages past.’

‘I am afraid, Prime, that you too fail to appreciate the gravity of the situation beneath which we labour. If we wait for the Aelerians to arm themselves, to crush the Salucians as they did thirty years past, they will be able to turn the full force of their war machine against us. We do not have the luxury of time. The reports we have received indicate that the Commonwealth will march towards Salucia with thirty thousand men, and certainly by the time they have entered Hyrcania, they will be able to put a far larger number into the field.’

‘And what would the Lord of the Red Keep have the Roost do?’ the Prime asked, as if laying a trap.

‘I would have us send an emissary to the Salucian Empress, arrange a stratagem. While the Aelerians break themselves against the border cities, I would have our armies ride south to their capital, and bring the rebellious humans to heel.’

There was no gasp of surprise from the Eldest in attendance, no shouts or murmurs, nothing to indicate that what the Aubade had just suggested was just short of blasphemy. But Calla knew the temper of the species she had long lived among well enough to appreciate how deeply shocking was the Aubade’s proposal. Those Above did not ally with Those Below; they subjugated them, had done so since the first Four-Finger had come from the east, in the forgotten morning of time.

‘Join forces with the Locusts, sibling?’ the Shrike asked. ‘Why not join forces with the rats? Is there no embassy from the cockroaches available to speak with? You shame yourself.’

‘There is no indignity I would not suffer, if I supposed it to be in the interests of the Roost,’ the Aubade said. He pointed to his missing stalk of hair, penalty or sacrifice for his time spent abroad. ‘I have always put personal pride below the future of our nation.’

‘We are well aware of your time among the humans, sibling,’ the Glutton said. ‘Though today you have demonstrated that it has dulled your wisdom, rather than sharpened it.’

‘I find myself in agreement with the Lord of the House of Kind Lament,’ the Prime said. ‘For too long, this Conclave has allowed the Lord of the Red Keep to speak words of agitation and unrest.’

‘For too long, the Lord of the Red Keep has allowed this Conclave to ignore the danger that grows daily, and to take the steps required to fend it off.’

It was common custom to rise while speaking, and so the Prime was already on her feet. But she seemed to grow taller then, taller and more terrible. As if you were staring, not at a living being, but at the very essence of some great and arbitrary force, the personification of a mountain, or the wind. ‘The Lord of the Red Keep will retract his statement.’

The Aubade stood with his arms folded, gazing at the fountain itself. He did not speak for a time but remained as he was, impassive against the fury of the Prime, and against the waves of contempt that the rest of the Conclave radiated in his direction. ‘My sibling knows that I will not.’

‘Indeed she does,’ the Prime said. For a moment she too seemed to be gathering her strength for the trial ahead, or pushing past some internal stumbling block. ‘I accuse the Lord of the Red Keep of acting contrary to the interests of the Roost. I accuse him of ignoring the will of the Founders, of seeking crisis to fulfil his own lust for glory.’

‘I accuse the Prime of failing to uphold her responsibilities,’ the Aubade responded. Calla felt suddenly as if she were standing on top of the Red Keep and staring down at the sea below. ‘I accuse her of ignoring threats to the Roost, of allowing dangers to fester and grow, rather than face them head-on.’

‘Siblings,’ the Wright said, standing abruptly and gracelessly, perhaps the first physical manifestation of the horror of the events unfolding. ‘This rash talk ill-befits both of you. I beg of you, take a moment and consider your words, before—’

But the Aubade continued right over him, a terrible breach of etiquette, one that Calla could not remember ever having seen an Eternal commit. ‘The Prime has failed in her trust to ensure the continuance of the Roost, has closed her eyes to the danger that is in front of us. All of you have,’ he said, swivelling his eyes back and forth across the assemblage, perfect and terrible, unbent against the crowd’s fury. ‘But the Prime most of all.’

‘I request that my sibling meet me at the courses,’ the Prime said, ‘that we might arbitrate my failures as in days of old.’

Calla realised then that she was near to weeping; she closed her eyes as tight as she could and bit back down the lump that had risen in her shapely throat. Had anyone cared to look at her then there would have been no doubt that she understood the proceedings, understood and was horrified – but no one did. The attention of the entire hall, four-fingered and five, was occupied exclusively by the Aubade and his lover.

‘I accept,’ he said simply.

S
hortly after noon a shooting pain began to develop in Eudokia’s left leg, a pain severe enough to contort her thoughts and make work troublesome. It happened every day at about that time, every day since the fire, and like every day she ignored it.

‘It would be difficult,’ the physic had told her when she’d asked him if she would ever again be able to walk unassisted. He recommended massage and a particular rite of sacrifices to be given to Siraph and Terjunta, respectively. She only agreed on the first – the result of her recent adventure suggested that either the gods were little concerned with her well-being, or alternatively that they had already done more than could reasonably be asked of them, in which case Eudokia thought it better not to push her luck.

The rehabilitation of the estate progressed more swiftly than her own. The main wing had been damaged irreparably by the fire; the greater part had had to be torn down and rebuilt entirely. Happily, this gave Eudokia an opportunity to indulge her own tastes in architecture, tastes she had been forced to ignore over thirty years of living in Phocas’s ancestral home. Unhappily, even with her vast resources the buildings could hardly spring from the ground overnight, and in the interim Eudokia and her household were crammed into the east wing. Eudokia thought rarely of the evening itself, was too busy to allow the events to scar her. Still, when she filed into the east wing in the evenings, with its draughts and vague smell of mildew and absurd, hideous features, she sometimes wished she had not allowed Jahan to dispose of her assailants quite so comfortably.

But mostly, despite the leg, and despite the inconvenience of her new environs, Eudokia felt the attempt on her life to be one of those strokes of luck that occasionally arise as evidence of fortune’s favour. Never in her long history had she been more popular, more beloved. People she had imagined her inveterate opponents seeped from the woodwork to ask after her health, to offer their support. Her enemies, even those without any clear hand in the thing, were excoriated, could barely go out in public without being berated. The week before, one of Andronikos’s supporters had had his jaw broken by a pack of sailors for making an ill-timed joke about her misfortune. Poor man, she had heard that he would never again be able to speak quite right. A terrible loss for the Commonwealth.

A few words to Andronikos in the days after the attack had withered him away to very little. In fact it was hard to see his attempt on her life as anything but an admission of defeat – having been bested on his preferred battleground, he had been forced into areas of which he was less certain. He had shot his last bolt, would now buckle beneath the pressure she applied against him, fall gently into line. Had he not swiftly shuffled himself off to Salucia, and did not her spies report that he was doing as he was bid, pushing forward intransigently the maximalist Aelerian position? No, Eudokia felt confident that the danger from that quarter had passed – there was nothing more to worry about from Andronikos.

Well, even Eudokia, Revered Mother, scion of the house of Aurelia, was not right all of the time.

She knew there was something wrong when they were announced together. Because there was no reason for their association; they had no connection except through her. Heraclius would have needed to be blind or impotent not to have paid Irene some interest, and while it would not have shocked her to discover that he, being a red-blooded man in the prime of his youth, which is to say a child controlled almost exclusively by the bit of flesh swinging between his legs, had found occasion to supplement the love she gave him, she could not imagine even he would be foolish enough to choose his paramour from within her own household. And even had he been, Irene at least could be trusted to act with more discretion. Besides, she had the pick of the court at her disposal, did not need to go grubbing about with Heraclius.