Hungerblade

Part Seven: Circles Of Power

                A network of bonfires lit the grounds of the senator’s estate, throwing ever-shifting shadows onto the painted stucco walls separating it from its neighbors. Revelers made their way between a dozen tables, laden with food. They ate grilled fish, roasted boar, and fatty slivers of smoked Iguanodon. Sweetmeats, figs, and olives were presented on a silver tray the size of a table top, which rested on a cage imprisoning a trio of dispirited baboons. Enchanted buckets held ices, flavored with pomegranate juice, keeping them at their ideal temperature. Muscled, near-naked drummers pounded on thundering instruments to accompany a dance troupe of acrobats and fire breathers. Perfectly proportioned slaves of both sexes wandered the grounds, clad in flimsy costumes and wearing masks of silver and gold.

                Jacques kept Isabelle at his side as the fête raged around him. “And I thought parties in Lichstadt were daunting.”

                Isabelle smiled. Her fancy robe and gown were impeccably fitted to her slender curves. “I have you to thank for the invitation. My company is not normally highly sought at such lofty affairs.”

                A few hours ago, Jacques had trailed a would-be pursuer to the gates of this estate. Now he was inside them, as an honored guest. The invitation had arrived at Isabelle’s villa while he was chasing the gaunt young man across town. Whoever had ordered him followed was clever enough to keep the fellow out of sight for the duration of festivities.

                “Show me who is who,” he said.

                Isabelle discreetly indicated a white-haired man surrounded by hangers-on. He was in the midst of an amusing anecdote, to which they responded with the over-eager laughter of sycophants. Advancing years had not diminished his open, handsome features. Despite a wide slab of girth encircling his midsection, he moved with a young man’s energy. He spotted Isabelle and beckoned the pair of them to approach.

                “That’s Senator Orientius,” Isabelle quickly explained. “His syndicate enjoys a monopoly over certain ritual construction techniques. He leads a good-sized faction in the senate. Close to Consilius, the Zanatine Proconsul. Some say too close.”

                Isabelle introduced the Senator to her mentor. With a subtle gesture, Orientius dismissed his coterie of supplicants, leaving the three of them to talk alone in the midst of the increasingly frantic soirée.

                The Senator spoke in more-than-passable Gallusi. “Your arrival has been the occasion of much discussion, Jacques Gardien.”

                The use of Jacques’ native tongue was meant to be both flattering and ostentatious. Gardien responded with his best courtly bow. “I can’t imagine why,” he said.

                Orientius switched back to the Roma High Tongue. “Life is very boring here in Romulus.”

                As the trio watched, the estate’s cooks placed an enormous egg on a bonfire. The heat cracked it open, partially hatching the giant lizard within. It screamed in agony as it cooked in its own egg. A trio of chefs, careful to avoid its snapping beak, drizzled it with sauce and spices. As soon as it had stopped writhing, the cooks moved it to a plate for carving. Their colleagues folded the sizzling nuggets of meat into bundles of pastry and distributed them to a staff of masked servers.

                “Pelorosaurus,” said Orientius. “They grow to staggering heights if you give them the chance. They are as common as cats in the western quarter of the empire.” Jacques wondered if the demonstration was for his benefit. The Roma and Dotur shared a long border and nowhere was it less exact than in the west, near Castille. Jacques was fairly certain there were towns in that region being taxed by Castille, Dotur, Roma, and Tyria. Emperor Guntram longed to fix the borders exactly on the western fringe of his empire, but lacked the manpower to do so. Roma seemed to have the same problems so the area remained in dispute.

“Any event, no matter how trivial, captures our wizened imaginations,” continued Orientius, who now fixed Jacques with an intent stare. It was less of a challenge than a boundary. Here was a hard man, used to having his way, but not blatantly aggressive.

                “I have heard much about you as well,” Jacques ventured. Orientius smiled and looked away.

                “Much of it scandalous, I hope.”

                “I have heard your name mentioned in conjunction with Consilius.”

                “The two of us were close as young officers, and keep up a correspondence.” Orientius smile faltered for a moment and he raised an eyebrow. “His name is known in Dotur?”

                Jacques shrugged. “It is a messenger’s job to know the important personages of neighboring empires,” he replied. In truth, neither Jacques nor the Dotur knew very much about one of the most powerful men of the Roma Empire. Consilius was undoubtedly a brilliant general, succeeding in battle where others had failed. He had been installed by Placidus II, his brother and Nero’s father, as ruler of Zanatium, the eastern empire, after the re-conquest. Supposedly, he had been gifted with a wisdom and sense of proportion not found in the rest of the dynasty. He appeared to be rebuilding the shattered eastern half of the Empire rather than looting it for the benefit of Romulus. He had also managed to build trading ties into Imouha, which would have secured his legacy had he done nothing else in his career. Other reports, however, dwelt on his coldly ruthless suppression of dissent and a growing population of slaves. Unfortunately, so little was actually known about what was going on in Zanatium it was hard to get any real picture about what Consilius was doing.

                “As we might have already been saying, second-hand information is often over-dramatized,” said Orientius.

                Jacques found this anticipation of his thoughts distressing. To the best of his knowledge, which was considerable, no one, not even the Fey, had managed to create an enchantment that could read men’s minds. That did not, however, stop entire guilds from trying. He found himself wondering if the Roma had cracked that secret. Perhaps one of the Senator’s many tasteful pieces of jewelry was an enchantment allowing him to read thoughts.

                I’m going to draw Hungerblade and kill you, Jacques thought. Orientius grabbed two glasses of chilled wine from a passing slave. He offered one to Isabelle and the second to Jacques. Perhaps the senator was just very, very good at reading people.

                “From Consilius’ communications to me, it is clear that he supports the authority of the throne, and wishes his nephew nothing but success and prosperity. This has never been an easy empire to rule.”

                Jacques wondered which unvoiced accusation this statement was meant to rebut.

                “I hear that you’d scarcely pounded the dust from your traveling cloak when His Imperial Majesty summoned you to an audience.”

                “Yes . . .” Jacques found it suddenly difficult to concentrate on the Senator’s words. A darkly alluring woman clad in lush robes stood in the light thrown off by the cooking fire. It highlighted her elevated cheekbones and the serpentine angles of her willowy frame. She made brief eye contact with Jacques, looked away, and then transfixed him again.

                A resonant chuckle sounded in Orientius’ throat. “There she goes. Only Circe can interrupt a conversation from a hundred paces.”

                “Pardon my rudeness,” said Jacques. “I’ve never been good at large parties.”

                Orientius reached out to give him a mocking shove. “I will ask you about your impression of our beloved Emperor at some other time. If Circe has signaled you, I can scarcely compete.”

                Jacques moved to find the woman, but he had lost sight of her.

                Isabelle grabbed his arm. “Roma fêtes are disorienting. You can get drunk just from watching, can’t you?”

                “That was Circe?” he asked with a gulp.

                She seemed unhappy. “It was. I’m sure she’ll sneak up on you later.” A masked serving girl ran past them, stifling tears, red slash marks on her arm. Isabelle stared at the drops of blood then turned to face her mentor. “Listen, Jacques, if they drag a prisoner in here, I think that it should be our signal to leave.”

                Jacques stopped scanning the crowd and looked down at the resolute woman standing before him. “What?”

                “Sometimes at these events they pay for a condemned prisoner and behead him right in front of you. Then everyone applauds and goes back to eating their peacock’s tongues. Look, that’s the legate from Tyria over there. Do you want to meet him?”

                Jacques spotted Wigandus, making imploring eyes at him from the far side of a banquet table, his mouth full of stuffed grape leaves. He ignored the merchant and gave up on finding the senator. “Yes, let’s meet our Tyrian counterpart.”

                Isabelle made the promised introductions. The Tyrian, whose named was Khaaliq, did not bow in greeting, essaying only a barely perceptible nod of recognition. He was taller even than Jacques, and bore the telltale enlarged cranium and prominent brow ridge of the Fey. Khaaliq’s complexion had been burnished by the harsh desert sun of his homeland, on the other side of the Medrano Sea. His dark hair and beard were worn long and were exquisitely woven. Diamonds glittered from the braids and gold strands kept everything in place. For the evening’s festivities, he had augmented his wide, green, ankle-length Tyrian tunic with a thick belt of gold, worked into the shape of intertwined ropes. Jacques could not see any obvious charms or talismans, but Fey magic was different than human. He gazed down at Jacques with ancient, inhuman eyes.

                “It is a challenging question, is it not?”

                “Which question is that?” replied Jacques.

                “The difficulty of choosing sides among the Roma. Whom to throw one’s lot in with, whom to abjure . . .”

                Jacques knew, but did not say, that the Tyrians were scarcely in a position to tip the scales one way or the other. In olden times, only they challenged the supremacy of the Roma. Now, both of the great sea empires were shadows of their ancient selves, with Tyria in worse disarray than their erstwhile rivals.

                Although Jacques new little about the intrigues of the Frikara nations, he knew there were more than just the Imouha and the Tyrians contending for prominence among the Fey. The Nguni, about which little was known except their name, were rumored to be fierce warriors, but peaceful in outlook. The Samai of the south, the Xeresia of the far east, and the Æthenas of the western Medrano isles all traded with the Roma, albeit through intermediaries, but had little dealings with the Dotur. Tyria was currently in a very difficult position.

                After years of dominance in southwestern Uropa, the Tyrians had been all but kicked off the continent by the suddenly powerful Castilians, who then went on to form an empire of their own. New war rituals, known only to Castilian priests, had dramatically tipped the scales, allowing the conquered to strike out. After generations of oppression by the Fey, the Castilians threw off their shackles, seemingly overnight. The Tyrian war machine was all but destroyed, seriously jeopardizing their holdings in Frikara. Now reduced to a few fortified holdings on the southern coast, the best and the brightest of their warriors had been slain. They were now forced to augment their military with Thulean mercenaries. Jacques suppressed a shiver. He could not image a situation dire enough to warrant working with the murderous dwarves. The loss of their armies and a resurgence of Roma naval might in the Medrano had many Roma casting greedy eyes on the north coast of Frikara.

                Gardien humored the haughty Fey. “Is it because no faction seems more clearly virtuous than the others?”

                Khaaliq laughed. “Virtue? A sly sense of humor you have, Jacques Gardien. What has virtue to do with power? No, I speak of the speed of machination and betrayal here. One has no sooner sent home advice of an alliance with one faction, than the wheel of conspiracy turns, and one’s chosen horse has been sent to the stables. Or the butcher’s block.”

                “In Dotur it is believed that a ruler draws strength from his benevolence.”

                Khaaliq all but rolled his eyes. “Your strange northern logic must provide you much solace on harsh winter nights. What was your impression of the Emperor?”

                “You are right; the wheels do turn quickly here. How was he, when you saw him last?”

                “It has been some time since I’ve been privileged with a personal audience.”

                Wigandus circuited his way through guests and servers to plant himself at Jacques’ side.

                “Khaaliq, legate to the Tyrian Empire, this is Wigandus, of the North Coast league, a noted mercantilist concern.”

                Wigandus thrust out his hand. “I have always admired your people, especially for—“

                “Ah,” said Khaaliq, and stepped away.

                Anger hardened Wigandus’ fleshy features. “Stinking Fey!” He swallowed his words, so the swiftly departing legate would not hear them.

                “Tyrian nobles do not respect merchants as we do,” Isabelle ventured.

                Wigandus fumed. “They are on the wrong side of history, then. Radiant Reason will swallow them whole. They will surrender their secrets on the altar of commerce, and then fade away into memory.”

                Jacques cleared his throat. “Perhaps it would be best, so that others do not misunderstand, to describe our credo in less vehement terms.”

                Wigandus turned on him. “When I requested a member of the Seven, I did not expect a shrinking mooncalf! You should have corrected that Fey’s effrontery.”

                Before replying, Gardien counted silently to five. “I am here to extend the Emperor’s friendship to all, Wigandus. If I told him I started a feud with the Tyrians over a slight at a party, how pleased do you think he would be? How would the Roma react?” Wigandus shook with rage, but turned on his heal without another word. He bowled over a small serving girl on his way back to the banquet tables. Jacques searched the crowd for a distraction, and found it in a small group of armed and armored men standing noticeably aloof from the heaps of food and decadent performances. “Who would they be?” he asked Isabelle.

                “The balding one is Julius Laminus,” she explained, indicating a taut-muscled, sharp-nosed man of middle years. He stood with crossed arms, discoursing to a coterie of younger men, all of whom wore the same armor. It was that of a private army, modeled on Imperial designs, but of better workmanship and much of its ornamentation de-emphasized or removed altogether. What little remained was likely the focus of an enchantment. “Along with Circe and Orientius, he is one of the most powerful Senators. His faction advocates a return to the austere virtues of the early empire. They believe that men must learn again to fight and suffer, and to turn their backs on circuses and debauchery.”

                “A most unpersuasive philosophy.”

                “More popular than you’d think,” said Isabelle. “Nero won them many converts, by nearly bankrupting the empire with his endless festivals.”

                At Julius Laminus’ side stood a younger version of himself, who shared his martial posture and aquiline profile, but boasted a lush head of blond hair. He elbowed Laminus and pointed to Jacques.

                “That’s his son, Antonius. And it looks like you continue to be the evening’s central novelty.”

                “It is very boring in Romulus,” Jacques sighed. He set off, meeting Laminus and his entourage halfway.

                Isabelle followed Jacques, and performed the introductions.

                “So you are here to nursemaid that fat merchant?” Laminus asked.

                “I see that bluntness is held to be among the stoic virtues,” Jacques smiled.

                “We in Roma have lost our true selves. To find them again, we must say what we mean, and mean what we say.” Laminus was fixed on Jacques’ sword. “You of Dotur are closer to your rugged barbarian heritage, and thus are perhaps less damaged by the use of diplomatic mealy words.”

                “That’s direct, all right.”

                Antonius pushed himself closer. “The tales of your exploits are well-known to us, Jacques Gardien.”

                “Is that so?” Jacques said, resignedly. He had been on this conversational road before, and knew where it led.

                “Yes,” Antonius said. “And we—you are a guest here, and we do not wish to seem . . . But it is a matter of great interest to us, your sword, that is, and we wish to...”

                His father pulled him out of the way and planted sandaled feet in his place. “Jacques Gardien, I challenge you to a duel.”

                To be continued...

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