Emperor of Thorns

42

Vyene is the greatest city on earth. I could be wrong of course. It might be that in the vastness of Ling, or beyond the Sahar at the heart of Cerana, or somewhere in the dusts of the Indus there lies a more fabulous work of men. But I doubt it. The wealth of an empire has been spent in Vyene, year upon year, century upon century, exchanged for stone and skill.

‘Incredible.’ Makin took off his helm as though it might somehow hinder his ability to absorb the glories on every side. Rike and Kent said nothing, struck dumb. Marten kept close at my side, every bit the farmer once again, as if six years of war, of leading armies to victory, had slid from him, scared away by the majesty of our surroundings.

‘Lord Holland would be a peasant here,’ Makin said.

Few of the cities I had taken in the year following my conquest of Arrow held a single building to compare with the grand structures lining our approach to the palace. Here nobles of the old empire had built their summer homes, in all shapes and sizes, from confections in rose-marble to edifices in granite that scraped the clouds, all competing to impress the emperor, his court, and each other. My great grandfather had been such a noble, Duke of Ancrath, holding the lands in the name of the empire and at the steward’s pleasure. When the steward died and the empire fell into its pieces, Grandfather made his own crown, claimed Ancrath for himself, and called himself king.

Even in Vyene though, a nervousness ran through the streets. More than the excitement of Congression. The place held a tension, a drawn breath waiting release. Bonefires burned in alleyways and distant squares, corpses given to the flame in fear that something worse might take them. The crowds that watched our procession had a restlessness to them. A guardsman on a skittish horse lost his helm and laughter went up among the locals, but it rang too shrill, edged with hysteria.

The roads to the palace, and there are four, each lie broad enough that a man couldn’t throw a spear from the gates of the residences on one side to those on the other. Our column rode at the centre, fifteen abreast and thirty deep with the carriages in the midst and the wagons to the rear. The followers and hangers-on, including Onsa’s wheel-house packed with negotiable affection, had melted away in the outer reaches of the city. Captain Devers had sent out word to the effect that no undesirables should approach the Gilden Gate. I had to grin at that. I’m sure a wheel-house full of prostitutes would carry less sin through those gates than the Hundred on their best day.

I rode on, my mood growing more grim. I came to swap one crown for a different one, to exchange my throne for a less comfortable chair. Perhaps I would find Fexler Brews’ third way and paper over the cracks that ran through the world. I didn’t know. But I knew the Jorg who wore that new crown, who might sit upon the all-throne, would be no different. No better. No more able to tear free of his past and the hooks that sunk too deep.

The emperor’s palace sits amid a square so vast that the grand houses on the far side appear tiny. The four roads converge upon the palace dome, passing through an acreage of flagstones devoid of statue, fountain, or monument. On normal days the wealthy citizens might flock in this space, spending coin at stalls and stands able to cater to their excess. Around Congression the autumn winds sweep through unhindered.

‘God’s whore!’ Makin broke into my musings. He stood in his stirrups.

Sir Kent had himself a frown at that. Not so keen on the blaspheming since his conversion.

‘Such language!’ I tsked at Lord Makin. ‘What pray tell is amiss.’

‘You could see for yourself if you weren’t riding on your dignity,’ he said, half-smiling but still blinking in disbelief.

I sighed and stood too. In the distance, halfway to the palace, a thin line of black-cloaked soldiers stood across the breadth of West Street. Something familiar about the red-crested helms, the way the gleaming plate armour gave way to ridiculous pantaloons striped in blue and yellow.

‘Well fuck me, it’s the Pope.’ I sat back down.

‘The Pope?’ Rike asked, as if unfamiliar with the word.

‘Yes, Brother Rike.’ The column began to slow. ‘Fat old woman, interesting hat, infallible.’

We closed the distance, hooves clattering on the cobbled road. The papal guard waited, impassive, polearms with their butts to the flagstones, pennants fluttering, blades to the sky. Captain Devers brought his men to a standstill before the line. Behind the Pope’s men a sedan chair rested, a huge and ornate construction closed in on all sides against the weather and prying eyes. The ten bearers stood at attention beside the carrying poles.

‘Her holiness will speak with King Jorg.’ The centremost of the guardsmen called out the demand, perhaps the leader of the squad but marked no differently from any other.

‘This will be interesting.’ I swung out of my saddle and walked toward the front of our column.

Miana opened the door as I passed Holland’s carriage. ‘Make this right, Jorg,’ she told me. ‘Next time Marten might not be there to save the day.’

I turned, took her hand and made a smile for her. ‘It cost me forty thousand in gold to get this meeting, I’m not going to waste it, my queen. I may be foolish on occasion, but I’m not an idiot.’

‘Jorg.’ A warning tone as her hand slipped mine.

The front ranks parted and I approached the papal guard. The man who summoned me forward now looked pointedly at Gog, scabbarded at my hip.

‘Well, show me to her holiness, then. Can’t wait all day, I’ve got business to attend to.’ I nodded to the great dome of the palace rising behind him.

A pause, and he turned to lead me through the line. We came to the carriage-box and three of the bearers hastened forward with chairs, two hefting a broad purple-cushioned stool, one with a simple ebony ladder-back for me.

Another bearer joined them and they stood two to either side of the door to the carriage-box. A very wide door, I noted. A fifth man scurried around to the rear and I heard the opposite door click open. I guessed he might be tasked with pushing.

The closer door opened and an acreage of purple silk, strained across wobbling flesh, began to emerge. The bearers reached in and retrieved short arms, pudgy hands overburdened with gemmed rings. They pulled. The fifth man pushed. The mountain grunted and a head appeared, bowed forward, sweat making straggles of thin dark hair across a crimson scalp. A crucifix of gold hung below the wattles and folds of her neck, a hefty thing half an inch thick, a foot in length, a ruby at the crossing point for the blood of Christ. It must have weighed more than a baby.

And out she came, the supreme pontiff, shepherdess of many sheep, a slug teased from her nest. The flowered reek of perfumes and oils couldn’t hide the rankness that emerged with her.

They sat her on the stool, overflowing. The guard from the line stayed at my side. He had the look to him, pale eyes, watchful, scarred hands. I didn’t let the pantaloons distract me. Watchful men are to be watched.

‘Your holiness.’ Pius XXV if I were to call her by name.

‘King Jorg. I thought you would look older.’ She couldn’t be shy of seventy but hadn’t a wrinkle on her, all stretched away by her bulk.

‘All alone,’ I asked. ‘No cardinals, no bishops dancing attendance? Not so much as a priest to carry your bible?’

‘My retinue are the guests of Lord Congrieve at his country estate, investigating reports of irregularities at the Sisters of Mercy, a nunnery with a chequered history.’ She deployed a purple kerchief to wipe spittle from the corner of her mouth. ‘I will rejoin them in due course, but I felt a private meeting between us would be more … conducive. The words we exchange here will appear on no records.’ She smiled. ‘Even for a Pope, speaking for God himself, it is no simple matter to thwart the will of the Vatican archivists. To them there are few sins greater than allowing a Pope’s utterances to be lost.’ Another smile and the folding of many chins.

I pursed my lips. ‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘Shall I have Tobias bring wine? You look thirsty, Jorg.’

‘No.’

She paused for the pleasantry or explanation. I offered none.

‘You’re building a cathedral in Hodd Town.’ Dark eyes watched me, currants sunk in the pale pudding of her face.

‘News travels fast.’

‘You’re not the only one that speaks to Deus in machina, Jorg.’

The Builder-ghosts spoke to her — Fexler had told me as much. He’d told me that they steered the church against magic in all its flavours, as much to blind the priests to their own potential for wielding the power of the masses as to have them quell its use by others. Any kind of faith stacked up behind a creed or title could amplify the will of the relevant figurehead to a frightening degree. It pleased me to see her hamstrung by what she thought of as secret and sacred knowledge.

‘Why build the cathedral now?’ she asked.

‘The cathedral has been under construction for twenty years and more,’ I said. ‘My entire life.’

‘But soon it will be finished, and people will expect me to come to bless it before the first mass.’ She shifted her bulk on the stool. ‘I heard this news on my tour of Scorron, and came here to speak with you. You must know why.’

‘You feel safer here,’ I said.

‘I am the Vicar of Christ, I walk in safety anywhere in Christendom!’ Anger in her tone now, but more bluster than true indignation.

‘Walk?’

She let that pass, cold eyes on me. ‘I will hear your confession, Jorg. And offer forgiveness to the penitent.’

‘I will confess to you?’ I rolled my head, vertebrae popping in my neck. ‘Me to you?’

Her guardsman took half a step closer. I wondered what other roles he held. Executioner? Assassin? Perhaps he trained with the white-skinned dream-smith who visited the Haunt on Vatican business.

‘You sent an assassin after my wife and unborn child.’ In some inner darkness cold winds stirred and the ember of an old rage glowed once more.

‘We walk in a vale of tears, Jorg, the only matter of consequence is how we place our steps.’

‘What does that mean?’ Was I supposed to nod wisely? To assume her wisdom surpassed the need for meaning?

‘Your father’s funeral will be held soon, no doubt. To have the Pope herself usher him into paradise at the ceremony would do your standing at Congression untold good. Not to mention the small matter of papal sanction on the inheritance.’

‘He’s truly dead?’ I saw his face, without emotion gazing over his court. He would look no different, laid in the tomb. No less human.

‘You didn’t know?’ She raised a heavy brow.

‘I knew.’ I saw him at the battlement on the highest tower, sunset lighting him in crimson and shadow, hair streaming in the wind. I saw him with Mother, laughing, too far away to hear.

‘Four days. That’s how long Ancrath’s defences held without him. The Dead King’s creatures are on the march now.’ She watched me for some reaction. ‘Hard upon your heels.’

‘And how will you stop them, Holiness?’ The dead wouldn’t seek out and lay siege to castles, they wouldn’t claim lands, levy taxes. The Dead King wouldn’t rule, only ruin.

‘We will pray.’ She shifted her bulk. ‘These are the end of days, my son. All we can do is pray.’

‘Your son?’ I tilted my head, seeing the pale-eyed killer beside me without looking. Road-eyes that’s called. Seeing without looking. I drew the deepest breath and that hidden ember grew white-hot.

Tobias moved his right foot, just a fraction. He knew. Pius would depend only on the best. She thought her guards a mere formality. Like so many before her, despite the evidence writ plain in the trail of bodies behind me, she thought to bind me with nothing more than convention. Tobias, though, he knew my heart, shared my instinct.

‘You’re not my mother, old woman.’

Fat people are hard to kill with your bare hands. They carry their own padded armour. I tried to throttle Fat Burlow a time or two, even Rike found that a challenge. Tobias would let his polearm fall in the moment he moved to act, a prop, nothing more, another piece of papal foolishness, convention. He would go for his knife, hidden somewhere. And I for mine, no time for swords. And for all of Brother Grumlow’s teachings, I would be in a chair with my back to him, he would be standing, and I’d die before the fat bitch got her squeal out, before I so much as scratched her.

‘Play nice, boy.’ She didn’t stir to anger. You don’t win the cardinals over with roaring. The thickest skin, patience, time, inexorable pressure, these will move even the most weighty backside into the papal throne if the owner is sufficiently shrewd.

I blinked. ‘Did they not tell you about me? Was Murillo not enough of a hint?’ Quick hands, that’s what a knife fight is all about. But quick hands are wasted if you’re hunting your weapon while the other man’s fingers are wrapped around his. Don’t waste your speed at the start of the first move. All that does is advertise that it is a move. ‘You sent an assassin to kill-’

‘A king rules by the will of his people.’ Just a hint of irritation now. ‘The people look to Roma for their eternal salvation. You’re old enough to know where your interests lie. And those of your son. The cathedral-’

I leaned forward in my seat, unhurried, the intent listener, then reached out, slow enough, but sure: hesitation is the killer. Then fast. Ripping the crucifix from about her neck. I threw it, hard as hard, tearing it through a flat arc and releasing it to fly straight and true. Tobias caught it. A neat catch between the eyes, one soft, heavy arm of the cross punching through his forehead so that the whole thing hung there as he toppled. Now my knife. To everything there is a season, a time to every purpose under heaven. Memories of Bishop Murillo’s priests sprang up as I dragged the blade through the folds of fat about Pius’s neck. ‘A time to die.’

Pius hit the ground first, then Tobias, then the polearm. Then for the longest time those of us not on the ground dying just stood there looking at each other.