The return of the elder sister, Rika, brought thoughts of his own family to Chancellor Urtica. Families were an important issue to him.
After all, he’d killed his own.
They used to ridicule him, and he just couldn’t cope with that, no, not the everyday references to sneering at his shortcomings. Gathered around the table at night, every night, they would start to berate him for his failings, especially his mother. Even when he qualified for the junior ranks of the Council his family would carp at him for not progressing up the ranks quickly enough. They would question his lack of friends, they complained that he didn’t earn enough; it seemed everything he did or did not do became a target, a focal point for savage criticism. Fearing that this constant undermining would ultimately limit his career prospects, the young Urtica decided one night that enough was enough.
Dispatching them had been a joy, a creative wonder, the kind of ingenious ploy to smile about as he remembered it. He contrived a way of tricking them into dropping something lethal in each other’s food. One night just after he had turned eighteen, a treat to rid himself of all the shame and humiliation, the sheer joy of watching them cough up blood, retch bile, yet still take time to berate each other shrilly as they realized what was happening. He had a watertight alibi – paying off several old friends for their word, with promise of power to come – and he’d faked an entry in his mother’s diary. When the Inquisition came they declared it an open and shut case. Sympathy had come pouring in from neighbours, for the poor boy so tragically orphaned. When he finally got away from their condolences, he began to savour the thrill to be obtained from the god-like power to terminate life. While he was engaged in the business of removing his family, he had taken the liberty to forge new wills – with ancient Jamur runes and seals and all – leaving more distant family members ostracized. Charitably, he gave them a little, because he was nice like that, but the majority of the wealth and estates came to him. Forgery, he thought at the time, is such a blissful art.
And soon there were others to suffer at his hand, like his older cousin in a freak sailing accident off the coast of Jokull, whose drowning was followed by a few drinks at the quayside celebrating the sudden inheritance of family estates on the east coast near Vilhokr. A glass to you, dearest cousin, for the comforts with which you’ve provided me. Cheers!
With his new-won independence and income, he had turned to the Ovinists. The traditional gods reminded him too keenly of his pious family. After all, a new faith for a new man!
Vaguely the whore he used last night had looked like his mother, a slender waif of a girl with sharp features. It brought back some complex thoughts to his mind. What does it mean, sleeping with a substitute for my mother? And in sleeping with whores, well, he was just becoming like his father, wasn’t he? Bohr, families can fuck you up… Urtica slid out of bed, walked over to the fire to throw another log on it, then on went his favourite green tunic.
A guard entered the room. ‘Sir, Commander Lathraea approaches the city with the new Empress.’
So, she was back at last, and it was time to see exactly how easily he might manipulate her.
He walked over to a window, pulled back the tapestry to reveal the view over the fore-city. A gust of wind whistled in, but he didn’t even feel it.
Such beauty, such potential… Until his gaze focused on the refugees camped outside the gates of the city, their numerous little fires already coughing smoke weakly into the air. Their makeshift homes stretched far into the distance, where disease was spreading rapidly. Decent people feared leaving the city. Resentment at this encroachment was growing, and with it a feeling of hatred.
Other concerns loomed now in his thoughts, first and foremost the final campaign against the Varltungs. He had to convince Commander Lathraea to be out of the way so that Urtica himself could assume full control of the military. The Empress, too, would need to be persuaded to put her trust in him, but that fitted in nicely with the troubles now erupting on the northern fringes of the Empire. In fact he needed Brynd’s expertise in handling this crisis, so that wasn’t just a lie.
Rika leaned out of the carriage, looked up at the grey sky. The wind whipped her hair around her face as she pulled strands of it back. ‘Why have we stopped?’ she asked.
Brynd rode over, the spires of Villjamur towering behind him on the hilltop, and the sight of the city sparked a thousand memories in her, and she was overcome by a strange sensation in her stomach. This was the home of her youth that she hadn’t seen for years. A part of her that she had almost forgotten about. It was an uncomfortable feeling to realize she wasn’t that same person any more. A famous ancient scribe had once recommended never returning to a place with happy memories, because it could never be the same. What about bad memories – would they diminish too?
She had to confront the girl – now woman – she had once been, and remember the day she had walked out on her family. Well, her father, anyway, but he was gone now.
‘I wanted to advise you of a problem, Jamur Rika, before you approach the gates of Villjamur.’ Brynd steered his horse till he faced her directly.
His sinister appearance: burning red eyes, black horse, black uniform, narrow white features belied his true nature. The brooch of the Empire glistened reassuringly on his chest. She had never seen anyone quite like him in her life. There was something about his demeanour that said she was safe in his hands, that he would protect her. It was those things that really mattered, not the colour of skin or eyes.
‘What is it you’re saying, commander?’ she demanded, hoping she sounded very much like an Empress.
‘I must warn you there are thousands of refugees outside the city gates. They are hoping to find protection inside the city during the Freeze.’
‘And they can’t come in?’ Rika said.
Mild regret in his eyes, despite his military firmness.
‘No,’ Brynd admitted. ‘It’s been decided there’s a limited capacity for Villjamur once the gates finally close. The city has to protect its own interests during the many years of ice to come.’
‘So please stop me if I’m incorrect in my assumptions that no one can come into the city? And these people will die here. In front of us. As we watch on?’
‘Pretty much,’ Brynd said. ‘But they’ll die anyway. Meanwhile military personnel will be allowed in and out – or people with the right documentation, of course. It’s the only way the city could last for so long.’
Rika pressed on, ‘And nothing can be done? Nothing in our hearts can be found for their plight?’
‘Not my place to say, Empress,’ Brynd replied. ‘There are many other things I’m involved with at the moment. As soon as I’m equipped and rested, the Night Guard will be leaving to investigate some skirmishes in the north.’
‘How significant are they, these skirmishes?’
‘Too early to tell, my lady.’
So much for her to take in. She could have done with Brynd staying with her for a while longer, because although alarming on first sight, he radiated confidence, a quiet compassion – as much as any military man could. ‘Commander, can I trust you?’ she said. ‘I feel… quite vulnerable here. As if people might take advantage of my naivety.’
‘Empress. I was sworn in as one of your father’s favoured guard, to be sent on any mission in his name, to uphold his honour. As his chosen successor, you inherit my service also, and that of my soldiers. Of all the Jamur armies, in fact. And as soldiers we’re not paid to think about our orders, and we serve only your word. Though I can fully appreciate how great that responsibility must seem right now.’
She sat back further into the carriage. ‘Thank you, commander. Your skill with words and encouragement are a great help to one so new and unversed as myself.’
She then heard the commander order the escort of Dragoons to move on, and the carriage was in motion.
Next stop: Villjamur.
Lines of troops kept back the refugees by sword and bow, making sure none dared closely approach the roadway. They formed two distinct lines on either side of the route stretching all the way from the city gates, and she could hear the helpless moans, the cries of fear as metal was brandished in their direction, and the cursing of soldiers as they shouted for them to keep back, stay off the road. The stench of their encampment was awful, intense.
She was the Empress, or would very shortly be, so surely she must do something to stop this ill-treatment of her own people? Or perhaps this was the first lesson she would learn: her own powerlessness to achieve everything she might wish.
Brynd was riding to one side, and turned to nod at her briefly before again scanning the troubled scene. She saw the gaunt, muddied faces of her people staring at her carriage between the lines of Dragoons and horses. Shouts of commands. Then the gates of the city were opening, whereupon more soldiers streamed forward in a clatter of armour and weaponry. Garudas circled above her, ever watchful, as screams from the refugees reached a crescendo.
Her eyes widened at the alarming spectacle. All this fuss just for her – she refused to believe it. The carriage rocked its way onto the cobbled streets of the city, and within a few moments she was inside Villjamur, safe, the noise of the refugees muffled as the doors closed behind.
Then they stopped. Was this where she must get out? Again that uncertainty.
The commander leaned into the carriage. ‘We’ll now progress through the main streets of the city. People may stare in at you. They don’t really know you from sight. You may remind some of the older citizens of your mother, perhaps…’ He stopped at that sensitive point, and changed tack. ‘Many of them probably don’t know the current state of rulership despite the announcements that should have been made.’
‘Very kind of you to warn me, commander. But I’m sure I’m capable of looking after myself.’
Brynd retreated, ordered the entourage to ride on.
Rika stared up at the city, her city, its landscape furnished with a sense of possession, so nothing would be the same as before.
Everything was as she remembered, and bittersweet memories lapped over her. The dream-like spires that disappeared up into damp mist. The hanging baskets everywhere encaging the beautiful flowers of the tundra. The soaring bridges, the grey-red stone, the ever-busy people. And Balmacara in the centre. Her own history came back in flashes: a childhood spent staring out of windows at these same sights, not being permitted to have much contact outside Balmacara. Days of boredom. The trauma of her father beating her mother, of beating Rika herself. And little Eir brightening random moments with her naivety, a child’s voice echoing down the corridors. It was amazing what mere clusters of assembled rock could do to the mind.
Forget about all that. It’s the past. Think of the future.
Her sister already stood waiting for her inside, her face erupting in emotions. After the initial formality, Eir and Rika embraced for what, to Brynd, seemed like a season. The fond memories were returning, the gradual remembrance of their idiosyncrasies, all reflected in the softness of their glances and the way they would touch each other’s arms.
After a long interlude of whispering, they seemed to remember that other people were gathered around them, listening, waiting.
The young page showed them into a formal chamber where several members of the Council were seated, all immediately rising to their feet.
Brynd and the rest of his Night Guard followed silently.
There he was, Chancellor Urtica, walking over to the new Empress. He took her hand, pressed it to his lips, after he briefly went down on one knee. ‘Jamur Rika, a great honour. As your chancellor, may I welcome you to Villjamur, on behalf of the Council. Your presence here in this difficult time is most reassuring.’
‘Hey,’ Apium muttered to Brynd, ‘he’s not wasting his time in greasing up to her, is he?’
Brynd grunted a quiet laugh. He looked across to Nelum and Lupus, who stood silently, watching the Empress’s every move – as they had been trained to do for her father.
‘Who’s that swarthy-looking stick of a fellow over there?’ Apium whispered.
Brynd followed his gaze to a thin, handsome man standing in one corner of the chamber. With glossy black hair that cascaded down in curls, he wore smart clothes of the kind usually seen on the outer islands, but updated to make a splash in the city. He seemed a bit of a clichéd dandy – even to Brynd. The man stood tall, his chin raised, his head angled in calculated postures. Several ladies of the court were huddled close to him, and every now and then he’d flash them a rehearsed grin.
Brynd raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never seen him before. Why not ask one of the servants.’
Apium stepped away and returned moments later.
‘His name is Randur Estevu, and apparently he’s Lady Eir’s tutor for sword and dance. I think I remember Johynn talking about getting someone in. I don’t know, holding a bloody dancing event because the Archipelago’s about to be plunged into an ice age. Ridiculous, if you ask me, these bloody nobles.’
‘Aren’t we ourselves technically nobles?’ Brynd said.
‘Aye, but, uh, at least we do something useful, not just prance about to music.’
‘Last time you danced you cleared the floor – and not in a good way.’
‘I had a bit to drink, I’ll admit. Anyway, why should a soldier need rhythm?’
‘Good sword skills,’ Brynd explained. ‘I’ll bet that waif of a man can look after himself.’
Brynd regarded the curious-looking newcomer, this Randur. He certainly had good dress sense. The man suddenly looked back at him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then Randur glanced away.
Brynd turned his attention to Urtica, who was still fawning upon the new Empress, with forced laughter, fake smiles, overstated gestures – it was enough to make Brynd feel sick.
Later that afternoon, the sisters were allowed time in private, once it had been decided that Emperor Johynn’s state funeral would take place in the morning. He was to be buried in the crypt under Balmacara, inside the caves, just like every ruler before him. For all other citizens, their bodies were burned on a pyre, much in line with the ancient tribal religions. It was thought that cremation sped their spirits towards one of the otherworlds, depending on how your life had been lived. Emperors alone were destined to stay in Villjamur forever, their bodies in the caves, decaying till they became part of the city, part of legend itself.
Their bones becoming Villjamur’s bones.
Brynd discovered that after he’d gone, news of the Emperor’s death had sent a slow shockwave through these corridors. Councillors had flapped around the place, murmuring portentous utterings, but all the time adding to a sense of unease. Brynd himself had noticed this malaise grow in the short time since his return. It manifested in a general lack of confidence, in an escalating mood of fear. But perhaps this mood was exacerbated by the coming of the ice age.
An initial ceremony would take place as the red sun rose. Then as the sun set, Rika would be proclaimed Empress, therefore finishing a day to change history – or at least the history books. Brynd had stationed two soldiers from the Night Guard outside Eir’s and Rika’s chambers, whilst he himself liaised with Chancellor Urtica, at that politician’s request. The two men met in the War Chamber usually reserved for discussions on battle tactics, and perhaps this was the first indication to the commander that something was wrong.
Brynd opened the door to find Urtica standing at the far end of a massive stone table, his back to a spitting fire. No tapestries garlanded this room, only lanterns and examples of ancient weaponry on the walls. As he entered Brynd realized the conversation wouldn’t be going his way.
‘Commander, do step inside and close the door. Hell of a draught coming in.’
Brynd shut the door and approached, his steps clicking in the awkward silence. ‘What’s the problem, chancellor?’
‘War, commander,’ Chancellor Urtica sighed. ‘I fear it’s war.’
‘And why so? I’ve been away for less than a month, so what can have arisen? Surely we should be looking for peace at all costs in these distressing times?’
‘Of course, but our experts have now analysed the arrow that you retrieved from Dalúk Point. It was indeed a Varltung shaft.’
‘Really?’ Brynd said, his eyes narrowing. ‘But I still don’t see why the Varltungs would make a raid on us.’
‘Yes, well, these are strange days. Furthermore I’ve intelligence from our garudas suggesting that the Varltungs have planned more raids – now that our city is at its weakest. So I was forced to put some defensive plans in motion after you left. Troops are moving across the Empire as we speak.’
‘What intelligence exactly?’ Brynd said. Were the city’s forces already marching to war without his knowledge?
‘Not only from garudas, but rumours from various outposts. So I have initiated troop movements for a coastal raid on the Varltung nation. I’ll be using cultists from the Order of Dawnir to help, too, as I want to stop any chance of our outlying islands being assaulted after our city closes its doors. It is a purely defensive tactic, and we aim to minimize casualties, and work with them once they submit.’
‘And you’re absolutely certain of this strategy? Surely, as commander of the armies, I should be allowed some say in this decision. Surely I should have some role in this?’ It appeared that Urtica had already made up his mind even before Brynd had left to fetch Jamur Rika. Now it wouldn’t surprise Brynd to learn that soldiers were already dying.
‘That’s certainly true, and I will need your agreement. The Council felt constrained to pass an urgent order of war in your absence. The Empress must be briefed immediately. More Dragoons and Regiments of Foot are currently being readied, but there’s now another threat, for which I think your personal attention is more essential.’
Brynd analysed every word that Urtica uttered, scanning for the gaps in what he said to find the real story. Being chief commander of military operations appeared to mean little to these politicians, these articulate men who had no direct experience of combat. They just rolled the dice from a safe distance, not understanding the real costs in terms of resources and emotion.
Urtica said, ‘You were aware of your next task, I think, even before you returned here. Those killings on our islands further north – on Tineag’l to be precise.’
‘The mining island?’
‘We’ve now had two reports of large-scale massacres there. Towns have been wiped out, and so far hundreds have died – possibly thousands. I sent a garuda to investigate and he hasn’t returned yet – that was some time ago now.’ Urtica reached across the table for a parchment, passed it to Brynd. ‘This, however, came through to us.’
Brynd read the message.
To Emperor Johynn, and the Council of Villjamur
I must alert you to a potential crisis as we’ve had reports of terrible events occurring on Tineag’l. Many have been fleeing atrocities of an unknown nature, that quite frankly leaves me to be astounded. There have been severe numbers of disappearances on the island, and interviews have been held with those who have fled. There is something killing whole communities, cleansing entire cities and towns. I estimate from listening to those escapees, and by studying old maps, that tens of thousands may no longer exist. It is rumoured that a host of many thousand refugees are fleeing from the north on foot, and it will take them some weeks to reach the south tip of Tineag’l. But when they reach it they will sail to Villiren. And, good sirs, we can’t cope with such quantities in our city. Already we’ve local people seeking shelter from the ice, so what is Lutto Fendor to do? I request you send aid, in whatever form possible, to this city and investigate the atrocious incidents on Tineag’l before this evil spreads here to the island of Y’iren. We are but a humble trading city, so we are not equipped to resist, or indeed help the refugees fleeing these killings. We need protection. Send it quick!
Your servant, and in the name of Bohr and Astrid, and of the Jamur Empire and Council.
Lutto Fendor, Portreeve of Villiren, on the island of Y’iren
Brynd glanced twice over the parchment, noticing it possessed the mark of Jorsalir, a discreet symbol of the moons in each corner, behind the star of the Empire. That meant it was official all right, blessed by the priest, but Brynd tended to ignore those kinds of blessings. He grunted. So Fat Lutto actually does his job, for once. He handed it back to Urtica. ‘Yes, this is bad news all right. You wish me to assemble what exactly?’
‘I think at least a few units of Dragoons, plus a cultist from the Order of the Dawnir should suffice. And the rest of your Night Guard, of course. But I’m not sure we can spare much more than that just yet if we’re to organize a proper defence against the Varltung nation. Remember, they won their freedom six hundred years back, they’ve defeated the Empire’s forces once. And they’ve enough population to furnish a few hundred thousand fighting men if they can unite all their tribes. I would like to make them… submit before the Freeze becomes too severe. So I’m leaving this matter in your capable hands.’ Urtica was silent for a moment as he contemplated some of the maps lying in front of him.
‘You don’t think this is a more important issue than the Varltung operation?’
‘You know very well what Lutto’s like. He can be… inaccurate in what he says. He’s fat, he’s lazy, he’s a gambler, and a criminal.’
‘But he’s in charge of an entire city and he’s panicking,’ Brynd said.
‘In charge because he rigs the voting. Anyway, I think that given the information so far, the greatest issue lies on the eastern fronts. Should you need more men, you can send for reinforcements. Oh, incidentally, that Dawnir friend of yours has been grumbling about wanting to go with you.’
‘Jurro?’ Brynd said, puzzled. ‘Why does he need to come anyway?’
‘Why not take him with you? The activity might finally jog his blasted memory, and then we can get some useful information out of him. I mean what’s the use of an Ancient if he doesn’t have memory? I don’t want him just rotting away reading books for another several generations and only have the benefit of his misery to put up with. Take him with you, let him see a bit more of the world. Before the ice sets in.’
Brynd considered just how exactly he could take one of the Ancient race on a scouting mission, travelling through towns where he’d undoubtedly be mobbed by villagers who would see him as some kind of oracle, some saviour to them in the ice age. That was the exact reason he’d been hidden for so long.
‘What of the firegrain?’ Brynd said. ‘Have the remaining stocks of grain and oil been calculated?’
‘Of course,’ Urtica said. ‘Anyway, there’s wood remaining on Jokull, and plenty on the other islands. That’s what the military will use for their warmth. That’s what other cities are relying on. Emperor Johynn was just mad sending you out there in the first place. Now, shall we thrash out some details about the current crises facing the Empire? I believe our two fine minds should deliver some decent logistical analysis, what d’you say?’
‘Yes.’ Times were awkward all right. He would prefer to be in control of the raids on Varltung, or else remain here to stand by the new Empress, but this threat, on one of the fringes of the Empire, appeared urgent, and what the hell could be causing it anyway?
‘Why all this effort to subdue Varltung now? This Freeze could last thirty-odd years, and much of the Empire will be changed as we know it. Hell, there may be no Empire left when we come out of hibernation.’
As Urtica met his gaze, it seemed a gust of wind came in from somewhere, flickering shadows adopting new postures across the old walls. ‘Commander Lathraea, I don’t think you fully understand the purpose of the Jamur Empire?’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘I didn’t think so. What does an empire do We extend ourselves, we acquire new territories. We take control there. We grow. We make progress. We seize the world for our people, and we give them additional wealth as a reward. You’re a military man, commander. I expect better of you than to doubt our purpose.’
‘Bohr, we’ve not had a skirmish in years – except for that incident on Dalúk Point, of course. And the lack of military action has been a positive thing. We’ve found more diplomatic ways to establish relationships with tribes locally. You think I’ve risen to the top of my career by rearing to fight everything I come across?’
‘Did it never occur to you that you’ve risen so far so quickly because you were adopted by a wealthy family? That’s how things work in Villjamur. I’d hoped for more from you, Commander Lathraea. There’s a population of some millions out there that it’s our responsibility to feed and nurture. We need to raise them from the squalor of their mud huts, and give them a better quality of existence. Your role isn’t that of politician, but as a guardian of the Empire. That now means going to Tineag’l, to prevent a bigger threat than even the Varltungs may prove.’
The chancellor had a valid point, even if Brynd didn’t trust him, wondering how much of what slipped off his tongue was sincere. There were far too many bizarre happenings recently to trust the politicians, and perhaps the recent cycles of the moons were affecting more than just the weather. Maybe they were creating some kind of insanity across the Boreal Archipelago, generating a subtle tension you couldn’t perceive exactly. And in the years to come, things would only get worse.