Nights of Villjamur

THIRTY-TWO

The garuda flight lieutenant collapsed on the tiled floor of one of the highest-level rooms in Balmacara, a misshapen heap of ruffled feathers and shattered armour. Blood speckled his white facial plumage, and his arms quivered as he tried to regain an upright position. Today, Chancellor Urtica couldn’t be bothered with such drama.

‘What’s your news, flight lieutenant?’ Urtica resumed his meal of oysters and mussels as he regarded the sprawling form of the bird-soldier dispassionately.

The garuda crawled a little nearer to the fire, leaned up against the wall of the hearth so that the flame cast quick-moving shadows across his sharp features. Urtica looked up again.

Forgive me, chancellor, the soldier began in hand-talk. It has been a long flight from the war zone.

‘Get on with it.’ Urtica motioned with his fork for the soldier to continue.

Chancellor, I fear I bring bad news. The garuda’s gaze darted about with fear.

‘Well, I assume our occupation of Varltung has not been easy then?’

The garuda made a strange sound. Our forces never found the opportunity to advance by longship as planned. It appears that our invasion force was defeated by the ice. The army therefore had to progress by foot, but the ice was too weak to support them, sir, it collapsed under their weight. Many of them died during the night in the freezing waters. After that, local tribesmen came light-footed from across the island of Varltung, but our commanders would not accept their aid.

Although inwardly fuming at this devastating news, Chancellor Urtica managed to maintain an air of calm. ‘Tell me of these losses.’

We have only a few hundred men left from an initial force of four thousand.

‘Only a few hundred,’ Urtica mumbled, finally rising from his chair. This was an embarrassment beyond belief. He approached the hearth and reached for a metal poker, began to slash at the fire, sending sparks showering upwards. As the overseer of military assignments, this was an extreme and personal humiliation. Men could easily be replaced, couldn’t they, but such a failure would haunt his reputation eternally.

‘Well, we must take that island no matter what,’ the chancellor said. ‘I will not have the Jamur Empire suffer defeat. I will not allow it. Whatever it takes, it must be ours, d’you hear?’

He wafted the poker around the garuda’s head as he spoke, but he wondered why he bothered to lecture a dumb, valueless soldier. He wondered then of what message the Council would have to issue to the people. He could see what to put on the news pamphlets: a Varltung massacre of our brave fighters in the ice, a vicious terrorist atrocity, savage barbarism on our democratic collection of nations… Such sentiments, he realized, would even provide an excuse for an all-out campaign to control more resources during the Freeze.

‘Get some rest, flight lieutenant,’ Urtica ordered, resuming an illusion of calm. ‘Soon I’ll be expecting you and your fellows to fly out from the city with instructions for reorganizing every soldier we can spare. Soon, everyone available will be marching eastwards for a concerted attack on those Varltung bastard tribes. There’ll be no prisoners taken – I want every adult male on that island killed, every boy decapitated. Towns to be burned to the ground. So go rest now. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day for you.’

Yes, chancellor. The bird-soldier pushed himself fully upright, then staggered out of the room.

As soon as he had gone Urtica hurled the poker across the chamber. Two servants came in to investigate, but Urtica dismissed them with insults.

This military loss was almost as embarrassing as losing Imperial territory. What would people think of him – and of the Empire he now piloted?

Just at that moment, in the midst of his paranoia, Councillor Delboitta entered the room. In her skinny old hands was a document that might at least relieve his stress temporarily. He studied her gaunt features, those prominent cheekbones, highlighted by the fire light. A few strands of grey hair tinged her otherwise black hair.

‘Chancellor Urtica.’ She spoke in a crisp, precise way, a woman who made you listen carefully to every syllable. She had heaved the Quercus wood door shut behind her, leaving the two of them in total privacy. ‘Magus Urtica – may I call you so here?’

‘Yes, but only quietly,’ Urtica said. ‘Even the walls have ears – this is a government building after all…’

She was a handsome woman of nearly fifty years whose husband, also an Ovinist, had died three years ago.

‘What d’you have for me, then?’ He guided her to the table. ‘Some oysters?’

‘Thank you, but I’ve just eaten.’ She unrolled the parchment well away from the food, then held it in place with a couple of wine glasses. They both leaned in close, little telltale suggestions in their breathing. So he hoped.

She indicated first the ancient runework inscribed on the document, and the correct stamps to indicate the authenticity of it. It was an order, ultimately, that would confirm the ascension of Urtica to Emperor. It made Rika out to be a mass murderer. This would then be delivered to the starving refugees in the form of largesse. They would hopefully die in large numbers, and cease to be a damn burden. All traces of Imperial failures: gone.

‘Perfect,’ Urtica breathed, allowing his gaze to drift down the ancient letter-craft, the runes and seals so true to the Villjamur standard legal documents that it seemed impossible to know it was forged.

‘When will you get their names on this?’ Councillor Delboitta looked up at him wide-eyed, as if she worshipped him and would do anything for him – or at least he liked to believe that.

Urtica wanted as few people as possible knowing he would forge the signature himself, but she was Ovinist. She was on his side. ‘I’ll add their signatures on this before the sun sets tomorrow. I’ve been spending some time studying their handwriting, so it shouldn’t take too long. Then I’ll present it to the Council.’ Urtica’s pride swelled at his own ingenuity.

‘And you’re sure the Council will accept such a claim?’ Delboitta’s eyes positively glistened as she gazed intently into his face.

He knew of the secret numbers of Ovinists in influential positions. There were enough politicians who were promised positions of power, enough men and women seduced by rewards to commit to his schemes; guards were under his influence, Inquisition officers freely accepted his coin, and where cash hadn’t done the trick, he’d lined up plenty of Caveside gangs to intimidate anyone who might get in his way and give them something to think about. Everything was in place.

After taking supreme office he would initiate his schemes, an inchoation for more aggressive politics. Control over the means of production would be given to only the most profitable landowners. Slavery would be extended for greater productivity. Those at the very top would be rewarded handsomely. The Empire’s wealth would flourish.

‘I have made more than enough preparations…’ He trailed off, remembering his military defeat. He would divulge that in time, and ascertain a way to blame it on the Empress’s strategies. ‘And then we’ll arrest them, the Empress and her sister,’ he said. ‘Perhaps best at the Snow Ball, so that every gossiping bitch and bastard inside this building will immediately start spreading the news. I want her deposed quickly and… well, I see myself as a likely elected candidate to replace her, don’t you think?’

Delboitta grinned her agreement with impeccable teeth. She then reached up, caressing his cheek, followed her hands with her lips. ‘Does this mean,’ she whispered, moving her palm to his groin, ‘that you’ll let me please you, Emperor Urtica?’

For a moment he couldn’t work out which was the bigger turn-on: her suggestion, or his future title.