End of Empires - N3S III

FAQ on Kingdom of Parthe

Balls.

FAQ on Serkos
Wait, you said we did what to your ships?

Prologue: Our New Council

The Bay of Spitos, a beautiful sight for the citizens of the Aortai Republic. When the light appeared every morning to shine upon our beautiful land and sea, the council met in the Halls of Avra, a vast yet largely barren residence where all important and non-important decisions were made. Nihsay was the daughter of one of the council officials named Diavros, and like any other citizen of the Aortai Republic, Nihsay was encouraged by her father and other councilmen to give input on all matters.

"The Daharai have always overshadowed us, the diplomatic envoys led my brother have yet to return!" yelled Nihsay. The rest of the citizens whispered amongst each other after hearing of the missing envoy. "We want our sons and daughters back!" screamed one citizen. The council was startled, and yet also mystified at the distraught Aortians who gathered at the halls that morning. "Please hold your tongue and stop inciting others, Nihsay!" yelled Diavros as he witnessed his young daughter fall into tears. The elections were delayed that day, not surprising as many people who showed up just simply walked away or made snide remarks when it was announced that the council had to reconvene for a secret meeting.

Later that night

"It's over, my little princess has revealed everything about the disaster that has befallen us" said Diavros. A very young councilman who was only 30 days into his 3 month term stood up. "Nothing, and I mean nothing can be kept secret in our Republic. Information must be given to the people truthfully! No emperor, king, prince, or duke has power over the council" said the young man. Diavros nodded slowly and whispered "our tradition... our tradition." A few other councilmen stood up to offer advice, none of which ended up being particularly helpful or motivating. The new elections were ultimately going to have to happen with or without the full envoy of merchants, mercenaries, admirals, and generals present in the Halls of Avra.

Back at the estate of Diavros

Nihsay wandered into her father's chambers "Please father bring back my brother, I promise I will never make remarks to him about being too introverted again." "My little girl, you have yet to realize that my power is not equal to that of our neighbors, nor can any more power be granted to me by the Gods of Athis" responded Diavros. Nihsay than kissed her father goodnight before returning to her chambers.

Next Part: The council election results, what happened to the diplomatic envoy, what will the immediate future hold for Nihsay.

Parceala Compound, Naesre, Maehoui Roshate, Faraghir i'Karghae
912 SR (Other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7)


“Ugh…what the hell?!”

The sun shone brightly through the door, somewhat too brightly for Saer in this condition. The night before, he had taken Pahal out on the town in an attempt to get his mind off of Aer’s absence. It had worked, at least as far as Saer recalled. They had gone down to the Ghenthiere District, near the harbor, and had drunk a few cups of wine. Or perhaps a few jugs…regardless, they proceeded to enjoy a night of merriment and debauchery, having had to outrun the city guard at least twice. Of course, Pahal’s position would have gotten them out of the trouble, but there was so much fun to be had in the chase. They had also encountered some bawdy Faro wenches, and though Saer had been quite successfully flirting with them, in the end he took his leave of them, deciding not to abandon Pahal. He could, after all, visit them on some later date; he recalled that they said they were going to be in town for a month. From there Saer’s memory became fuzzy. In no particular order, he remembered attempting to steal a Parthecan ship, urinating on the steps of Sahres Gaerala’s villa, and having a first-blood duel against some dangerous-looking Halyrman; a Gallatene, if he remembered correctly, and a member of one of their orders – the Sadorishi, perhaps? He hadn’t been so tough in the end, whoever’s lackey he was, and he would carry that scar on his shoulder for some the rest of his life. Saer hadn’t meant to cut so deep, but in his drunkenness he lunged forward a fraction of an inch further than he had intended.

After all of this madness, he had escorted Pahal back to his villa, as the jabralah’s son was far less able to hold his liquor. On the way, Saer heard much about Aer, and quite possibly much more than he had ever wished to know. And yet even at that time, Saer did not feel burdened, and not only because Pahal was his closest friend. Saer knew that one day he would be Pahal’s Ratarghane i’Jabralah – the commander of his household guard. Ratarghane positions were typically inherited, and Saer’s older brother would inherit their father’s position as Ratarghane i’Rajabralah to Sahres Parceala. However, as fate would have it, Szaebalar uin Parceala’s Ratarghane i’Jabralah was infertile, and upon seeing how close friends Pahal and Saer had become, Szaebalar had decided that Saer would be Pahal’s Ratarghane. It was both a blessing and a curse; the two friends, already inseparable, now could look forward to working together as adults. What haunted Saer however was the fact that in the end, though they treated one another as equals, the value of his own life would never be equal to the value of Pahal’s.

None of this was on Saer’s mind at the moment however, as his head pounded and his stomach felt about ready to empty itself. As the room came into focus, he saw that he had been awoken by his mother calling his name. Tyffi d’ule Paghaerata was a petite woman, but within the Paghaerata household she was a commanding presence. She was no mere trophy brought back by Saerhun’s father, Thiaghan ule Paghaerata. In Cyve, Tyffi had trained to be a Professor of the Faith, and she had yet to find a worthy opponent for debate in Naesre.

“Saerhun!”

Saer, for the first time this morning, finally fully registered his mother’s voice.

“Saerhun, have you forgotten what is happening today? Your father is waiting for you!”

By the Light, the Targhane i’Rajabralah! Saer recalled with horror that today his father was taking him in, just for the day, as a part of Sahres Parceala’s household guard, something that was supposed to be a special treat. This morning, however, there seemed to be no greater burden. The thought of attending the Sahres in this condition filled Saer with dread and shame.

“Saer! Get up!”

“Yes, mother!”

Saerhun finally sat up, rubbed his eyes, and realized that his throat felt drier than the Szahae.


Keeping his stomach in line proved to be quite the struggle as he followed his father astride Airan. Almost late already, they met with Sahres Parceala and the rest of the Targhane i’Rajabralah just outside the Sahres’ villa. Including Thiaghan, Saer counted ten guards attending the Sahres. In addition, Szaebalar uin Parceala, the Sahres’ brother, was present along with his own Targhane i’Jabralah. Saer was unsurprised that Pahal was not accompanying his father today, for even at the best of times Pahal was uninterested in politics, and Saer rather doubted that he was even awake yet. As the Sahres and his entourage began to proceed along towards the Palace of Statues, Saerhun fell in alongside Szaebalar. He had seldom spoken with Pahal’s father before, and was surprised when the jabralah spoke to him first.

“Was it you who took Pahalar out last night, Saerhun?”

Saer was rather taken aback by the directness of this question, but he quickly figured out how to spin it in his own favor. “Yes, Lord Szaebalar, but it was also I who returned him safely to your home afterwards.”

Szaebalar smiled. “Do not be so assured of your success in returning him safely; I must have heard him vomit three times last night. Perhaps I should have taken more steps to teach that child to drink responsibly.”

“I can sympathize, my Lord; I have spent years trying to teach him. It seems that heavy drinking simply does not agree with him.”

“As his future Targhane then, should it not be your responsibility to stop him from reaching such a point?”

“If he desires to drink, who am I to deny his will? I can merely attempt to mitigate the aftermath.”

“True enough, Saerhun. I suppose you may as well become accustomed to saving his life now.”

Saer was weighing whether or not he should respond to the snide tone he detected in the jabralah’s words when he realized that the company had already reached the base of the Palace of Statues. The party continued up the steps to the palace still astride their steeds, as horses were allowed everywhere except for the throne room itself. At the top of the stairs they came under a long marble archway. Curiously, Saerhun noticed that along the sides there was a series of empty pedestals, perhaps twenty in total. At the far end there stood one lone statue.

“Do you know why these pedestals are empty, Saerhun?”

“No, Lord Szaebalar, I do not.”

“They stand as a testament to failure. Not one man’s failure, but an entire Succession’s. You see, this palace was built by the Aghrali Roshes. Their statues used to stand here, though even in their time it was not full. They built this palace with the future in mind, though it is rather unfortunate for them that they did not treat their rule with the same foresight. The Agrhrali Roshes allowed themselves to be swept up in the tides of their times. They did not rule; they were too enamored with the pleasures which their power could bring them. That is why we needed the Pearl Chamber; we needed men who cared about the realm and her people. In the end, the Aghrali were consumed by their decadence, and their reign over Sira is naught but a quickly fading memory now. When Rosh Maehoula came to power, he had the Aghrali statues torn down, and placed one of his own father over there, who he posthumously credited as the founder of his Succession. You see, Saerhun, in the end the Succession is all there is. As individual men, we live and then we die, inhabiting this world for only a short time. Those who came before us in the Succession have built the foundations upon which we stand; all we can do is build higher for those who come after us. Even Aitah understands the importance of the Succcession, as each of her incarnations learns from those who came before and leaves something more for those who come after.”

“And what of your own Succession, my Lord?”

“It is in good hands with Kaghalie, I believe. She has the ability to look beyond the present, to build with an eye towards the future. Pahalar is too excitable to be able to build upon our Succession, but I have hopes that he will build something all his own; he certainly has the energy for it. He could go far in this Chorus of Aelome; it is perhaps wise of you to attach yourself to him. Serving him may serve you quite well indeed.”

The company finally reached the end of the archway, and attendants took their horses as they dismounted and tied them to nearby columns. Saerhun continued alongside Szaebalar as they walked through the grand entrance to the throne room. The room was all marble, with gold trim, and the five Rajabralahs of the Pearl Chamber who had already arrived were seated on their chairs, which faced the throne. Upon a platform high above the rest of the court stood the Rosh’s Throne, upon which sat Rosh Maehoula himself. This was a rather unusual occurrence, as the sovereign’s gout made his journey to the throne a Javanian task in itself. Saerhun also noticed the Barosh and Heir to the Succession, Aoulghaerir ouh Ighaerala, seated on the Second Throne, which rose to half the height of the Rosh’s. To his left too he saw that the Wards of Naesre and Alemade were also in attendance. Before Saer could speculate about why this meeting was so well attended, Rosh Maehoula called the session to order. “In the name of my Succession, all those who came before and all those who will come after, I call upon the Pearl Chamber for their wisdom with regards to the matter of the Chorus of Aelome.”

The six of the Chamber did not even need to speak among themselves, as Sahres Parceala rose immediately to give the Chamber’s recommendations. “It is the opinion of the Pearl Chamber that the Chorus of Aelome must be divorced from the state, for those who will join it must know that they serve only the Light. Should our revered Wards-” he nodded to Nahrata and Ogharala “-spread among the Faithful news of the Chorus, we have little doubt that men – including wealthy jabralahs and merchants – will commit their entire fortunes to this holy cause. We need not dip into your treasury, my Rosh.” The rest of the Pearl Chamber nodded in agreement.

“Very well, I shall take your recommendations into consideration.” The Rosh’s words were in the end empty, and all in the room knew it. The Chamber’s recommendations were not recommendations – they were commands, and if the Rosh desired to keep his high throne he would not deny them. The rest of the meeting was consumed by more mundane affairs, including land disputes between jabralahs in the Peko and continued plans to move the Azadi Arch into Naesre. After only an hour, the Sahreses and their immense retinues filed out of the throne room with much pomp and circumstance, most of these hundreds having done nothing of value except being present. This time Saerhun initiated a conversation with Szaebalar.

“So, it seems that the Chorus is going to become a reality. Pahalar will no doubt be elated at this news.”

“Indeed he will, Saerhun. Neither of you should think that this work will all be glorious though. When you’re not at war, you will be going from end to end of the Faraghir, working tirelessly to spread the Light to our sister realms.”

Rather than letting this deter him, Saer began to daydream about a life of travel, with a girl in every port in the Faraghir. Boys in Naesre often wondered at this prospect; “Lancing the Five,” they called it. Realizing that this boyhood dream may yet come true, Saerhun was more excited to join the Chorus than ever.

“It is doubtless a difficult Path which Pahalar and I shall tread, Lord Szaebalar.”

Unassociate
Fugitive
Interlocutor

The first thing you should know about us is that there are Interlocutors and then there are Interlocutors (I'm simplifying greatly for your benefit, of course). The first category are the ones you know, the ones everybody knows. They sweep into town with their great white cloaks and a glittering entourage and hold court over all, dispensing justice and wisdom from on high and rooting out evil wherever it may lie; the all-seeing eye of Concourse! Those are the ones that make the people ooh and aah to see them, and make the Orders quake in their boots because they know Sirasona's judgment has arrived. Oh, they're dramatic and imposing and brilliantly illuminated for all the world to see. But, as Irot told me early in my tenure, you need the brightest lights to cast the darkest shadows. And that's where we live, you see, those of us who fall into the second category of Interlocutor: the deepest, darkest shadows. We're the ones they tell stories about, but no one quakes at our arrival, or gasps to see our splendour, because they never know we were there. Well, that's the theory, anyway; we're sadly not infallible. Luckily I never had any illusions on that front; Berak's untimely end made sure of that.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the second kind of Interlocutor. Concourse likes to pretend the world is simple, bright and easy, but they only get to do that because we're slogging through the muck, doing everything we can to make it simple. Why bother with all the fuss and expense of a formal investigation, when you can just pinch the books and see if your guy's skimming? Isn't it better for everyone if the dark horse Piriveni win an election in Riffenda, no matter the actual vote count, instead of having Sadorishi and Alonites brawling in the streets? Of course it is. Theft, bribery, spying, blackmail, sabotage and assorted other dirty tricks, that's what we deal in. And, yes, sometimes assassination. If one guy snuffing it'll save a thousand, you've got to do it, right? The more lurid stories are exaggerations – or at least as far as I know; I suppose it's possible that someone once managed to wipe out a town all by himself, but I've never heard of it – but sometimes a guy needs to be dead, and when that happens we're the ones who make him dead.

I'd not been one for long, at that point. Actually, I'd hardly been one at all; after that night outside Perena Irot had lugged me straight off to Sirasona, snuck me me into Seniar through some secret entrance (blindfolded, if you can believe the indignity) and presented me to the Vialocutor for approval. I didn't know it at the time, but if he'd said no I'd have disappeared that night, throat slit and dumped in an unmarked grave. Happily for yours truly, he said yes, and that was that. I was somewhat disappointed in the whole affair, really: I mean, they tell you you're being inducted into the ranks of Concourse's top-secret enforcers, you expect a little ceremony, right? Not to make a fuss, but a bit of chanting and some ceremonial wine wouldn't have gone amiss, maybe some dark robes and a meeting under moonlight. But no, they just handed me the pendant and that was that. I asked about training and they laughed at me. It was the only time I ever heard Irot really properly laugh. Interlocutors – or at least our sort of Interlocutors – aren't trained, he told me – once he'd recovered, anyway – they're made, shaped by the world and then plucked out by Sirasona for the tasks they're most suited for.

What task was I most suited for, I hear you ask? Well, apparently I'd rather impressed Irot. I reckon I actually must have attracted their attention ahead of time, what with Berak following me and all, and Irot certainly seemed to know a lot about my previous career. Never got an answer out of them about that weird business with the statue, though; honestly I'm not sure Irot knew himself. That's something you have to get used to, here: they don't tell you a damn thing about what any of your colleagues are doing. I thought Artal had run a tight ship, but he was a sieve compared to these people. Safer that way, of course, but still damned annoying. Anyway, as I said Irot apparently thought quite highly of me. Berak had been a top fixer, I gathered, one of the ones who got a lot of independence: when Sirasona really needed something to go right, his name was very high on the list, and otherwise he got to do as he liked. And I'd been tapped as a possible replacement. The penalty for failure – assuming you even survived the failure – was severe. No pressure, right?

So, the first thing they'd had me do, my trial run, if you will, was to keep tabs on a visiting Aelonist professor. I got excited at first: I was expecting spying, skullduggery, all that shine. Didn't last once I saw the guy: a fat, sweaty, perfumed pederast. I mean, I'm not one to judge on that sort of thing, but it's in slightly bad taste to bring your toy with you everywhere, don't you think? He was no one's idea of a spy, and wasn't even trying to be sneaky. I figured they'd just wanted to make sure that I wasn't a total idiot, and honestly I was more than a bit insulted. Watching a fat guy eat cake all day isn't my idea of a good time, so three days in, after the mark had gone down into the bowels of the Saepulum (I slipped one of the Eskarites a couple of drenons to keep tabs on him, before you ask) I decided I'd had enough. Someone must have been watching me watching him, so I spent a couple of hours unobtrusively trying to pinpoint him. That done, I got the drop on my watcher – it was Irot, of course, done up like an old woman; a convincing one, too – and told him I'd had enough. This was apparently the Right Thing to do. I got sent back to my room, and the next day Irot showed up to give me a real job. There was a certain noble in Anhalter who'd been giving our guys some trouble – he was one of the new crowd in with Bradar, and enjoying throwing his newfound weight around – and Sirasona had decided that it would be very nice if he were to be discredited. So, off I went northwards, on my own this time, with a bag full of silver and sneaking suspicion that Anhalter was going to be cold and rainy.

As it turned out, I got lucky on that front. It quite a pleasant spring up in Stetin country, warm and dry and everything looking very pretty. The people, though, ugh. Bumpkins is the word that comes to mind. I'd heard the stories, but they don't really prepare you for the reality. No wine, horrible beer, horrible food, and a suspicious overabundance of sheep. Still, made my job easier – not exactly worldy sophisticates and masters of intrigue up there – so I shouldn't complain. And I will admit that Elsich has a certain rustic charm, with the lake shining in the sun and green hills rising above it and cool breezes blowing in on a sunny afternoon.

So, the trip to Elsich went by without incident, though with a great deal of discomfort, and I fortuitously got there just in time to witness Cancar Sadei, my new best friend, arrive in the capital from his own estates. Made a great showy entrance, and then trooped straight off to the citadel to see the king. Pretty promising, I thought; vain is good. Honestly, though, I didn't have any sort of plan. I'd done this sort of thing before, of course, ruining reputations for fun and profit, but against Raelites or Piriveni or other similarly uptight types. Sexual impropriety was always my go-to there, but up here in Aelonist country I had a notion that whatever I ginned up on that front, even if it involved sheep, would just get Sadei a slap on the back and a round of drinks. Lacking any better ideas, I decided to lay low for a few days, scope things out.

It turned out that Sadei had a bit of a reputation, and not a completely savoury one. Ruthless social climber, if you know the type, and not at all afraid to step on toes to get where he wanted. I'd been sent on behalf of Sirasona, but there were plenty of Athsarion types nursing sore feet too. Unfortunately for me and everyone else who might have wanted to put him in his place, the man was Bradar's bosom companions – and, according to rumour, quite fond of his other bits too. I thought I'd got something there for a second, but then I remembered: Aelonists. Practically joined at the hip, Sadei and the king were, and that made things worse, cause the damned man never went anywhere but the citadel and his mansion: no chance of any bar-room brawls or such. I got into the citadel a few times, watched him at work. He was practically operating as the king's vizier, it seemed. That sort of bond'll do that for a guy's fortunes, I guess. In my experience, however, there's no amount of trust that can't be overcome with enough gold, and that's when I decided what I ought to do.

A couple of days later, a rich Ethiri nobleman came to town, name of Edarros, with a bunch of Parthecan money he was ready to burn. If they'd thought to check, the Anhalter boys would have found that there was no noble family of that name anywhere in Ethir, but they didn't bother, at least not yet. Throw on a bit of glitz and brazen it out and you can pass as just about anyone. Anyway, this Edarros blazed into town, made sure everyone knew he was there, and requested an audience with the king to discuss a mutually profitable financial arrangement. Obviously Bradar can't meet with just anyone, but also obviously he can't afford to offend any Ethiri just now. Consequently he arranged for Edarros to meet with, you guessed it, dear old Sadei, to vet him. Whatever his...other talents might have been, Sadei wasn't a very good judge of character. It only took a flash of coins and a conspiratorial air to convince him to report back that Edarros was on the level, and to convince Bradar to let him handle the Ethiri.

Annoyingly, Sadei wasn't all that greedy. The man liked stuff, sure, and the money that buys stuff, but he wasn't rapacious enough to just swindle the king. On a brighter note, he wasn't all that bright. Edarros told him that he'd got contacts with certain Tehavi men in Krsh, and that there was the potential for a considerable sum of gold to disappear from Krsh's vaults and magically materialize on the other side of the Haidali, with no trace of what happened in between. Sadei demanded proof, of course, so Edarros left for a couple of weeks and came back with a Krsh ingot and a Tehavi seal – being able to just get that sort of thing was a new and intoxicating experience. Well, that was that; bona fides established, Sadei and Edarros got down to brass tacks. Obviously some seed money would be required for the bribes and the transport and the making sure the mountain folk didn't eat us – that was why Edarros had come to Elsich at all – but Sadei eagerly assured me that the king would come through. In the end, we figured on moving five hundred thousand drenons worth of gold, at the cost to Anhalter of fifty thousand and to Edarros of ten thousand. Edarros got ten percent off the top, and the rest went straight to Anhalter. Edarros assuming all the risk, Anhalter getting most of the reward; how could he say no? And so he didn't.

It took some weeks for Sadei to scrounge up the silver; had to be sure it couldn't be traced to Anhalter, Edarros insisted, and that made things a bit tricky. But he managed it in the end. It was a motley collection of Cyvekt, Piriveni and Parthecan coinage, but it was all old and all circulated; the kind of stuff that you could drop in large quantities and not raise any eyebrows. Edarros took it, took a couple of reliable porters with him to cart the stuff, and promised to be back with the gold in no time. And then he never came back. Weeks passed, and eventually Sadei started to get a little antsy. Some more weeks passed, and Bradar started asking questions, and poor old Sadei couldn't answer them. Yet more weeks passed, and men reported back from Krsh and Ethir that no one had ever heard of anyone called Edarros, and now things were getting really hot in Elsich, and not just because it was summer. When fifty thousand just strolls off and disappears, even bumpkins get curious. There was an inquest, the king himself looking over it. They couldn't find the money, they couldn't find Edarros, and naturally enough suspicion began to turn to Sadei.

Well, Sadei knew he hadn't done anything wrong, except maybe get taken by a swindler, so he defended himself energetically, opened up his house and estates, invited all and sundry to come see that he didn't have the damned money. And he didn't. Unfortunately, he did have a record book, and there was a rather curious and cryptic entry in it that he swore he hadn't made. Well, one thing led to another and soon enough Bradar's men found a trail of quiet transactions that led them to a nondescript tavern outside Dara, which had recently been bought, or so the owner said, by the factor of an anonymous noble, going by the name of Edarros. And in the basement of said tavern, what should they find but forty seven thousand drenons in assorted silver, and instructions for seeing to its deposit at the Piriveni branch in Gesta into the account of one Cancar Sadei. Sadei swore he didn't have an account with the Piriveni, but the Piriveni said otherwise. Well, it was pretty much an open and shut case at that point: last I heard Sadei had been attainted and exiled – his tongue hadn't been skillful enough to save him from the unanimous condemnation of the court. His lands and property got taken by the crown, so it wasn't quite the ideal outcome, but Sadei wasn't going to be bothering any more Maninists, and Bradar was generally much easier to deal with, so I figured it was acceptable.

I, meanwhile, strolled off down the road back to civilization, carrying a somewhat larger purse of silver than I'd started with, and generally feeling better about things than I had since before this whole mess got started. If it was all going to be larks like that, I thought, then this gig was an improvement over my former situation.

When I got back, they told me Irot was dead. He got captured on some overseas job and took poison to keep from talking. Nothing like a jolt of reality to bring you down to earth.

The King and the Prince

-

~ Deep in ancient palaces, by the winding old canals
the serpent slithers restlessly, under eyes of ancient gods

~ Dzotan the Poet

-

Tiagho was a great city, even in this the age of princes, where no Emperor reigned over the Dulama and a score of squabbling Kings held court over the remnants of ages past. Tiagho was wealthy and prosperoud, and filled with wonders. The west canal which was dug around the old city was as beautiful and serene as ever, the flowering trees and water gardens that lined its tricking waters still gave solace to those who walked that way, poets and peasants, priests and even on occasion Kings. Likewise even in the heart of the city the great markets still were filled with merchants calls, laughing children and a thousand foreign tongues all proclaiming with their tongues to the glory of Tiagho, which surpassed even Dula the great, with its four quarters, in prosperity and wealth.

Yet as Heisai, prince and governor walked towards the Kings palace, escorted by guards bearing the sign of the serpent and servants with heads bowed low. He could not help but think that the ancient aedifice, built long before the rise of Dula and carved of grey stone all about with serpents and intertwined figures of what could be men, with signs and things that appeared like phantasmic apparitions from the tormented dreams of the ancients, that all of Tiagho's glories were of the past. Tiagho was blessed with ancient pyramids, ancient palaces, ancient trees by ancient canals, and filled with ancient markets set up day after day on ancient streets. Even the palace of the Vithanama Redeemers, young by Tiaghama standards at a few centuries old and retrofitted as the seat of the bureaucracy bore the mark of days long past. The crows, standing vigil upon the ramparts of the palace gates like black-cloaked sentinels standing watch over a dying corpse, beady eyes staring down at all the human ants that crawled about their meaningless endeavours, in their ceaseless cawing seemed to say it best.

old... old... old.

Arriving at the palace gates, the royal guards, clad in gilt-bronze and holding aloft swords of brazen steel and banners of emerald green bearing the sign of the golden serpent consuming its own tail, heard none of this however. To them like most of the nobility high and low who held court under the gaze of the serpent king, the unchanging majesty of the city, with its antique charm was something to pick over like a bone, or perhaps an interesting curio purchased from some Trahana merchant peddling the latest innovation in style from the southern Empire. In their great houses and estates they dined on spiced fare and talked over endless cups of sweet wine of the glory of Tiagho, of the beauty of Tiagho, of the legacy and traditions that have been passed down and will be passed down forever. To them ambition was to reclaim some ancient glory, not to build something new. They saw the city and saw vitality, seeing not that it was like a man past its youth, its life slowly ebbing away. Thus the reason why he had come, for the hundredth time it seemed, before the throne of King Fionnach, he with the impassive gaze and some called soulless. Heisai was certain that Tiagho must become new again if was to prosper, and its King must stir from his impassive serenity if he was to lead the charge into a golden future.

"Apologies Lord Heisai"

One the bureaucrats who increasingly populated the palace halls ever since the reign of King Aidreann bowed low to the prince. Scholars always seemed to accrue where rich men funded their endeavours. At least Fionnach put them to work rather than having them write a thousand treatises which would never see the light of day...

"His Majesty is currently in a military council meeting, if you could wait in the the audience hall His Majesty will receive you in due measure"

The Prince smiled, one couldn't help but be amused at being made to wait like a common merchant queuing in a bid to gain trading rights. "I shall be glad to await His Majesties attention"


---


An hour had passed, and Heisai paced the hall as his mind returned to the one who he was here to meet. Impassive he might be, but Heisai could remember a far from soulless smile in the Kings eyes when he burnt his foes alive on the night of flames. His brother might have taken care to avoid breaking the dictates of the Church, but Heisai saw in the ecstatic glint in his eyes that he considered the burnings as a sacrifice to Otatechatlezinti, the great god of life, Opporia in defiance of the ancient enemy Techatlemicozin, the great god of death who since the beginning has been the enemy of the Dulama people. Perhaps he thought that through fire their souls might be spared...

No, his brother was not soulless, but driven with purpose and filled with pious belief in the rightness of his intentions. Like a player on a stage, or perhaps some ancient Vithanama redeemer wearing a smiling mask, he presented a facade to his court, but behind the image with its serenity and cold indifference, was not a void, but a man. Fionnach was the same boy who he had known from childhood and sparred swords with in the court of his father, who read books speaking of the great achievements of the past, and who enjoyed his tea with cardamom and sugar-water. Footsteps entered the hall, guards in golden raiment and behind them the King, his golden countenance serene as ever, his black rope of a beard specked with grey.

The Prince bowed, the King spoke

"We know why you are here, for we have heard your words before."

"Of course Majesty" Heisai inclined his head "We have ever been the advocate for a more assertive Tiagho"

"Than you should be well pleased, for we have plans afoot and we would hope that you would be a key instrument in their institution."

The King dismissed the guards, who obediently left the room.

"I know brother, that you disdain as static the lack of change and novelty in Tiagho, that you would see us build anew. I know too that you have a strong will to achieve these ends and are undoubtedly loyal"

"Of course brother, a family should stay together after all"

"But change takes time, and greatness requires careful practice and patience to be obtained. We must become strong before we become something other than what we are. Likewise, we cannot disdain our heritage unless we wish to fall into ruin as innumerable predecessors have done. Do you see this brother?"

Heisai smiled and inclined his head, as the King stroked his beard and gave him an inquisitive look.

"Of course, I am your servant to command brother"

"Well then, lets let you in on my intentions. I am sure you will find it quite in line with your own considerations for our realm."

"Something new is it?"

"How could you have guessed! Now how about we get some tea" The King smiled

The Crippled Prince

Part One

Part Two:

“I would not take it even as a freely given gift.”

-Redeemer Marev of the Tephran Exatai, on Atracta

---

The recent past

The woman held a turquoise urn of oil on her head as she walked down the nameless street with the shapes of fishes and eels carved into the gutters, narrow stone houses rising on each side as the air swirled with cooking smoke and autumn pollen and the smell of rising tension. The urn was well carried, and she did not stumble. But she did it with both an excess of grace and a slight awkwardness that would have informed a careful watcher that she was not a woman of this part of the city.

The man standing in the gap between the tannery and the slaughterhouse and blocking the street was dirty, unkempt, clad in torn grey rags that might have once been white. A furrow of concern spread across the brow behind the woman’s mask as she saw this, but she did not deviate from her course. You did not wander into alleys in this quarter. A small crowd had gathered around him, and it was swelling with each passing moment. The woman with the urn of oil on her head found her path blocked, and though she tried to make her way through the crowd, she eventually stopped to listen, half from curiosity and half from traffic.

“Heed!” cried the man, staring at the crowd, his fingers splayed out in a gesture of beckoning. “Heed the Prophecy of the Pure! Taleldil has chosen the Final Oracle, and he is coming.” He said the last few words with desperate enthusiasm.

“Tell him to bring wine!” said an Accan-accented voice from the crowd, and a few people laughed, but more hissed at him.

The rag-clad man pointed a trembling finger at the man who had mocked him. “He will cleanse the corrupted with wind and water, and they will return as pure spirits. And we will build the pure land together, brothers and sisters! Under the rashai, we will never go hungry again!”

A young, gangly man in the red cloth wrap of an Evinai said calmly, “You are a fool. The White ones kill what they call corrupt." He turned to the crowd. "We, this...all corrupt, to them. They would burn our homes and call it justice.”

“Zalkephis SEES, child.” The young Evinai made an angry gesture, called the Zalkephist a ymni and pushed his way back out of the crowd, calling “Esvet!” back over his shoulder as he left, the slogan of loyalty. A few followed him. “Zalkephis will not burn our homes, only those of the the nukiai and their dogs! Then he will take their hidden gold and give it to all!” A few cheers, at that.

“What should we do?” a woman said.

“Prepare. Gather weapons and practice the forms that the red ones refuse to teach us. Tell your children and your brothers and your fathers of the Prophecy. And above all, do not be afraid. Vexas ven atanas, my brothers and sisters! Death is life!”

“Death is life,” several of them replied, though not particularly loudly.

The man filled his lungs with air to cry out again. “DEATH. IS. LI-”

A red-feathered arrow appeared in his chest as if by magic. He looked down at it, puzzled, and two more joined it. A few more arrow shafts flitted almost gently down among the crowd from the rooftops, while a blood-robed figure astride a huge black charger cantered into the middle of the street, accompanied by six armed acolytes. The Red Oracle raised a brass pyramid to his mouth, an artifact of the Sephashim that magnified his voice.

“BY THE MERCY OF THE HIGH PRINCE, YOU WILL DISPERSE. ZALKEPHISM IS DEATH.”

“And death is life!” defiantly replied one of the laborers in the crowd, but his compatriots were already scattering for alleyways in every which direction. The Oracle pointed and his followers surged forward to catch the man as he turned tail and fled with everyone else. The man in rags lay dead, face down in the gutter.

The woman had been slowly edging towards a convenient alleyway herself this whole time, just to hide, only to feel her shoulder brush up against something, and then feel her hands restrained by cold metal gauntlets.

“I am afraid not, Elerri,” said a crisp, clipped voice in her ear. A hood was pulled over her head as she thrashed and struggled; it was filled with something that made her want to sleep...

---

Elerri was suspended by chains from the ceiling. It was not terribly uncomfortable, surprisingly enough. But it was dark, and she could not see a thing. It occurred to her suddenly that although she had lived her whole life a slave, she had never once worn a real chain. Until now.

Some time passed, and then the sound of metal, and a great door squeaking on its hinges.

She squinted as the total darkness of her chamber was illuminated by blinding brightness from the newly opened door. A figure stood there, a black silhouette with the light flooding in from behind him.

“My, my.” As her eyes adjusted to the light, her stomach fell with ultimate dread when she recognized the figure.

A tall and menacingly elegant man swept forward, entirely swathed in a red robe. His mask was pure black, and a ruby the size of a thumbnail was set into the forehead. Two acolytes in gray robes and masks flanked him.

“Is this how they have kept you?” He tutted to himself, walking around her. “What were they thinking? You are no threat.” He ran a thumb down his jawline. “Karshas, Nehil, get her down from that thing.” Once they had complied, he gestured to the door. “Thank you both for your deeds today. Tell Evis to give you some wine.” As they departed, he fiddled with the candles, lighting them. “And leaving you in darkness, as well...you will forgive my men, but they sometimes have a flair for the dramatic.”

He sounded for all the world like a kindly uncle. He was not.

“You are Etadevas,” she said, her voice sounding sick with nausea. “You lead the Eshvai.”

“And you are a woman intelligent enough not to waste my time, Elerri-ta-Kesai.”

“Why bother? You probably already know what days I bleed.”

He chuckled a few times. “My order is not interested in precisely that information. But look at you! Still making quips despite your fear of me. I can see why Idraxis favors you so.”

She looked up at him, controlling the terror. “Idraxis does not favor me.”

He shook his head, slowly. “A woman of your stature, a high ranking slave to the Princes, bearing a false mask to make secret visits to the city.” He paced slowly around, the eyes behind his mask bright. “Do you know the punishment for wearing a false mask?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you were willing to risk it. Why would you do such a thing?”

“Why torture me, if you already know?”

“Because you torture yourself, so.” He grinned. “This little situation fascinates me, you see. Idraxis would free you in an instant if you but asked it. All the information I receive from Vantyris indicates that he is terribly in love with you.”

He paused. “And yet, even though you have a secret lover of your own...you will not leave Idraxis’ service.” He hummed amusedly. “Do you love them both? Or do you fear exile from Vantyris and its security?” He paused in thought. “How…complicated.”

“You can tell me what you want after you have finished playing your own fanfare.”

He moved very quickly, restraining both of her wrists behind her back with some Oracle’s trick. “I am not Idraxis, beautiful Accani.” He placed his fingers on her chin, tilting her neck upwards as she closed her eyes, her arms still pinned by his other hand. “I enjoy cleverness, but you will not disrespect me again if you wish to keep your beauty.” He came close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on the side of her neck as he spoke. “You are my slave now.”

She slowly took a breath, tense as a cornered animal, and did not struggle. “I will not disrespect you again, Kephaliha Etadevas.” She said it with perfect sincerity.

“You are playing a very dangerous game, Elerri...and you will require assistance if you wish to continue playing it.” He released his hold on her and stepped back. “But I do not ask for much.”

“What do you ask?”

“I want you to give me the Crippled Prince.”

---

The present

They let him go.

Idraxis stood there trembling for almost three seconds, like an awkward toddler preparing to take his first step. Then his body lurched, and twisted, and what would have been a step turned into a sideways tumble towards the ground. Had he not hit his good arm, he would have screamed in pain.

“Help me up,” grumbled the chastened Prince.

“It is a poor scholar who learns his old lessons anew each morning,” quoted Elerri.

“Erm...Caraxenis?” guessed Mecci.

“Caracenis,” said Idraxis testily from the carpet. “The one my grandfather debated to death.”

“Clearly the image of the tree is seen in the seed,” quoted Elerri again.

“Yes, I get it, you are the smartest slave in the Exatai and I am unfit to stare at your toes.”

“Oh, but they are beautiful, are they not?” She wiggled them in his face. “Alright, alright. Mecci.”

Together they lifted him up. Linking their arms into a square, they formed a chair for him to sit on, as they had done for years, his arms wrapped around their necks for support.

“We do not have much more time for games,” said Mecci.

Together, they carried him from his bedchamber. These rooms had originally been a guard captain’s quarters, dug straight into the walls that separated Vantyris from Atracta. They were spacious but had no stairs, which were a greater enemy to him than Aitah to Taleldil. Morning light shone in from two narrow windowslits, illuminating the workshop of the Crippled Prince.

In one corner, a copper pipe entering from the ceiling brought water straight from the aqueducts, flowing from the mother pipe into a tracery of small daughters. Water from one streamed into a tiny reproduction of a water mill, its gears turning swiftly and powering a little millstone that spun around and around. This corner contained a number of machines and models. Paper wings stretched over a tiny glider with a framework of delicate springy wood. A water clock clicked softly as gears moved the dial towards the second of day’s nine hours. Some counterweight engine lay half disassembled, a few polished stones lying next to a sling.

The second corner held plants, and the splayed limbs of a rodent pickled in vinegar, its abdomen sliced open. A tiny pipe with a series of controlling spigots dripped water at various predetermined rates onto the plants, mostly a series of citrus crossbreeds. The wall was covered in notes, growth charts, and diagrams of various plant and animal species, neatly labeled in simplified Satar in Idraxis’ own hand.

The third corner was covered in papers. A vast reproduction of one of Fieron’s proofs spread across several pieces of paper, nailed to the wall like some vast, yellowed butterfly. Smaller geometries surrounded them, charcoal occasionally extending the calculations off the paper and onto the wall itself. The desk here contained a tiny model of the Sephashim, and a vast array of architectural and engineering data organized in tables, along with three talkati, the tile-flipping machines that nuccial factors used to make their calculations.

The fourth corner contained a small library. All of the great classics were there: The Beautiful Turns, Slave, The Lay of the Unbowed, Diadem Reforged, The Prime Treatise, The Peoples of Ephis, The Third Exatai. These were relegated to a shelf with a beautiful, hand-carved placard that read ‘peacocks’.

A section was devoted to religious literature, with the Kaphaiavai, the Prophecy of the Pure, and the Saga of Kirost sharing space with Whispers, the Sermons of Risadri, and what looked like a custom-bound collection of the prophecies of all the Aitahs, First through Sixth. Next was law and rhetoric: The Constitutions of The Thirteen Orders took up the most space, for obvious reasons. The Avetid Rule, still the core of Satar legal codes four hundred years after Avetas, lay next to the Matshav, the Treaty of Magha, and several anthologies of speeches.

Finally, there was a shelf labeled ‘Current Reading’. The Coin of the Kern by Yrnaeas-ta-Alusille, Truce in Heaven by an anonymous author commonly suspected to be Talephas, and some obscure treatise on plants by a Daharai monk. Only one popular work rested in this space: The Talani Fragments, by Talan the Elder.

Elerri sighed. “This place is a complete mess.”

Prince Eater

Other Chapters: (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8)

Words: 13,702




Dinner continued far longer than it should, and the wine flowed longer still.

The redder her face the looser her tongue. Wine doesn't whisper lies, it screams truths. Politics held one great deception: there was no opposition, there was only you. If the past taught him anything, it was not the enemy who made mistakes.

She blurted out about all the things she shouldn't have, all the things she believed most. The Alonites laughed at her sloppy jokes and cheered at her provocative manner, but it was hollow. They saw the crumbling castle with every sip, every gulp down her gorgeous throat.

Was she happy or sad? Happy the Accans had undermined her rival or sad for the same? Her face was no clear reflection of her actions, no mirror of her mind. She squirmed in her seat and clutched the pendant in one hand or the other, never releasing it as if she feared it being stolen. Wine flowed over her tongue until it stained crimson. When she'd drunk enough, she slipped a hand seductively over a breast and let out a sweet gasp. And she did worse.

She exclaimed, with no fear in her voice, exactly what she wanted. To f#ck, and she didn't care with who. But that wasn't true, no. She'd made it abundantly clear who she meant. She meant Naevu. And it wasn't for any sane reason. Not for attraction, or personal desire, or a longing to repay a debt, no. Elea wanted to make a statement, a vulgar statement. A petty and wine dimmed statement to Moril Vaban. The statement under any other circumstance would empower her.

He saw the glimmer in her eye, the faded brilliance of a politician knowing full well of her folly. But whether it was the wine or her own desire to never go back on her word, she didn't correct.

And she didn't care who heard. The City of Man held no secrets. The other Orders may have kept to their tables and their conversations, but they heard her and saw her. Every time she rolled her ass on the wooden seat, they saw. Alonites tried too hard to be what everyone called them.

Naevu looked to Three, who sat in blissful ignorance of every conversation. The boy smiled, sipping wine so watered down it couldn't intoxicate an infant. Naevu didn't want to do what came next, but he had to. For the greater good.

He played along to her tune. Throwing out jokes, the worst and most vulgar he could summon from the pits of his fiendish mind, to make them laugh. Anything to distract the idiots from their own mistake, to stumble back toward the Path. He told jokes about Accans in particular, about masks and horses and the true usage of Alxas' mouth. The party threw their heads back in laughter, spilling wine and slapping thighs. So Naevu pulled the Amasir close enough to whisper the terrible truth in her ear, the truth she already knew and regretted. She laughed, almost too eager to maintain the illusion and damn near deafening him in the process. Like a cloth had been pulled from her eyes, she changed. She'd botched again. That thought ran through her mind, crossing her eyes like a punch to the gut. A half second later, she fell back to laughing like a great actress assuming a different role.

A thunderstorm of laughter followed a second round of jokes. Naevu had to be the Aelonist, the stereotype, the untamed pervert, and the villain, all the same. He slapped his hand on her inner thigh, dangerously close to that disgustingly disruptive heat. Even with a belly full of bitter wine she knew his ploy. There were eyes on him as he slipped his palm where it had no business. And he wasn't sure if it was his mind playing tricks or if her body'd actually scalded him. She removed his hand with grace and dignity, asserting her status without a word. That's what needed to happen, for her to take control. That it was him, not her, who initiated, and the Amasir retained her senses.

The wine stopped. So, too, did the lies.

For a woman of her build, Elea Gyldwin held her booze well. When they left the dining hall and passed through the paths he'd walked earlier, she needed no help. She didn't even wobble. Naevu had drank far less and, oddly, couldn't hold himself up without using Three as a walking cane. An invisible force pulled the entourage like wind in a sail. It didn't matter where they went, so long as she led them there.

She called out orders to functionaries behind her. They went to retrieve his things, which were in a well-to-do inn not far from the Seniar. He'd assumed them safe, there, with all the other important faces staying. Men broke off from the entourage kiting behind her, doing as she bid. Some went to other Order heads. Some went to places he knew nothing of, and that was fine. He mostly wanted to lie down somewhere to sleep off the meal and wine.

The streets were awfully thin and disorienting. He felt lost, claustrophobic. The day still lingered, but the sun had set below the Seniar's walls. Lamps had been lit ahead of them, almost magically. But it still felt small and bare, brick after brick. The Order estates, he soon found out, were tucked in the southwest corner, near the wall. The buildings rose up around them three stories, just shy of the height of the Concourse hall and definitely lower than the Saepulum.

Along the wall the Alonites owned an estate. A three story building like the others, plain and orange brick. There was little to it on the outside, and the second and third stories had short balconies and wide shuttered windows. He wondered if he could see the whole of the city from the roof. Lighter colored brick acknowledge a recent remodeling near the entrance. Paint would fix it, but it mattered little in such a cramped alley.

Their backs were protected here. Go in last, she'd told him. And here she lived by that. No one could stab her in the back.

A stained oak door opened for them, luckily opening inward or else it wouldn't have at all. A guard in scaled mail with a polished spear stood at the ready just inside. He eyed Naevu with suspicion, nearly putting his hands on him to check for weapons until Elea waved him off.

The first floor was dim and tightly packed with delicate little rooms of reed wall and curtain doors. In the center a low pit of stone floor with a scattering of cushions served as a lobby where a dozen Alonites dozed or whispered sweet nothings. They paid Elea, and Naevu, no mind. Most of her entourage stayed there, but she pulled him upstairs with Three under his arm. The stairs were gently sloped stained wood, easy on the knees.

Elea had scarce said a word to him the whole way back, and here she said a precious few again. She told him Three would stay on this floor, in an open room. Naevu protested, as did Three when he found out, but she tossed him a sweet pear and ordered a guard to stay with him. There wasn't much else to do. Three's room had a hardwood floor, solid walls, and a shuttered window wide open. Another estate, of which Order he did not know, stood a short leap away. The opposite window was shuttered tight and no light leaked out. Three jumped to the bed, which was far more luxurious than any he'd been in before, and gleefully bit at the pear. Though, his eyes showed concern.

They topped the stairs to the third floor, to her home in Sirasona. Her guard checked the room over, all the balconies and windows, before being excused. The room smelled of fresh fruits and wildflowers. There were no walls or rooms, only the long, continuous chamber of a proper Amasir.

Wooden posts held up the white painted ceiling. The floor beige tiled. She removed her shoes and told him to do the same. The floor was surprisingly warm, as if some contraption heated it from below. A stone topped counter ran along the immediate right. On it, a large bowl full of sweet pears. Must be her favorite, he thought. There was a hole in the counter in which a fitted water basin of crisp copper sat. Over it, a pipe and sprocket.

Elea cut a sharp line to the sink, turning on the water in the same motion. She splashed her face with water, flowing from where he did not know, but sorely wanted to. She let out a long sigh, bending over the counter as the water circled a drain. There were stools along the counter, and beyond the room opened up and continued on past a low table near a balcony. On it an arrangement of flowers sat in a blown glass vase. At the end of the room the largest bed Naevu'd ever seen sat, with a full ceiling of its own and curtains to pull tight around it for privacy. And beside it, a solid piece of stone sculpted into a massive bath with copper piping running directly into it.

Lemdeh had running water, but never so high from the ground. It tickled his mind to find out how it worked.

Elea grabbed a pear, offering him one with a silent gesture. He shook his head. She leaned back on the counter, thumbing the pendant in one hand and rolling a pear in the other.

She brought the pear to her lips, and said, "I apologize." She took a bite, slurping at the juices spilling over her chin. That damnable outfit still draped about her body.

"None required, Amasir," he said, almost instinctively. That was a lie. He wanted her to say it. To be sorry for her actions, for the stupidity she'd shown with a bit of wine wetting her tongue. Naevu walked to the sink to stare at the plumbing.

Elea went to speak, paused to wipe juice from her lips, but decided to take another bite. Naevu turned the sprocket and washed his hands under the ice cold water pouring through. It held pressure, so the reservoir must've been on the roof.

The breeze carried harsh, distant shouting through the room. They looked at each other and walked to the nearest balcony. He'd been right. The floor overlooked the wall and had an unrivaled view of Sirasona and the sea beyond. But now the sun had faded over the horizon, leaving only a hypnotic purple-pink sky in its wake. The streets were full of activity, a mile away or more.

The Accan quarters. Neither of them needed to speak to know that. They could hear the faintest memories of shouts and confrontation down there, in the shadows. Elea's chewing was louder.

"The ship is dangerously close to tipping," said Naevu.

She swallowed. Sharp breath. "Vaban'll be pissed," she said with no humor. Elea took a seat at her table, crossing her legs. The pear's core laid elegantly on the tabletop. "You did well by me, professor."

"Naevu," he corrected. She nodded, tapping fingers on her thighs. Always be careful in another's house.

"Sometimes," she said, rubbing her knee, "I speak before I think. One of my greatest flaws."

Naevu took a seat, pulling his chair near hers. The wine still affected her, but she hid it. He, however, was quickly sobering up to the sound of potential lynching in the streets. They sat and stared at one another in silence, sometimes looking away, but he knew she was thankful for his quick footedness. An hour passed without a word before she spoke again.

"You owe me poetry."

"I do," he admitted. He glanced quickly to the door, thinking only of Three's experience. And of other, darker things. "I. I need to see the child's asleep."

Elea did not protest. He assured her he would return, leaving her seated at the table as he passed through the door to the stairs. He pulled it closed behind him, shrinking in his own body at the weight of the day. The wine blurred his vision but he made it down without breaking his neck.

Three lay on his back, wrapped in the feather stuffed pillows in a makeshift fortress. The boy was awake, though the room was dark. Naevu's eyes adjusted. The guard, a leather armored man with a sword on his belt, sat in a seat by the window, eyeing Naevu like a hawk. A good man.

"He won't sleep," said the guard. Naevu raised a palm to cut him off.

"Why not," he asked Three in Faronun. He stood at the bedside, inspecting the rather well-planned pillow defenses the child erected.

"You said they'd kill us," Three said, sniffling. Adorable and pathetic. He didn't know whether to strike the child or hug him. Either would have worked, he figured. "I-I-I see them in the shadows. Silver masks. They want to cut me, hurt me. What do I do if they come for me?"

Naevu smiled, though he didn't think Three could see in the low light. "You want to know how to kill the Dahaiaou?" The boy gulped, nodding. Naevu leaned in, asking, "What do they say? What're they most proud of?"

Three thought, hard. His eyebrows furrowed and lips curled. He looked to the guard, pensive, then back to Naevu.

"Exatas?" asked the boy.

Naevu fluffed a pillow, making the walls of Three's self-made fortress thicker. He patted the boy on the head, never adding a word. It was awful advice, and he was drunk, but it sounded good.

He found Elea undressed, standing over a chair she'd place at her bedside. She whistled him over, patting the seat with her hand. He approached as she climbed onto the massive bed, on hands and knees. Finally, he thought, this city understands beauty. She quickly wrapped herself in blankets, resting her head on a pillow.

"Speak," she commanded. He did.

He recited his translated poetry, from the beginning. He'd met better minds than his, but few could recall the written word with such mastery. On and on for hours, he told the stories of asexuals and hatred of mothers. All the self-deprecating humor. And when he thought for sure she'd passed into a dreamless, drunken sleep. She would giggle at a Parthecan joke, faint but awake. Her victory set in.

Sirasonan streets grew quieter late into the night. He heard the horn of city guard call from distant neighborhoods, until finally nothing. And the hour was late, far too late. At last, Elea did not stir to his humor. A shame, he thought, for the jokes only got better.

He stood, knees creaking beneath him. Sober. The drink had numbed his sense of smell, it seemed, for he stank of both wine and unpleasant body odors. He traced his hand along the massive tub, inspecting the faucet. A rope on the wall served as some alarm, and before long the tub was filling with steaming water. Tired and reckless, he made the motions of getting in the warm water and soaked in perfumed oils at the tub side. It wasn't long before he'd forgotten about the Amasir, sleeping mere feet away, before he himself dozed in the waters.

A wet slap woke him. Submerged to his neck, still warm bath water all around him. The fading scent of long diluted oils in his nose. He wiped the sleep from his eyes to see the sun high in the sky through the bathside balcony.

Her tanned foot propped on the tub. The cherished honey of her being pressed close to his face. Cinnamon curls, short and groomed, cut back to the bare minimum. Gallatene minimalism applied here, too. Leering where he shouldn't, far too long, he looked up her body. She seemed a giant to him, sitting low in that tub as she stood over him. She wore the pendant. A single moment of pure hatred for every life decision he'd made shot through him like an arrow to the chest.

"Move over," she commanded. "You can wash me if it pleases."

Naevu left the tub in a hurry unlike any other. He simply barked a number of no's, up until he'd wrapped himself in his cloth. She hadn't been serious, or he hoped not, as she emptied the used water down a drain with a loud, spiraling suction that fascinated him. She pulled the rope and refilled the tub, sitting on the edge, legs crossed and unashamed.

She tied her hair up with a blue ribbon, nonchalant. He fumbled about, feeling unusually embarrassed. He smelled food before she mentioned it.

"Breakfast," she said, again not an offer but a command. He had no trouble moving from staring at her . . . rather incredible figure, to the plate of Gallatene style bacon, toasted bread, and what appeared to be the eggs of a rather large bird, soft boiled. "You slept a while," she said, testing the waters and adding oils.

Naevu sat at the table, picking at the meal. His trunk lay on the floor, opened. Its contents were on the counter, and the volume of copied Zeek records was sprawled on the opposite side of the table. Her fingers had bent the upper corners of pages. He groaned.

"I didn't give you permission," he said, too harsh. But then he bit into the toast and smiled.

"Neither did I," she said, slipping into the water. Fair, he thought whilst breaking bits of bacon onto the boiled eggs. "I've had quite a few hours to consider my options. You'll stay here the remainder of your visit."

"Is that-"

"You were right," she cut him off. Elea rubbed her arms and neck with a rag. "A lynching in the Accan Quarter, last night. Vaban is outraged."

"I heard the guard," he added between bites.

She snorted. "You're free to stay here, with me. I'm not going out for a while."

"They'll come to you," Naevu agreed.

About the time she finished bathing and taking her sweet time dressing—in a much less provocative outfit—the messengers arrived. Dozens of them. The Seniar was a hive of activity and Elea had called it right. She was sober, now, and a fair bit more competent. She sent her own men out as fast as they returned, carrying unknown messages to unknown recipients. Naevu didn't spy.

Late afternoon a rather more important individual arrived. Naevu knew him to be Gryfu Hatrach, head of the Sygwinites. He barreled up the stairs and into Elea's chambers like someone had set fire to his feet. By then, Elea paced on the balcony, singing some song under her breath, while Naevu picked at a soft, yellow cake she'd had brought up for him.

A waterfall of sweat rolled from the man's face, which was now redder than a ripe berry. He wore long robes, loose fitting, in a blue-green shade not unlike the harbor waters. If he planned on hiding his contempt at Naevu's presence, he did a poor job of it. Gryfu called to Elea, voice cracking like a young boy's, drawing her attention. When she walked to him, she ran her hand through Naevu's hair. Elea excused Naevu, who took the cake with him.

Gryfu watched him the whole way out, like Naevu'd killed his dog or set fire to his house. Elea's hand pulled the Sygwinite master's focus to her as the door closed. The poor b#stard stayed for hours, well past the setting sun. Naevu spent time on the second floor with Three, working him through another book to touch up on the Karapeshai, since he'd taken such an interest in Satar history overnight. Fortunately, the Alonites kept an assortment of works nearby, the pleasure of knowledge never far from reach. The Lay of the Unbowed might've been too advanced for him, but he championed through.

Gryfu Hatrach walked out in a drunken state. Drunk on what, Naevu couldn't hope to know. When he returned to Elea's chambers, she was undressing again and giggling to herself. Whatever she'd teased him with, it wasn't the real thing. A short leash.

She began blowing out candles, and the room darkened fast. Only the pale yellow light of the moon shined through the balconies. Elea crawled, deliberately slow, on top of the four person behemoth she called a bed. Her hands traced her figure in the shadows.

"Where we left off?" he asked, trying to remember the exact stanza he'd ended on. "It gets better, I assure you." He walked to the chair, still near the bed from the night before.

She shook her head. "A special request." Naevu watched a hand slip between her thighs and stopped walking.

"Amasir," he protested, looking away. This was exactly the sort of behavior he did not need to indulge in.

"I know," she said. He sat in the chair at the bedside. She brushed hair from her face, legs slightly parted, belly flat, and breasts defiantly firm. He looked to the ground, running the poems through his head. "Gryfu isn't a man," she said, sighing. "It takes considerable effort to maintain the image he craves. He sees himself a wolf chasing a scent. But he's a puppy, newborn and fragile. Yipping and whimpering for each and every drop of milk I allow him. In order to convince him I must convince myself." She paused, sliding her hands down her thighs. "That I want him. Need him. That in a short while, when the time is right, all the pent up passion will reach out and grab him. And then he can have me any which way he pleases. But I've become too good, too convincing. My body no longer knows the difference. Do you understand?"

"Yes." More than you, he thought. Nearly three years. He rubbed his eyes.

"I'm not asking you to change," she said. "Do you remember the way Alxas looked at me? The way he commanded me purged? Condemned me to burn?"

"Yes."

"No man has ever spoken to me as he did. Not even Moril Vaban. No one is so confident in their command of me as this prince was then. Not my father. Not any lover. No one. I hated his words. But he offered fire, and a fire he got. Here," she said. He didn't need to see. "Gryfu could never speak to me that way. No man I command could be so honest. I only know of two men I would believe to my core when they spoke to me. One's a prince, set sail away. The other a professor, shying his face."

"What?"

"You told me no, more than once, in fact. I believe you."

"I'll tell you no again," he said, looking dead into her eyes.

"This isn't what you think," she said, leaning up on her elbows. "I don't need you to touch me. I want you to say what Alxas said. You remember that?"

"You want-"

"A special request."

"You want me to recite the most offensive, insulting speech this city has ever heard? So you can pleasure yourself on my words? What do I get out of this? You think because I'm celibate this would be easy?"

"That's why you're so perfect. I want it to be hard. The worse it feels to watch, the more you'll mean it. That anger, that exclusion. I want to feel it in your voice." Her voice quivered, as if realizing the stupidity of her request. "You can sleep in this bed, right here. Plenty of room and a hell of a lot better than the bath." She was sitting up fully now, legs cross and leaning towards him. "My chef'll be yours. Whatever you want, I'll have brought to you. Cakes, clothes, books."

"That was good cake," he admitted. He put a finger to his temple. "Just recite it? I don't. How did it start? Uh." He thought for a moment, remembering until it came to him like a tidal wave of darkness. The words against his Faith cut at his heart.

He said, "Prince of Light."

"No. To my face," she said, lying back on the mattress. It was quickly becoming the most bizarre event he'd ever witnessed. He hesitated, but did slide up onto the bed. Uncomfortable was an understatement. It became pure, tortuous agony. She pulled him closer and closer until his breath was on her face. Did she expect him to shout into her ears?

He started again, but she shushed him. "In Satar. You speak it?"

Naevu nodded. "Sartas-ta-vhai."

Her lips quivered, no, her whole jaw. One hand sank to the pendant, now resting on her chest. The other teased, played, and rolled. Elea sped up as he did. He growled nonsense in her ear, for she didn't know the tongue and he didn't remember the speech. Her back arched, legs thrown out in spasms, toes curled, moans fired from her tongue.

Naevu closed his eyes and thought of cake.

With a great spasm and scream in release, it was over.

"I need a drink," he said, turning away. Whatever had occurred, he didn't like it. But by the time he'd slid off the bed to make for the wine she was deep in sleep. How should he feel about that? He hadn't touched her, but in some way he felt . . .

She slept longer the next morning. He slept well, too, and that concerned him. He woke guilty at the break of dawn to splash cold water all over himself. A seagull flew into the third floor, picking at leftovers on the table. He shooed it away, and Elea turned over in her sleep.

On her side, leg crossed over and hair falling just right on her cheek. Naevu could see all of her. The pendant shined by her breast and sank into the soft blankets. The freckles on her face like a splatter of paint, highlighted by a sleeping smile. Sitting in a chair by the bed, waiting for the sun to hit her just right, he sketched her on a blank page in an empty book—one left over from the archive. He drew the curves of her body. He wasn't half the drawer Aelea was, but they'd learned together.

Sirasona was beautiful, when it tried.

She woke, rather more quiet than before. Did she feel guilty? He finished the sketch and showed it to her. At the bottom he'd written Amasir Elea Gyldwin, in fine script.

He asked her, "Where were you born?" And for four days after, he recorded her memoirs. She came and went some, but mostly she poured her heart into it. It might have been thanks, or vanity, it didn't matter. The sketch, the moment, needed a story attached. That's what he was, what he did.

He told other people's stories.

Battle of the Sandstorm (Nutosak Oso Ringuissa)​

Background: Perhaps there was no more critical point within the Rihnit Invasion of the Naharai than the Battle of the Sandstorm. The Nahari Forces included 1000 infantry while the Rihnit Forces included only 100 Sokoi Uhulaka (hunter companions)*(1), Sokoi (hunters)*(2), and 200 cavalry. This battle should have been an easy victory for the Nahari with their massive numerical superiority. But it was a major upset as the battle was a crushing defeat for the Naharai. This is the story of how it happened…

On an unseasonably hot Nkudala (Winter) Dawn, the sun had started to radiate its heat over the land. Rihnit Commander Armanos then turned around and saw the expressions on his soldier’s faces. They looked, weary, tired, and starving.

He said, “We need to find a place nearby to create an encampment. There’s no way we’ll be able make it to Nitakeo Yah (Citadel Yah) without dying.”
One of the soldiers asked, “Where at commander? We can’t stay here because the sand’s too unstable.”

Then a cloud of dust began emerging towards Armanos Soldiers. When the cloud got closer the shadow of a man on a horse appeared. The soldiers started to ready their bows to fire at the enemy soldier. But Armanos yelled, “Stop! Hold your fire! He’s a scout”

The hunters lowered their bows and then the horseman came to a stop and then dismounted his horse. Armanos then said, “Well what type of information did you find?”
The scout handed Armanos a piece of paper. Armanos looked over it for a moment before asking, “Did you discover any other information?”

“No sir, I’ve not,” replied the scout.

“Good! Now get back in line!” Armanos ordered.

The scout gave a solute and said, “Yes sir!”

For a brief moment, the sleeves on the scout’s shirt slipped down reviling his biceps. Neither bicep had any sort of ato (tattoo) or branding*(3). Armanos saw the lack of any sort of ato or branding and raised one of his eyebrows. Regiment Commander Orkgor who had been walking alongside Armanos had also noticed the scout lacking ato.

Orkgor said, “I need to talk to you Armanos. I’ve got an idea!”

“Alrighty, let’s hear it,” Orkgor replied with slight interest.

Orkgor went up to Armanos and whispered something while pointing to a cliff ledge with a small creek under it. After a few seconds, Armanos eyes had lit up and he said,

“Thank you Orkgor! You’re a genius!”

Armanos shouted, “Bring me the scout!”
One of the commander’s guards went to get the scout. The scout soon came riding up to Armanos on his horse and asked inquisitively, “okay, so what do you need from me?”

“You see the cliff ledge? We suspect that under it is a small creek. We want you to go to it and report back to us what you see” Armanos said while pointing his sword at the location.

The scout then ordered his horse to move to the direction where the creek was at. Then when the scout was a sufficient distance away, he called for Regiment Commander Adaka. A few moments later Adaka came running up and Armanos then said, “Good! You’re here! Now get a few of your mounted hunters to fire a volley of arrows upon the scout. I suspect he’s an enemy spy.”

“Yes Armanos!” Adaka then ran back and got a few of his hunters. He then gave the signal and said, “fire!”

A volley of arrows came pouring down onto the scout and he collapsed onto the ground.

“Go see if he’s still alive,” Adaka said to one of his mounted hunters.

They went to examine the body and saw that the scout had been pierced by arrows in several parts of his back along with the back right side of his head. He was also laying in a large pool of blood.

“The desert has just gotten its first taste of what’s to come,” said Armanos with a slight chuckle. He then yelled, “Regiment Commanders Navar and Orkgar! I need you and your men here!”

Regiment Commander Navar and Orkgar walked up, nodded their heads and then brought their hunter companions with them. Orkgar then said, “What are your orders?”

“Go to the creek where I ordered the scout to be killed. I think it’s about time that we taught those Naharai a lesson”

Regiment Leaders Navar, Orkgar, and their soldiers all walked towards the cliff. The cliff did provide shade but at closer examination the creek had very little water. What remained was unfit to drink as it was stagnant. On top of that there was a dead animal carcass in the middle of the dried up creek.

If that wasn't bad enough a large number of Naharai Calvalry came out of the sand dunes and surrounded the Hunter Companions. One of the Cavalrymen was covered in a thick plate of armor. He lifted his helmet and said, “You have two choices. You can come with us or we will kill you.”

Navar yelled to his soldiers, “drop your arms!”

Orkgar told the Nahari Commander, “We surrender.”

The Naharai then gathered the unarmed hunter companions and placed them all in ropes and handcuffs. Unbeknownst to the Naharai, Rihnit Supreme Commander Armanos had been watching the entire thing unfold from the distance. He saw the Naharai Commander take Navar, Orkgar, and their soldiers being taken away.

“Excellent,” said Armanos with glee. He then continued, “All we have to do now is follow them.”

Adaka and Armanos then ordered their hunter and hunter cavalry to follow the footsteps. Several hours later the Rihnit Forces had followed the Naharai to an encampment. It was the middle of the day and not knowing Rihnit Warriors were close by the Naharai Commander along with his men went into their tents to sleep.

Armanos then said to Adaka, “Send your hunters in between the three valleys. Concentrate the majority of your forces on the valley directly northwest from here while I’ll send the cavalry to the two valleys that are to the west and north of here."

Meanwhile in Naharai Encampment, the hunter companions were being kept captive in a tent. They had been tied to posts and their hands were bound by rope. Watching them was a single guard. Over the course of a day, Navar noticed a pattern.

He then whispered to Orkgar, “Notice how the guards take shifts?”

“Yeah. So what’s your idea?” Orkgar asked Navar.

“During the next shift do you think you’d be able to remove your right calligae?”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

Orkgar waited until the prison guard was on his break. He then used his left foot, trying to shove the right boot off. After a few minutes of struggling he finally removed his right calliage and the shiv fell out.

He asked Navar, “How do I grab it?”

“With your toes!”

Using his right foot, Orkgar struggled to pick up the shiv. He almost got it once but he fumbled and accidentally slashed his foot. Ignoring the excruciating pain, Orkgar picked up the shiv with his right foot. Then he moved his legs towards his mouth and managed to grab the blade with his teeth. He then leaned over and placed the handle of the blade into his bound hands and hid it in between his hands.

Navar then said to Orkgar, “Excellent! Now we need to lure the prison guard over here! But how?”

Orkgar smiled with delight as he whispered back, “hold on!”

He then continued whispering random jibberish into Navar’s Ear. At this point the prison guard came up and asked Orkgar, “What’s all this whispering about?”

“It’s about how we’re going to escape from this tent!”

“Bahahaha! That’s rich!”

He then kneeled down and said mockingly, “I’d like to see you try!”

Without hesitation Orkgar thrusts the shiv, into the prison guard’s heart. He then removed it and slit the guard’s throat. The guard quickly fell to his knees and died. Orkgar then used his feet to grab the corpse of the prison guard to get his key. After several attempts he managed to get the key. Orkgar removing the shiv from his hands, with his teeth, dropped it on the floor, and moved the key that was in his right foot to his mouth and then to his hands. He unlocked the lock binding his hands and passed the key onto the hunter companions around him.

“What’s the game pla” Orkgar tried asking but was cut off by Navar whispering, “shut it! I need to hear what’s going on!”

In a neighboring tent, the Naharai Captain and Commander were having an argument.
The captain asked, “Are you sure we've taken enough precaution with the prisoners? They might try to escape.”

The Commander replied, “Ah no need to worry about that! They've been handcuffed and tied to a post.”

“You know that the hunter companions are,” the captain said before being interrupted by the commander.

“You’re an underling and you’re not supposed to question the soundness of my command! You hear me?!?”

Looking down the captain said with shame and embarrassment, “yes commander, I understand…”

Grabbing the captain’s jaw the forcing the captain’s head upwards he yelled, “Look at me in the face captain and say it again!”

“Yes commander I understand!”

“Now get back to your…” before the commander was able to finish his sentence he heard a watchman screamed at the top of his lungs, “intruders!”

Looking outside the commander saw that before the watchman was able to say anything more, Adaka ordered his hunters, “Fire the arrows!”

Adaka’s Hunters then unleashed a volley of arrows upon the watchman, with several of those arrows piercing through his chest, legs, and head. He fell down instantaneously and the Naharai Commander seeing all of this ran into his tent and blew the conch shell. The Naharai Soldiers scrambled in confusion to get their weapons and armor ready.

The Naharai Commander rushed to the captain and said, “Get our soldiers to attack the northwest valley! These dogs need to be taught a lesson!”

The captain responded, “Affirmative Commander!” The captain started walking out before he turned around and asked the commander, “But what about the prisoners? Who will be watching them? Perhaps we should escape?”

Balling up his fists and turning red the commander yelled, “I told you not to question my orders! Now go and send out our men to confront the enemy in the Northwest Valley and we shall retreat under no circumstances retreat!”

Pouring out from the south and east the Rihnit Hunter Calvalry being led by Armanos descended upon the Naharai Forces. They started to fire arrows upon the Naharai Forces. The Naharai Commander knew at this point he was trapped. However, he was still confident that the fatigue of the Rihnit Soldiers along with the Naharai Numerical Superiority would win the day. At the time it appeared to be the case. But appearances are often deceiving…

Orkgar told Navar, “Let’s take advantage of this situation!”

“What do you mean?” Navar replied while scratching his head.

“Dummy! Nobodies watching over our weaponry and armor! Let’s go grab it!”

“That’s a good idea except for we don’t know where the weapons are being kept! On top of that there’s a sandstorm going on!”

A hunter companion named Usa said, “After the commander had blown the conch shell

I heard the Naharai Soldiers march that way.” He then lifted his hand and pointed to the location where he thought the seized weaponry was being kept.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep I’m positive! I’m also sure that’s where the armory is because I heard a hammer pounding against what sounded like an anvil.”

Orkgar looked at Navar and Usa before saying, “I’m ready!”

Usa then ordered Orkgar, Navar, and the rest of the hunter companions, “since the sandstorms so severe, every eye sight hunter companion must hold onto the shoulders of their ear sight hunter companion ally!”

After getting up the hunter companions scurried around for a minute or two trying to locate their allies. Usa then lead the rest of the hunter companions from the tent where they were being kept prisoner out into the open. The sandstorm which had been going on for at least an hour at this point wouldn’t let up. As the grains of sand pelted both Rihnit and Naharai Soldiers alike visibility had been drastically reduced. “I believe this tent is where our weapons are being kept,” Usa said while opening the door to the tent. After seeing the weapons and armor inside the tent, Orkgar praised Usa and said, “Brilliant work Usa! Brilliant work!

“Alright, there’s no time to determine whose armor is whose right now. It’s more critical that we obtain the weaponry,” Orkgar kept repeating. After around five minutes the hunter companions had equipped themselves with armor.

It was perfect timing as the Rihnit Forces being by Adaka and Armanos were almost defeated. Armanos was in the process of taking the horn on his belt buckle and going to blow it and order a retreat. But mere seconds before he was able to do that a distinct war cry was heard nearby. The hunter companions ran outside of the tent and let out a war cry. Both the Rihnit and Naharai Soldiers alike stopped fighting when they heard the war cry.

The Naharai Commander’s Facial Expression transformed from curiosity to dread as he said to himself, “oh… crap…” He then yelled to his soldiers, “fall back towards the camp!”

This proved to be a fatal mistake as the Naharai Soldiers were now running and completely disoriented. Armanos and Adaka’s Soldiers found new courage with the retreat of the Naharai Forces into the camp. The hunter companions had been waiting and then cut down the retreating enemy soldiers. One of those who was killed was the captain who groaned, “Why couldn’t the commander have listened to me? He didn’t kill the hunter companions so now they’re killing us.” He was then stabbed several times and fell to the ground.

The remaining Naharai Soldiers had been packed into the camp like sardines in a can. The dust storm had finally ended and the Commander saw all of bodies on the ground. The blood, bodies, and guts of the dead soldiers carpeted the sand and the foul stench of death was emanated into the air. Seeing his soldiers lying dead on the ground, the Naharai Commander thought out loud, “This wasn’t a battle. This was a slaughter. How could I have lost?”

Hunter Companion Oso snuck up behind him and said, “You should have killed us when you had the chance.” He then used his sword and slashed the commander several times before plunging his sword into the commanders back. Armanos and Adaka seeing Navar and Orkgar walked up to them. Orkgar said to Armanos, “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you two again.”

“Same here Orkgar, same here.”

Armanos then picked up a handful of sand and as the cocktail of sand and blood flowed in between his fingers he said, we’ve quenched the desert’s thirst… for now.”

Turning around Armanos yelled to his soldiers, “Today was a fine day! We inflicted a crushing defeat upon the enemy. But it’s not over yet. Get some rest tonight because tomorrow, we’re going to occupy Nitakeo Yah!”

Having been triumphant, the Rihnit Soldiers cheered, cleaned the bodies of both enemy and Rihnit Soldiers of their weapons, armor, supplies, and other valuables, moved them outside the encampment, and rested for the night. Not knowing that the news of the Naharai Defeat would cause them to surrender rather than risk any more casualties.

1*) Sokoi Uhulaka: An Elite Rihnit Warrior. Sokoi Uhulaka always work in pairs. These pairs are made up of one "eye sight" and one "ear sight" (aka: blind) soldier. The name "ear sight" comes from the fact that being unable to see causes the other senses to be enhanced. The "eye sight" and "ear sight" soldiers help cover for each other's weaknesses which was critical in this battle. In the case of this battle, the sandstorm had reduced vision so greatly that eye sight became a liability. But the blind sokoi uhulaka were able to navigate through the sandstorm and wipe out the enemy.

2*) Sokoi: Are skirmishers from the most remote reaches of Ova Demroa Kanahi. They're hunters excel in their hunting, tracking, and marksmanship skills. These hunters use the skills they've obtained from hunting animals and apply it to hunting enemy soldiers. The difference between the sokoi and sokoi uhulaka is that sokoi don't generally work in pairs while Sokoi hulaka do.

3*) Ato: Is a type of identification that all Rihnit have and use. The branding includes the person's first name, their family name, and the symbol of their clan. At birth the branding is placed behind the neck and on the biceps. Later on, the glutes are also branded. People who try to remove the skin that's covered in ato are often killed by their own families. Especially in the more rural areas where people don't encounter Non-Rihnit very frequently, people who don't have ato are treated with suspicion.

Part the First
Part the Second

A short aside in which Harrit, to his enormous relief, does not appear
Three weeks later

The Declarant found it considerably easier to stay up late than to get up early, and so had, as was his frequent custom, worked late into the night. It was sometime around midnight when he became aware of a pressing need in his nether regions, and after a moment's hesitation he sprinted for the door, cursing the Sattoros woman's mysterious stew as he went. It was some time later when the Declarant returned, somewhat lighter and considerably more at ease, to finish his interrupted paperwork. Since sending young Harrit to chase Elisa around the Declarant had managed without a secretary – indeed, he found this a rather welcome respite – and so he did not expect anyone else to be in his office at this hour, or indeed at any hour. He certainly didn't expect to see a shadowed figure lounging in his chair with its feet on his desk, and so the Declarant demanded, as one does in these sorts of situation, to know “Who are you and why are you in my chair?” The figure looked up, and the Declarant instantly relaxed. “Oh, it's you. Why can't you ever just make an appointment like a normal person?” The Declarant moved to sit in the only other chair in the room. The Interlocutor in the Declarant's chair watched him, a warm smile on his face.

“Got to maintain the mystique, you know. Lose that and I've got nothing left.” He scanned the papers strewn across the desk. “You seem...busy, as usual. It's been a while, Tarasos.”

“Two years next month, without so much as a letter. I was getting worried, Rallas,” said the Declarant, with a smirk. He leaned back in his chair and propped his own feet on the desk. “Missed your company. Can't say I've missed the circumstances that usually bring you here. What's going to hell this time?”

The smile faded from the Interlocutor's face. “I'm not here in my official capacity. In fact I'm not here at all; I'm on my way to Chavi. I owe you a favour, Tarasos. More than one, in fact.” The Declarant started to protest, but the Interlocutor cut him off with a gesture. “Not a word, Tarasos. We both know it's true, and I've no time for your insufferable Merefic modesty. So, I've got news. Unpleasant news. The Finger in Nahar is on his way to Hurena.”

“Oh,” the Declarant said flatly. He sounded unsurprised. He thought for a moment, then added “And if you're here, then I suspect I know why.”

“Yes, he's coming for your girl. Rumours spread quickly, and you know Serris doesn't like to take chances.”

The Declarant made an exasperated sound. “But come now, Rallas. She's completely harmless. So she's gone a little bit strange; she's always been a bit strange, and this will pass too. She tried to command a caravan to take her to Epichirisi to assume her rightful throne once, and we didn't execute her for that.”

“You say she's harmless and I believe you, but the Finger doesn't know you and doesn't care what you have to say. He'll ask the question, she'll answer, and that will be that.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous. She's just a girl.”

The Interlocutor was grim. “They were all girls once. Besides, this particular Finger – Aran Qivir; perhaps you've heard of him – isn't the type who's inclined to be merciful. And I suspect, given his reputation, that after he's finished with your girl he'll tear this whole wayhouse down too, just to be sure he's purged the danger.”

“And there's nothing you can do?”

The Interlocutor shook his head sadly. “Not in my official capacity. At least, not without having to answer extremely...unpleasant questions from Concourse. In my unofficial capacity, however, I can suggest that you get the girl and that boy you set to watch her out of the city immediately. Send them to Nahar. I'll go ahead and arrange passage elsewhere. By the time Qivir realizes she's not in Hurena she'll be overseas, and you'll be relatively free from suspicion.”

The Declarant noticeably brightened “Oh, that can be arranged. She'll be happy to get out of here, I imagine.” He paused for a moment, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Wait, overseas? Where overseas? What are you planning for her, Rallas?”

The Interlocutor assumed an air of aggrieved innocence. It would not have been particularly convincing at the best of times; on an Interlocutor is was practically comical. “Planning? You wound me so, Tarasos. I've only the best interests of the girl at heart.” The Declarant scoffed, and the Interlocutor continued, “Overseas some place the Hand can't reach. That's all you have to know and all you should know. It's the best I can offer, I'm afraid.”

Might as well drop this off here, too:

Orders sent.

Oh, and orders are due tomorrow.

Notes on the Political Factions of the Acajuren Republic​

The arguably reigning faction of the High Usemjuro, the Ioljan princes are elected from the various clans and tribes of the Metropole and its environs. These individuals are almost always from old and respected Ioljan bloodlines with a history of both legislative and military service. Chief among the Princely Clans is Majarsuc, the traditional mastermind of anti-Aitahist, anti-Leunan and anti-outlander sentiments. Though some of the Princely Clans have -- as of late -- gravitated towards factions of Parthecan merchants and other outlander groups, the majority of the old Ioljan bloodlines are staunchly against outlander intrusion within Acayan politics and favor the centralization of the Republic (with Iolja at its head) and the removal of outlander influence. While the Princely Clans are no friend to Gadian separatists, cooperation within the High Usemjuro between the Clans and Gadians is often orchestrated to frustrate pro-Aitahist, Aelonist or Parthecan factions; Ioljan hardliners detest the Daharai the least of all outlanders, and consider the Daharai the least repulsive and dangerous of Opulensi peoples. Traditionally friendly relations between Iolja and Parthe have been frustrated by suspicion of Parthecan support for Aitahist and Aelonist agitators within the Republic's borders, and doubts over Parthecan meddling in the Insurrections.

Socially, the Princely Clans can be relied upon to be conservative. Iolja has remained the least affected of all Acaya's different cities and regions by outlander cultural trends and outlander religions. Cosmopolitan preferences in the Metropole itself aside, traditionally Ioljan portions of the Republic maintain the old system of clans and regional usemjuren. Property ownership is communal among bloodlines and the old Acayan traditions of family and personal honor continue to dominate both social life and civic tradition. Iolja's lesser clans maintain their traditional allegiances to their Princely counterparts and to whatever degree is possible, the old Acayan way of life remains intact in the north. Hardliners among the Clans continue to be frustrated that attempts to transplant the "Old Gods and Old Ways" to Reclaimed Gade categorically failed, and Iolja's compromises with the Middle Princes and the Gadians are a significant point of contention. True conservatives consider the Republic to have already failed in its mission to protect the "Patrimony" -- the cultural heritage of the Acayan people and their traditional way of life -- and Iolja to have lost the Insurrections.

Nominally, the leader of the Princely Clans is Majarsuc Santhurjao V, noted as the scion of the Majarsuc name and the latest Ioljan firebrand in the High Usemjuro. Santhurjao carries significant clout, not only for his storied surname, but also for his youth and powerful oratory. At forty he is one of the High Usemjuro's youngest princes, and the loudest voice for centralization, Ioljan predominance (per virtue of Iolja's success in maintaining the Patrimony and resulting moral superiority) and the removal of outlanders not only from the Republic's circles of economic power but often from the Republic's borders entirely.


Allies to the Ioljan princes in nearly all matters except political centralization, the Reclaimers are descendants of lesser Ioljan clans (mostly the low-ranking bravos of the Courageous Sons) settled in northern Gadia following Iolja's first war against Leun. More Ioljuren were settled subsequent to Gade's annexation and were moderately successful at the creation of traditional Acayan forms of culture and government in Gade after centuries of Opulensi rule. Nonetheless, the significant mercantile influence of the Daharai and their tributaries in Gade has worn on Acayan polytheists, and many of the Reclaimer Princes are Indagahori. As a result, the Reclaimer Princes are more interested in the maintenance of their way of life (at the expense of Gadians of Leunan descent, and Acayan Gadians who cooperated with the Leunan "overlords") than the maintenance of the Patrimony per se and all the religious rhetoric associated with it. Even so, culturally the Reclaimer Princes are far more in-line with the Princely Clans in Iolja than with the New Gade faction or the separatist Middle Princes.

The power of the Reclaimer Princes rests on Iolja's historical commitment to the extension of the Patrimony, especially in historically Acayan lands, and the resultant persecution of Leunan settlers in Gade. When the bravos of the Courageous Sons and their clans were settled in Gade significant energy and manpower was expended in the divesting of Leunan peasants of their land. The entrenched political power (particularly in Gade itself) of Acayan collaborators proved too significant for Iolja's princes to reckon with properly, and so the New Gade lords gained power over Gade proper, and the Reclaimer Princes over the outlying townships and agricultural tracts. The Reclaimers have done their best to recreate the system of bloodline-to-bloodline allegiance, and resulting clans, in Gadia. They have met with mixed success, as while landowning Reclaimer Prince bloodlines are happy to abide by the old cultural standards, the Leunan peasants who they rule over are difficult to categorize into bloodlines and clans. More difficult still is the compulsion of the loyalty of a Leunan underclass who are equally despised and distrusted, yet still wholly necessary for the maintenance of the Reclaimers' way of life.

Most distressing of all to the Reclaimers however is mixed loyalties among their own ranks. During the Insurrections different Reclaimer clans and their princes sided with both Iolja and the separatist elements, raising the banners of a united, separatist Gade against Iolja and its Patrimony. The treasonous clans were, due to general policies of amnesty and the need for Iolja to maintain Acayan power over Gade, maintained in Gade and continue to be a thorn in the side of the more loyalist Reclaimers. The de facto leader of the Reclaimer Princes is Breganjhir Gaocherm, the grizzled, sixty-year-old "Lion of Gadia" regarded as the only man capable of effectively uniting and commanding the Reclaimer clans and their interests.


Sometimes thought of as outright pariahs, the Gadian Haoeni are complex. Most members of this odd and cosmopolitan breed are Acajuren by ancestry but are Opulensi -- indeed, Leunan -- in culture and temperament. The Haoeni hold sway within the gates of Gade itself and its immediate environs, commanding significant trade from the south and all the economic and political machinery of the Gade metropole. While Ioljan defenders of the Patrimony have deeply negative feelings towards the descendants of "collaborators," who have adopted the outlander customs of the Leunan oppressors, the economic interests of Gade itself have bent the Haoeni towards political centralization. This further complicates the relation of the Princely Clans towards the Reclaimer Clans, whose loyalty to Ioljan goals of centralization and union has been suspect. Consequently, the Haoeni are sometimes thought of as being potential allies to any cause except the Reclaimers and their particular vision of Gadia.

Culturally, the Haoeni resemble an ad hoc mixture of Leunan Opulensi and Gade Acayan traditions, with a not insignificant adoption of Opulensi symbolism, architecture, lingual artifacts and so on. Most notably, the Haoeni have no system of bloodline and clan hierarchy or allegiance, and the traditional republican institutions of the Acayan cities do not exist in the Gadian metropole. The importation of outlander attitudes is evinced throughout the city and many Ioljuren are aghast by the Haoeni preference for ritualized and symbolic bowing as opposed to the upright and ancient tradition of the Acayan salute, very much alive in the north. The actual political power and presence of the Haoeni is largely limited to the city of Gade, where they are ensconced as magistrates and have done much to defend the quasi-aristocratic power and privilege which they enjoyed prior to the Liberation. Various Ioljuren have attempted to enforce, if not traditional Acayan kinship, then modern Ioljan republicanism in Gade and have met very limited success. To some degree, the Haoeni and their attendants succeed in running Gade in the manner of an organized crime racket, suppressing the free elections of Acayan usemjuren and picking their own princes to send to the High Usemjuro. More recent Ioljan Speakers in the High Usemjuro have accepted this state of affairs as a necessary prerequisite of securing Haoeni support against disloyal Reclaimers and the rebellious Middle Cities.

Religiously, the Haoeni are not Aitahist. Or at least, ever since the edicts against Aitahists passed down from Iolja and the clan Majarsuc in the early days of the Republic, they have not been Aitahists. It has long been known to be a secret that the most powerful Haoeni practice Aitahism -- or as is now more fashionable, Aelonism -- behind closed doors while professing Indagahori beliefs in public. More realistically, many Haoeni have pronounced Aitahist sympathies and desire to end the repression of Aitahist peasants, particularly in the Reclaimer-controlled countryside, but practice Indagahor and sometimes Maninism. Other Haoeni however are less politic, and are openly Aitahist, particularly now that the authority of the Haoeni in Gade itself is largely unchallenged by Iolja. While the Haoeni faction has no definite political composition, the current Edrin of Gade is Salaschao Rhoedas II, a forty-five-year-old New Gade aristocrat reputed as sly and uncompromising.


The Middle Cities are sometimes thought of as the least politically and economically significant portion of the Republic. The once lively port of Didea is now overshadowed by both Iolja and Gade, and the concerns of Didean merchants take a back seat even to the outlander embassies of Parthe and the Daharai. Consequently, the Middle Cities are often rebellious and resentful, and while theirs is a long-lasting and pervasive Acayan culture, the most hotheaded of Middle Princes consider the Patrimony an Ioljan device used to enforce northern culture and northern goals on the Republic. The Middle Cities were instrumental in the Insurrections against the High Usemjuro and against Iolja, and their clans are distrusted if not detested by Ioljuren. The conspirators of the Didean Conclave and their allies in the other Middle Cities are generally thought of as masterminding the Insurrections. Ioljan response to this treason was swift and unrelenting, and few of the old clans which made up the Conclave are still in existence.

There is not a significant cultural divergence between Iolja and the Middle Cities, certainly not in comparison to Iolja and Gade, but what cultural differences there are between the "northern" Acayan culture of Iolja and its "southern" counterpart in the Middle Cities are exacerbated by distrust and fluctuating separatist sentiment amongst the Middle Cities and their clans. The dress of the Middle Cities' inhabitants is slightly more fluid and slightly brighter in comparison to the dour and earth-colored clothes of Ioljuren and the customs of the "Middle people" are sometimes thought of as more open and inviting than that of the Ioljuren. Concretely, in recent times the Middle Cities have adopted a number of outlander fashions, and have developed an affinity for all things Parthecan. The Middle Cities have a strong tradition in the style of Ioljan clans -- sometimes called kinships -- and their own usemjuren, though the most successful Middle Clans are beginning to adopt Parthecan-style monarchic pretensions.

The Middle Cities have swelled in recent years with Aitahists, Aelonists, Indagahori and Maninists. Nonetheless, they are the only significant portion of the Republic other than Iolja to maintain Acayan polytheist traditions. It is often fashionable for Middle Princes and their clans to adopt the symbolism and rhetoric of different outlander faiths in order to accentuate their cultural independence from Patrimony-obsessed, stolidly polytheist Ioljuren but very few of the Middle Clans are truly comfortable with the idea of outright conversion to outlander faiths, or the open practice of outlander faiths in public. The most influential of the Middle Princes is Fernanjao Almurecha III, a fifty-year-old moderate from the port of Arana.

Waiting on one last response from North King before my orders are ready to go.

I think almost everyone is overstating the influence of religion on the Parthecan Government.

EDIT: Just to note, unofficially we have a "Don't Ask Don't Tell" attitude towards religion. Not that it isn't sometimes obvious, but it is considered polite and rightful for one to not question another's "Path" or "Philosophy" or "View of the World". People are allowed to think however they want as long as they don't break any laws. And we haven't made any religions (not even Zalkephism) illegal yet.

It's also impolite to parade one's views in public. Temples of course, exists, but religious statues and the like are usually located within grounds of a religious community or structure, not in the middle of public squares. Decorations on the outside of temples are OK, since they are basically advertising the purpose of a religious house rather than the religion itself.

i.e. walking up to a random person in public and saying "Aitah/Taleldil/Aelona/Gandoros Bless You!" would get you strange looks, as if you walked around flashing people.

EDITEDIT: Therefore, for any religious acts, the religious group sponsoring such funding items must convince the others WITHOUT using religious thoughts like "We do it to save your souls!" or "We do it to spread the word." and instead for more "practical" arguments. Private arguments and discussions nonwithstanding.

Wait, orders already! Damn! OK...

Orders sent! Not quite as flowy as I would've liked, should've started earlier.

Orders belatedly sent and stuff.