Adversaries Together (7 page)

“
Kyrio Alois,” Tamas nodded
in deference.

A mature but by no means old woman with an
air of absolute authority, smiled warmly at him though her eyes
maintained a certain playful skepticism, “Tamas, I have been
wanting to speak with you since your speech at the last
assembly.”

“
Oh? I do hope I’ve not
earned too much criticism, though I realize that my reasoning
should have been more tightly worked.”

“
I’m no schoolmarm, so I
haven’t graded your performance, but I will say that I found much
of what you said in accord with my own views.”

“
And the views of your
Spire?”

She smiled wryly, “They may need a bit more
convincing.”

Tamas feigned surprise, “Is that so? Well,
then would you allow me briefly before we enter to address any of
their concerns?”

“
You needn’t try to charm
me,” Alois gestured for her companions to go and they made for the
Great Hall, “And you needn’t debate with me, I have no interest in
war with The Cathedral or war on Essia.”

Tamas nodded, his expression going from his
standard obsequiousness to one more sober, “It is imperative that
we avoid imperial ambitions or, at least, the appearance.”

“
I would not feel the need
to qualify that assertion.”

“
I realize that but I am
asking you outright to back my play in the chamber.”

Alois raised an eyebrow and was momentarily
stunned by Tamas’ honest demand, “Doing so would mean making
enemies of the children.”

“
I can sway Matias’
faction, in fact, I will not merely sway them but I will have them
believing it was their idea in the first place.”

“
If you were so confident
you wouldn’t be here talking to me,” she scoffed, her eyes narrowed
and she leaned in close to his ear, “The bold win over girls, women
care nothing for the brash.”

Tamas could see why she and Landico were such
friends, both never shied away from gentle upbraiding. He pulled
back slightly so Alois could see his face, “I’m not looking for
conquest; I’m not interested in flirting with power or coaxing some
kind of future favor. I mean for us, all of us, to make a genuine,
authoritative move. One that will not merely stabilize the realm or
extend our dominion, one that will enshrine our beliefs into the
deep history of the world.”

Alois held his gaze and waited, “I need you
to make that happen. I am asking you to help.”

“
And the reward for my
spire? Aside from the majesty of the future? My kin will need
something tangible for the immediacy.” He had her, she only need
some morsel to give her faction, “Light only knows what my kith
will clamor for.”

“
You don’t need coin, you
don’t need influence, so what would you have?”

“
Ah, young man, if only you
had come prepared.” Her laugh was airy and as she spoke she floated
by Tamas toward the Great Hall, but as she went she turned to him
one last time and winked. He betrayed no outward pleasure, but he
was wildly excited.

“
That looks like it went
well.” Landico was suddenly at his side.

“
She is with
us.”

“
At what price?”

“
What that I
knew.”

Landico chuckled in a cheeky manner and
patted Tamas on the back, “You have traded quite a lot, son, quite
a lot. I hope I’m there when she comes to settle the account.”
Landico withdrew jocund and went to the Great Hall, Tamas reckoned
that this was the first time he had ever seen his teacher enter the
assembly in a good mood.

But there was one last thing to do. Looking
around he spied Kyrio Andrass, Harcour’s lieutenant, but no
Harcour. He could work Andrass and Andrass would replay it all to
Harcour, the man was essentially a shill. But even a shill needed
to be inveigled.

“
Good Andrass.” He smiled
and held out his hand, Andrass took it but with a stunned look upon
his face.

“
Kyrio Tamas, you do me a
rare honor.”

Tamas looked taken aback, “Good lord, hardly,
I’ve been meaning to discuss with you the matter of…”

“
The Rikonen siege,
certainly so…”

“
No, no” Tamas waved his
hands dismissively, “That issue will certainly occupy the majority
of the day and will be the most dramatic, but I know where you and
your Spire stand and I wouldn’t dream of trying to haggle and hound
you like some of the others. I know that agrigy see no value in
hollow promises.”

Andrass was obviously surprised and relived,
“Yes, well, our allegiances and community have a certain
ethos.”

“
Entirely fitting. No, what
I wanted to talk over with you were the plans for the Elixem
canals. We, the true legislators once the dramatists, glad handers,
and grandstanders leave after the Rikonen business, will be left to
make decisions that immediately affect the lives of our
people.”

Andrass nodded in glad agreement,
“Absolutely, Tamas, I am quite glad to hear you say that. Too many
think the day-to-day business of the assembly to be beneath them. I
and Kyrio Harcour often talk…”

“
And just a few moments
ago,” Tamas took his elbow and started to lead him slowly toward
the Great Hall’s entrance, “I was coming to a consensus with my
fellow lords about how we feel an expanded canal system would not
only increase the trade and travel between our great cities but
create work for those agrigy whose cropland has not turned well
this season.”

“
It absolutely would, that
work would flush a good many people who are just scraping by as it
were”

“
We thought as much. I know
that Kyrios Matias was planning on dedicating his spire to that
work but I am certain that between the two of us,” Tamas spoke
conspiratorially and gesturing that the two men of the same mind,
“we can vote as a block to put that work in the hands of those that
need it most.”

Andrass smiled, “We certainly can.”

“
Superb,” they had reached
the door, Tamas gave him an affable slap on the back, “Let your
lieutenant Harcour know as well, I’m sure he’ll be quite glad to
hear that soon the journey to the pools of Elixem will be made that
much quicker.”

Andrass smiled widely and Tamas returned it,
“I certainly shall let him know…at my leisure…”

“
Of course.”

“…
and we shall not waver in
finding a way to repay your support.” Andrass attempted to sound
furtive but he was anything but.

“
Think nothing of it. We
know that your Spire will always back what is right.” And with
that, Tamas gave the man a little push into the Great
Hall.

Chances are it would be enough. Andrass would
parrot everything to Harcour, who would then believe that either
he, Tamas, was genuinely his ally to be backed for further aid or
that he was trading the canal project for his backing today. Both
would serve. He had hedged his bets by pulling Alois to his side
and roping in Harcour. Now the trick would be to land Matias’ spire
and this would require a good deal of rhetorical flourish and
cunning. Or just dumb luck to draw them in.

Tamas entered the chamber and found his way
to his spire’s section. Waiting for him at his seat’s plinth among
the scrolls, donations, and codices of the session were signet
coins of the spires of Alois and Landico. Harcour would do it, but
he wanted, needed, more than a simple majority. The Parmentier
spire always stayed back until it knew for sure which way the wind
was blowing and the Kendzior spire would probably dissent but only
as a formality to maintain the air of opposition. All was reliant
upon turning Matias’ faction, in winning over the Bertrand Spire’s
young hawks. He would need to perform today.

Rikonen,
27
^th
of Lammas

Wynne had been at the top of the lighthouse
since the small hours. At night, The Blockade was a twinkling span
of random braziers littering the decks of the ships. Many in
Rikonen had already accepted the flotilla as a permanent part of
life. All he knew was that he was sick of keeping watch, of staring
at this chain of ships refusing to attack or retreat. He thought
about how he used to love watching the bay. Hundreds of new ships
coming and going every hour—sad cogs of privateers seeming to drift
into port haphazardly, huge cargo barges from Wick laden with
bithumin, pristine white yachts of the elite, rickety longboats of
the fisher folk, and even the occasional passenger barques with
extravagantly colored sails. He used to love to watch the bay. Now,
nothing entered, nothing left. The water stood still, becoming more
rancid with every day.

The only break in the monotony was the
occasional attempt to break the line. Some local militia, traders,
or (and this was happening more frequently) ordinary folk would
fill up a skiff and try to challenge the Silvincian marines. At
first, the marines let these tantrums come all the way to meet
them. The would-be saviors would get close enough to the warships
to realize just how puny their own was, just before a shade of
arrows came down on them. Sometimes all it took to break their
spirit and have them turn back was seeing just how puny they were.
But the marines were just as bogged down in the monotony and the
chance to have some sport was never ignored. Sometimes the flotilla
would send out a tender of marines. Restless, young and angry, they
were always itching to fight. Few ships ever made it back, what
ships did were often bloodied husks. As the siege wore on, the
Silvincian marines didn’t even bother to meet the oncoming ships or
launch a hail of arrows, rather they lobbed tarfire charring those
in the boats and leaving burning husks that sent a smoke blacker
than the night itself. The marines had lights in the bay that they
could crow about for the evening.

Now when a run to break the line happened,
the Rikonese looked on it as a suicide run. Many and most saw it as
a bit of sport to watch from the usually abandoned pier, a fact
that made Wynne ill. Each ship destroyed had become an exhausting
ritual for Wynne. He’d collect the remains—charred wood, burnt
bodies that by the time they made it within his reach were
water-logged and bloated—then bury what he could giving the proper
rites. He was soul sick from it all. When he saw a ship heading
out, he couldn’t help but become enraged. For more than a year, he
had been doing this. Fortunately, such attempts had gotten fewer
and fewer over the recent months. After three years, The Blockade
was entering its endgame.

He thought of his own home in the city.
Ransacked so many times now, he could barely remember what the
villa had looked like before The Blockade, before the roving mobs
desperate for any kind of food or fuel had begun scouring the city.
He had been at the municipal when the first mob swarmed through his
ward. On the roof of the hall with the other civics surveying the
damage out over the city, he saw the first strand of black smoke
rise from only a couple of boroughs away. The black strands came
closer and closer accompanied by a hard bitter growl, a cruel wave.
It wasn’t long before it was joined by several other tendrils and
it was clear that the mobs were rampaging in the sixth, his
ward.

The mobs arose after last winter; it had
surprised many of the civics that something like them hadn’t
already happened. Birds didn’t fly over Rikonen, the bay was fetid
and near fishless, and even rats had become scarce. What had begun
as the frustration of a few random gangs grew and soon there were
riots in the second ward, the market district. Soon after the first
hospital was burned down in the aftermath of the mobs looking for
supplies, panic spread through the city. Rumors circulated that the
mob had stormed through the hospital looking to kill the sick and
dying for their meat. It sounded extreme at first but as the mob
grew, more and more wards reported desperate stories.

When Wynne saw the fires in his ward, he
hadn’t thought much of it. He made his way home that night with a
few guardsmen finding the villa’s gate torn down, the chest high
wall around it smashed in at various places. Getting closer to the
house the doorway was a black gaping hole and the windows shattered
like gouged out eyes, black stains marked the walls where flames
had burned. Walking through his home, he saw everything overturned,
shattered, smashed, and thrown aside or seemingly pushed through
the halls to the back garden. The mob, a human flood, had swept
through his villa leaving fire in its wake. His daughter wasn’t
there. There was no blood. There wasn’t anything. It was as though
his home had always been a ruin or an abandoned slum.

There was no sign of Fery or of the three
personal guardsmen that Wynne had left with her. None of his
neighbors could tell him anything useful—their own homes sacked by
their brethren. He held out hope that she had escaped, but children
were seldom seen in the city now, most starved or killed by the mob
violence. Still, he gave himself hope. At twenty, Fery wasn’t a
child or some delicate flower, but she had no skills for surviving
on the streets. Wynne doubted he even did; he was barely hanging on
himself. His hopes had dimmed every day there was no news of her
and more detailed accounts of other wards being burnt and
ransacked.

His home was a husk so he had no reason to
leave the municipal; they needed him there more than ever. What few
resources were available had to be defended as well as rationed.
His men and the stragglers from other wards were wasting away,
their own families barely hanging on. Keeping communication open
with the other wards of the city was becoming more and more
difficult. News became scarce and soon Wynne was holding together
four wards by sheer force of will with the rest completely blacked
out. Finally, the mobs were larger than the civics. Pushed off the
streets, then forced out of their homes, and now cowering behind
the walls of the municipal, Wynne had guided his people into a
corner. It had become a simple waiting game. When the mob came, the
civics he commanded were too weak to hold them back. Wynne’s civics
broke ranks and lashed out at their rabid brethren but to no avail.
Half attacked the mob, and the other joined it. Control was lost;
all was fire and blood. The fourth ward fell with little
resistance, the survivors scattered.