Read The Darkness that Comes Before Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Darkness that Comes Before (38 page)
Such a plan! And devised not by Skeaös but by his
uncle
. As much as that fact galled Conphas, it must, he decided, gall the old Counsel more.
uncle
. As much as that fact galled Conphas, it must, he decided, gall the old Counsel more.
“It’s not the feast we dispute,” Skeaös replied, “it’s the
price!
Surely you can see this!”
price!
Surely you can see this!”
Conphas studied the Prime Counsel for several long moments. There was something curiously pathetic, he thought, about the notion of the man plotting with his grandmother, like two beggars sneering at those too poor to give more than coppers.
“The Empire? Restored?” he said coldly. “I should think your soul a bargain, Skeaös.”
Skeaös opened his toothless mouth to retort but then closed it.
The Emperor’s Privy Chamber was an austere room, circular, ringed by black marble columns, with a surrounding gallery for those rare occasions, mostly ritual, when the Houses of the Congregate were invited to observe the Emperor signing edicts into law. A small herd of ministers and slaves milled about the room’s heart, clustered around the head of a mahogany table. Conphas glimpsed his uncle’s reflection floating beneath the table’s polish, like a corpse in brackish water. There was no sign of the Scarlet Schoolmen.
The Exalt-General loitered near the entrance for several moments, studying the ivory plaques set into the walls: renditions of the great lawmakers of antiquity and the Tusk, from the prophet Angeshraël to the philosopher Poripharus. He wondered inanely which of his dead relatives the artisan had used to model their faces.
The sound of his uncle’s summons startled him.
“Come. We’ve only a few moments, Nephew.”
The others had withdrawn, leaving only Skeaös and Cememketri at his uncle’s side. The surrounding galleries, Conphas could not help noticing, were filled with Eothic Guardsmen and Imperial Saik.
Conphas took the seat his uncle indicated. “Both Skeaös and Cememketri agree,” Xerius was saying, “that Eleäzaras is an infernally clever and dangerous man. How would you snare him, Nephew?” His uncle was trying to sound jocular, which meant he was afraid, as perhaps he should have been: no one yet knew
why
the Scarlet Spires had deigned to join the Holy War, and this meant no one knew the School’s intent. For men like Skaiyelt and Gothyelk, the purpose was plain: redemption or conquest. But for Eleäzaras? Who could say what motivated any of the Schools?
why
the Scarlet Spires had deigned to join the Holy War, and this meant no one knew the School’s intent. For men like Skaiyelt and Gothyelk, the purpose was plain: redemption or conquest. But for Eleäzaras? Who could say what motivated any of the Schools?
Conphas shrugged. “Snaring him is out of the question. One must know
more
than one’s opponent to trap him, and as it stands we know nothing. We know nothing of his deal with Maithanet. We don’t even know
why
he would condescend to make such a deal—and to take such a risk! A School of its own volition joining a holy war . . . A
holy war!
In all honesty, Uncle, I’m not sure that securing his support for the Indenture should even be our priority at this point.”
more
than one’s opponent to trap him, and as it stands we know nothing. We know nothing of his deal with Maithanet. We don’t even know
why
he would condescend to make such a deal—and to take such a risk! A School of its own volition joining a holy war . . . A
holy war!
In all honesty, Uncle, I’m not sure that securing his support for the Indenture should even be our priority at this point.”
“So what are you saying? That we should simply probe for details? I pay my spies good gold for such trifles, Nephew.”
Trifles?
Conphas struggled with his composure. Though his uncle’s heart was too whorish for religious faith, he was as jealous of his ignorance as any zealot. If the facts contradicted his aspirations, they did not exist.
Conphas struggled with his composure. Though his uncle’s heart was too whorish for religious faith, he was as jealous of his ignorance as any zealot. If the facts contradicted his aspirations, they did not exist.
“You once asked me how I prevailed at Kiyuth, Uncle. Do you remember what it was I told you?”
“Told me?” the Emperor nearly spat. “You’re always ‘telling’ me things, Conphas. How do you expect me to sort one impertinence from the other?” This was perhaps the pettiest and most oft used weapon in his uncle’s arsenal: the threat to read counsel as commandment. The threat loomed over all their exchanges:
You would presume to command the Emperor?
You would presume to command the Emperor?
Conphas graced his uncle with a conciliatory smile. “From what Skeaös says,” he said smoothly, “I think we should simply bargain in good faith—as much as we can, anyway. We know too little to snare him.” Stepping to the brink then stepping back by pretending no such step had been taken—this had always been his family’s way, at least until his grandmother’s recent antics.
“My thought precisely,” Xerius said. At least he still remembered the rules.
Just then, a chamberlain announced the imminent arrival of Eleäzaras and his retinue. Xerius bid Skeaös to tie his Chorae about his hand, which the old Counsel did while Cememketri watched with distaste. This was something of a small dynastic tradition, adopted more than a century earlier, and observed whenever members of the Imperial Family conferred with outside sorcerers.
Chepheramunni, King-Regent and titular head of High Ainon, was announced first, but when the small Ainoni entourage filed into the chamber, he followed Eleäzaras like a dog. The Grandmaster’s entrance was brisk and, Conphas thought, anti-climactic. His demeanour was more that of a banker than a sorcerer: impatient of spectacle, hungry for the ledgers. He bowed to Xerius, but no lower than would the Shriah. A slave drew his chair back for him, an d he sat effortlessly, despite his trailing crimson gowns. With rouged cheeks and reeking of perfume, Chepheramunni sat at his side, a chalky look of fear and resentment on his face.
The obligatory exchange of honorifics, introductions, and compliments was observed. When Cememketri, Eleäzaras’s counterpart in the Imperial Saik, was introduced, the Grandmaster smiled disdainfully and shrugged, as though dubious of the man’s station. Schoolmen, Conphas had been told, were often insufferably haughty when in the company of other Schoolmen. Cememketri flushed in anger, but to his credit did not respond in kind.
After these jnanic preliminaries, the Grandmaster turned to Conphas. “At long last,” he said in fluent Sheyic, “I meet the famed Ikurei Conphas.”
Conphas opened his mouth to reply, but his uncle spoke first.
“He’s a rarity, isn’t he? Few rulers possess such instruments to execute their will . . . But surely you haven’t come all this way just to meet my nephew?”
Though Conphas could not be certain, Eleäzaras seemed to
wink
at him before turning to his uncle, as though to say,
“We must suffer these fools patiently, mustn’t we?”
wink
at him before turning to his uncle, as though to say,
“We must suffer these fools patiently, mustn’t we?”
“Of course not,” Eleäzaras replied with damning brevity.
Xerius seemed oblivious. “Then might I ask
why
the Scarlet Spires has joined the Holy War?”
why
the Scarlet Spires has joined the Holy War?”
Eleäzaras studied his unpainted fingernails. “Quite simple, really. We were purchased.”
“Purchased?”
“Indeed.”
“A most extraordinary transaction! What are the details of your arrangement?”
The Grandmaster smiled. “Alas, I fear that secrecy is itself part of the arrangement. Unfortunately, I’m not able to divulge any of the details.”
Conphas thought this an unlikely story. Not even the Thousand Temples was wealthy enough to “hire” the Scarlet Spires. They were here for reasons that transcended gold and Shrial trade concessions—of that much he was certain.
Changing directions as fluidly as a shark in water, the Grandmaster continued, “You worry, of course, about how our purposes bear upon your Indenture.”
There was a sour pause. Then Xerius replied, “Of course.” His uncle chafed more than most at being premeditated by another.
“The Scarlet Spires,” Eleäzaras said demurely, “cares nothing about who possesses the land conquered by the Holy War. Accordingly, Chepheramunni will sign your Indenture—gladly. Will you not, Chepheramunni?”
The painted man nodded but said nothing. The dog had been trained well.
“But,” Eleäzaras continued, “there are several conditions we would see met first.”
Conphas had predicted this. Civilized men haggle.
Xerius protested. “Conditions? But for centuries the lands from here to Nenciphon have been—”
“I’ve heard all the arguments,” Eleäzaras interrupted. “Dross. Pure dross. You and I both know what is truly at stake here, Emperor . . . Don’t we?”
Xerius stared at him in dumb astonishment. He wasn’t accustomed to interruptions, but then, he wasn’t accustomed to parlaying with men who were more than his equals. High Ainon was a wealthy, densely populated nation. Of all the rulers and despots across the Three Seas, only the Padirajah of Kian possessed more commercial and military power than the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires.
“If you don’t,” Eleäzaras continued when Xerius failed to reply, “then I’m sure your precocious nephew does. Hmm, young Conphas? Do you know what’s at stake here?”
Conphas thought it obvious. “Power,” he said with a shrug. A strange fellowship, he realized, now existed between him and this sorcerer. From the outset, the Grandmaster had accorded him the status of kindred intellect.
Even the foreigners know you’re a fool, Uncle.
“Precisely, Conphas. Precisely! History is only a pretext for power, no? What matters . . .” The white-haired sorcerer trailed with a small grin, as though he’d stumbled upon a more effective tack with which to make his point. “Tell me,” he asked Xerius, “why did you provision Calmemunis, Kumrezzer, and the others? Why did you give them the means to march?”
His uncle opted for the rehearsed reply. “To put an end to their depredations. Why else?”
“Unlikely,” Eleäzaras snapped. “I rather think that you provisioned the Vulgar Holy War in order to destroy it.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“But this is madness,” Xerius finally replied. “Damnation aside, what would we have to gain?”
“Gain?” Eleäzaras repeated with a wry grin. “Why the Holy War, of course . . . Our deal with Maithanet stripped you of whatever leverage you possessed with the Imperial Saik, so you needed something else to barter. If the Vulgar Holy War is destroyed, then it will be far easier for you to convince Maithanet that the Holy War needs you—or should I say, the now legendary military acumen of your nephew, here. Your Indenture will be his price, and the Indenture effectively cedes to you all the proceeds of the Holy War . . . I must admit, it’s a splendid plan.”
This small flattery was Xerius’s undoing. For a brief instant his eyes flashed with jubilant conceit. Stupid men, Conphas had found, tended to be excessively proud of their few brilliant moments.
Eleäzaras smiled.
He plays you, Uncle, and you cannot even see.
The Grandmaster leaned forward as though aware of the discomfort generated by his proximity. Eleäzaras, Conphas realized, was a master practitioner of jnan.
“As of yet,” he said coldly, “we don’t know the specifics of the game you play, Emperor. But let me assure you of this: if it involves the betrayal of the Holy War, then it involves the betrayal of the
Scarlet Spires
. Do you know what this means? What it entails? If you betray us, Ikurei, then no one”—he glanced darkly at Cememketri—“not even your Imperial Saik, will be able to preserve you from our wrath. We are the Scarlet Spires, Emperor . . . Think on that.”
Scarlet Spires
. Do you know what this means? What it entails? If you betray us, Ikurei, then no one”—he glanced darkly at Cememketri—“not even your Imperial Saik, will be able to preserve you from our wrath. We are the Scarlet Spires, Emperor . . . Think on that.”
“You threaten me?” Xerius fairly gasped.
“Assurances, Emperor. All arrangements require assurances.”
Xerius yanked his face away, intent on Skeaös, who was fiercely whispering in his ear. Cememketri, however, could contain himself no longer.
“You overstep yourself, Eli. You act as though we sit in Carythusal when it’s you who sit in Momemn. Two of the Three Seas lie between you and your home. Far too far to be uttering threats!”
Eleäzaras frowned then snorted, turning to Conphas as though the Grandmaster of the Imperial Saik did not exist. “In Carythusal they call you the Lion of Kiyuth,” he said nonchalantly. His eyes were small, dark, and nimble. They scrutinized him from beneath bushy white brows.
“Do they?” Conphas asked, genuinely surprised that his grandmother’s moniker had travelled so far so fast. Surprised and pleased—very pleased.
“My archivists tell me you’re the first to defeat the Scylvendi in pitched battle. My spies, on the other hand, tell me your soldiers worship you as a god. Is this so?”
Conphas smiled, deciding the Grandmaster would lick his ass as clean as a cat’s if given the opportunity. For all his penetration, Eleäzaras had misjudged him.
It was time to set him straight. “What Cememketri said just now is true, you know. No matter what your deal with Maithanet, you’ve delivered your School to its greatest peril since the Scholastic Wars. And not just because of the Cishaurim. You’ll be a small enclave of profanity within a great tribe of fanatics. You’ll need every friend you can get.”
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