The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3) (30 page)

‘That’s the governor’s palace,’ said Flydd.

‘You know Taranta, then?’ said Nish.

‘Of course; I’ve been here several times. It was the
wealthiest city in the tropics once, but it fell on hard times when the Sea of
Perion dried up, thousands of years ago. The enormous mansion on the far side
of the square belongs to Jal-Nish’s seneschal – the governor’s rival in
Taranta.’

As they went lower, Nish saw that the columns of the palace
were grimy and the stone was pitted, while the once magnificent paintwork above
the portico was faded and flaking.

‘Hover here,’ said Flydd as they approached the governor’s
palace. ‘Now, how did Klarm work that amplifying spell to throw his voice so
far?’

He thought for a moment, touched his throat while holding
the serpent staff, then stood on the prow of the air-sled and spoke in a
rolling, sonorous voice that echoed across the square and back. Nish knew it as
Flydd’s scrutator’s voice, the one he’d once used to persuade, to charm, and to
get his way, and he had been a master of that Art.

‘Folk of Taranta, I call upon you one and all, from the
highest to the lowest, in the name of the God-Emperor.’

People appeared at windows and doorways. Shopkeepers looked
up from the market booths clustered at the far side of the square. Dignitaries
and officials came running down the steps of the palace, and burst out of the
front door of the seneschal’s mansion.

‘Folk of Taranta,’ Flydd repeated, ‘in the name of the
God-Emperor Jal-Nish Hlar, I bring urgent news of the war. You are required to
assemble in the old square in the peasant quarter one hour after sundown, to
hear the news.’

‘The peasant quarter!’ cried a large, florid man wearing
extravagant robes of black and crimson, as though Flydd had insulted him
personally.

Flydd ignored him, and the air-sled drifted over Taranta for
the next hour while he repeated the announcement over every public square and
local market.

‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on with it. Chissmoul, to the
peasant quarter.’

Its old square was also surrounded by manors, mansions and
great public buildings, once magnificent but now fallen into sad decay. The
vast square had been hastily lit by a thousand lanterns, large and small, their
oily fumes drifting in dark grey clouds across the assembly.

The place was packed to overflowing and abuzz with
excitement, for the God-Emperor of all Santhenar was not given to public
proclamations and indeed, may not ever have visited Taranta before. And if he
had, Nish thought, Father certainly would not have deigned to address the
common folk.

As he looked over the side, he noted dozens of patches of
colour in different parts of the square, each marking the individual racial or
ethnic attire of a group of the myriad peoples who dwelt in Taranta, from the
scarlets and browns of the desert dwellers who went veiled against the
sand-storms on the high plateaux of Faranda, to the striking mustard-yellow
gowns of the former Dry Sea salt-gleaners, now driven into poverty-stricken
exile by the flooding of that vast abyss, to the sapphire blue blouses and
emerald kilts of the whelk gatherers of the city foreshores, and many others he
had no knowledge of.

The city governor sat in a gilded throne on a platform in
the centre of the square, and the God-Emperor’s seneschal – the florid
fellow who wore the black and crimson robes – on another throne of equal
magnificence, the two men glaring at each other, forever kept as rivals, yet forever
subordinate to the whim of the God-Emperor, who had held the reins of power
tightly and delegated only when he had to.

And even then, the empire kept a careful lookout. Nish saw
that, at the four quarters of the square, tower-mounted wisp-watchers were
whirring back and forth, their watch unceasing, their vision all-seeing,
reporting everything of moment to Gatherer – assuming Gatherer was in a
place where it could receive such messages, of course.

Nish wondered, briefly, where Klarm was now, if he were
still alive. What would happen to the tears if he were not?

A brightly clad contingent of military officers occupied the
table to the right of the seneschal, the beribboned commander of the military
garrison at their head.

Other dignitaries and city elders had their own tables
nearby, but the greatest of all, a board ten spans long and three wide, and so
polished that Nish could make out the reflection of the air-sled in it, had
been laid out well-spaced from any other, as befitted the God-Emperor of the
civilised world. His table and magnificent throne were empty, of course.

‘How did they do all this in an hour?’ Nish marvelled.

‘They’re expecting to see the God-Emperor,’ said Flydd. ‘And
he does not tolerate failure, or personal indignity, in large ways or small.’

‘Do you think this is a good idea?’

‘What?’

‘Allowing them to believe that Father is aboard the
air-sled? They’ll be angry when they discover they’ve been tricked.’

‘I dare say,’ said Flydd, ‘but if we had revealed ourselves
in advance it would have given our enemies time to prepare an attack. This way,
they’ll be as surprised as anyone.’

‘They may already be suspicious.’

‘Why would they be? When your God-Emperor has been
all-powerful for a decade, and has crushed all opposition, his defeat is
unthinkable until it actually happens. Quiet now – it’s time.’ He nodded
to Chissmoul. ‘Hover twenty spans above the God-Emperor’s table.’

‘You’re not proposing to go down, are you, surr?’ Chissmoul
said anxiously, her previous outrage forgotten.

‘Certainly not,’ said Flydd. ‘But be ready for a hasty
getaway in case they don’t appreciate what I’ve got to say. Tell your militia
to stay down, Nish,’ he warned. ‘I wouldn’t want to lose anyone overboard.’

Nish gestured to his troops, who were peering over the sides
in a yokelish and undignified fashion. Chissmoul hovered over the God-Emperor’s
table. Flydd renewed his voice-amplifying spell and went to the bow, hanging on
to the serpent staff with his left hand.

The wisp-watchers and loop-listeners swung around to point
at him and so, Nish noted, did various smaller devices on the tops of other
buildings, each operated by a black-robed scrier. Already they would be trying
to identify Flydd, though they were unlikely to succeed, since few people alive
had seen his renewed self.

We’ll never get away with it, Nish thought. The eyes and
spies of the God-Emperor never sleep. And Father might be gone, but the command
structure he put in place is intact and will crush any insurgency as brutally
as he would.

‘Seneschal, Governor, Commander, city elders, and people of
Taranta,’ Flydd boomed. ‘I bring you the gravest tidings.’

He paused while a stir rustled from one end of the gathering
to the other.

‘That’s not the God-Emperor,’ someone cried.

‘Who is it?’ yelled another.

The dignitaries rose to their feet, staring at the air-sled.
The Imperial seneschal was gesturing to a red-robed chief scrier, while the
commander of the garrison was speaking urgently to his officers.

‘You’d better tell them, quick,’ said Nish.

Flydd moved closer to the edge, raised his voice, and put a
little of his rhetorical Art into it.

‘My name is Xervish Flydd.’ He paused as a louder murmur ran
through the crowd. ‘Many of you will know of me, for I was a scrutator and
commander-in-chief at the end of the lyrinx war.’

The buzz of talk, quickly silenced, indicated that he was
remembered, though not necessarily favourably by all. Flydd had taken hard
decisions at that time, and Nish knew he had made many enemies.

‘My face is different,’ Flydd went on, ‘because, hunted near
to death by the God-Emperor, I had no choice but to use a great spell, which
few mancers have survived, to
renew
my failing body. But inside I am the same Xervish Flydd who fought and routed
the enemy lyrinx, then negotiated an honourable peace … when all others wanted
nothing but eternal war.’

‘That’s not how I remember it,’ Nish hissed. ‘The peace
wasn’t your idea –’

‘Shut up,’ Flydd said in his own voice. ‘There’s a purpose
behind my every word.’

‘There had better be.’

Flydd raised his free hand and used the amplified voice
again. ‘You are wondering why I am in command of the God-Emperor’s own
air-sled, and calling this conclave in his name. I bear grave tidings to the
people of Taranta, indeed, to all Santhenar. The
gravest
tidings of all.’

He paused for a minute to let that sink in, and continued.
‘As you know, several weeks ago the God-Emperor’s proud army, ten thousand of
his finest troops, set out from Taranta to cross the Range of Ruin by the high
pass called Blister-bone. They marched to punish the little land of Gendrigore
for sheltering the God-Emperor’s only surviving son, Cryl-Nish Hlar, and the
army was commanded by the dwarf, General Klarm.

‘The advance guard crossed the pass, and so did the
God-Emperor, riding on this very air-sled, and there he met his son. Nish
commanded a pathetic little militia of Gendrigorean farmers and hunters armed
with mattocks and cudgels –
just
three hundred and fifty men and women
.’

There came a stir from the rear of the air-sled, and Nish
could understand why. What was Flydd up to, denigrating his militia in this
way?

‘Yes,’ Flydd went on, ‘Gendrigore has fallen so low that it
even sent
women
into the front line
of battle.’

The militia began to mutter among themselves.

‘Nish, shut them up before they ruin everything,’ Flydd said
from the corner of his mouth.

Nish ran back. ‘Flydd knows what he’s doing,’ he said
quietly. ‘Please give him the chance.’

‘He speaks with the forked tongue of his iron serpent,’
Clech growled, sitting up on his stretcher, but he gestured to the militia and
they fell silent.

‘But before Jal-Nish could do battle with his son’s little
ragtag militia,’ said Flydd, ‘something happened that no one on Santhenar, not
even the all-seeing God-Emperor, could have foreseen. A mighty
being
from the void, an immortal
creature called Stilkeen, materialised out of nothingness, seized him in its
claws and took him hostage.’

The crowd gasped, cried out, stared at one another, then
everyone began shouting at once. The governor stood up, held up his hand and
the clamour ceased.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said with an anxious glance at the
chief scrier and the seneschal, as if he would be held personally responsible
for Flydd’s heretical statement. ‘The God-Emperor has never been defeated; and
he never will be.’

‘Be assured that he has been taken,’ said Flydd, ‘overcome
in an instant, despite his mighty Profane Tears. And Stilkeen will only return
him in exchange for a treasure beyond price – chthonic fire –
stolen from it thousands of years ago.’

‘Your tale grows more outlandish by the minute,’ shouted the
governor. ‘What is chthonic fire, and who stole it?’

‘It is the dreadful force of binding,
and unbinding
, that caused the volcanic death of Aachan. You
remember, I’m sure, that fifty thousand Aachim fled to Santhenar in a fleet of
constructs thirteen years ago, because their world was being destroyed before
their eyes. Chthonic fire did that. And now, if we are not very careful, it
will wreak the same havoc on Santhenar.’

There was a long pause. Flydd’s losing them, Nish thought.
He’s made it too complicated, and he’s taking too long to get to the point.

‘Who stole the fire?’ bellowed the God-Emperor’s seneschal,
not to be outdone by his rival. He whispered to a runner beside him and the man
ran off, elbowing his way through the crowd.

‘The Charon, Yalkara, but that no longer matters,’ said
Flydd hastily, evidently sensing that the situation was slipping from his
grasp. ‘Since Stilkeen holds the God-Emperor hostage, there is no choice but to
find this chthonic fire.’

‘What has this to do with you, an outlaw with a price on
your head?’ said the governor. ‘And before that you were a lying scrutator, so
why should we listen to anything you say?’

Flydd lowered his voice until the crowd had to stand on
tiptoes and cup their hands around their ears to hear him. ‘I’ll tell you why
–’

‘You have no authority,’ snapped the governor. ‘The
God-Emperor’s deputy is General Klarm and we take our orders from him alone
– or in his absence, someone who bears his signed and sealed authority.
Should Klarm require us to find this chthonic fire, we will act on his word
instantly, but as for you – begone!’

Flydd stood at the prow, holding the serpent staff, a faint
smile creasing his broad features. ‘Are you finished?’

‘Nothing more needs be asked,
or said
.’

‘You haven’t asked about the God-Emperor’s army.’

The governor said, as if by rote, ‘The God-Emperor’s forces
are as numberless as the stars in the sky, and in ten years they have never been
defeated. They will crush Gendrigore like a cockroach on a dinner plate and
carry its rebellious inhabitants into everlasting slavery.’

‘Ah!’ said Flydd, and paused meaningfully. ‘But –’

‘What?’ cried the governor.

Flydd just stood there, looking down his nose and smiling.

‘What do you know?’ cried the seneschal.

After another agonisingly long pause, Flydd said, ‘Over the
past few days, there has been an almighty battle on the Range of Ruin.’

‘And our glorious army annihilated the upstart Gendrigoreans,’
said the seneschal.

‘Alas,’ said Flydd, ‘it did not. Several days ago, Nish’s
little militia, in a surprise attack, seized the impregnable pass of
Blisterbone.’

The seneschal swayed and grasped at the nearest object, a
water carafe, for support, but it shattered in his hand. He looked down
stupidly at his bloody palm. ‘But so small a number could never hold it –
not even Blisterbone – against ten thousand.’