The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (26 page)

“Nothing would please me more than to escape this place. I hate this land and all it stands for—I have no shyness about that. It rejected me at birth, so should I owe it my life or the work of a lifetime? I think not.

“But . . .” Verdu gestured with his hands and sent a sidelong glance to Nameer. “But, will the gods forgive me if I fail to take the opportunity that dangles before me like so much low-hanging fruit? I think not. My heart belongs to the gods, Nameer. I feel the pull to the Pramuc and the other Companions as if my own soul was anchored to them. I can tell you this: if I find myself the ruler of this land, the empire as it has been for one hundred years will crumble. I will tear it down stone by stone. There must be a better way than to starve the people into submission, to rule by fear, to pit brother against brother, to let the people betray their neighbors for scraps. We must protect those who are unprotected, women like your sister and children like me.

“We are more alike than you think, Nameer, but I won’t have you kill for me. When I accept the offer the gods present, if lives need taking in order for me to mount the throne, the blood will be solely on my hands, as is my right as an heir of the blood. I pray that the gods give me another way, but I will do what I must.”

The emperor sat in the middle of the lush greenery surrounded by the hot fog of fine misting machines. A handful of eunuchs pumped at the levers, each thrust of their heavy arms breathing out a shushing sigh of micro droplets that swirled through the air, hanging weightlessly in the shafts of light cutting through the thick, waxy leaves. From the emperor’s dais among the orchids, he could not see the high stone walls surrounding him. Those were well camouflaged by a variety of citrus, banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees, and, lower to the ground, tea bushes, peppers, and pineapples. The plants were tended by scores of gardeners; pampered with precise levels of heat and moisture, they produced fruit that was bountiful in the extreme. All for the delight of the emperor.

He contemplated the slice of orange in the palm of his caramel-colored hand. The leathery rind and shrinking pith showed that the fruit had been cut several days earlier and decay had already encroached on the fragile cells holding droplets of juice. The sweet scent of the deteriorating fruit, perfectly balanced between ripeness and rot, was ideal for attracting the delicate butterflies of the garden.

At present, six long-winged, dun-colored butterflies were vying for the best positions on the fruit. From time to time, one would open its wings to flash the bolder cerulean hidden within. The emperor stroked the wings of the butterflies with his free hand, whispering to them as they drank deeply from the orange slice. Occupied with probing each section of orange with thin probosci, silently slurping greedily, they seemed to take no notice of his dry, wrinkled fingertips gently caressing their wings and abdomens.

The emperor enjoyed meditating in the butterfly garden. It was a quiet place to reflect and, for a short time, grieve in solitude. The delicate butterflies wanted nothing from him but a bit of juice, and did not care if he laughed or cried, was stoic or enraged. In recent months, he had spent rather a lot of time with the butterflies, sometimes for the whole of the day. Here, he could hide his pain. He had made a small mistake, years ago, a choice that an emperor should never have made. But at the time, it seemed appropriate: he fell in love.

He had older brothers who were heirs—several of them—so it never occurred to him that he should sow his seed more broadly. Not when he had a woman like Toh-Laah. She never failed to capture his eye, his imagination, or his lust. Her essence among the other ladies of the court was demure and appeasing, proper even. But behind a tapestry or down a darkened hallway, she was downright inappropriate! Even now, years after her death, he smiled about the secret pleasures they indulged in together. He licked his wizened lips thinking of her skin on his, what she could do with her tongue. . . . They would make love and laugh, her sexuality as hungry as his, so strange for a Tugrulian woman. It was her vitality that made him want her, and when he had planted his seed and she was ripe with child, he sought no other companion.

He chose never to be without her. Over the years, more children came, and together they had such wonderful sons: five perfect, strapping boys. For ten years they laughed and loved, and she so wanted one more child with him, and he so loved making those children with her. He knew her heart was yearning for a daughter. The delivery was long and painful for her, so he was told, and he screamed his grief when he finally was permitted to see her, her cold dead arms wrapped around a tiny perfect bundle, equally cold.

Shortly after his beloved’s death, an illness swept the village surrounding the country palace where he had gone to grieve. They called the sickness
pahrho
, the puffing sickness. Few died, and at the time it was merely painful and inconvenient—and only frightening on the few occasions when he produced blood when he relieved himself. A few days later, all seemed fine with most of those who had been stricken. However, few children were born in the village for several years afterward, and many of the wives of the men who had the disease never bore children again.

The emperor hardly concerned himself with such matters. He had his sons, and eventually a collection of wives to keep him entertained. None pleased him as much as Toh-Laah had. More years passed, and no more children came to him. His wives worried, suspecting his seed was acarpous. Some even attempted to take lovers to help them toward fulfilling their duty. Under his very watchful eye, none succeeded. No child would be as dear to him as the ones who were part his and part Toh-Laah’s.

Twists of fate brought him closer and closer to the throne, and past the midpoint of his life, he was crowned emperor. Emperor had been his name ever since; some days he even forgot he had another name once.

Caressing another fattened butterfly, he thought on those long gone years. His boys were Tugrulian princes through and through. They, like so many princes of the blood before them, fought among themselves until only one remained. The emperor had seen his own brothers do it, but they, knowing he would rather spend time with Toh-Laah than seek the throne, left him to his lovemaking. His ambition bloomed only after her death, as it helped to pass the time.

His last son had died in the Dia Orella. His last tie to his beloved had been crushed into nothingness. The last few months had aged him more than the previous ten years. The emperor began to speak to Death aloud. “I am almost ready to see her again,” he said, seemingly to the emptiness around him. “Soon, my love . . .”

There was only one thing left he wanted to see accomplished: vengeance for the life of his last son. The Pramuc was to blame. She and her companions in the resistance had brought the foreign taint on his home and his god. He would take them, one by one, and after they were destroyed and discipline was returned to Tugrulia, he would enter the kingdom of the One True God and claim his family! The only desire left to him now was to bathe in the blood of the Pramuc. She was the root of the poisonous vine that was choking Tugrulia. She was the reason that his grandnephews and extended cousins were squabbling over his land. All of them seemed weak and pathetic compared to his youngest child, his beautiful boy who had bested his brothers, who had survived the vicious battle to be his father’s favorite. His mother’s son.

Gone.

He grinned with joy at having two of the Pramuc’s companions close enough to kill. He had to wade through the laws of his land to get at that surprise princeling Kotal Verdu, but the teacher from the west, she at least would provide a public spectacle that would show the rebels how swift and final their ends would be. And at best, she would bait the trap that would draw the Pramuc into his grasp. He would crush her to death with his bare hands, and he would smile while he did it.

Too late, the emperor realized his need was racing before him. He looked down at his hand to see a mash of iridescent blue smeared between his fingers and shreds of overripe fruit across his lap. He sighed and brushed the mess onto the floor of the ground.

“Messenger,” he called out. “Please send word to Nameer Xa-Ven that I will see him in my receiving room.” The emperor could see none of the awaiting servants, but knew they were there and that the message would be taken. By the time he ambled to the appointed chamber, the councillor would be on his way to meet him. He also knew that whatever Nameer wanted, it would be of no use. Kotal Verdu would not live, not while the emperor had blood in his veins. He would kill them all and let the One True God sort them in the next world.

You can take the girl out of the classroom, but you can’t take the classroom out of the girl
,
Candice thought. The young rat ran through the broken crockery laid out on the floor with the determination of . . . well, a rat. Candice’s only regret was that she had no stopwatch to accurately mark the progress of the wee rodent as it learned the correct route and collected its prize: a tiny morsel from the scraps of Candice’s vile dinner of moss bread and water. She was counting the seconds in her head but, in her excitement, she gathered that she was counting a little too fast. At last, the rat reached the end, and snatched the pasty goo between its black paws, whiskers twitching with delight as it nibbled away.

“At least
you
think it’s tasty! But, oh, how well you did, Buddy. That was the fastest run yet.” She watched Buddy the Rat enjoy the snack until it was gone. He sat contentedly, licking his paws and mopping at his sticky face. Candice was envious.

“I wish I could get a bath; I smell like I’ve been held prisoner for close to a week in a damp hole.” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “I itch all over, too, so it’s not hard to understand that I’ve nearly forgotten what clean is. Say, why don’t we turn the tables a bit? You make a maze for me to run through, and the reward at the other end could be a bar of soap. What do you say? I bet I could beat your best time if there was a bubble bath on the other end. How about it?”

The rat wiggled its nose at her curiously, and then went back to grooming itself.

Candice tried to make other observations about the nature of her rodent companion, but in the dim light, she could tell little more than that he was a brown rat with black paws. Surely there must be something else she could study about the rat—anything to keep her mind from the edges of panic, which it had been tiptoeing closer and closer to for days. She caught herself thinking about Max again, and she quickly shook it off. She studied the way Buddy’s whiskers splayed out from a rather compact array of follicles. She started to count the vibrating, thread-thin hairs, willing herself to think only in the moment, allowing no beats of thought from the past or suppositions about the future.
That way lies madness
, she reasoned.

She scolded herself aloud. “You just keep your head about you, young lady. Just keep talking to the rat, and you won’t have to think about anything.”

At that moment, the sound of a squeaking door farther down the hall from Candice’s cell startled Buddy. Abandoning its grooming, the rat scurried away from the crockery maze and disappeared down a dark hole in the filthy floor.

“Crap,” Candice said, alone with her thoughts once more.

chapter 17

Over the transom

Nameer trotted toward the emperor’s receiving room. The
slap-slap-slap
of his sandals echoing on the marble all around him whispered a warning with every step:
hush-hush-hush
. If he had any chance in this, he needed to see the emperor and not say anything. He was dangerously close to the edge in this deadly game. The emperor would have been told by any number of people that Verdu had been limping through the palace with his councillor leading the way. He may even have received reports of every word that was said between them when they were out and about. At least Nameer had chosen wisely by putting Verdu in the wives’ consorting room. Pink and womanly it might be, but it was one of the most soundproof rooms in the palace. Past emperors were touchy about who could have eyes and ears on their wives. At least Verdu and Nameer were able to discuss their strategy for their plan, which could now be called nothing less than a coup. They talked for hours, sometimes agreeing in principle, sometimes debating furiously about philosophical differences, always planning for a new Tugrulia. If the emperor even suspected . . .

Nameer shook his head; there was no point in thinking on his own death now. His heart was clean, or so he thought. The One True God—or maybe a whole panoply of gods, as Verdu’s accounts seemed very convincing—would have to take him as he stood should his end come sooner rather than later. He was resolved. This government was broken, and it was only a matter of time before it collapsed completely. Better it be Verdu who led its demise rather than some other, worse tyrant. There was goodness in Verdu, and he could lead the Tugrulians into a new and prosperous age.

Nameer’s eyes glittered with hope as he jogged past the ceremonial guards in their acid-green and magenta robes, each holding a steel poleax that gleamed like deadly silver. The flash of the powerful weapons was enough to get Nameer to settle his face into the composed glare of a put-upon councillor. It was the face he had worn for the last several months, the one that replaced his countenance of smug authority. The change was small but profound.

He rushed to the emperor’s short writing desk and dived onto the thick Tugrulian carpet in a show of supplication, as was customary. Facedown and slightly sweaty, he tried not to pant too loudly as he waited for the emperor to take notice of him.

The emperor, comfortably ensconced in a nest of pillows on the far side of the desk, continued to scratch away with an exquisite glass pen, signing document after document with flourished strokes. Every so often, he would pause as he read over various passages, and then would sigh and continue his writing.