The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (27 page)

Finally, Nameer heard the pen clink onto the desktop, and a stack of papers slide to the end of the desk. The tiptoe of a page boy was softer than the paper rustling; the lad knew well to be at the desk a half second before he was needed and to do his job without instruction, comment, or delay. A silent, invisible mind reader—that was the perfect page.

Nameer wished
he
could read the emperor’s mind, or at least be addressed by him so he could get off his face. Perhaps then, Nameer thought, he might have a chance of knowing where he stood with the emperor. Surely a clue to his state of mind would show in the man’s face; if only Nameer could look up at it. . . .

He waited, silently and impatiently, until at last the emperor said, “Ah, Councillor Nameer Xa-Ven, why did I call you here?”

Nameer rolled back onto his heels and rested his palms on his thighs. He examined the emperor’s face, calculated the stiffness of his back as the old man rested in the nest of cushions. Nameer took in the angle of his head and arms. The emperor’s body seemed to have aged ten years in the last six months. The man had seemed so vital before, and now, mourning the loss of his last son, he sagged in both appearance and spirit. The man before him, whom Nameer had always looked on as the rock of Tugrulia—the embodiment of the empire itself—seemed just a sad old man. He felt a momentary pang of pity for him.

And then the emperor spoke. “Oh, yes. You are the bastard that’s keeping me from executing the interloper, the scum that killed my son, my En-Vasco—” The emperor’s voice caught in his throat, but in half a second he had pulled his grief and rage back under control. “And you! You dare to claim successional fratricide! That is a hollow defense, and you know it as well as I. Step aside and give him to the throngs clamoring for his blood.” The emperor’s gesturing hands had transformed into slashing claws as he spoke. “Do not take it lightly that the emperor is at the head of the throng! I will have him.”

Nameer walked the line between obedient councillor to the emperor and loyalist to his own agenda. “Of course, Your Most Royal Majesty, I am sure you are displeased with my humble and futile attempts to subvert the law for this most unworthy usurper—”

“Murderer!” the emperor cut him off. “Kotal Verdu is a murderer and blasphemer. He must die.”

“As you say, of course,” Nameer went on delicately. “I was charged by the royal council to be advocate and adviser for the accused, whether I believe in his cause or not, and thus I must proceed in the manner set forth by the traditions that are outlined by the guild in which I have pledged my life’s work—”

A hard slap across the face from the emperor’s own hand stopped Nameer’s flowery speech. He tasted blood on his lips as the emperor grabbed the front of his shirt and gave him a rough shake. “Listen to me, boy. I want a clear path to Kotal Verdu’s head, and I want it now.” He dropped the councillor with a shove, knocking him onto his back. The thick Tugrulian carpet did little to break his fall, and the air rushed out of Nameer’s lungs. “The succession is too precarious as it is. I won’t wait and let fate decide. I will have to choose.”

Nameer was uncertain whether the emperor was speaking to him or to himself. The emperor’s face had faded from rage back to sorrow as he returned to his comfortable place behind the desk. He shrewdly looked at Nameer. “My choices are unpleasant. This empire needs a hand willing to crush whole cities if necessary. Without me, they wouldn’t even be able to open the daily markets themselves. My people must be molded by strength, and pushed where they are needed to go. We are one empire. One law. One Language. One God. Who will hold the leash when I have gone? I trusted En-Vasco to follow my ways. He was strong enough. He could be brutal—and the One God knows that brutality is the only way to make the river ferries run on time. Who will do it now?”

Nameer held still and listened. He was expected to give no answer.

“My third cousin, Prince Cutis Veritan? Should it be him, with his appetites for women and chalk? Would he set aside his harem when an iron fist is needed? Or should it be the next in line, his son Ha-Ting Vokah? A coward, through and through. The only reason he is still alive is that he is exceedingly good at hiding in a hole and getting others to do his killing for him. Then there is his brother Tercius—a mere teenager and a simpleton unfit for the crown.

“The murderer is fourth in line, and that is too close. And the ones who follow him are variations of the first three. How can these be my blood? How can this be? How has the line of the great Emperor Kotal Varinain become polluted so?” He put his head in his hands, buckling under the shame. “I dare not even name the rest, lest they hear the call and think themselves worthy. There were thousands that could be heir. The good killed their betters until all that remain are the few at the bottom. The ones that never showed any promise, any ambition. The dregs.”

He looked up at Nameer once more. “Prince Kotal Verdu will die, and soon. May the One True God smite any that stand in the way
.
You, Nameer Xa-Ven, have had your fun. Back down. You may go.”

Nameer bowed deeply and backed out of the emperor’s receiving room. He wiped the blood from his chin as he hustled back to his office on the far side of the palace. He mulled over what he had heard from the emperor and thought about what needed to be done.

As a man of the law, Nameer felt the pull of justice tugging him through the universe. That which had been so clear to him before was becoming more murky. The emperor had confirmed for him what he had already begun to suspect: the great tree of the line of Varinain had rotted from within. His lineage of dictators had boiled down to a handful of undeserving princelings.

He wondered how many others knew of the precarious state of the empire. Anyone who cared to open their eyes. The three heirs before Verdu were ripe to be puppets for someone who wanted to gain control. The emperor was right: the available choices where poorly qualified, but at least one of the first three heirs had a deadly appetite for power. However, Prince Ha-Ting Vokah’s hunger was not enough. Only Verdu had the brains, courage, and newly awakened ambition to lead the Tugrulian nation to a new vision of itself.

And there it was, shining like the glow of dawn breaking over the mountains: Tugrulian
nation
, not empire. Nameer licked his bloody lip and savored the flavor of a new idea that was now deep in his blood, one that would never let him go or give him peace until he achieved it, teased it out and formed it into being. Nameer had allied himself with Verdu before to save his own ass, and had believed in him for his potential—a means to an end. But now, he knew there was more than his own comfortable life at stake, more than self-interest. There was a nation to be won, a better way, a way for people to take control of their own lives and destinies, to shape the hand that fate dealt.

Nameer vowed he would help Verdu to see a nation born, or he would die trying.

Ahy-Me and Fenimore scrambled over to where Pranav Erato flailed on the rock. The earth shuddered around them, shimmering as his words reverberated throughout the caves. It was for good reason that Pranav Erato avoided speaking underground if he could help it. His much-preferred method of communication was to put his thoughts directly into the minds of others. Surrounded by earth, the power of his voice could be devastating in its destruction; such was the side effect of being a tool of the gods.

Mostly, Pranav Erato found it all to be a bother—especially at times such as these. Not that he would admit he had just felt a moment of panic. Nor would he deign to admit to worry, but he might, eventually, given a strong drink, confess to a state of deep concern.

Ahy-Me, mopping his brow with a handful of rags from the pallet from which the pranav was struggling to rise, shouted into his mind.
Pranav! Are you all right? You weren’t in there, and it frightened me to no end. I tried not to fling my tortoise, as they say, but I came close. What happened?

No time for that now!
Pranav Erato shouted back to her, mind to mind.

Her eyebrows pulled together in annoyed confusion.
What do you mean, ‘no time!’?
she thought back at him.

“Speak aloud! One of you at least,” Fenimore demanded. Pranav Erato shook his head and grabbed Fenimore’s shoulder, partially to help himself up to his feet, but mostly to push thoughts at Fenimore’s brain.
Sorry, son, I haven’t got control of myself yet. I’m sure you understand. Come. I will tell you on the way.

The pranav grasped Fenimore firmly around the wrist as he dashed toward the lone exit from the cave. His long, bony fingertips dug into the tender underside of Fenimore’s arm, plucking the tendons like harp strings. Fenimore, stunned that the spindly old man had gone from lifeless to sprinting in such short order, was unprepared to be jerked forward. His first step was more of a sprawling lunge, reawakening a phantom pain that had been lingering in his left leg. He ignored the twinge and recovered by the end of the second step. Two paces later he was shouting, “Hey! What’s going on? What happened to you? Ahy-Me said she couldn’t hear you at all back there. Are you all right?”

Listen to you!
Pranav Erato replied, throwing a glance from his glittering eyes over his shoulder.
Talking and asking questions that a sane, compassionate person would ask. Got a good night’s comfort, did ya? Found some other part of your soul that wants more than blood on your hands and veins in your teeth? Bravo, and see if you can hang on to that for a minute.

Fenimore’s face burned at having the pranav as witness to his shame. In a way Fenimore was glad to put word to it:
shame
. He realized he had not broken the letter of his vows to his wife, but he was ashamed that he had taken the offered substitute. He knew the pranav was the root of this unexpected turn of events, and his anger started to flair. He dug in his heels and came to a stop, flapping the pranav like a rag doll, and yanking the old man to a halt, too.

“What happened to me?” Fenimore demanded.

For heaven’s sake! Ahy-Me!
Pranav Erato thought at the round-faced woman chugging her way up the path behind them.
Why haven’t you explained to him what’s going on?

“To be honest, Pranav, I am not sure vhat du vant me to say. I know only vhat du tell me, and I know only vhat ees obvious.” She jerked her thumb at Fenimore. “He vas crazy soldier boy; now he ees . . . ah, better.” Her tone turned from annoyed to compassionate.

“But why? Why did I become so extreme?” He paused a moment, then added, “And is it going to happen again?”

Pranav Erato’s hand floated up to rest on Fenimore’s downturned face.
I’m sorry, my boy, I really am, but you are a victim of your own destiny. From what I can understand—and we all know what a challenge
that
is when it comes to matters of the gods—you and the other Companions were made to function together. Function best, at any rate. When Verdu was separated from your fellowship, you managed; you ached for him in some ways, both literally and figuratively, but you soldiered on.
He snickered at his own pun, then continued.
Candice, whom you saw occasionally, helped balance you out, and your deep love for Chenda carried you the rest of the way. But the cracks were there. When you parted from Chenda, you were left with but one thing: the distilled character of a soldier—the Soldier of the Pramuc—the power invested in you by the gods themselves.

Pranav Erato harrumphed and kicked his filthy feet on the rocky path where they stood.
The gods think like gods, and sometimes forget that man is man, and men have the limitations of time and space. The distance between the Companions is too great. You must be put back together. You must be whole as a fellowship—or as whole as you can be—to balance your gifts in the world.

He gave Fenimore’s face a light slap to get him to lift his eyes from his study of the floor.
Connection. You simply lacked connection. Your life before . . . before Chenda, the airship, the love of you brother Verdu—

Fenimore blinked in surprise.

Yes. He has become closer than your twin—and you have replaced his lost twin. Very interesting, that. . . . But more importantly, you had an ability before all this to survive unattached. The gods took that from you when you were placed on Chenda’s path. You, she, and the other Companions are part of one another’s life forces now, and when you are in fellowship, when you are as one, heavens . . . there is nothing more beautiful, more perfect.

His eyes brimmed with tears as he recalled the vision the gods had shown him.
I don’t know if you can understand, not without seeing it, but the truth of it all is that the gods really are reflected in man, and man in the gods. We, however, are not nearly so strong, and reflections are often marred by the ripples in our chosen mirrors.

So now that I have beaten this analogy to death, I can come back to my fault in this: you needed a connection, and Ahy-Me was the person at hand. You needed to feel love to balance you out, and I put a woman in love in your hands; the fact that she loves your brother Verdu made her perfect. I’m sorry, but sometimes people need to be used, and I used her . . . to fix you.

Fenimore turned to look at Ahy-Me, who had crumpled to the ground near the wall of the cave, her face buried in her hands, her knees to her chest. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he pulled his arm away from Pranav Erato and sat on the ground beside Ahy-Me and put one arm around her shoulders. It pained him to see her realizing just how brazenly Pranav Erato had used her. She recognized, once again, that her needs, her very heart and soul, had taken second place to the challenge placed before the pranav. He had chosen duty above the person in the world he most loved and knew best, a woman closer to him than a daughter.

The price was going to be very high, for both Ahy-Me and Fenimore. The connection made to bring him back from madness was binding them like shackles. The link felt permanent, and more intimate than two acquaintances should have. Unfamiliarity shrouded it in mystery. It was like an arranged marriage that neither knew anything about. And Fenimore knew already that it was the only thing keeping him sane.