17 The Forum

‘MATTERS DON’T WORK out the way you always want, my dear,’ said Misla in a lecturing tone, softened by a smile. The washerwoman, and her husband Toadius, were supposed to have vacated Icarthya during the coup. Instead, they’d hidden during Liviana Avitus’ takeover, unable or unwilling to go. Aiyana felt relieved they had survived and drew comfort from their company.

‘Leave off the girl, Mis’,’ grunted Toadius, chewing his birch bark tar. As usual, he used his hands to manoeuvre himself closer and looked up at Aiyana with a gap-toothed smile, the lump in his mouth bulging one bristly cheek.

‘I’m saying what she needs to hear,’ his wife snapped. ‘Isn’t that right, Maya?’

‘Well,’ said Toadius, ‘mayhap you should just leave off sayin’, is all I’m sayin’. Sometimes, too much sayin’ starts trouble. Nothing wrong with bitin’ your tongue now and then.’

Aiyana stared at the lines of bedraggled citizens, the lost, and the forgotten. Every day brought more, many walking tens of miles to reach the capital. Word was out there was food and work. Aiyana had tasked a new quay master with ensuring a continuous supply of oats and grain from barges in the harbour, but there never seemed enough. Without much authority to back her, her negotiations with other kingdoms often ended before they began. The grain supplies from Ewsann in the borderlands had ended as the tribes there took advantage. Aiyana did not have the legions to restore order in the west.

Only the dual-kingdom of Tage and Nynt southeast of the imperium had agreed to send grain. Some of the barges sank in the storms, but many made it. A good thing, since most farms surrounding Icarthya lay abandoned. Few had returned to work the land and supply the city. She had no idea how people were surviving throughout the rest of the imperium. Her diplomats and agents often did not return. No one liked the idea of an undead ruler, and ridiculous rumours of her eating people alive had found a willing audience.

The soldier spooning porridge mixed with fruit from the iron pot, glanced at her. A woman beside him handed out bread. Aiyana wondered what they thought of her. What was behind those impassive masks?

‘My dear,’ said Misla with a hand on her arm. ‘It’s gettin’ worse. You can keep feedin’ them, but until you solves what caused them to be without you’re wasting time. They eat today, to starve tomorrow.’

‘I know,’ Aiyana whispered. Civil war was looming and with it the starvation Misla predicted. Rumours of people vanishing hadn’t helped. Unfortunately, those rumours had some credibility, but most linked them to Aiyana Todralan. Something odd was happening and it had extended beyond the imperium’s borders. Two envoys had mentioned the vanishings in their lands, including across the Adalcis Ocean. Threadfin had told her of the Grim’s army of revenants, which he’d encountered in the Grimstyx, and she shivered at the thought.

Aiyana had appointed the washerwoman the task of overseeing the Muck, ensuring people got food and their injuries seen to. She’d also put people in charge of an orphanage.

Tired of waiting in the palace for the vanth to attack, she had come to the Muck to see the situation for herself. It was not her first visit though seeing did little good. As for promise of work most of the factories and workshops of the Prole sat empty.

I wanted to take back the throne from Liviana, she thought, but this is no longer my father’s imperium, nor my grandfather’s. It is a broken thing and I do not know how to fix it.

Besides, she now understood her fate. Ruling this imperium wasn’t her task in this world. For now, though, there was no one else. Threadfin was no longer a Todralan and would be no more accepted by the populace than she. Her sister, Sarscha, had no interest and had either vanished or was dead.

While Toadius was muttering and Misla was passing out wooden bowls, Aiyana noticed a man halfway down the line. He watched her intently. His clothing looked richer and less worn or dirty and he did not seem malnourished. In fact, he looked well-fed, which had begun to draw dark glances. He stepped out of line and jumped the queue. Angry mutters and several curses followed along with a dirty foot aimed at his shin.

Aiyana’s green-cloaked guards readied their spears. Even Misla attempted to get in his way before the fellow dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

‘My name is Asher,’ said the man. ‘I know who you are and I know you are of the undead. I have come to serve you, my lady.’ He then looked up at her, ignoring a furious Misla, and the black phlegm Toadius spat in his direction.

‘Where do you come from?’ Aiyana asked, not recognising the accent although there was something about it.

He hesitated, and then said, ‘Atlantis.’

‘That old lump of dirt?’ said Misla, fists on ample hips. ‘It’s drowned and lost along with everyone what were on it, you fool.’

‘I know,’ the man whispered. ‘I was there the day it happened. I fled to Tage and now, I’ve come to serve the new Icarthian imperatrix. If she’ll have me.’

Aiyana gestured for him to rise. ‘You don’t need to kneel. I am not imperatrix yet. No one sits on the Icarthian throne. At this rate, I’m not certain anyone will. How did you come to be here, Asher of Atlantis?’ The name was familiar and she was certain she should know it. Where had she heard it before?

‘I was on a smuggler’s ship bound for Byrsa. The captain was once a reputable merchant I think, who often did business with your Church. Due to my diplomatic status, I found myself attached to the service of a paladin named, Raziel.’

‘Never heard of him.’

He shrugged. ‘It is you I came all this way for. I heard word you visit this quarter. I thought I might get your attention faster this way. No one will let me near the palace.’

‘I wonder why?’ Misla snapped. ‘Be careful my dear. This one has a silver tongue. I can clout him for you if you like. Looks like he could do with one.’

‘A diplomat,’ said Aiyana, ignoring her friend. Maybe that’s why I know the name. He must have visited Icarthya in the past. ‘What is your full name?’

The man’s face soured. ‘If it pleases my lady, I have one name. A lot was lost along with my home.’

Aiyana looked into the man’s eyes and saw sadness, openness. ‘Very well, Asher. If you wish to prove your worth you must do something for me. Get me a meeting with a Church Paladin, since you seem to know one. In fact, get me a meeting with all of them, for I have failed in every attempt. Then, you and I will speak.’

He nodded as if the request was something routine, turned and left.

Well now, she thought, let’s see if an Atlantian diplomat can achieve what no Icarthian can; to roust those old buzzards from their beds and force them to acknowledge me. A long shot, but at this rate she’d try anything. What she really needed was the only copy of the White Daemoni in existence. The Paladins had it under lock and key. All copies had been burned, the owners of such executed. The White Inquisition of four hundred years earlier had been brutal.

There was always the chance Asher was lying, although he had seemed confident. Still, if the Paladins believed him it was all she needed. There were vast amounts of gold and silver, jade and numerous riches said to remain on Atlantis, or what remained of it. If there was one thing she could count on a Paladin for, it was greed.

‡

‘IT IS MOST UNFORTUNATE,’ said Paladin Fervent, with a spreading of his hands to illustrate his helplessness. ‘This situation is complex as I’m sure you can appreciate.’

‘Complicated would describe it better,’ said Paladin Rajax, with a lick of his lips. ‘Spell it out as it is, man.’

‘You ask for an amount, which exceeds our expectations,’ said Paladin Furious. ‘Five million gold dralans is a lot of money.’ The elderly man appeared half-asleep, chin almost to his knees, but every now and then he showed he heard every word. With those massive ears of his, Aiyana wasn’t surprised.

Within the Imperial Pantheon, having entered through the huge bronze doors set beneath an ornate arch, Aiyana stood within a vast structure built entirely of black marble.

This was the Forum, a section of the Pantheon where Paladins ceased being members of the Church and became bankers. The Forum itself was a vast room, devoid of all decoration save for a few alabaster statues set within niches. A cold stone slab served as a table, behind which sat twelve Paladins. While more existed, twelve at any one time served within the Pantheon.

‘The people,’ said Aiyana, in as calm a tone as she could manage, ‘are suffering.’ She sat on a marble bench, albeit with a purple satin cushion for comfort. A concession to her position in the palace. A bench left bare for everyone else.

Staring up at the six men and six women, most of them rheumy eyed and elderly, Aiyana realised how little power she possessed. Since her arrival, they had treated her as a supplicant and the feeling unnerved her. No wonder her father had disliked them. If not for the potential loss of vast amounts of wealth and connections to such wealth, Markus Olen would have killed them all.

‘They are always suffering,’ Rajax muttered with a flick of his tongue before glancing to his left at Paladin Creed.

She nodded in agreement, and then fixed her gaze on Aiyana. ‘You do not look like a rotting corpse, young lady. Is it true you are of the undead, a Plagueborn viral witch? Could it be just another vicious rumour?’

Aiyana stared back, and thought about revealing herself. However, in the end, she decided not to indulge them. She doubted it would help her case.

‘They say,’ Creed went on, ‘you do not eat regular food. Do you feast on blood or flesh, or both? I’ve heard it said the undead do not sleep. Do you mate? I imagine there would be far more of you if you did. What does such an unholy creature as you need with something as mundane as coin? You are aware of the Church’s position regarding the state of undeath? It is a sin and all such must be purged from this world.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Paladin Motive, ‘this is highly irregular. We do not just give money to anyone you know, especially such large sums. Why would we give it to ... one of your kind? Until recently, you no longer existed. The purges did occur for a reason, you know. You can’t just reappear and expect us all to bend to your wishes. Your parentage is why you have not already had your head cut off. Highly irregular.’

‘Yes, I am a Todralan,’ said Aiyana, trying to keep her tone reasonable. It was far from easy as she fought the urge to screech in frustration. ‘And does the name not carry weight here? You know you will be repaid with interest.’

‘Do we know that though?’ asked Motive. ‘Who said our reticence to negotiate with you was about repayment in any case?’

‘A name, yes,’ said Creed with a slow nod, her gaze cutting through Aiyana as though she would strip away every secret. ‘Always the name, the title. Always the, “Do you not know who I am?” speech. Do you think, dear, we care one whit for a name even if it is, Todralan? Your father sat on that bench before you, as did your grandfather. This is the Forum. We have many projects for which money is required and names never factor in our decisions.’

‘What projects,’ Aiyana demanded, ‘should take precedence over feeding our citizens? Don’t you care about the people? Must they starve?’

‘You face rebellion, dear.’

‘Which is none of your concern. I asked—’

‘Oh, but it is,’ Creed interrupted. ‘You cannot finance a defence for this city never mind the imperium without our backing. I would think you would be at least a little deferent.’

‘Another reason, for which I am here. If the city falls, so does your Church and your Pantheon. Does that not bother you?’

‘Indeed,’ said Creed, ‘and here I thought it was to feed the downtrodden wretches of the Muck you came to us. Now you say you wish to defend the city and the Church too? Did I hear a veiled threat implied? You do not seem to know what it is you want, child. Indecision and threats do not endear you to us.’

‘Well perhaps you may at least grant this small request. I need to see the White Daemoni for a brief time. A few minutes. There is information within I—.’

‘The White Daemoni is not for the eyes of plebeians—’

‘I am a Todralan of imperial birth.’

‘Or,’ continued the Paladin in a sterner tone, ‘virals, which you do not deny being. It is forbidden. Within its pages the undead are denounced as servants of the Grim who I might add is the eternal enemy of the angels and the Church. Request denied on all counts. Have a nice day, dear.’

With that, Creed and the Paladins stood and vacated the Forum, leaving a lone viral on a very cold bench.