Foreign Devils (17 page)

‘What about the Cornelian honour?’

‘It – and your name – will be restored with Metellus’ announcement in the Pandectium.’

I looked from the smug face of my Father to Secundus to Tenebrae.

‘Congratulations, again, brother,’ I said, and turned and left. The words tasted like ashes on my tongue.

In my room, I fell upon the bed. And, love, I can admit to you here in blood and ink, that I wept. For myself. For you. For our son that was to be born in such a small, petty world.

SIXTEEN

10 Kalends of Sextilius, Eleventh Hour, 2638 Annum
Ex Rume Immortalis

Metellus and his personal retinue appeared at the front gate at dawn. I avoided meeting with him, as you might expect. From the smug and expansive mood Father and Secundus were in for the rest of the afternoon it was safe to assume that they extracted from my ex-husband all of the concessions they required. My name would be cleared. The Cornelian family’s honour would be restored and its fortunes would rise should a new silverlode be found in Occidentalia.

How desperately did I wish to be gone from Rume.

That afternoon, I spent some time reading what materials Fuqua had to hand on the far lands of Kithai and was much disappointed with the dearth of information in the booklet he gave me. Written by one I. Minea, all of its content was hearsay – sadly, the author had never set foot on the Kithai shore. So, with Lupina and one of Father’s guardsmen in tow, I trotted over to the Cælian Pandect and the bookshops nearby and with the help of the attendants there, found some more acceptable reading material. Our time in Rume was to be short, and I had not the luxury of spending weeks puttering about in the dusty halls of the Pandect, so those books I could find on Tchinee that I could buy, I did, and arranged for slaves to deliver them to Father’s villa.

As we returned, there was a great clatter from down the Via Mezzo and a cohort of legions trotted by us, all in blue, carbines rattling, their optios calling out ‘
hup hup hup’
so that each ranker’s footstep fell in rhythm. ‘War’s a’comin’ boys!’ yelled a centurion, trotting alongside the soldiers, glaring at them. ‘Ye’ll either be dead or a killer by the end of it, what?
Hup hup hup hup!’

Lupina and I were silent after their passing. For a moment I smelled the dry dust of the Hardscrabble, the desperation of Hellfire. All the pompatus of war. It would come.

We hurried home.

On the next morning, much of the Cornelian household put on our finest clothes, clambered into carriages – after carefully packing our gifts for the Emperor, and allowing Father enough time to mourn the loss of his stuffed
vaettir
– and ventured forth to Tamberlaine’s palace within the walls of old Rume itself. A rainstorm had swept through the city early in the morning and passed, leaving behind a boiling sun to make the air thick and humid, reeking of the multitudes of sin Rume had on offer. My hair, which I’d worn down, clung to my neck and even though I wore one of my lighter dresses, my sweat traced runnels down my sides and back.

Tamberlaine’s palace was built in the reign of Silvanus III almost two hundred years ago on the backs of Teuton slaves and reflects that emperor’s love of scale. Towering columns and arches, twenty times a man’s height, hold aloft a great limestone roof that spans most of the square length of a
stadium.
Tremendous bronze doors decorated with finely wrought creatures of myth stood open when we arrived, and great sprays of sweet smelling Ægyptian jasmine and lychnis bouquets erupted from Cythian stonework urns in bright purple and yellow explosions. As the slaves unlimbered the crate containing the
vaettir
– while Lupina, Rubus, and Fuqua arranged for the conveyance of the daintier presents that we would place at the mounted stretcher’s feet – the faint sounds of music came trilling out of those great bronze doors.

Passing inside, we were greeted by the sight of half a hundred of the noblest houses in Rume – Tamberlaine’s cousins and relatives, members of the most august houses of Latinum; scions, senators, military officers, consuls, praetors, legates; husbands and wives, sombre children, awkward teens standing in their Ia Terminalia finest. Praetorian guards dressed in their formal black uniforms, each wearing sword and Hellfire, immaculately ringed the atrium. A large bronze Minan bull, head rampant and tail artfully captured in mid-swish, stood in the centre of the massive chamber as nude acrobats leaped and turned flips over the beast, yipping and giving small exclamations with each feat to a smattering of polite applause. A trio of musicians played innocuous music as slaves moved through the crowd with wine and water.

Many of those assembled turned to watch our family’s procession into the palace. Father walked at the head of us, empty handed as befitted his rank, followed by Secundus who carried a gift – a small onyx cask full of saffron. Both were dressed in black, finely tailored suits, though my Father wore his ridiculously weathered hunting cap from our time in Occidentalia and had his false bear leg – the silver one with flask, dagger, and bear paw – on prominent display. It clicked and clattered and gleamed conspicuously in the
daemonlight
of the hall.

Carnelia and I followed, each bearing smaller gifts – Carnelia a bottle of fifty-year-old whiskey distilled near Covenant in the west, I a small picture I painted myself of the White Mountains and Big Rill during our time steaming upriver. It was a very small gift, and a very personal one. Behind us followed Rubus, Fuqua and Lupina, who all kept watchful eyes on the porters who carried the
vaettir
crate.

Beyond the atrium, a matching set of bronze doors stood open, giving us a view of the dazzlingly lit throne room. Standing to one side stood Tenebrae in the black uniform of a Praetorian.

‘You are one of Tamberlaine’s guards?’ Father asked.

‘Of a sort,’ Tenebrae answered. ‘I am his agent, and his point.’

‘But …’ Father’s whiskers shifted. ‘You did not tell us this. You’ve had ample opportunity!’

‘My apologies, sir. I am, and remain, a friend to you, Secundus, and your family.’

Father ground his teeth but nodded his head. ‘You were to watch us and report.’

‘I was—’

‘No,’ Father raised his hand to cut him off. ‘I’ve known Tamberlaine since our youth. There is nothing you can say that I don’t already know.’

Tenebrae pursed his lips and inclined his head. I looked at Secundus. He did not seem surprised. Possibly he’d figured it out on his own, possibly Tenebrae had revealed it in whatever pillow talk occurs between two grown men.

‘Announce us, sir,’ Father said, not looking at Tenebrae.

Tenebrae glanced from Father to Secundus and, back turned, took a few formal steps into the throne room and announced in a ringing voice, ‘Gaius Cornelius, Governor of Western Occidentalia, Hero of the Cantaline Rebellion, Laureled Champion of Rume.’

Father clomped into the throne room and limped across the polished marble floor to the raised dais upon which Tamberlaine sat, reclining on a great marble chair. Tamberlaine himself is a thin, wolfish looking man with intense eyes, a sharp nose, and a thick shock of white hair. He disdained the toga minima and instead wore a rumpled tan linen suit, without tie or cravat. As we approached, the servants and retinue following in train, I could see him better. Once, when I was a girl, I was presented to him and remembered him as a whip-cord thin man with red hair and an easy – if somewhat toothy – smile. He was now a man a few years short of sixty, hale and hearty, still quite trim of waist; he held himself with great ease, belying someone of an athletic bent. His white hair was the only outward sign of the ravages of time.

Before the dais, Father took off his ridiculous hat and knelt awkwardly, his bear leg forward and his good leg supporting his weight.

‘Hail Father and Emperor! I come bearing gifts for you on this day of Ia Terminalia,’ Father said, giving the traditional greeting. ‘As ordered,’ he added, under his breath.

Tamberlaine stood and walked down the steps to place his hand upon Father’s lowered head. ‘I am …’ Tamberlaine said, pausing. He had a light, happy voice with a hint of music in it. His close-shaved face seemed quite young, despite his years, except for the wrinkles at the corners of his intense eyes. ‘… Well pleased.’ He clapped his hands together and helped Father to rise. ‘And what have you brought me, today?’

Father waved us forward and we each presented our gifts in turn. Two stewards bustled forward, one to write down the gifts (and possibly assess each one’s value) and the other to place the gift on the table allotted for them.

Tamberlaine smiled at the onyx cask and whiskey and paused long enough to actually look at my small framed painting of the White Mountains.

He looked at me. ‘And what is this?’

‘A picture, sir,’ I said, keeping my head down.

‘Of mountains? Why would a picture of mountains interest me?’

‘They are the White Mountains, your majesty. Also known as the Illivatch by the
dvergar
.’

‘You have not answered my question.’

‘I thought, your majesty, you might wish to see a representation of the far known edge of Occidentalia.’

Slowly, he reached forward and took my chin in his hand and tilted my head back as to see my face clearer.

‘You are a bright one,’ he said, considering. ‘I am trying to decide if you are having a joke at my expense.’

‘Your majesty?’ said I.

‘You present me with a picture of the terminus of my domain on Ia Terminalia. Surely you must have been aware of that.’

For a moment, everything stilled. Father looked at me, alarmed.

‘Your majesty,’ I said, in the calmest voice I could muster. ‘Unlike most of your subjects, I prefer my gifts to say something about me rather than the person I give them to. Snark is one of the great games of Rume. It is also one I do not play,’ I said.

He cocked his head, looking closely at me. His eyes had the unblinking quality of some feral thing on a hunt.

After a moment, he removed his hand from my chin and looked again at the picture.

‘It’s quite a nice picture,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ I replied.

‘You painted it yourself?’

‘Yes, your majesty.’

‘Hmm. You have some talent,’ he said.

He handed it to his steward who paused as his companion tried to figure out some way to notate it. ‘Your earnestness will hold you in good stead in the Autumn Lands of Kithai,’ he said. He smiled then, revealing bright white teeth. Quite a lot of them. ‘The Tchinee value simple honesty. I am pleased you will be one of my emissaries,’ he said and glanced down at my stomach for just an instant.

And that, my love, frightened me more than almost anything I’ve ever encountered. That one glance toward my stomach.

Father waved the porters to bring forward the massive oblong crate. They stood it on end and carefully removed the lid and with many hands carefully exhumed the mount from the crate, pulling away the gauze wrappings and cloth swaddling and backing away.

The
vaettir
stood revealed. Rampant. Ferocious. A bloody knife in one clawed hand, a scalp dangling from the other, teeth bared. It towered over the crowd.

The imperial attendants gasped, moving into the throne room to gain a better view.

Tamberlaine looked up at the stuffed stretcher, unsmiling, his hands clasped behind his back. He walked around it, slowly, looking it up and down. His survey complete, he smiled.

‘You brought me one of the bloody elves,’ he said, and then he clapped his hands together in a curiously childish gesture. ‘What do they call them?’

‘Stretchers, your majesty,’ my father said.

Tamberlaine looked at Father appraisingly. ‘Looks like you’ve lost some weight, Snuffy,’ he said, eyeing the ornate silver leg. ‘Did one of these creatures pull your leg?’

Father forced himself to smile. It almost looked genuine – no one other than Secundus, Carnelia or I would be able to tell. ‘A bear, Great Father,’ he said. ‘A particularly nasty bear.’

‘Why didn’t you bring back the bear as well?’ Tamberlaine asked.

‘I did,’ Father said. ‘Or part of it, at least.’ He moved so that the massive claws of the beast clacked on the floor.

Tamberlaine laughed. ‘Oh, you Cornelians, how you
please
me.’ He clapped again, this time with some authority, and servants rushed forward and presented us with wine. ‘Oh,’ he said as an afterthought. ‘My condolences on the loss of your son in the west. It is unfortunate, surely, and the Empire will be lessened by his absence.’

Father said, ‘Thank you, Great Father. Our families are our succour as we age.’

‘Or our dooms,’ Tamberlaine said. ‘And you’ve acquired a new son to even things out,’ the Emperor said. ‘So, there you are!’ He cleared his throat. ‘Welcome to my home, wayward children,’ Tamberlaine said, raising his hands wide and gesturing expansively. ‘Momentarily we will dine and afterwards I would speak with you, for there are things moving in the world that must be discussed.’

With that, he clapped one more time, as if to indicate he was through with the conversation, and a bevy of servants, stewards, and secretaries rushed forward to usher us into the grand triclinium, a gargantuan marble space ringed with statues of previous emperors – some who even shared blood with the man currently ruling most of the known world. Their white stone faces watched us implacably as we filed into the dining room and found seats on one of the three oversized group couches that lined the feasting hall table. The table itself held massive floral arrangements, purple heliotropes, pink discordants, bright yellow chrysanthemums, red mignonettes. Somehow the artist arranging the flowers had been able to group the flowers so as to not block our view or cause any sort of nausea by the clashing of colour: each arrangement worked in its place and within the room.

The same could not be said for the guests. The Cornelians occupied one couch, opposite Tamberlaine who was joined shortly by Marcus Claudius Pertinax, his cousin and adopted son – a great hairy brute of a man, extremely muscled, and with almost no intelligence whatsoever illuminating his features. I must say now, my love, that should Father be able to arrange a marriage between Carnelia and Marcus, things will go very badly for the empire. While Tamberlaine is still quite hale, I hope he has the sense to adopt another heir, or that he finds some other, more serious mate for Marcus. As much as I love Carnelia, she would make a very poor mother of Rume.

We were joined by Messala Corvinus – one of Father’s staunchest allies – and his lovely wife Vesalia, while Tamberlaine was joined by Tenebrae, who greeted him warmly and kissed his cheek – obviously familiar with the Great Father and on intimate terms. On the third couch sat two priests of Ia and one of their acolytes, a fetching Gallish woman, judging from her accent, and a young boy, apparently her son. I surmised she was the wife of the elder priest, though I could be wrong – she could be some honoured guest or even paramour of Tamberlaine’s: he was rumoured to have one, despite his widely known homosexual affinities.