The City of Ice Read online

  “I am a pragmatic man also,” said Juliense, “but our governmental systems prevent me from acting. I cannot convince the king to act as Prince Calavaion did. He is too fearful of his own position and is too timid to exercise the power he has anyway. Our House of Nobles would never countenance the acceptance of new members into the aristocracy, as yours did in Karsa. And so there is a build up of pressure, as in one of your steam engines.” He looked at Garten again. “The peasants against the industrialists against the nobility. There is deadlock here. The coming of the Twin complicates matters and confounds my attempts to impose logic. Superstition is an easy outlet for the common folks’ energies, and one I would ordinarily leave well alone. But now, I cannot. Zealots preach the return of the gods, and promise justice. It is nonsense. Ignorance. This is the natural order of things. Man is innately hierarchical. Were it not we as the lords, it would be some other group. But this egalitarianism it is burning through the city like a fever. Raganse is using it to hold me hostage. He will have a church candidate or civil war.”

  “How would our backing your favoured candidate for High Legate help?” asked Abing.

  Juliense pulled a face. “Come. You know why. Raganse has fallen under Bishop Rousinteau’s influence. He is stoking the fires of fear under the nobility’s backsides, saying there will be riots and rebellion if a Church approved candidate is not selected as our nomination for High Legate. Naturally, such a candidate will never be elected by the remainder of the Hundred. If I have your backing, I can convince the House of Nobles that the Grand Assembly of Nations will elect my candidate as legate. If I can show you will back us, those waiting to see which way the wind is blowing will side with me. It then becomes a matter of international, not internal, politics. Your tacit approval will bring a number of the Olberlanders into line. The Queendom will likely follow your lead. And so our industrialists will trade the opportunity for change for the certainty of the continuation of Maceriyan power. I will have to parlay this into concessions, and I will be in debt to the oily hands of new money, but by doing so I can sideline Raganse, and pull the teeth of the Church. It is not a bad price.”

  “I still do not quite see what the advantage is for us,” said Abing.

  Juliense set his drink down and clasped his hands behind his back. “You have no valid candidate of your own, no Karsan has ever been High Legate. In this affair you are kingmakers, not kings.”

  Garten stood forward. “Then why can we not simply back another candidate from one of the other Kingdoms, one that will bring us more tangible benefits?”

  Juliense smiled sourly. “Ordinarily, this would not be a valid proposition for you. It would be entirely to my benefit. But in this instance it is for the best for all of us if you side with me. If you do not aid me, there will be upheaval here in Maceriya. Already Rousinteau preaches that the other nations are jealous of our ancient empire. There are mutterings that it should be restored. And there is another thing, this woman who accompanies Rousinteau—”

  “The mage?” said Garten.

  Juliense appraised Garten carefully. “Yes. The mage. I have my agents chasing her, but aside from her appearances with Rousinteau they can find few traces of her. There is no mention of her in any census, no history or personal associations, and she is unknown to the Convocation of Mages. Most curiously, she bears an iron stave,” said Juliense. “Which the Grand Wizard—such a ridiculous title!—of the convocation informed me by letter is an impossibility. Yet I see it with my own eyes. She is brazen now, often at the elbow of Rousinteau, whispering openly into his ear.”

  “An imposter,” said Abing. “She wouldn’t be the first to claim mageblood and have none.”

  “I thought so too, once. But there is something to her. She stirs up trouble wherever she goes. We have discovered that she is associated with Vardeuche Persin, which will be of personal interest to you no doubt, Goodfellow Kressind. What she is working towards troubles me, largely because I have no idea what it is. The pertinent issue for the moment is that she is a destabilising influence on an already unstable situation. I will deal with her, but first I need to prove to the people that a secular candidate is the right choice because it will preserve the power of our nation. Help me. Of the last twenty High Legates, twelve have been Maceriyan. You will lose nothing, and gain a friend.”

  Abing snorted. “Come now, Juliense! There has been peace in Ruthnia only for three generations. There have been five High Legates since the formation of the alliance of the Hundred Kingdoms, only two of which have been Maceriyan.”

  “And two of the others from Macer Lesser and Marceny.” He shrugged. “Still Maceriyan, in the most important regards. You could choose to put your diplomacy behind some other nation, propel them into the Legate’s house. For what? The position is ceremonial, and the heart of the continent will burn. Everyone loses. Rousinteau will use our defeat as evidence of the returning god’s displeasure.”

  Abing scowled.

  “Let me be frank, your grace,” said Juliense. “There are many in the Maceriyan block who see the rise of Karsan power and your domination of the seas as an affront to our ancient sphere of influence. Khushashia dominates the east, the Mohaci snigger at us as they always have. Maceriyan pride is wounded. This business with the gods feeds off a toxic soup—change, poverty, shame, national anger, and the fear accompanying the return of the Twin. Do not make this nation lash out. We shall all suffer for it.”

  “What exactly is your meaning?” said Abing levelly.

  “Be calm. This is not a threat. I simply have no desire to see revolution in Maceriya and the war that will inevitably follow. Peace is my only motivation. What other reason could there be? Power? Wealth? I have more of both than I can stomach. The only way I can see around this is to present a sensible candidate, and the only way to do that is make sure such a candidate will win. Any other result will be a disaster for all the Hundred. We must have this resolved, and prepare for the perigee. There is only a year before the Twin kisses the Earth. We have to stand united.”

  “In case the historians are correct.”

  “Do you doubt they are, Duke Abing?”

  Abing thought a moment, flexing his left hand on the arm rest. “Very well. We can aid you, even if we decide to back another nation. We brought Countess Lucinia Mogawn here to present the findings of her scientific investigation into the Twin’s approach.”

  “That will help,” said Juliense. “But only to convince those who are already convinced. It will be small beer compared to your open pledge of support for the Maceriyan candidate.”

  “Who do you propose for the candidate? I think I have guessed,” said Abing. He poured a generous measure of whiskey for himself. “But I want to hear you say it yourself.”

  “I am the only viable candidate.”

  “That is what I knew you would say,” said Abing. “Are you sure you have enough power to satisfy you?”

  “More than enough,” said Juliense.

  “But you’re the only man for the job, is that it?”

  “I find your tone disagreeable, your grace.”

  Outside the closing movement of the ball’s theme was building to a crescendo.

  “I must go. The first dance begins. You should also attend.” Juliense said. “The door!” he shouted, and his guard opened it. “Your answer, tonight,” he said gravely.

  Abing stood. Both he and Garten bowed.

  “If I have not convinced you,” said Juliense, “then we shall meet again, this time with the Morfaan. Listen to what they have to say.”

  “What is their position?” said Garten.

  “They readily agree that Maceriya should supply the legate.”

  “So soon?” said Abing. “They are here barely one day.”

  Juliense adjusted his wig in a mirror. “Immediately. They want this done before the winter. They urge us to make preparations for next year. They talk of earthquakes and upheaval, but there is something they are not saying. In all honesty, I
have the impression they are terrified by the approach of the Twin.” He smiled at them. His teeth were yellow against his snow white make-up. “And that worries me more than anything else. Good evening, goodfellows.”

  “Your excellency,” Abing and Garten said together.

  The guard closed the door behind Juliense. Tyn Issy gave a dirty laugh to the sudden quiet.

  “Goodlady Issy, prove your worth. Was he telling the truth?” asked Abing.

  “Oh yes,” said Tyn Issy sweetly. “He’s shitting himself.”

  THE GRAND BALL was simply named, without hyperbole. There was not a greater gathering of the great and good anywhere in the Hundred. The Palace of Nations hummed to the chatter of rich men and women from all over Ruthnia, although by convention the rulers of each land were absent. Garten left Issy in their meeting room, and accompanied Abing into the throng.

  The dome was the centrepiece of the palace, open for the three hundred feet from the floor to its curved ceiling, where fantastic paintings filled the spaces between massive stone ribs. A magnificent staircase of red porphyry wound around the interior to the gallery landing halfway up, where the hundred rooms of the ambassadors were situated. Either side of the dome were two enormous wings. One contained a ballroom bigger than a parade ground and as lavishly decorated as the dome. The other wing was divided into many chambers of various sizes that linked the Palace to the Kingdom Courts, where disputes between nations and citizens from differing lands were ruled upon. From the dome wide steps led into a lobby with high glass doors, beyond which a portico opened up onto the fastidious, if monumental, precinct of the Place di Regime. Half a mile wide, the Street of Petition ran through its centre. Situated on the far side of the Place di Regime was the Grand House of the Assembly. There laws were made that affected all the kingdoms, and collective decisions of external policy, trade agreements, labour movement and suchlike. To the man on the street, the House was the source of all power in the kingdoms, but to those within the workings of the complex government of Ruthnia, all knew that the real work was done in the bars, salons, offices and the ballroom of the Palace.

  Glimmerlamps and lanterns lit the place in brilliant white light; it was a palace of cut glass and crystal, ormolu and exotic woods, dragon ivory and silver. Alcoves displayed artworks of three and a half centuries of progress alongside artefacts from the various ages of antiquity.

  The men split—Abing going to socialise with men of his own rank while Garten spent the evening making small talk with other secretaries and assistants to the ambassadors. He had little propensity for dancing, and left the ballroom after watching the first dance; a ridiculous affair conducted so solemnly Garten had to stifle a fit of the giggles. He went from room to room, taking care not to drink too much, to be charming, engaging yet give nothing away. He struggled to keep his mind entirely in the moment, for his thoughts kept straying to Issy in her box upstairs. She was proving her utility already, but her discovery could lead to some awkwardness.

  His concerns were getting the better of him when he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned to find a woman behind him, dressed similarly to the countess in man’s clothes modified to present a modicum of femininity. She was about thirty, pretty in an unobvious way. A light touch of paint accentuated her eyes, she had none of the thick white make up the Perusians favoured. Most notable was the sword at her side, a business like backsword in a plain sheath. An unfussy basket cradled the grip. A fighter’s sword, not a decoration. Thick duellist’s gloves were tucked neatly into the belt beside the hanger. Her hands gave away her profession. Nails bitten halfway down the nailbed, unpainted, fingers sinewy and scarred. In one she held a drink, the other she put behind her back self-consciously when she noticed him staring at her nails.

  “You are Garten Kressind of Karsa?” she said.

  “I am,” said Garten. “Looking at that sword, I’d say you were a serious fencer. And there is one famous, serious female fencer in Perus—Kyreen Asteria. You must be her. Charmed.” He performed an elaborate courtly bow.

  She dipped her head. “I am she. I am offended by your description, goodfellow. The only serious female fencer in Perus? I am the best swordsman in this nation, if not the continent.”

  “I am sorry,” said Garten. “I do you a disservice. You are correct.”

  She sighed, and looked around her, already bored with the conversation. “They all do me a disservice, until I slit them open. Then it’s me doing the disservice,” she smiled, but it was somewhat despairing. She downed her drink in one and motioned to a bewigged waiter carrying a tray of full wine flutes for another. “I heard good things about you, Garten Kressind. The money in Perus was on you to take the Karsan cup. What, six years ago? What rank did you achieve? I forget. I memorise only the names of the winners.”

  “Fifth was my final ranking before I withdrew from competition,” he said. “I retired from competition, but have continued to fence privately. I have improved since then.”

  “Ah, says who?”

  “Everyone I have fought, and beaten,” he said. He sipped his own wine. The whiskey buzz was leaving him, and he wished to recharge it before his energy flagged, but the wine was abominably sour in the north Maceriyan way, and it curdled his stomach.

  “It is hard to prove rank if you no longer compete.”

  “You do not compete,” he said.

  “Competitions are for cowards. I only fight duels; I prefer the real thing to fencing. The outcome is always much more decisive. A corpse leaves no room for interpretation as to who was the winner and who the loser. Why did you retire?”

  “My father,” Garten said. “He had us all learn to fence to uphold the family honour. You would approve of him, he too insists swordplay is for duelling, not for sport. I went as far as I could, and then he demanded I give up competition to concentrate on my career.”

  “You are a good boy then, who always does what his father says.

  He shrugged off the provocation. “Fencing remains my passion. I have my own salle at home, and fight every day. It keeps me sharp, even if my sword is blunt.”

  “Not all of them, I hope.” She looked at his own weapon. He put his hand upon the hilt.

  “This one is edged,” he said.

  “I am glad to hear it. A man as skilled as you should carry a blade.” She appraised him cynically. “A pity. You could have been somebody, and now look at you, a bureaucrat, such a waste. Well,” she said with false amity. “It was nice to meet you. I like to keep an eye on men I may one day have to kill.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment,” said Garten, and bowed.

  “You should. I only fight men who I think may challenge me, otherwise what’s the point? I might as well be a butcher, cutting the throats of kid goats.” She smiled dangerously and offered her hand for a kiss. Garten took it and obliged. “I will see you again, I’m sure,” she said, and left him alone.

  “What was all that about?” Garten murmured. He followed her progress through the crowd. During the time he kept his eye on her, she spoke to no one else. He was flattered she had sought him out.

  He lost her when a familiar face crossed his field of vision. He caught the briefest of glimpses, but recognition had his gaze snap back. There was no mistaking his brother.

  “Guis?” he said. He pushed into the press of people. Dignitaries held low conversations, alert in case they were overheard. Goodladies affected bashfulness at the compliments of men smiling dracon’s smiles. He manoeuvred around a knot of laughing bravos from Brodning. Focussed on his brother, he jostled and nudged, provoking mutters of complaint. Guis appeared and disappeared in the crowd; twice Garten lost sight of him. A wide group of tightly bunched people presented themselves, gathered around the Maceriyan god, the Infernal Duke. Much like Eliturion, he stood holding court, an attractive woman on his arm. Garten barely paid the wonder any notice, but shoved his way through the crowd impatiently just in time to see Guis exiting the building through its grand lobby. He ran dow
n the stairs to the glass doors.

  “Guis!” he shouted. “Guis wait, it’s me, Garten!” But his lone voice could not compete with the orchestra in the ballroom and the combined conversations of a thousand people. He made it to the door, pushed upon the bevelled glass and ran outside. It was getting dark, and the fog had reassumed its awful pallor. He looked all around the Place, running falteringly one direction then another, then to the Street of Petitioners and the traffic there. All he saw were silhouettes in the fog.

  “Guis!” he shouted. A wagon rattled past, dogs straining in their harnesses against a heavy load.

  His brother was nowhere to be seen. Bemused, he went back inside. As he climbed back up the lobby stairs to the domed hall, a footman from the embassy came to him in a state of upset, he had evidently been chasing Garten.

  “Goodfellow! Goodfellow! I have a message.” He handed over a note. Garten snatched it, unfolded it, read it.

  “What?” he said. “Now?”

  “He is waiting, in Tiriton’s Hall.”

  “Of course.” Garten crumpled the note and passed it back. “Where else would the emissary of the Drowned King be?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Emissary of the Drowned

  A FLAMBOYANTLY ATTIRED Maceriyan footman opened the door into Tiriton’s Hall, and an awful smell hit Garten hard. A stench comprised of four scents, intertwined as intimately as lovers at a revel. The strongest was of a rich, round, floral perfume of the sort that is less an adornment and more an assault on the senses, a perfume that rams itself into the nostrils without invitation and packs them full to bursting. The second scent was the attractively peaty smell of smoked meat, though the meat was not of a sort one would wish to eat. In direct competition with the savour was the stink of chemical preservatives. Finally, adding its own subtle flourish, there was the faint whiff of brine and decaying seaweed on a hot day, pleasant in some circumstances, less so in this.