Chapter I
It was with a sinking heart that the newly arrived ambassador from Seressa grasped that the Emperor Rodolfo, famously eccentric, was serious about an
experiment in court protocol.
The emperor liked experiments, everyone knew that.
It seemed the ambassador was to perform a triple obeisance—two separate times!—when finally invited to approach the imperial throne. This was, the very
tall official escorting him explained, to be done in the manner of those presented to Grand Khalif Gurçu in Asharias.
It was also, the courtier added thoughtfully, how the great eastern emperors had been approached in long-ago days. Rodolfo was apparently now
interested in the effect of such formal deference, observed and noted. And since Rodolfo was heir to those august figures of the past, it did make
sense, didn’t it?
It did not, at all, was the ambassador’s unvoiced opinion. He had no idea what this alleged effect was supposed to be.
He smiled politely. He nodded. He adjusted his velvet robe. In the antechamber where they waited he watched as a second court official—young,
yellow-haired—enthusiastically demonstrated the salutations. His knees hurt with anticipatory pain. His back hurt. He was aware that, carrying evidence
of prosperity about his midriff, he was likely to look foolish each time he prostrated himself, or rose to his feet.
Rodolfo, Jad’s Holy Emperor, had sat the throne here for thirty years. You wouldn’t ever want to call him foolish—he had many of the world’s foremost
artists, philosophers, alchemists at his court (performing experiments)—but you needed to consider the man unpredictable and possibly
irresponsible.
This made him dangerous, of course. Orso Faleri, Ambassador of the Republic of Seressa, had had this made clear to him by the Council of Twelve before
he’d left to come here.
He regarded the posting as a terrible hardship.
It was formally an honour, of course. One of the three most distinguished foreign posts a Seressini could be granted by the Twelve. It meant he might
reasonably expect to become a member on his return, if someone withdrew, or died. But Orso Faleri loved his city of canals and bridges and palaces
(especially his own!) with a passion. In addition, there were extremely limited opportunities for acquiring more wealth at Obravic in this role.
He was an emissary—and an observer. It was understood that all other considerations in a man’s life were suspended for the year or possibly two that he
was here.
Two years was a distressing thought.
He hadn’t been allowed to bring his mistress.
His wife had declined to join him, of course. Faleri could have insisted she do so, but he wasn’t nearly so self-abusive. No, he would have to
discover, as best one might, what diversions there were in this windy northern city, far from Seressa’s canals, where songs of love drifted in the
torchlit night and men and women, cloaked against evening’s damp, and sometimes masked, went about hidden from inquisitive eyes.
Orso Faleri was willing to simulate an interest in discussing the nature of the soul with the emperor’s philosophers, or listen as some alchemist,
stroking his singed beard, explained his search for arcane secrets of transmuting metal—but only to a point, surely.
If he performed his tasks, both public and secret, badly it would be noted back home, with consequences. If he did well he might be left here for two
years! It was an appalling circumstance for a civilized man with skills in commerce and a magnificent woman left behind.
And now, the Osmanli triple obeisance. To be done twice. Good men, thought Faleri, suffered for the follies of royalty.
At the same time, this post was vitally important, and he knew it. In the world they inhabited, good relations with the emperor in Obravic were
critical. Disagreements were acceptable, but open conflict could be ruinous for trade, and trade was what Seressa was about.
For the Seressinis, the idea of peace, with open, unthreatened commerce, was the most important thing in the god’s created world. It mattered more
(though this would never actually be said ) than diligent attention to the doctrines of Jad as voiced by the sun god’s clerics. Seressa
traded, extensively, with the unbelieving Osmanlis in the east—and did so whatever High Patriarchs might say or demand.
Patriarchs came and went in Rhodias, thundering wrath in their echoing palace or cajoling like courtesans for a holy war and the need to regain lost
Sarantium from the Osmanlis and their Asharite faith. That was a Patriarch’s task. No one begrudged it. But for Seressa those god-denying Osmanlis
offered some of the richest markets on earth.
Faleri knew it well. He was a merchant, son and grandson of merchants. His family’s palace on the Great Canal had been built and expanded and
sumptuously furnished with the profits of trading east. Grain at the beginning, then jewels, spices, silk, alum,
lapis lazuli. Whatever was needed in the west, or desired. The caressing silks his wife and daughters wore (and his mistress, more appealingly) arrived
at the lagoon on galleys and roundships voyaging to and from the ports of the Asharites.
The grand khalif liked trade, too. He had his palaces and gardens to attend to, and an expensive army. He might make war on the emperor’s lands and
fortresses where the shifting borders lay, and Rodolfo might be forced to spend sums he didn’t have in bolstering defences there, but Seressa and its
merchant fleet didn’t want any part of that conflict: they needed peace more than anything.
Which meant that Signore Orso Faleri was here with missions to accomplish and assessments to make and send home in coded messages, even while filled
with longings and memories that had little to do with politics or gaunt philosophers in a northern city.
His first priority, precisely set forth by the Council of Twelve, had to do with the savage, loathed, humiliating pirates in their walled town
of Senjan. It happened to be a matter dear to Faleri’s own merchant heart.
It was also desperately delicate. The Senjani were subjects, extremely loyal subjects, of Emperor Rodolfo. They were—the emperor’s phrase had been
widely quoted—his brave heroes of the borderland. They raided Asharite villages and farms inland and opposed counter-raids, defending Jaddites
where they could. They were, in essence, fierce (unpaid) soldiers of the emperor.
And Seressa wanted them destroyed like poisonous snakes, scorpions, spiders, whatever you chose to call them.
They wanted them wiped out, their walls destroyed, boats burned, the raiders hanged, chopped to pieces, killed one by one or in a battle, burned on a
great pyre seen for miles, or left out for the animals. Seressa didn’t care. Dead was enough, chained as galley slaves would do. Would maybe even be
better—you never had enough slaves for the fleet.
It was a vexed issue.
No matter how aggressively Seressa patrolled, how many war galleys they sent out, how carefully they escorted merchant ships, the Senjani raiders found
ways to board some of them in the long, narrow Seressini Sea. It was impossible to completely defend against them. They raided in all seasons, all
weather. Some said they could control the weather, that their women did so with enchantments.
One small town, perhaps two or three hundred fighting men inside its walls at any given time—and oh, the havoc they wreaked in their boats!
Complaints came to Obravic and to Seressa, endlessly, from the khalif and his grand vizier. How, the Asharites asked in graceful
phrases, could they continue to trade with Seressa if their people and goods were subject to savage piracy? What was the worth of Seressini assurances
of safety in the sea they proudly named for themselves?
Indeed, some of the letters queried, perhaps Seressa was secretly pleased when Osmanli merchants, pious followers of the teachings of Ashar,
were seized by the Senjani for ransom, or worse?
It was, the Council of Twelve had impressed upon Faleri, his foremost task this autumn and winter. He was to induce a distractible, erratic emperor to
surrender a town of raiders to Seressa’s fury.
Rodolfo needed to understand that Senjan didn’t only raid over the mountains against godless infidels or seize their goods on ships. No! They
rowed or sailed south along their jagged coastline to Seressini-governed towns. They went even farther south, to that upstart marine republic of
Dubrava (the Seressinis had issues with them, too).
Those towns and cities were Jaddite, the emperor knew it! In them dwelled devout worshippers of the god. These people and their goods were not to be
targets! The Senjani were pirates, not heroes. They boarded honest merchant ships making their way to sell and buy in Seressa, queen of all
Jad’s cities, bringing it wealth. So much wealth.
The vile, dissembling raiders claimed that they only took goods belonging to Asharites, but that was—everyone knew it!—a pose, a pretense, a bad, black
joke. Their piety was a mask.
The Seressinis knew all about masks.
Faleri himself had lost three cargoes (silk, pepper, alum) in two years to the Senjani. He wasn’t any worshipper of the Asharite stars or the two
Kindath moons! He was as good a Jaddite as the emperor. (Maybe a better one, if one considered Rodolfo’s alchemy.) His personal losses might even be,
he suddenly thought, as the young, smooth courtier straightened from his sixth obeisance (six!), the reason he’d been appointed here. Duke Ricci, head
of the Council of Twelve, was easily that subtle. Faleri would be able to speak with passion about the evil the Senjani represented.
“The emperor has received the gifts you brought,” the tall official murmured, smiling. “He is much taken with the clock.”
Of course he was taken with the clock, Faleri thought. That’s why they had chosen it.
The clock had been half a year in the making. It was of ivory and mahogany, inlaid with precious stones. It showed the blue and white moons in their
proper phases. It predicted eclipses of the sun. A Jaddite warrior came forth on the hour to smite a bearded Osmanli on the head with a mace.
The device made a steady ticking sound when properly adjusted. Faleri had brought a man with him who knew how to achieve that. He believed this man was
also tasked with spying on him. There was always someone spying. There wasn’t much you could do about it. Information was the iron key to unlock the
world.
Orso Faleri felt as if the moments of his life were passing swiftly, to that ticking sound. His mistress was beautiful, young, imaginative, not
celebrated for her patience. There were many back home who openly desired her, including two council members. At least two.
His unhappiness was extreme—and would need to be concealed.
The two great doors swung open. Servants in white and gold appeared, more tall men, standing extremely straight. The court official (he needed to begin
remembering names) smiled at Faleri again. Another man appeared at the doors and greeted him. This, he knew, was the chancellor. A name they’d
discussed back home. Chancellor Savko nodded his head. Ambassador Faleri nodded his.
They entered a large, long room together. There was a throne on a carpet most of the way towards the far end. There were fires lit, but it was still
cold.
The clock had been placed on a table beside the throne. It was ticking. Faleri heard it when he rose heavily after the second set of obeisances. He
managed to stand without help, which was gratifying, but he was perspiring under his heavy clothing, even in a chilly autumn room. It would not be
seemly to mop his forehead at this point. His silk shirt under his doublet clung damply to his body. He worked to control his breathing.
If he had to do this every time he was presented for a year—or two!—it would kill him, he thought. He might as well die now.
Rodolfo was looking at the clock. He lifted a vague hand, in what might be construed as a greeting to the newest ambassador to his court. Or it could
be a cautionary gesture to keep quiet. No one spoke. Faleri had not been introduced by anyone. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t exist here yet. A
good thing, in a way. He needed to regain composure, and his breath.
The clock ticked loudly in a silent room.
Rodolfo, Jad’s Holy Emperor, King of Karch, of Esperaña in the west, of the northern reaches of Sauradia, laying (disputed) claim to parts of
Ferrieres, some of Trakesia, and diverse other territories and islands, Sword of the High Patriarch in Rhodias, scion of an illustrious (inbred)
family, said thoughtfully, “We like this device. It divides eternity.”
No one replied, though there were forty or fifty men in the room.
No women, Faleri realized. In Seressa there were always women at times such as this, adornments of life, often sublimely clever. He shifted his legs.
His head was still swimming; the room wobbled and swayed like a child’s top. He felt hot, dry-mouthed. They would kill him with these
obeisances. He would die kneeling in Obravic!
The emperor was taller than expected. Rodolfo had the beaked nose and receding chin of the Kohlberg dynasty. He was pale-skinned, fair-haired. His
hands were large, his eyes narrow above that nose, which made it hard to read their expression.
The chancellor finally broke the ticking stillness. “Excellency, I have the honour to present the distinguished emissary from the Republic of Seressa,
arrived to take up his position among us. This is Signore Orso Faleri, who carries ambassador’s papers attested by the seal of that republic, and who
wishes the privilege of saluting you.” He had already saluted, Faleri thought grimly. Six times, head to marble floor. Was he now to crawl
forward and kiss a slippered imperial foot? They did that in Asharias, didn’t they? That great, triple-walled city wasn’t called Sarantium any more, it
had been conquered. It was where the khalif ruled. They had renamed the City of Cities since the fall, the terrible disaster of the age.
Twenty-five years ago. It was still difficult to grasp that it had happened. They lived in a sad, harsh world, Orso Faleri often thought. There was
still money to be made, mind you.
The emperor finally looked at him. He actually turned from the ticking gift-object and regarded the ambassador of a power wealthier than he was, which
lent him money, which was less beleaguered, and more sophisticated in almost all ways.
Well, good
, thought Orso Faleri.
Rodolfo said, quietly, “We thank the Republic of Seressa for its gifts, and for sending Signore Faleri to us. Signore, it is our pleasure to see you
again and to welcome you to Obravic. We hope to enjoy your presence here.”
And with that he turned back to the clock. He did add, by way of explanation as he looked away, “We are waiting to see the man with the mace come out
and strike the infidel.”
He was, thought Faleri, said by many—including their last ambassador—to perhaps be going mad. It was possible. Faleri might spend two years of his life
destroying his back and knees, burdening his heart and other parts of his anatomy at the court of a lunatic. There was madness in the imperial
bloodline. All that intermarriage. It might have arrived again.
For one thing, Orso Faleri had never met the emperor before.
Our pleasure to see you again . . . ?
Was this a damaged mind, lost to alchemy and philosophies, or was it the empty pleasantry of a ruler not paying attention to what he said? Faleri might
consider that an insult. On behalf of Seressa, of course. On the other hand, their gift had elicited approval. That was good, wasn’t it?
There came a chiming sound. Everyone regarded the clock.
A warrior of Jad, armoured in silver with a sun disk on his chest and bearing a golden mace, came forth on a curved track from doors on the left side
of the apparatus. An Osmanli soldier, clad as one of the elite djanni infantry, bearded, wielding a curved sword, emerged similarly from the right.
They met in the middle, in front of the clock face. Both stopped. The chiming continued. The Jaddite commenced to strike the Asharite upon his head
with the mace. He did so three times. That was the hour. The chiming stopped. The warriors withdrew into the body of the clock, left side, right side.
The doors closed, concealing them. There was ticking.
Jad’s Holy Emperor laughed aloud.
Later that afternoon, as a cold rain fell, the chancellor of the Holy Jaddite Empire, a man greatly burdened by the demands of his office, closeted
himself with two of his advisers in a fire-lit room.
The emperor was, at this moment, on a higher level of the palace—in a tower, in fact—where the latest attempt to alter the state of being of lead was
underway under the auspices of a small, belligerent, untidy person from Ferrieres. There had been rumours of dramatic progress.
In this room the discussion was more prosaic. It concerned the Seressini ambassador. There was a vigorous dispute taking place. Chancellor Savko’s tall
secretary and the young man named Vitruvius, who held no significant official position but spent most nights in the chancellor’s bed, were both of the
opinion that the newest envoy from Seressa was a fool.
The chancellor pointed out that the Seressinis had not become the power they were by employing fools in important offices. He differed with their
assessment. Indeed, he went further and chastised both—causing the younger one to flush (appealingly)—for being so hasty in formulating any opinion at
all.
“Nothing about this,” he said, lifting a necessary cup of warmed, spiced wine, “requires or is assisted by speed.”
He drank slowly, as if to make a point. He set his cup down and looked out the streaked, barred window. Rain and mist. Red-roofed houses barely visible
below, towards the grey river. “We have no need to form views about him yet,” he said. “He can be observed at leisure.”
“He asked about women,” his secretary said. “Where the most desirable courtesans might be found. It could be a weakness?”
The chancellor made a note
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