Always

Rintarah. An alliance between them and the barbarian could seriously upset the balance.’

‘As could a union with the insubordinates,’ the first man suggested.

‘We are alive to that possibility. Although for my part I consider them more a nuisance than a threat. A disorganised rabble.’

‘Not everyone holds that opinion.’

‘I am aware of that. We take every precaution.’

‘But still they strike at us.’

‘The way a gnat might attack a buffalo.’

‘Surely the real danger is the possibility of the Resistance and Rintarah uniting against us?’ another of her kin offered. ‘It would make sense, backing one side against the other.’

‘I consider that the least likely option. The insurgents are equally opposed to both empires, and their movements in both are linked. No, Rintarah wouldn’t unite with them any more than we would.’

‘The Resistance shows signs of greater organisation. That must be a cause for -’

‘There’s something you should try to understand about them,’ the Empress stated, every inch the condescending matriarch, ‘however long it takes you. And it applies to all our subjects. Anarchy is their natural state. Look at how they treat the magic we permit them. They resent control, yet, save a minority, have never marshalled themselves sufficiently to oppose it. They are cattle, and cattle don’t have the imagination to run the farm.’

‘True. Though some are of hardy stock.’

She waved away the qualification. ‘The bulk of their fellows can be relied on to drag them down. Don’t underestimate the power of apathy. Overwhelmingly, the people are too preoccupied with the baubles we throw them to bother us. But don’t take that to mean we ignore the so-called Resistance. Steps are being taken against them, and this renegade warlord.’

‘What steps?’

‘We’re continually tapping the essence,’ she nodded at the pit, ‘for a clue to the nature of his power. In addition, there’s the fact-finding expedition to the northern wastelands we’ve decreed, under the Bhealfan flag. As a precaution, the crew will be allowed higher grade glamours as part of their arsenal.’ She noted her family’s apprehensive expressions and made to reassure them. ‘That’s not a matter for concern. The magic will be supervised by trusted servants, and is sorcerer-specific and non-renewable. There’s no chance of it proliferating.’

‘And the Resistance?’ someone prompted.

‘I’ve ordered that action against them be more draconian. The paladins are proving a useful tool in this respect, and they’ll be given greater overall control of strategy. We’re increasing infiltration of the dissidents’ ranks, too, and that policy is already paying dividends.’

‘What if things come to a head with the warlord despite these efforts?’

‘I grant we may well have to meet him in open conflict. Be assured, that would be a long way from our borders, and the outcome would not be in doubt.’ As she spoke, the Empress absently worried a tiny scab on the bridge of her nose. The flap of skin detached. She looked at it, flicked it away. ‘As far as our own subjects are concerned, that could be a bonus. There’s nothing like a war to distract the populace.’

Someone who hadn’t spoken before cleared his throat and ventured, ‘There is one possible aspect to all this we haven’t considered.’

The Empress raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

‘The Qalochian,’ he replied hesitantly.

Her gaze narrowed at mention of it. There was a general shuffling of feet. One of the chimeras, emotionally linked to its owner, briefly transformed from comely to hideous.

‘What of him?’ she asked tightly.

‘You know that our intelligence indicates he may have fallen in with the insubordinates. Potentially, that’s the most perilous development of all.’

‘I know that. The situation is under review.’

‘But this isn’t as straightforward as our other problems, is it? Given the rules of engagement that must be followed in respect of this man, our hands are tied.’

‘It’s time that was re-examined, too,’ someone muttered.

‘You know that’s impossible,’ Bethmilno snapped.

‘So we’re to let him run loose and do as he pleases? Until he realises the real extent of the havoc he can cause?’

‘No,’ the Empress stated flatly. ‘Reeth Caldason will be dead before we allow that to happen.’

The quicksilver pool swirled darkly.

At the core of Jecellam’s regulated, well-policed streets, there was an extensive walled compound. In its outermost ring of joyless buildings the distribution of food, laws and lies was overseen. The structures forming the complex’s nucleus were devoted to governance and power. It was here that the Central Council met, in chambers only they frequented.

Where Gath Tampoor followed the western tradition in choosing a dragon as their emblem, Rintarah drew on its eastern heritage. Its symbol of state was a shield embellished with an eagle in flight, wings outstretched, lightning bolts playing in the background. The image was everywhere: on flags, mosaics, public transportation vehicles and the stained glass of temples.

But its most striking manifestation was reserved for the few. This was to be found in the grand council chamber, a cavernous hall where sunlight never intruded. As in Gath Tampoor, the colour-coded lines of power were here too, penetrating the inner sanctum from every bearing. Each of the lines ran to one of the sturdy legs of a mighty table, big enough to seat forty with ease. The table was fashioned in the shape of the Rintarahian shield, with the eagle and lightning motif etched into its surface. Glamour energy animated the portrait, so that the bird’s immense wings slowly flapped as the lightning rippled.

On this occasion the council was not seated at the table; their deliberations were taking place at a far end of the room. This section housed an aperture not unlike the one in Merakasa, except it was plainer, the sole concession to ornamentation being the waist-high brass rail surrounding it. In every important respect, however, it was the same: a smooth-sided well into which the channels bled liquid metal that made a churning pool.

In styling themselves a council, the rulers of Rintarah may have given the impression that some kind of equitable process was involved in their selection. This was not so. Every councillor was related, and there was no nonsense about democracy. This day, perhaps a quarter of them were in attendance, staring down at the agitated quicksilver.

The council’s Elder, a position matched in power only by Gath Tampoor’s Empress, was Felderth Jacinth. In common with Bethmilno, he was of very advanced years. He was tall and rangy. His skin was unblemished and he retained a full head of hair, though there was more than a hint of the unnatural in these assets. The richly coloured brocade he wore lent him a touch of the grandiose. It was certainly a counterpoint to the severity of his surroundings.

‘I have grave suspicions,’ he announced, studying the disturbance in the matrix, ‘that Gath Tampoor could be behind this.’

‘How can they do something we can’t?’ a kinsman wanted to know.

‘Some breakthrough, some new application of the Craft…Who knows?’

‘One we haven’t discovered ourselves? How likely is that?’

‘I find it easier to believe than the idea that an ignorant conqueror’s causing this. These events are becoming increasingly recurrent, and they’re growing in strength. Something more powerful than a lone man has to be involved.’ He was gripping the rail, white-knuckled. Although that was probably due to thin blood.

‘Perhaps another alliance is responsible,’ somebody suggested.

‘Those who style themselves the Resistance, you mean.’ The Elder snorted derisively. ‘How could that be? What power do the citizens have beyond what we gift them? No, the people are sleepwalkers. If it weren’t for the fact that their usefulness to us marginally outweighs their annoyance value I’d advocate a cull.’