The Promise of the Child (27 page)

“He has gone to face it.”

It
. Sotiris looked into the fire, unsure how to counter such certainty.

“I know Maneker, just as you do,” Honsiger said into the silence. “His will is iron. I admit, I did not think him capable of such cruelty as that which you have just escaped—” She paused, looking at Sotiris. “But Yanenko must have realised that it would take nothing less than a Perennial of considerable power to stop him.” She shook her head. “I should have seen it—as a fellow German, one ought to recognise these things. You remember the last time Maneker was here? Forcing his views on everyone as usual with that out-thrust finger of his. Poked Yanenko until I thought he was going to snap at last. It was a shame he didn't. And that Melius servant he humiliated because she was ‘too hormonal.' Doorknobs are too hormonal compared with most of us dried-out old things.” She frowned, considering something. “They think it was the Jurlumticular Throng, did you know that?”

“What?” Sotiris glanced up from the table.

“The Prism responsible for bombing Virginis.”

“Those that also started the Volirian Conflict?”

“The very same.”

Sotiris frowned, idly picking up the letter again. The Jurlumticular Throng were supposedly extinct, eradicated in retribution for horrific crimes against the Amaranthine sixty years before. The Volirian Conflict, named after the furthest star in the Prism Investiture around which the resulting swift war was fought, had started after the Jurlumticular Throng had taken it upon themselves—for reasons that remained obscure—to invade the interior of a Vaulted Land at the very centre of the Firmament. Inner Epsilon India, an influential Solar Satrapy only one away from the capital of the entire Firmament, Gliese, was porous, meaning that it contained many holes to the surface, and it was through one of these gigantic orifices that the Jurlumticular had landed their ground troops. In just one day they had secured an entire continent, slaughtering hundreds of Amaranthine—who, out of decadence and total lack of industry, no longer maintained any inter-solar ships, standing armies or even Voidsuits of their own—and imprisoning their Melius acolytes before the rest of the Firmament had even discovered their treachery. Immortals are not easily slain, and many thousands of the Jurlumticular—a tall, slender Prism race more closely related to the giant Old World Melius than any other—had perished during the battles inside Epsilon India. Their forces had, however, prevailed due to the fact that almost their entire military, including privateer forces and militia, had been drafted for the invasion, a total of nearly seventy thousand individuals and a fleet of twenty-five thousand cobbled-together vessels. It had been unclear, upon the arrival of Vulgar and Pifoon squadrons from Gliese and Inner Cygnis, exactly why the Jurlumticular had chosen to invest so much of their population into what appeared to be a pointless and foolishly impossible task. Three days later, after fighting largely to the death, the Jurlumticular were defeated inside Epsilon India and their remainder executed after trials that lasted only a week. The Amaranthine, at the edict of the Most Venerable and every Satrapy Parliament, had decreed that an example must be made of the Jurlumticulars' entire race, and so the battle was taken to their vastly reduced colonies around the hopelessly distant and remote Volirian star. All found there were slaughtered, with purchased armies of Lacaille fighting alongside their sworn enemies the Vulgar, as well as Pifoon, Wulm and Zelioceti fleets swelling the attacking force to that of an unprecedented armada. Never had the Amaranthine spent so much on a conglomerated Prism army, reducing their speculated wealth by as much as a seventh and awarding their client Prism as yet unheard-of powers and territory. The results of the genocide, however, were supposed to have secured the Amaranthines' reputation and supremacy for the next thousand years, reminding any Prism that grew too greedy of the consequences of taking what was not theirs by immortal right.

All of that had remained true, until now.

Sotiris stared back along the dark length of the room, the rheumy light now subsiding. “How could they have returned?” he asked, running his fingers along the grain of the table. “And how could they have penetrated Virginis with such ease? Aren't there defences against that sort of thing now?”

Honsiger nodded, looking into the fire. “There are. It's a little known fact that the Firmament contains more Prism than Amaranthine. After Volirian, we gave them territories inside our Satrapies for the first time in an effort to quell any surprise attacks. There are Vulgar and Pifoon sentinel colonies on the surface of every Vaulted Land, barring Gliese itself.”

Sotiris looked at her. Honsiger had been an active parliamentarian during her tenure on Gliese and knew much that was kept largely secret. Sotiris thought of his home Satrapy. “Even Cancri?”

The Lady Immortal snorted a laugh. “Cancri more than any. It is the wealthiest and most exposed, lying as it does at the edge of the Firmament. We reward the Prism stationed on the Vaulted Lands with almost every comfort we ourselves enjoy. It keeps them radiantly faithful, we have found.”

Sotiris considered this, surprised and a little upset that this had been generally allowed and known about all this time. Despite his carefully cultivated egalitarianism, he still found himself now mildly revolted that he had lived in such blissful ease with Prism cavorting just above him.

“So how did it happen?” he asked, after taking enough time to digest what Honsiger had told him. “How did they do this to us?”

“The Prism were told to,” Honsiger said quietly. “By Maneker, acting on behalf of our would-be Emperor.”

“But what could he possibly give them in return?”

Honsiger picked up an ornate iron poker and pushed one of the logs further into the fire. “Gliese, of course.”

Virginis had not been cleanly destroyed. Its outer form still remained, but the Prism scouts that had first ventured inside after the furnace—which could be seen all the way from Aquarii, the nearest Satrapy—had found nothing but grey, perfectly scoured rock and a uniform inch of ash covering the entire inner surface. Whole mountain ranges had been ground away in an instant, seas boiled to nothing. Every single living thing inside the Vaulted Land had been vaporised, blown to a powdered storm that had thundered around inside the world. The outside, subject to weak gravity but otherwise perfectly habitable and bucolic, remained relatively untouched, with only those living near the orifices of the planet killed by the firestorms that had erupted from them.

Sotiris hadn't been able to look at Honsiger much as they discussed what had happened to Virginis. Not through any sense of guilt that he'd lived and others hadn't, but because truthfully he felt almost nothing and was afraid his eyes would betray him. Hearing the news on the Pifoon cutter as it made its way into the Inner Firmament had left him thoughtlessly numb, almost pleasantly free of emotion. It was a different form of grieving, Sotiris knew that—shock, perhaps, but also a certain lack of imagination. His sister had drowned, and so her body still lay shrouded, guarded, in the Utopia back on the Old World. Those others—Hytner, everyone who'd died instantly—were now just a compacted, footprint-smudged ash of their component atoms. He simply couldn't grieve, though he had tried, for atoms. It didn't appear to be in his nature.

An ugly part of him that had always slightly disliked Hytner spoke up inside him. They'd made their choice, all those who had derided Maneker's Pretender and wanted to be seen to do it. Virginis had served its purpose; the Firmament and all who lived beyond its limits had been warned.

The galvanizing effect of such large-scale destruction meant that the Vulgar Loyalists—fully a quarter of all the Vulgar in the Investiture—had now signalled their allegiance to Maneker. In turn, the Lacaille dukedoms closest to the Firmament had requested that sanctions be lifted by the neutral Amaranthine Satrapies in an effort to even out the influence in the region, reigniting the conflict uncomfortably close to the borders and forcing many Immortals still undecided in their loyalty to hurriedly declare for Maneker, his would-be Emperor and the Devout. Three cowardly Solar Satrapies had immediately pledged their support to the Pretender's cause within a day, and more were now following. On his journey from Gliese, Sotiris had to hire a Pifoon ship of his own to take him to Yanenko's Land. Everywhere the Firmament was changing, an invisible front eleven light-years long, pressed and defended, bent and reforged by abstract hopes, fear, jealousy and hatred.

The Pifoon remained, however, in the hands of sensible Amaranthine, still the majority for the time being, and so it was possible to negotiate the eight-day journey without any course adjustments and in the relative luxury an Amaranthine could still expect. The morning Sotiris left for Yanenko's Land, the odious De Rivarol had formally invited him to head the new Amaranthine Parliament that would form upon the Pretender's succession. It was not the first offer he had received in his lifetime. New Parliaments were always being formed and disbanded whenever the Most Venerable's mental faculties were dwindling—there had been one hundred and seventeen rulers since the Amaranthine Firmament officially came into existence—but he had always declined; it was on this basis, once again blamed on his long record of unimpeachable neutrality, that De Rivarol had allowed him to leave for the Old World, making it clear, however, that Maneker would be extremely disappointed if Sotiris did not change his mind.

“Did you know him?” asked Honsiger, her voice sharp against the falling stillness.

Sotiris stirred. It was full dark outside and Grinling must have come and awoken the sparks. The chamber was now warmly lit and comfortable, the fire freshly refuelled, with jewelled goblets of water for swilling set upon the table. Above the table the sparks hung like twinkling stars, rising and falling gently in the smoky air. He had been staring into the hearth for a long time, his eyes dry and raw.

“I'm sorry?”

Honsiger looked sleepy, but wiped at her face and sat up. “Did you know the Pretender?”

Sotiris was shocked for a moment, thinking his dreams had somehow been discovered. “What do you mean? Why should I know him?”

“You haven't heard? You don't hear much. It is part of what makes his claim so compelling—and Yanenko's note so timely.” Honsiger cleared her throat, sitting straighter in her chair. “Many have come forward—sensible Amaranthine, not supporters of Maneker—and remembered that they … recalled, even
knew
this man in their lives.” She was silent for a minute, as if deciding whether or not to tell Sotiris something. “I knew him, too. Briefly. He lived for a time in the city where I was born.”

“In Germany?”

“Yes. Stuttgart. I believed the man was German, but it appears I was wrong.”

They blinked at each other. “Who was he?” Sotiris asked.

“A diplomat friend of my father's. Very influential, I was told. We never spoke, but I remember him visiting the house, and I was expected to be on my best behaviour whenever he came to see my father.” Honsiger paused. “Herr Kaltenbrunner. That was how I knew him and how I was told to address him, though now of course they say he changed names.”

Grinling came and refreshed their goblets, tipping the used water into a gleaming silver pot. He glanced irritably to the antique clock and left the jug on the table. Evidently it was his bedtime. Honsiger ignored him as he bade them goodnight.

“Others knew him by many names,” she continued. “He must have circled the Old World ten thousand times or more but has never left it, as far as anyone I have spoken to can discern.” She paused again, taking up her goblet. “There are some who say they remember him from their childhood, like I do. Some of
them
are almost as old as the Inception itself.”

Sotiris took a swill, too, but the water suddenly tasted bitter. He knew now he would not tell Honsiger about the dreams, feeling instinctively that it was something he should keep to himself. “Your point?”

“My point? That he is not Amaranthine at all, like the letter says. He is something older, someone who might have …” She shrugged, a helpless look in her eyes. “Always been there.”

Sotiris shook his head, twirling his cup in his hands. “But why reveal himself now?” he asked. “Why wait all this time to stake his claim?”

Honsiger cleared her throat gently. “I have a private theory.”

“Oh yes?”

“He is the Assassin.”

Sotiris laughed out loud, banging his cup down and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “The Assassin? The one who haunts those who break the laws?”

Honsiger folded her arms defensively, shifting in her chair. “Perennials who oppose Maneker have begun to disappear.”

“
Who
?”

“Crook, among others.”

“Crook is old. They will find him in a Vaulted Land somewhere talking to himself.”

“They are being reduced, thinned. It is documented. Maybe there
was
no edict to allow the succession of this Amaranthine—” She held up a finger for Sotiris to let her finish. “What if His Venerable Self knows nothing of this and it is all a ruse. He might even have been killed.”

Sotiris stood, inspecting the water on his sleeve, and leaned against the hearth, smoke curling into his nostrils. “I have to say I'm a little disappointed in you, Hanne. You must calm yourself. The Assassin is a bedtime story. A joke.” He shook his head, unable to think of more he could say and wondering whether it might be time to take his leave. The Assassin—Jatropha, he was called by the Firmament Melius in their Old World tongue—was the closest the Amaranthine got to extra-religious superstition, a scapegoat for any ills still present in their ancient society. Sotiris had blamed a fart on the poor fellow once, before even that talent had left him for good. Supposedly one of the oldest Perennials, perhaps older than His Venerable Self, the man had allegedly stayed on the Old World, living hundreds of lives under hundreds of guises. The legend of an immortal wizard who exacted his own justice still suffused some parts of Melius culture, if only to scare their ungainly children into housework. Provided his age was consistent with legend, the Assassin would be capable of nearly anything under the laws of their hierarchy. Only the very eldest of them—a rapidly declining number—could claim seniority and possibly remain protected.