Interregnum Page 10

  Sabian cursed himself for his wandering mind as the ship lurched sharply and he slammed into the rail. His hand was bound in a leather strap attached to the rail and his foot wedged beneath a solid plank for safety. He’d seen too many people go overboard here and should be paying attention to the rocks, even though the journey was almost over. Any time now. He blinked away the salty discomfort once more and turned gratefully to bellow toward the helm.

  “Land!” he informed the helmsman. “Bring us to starboard a fraction. The channel opens up into the bay in a hundred yards and you’re clear then.”

  The sailor bellowed something unintelligible back, a comment lost in the teeth of the gale, and the vessel jogged slightly to starboard. The last formation of rocks on the right passed almost within arms’ reach of the boat; Sabian recognised that collection of jutting spikes that reminded him so much of a pleading hand raised in supplication. As the rock passed the waves died down almost instantly, the calmness of the bay as much a shock as a relief.

  The clouds of stinging spray gone, the commander allowed his cloak to fall back behind his shoulders and pulled his scarf down to his neck. Briefly, he removed his helmet and examined the cranium. The salt had wreaked havoc on the polished steel. He would have to have one of his men spend a few hours tonight working on it. Replacing the helm, he glanced up at the shore. The dock stood deserted and dilapidated, a wooden platform covered with rot and rubble, jutting out into the water. No matter how much work the island’s inhabitants put into their own accommodation, none of them had ever dealt with the dock. What would be the point? They’d not be leaving anyway.

  A tall figure in a grey robe stood by one of the orchard’s plum trees not far from the shore, reaching high and plucking ripe fruit from the branches and placing them into the large basket on his other arm. As the commander watched, the grey-clad figure finally noticed the vessel cutting through the waters of the bay. It stopped for a long moment, staring out across the intervening distance and then turned with an unconcerned gait and ambled up the path to the large gatehouse building.

  By the time the boat was finally nearing the dock and the sailors were coming afore to work the ropes and boarding plank, the grey figure had reappeared from the huge gate with two others and began the stroll down the gravel path to the jetty. Sabian watched as they approached. With a crunch the boat bumped up against the dock, the beams and planks making alarming noises as they groaned under the pressure. Without waiting for the sailors to finish tying off the boat and extend the plank, he hopped over the rail and onto the slimy jetty. Taking a deep breath, he strode purposefully forward to meet the three as they neared the shore and nodded at the central figure.

  “Minister Sarios” he said loudly. “It’s been a while. May I request your hospitality for a few days?” The phraseology was formulaic. The inhabitants had little choice in the matter and Sabian held all power on the island at that moment. Even addressing the ageing Cleric as Minister was an unnecessary courtesy, the man having held no real power since the fall twenty years ago. Sarios narrowed his eyes and Sabian had to remind himself once more just how shrewd the old man really was. Idle courtesy was unlikely to hold any real weight with him.

  “Commander Sabian” the man replied quietly. “It’s been six months since we’ve even heard from the mainland. I hope you’ve come alone this time. The troops you brought with you last time demolished our food stores in short order.”

  Business-like and cold. What else could he expect?

  “Minister” the commander replied, “I am alone. I’m not here to cause you any trouble, just to make my bi-annual report. I’ll need to be here two days; three at most. I’ve brought some extra supplies; some luxuries for you. I know you’re a bit cut-off here.”

  He regretted the last, an opening for a jibe from the island’s leader, but Sarios merely smiled humourlessly; sarcastically even.

  “Commander,” he said, “I’ll have a room prepared for you in the Peacock Palace. We’ve done some work there these past months and it’s quite habitable again now. I’ll have one of the brothers show you to the place immediately.”

  Sabian smiled. “Not necessary. I remember where it is and I can make my own bed. I’ll wait until my gear’s unloaded and the things for you. I’ve got two sergeants on the boat. They’ll stay on board, but I’ll get them to bring your supplies to the Ibis Courtyard first.”

  “Very well.” Sarios nodded once, his only gesture of respect, before turning and making his slow, ambling way back up the path towards the gatehouse.

  Sabian stood for a moment gritting his teeth as his sergeants unloaded gear onto a pallet. He hated having to deal with the island. He knew they were helpless; prisoners even; but he still felt admiration for the Minister and what he’d achieved with his prison. He still felt compassion. He sighed and gestured to his men to take the goods up the path as he set off.

  The Gorgon Gate had been designed by the great architect Himistes in the reign of the Emperor Elander; a pleasing mixture of stout defence and imperial grandeur. The building stood three stories high with thick walls softened by arcading of marble, many of the alcoves still retaining their original artworks: Osos and the Victory Bull, the winged Harpies, the Gorgon of Germalla. To either side of the gateway itself, the gatehouse stood proud in the form of drum towers, again punctuated by arches and columns. Beyond that high walls with a wide walkway stretched away, encircling the palace proper. Sabian glanced upwards involuntarily as he passed beneath the threshold, taking in the murder holes for pouring hot metal or oil on attackers and the huge, defensive bronze plated doors fastened back against the walls. They’d not been closed in more than ten years, though they appeared to still be polished regularly.

  Sabian pointed ahead to the courtyard and the two sergeants strode on ahead, carrying the pallet of goods. The commander stopped inside the gatehouse as he noticed in the shadows an old man in a green-grey robe sitting on a boulder and carving a piece of wood. He cleared his throat and the old man looked up, a far away look on his face.

  “I see someone’s keeping the gatehouse in good order” the commander said jovially. “Not intending to keep me out, I hope?” He smiled. The old man lowered his eyes to his work again and spoke quietly.

  “Jobs don’t just go away” he said absently. “Gotta keep ‘em polished or they gets knackered.”

  Sabian frowned and, biting back a retort, walked back out into the brightly-lit Ibis Courtyard. The bird carvings that adorned the stone seats and fountains were now long gone, but someone had evidently mastered the science of hydraulics. Two of the four fountains poured their sapphire blue water into the wide, alabaster bowls and the yard filled with splashes. The commander was never sure whether he should relax on one of these visits but every time the palace was a little more revived, a little less shabby. There seemed to have been serious work going on this past half year, though, beyond the level achieved in previous years. The two sergeants stood at attention by the pallet of supplies. Sabian returned the salute and then gestured back through the gate with his thumb.

  “Off duty unless I need you” he said easily.

  The two men fell into a more relaxed pose and sauntered off down the path towards the dock. Sabian gestured at a middle aged man reading a scroll on a stone bench. The man raised his head and wandered unhurriedly over to the commander. Sabian tried to contain his frustration at the obvious tutting sound that had issued from the man when he stood. As the cleric stood before him rolling the scroll back tight, Sabian reached down into the pallet of goods and pulled his pack from the pile, shouldering it.

  “Everything else there is for your community” he commented. “Be real careful, though. There’s some glassware and a few books.”

  The man blinked and looked up at the commander.

  “Books?” he said uncertainly.

  Sabian smiled. “Last time I was here I was led to believe that the one thing the island truly lacked was books. There are around a dozen. Mostly t
reatises; scientific, philosophical, that kind of thing. Hope they’re what you want.”

  The man nodded greedily and reached into the centre of the mass, withdrawing a thick, heavy volume. “Deratius’s ‘On Aqueducts’!” the exclaimed. “Astounding!”

  Sabian opened his mouth to speak, but the man reached out and grasped his hand firmly, shaking it hard enough to cause pain in the commander’s shoulder and repeating “perfect” and “thank you”.

  The commander grinned and answered “Thank you” to the man’s back as he hurtled off through a door to give the good news. He sighed again and his shoulders sagged. At least somebody here was going to treat him as something other than a jailor.

  Walking through the now empty courtyard, he made his way through the decorative Arch of the Four Seasons with its three remaining carvings and its trellis of creepers and out into the great court. The neat grass had been recently tended and, despite being punctuated with vegetable gardens and ploughed areas, it still retained its feel of spacious beauty. Ahead and to the right stood the doorway that led to the Peacock Palace. The commander nodded absently to a few of the inhabitants fulfilling the roles of farmers and gardeners as he disappeared into the Hall of the Swans.

  The long vestibule had once been the passageway between the Peacock Palace containing the Emperor’s private apartments and the main bulk of the Imperial Palace. The arcades with their thick windows looked out across the gentle slope, with the palace walls at the lowest reach towards the sea and the waves with their white horses leaping over the sharp rocks surrounding the island and dashing themselves against the shore. The slope had once been a lawn decorated with statues and gazebos but these days it was the province of the farmers and goats roamed the slope, grazing. The corridor itself had once been lined with busts and statues of the Emperors and Empresses and the great statesmen of the old republic. These days, its star-painted ceiling was green with mould and the bright white walls were stained and crumbling. Along the full length of the hall, old wooden cupboards and shelves had been employed for vegetable and fruit storage.

  The commander shifted the weight of his pack and walked purposefully down the length of the vast corridor, trying not to think about how many Emperors had walked this very route so many times a day. He’d seen the crumbling wreckage of the curiously oval Peacock Palace from the apartments of the elders and was interested to see what they’d done with it. It was not hard to see how the Empire had functioned so well under the kind of men that had turned a crumbling palace into a fully-functioning farming and scholarly community in so few years.

  Exiting the corridor, he found himself in a circular stair hall with a beautiful enclosed broad marble staircase. He vaguely remembered being told about this by one of the elders a few years back. One of the Emperors who’d no love for his wife had had the stairs devised. There were two entrances to the circular stairwell on each floor, but they ran independently of each other, and people who took different doors could not meet on the stairs and could only see each other through windows across the central well. Ingenious. Wasted on the last dynasty, though. He made for one of the entrances and began to trot up the stairs. At the first landing, he was puzzled for a moment until he realised that he’d only come halfway round the circle in one floor and there was no door. This floor would be reachable only from the other staircase. He grinned. The Emperors may have been mad, but they had an interesting sense of humour. Trotting up the rest of the steps to the third floor, he wandered out into the hallway.

  The floor had been recently repaired, new oak beams in place of the rotten ones and a good coat of varnish over the lot. The carpet was still very threadbare. They perhaps had not yet managed to start weaving on this scale. He made a mental note to come back before the next six months were up and to bring a few carpets with him.

  Strolling along the curved hallway that surrounded the staircase, he peered into some of the rooms. This was obviously the floor they were currently working on. Several of the rooms were totally empty apart from plastering and painting gear. He continued on round the edge until he found one of the finished rooms. It was far from the glorious majesty of an Imperial apartment, but as comfortable as an army officer could ever expect. He dropped his pack gratefully onto an old chest near the door and flung himself onto the bed, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He lay for long moments before sighing and sitting up; too much to do to lounge around lazily. He stood and wandered over to the window, glancing down across the complex. The view from this side looked out over the Temples of the Divine Triad, the Imperial Shrines and in the distance the ruin of the Golden House, the last palace of the Emperors, built by the ill-fated Quintus the Golden. His eyes settled on the burned hulk of stone and rubble and a flash caught his eye. As he watched, it came again and again. Long years in the army left Sabian in no doubt as to the source of the twinkle. A blade.

  Removing his helmet and cloak he dropped them on the bed, searched for a key and, finding it, closed and locked the door. Walking steadily round the hall, he jogged quickly down the steps and back out into the Great Court. Across the intervening space with the gravelled path was an archway, blocked with a badly-constructed timber fence. As he approached, he saw the gap at the side where the obstruction had been shifted to allow access. Last time he’d examined this ruin was on his very first visit here, more than ten years ago and there’d been no such obstruction then. Nothing had been organised then on the scale it was now.

  Lifting the wood aside, he scraped past it, fretting at the sound of his cuirass grating on the archway’s stone. Once past, he walked carefully down the dark corridor and trod gingerly among the fallen stones and puddles until he emerged, blinking, into the light. The ruins of the grand scheme that had been the Golden House lay sad and mouldering in the midday sun. As he pondered where to start, there came the sound of sword ringing on metal. He carefully made his way through a crumbling passageway, treading carefully among the uneven blocks of fallen masonry. Reaching out to steady himself, his hand rested on a support from a vaulted roof and the stone came away loose in his hand, crashing to the floor. Regaining his balance, he examined his hand and wiped the unpleasant reddish-brown slime from his skin with disgust.

  Minutes later, as he carefully edged his way through the bones of the palace, he found himself at the entrance to an octagonal courtyard. He glanced around and realised that this huge space would have been enclosed long ago. The vaulting for a large dome was still visible at the periphery. In the centre of the space stood a young man of perhaps twenty years of age surrounded by wooden stakes driven into the ground, each bearing a piece of scrap metal, dented and torn. The young man was dark haired, with a neatly trimmed beard, surprisingly tall. He wore grey tunic and breeches with soft leather boots and swung a long, straight sword in practice swings with every bit as much skill as any of Sabian’s NCOs. He smiled. It had been six months, but young Darius was unmistakeable. Rather than interrupt, Sabian tested the strength of the charred door frame and leaned against it, watching the young man with curiosity and interest.

  Again and again the boy rained blows down on the various targets, ducking, spinning and leaping to simulate different moves as required. After one particularly heavy downward swing, he landed light on his feet facing away and placed the tip of his sword down on the ground, leaning on the hilt and breathing heavily. His voice was steady and deep though it came in gasps as his chest heaved.

  “Thanks for not interrupting,” he said. “Concentration’s very much a part of the game, as I’m sure you know.”

  Sabian smiled again; Darius had the makings of a good soldier. Shame he would grow old and die without ever leaving the island, but then there were worse places to grow old and far worse places to die. The commander pushed his feelings deep down and spoke light heartedly.

  “How’d you feel about a bit of live practice?” He tapped the decorative hilt of his blade idly, but the young man shook his head.

  “Think I’m about done
for now, commander” he replied. ”I have to get the sword back to storage before it’s missed anyway.”

  Sabian frowned.

  “I thought sword practice was one of your daily duties” he queried.

  Darius sheathed his blade and turned again. “It is, but only at appointed times. Right now I’m supposed to be studying Edro’s comedies in my room and it’s only a matter of time before they check on me. I’ll see you around” he added.

  He extended his arm in a gesture reminiscent of a traditional Imperial salute and picked up his bag from where it lay by a shattered column before turning to leave through one of the other exits. Sabian stepped quickly across the room and followed him, catching up easily as the lad navigated the obstacles of fallen masonry in the passage. He fell in beside him, hands clasped behind his back. Darius looked sidelong at the commander with a quirky smile and raised an eyebrow.

  “You’d be better to keep your hands free here,” he offered; “you never know when you might fall through the floor tiles.”

  The commander unfolded his arms, keeping step with difficulty due to the obstacles. He glanced at the young man.