Chapter 3 - Thero
'By the power vested in me by my titles as the Highprince Sirmene, Steward of the Golden Reaches, and Lord Protector of Isceria, I declare this covenant bound eternal.'
- King Thaban IV at the signing of the Equineal Accords
“Well, shall we vote on the issue?”
As the Paracount Aydori’s affected drawl carried through the vast chamber, Thero’s hand scribbled furiously to catch up to the matter of the last few minutes. Even in his shorthand, he sometimes struggled to record each caustic rejoinder, snide remark, or spirited rebuttal.
Through his spectacles, he spared a few looks at the twelve men and women seated throughout the room. To those seeing them for the first time, the Equineal Justices would surely be quite impressive. Their jewelry glittered under the lantern-light. Their attires were all emblematic of the latest fashions from their homelands, a dizzying display of colours and fabrics from all over the continent. Their weighty gazes looked down at newcomers from the grand semi-circular ebony desk they all shared, the very center of the Hall of Justice.
These were the de facto rulers of the city, each a landed noble, each wealthy, powerful, or influential in their own way. In many ways, their attention should have brought life to the heart of Equinox, of Alteria itself. Behind them stood the silent testament to their authority: the frescoes and stained glass windows of what was once the court of Old Immeria. Emblazoned in marble were the scenes of a thousand battles, political summits, and treaty signings.
And at the very end of the chamber, looming over all, the throne for which this castle was named: Haedren’s Seat. It was enough for anyone to stand in awe.
Yet after two years, all Thero Varglass could see were hyenas fighting over a corpse.
(Nothing against hyenas, of course. They were fierce when pressed, knew how to communicate, clever enough to maintain pack alliances, and were tenacious hunters, but Thero sincerely doubted that the imperials would much like the explicit comparison to a pack of steppe scavengers from what they no-doubt considered to be a backwater territory on their continental maps.)
As was tradition, each of the Justices was handed an envelope by one of the purple-clothed attendants. Thero knew that in the envelopes were ballots, the motion at hand clearly written at the top and three boxes printed neatly at the bottom for the Justices to tick.
Accept. Decline. Abstain.
The impossible equation of power, variables of ownership, of history, of culture and custom, all simplified down to its most basic terms. And now the futures of hundreds would be decided by the favours spent over the last few hours. Not that he had anything against favours in principle - he'd be out of a job without them - but there was such a thing as time and place. Somehow, he doubted that bribing one of the court attendants with preferential treatment at his local brothel was quite as egregious as deciding the fate of hundreds because one exploited the fact that the Lord and Lady Royoux enjoyed additional partners in their bedchambers, or that the Prelates Kleobus and Pandeon were currently engaged in a secret trade war over several vineyards in Low Khybria they weren't legally allowed to own.
The two men standing at opposite ends of the Quaternal Seal - the bronze-cast symbol emblazoned on the floor of the hall, the very representation of peace through the Accords - waited to see what the rest of their lives would entail.
Eryn and Auberon of Thecyne. Though they were bound by blood and could hardly be told apart, Thero could tell just by looking at them that they despised one another: the flush at the elder’s cheeks, the crossed arms of the younger. The way neither would meet the other’s eye.
According to his sources, the contest over their inheritance claim had apparently begun when Eryn’s father, a wealthy prelate from Pelagious, had legitimized his other bastard son. Such a process had included a stake to half his land in Thecyne, as well as a few acres of farms in the Thronelands. Unfortunately, the man had died before being able to put the changes in writing, so this had become a matter for adjudication.
The question put before the Justices looked deceptively simple: whether to accept the new inheritance and legitimize Auberon, or to deny the old man’s changes and let the lands fall entirely to Eryn.
Thero tapped his inkpen at the edge of the scroll as he watched the Justices. Nobody was watching him; this was as good an opportunity as any.
So he prepared a Working.
Thero had more than just political savvy up his sleeve, for he was a Latent: a practitioner of the Art of the same. If one wanted to get specific, he was a kyneid. An academic term, but one which meant his studies had specialized in the Primality of Motion. Learning how to use Workings of Art to bend - and eventually break - a law of reality took time. It was years before most ever passed the final examinations at the Septarium. Of course, he'd earned the rod and scroll earlier than most, and he was not about to let a little thing like the formal rules of this chamber stop him when he had a tool that few others did.
To complete a Working, a Latent practitioner needed three things. First was the Secret, the essential hermetic principle of the thing bound in the first words of existence. Each Primality had hosts of Secrets - how many exactly, nobody knew, but the study of magic was not a new phenomenon and no mage had ever plumbed the complete depths of those discoveries - yet they could not be taught, only discovered. No two practitioners found them in the exact same way. The Secrets of the Latent Art were like grief, or a joke; an individual process with a universal end.
Second was the energy, or the Will. This was perhaps the simplest part, though also the most deadly. To change the laws of reality, even for an instant, could be fatal if one did not know what they were doing. His teachers had always told him to find the Will within and the energy without. Workings, in their basic form, drew life force directly from the one casting the spell. Unfortunately, this had a dreadful tendency to kill practitioners before they could ever finish more sophisticated applications of the Art. Which led to...
The final part, the Focus. Like Secrets, each Latent kept their own. It was an object of some sentimental value, a piece of themselves made external. Family heirlooms worked well, but the most important part was its meaning to the practitioner. A Focus allowed the practitioner to divide the tithe of energy between them and the object, giving them more longevity. Keeping one's Focus in good condition was perhaps the most critical thing a good, sensible Latent could do.
At the edge of his consciousness was his Focus: a small bundle of warmth and sensation, his Working from this morning still actively informing him as to its whereabouts. Doing his best not to show anything on his face, Thero followed the invisible string he’d crafted all the way to the body of the secret companion who lay in wait up in the sunlit alcoves.
Qirax, true to form, was sleeping. Just like any reptile, the perimastyx liked to take little naps throughout the day; Thero suspected it had something to do with the colder climate this far south. Not daring to crack a smile, he sent a nudge through their link to wake him up.
Come on, little guy - time to get to work. Ignoring the vague sense of sleepy irritation from the tiny lizard, the kyneid visualized a path for Qirax to follow: down from his perch, across the bas-relief of the Sundering of Sun’s Fleet, to the base of the central window right above the Seat.
It would be the perfect vantage point for Thero to invoke one of his Secrets, the Working he knew would let him see each and every vote cast by the Justices.
Qirax took a few moments before moving, his seven-inch body clambering over the fine stonework. His size, clawed talons and lightweight frame made him an excellent climber and observer, both skills that Thero had employed many times before.
But he saw that he would be too late. The Justices Aldous and dar Kerrick had already finished marking off their votes, the two Helkorites exchanging a glare down the table. In just a few moments, the attendants would come back. He was going to lose his window.
Not yet. Since he was breaking the rules, he might as well get something for his trouble.
Under his breath, the Nascyian recited the incantation for the Secret of Impelled Velocity, and everything around him turned to frozen glass. The Justices, the attendants, every other scribe and official in the great hall seemed to have slowed, as though wading through deepsand.
Of course, he knew that the opposite was true: he had simply used his will and knowledge to alter the Primality of Motion, bending the natural laws that governed his speed and reflexes. To the rest of the chamber, he would be moving, breathing, existing at an impossible pace, far beyond the rate of any mundane person. Were he to get up from his chair and break into a full sprint now, he would travel as if shot from a bow.
Thankfully, this was not his first time doing this, which was why he knew he needed to stay quite still. Instead of enjoying the boon himself, Thero changed the focus of the Working, pushing the Latent energy across the link and right into Qirax.
The effect took hold instantly, the lizard’s speed doubling mid-climb. It reached the desired spot within seconds, bulbous pupils swiveling and seeking out the twelve cards from up high. As soon as the perimastyx was in position, Thero split his focus and spoke his third Working of the day: the Secret of the Wandering Eye.
His field of vision changed, his own perspective disappearing as it was replaced with that of his familiar. While he concentrated, he went blind... but everything Qirax could see was within his grasp. What had already been a vibrant, opulent chamber transformed into something other; an endless kaleidoscope of colours from above, most of which he could not name. Humans had no names for everything in front of Thero now. He gripped his inkpen tighter, but didn’t even feel the liquid from the capsule staining his fingers.
Focus. The voting ballots. Even in this state, they would only have a few seconds left. Thero needed to prioritize. He’d have to look at the ballots of the senior Justices. At the very least, those would allow him to extrapolate where the other diplomats, those with less sway, might vote. That narrowed his targets from twelve to four; the four that truly mattered.
Ishnar di Ayad. The Paracount Aydori was voting to accept the motion. That made sense; a new landholder in a domain beholden to the Justices was another lever he could use down the line. Ayad’s golden eyes were always hungry. The Iscerian was old money, swathed in the silks and ornaments of his station. Thero had not yet seen him play a political game and lose.
Of course, just because Ishnar voted yes didn’t mean the other Iscerians would follow him - he had as many enmities among his own kin as he did without - but the information might prove useful later.
Lady Chartria. Denial, of course. It was hardly a surprise that she would fight tooth and nail against any kind of change. The sallow matron never had, in all the time Thero had been Keeper of the Hall. Besides, she had a vested interest to see a true, faithful Medean maintain control over what he was owed. At least the Steward of Khybria was consistent in her motives.
Chartria folded her skeletal fingers, staring down the rest of the room from the battlements of her high-collared gown. She had her peers so browbeaten that Thero wouldn’t have to bother looking at any other Medean ballots. They’d follow her into any storm, for better or worse.
Her conduct hadn’t earned her any points with the other Justices; throughout most of Equinox’s upper crust she was known as ‘Lady Mercy’, so named after a quality she had never found.
Valfir dar Kerrick. The man clad in burnt plate had abstained from the motion. Thero frowned before remembering himself. He’d expected the bull-necked former officer to stomp his hooves and make some noise. Then again, he considered, the Helkorite might not care to cast a vote in a matter that didn’t concern him. Aldous and the others would likely follow, Thero decided. The honour of a Helkorite - or at least the appearance of such a thing - would keep Aldous and the others from breaking rank on a mere land claim dispute.
The tingling around his wrists and shoulders told him that the Working was already starting to exact a toll: there was sweat at his collar and on his forehead already. Through the link to Qirax, Thero could also feel the lizard begin to slow, the first reserves of energy trickling away. Just one more, little guy, he empathized through the bond.
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Gillea de Lanceryn, the eldest and cleverest of all the scavengers in the Hall of Justice. Although Thero knew her to be in her sixties, the Viscountess of Bayeux looked barely fifty: she wore an ankle-length gown of threaded midnight that helped to minimize her wide-set shoulders, accentuated by a sterling necklace topped with a single aquamarine jewel. She wore her silver hair freely at shoulder length - the accepted mode in Valmont these days - perfectly framing a heart-shaped face and glasz eyes.
Eyes that were looking right at him. The him-him seated at the desk of Keeper of Chambers, not the him-through Qirax's eyes.
Gillea did not say a word, but her slightly raised brow and pursed lips told Thero that he’d been caught out. Without breaking eye contact, de Lanceryn placed her already-folded ballot into the hands of the servant that lurked nearby.
Letting his Workings dissipate, Thero waited until all of the ballots were counted and the results brought forward. Straightening his vest and adjusting his spectacles, the practitioner rose to his feet to address the Hall in his official capacity.
“The Justices have deliberated,” he announced in High Alterian, the language of this court and few enough other places, “and found in favour of Auberon of Thecyne. His claim will take precedence.” He allowed the first minute of usual exchanges of glances and murmuring to run its course before cutting back in. Politicians. Did they like nothing so much as the sound of their own voices?
He was not, of course, a politician. His position was more ceremonial than that. From around his neck, Thero produced the official symbol of the Keeper - a steel and silver idol of the Quaternal Seal, produced perfectly in miniature - and placed it gingerly on the crimson pillow on the table in front of him.
“As that was the last item on our agenda today, let us conclude this session of the Equineal Justice. The honourable Justices are dismissed.”
He knew, even before the page appeared at his left elbow with the summons, that he wasn’t getting out of here unscathed. The practitioner let out a deep breath. May as well get it over with.
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“Reckless, Varglass. Reckless and foolish.”
In a way, Gillea de Lanceryn’s chambers were a perfect reflection of the woman herself: elegant paneled dark wood adorned the walls and floors, no doubt all imported from her temperate homeland at great expense. The kymical lanterns soaked the rooms in waves of soft crimsons and rich blues, each emanating a light that persisted for days on a few grains of treated salt. A desk on the far side of the room was covered with broadsheets and letters, today's issue of the Quarterly most prominent among them. A pair of windows offered a perfect view of the Seat’s inner courtyard. Across from the chaise lounge on which he sat was a trove of books any Latent practitioner would envy - he’d been lucky enough to sample Gillea’s collection once, and hoped to do so again.
Today, though, would not be that day.
“You were trying to see the ballots.” The viscountess stood over him, holding Thero in place with the weight of her attention. “Please do not insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise.”
“Yes,” he replied right away, “and I succeeded. I saw all the major players’ votes in less time than it took you to accuse me of it. Lady Mercy, di Ayad, dar Verrick, and you; the shape of the Hall, all right there. Nobody else saw me, I guarantee it.”
She leaned closer. “And other than satisfying your curiosity, what exactly were you hoping to gain from this? It was a territory grab from the Medeans, plain and simple. If you had attended any of the Justice dinners the last few days, you could have anticipated the result. Instead, you risked the protocols of the Hall - the very thing you’ve sworn to uphold as the Keeper - to confirm with the Latent Art what you ought to have intuited on your own.”
Thero knew she’d take this route, but did his best to show contrition. She did not understand, but he hadn’t really expected her to. He took off his spectacles, making a show of wiping off a speck of dirt and putting them back on.
“I am sorry, truly, but it wasn’t about the result. As you said, a contested claim of a minor lord at the Thronelands border doesn’t matter. But there’s a saying, back in Nascyia: ‘when scanning the grass, search for the tallest lion’.”
The Valmontese noblewoman moved to one of the windows and waved a hand in his direction, a clear indication he should continue.
“It’s not a perfect translation. Essentially, it means that the movements of the powerful cast ripples, sometimes beyond even their faintest intent. By watching how you vote, I can get a lay of the land, start thinking ahead about how you might do so in the future.”
A decent justification, he thought, and a good thing he'd thought of it sometime in the last minute or so.
“But to do that, one would…” The patrician trailed off, her gaze snapping back to him. “How many times have you done this?”
“That depends,” Thero scoffed. He toyed with one of his braids and permitted himself a smile. “How many times have you caught me?”
She inhaled sharply, and for a moment he thought she was going to explode, but she eventually deflated with a chuckle and a shake of the head.
“Do you know why some in this castle call you the Small Justice?”
Thero stilled. It was not the first time he’d heard the name - fishwives had nothing on courtiers when it came to hurtful gossip - but it was the first time anyone had said it to his face. He sat up straighter on the chaise.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You are,” de Lanceryn began, “one of us, in many ways. You attend all of our sessions, are invited to state dinners and functions, and even have authority over the Thronekeepers in our absence. You have power and privilege that not many can claim in Equinox, certainly not anyone from the Reaches.”
He did not allow himself to visibly react to the latter part.
“But what have you done with this opportunity? You play inconsequential games with your Workings, trying to get an edge on anyone you can regardless of the long-term consequences. Last month it was that business with the Summer Knights, now this? You risk your very appointment for fleeting advantage.”
“I think the Triosi would disagree on your definition of ‘fleeting’, my lady viscountess.”
“The point I am trying to make is that you ought to be more careful and look at the bigger picture.” She approached him then, taking a seat on the chaise next to him. “I know what you really want, Thero; you are a clever man, and I admire your spirit. But earning it will take time. You cannot take these kinds of shortcuts and expect to last in Equinox.”
Thero bit back the first words that came to mind, dipping his head in a way he knew looked like acceptance. De Lanceryn, like all of her kind, would expect a victory, would expect concessions. After a moment, he rose and bent to kiss the viscountess’ hand.
“Thank you. As ever, your counsel is most welcome. If you would allow me to take my leave?”
“Of course, Thero.” She was all smiles then, the barest touch on the arm - a gesture he knew was meant to convey friendly familiarity in Valmont - as a means of dismissal. “If you should like to borrow a tome on your way out, I would be willing to lend you one.”
“Perhaps another time, Lady Justice. Pleasant evening to you.” With one last bow, the kyneid was gone.
As he strode through the double doors and out into the outer rooms, Thero endured the gauntlet of attendants and diplomats - members of the seemingly endless Valmontese entourage - providing the extant courtesies while making it clear he had no intention of slowing down. He ably parried no less than three dinner invitations along the way, each with an excuse spun off of a loom. He'd need to arrange for a few surprise appearances later, no doubt - but the court types liked it when you showed up after saying no beforehand. It gave those with power an excuse to show off both means and magnanimity at the same time.
After a few minutes, he had borne the worst of it, emerging out into one of the great corridors that connected the four courts that lived within Haedren’s Seat. Here, the vaulted ceilings and spacious archways that were the original bones of the castle allowed for actual torches to be fastened into the stonework.
Thero approached the nearest one, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of the fire play along his skin. He tugged at the edge of his keffiyeh, opening the silk pocket he’d had woven into it, and Qirax emerged, crawling out to nestle itself across the back of his neck. He could feel the lizard’s exhaustion through their link - or was that his? He could no longer tell the difference.
They stood still like that for nearly a minute until he heard the clanking of metal and a cough from right behind him.
“You know,” followed a familiar contralto, “if I were an assassin, you would already be dead. Qirax too.”
“After the day I’ve had,” he replied as he turned around, switching from Low Alterian into Naxa mid-sentence, “a swift death would be a mercy.”
Zarja Triosi wore the uniform of the Thronekeepers - a set of adorned steel plate over a plain tunic and trousers, pauldrons and vambraces to match, and a deep green cloak of office to complete the image - but he could pick her out of a squad with ease.
Like him, she bore the darker features of Nassyria, though her hair was cropped so short as to nearly be bald. A serpentine tattoo wound its way across the left side of her scalp, all the way down her face to her throat.
She also bore the stark golden eyes of a midlander, inherited from her mother. To many Iscerians and others here in the capital, they would mark her out as a bastard of mixed lineage, the ultimate sin. His gaze couldn’t help but move to the visible scratches in her armor; one at her side, another below her collarbone, and what looked like a new one just shy of her neck.
Each scar in the steel, the mark of a duel won, and all in the last month. That was, after all, when Thero had arranged for her special position to the city guard.
(As far as Thero knew, there were two ways to get a civilian appointed as an irregular in the Thronekeepers. The first way, one needed to acquire at least three reputable references, complete an Third Party Application for Persons Qualified, wait for approval, then fill out a Requisition for Special Dispensation in Rank after a probationary period on the job of up to twelve tendays. All the while, the person in question needed to be an immaculate recruit. He'd understood that the recruit earning a First Meritorious Commendation, while not necessary, was also guaranteed to allow a Thronekeeper to act outside a single district remit. The second way simply required the knowledge that the Zone Commandant for Isceria - a rather cantankerous sort by the name of Vittorio - spent a good portion of his wages on the officially illegal races in the Hippodrome. One simply presented him with documentation of that fact, extorted him into filling out the requisite paperwork, and then thoroughly burned all evidence of the misdeeds).
“I see you’ve found a new admirer,” he continued in their mother tongue, pointing to the latest scratch. “I hope this one is still walking, at least.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, boss, but I think the courtship was a bit… short-lived.”
He suppressed a groan, both at the news and what Zarja thought passed as humour. “I assume no revenge duels, at least?” When she nodded, he pressed on: “You’d think they would learn to stop testing you by now.”
“I doubt they will,” Zarja said airily as they headed down the corridor. “I’m simply too beautiful for this place. As long as I am here, these lovers will just continue to line up for me.”
“You could at least try not to engage.”
“Why?” She caught his eye. “If they want to pursue me, I say let them come. Every one of them I put down is one less threat. You can't make a better world without first stabbing everyone who does not agree with you.”
“I -” Thero blanked. What? He really should have been less surprised by her comment, but he’d forgotten who he was dealing with. He'd been fortunate indeed to learn of Vittorio's gambling problem.
“You’re a Thronekeeper now, remember? You’ve sworn an oath to uphold the laws and order in this city - for all five districts. Honour duels are only legal in Isceria, and thus only legal in the Isceria Zone; if you kill someone anywhere else, it’s murder.”
There was little else as unnerving, thought Thero in that moment, as Zarja’s face while it was deep in thought.
“So what happens if I'm dueling someone on top of one of the border walls, and right as I kill him, his body falls off the wall and into a different zone?”
He had to think about that for a second.
“Well that’s the whole point of the Thronekeepers, isn’t it? To make sure those kinds of complex situations get resolved. All the more reason for you to keep your weapon in its scabbard whenever possible, to try a diplomatic solution first.”
He waited for Zarja to say something else on the topic, but she remained silent. They continued walking for a minute after that, Qirax snoring peacefully on Thero’s shoulder. He stroked the silver spines at the lizard's bearded gullet absentmindedly. It would be a while before they got back to the manor, he knew; best let his companion get some rest.
It was only when they reached the outermost gate of the Seat - the Prince’s Door, from which one could look out over all of Equinox laid out below - that they saw the glow of the fire. The two of them pushed past the murmurs of the castle guards to get a better view. Portside, Thero concluded. That close to the docks, it had to be.
At that moment, Thero heard the sound of peals. The bells of the House of Virtue rang out over the old capital, as they did ten times each day to mark the passage of time. Ninth bell.
He tried telling himself that it wasn’t his problem. A dockside fire could well have been an accident, nothing to concern himself with. Or he could dispatch someone, send Zarja or another guard to investigate.
But all those words rang hollow in his head. He had chosen Equinox, to protect its people and serve as an agent of its highest court. What kind of man would he be if he deferred his responsibilities to someone else?
Besides, a nagging voice at the back of his head told him that problems like this were opportunities more often than not. Assuming it wasn’t an accident, of course, a case of arson could well point to any number of parties.
It would not, he thought as he looked back at his guardian, be the first time he’d followed a hunch and gotten something out of it.
He sighed. It had been a long day - and by the looks of it, the night wasn’t going to be any shorter.
“Well boss,” exclaimed Zarja with a sunny smile, “it looks like you're wrong. I won't be waiting too long to draw my weapon again after all.”