The oval-shaped table spread across the length of the room, the candlelight reflecting on its glossy briarwood finish in the dark. Its golden rims glistened in the otherwise gloomy chamber of the ministry, and its arabesque patterns slithered across the table as if serpents through sand.
Twelve chairs. Each seat was as empty as the last—except the one at the head, of course, in which sat the Lord Speaker, Jafar Zhargari, twirling a small hourglass between his fingers. There was an odd pleasure in occupying his brother’s seat. The armrests were a little too far apart, and the cushion wasn’t to his liking, but sitting at the head of the table outweighed any inconvenience. It was safe to say Jafar did not feel his brother Darius’ absence with a heavy heart. The saying went, The Speaker may speak with the Khah’s tongue yet may choke on separate poison. Jafar took a sip from his goblet of purplewine. That’s damn good poison.
Footsteps clicked beyond the door curtain, approaching eagerly, accompanied by soft mumbles and short laughs There were many and they followed no rhythm. Finally, these ministers decide to show their faces. The curtain ruffled as each of them entered.
The first to pass through was Lord Justice Denninger, robed in his white and purple gown from chins to feet. Behind him followed Gor of Manasya, Minister of Treaties, whom Jafar was surprised to see had shed some weight from his gut, now somewhat resembling the version of him that commandeered his ships to take the Golden Bay during the Reconquest. His buddying confidant, Dahn Kalus Dinari, the Royal Treasurer, was never far behind. Now that was a gut worth its name. At their tail were Hon. Serkan Labakhsh, who staggered inside with the aid of his cane, his brother-by-law, Borras Karabas, also an occupier of a Seat of Honour, and Bashir of Alkazar, Dahn of the Lutes and Minister of Safeguard.
“Good eve, gentlemen.” Jafar greeted them as they took their seats. “Will this be all, or are the others still finishing their late meals?”
Before any of the others could reply, the curtain ruffled once more, and in crept Gamnan Askul, the new arrival from Tagaldir, courtesy of King Yussuf. Darius had agreed to King Yussuf’s terms and made an entirely new position for him, the Seat of Heritage, whatever that meant. In very little time, Gamnan Askul had already built quite a reputation about him. ‘The Prying Mantis’, they called him. Of ‘Mantis’, Jafar appreciated the man’s polearm-like limbs and his skull-tight features. Of ‘Prying’, however, Jafar had yet to see.
“Forgive my delay, Lord Speaker,” the Mantis croaked, zooming to his chair. “There was…a complication, yes, at the gate. Pacifists rallying outside the Alcazar.”
“Must I intervene?” Jafar queried.
“No, no, my lord, it is resolved. Two or so had to be disciplined. The guards saw to it. Dealing with the others was a simpler task.”
“Why did nobody alert the palace? That could have erupted a very dangerous situation.” Something about his story didn’t sit right with Jafar. The evening had been rather quiet. The spirit of dissent in the layfolk was strong. Jafar did not deem it an impossibility, but not outside the palace gates, with the Alcazar sentinels on watch. “I thank you, then, my dahn, for resolving this issue with haste.”
“Right, my lord.” The Mantis nodded so quickly it seemed only a twitch.
“In other matters, I trust that all ministers who are presently within Shanghala’s walls are in attendance.” Jafar punctuated his words by placing the hourglass down on the table. The ministers’ eyes stared as the grains of sand poured from one capsule into the other. His statement was met with a cohesive nod. Four seats remained empty.
“I will begin this evening’s assembly by addressing the new-coming reports from our unifying efforts in the Roc. Our forces move on to the capital, Storgard, in the far west. However, there is a more pertinent matter on our hands. The chief of the eastern lands, the Feimr, they call him, has surrendered—but it is not without terms. He demands a high military rank and to be recognised as a dahn. Mandar Phonin agreed to his terms, provisionally, arranging for him to be made a vice mandar, as a replacement for the late Vice-mandar Hull.” He paused, allowing the ministers to process the agreement. “But of course, matters of this calibre must be approved by the ministry. A show of hands will do.”
“You mean to tell us that some halfwit man-giant is springing terms upon us, right after we’ve razed his house to the ground?” Serkan ignored the call to vote, speaking with a fiery tone. “Anything short of execution would deem us weak.”
“If I may, Lord Speaker,” started Gor of Manasya. “I believe you are mistaken, Serkan.”
Manners come with age, thought Jafar, watching as Gor stroked his greying beard, preparing to reply.
“This effort was never about dominance. The aim was and remains the unification of the Obrian continent. A rocr chief will know his people better than any lord we could ever plant in their midst. The man-giants will be more like to comply.”
Serkan looked around the table as if searching for an ally, but the silence hung—not a single gaze met his—until he finally spoke, his tone cold and deliberate. “No doubt, Gor, but he is on the side of the defeated. He cannot be granted leverage! How can we call ourselves an empire if we allow our subjects to strongarm such terms upon us after an involuntary surrender?”
“Involuntary? No surrender is ever involuntary, my dahn,” added the Dahn of the Lutes. “Victory and defeat, they are involuntary. Not a single man who steps onto the field of battle knows whether their side will emerge the victor, or lay rotting in the aftermath. However, one chooses to surrender, whether it be strategic, or nearly forced by the situation.”
Serkan struggled to find words for a riposte. His face seemed to suggest an argument was incoming, but his mouth didn’t release as much as a hiss.
“You all raise valid viewpoints, ministers.” It was extraordinary how quickly the ministers shut up when he spoke. The silence was more pleasurable than any melody Bashir could play on his lute. Jafar sipped from his goblet once more, the fiery tingle of the purplewine scratching the back of his throat like sharp nails. “I believe, nonetheless, Hon. Serkan raises a pressing issue, despite the backlash received by fellow members of the council. What I believe my honoured friend was trying to say was that it would reflect badly upon the image of the newly established Obrian Empire to grant such favourable terms to a party who was bested with ease.”
“You’ve ripped the words from my mind, Lord Speaker. I could not have articulated it better myself.”
“I agree, especially after witnessing your previous attempt. ‘Strongarm’, was it? And what force have they used to impose these terms?” Serkan stared at him blankly. “Be mindful of your choice of words. If you do not know what they mean, they are better kept unsaid. Besides, your point applies only if we were doing battle with the enemy to simply topple them. That is not the case here, Serkan. As has already been stated by our fellow minister, our aim is to unify the continent, not put it to the torch. Ashes have no need for governance. If one of their chiefs were to join our ranks, the others would follow, or they would be punished for it. Does anybody else have any further reservations on the matter?”
A visceral cough came from the end of the table, where Lord Justice Denninger sat up on his seat. “If I may, Lord Speaker,” he began, still clearing his throat. “Were this exception to be made, to accommodate this man-giant into the laws of our land, certain limitations must be put in place.”
“And what limitations would you propose, Lord Justice?”
“Firstly, a dahn has always been an owner of Gorhadi land, passed down through generations, purely based on inheritance. Take a squatter or a usurper, they are heinous beings in the eyes of Gorhadi law.” Jafar nodded. “The Rocr do not recognise such concepts. They are barbarians, savages. Take this scenario, Lord Speaker, a family is dislodged from chiefdom, from land they may have ruled for generations, simply through a brawl. A brawl which they must accept, mind you, as denying a challenge is seen to be craven in man-giant law. Their layfolk will accept the victor as their new chief and praise them for their strength. There is no place for such primitive behaviour in our laws.”
“I agree. Do not fret, we will not uphold their wild traditions.”
“Very well.” The judge stopped to clear his throat once more. “My second issue stands with the possibility of rebellion from within. How are we to trust this barbarian chief? He cannot be granted the powers and rights that attach to such a high rank. It would fare too easy a task to work against us using our very own resources. He cannot be afforded the same freedoms as would any other vice-mandar.”
“A valid issue, but rebellions are not quashed with a book of laws or by a gavel in court, but in the field of battle. If rebels rise, no matter what limitations we impose, they will follow whosoever they choose to follow. And then strength will overpower weakness.” The old judge seemed taken aback by Jafar’s response. He wiped his forehead, shuffled and readjusted his posture.
“We must needs send a competent deputy, then, to ensure he conforms to our methods and customs. A period of probation would also be a sage move, to first mould him into one of our own, as far as we may considering his base senses.”
“Some astute propositions. We will appoint a deputy in due course. In fact, I will even grant you the responsibility of pooling the candidates. Competency finds competency, right, Lord Justice?”
“Very well.” The old judge did not seem shaken at all by the task. Unexpectedly so.
“On that note, I will extend the vote once more to the table.” All hands rose rapidly, even the Honoured Serkan’s, however his expression was filled with disdain.
“Good. That was the only pressing matter on my agenda. Would anybody like to raise any other general concerns?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, Lord Speaker,” spoke the Minister of Treaties. “To be frank, I bring to the table a matter near as pressing as this soon-to-be Rocr dahn. The recent events that have unfolded in the Ires. The De Caldera name has dwindled to but the runt of the litter. I believe His Valour and the Lord Speaker are quite familiar with the new heir to the Wrathrone.” Once he finished speaking, he reclined in his seat, scratching his beard before reaching for his goblet.
“A new Signor of the Lakes? Has the grizzled Spitfire finally surrendered to his age?”
“Aye, and his son, Dantel, will soon perform the rites,” Gor continued.
Dantel. The smell of oranges brushed past him like an eerie memory when hearing his name. A name he hadn’t heard in years, since his years exiled in Tagaldir. “Dantel? He is the seventh son, and a boy, at that. How has he come to be the next in line to the Wrathrone?”
“With all due respect, Lord Speaker,” butted in Kalus Dinari. “The ‘boy’ is well and truly a man in his own right. Twenty-five years old, at that, according to the message from the winghorse.”
Has it been that long? Dantel hadn’t so much as left the teat when last he saw him. A lie, again, Jafar. But the ‘boy’ was an evil bastard, yes. There’s no denying that. “A message? And where is the scroll?”
“Here,” said Gor, revealing a loosely tied scroll from his robe. “I’m surprised that you did not receive a copy yourself, Lord Speaker.”
“I share your sentiment, minister.” The scroll was ashen grey, with burn marks along the edges. “How did you happen to possess this scroll, without my reading it first?” Hiding messages from me, are we?
“It was within the message compartment in my office…You mean to say this information was not relayed to you until now?”
“Exactly that, minister. Need I remind you heads go for cheaper reasons than concealing crucial information to the Khah and his Speaker.”
“I swear by the Winds and all their wisdom, Lord Speaker, I had naught to do with the concealment, if there was any. If I would’ve known, I would’ve stormed your office the moment I read it.” Jafar knew Gor to be quite the unshakeable man, but he noticed the man’s breathing grow thinner and sweat beginning to clump up in the wrinkles of his forehead. Jafar stared at him with an unmovable glare, stern-faced.
“It is no matter.” Jafar smiled at him. “Not yet, anyway. Read it to the table, if you will. I presume that is of more importance to the realm than a potential mishap at the hands of a winghorse.”
“V-very well,” Gor replied, wiping his forehead clean, his shoulders relaxing as he unravelled the scroll. “‘With a heavy heart and a mourning mind, I am obliged to inform you of our Signor’s tragic passing, Luccecio de Caldera XIV, and the evermore sorrowful taking of the lives of many of his sons and daughters. Inclusive of his firstborn and namesake, Luccecio, his two daughters, Ginvera and Menissita, and his other sons, Julio, Angelo and Vincenzo. This was the result of a leisurely outing on the regal volcanic barge along the Burning Ring. Dantel de Caldera, the seventh son of Luccecio XIV, is now the only surviving spawn of Luccecio’s seed. As he stands, however, he cannot ascend the throne without proving himself to the Wrathrone. Hence, until such a rite is met, his reign will be governed by his mother who will step up as Reggente, Signora Niccola de Caldera, with the aid of the representatives in the Court of Cinders. As our allies on the mainland, may this letter be a sign of our sincere and honoured support to your unifying cause.’Signed: ‘Hugo Teriano, Chancellor of the First Ash, Gulio Malfestio, Benefactor of the Citadel, Riccardo Malfestio, Prime Senator, and Jaume Dioravanti, Prime Senator.’”
“Allies, they say,” the Lord Justice pointed out. “Yet they still won’t bend the knee!”
“Yes, and to offer their support, yet undermine us with such ease,” added the Minister of Tribute.
The Ministry erupted into senseless argument; ministers talking over one another, and listening to little the others were saying. His hand shaking, Jafar sank the rest of his goblet.
“Order!” Jafar snapped, slamming the goblet on the table. “We won’t get anywhere squabbling like children playing at swords. This matter is too complex for us to deal with so hastily. We shall reconvene in the morning, give us time to gather our thoughts. Ministry dismissed.”
“But, Lord Speaker, the hourglass is still filled to three-quarters…”
“Dismissed, Lord Justice. The Ministry has been dismissed. Put a pin on that thought, and you may bring it to me in the morning.” He emptied the rest of his goblet. The Lord Justice shot a slight snarl across to Jafar, but he quickly returned his face to a neutral expression.
Finally, the ministers obeyed Jafar’s wishes and exited the room with haste. All but Gamnan Askul. “The barge is a stable creation, but not a perfect match,” croaked the Prying Mantis.
“Pardon, minister?”
“The barge, my lord. It is of poor design. Though resistant to the magma, the keel melts slightly with every use.”
“What do I care about their boats? Minister, the meeting has been adjourned. Please, save your knowledge for tomorrow.” Jafar turned away from Gamnan and headed for the flagon of wine near the large window, in which Shanghala spread across as if it were a painting.
“Beware the flaming lord. Fire envelops the dryland, and lava devours the soul.” Jafar turned to face the minister, but before he could question Gamnan’s words, the curtain ruffled with his exit.
Death by barge? It didn’t seem likely. Besides, that didn’t explain why, of all the children, Dantel was not aboard the barge. Also, this Hugo Teriano…his name sounded familiar, but his face eluded him. Perhaps he was the man Jafar exchanged pleasantries with at the port in Tagaldir. Yes, the day Dantel had finished his studies. He was brief and was always in a hurry, and had an air about him no lord would want about his manor, not if he sought a loyal court.
This matter could wait until sunrise, however. Now, the only thing that mattered to him was watching the purplewine flow smoothly from the flagon as he poured it into his goblet, bubbling as the liquid brimmed the gold rims. He saw to it in one gulp and headed out into the hallway.
At this time of night, Shanghala’s halls were empty as the crypts, and darker still. They were cavernously tall, and the ends faded into nothingness. Faint breezes brushed past him as he turned left, heading to his chambers. Lies, Jafar. They are the other way. The Khah’s chambers were just around the corner.
“Jafar,” said the Khanum, lying in bed, as he stumbled through the curtain. “What took you so long?”
“The ministers were rather…uncooperative tonight.” He ignored the bed and beelined to the flagon at the other end of the room.
“Where are you going? Come here.” She shuffled around the pink satin sheets, her caramel skin half-hidden underneath.
But he needed another drink. Yes. A cup, first. He could never do it sober. The wine bubbled around the jewels within the goblet until it covered its diameter with a glossy purple film. He gazed out at Shanghala as he placed the flagon on the table and proceeded to take his first sip. The city was always awake. It was fuzzing with energy even during the hour of the bandit. Conversations, laughter, screams. The guards will see to that. He sank the goblet with the following swig.
“They return.” Words came out of his mouth, but he would’ve sworn he never spoke them. “The winghorses rode in this morning. They are crossing through Monthaven.”
“That’s at least a fortnight away. Jafar, the campaign succeeded. That’s what the ministry wanted, what you wanted, right? Come. Get in here. The bed is getting cold.” Cassadana waved the sheets, for a moment revealing her bare teats.
“My brother.” The words left his lips as if they were weathered rocks falling from a cliff. “He will be back on the throne soon.”
“That’s not happened yet, Jafar. Get in here.”
Jafar laid down his goblet by the flagon and approached the bed, loosening his robe. His penis drooped from his hips like a rope. He felt a slight jolt as Cassadana tugged it toward her. The satin sheets were cold against his skin at first, but it soon gripped to hers as they embraced, and their lips quickly engaged in slobbery reunion. She blew quiet moans into his ears as he thrust inside her. Rolling, wallowing, revelling in sheets of passion and sweat…so cloying and enseamed. His legs and chest were steaming, dripping onto her bosom. Dantel de Caldera, the new Signor of the Lakes. He removed himself abruptly.
“Why’ve you stopped, Jafar?” Cassadana gasped, catching her breath. She, too, was drenched in perspiration, her skin greased, her ginger hair not far from flames.
“I think…I will sleep in my chambers tonight, Cas,” he said as he backed away from the bed. “This is wrong.”
“You lie, Jafar. You’re still poking out,” she said, pointing playfully.
“Shut up!” He staggered to his goblet, wrestling himself into his robe. He filled it sloppily, wine staining the white tablecloth. “Cas, this was wrong from the start!”
She seemed startled by his yelling, now covering herself with the sheets as she sat up. “Why now? You didn’t have an issue with it before.”
“I don’t care, I have an issue with it now!” He emptied the cup, licking his lips for any residual purplewine. The goblet trembled in his hands. “To what end does this lead us, Cas? You are my brother’s queen, and I, his Speaker. What he would do to you, me…I fret simply at the thought of it. I’m putting an end to this.”
“You’re in your cups, Jafar, you…your wits aren’t withal. I can be Gorhad’s queen by day, and your queen by night.”
“A queen needs a king. Something I am not, and I sleep better alone. Goodwind.” As he headed for the door, Cassadana rushed to him, grabbing his wrist with her clammy hands.
“Tell me, Jafar. What happened in the Ministry today? You’ve acted differently since you came in—” A mumbling in the hallway interrupted them. “What was that?” she whispered, her voice laced with anxiety.
“You stupid whore!” Jafar hissed, punching himself in the thigh. “The palacewives, they must’ve heard your stupid moans.” Jafar dug his nails into his palms.
“As if your yells are whispers!” They stood a hair’s width apart, her raw breath rasping, pungent in his nose. “It was probably a mouse or one of the house cats. Stay awhile, Jafar.” Casadanna locked her fingers with his and stared at him with wide green eyes. That speck in her left eye called to him, the one shaped as if traced from Tunaq’s fjords. He pressed her against his chest and kissed her with vigour. This would be the final time.
“Goodwind, Cas.” Jafar pushed himself through the curtain, careless of whether she nodded in response, and stumbled back to the Speaker’s loft through the palace’s dark hallways.
© Jaime Abad 2024