Post by HED on Dec 24, 2016 9:31:26 GMT
Port de Iachia, Varantium, Holy Dominion
2470
As his lecture on the incorporation of Havsgard into the Empire drew to a close, Signore Chelucci’s voice quickened. Piero suppressed a yawn and rolled his eyes. His tutor, a very tall many with tight grey curls on his head, was reacting to the topic of a treaty like Piero reacted when receiving an extra sweet after dinner. The last time he’d seen someone get so excited over something they’d read in a book, Dionora had at least been polite enough to retreat with the romance novel to the privacy of her own room.
Piero was seated between his cousin Georgio and a girl from another of the town’s well-to-do families. All together, there were six children in the class. Chelucci’s schoolhouse was situated on the very edge of the dala Vachio estate, financed by the family’s coffers. His father boasted of the family’s longstanding commitment to education, proudly continuing the tradition even in the face of declining finances. As far as Piero was concerned, it was his family’s worst tradition. Or, at the very least, the most boring. The schoolhouse, made from a light colored wood, consisted of three rooms: the entrance hall, the schoolroom, and Chelucci’s office. It was as dusty as the resident tutor was old. Relief washed over Piero as Chelucci closed his book on his podium, signaling the lesson’s close.
When his mother had called Piero a bad student, his father had defended him, saying that everybody learned differently. Piero thought that his mother was right.
Signore Chelucci cleared his throat. “Very good. Now, students, before I leave you for the day, I will collect your independent assignments.”
Like an all-too-brief breeze in the heat of summer, the sense of relief left Piero just as soon as it had come. After putting off the figures assignment all week, Piero had been just about to start the assignment the night before when Georgio had defiantly knocked a vase of water on his own assignment and declared his intention to go play in the woods. This had sounded much more appealing to Piero than an afternoon of arithmetic, he had promptly abandoned his work and joined his cousin. The thought of the assignment had never returned to him.
Going down the line up of students one by one, Signore Chelucci offered small comments of acknowledgement when accepting the assignment papers. Each one was fuel for the fire of his regret. By the time his tutor reached Piero, it was a blazing inferno.
“Master Piero, your assignment, please,” Chelucci said, holding out a hand. He paused for a moment, and then asked, “You did complete it, didn’t you?”
Piero shook his head, and looked down.
The tutor sighed loudly. “Now, Master Piero, I know you must be distracted, considering the… circumstances,” Chelucci chided him. “But you must not let that affect your academics. How would your mother feel if she learned you were neglecting your studies on her account?”
Piero said nothing, but continued to stare at his desk.
“I’m going to talk to your father about arranging some private lessons for you. And I expect that assignment to be finished by next class. In addition to that day’s work, of course.” Chelucci resumed his walking. “And you, Master Georgio?”
Georgio looked up with pleading eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Signore Chelucci,” Georgio said. “But a vase fell over while I was writing, and the water ruined my paper. I would have started over, but–”
“These things happen, Georgio,” Chelucci replied calmly. “Make sure to be more careful about where you work next time.”
Piero’s jaw dropped open in silent astonishment and the tutor moved on to collect the last student’s assignment, offering no further words to Georgio. Signore Chelucci offered a farewell to the students, and with that the class was truly over.
“What’s wrong with you?” Georgi asked Piero. His tone was not one of concern, but chiefly annoyance. They were walking up the path to the family manor, and Piero was uncharacteristically silent, responding to Georgio with only mumbles and nods.
“It’s not fair for only me to get in trouble,” Piero said, pouting. “Not doing the assignment was your idea. You lied to Signore Chelucci!”
“Did not!” Georgio retorted. They stopped walking.
“But, Georgio, you spilled the water on your paper,” Piero insisted. “On purpose.”
“So? I didn’t say anything about how the vase fell over,” Georgio said. “Just because I didn’t say everything doesn’t mean I lied.”
With that, Georgio resumed his march up to the family manor. Piero crossed his arms, and stayed put. A breeze blew through his hair. Glancing around, he realized he would soon be alone. He shivered. Breaking into a sprint, Piero hurried to catch up to his cousin.
-
The Mother of All Cities, Empire of Malvern
Summer 2485
September
“Piero, the only reason you're here with me instead of back at Telete's mansion is because my agents are just better than hers. Telling me everything doesn't mean she dies. I know her well enough to know she means well for the Empire. Maybe I could work with her. Maybe not. But you are my tool now, Piero. Remember that."
Piero wasn’t stupid, no matter how much Agos might insist. At the very least, he was not stupid enough to miss the implicit threat of those words. He was now the tool of Denios Troklos. And a tool that did not function would be disposed of. The spy that does not speak is of no more use than the hammer that does not drive nails.
However, he had a tool of his own: language. Troklos wanted the truth about Telete’s operation, but all that Piero could give him were words. With words, Piero could lie, mislead, conceal. No doubt Troklos comprehended this. Nonetheless, Piero suddenly found himself gifted with a power that was his to wield. In the realm of meaning, Troklos was at his mercy.
“Do you understand me, Piero?” Troklos asked, maintaining eye contact.
“Yes,” he answered. Better than you might guess.
“Well, then, might as well strike at the heart of the matter.” He leaned back in his seat. “What exactly is Telete after? And what does it have to do with you?”
“She wants to decide who the next Empress is,” Piero said. He saw his interrogator raise an eyebrow. “They’re setting me up as as long-lost descendant of the Palaienid. Like Armant Freic. So they can use my hand in marriage to shore up the claim of their favorite.”
“Is that so?” Troklos’ voice lifted, and Piero saw his eyes glisten. “Yes… Yes, I see. Not a bad idea. Not at all. The lost scion of the Palaienid. That could work.” Piero sensed unspoken plans in those words, and a chill went up his spine. “Not a bad deal for you. You’ll get prestige, influence, security. So, why did you run?”
“I…” Piero paused, casting his eyes downward. “I was looking for someone. A girl…”
Troklos laughed, a hearty laugh. Piero resented the genuine mirth of his captor. “Now, how would the Lady Ianessa think if she heard you say such a thing? She’d be heartbroken.” he said, laughing again.
Piero, in spite of the circumstances, had to stifle a laugh himself. After all, it had been the Lady Ianessa whom he had been going to meet, to seek aid in finding Lyala. A desperate gamble in the first place, and one that would have to wait for a latter day.
“On the subject of women…” Troklos said, his laughter dying off. “Just who does Telete have in mind to replace our dear Empress?”
“No idea,” Piero said, making sure to answer neither too quickly nor too slowly. Either would tip Troklos off to the deception. “She’s never even given me a name.”
That much was true. It was also a lie. He knew it was the Seneschal’s daughter, though he wasn’t certain that he knew what a seneschal was. And he certainly didn’t know her name. But the more secrets he had, the better.
Troklos nodded again. “All things in their time, I suppose.”
A knock came at the door. Denios Troklos rose to his feet, and offered a hand to Piero. He accepted, and the hand of the Voice pulled him to his feet.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Troklos said. “Time is running short. The Voice will soon be silent.” Piero detected a hint of sadness in the words. “You must know what happens next, yes?”
“Let me guess, you’ll send me back to Telete’s estate with some sort of alibi?” Piero asked.
“Alibi, Piero?” He shook his head. “You’re a runaway slave. And a very important one at that. There’s no alibi strong enough. Telete won’t be as amused by your philandering as I was, I guarantee you. You need to handle this yourself. My people will take you back where they found. From there, you’re on your own,” Troklos explained. “My apologies about the bag.”
“The bag?” Piero asked, narrowing his eyes. He heard a door open behind him, and suddenly a familiar sack was pulled around his head. “Oh, right.”
Strong arms lifted Piero off the ground, and eventually set him down on a hard surface. The fact that it started moving a moment later revealed the fact that he was in some sort of cart. As he stared into the blackness of the bag, thoughts ran through Piero’s head, possible solutions. He could try to make it to Ianessa’s compound. It was a terrible idea. Piero remembered what Denios had said earlier. The only reason you're here with me instead of back at Telete's mansion is because my agents are just better than hers. If he was lucky, he could make it there before being picked up, but that wouldn’t do any good. Ianessa was not likely to have the means to help a runaway slave on short notice, and the idea that she would be inclined to do so had been dubious in the first place. Even if Piero managed to play it off as something more innocent, perhaps some sort of lover’s rendezvous, it would not spare him Telete’s wrath.
Eventually, the movements of the cart came to a halt. Piero felt himself unceremoniously tossed to the ground, and landed on something soft and stinking. When he managed to get the bag off his head, Piero discovered the he was lying in the same pile of herring, now decidedly rotten, that he had earlier slipped in.
“Come on, really?” Piero said, looking around. No trace of Denios Troklos’ men remained.
After picking himself up, the first thing Piero noticed was the silence. The drone of the Voice had vanished. He spied the golden husks of cicadas occasionally littered on the ground, glinting in the light of the setting sun. The first people to start moving dashed towards the husks, greedily snatching them up and holding them closely. He had seen the look on their faces before, on the mortash users of Sabria’s back alleys. Addiction. They weres addicted to the Voice’s song, the Nationalist dream it transferred. He remembered his experience of the vision back at Telete’s estate, and shuttered. The myth of Malvern was a potent, intoxicating one. Piero understood how those with empty lives could become dependent upon it. He hoped never to join their ranks.
Gradually, the people of the marketplace regained full consciousness and returned to their everyday lives. Piero watched as the fishmonger got up from his kneeling position, and in despair realized that his entire day’s catch was spoiled. He began angrily ranting to Piero in an incomprehensibly thick accent. Looking above his head, Piero spied three bald men walking straight towards him. While their dress was nothing out of the ordinary, their behavior bellied a clear-headedness absent in the other members of the crowd. They could only be Telete’s agents. Piero waited, wondering if he should just let them take him without a struggle.
At the last minute, he decided to run. Taking careful attention to avoid the herring that surrounded his feet, Piero abandoned the ranting fishmonger. Glancing behind him, he saw that the bald men had not increased their pace. While busy wondering if he had misjudged their identities, he collided with somebody and fell to the ground. Piero beheld a broad-shouldered, muscular woman, also bald. There was not a hint of anger on her face. Realizing he had been trapped from the beginning, Piero relaxed his muscles and allowed Telete’s agents to grab him. Joined by the bald men, the woman tied his hands behind his back and began escorting him back to the estate.
As he walked, Piero resumed his contemplation of what lie he would tell to Telete.
2470
As his lecture on the incorporation of Havsgard into the Empire drew to a close, Signore Chelucci’s voice quickened. Piero suppressed a yawn and rolled his eyes. His tutor, a very tall many with tight grey curls on his head, was reacting to the topic of a treaty like Piero reacted when receiving an extra sweet after dinner. The last time he’d seen someone get so excited over something they’d read in a book, Dionora had at least been polite enough to retreat with the romance novel to the privacy of her own room.
Piero was seated between his cousin Georgio and a girl from another of the town’s well-to-do families. All together, there were six children in the class. Chelucci’s schoolhouse was situated on the very edge of the dala Vachio estate, financed by the family’s coffers. His father boasted of the family’s longstanding commitment to education, proudly continuing the tradition even in the face of declining finances. As far as Piero was concerned, it was his family’s worst tradition. Or, at the very least, the most boring. The schoolhouse, made from a light colored wood, consisted of three rooms: the entrance hall, the schoolroom, and Chelucci’s office. It was as dusty as the resident tutor was old. Relief washed over Piero as Chelucci closed his book on his podium, signaling the lesson’s close.
When his mother had called Piero a bad student, his father had defended him, saying that everybody learned differently. Piero thought that his mother was right.
Signore Chelucci cleared his throat. “Very good. Now, students, before I leave you for the day, I will collect your independent assignments.”
Like an all-too-brief breeze in the heat of summer, the sense of relief left Piero just as soon as it had come. After putting off the figures assignment all week, Piero had been just about to start the assignment the night before when Georgio had defiantly knocked a vase of water on his own assignment and declared his intention to go play in the woods. This had sounded much more appealing to Piero than an afternoon of arithmetic, he had promptly abandoned his work and joined his cousin. The thought of the assignment had never returned to him.
Going down the line up of students one by one, Signore Chelucci offered small comments of acknowledgement when accepting the assignment papers. Each one was fuel for the fire of his regret. By the time his tutor reached Piero, it was a blazing inferno.
“Master Piero, your assignment, please,” Chelucci said, holding out a hand. He paused for a moment, and then asked, “You did complete it, didn’t you?”
Piero shook his head, and looked down.
The tutor sighed loudly. “Now, Master Piero, I know you must be distracted, considering the… circumstances,” Chelucci chided him. “But you must not let that affect your academics. How would your mother feel if she learned you were neglecting your studies on her account?”
Piero said nothing, but continued to stare at his desk.
“I’m going to talk to your father about arranging some private lessons for you. And I expect that assignment to be finished by next class. In addition to that day’s work, of course.” Chelucci resumed his walking. “And you, Master Georgio?”
Georgio looked up with pleading eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Signore Chelucci,” Georgio said. “But a vase fell over while I was writing, and the water ruined my paper. I would have started over, but–”
“These things happen, Georgio,” Chelucci replied calmly. “Make sure to be more careful about where you work next time.”
Piero’s jaw dropped open in silent astonishment and the tutor moved on to collect the last student’s assignment, offering no further words to Georgio. Signore Chelucci offered a farewell to the students, and with that the class was truly over.
“What’s wrong with you?” Georgi asked Piero. His tone was not one of concern, but chiefly annoyance. They were walking up the path to the family manor, and Piero was uncharacteristically silent, responding to Georgio with only mumbles and nods.
“It’s not fair for only me to get in trouble,” Piero said, pouting. “Not doing the assignment was your idea. You lied to Signore Chelucci!”
“Did not!” Georgio retorted. They stopped walking.
“But, Georgio, you spilled the water on your paper,” Piero insisted. “On purpose.”
“So? I didn’t say anything about how the vase fell over,” Georgio said. “Just because I didn’t say everything doesn’t mean I lied.”
With that, Georgio resumed his march up to the family manor. Piero crossed his arms, and stayed put. A breeze blew through his hair. Glancing around, he realized he would soon be alone. He shivered. Breaking into a sprint, Piero hurried to catch up to his cousin.
-
The Mother of All Cities, Empire of Malvern
Summer 2485
September
“Piero, the only reason you're here with me instead of back at Telete's mansion is because my agents are just better than hers. Telling me everything doesn't mean she dies. I know her well enough to know she means well for the Empire. Maybe I could work with her. Maybe not. But you are my tool now, Piero. Remember that."
Piero wasn’t stupid, no matter how much Agos might insist. At the very least, he was not stupid enough to miss the implicit threat of those words. He was now the tool of Denios Troklos. And a tool that did not function would be disposed of. The spy that does not speak is of no more use than the hammer that does not drive nails.
However, he had a tool of his own: language. Troklos wanted the truth about Telete’s operation, but all that Piero could give him were words. With words, Piero could lie, mislead, conceal. No doubt Troklos comprehended this. Nonetheless, Piero suddenly found himself gifted with a power that was his to wield. In the realm of meaning, Troklos was at his mercy.
“Do you understand me, Piero?” Troklos asked, maintaining eye contact.
“Yes,” he answered. Better than you might guess.
“Well, then, might as well strike at the heart of the matter.” He leaned back in his seat. “What exactly is Telete after? And what does it have to do with you?”
“She wants to decide who the next Empress is,” Piero said. He saw his interrogator raise an eyebrow. “They’re setting me up as as long-lost descendant of the Palaienid. Like Armant Freic. So they can use my hand in marriage to shore up the claim of their favorite.”
“Is that so?” Troklos’ voice lifted, and Piero saw his eyes glisten. “Yes… Yes, I see. Not a bad idea. Not at all. The lost scion of the Palaienid. That could work.” Piero sensed unspoken plans in those words, and a chill went up his spine. “Not a bad deal for you. You’ll get prestige, influence, security. So, why did you run?”
“I…” Piero paused, casting his eyes downward. “I was looking for someone. A girl…”
Troklos laughed, a hearty laugh. Piero resented the genuine mirth of his captor. “Now, how would the Lady Ianessa think if she heard you say such a thing? She’d be heartbroken.” he said, laughing again.
Piero, in spite of the circumstances, had to stifle a laugh himself. After all, it had been the Lady Ianessa whom he had been going to meet, to seek aid in finding Lyala. A desperate gamble in the first place, and one that would have to wait for a latter day.
“On the subject of women…” Troklos said, his laughter dying off. “Just who does Telete have in mind to replace our dear Empress?”
“No idea,” Piero said, making sure to answer neither too quickly nor too slowly. Either would tip Troklos off to the deception. “She’s never even given me a name.”
That much was true. It was also a lie. He knew it was the Seneschal’s daughter, though he wasn’t certain that he knew what a seneschal was. And he certainly didn’t know her name. But the more secrets he had, the better.
Troklos nodded again. “All things in their time, I suppose.”
A knock came at the door. Denios Troklos rose to his feet, and offered a hand to Piero. He accepted, and the hand of the Voice pulled him to his feet.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Troklos said. “Time is running short. The Voice will soon be silent.” Piero detected a hint of sadness in the words. “You must know what happens next, yes?”
“Let me guess, you’ll send me back to Telete’s estate with some sort of alibi?” Piero asked.
“Alibi, Piero?” He shook his head. “You’re a runaway slave. And a very important one at that. There’s no alibi strong enough. Telete won’t be as amused by your philandering as I was, I guarantee you. You need to handle this yourself. My people will take you back where they found. From there, you’re on your own,” Troklos explained. “My apologies about the bag.”
“The bag?” Piero asked, narrowing his eyes. He heard a door open behind him, and suddenly a familiar sack was pulled around his head. “Oh, right.”
Strong arms lifted Piero off the ground, and eventually set him down on a hard surface. The fact that it started moving a moment later revealed the fact that he was in some sort of cart. As he stared into the blackness of the bag, thoughts ran through Piero’s head, possible solutions. He could try to make it to Ianessa’s compound. It was a terrible idea. Piero remembered what Denios had said earlier. The only reason you're here with me instead of back at Telete's mansion is because my agents are just better than hers. If he was lucky, he could make it there before being picked up, but that wouldn’t do any good. Ianessa was not likely to have the means to help a runaway slave on short notice, and the idea that she would be inclined to do so had been dubious in the first place. Even if Piero managed to play it off as something more innocent, perhaps some sort of lover’s rendezvous, it would not spare him Telete’s wrath.
Eventually, the movements of the cart came to a halt. Piero felt himself unceremoniously tossed to the ground, and landed on something soft and stinking. When he managed to get the bag off his head, Piero discovered the he was lying in the same pile of herring, now decidedly rotten, that he had earlier slipped in.
“Come on, really?” Piero said, looking around. No trace of Denios Troklos’ men remained.
After picking himself up, the first thing Piero noticed was the silence. The drone of the Voice had vanished. He spied the golden husks of cicadas occasionally littered on the ground, glinting in the light of the setting sun. The first people to start moving dashed towards the husks, greedily snatching them up and holding them closely. He had seen the look on their faces before, on the mortash users of Sabria’s back alleys. Addiction. They weres addicted to the Voice’s song, the Nationalist dream it transferred. He remembered his experience of the vision back at Telete’s estate, and shuttered. The myth of Malvern was a potent, intoxicating one. Piero understood how those with empty lives could become dependent upon it. He hoped never to join their ranks.
Gradually, the people of the marketplace regained full consciousness and returned to their everyday lives. Piero watched as the fishmonger got up from his kneeling position, and in despair realized that his entire day’s catch was spoiled. He began angrily ranting to Piero in an incomprehensibly thick accent. Looking above his head, Piero spied three bald men walking straight towards him. While their dress was nothing out of the ordinary, their behavior bellied a clear-headedness absent in the other members of the crowd. They could only be Telete’s agents. Piero waited, wondering if he should just let them take him without a struggle.
At the last minute, he decided to run. Taking careful attention to avoid the herring that surrounded his feet, Piero abandoned the ranting fishmonger. Glancing behind him, he saw that the bald men had not increased their pace. While busy wondering if he had misjudged their identities, he collided with somebody and fell to the ground. Piero beheld a broad-shouldered, muscular woman, also bald. There was not a hint of anger on her face. Realizing he had been trapped from the beginning, Piero relaxed his muscles and allowed Telete’s agents to grab him. Joined by the bald men, the woman tied his hands behind his back and began escorting him back to the estate.
As he walked, Piero resumed his contemplation of what lie he would tell to Telete.