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Authors: R. Scott Bakker
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while the Mandate warred against a foe no one could see for an end no one believed in. This made Mandate Schoolmen outcasts not only in the way of sorcerers, but also in the way of fools. Of course, the potentates of the Three Seas, Ketyai and Norsirai alike, knew of the Consult and the threat of the Second Apocalypse—how could they not, after centuries of harping Mandate emissaries?—but they did not believe.
After centuries of skirmishing with the Mandate, the Consult had simply disappeared. Vanished. No one knew why or how, though there had been endless speculation. Had they been destroyed by forces unknown? Had they annihilated themselves from within? Or had they simply found a way to elude the eyes of the Mandate? It had been three centuries since the Mandate had last encountered the Consult. For three centuries they had waged a war without a foe.
Mandate Schoolmen traversed the Three Seas hunting for an enemy they could not find and no one believed in. As much as they were envied their possession of the Gnosis, the sorcery of the Ancient North, they were a laughingstock, the charlatan in the courts of all the Great Factions. And yet every night Seswatha revisited them. Every morning they awoke from the horror and thought, The Consult is among us .
Had there ever been a time, Achamian wondered, when he hadn’t felt this horror within him? The giddy hollow in the pit of his gut, as though catastrophe hinged upon something he’d forgotten? It came as a breathless whisper, You must do something . . . But no one in the Mandate knew what it was they should do, and until they did know, all their actions would be as empty as a mummer’s play.
They would be sent to Carythusal to seduce high-placed slaves like Geshrunni. Or to the Thousand Temples, to do who knew what.
The Thousand Temples. What could the Mandate want with the Thousand Temples? Whatever it was, it warranted abandoning Geshrunni—their first real informant within the Scarlet Spires in a generation. The more Achamian pondered this, the more extraordinary it became.
Perhaps this mission will be different.
The thought of Geshrunni made him suddenly anxious. As mercenary as the man was, he had risked far more than his life to give the Mandate a great secret. Besides, he was at once intelligent and filled with hate—an ideal informant. It would not do to lose him.
After unpacking his ink and parchment, Achamian bent over the table and scratched a quick message:
I must leave. But know that your favours have not been forgotten, and that you have found friends who share your purpose. Speak to no one, and we will see you safe. A.
Achamian settled his room with the poxed keeper, then began rooting through the streets. He found Chiki, the orphan he’d employed to run errands, asleep in a nearby alley. The boy was curled in a hemp sack behind a buzzing heap of offal. Aside from the pomegranate-shaped birthmark that marred his face, he looked beautiful, his olive skin dolphin-smooth despite the filth, and his features as fine as any Palatine’s daughter. Achamian shuddered to think how the boy made his living outside their paltry transactions. A week previous, Achamian had been accosted by a drunk, the aristocratic paint half smeared from his face, tugging on his crotch and asking if he’d seen his sweet “Pomegranate.”
Achamian roused the sleeping child with the toe of his merchant’s slipper. The boy fairly leapt to his feet.
“Do you remember what I taught you, Chiki?”
The boy stared at him with the shammed alertness of the just awakened. “Yes, Lord. I’m your runner.”
“And what is it that runners do?”
“They deliver messages, Lord. Secret messages.”
“Good,” Achamian said, holding the folded parchment out to the boy. “I need you to deliver this to a man called Geshrunni. Remember that: Geshrunni . You can’t miss him. He’s a Captain of the Javreh, and he frequents the Holy Leper. Do you know where to find the Holy
After centuries of skirmishing with the Mandate, the Consult had simply disappeared. Vanished. No one knew why or how, though there had been endless speculation. Had they been destroyed by forces unknown? Had they annihilated themselves from within? Or had they simply found a way to elude the eyes of the Mandate? It had been three centuries since the Mandate had last encountered the Consult. For three centuries they had waged a war without a foe.
Mandate Schoolmen traversed the Three Seas hunting for an enemy they could not find and no one believed in. As much as they were envied their possession of the Gnosis, the sorcery of the Ancient North, they were a laughingstock, the charlatan in the courts of all the Great Factions. And yet every night Seswatha revisited them. Every morning they awoke from the horror and thought, The Consult is among us .
Had there ever been a time, Achamian wondered, when he hadn’t felt this horror within him? The giddy hollow in the pit of his gut, as though catastrophe hinged upon something he’d forgotten? It came as a breathless whisper, You must do something . . . But no one in the Mandate knew what it was they should do, and until they did know, all their actions would be as empty as a mummer’s play.
They would be sent to Carythusal to seduce high-placed slaves like Geshrunni. Or to the Thousand Temples, to do who knew what.
The Thousand Temples. What could the Mandate want with the Thousand Temples? Whatever it was, it warranted abandoning Geshrunni—their first real informant within the Scarlet Spires in a generation. The more Achamian pondered this, the more extraordinary it became.
Perhaps this mission will be different.
The thought of Geshrunni made him suddenly anxious. As mercenary as the man was, he had risked far more than his life to give the Mandate a great secret. Besides, he was at once intelligent and filled with hate—an ideal informant. It would not do to lose him.
After unpacking his ink and parchment, Achamian bent over the table and scratched a quick message:
I must leave. But know that your favours have not been forgotten, and that you have found friends who share your purpose. Speak to no one, and we will see you safe. A.
Achamian settled his room with the poxed keeper, then began rooting through the streets. He found Chiki, the orphan he’d employed to run errands, asleep in a nearby alley. The boy was curled in a hemp sack behind a buzzing heap of offal. Aside from the pomegranate-shaped birthmark that marred his face, he looked beautiful, his olive skin dolphin-smooth despite the filth, and his features as fine as any Palatine’s daughter. Achamian shuddered to think how the boy made his living outside their paltry transactions. A week previous, Achamian had been accosted by a drunk, the aristocratic paint half smeared from his face, tugging on his crotch and asking if he’d seen his sweet “Pomegranate.”
Achamian roused the sleeping child with the toe of his merchant’s slipper. The boy fairly leapt to his feet.
“Do you remember what I taught you, Chiki?”
The boy stared at him with the shammed alertness of the just awakened. “Yes, Lord. I’m your runner.”
“And what is it that runners do?”
“They deliver messages, Lord. Secret messages.”
“Good,” Achamian said, holding the folded parchment out to the boy. “I need you to deliver this to a man called Geshrunni. Remember that: Geshrunni . You can’t miss him. He’s a Captain of the Javreh, and he frequents the Holy Leper. Do you know where to find the Holy
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