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Authors: R. Scott Bakker
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Leper?”
“Yes, Lord.”
Achamian fetched a silver ensolarii from his purse, and could not help smiling at the boy’s awestruck expression. Chiki snatched the coin from his palms as though from a trap. For some reason, the touch of his small hand moved the sorceror to melancholy.
CHAPTER TWO
ATYERSUS
I write to inform you that during my most recent audience, the Nansur Emperor, quite without provocation, publicly addressed me as “fool.” You are, no doubt, unmoved by this. It has become a common occurrence. The Consult eludes us now more than ever. We hear them only in the secrets of others. We glimpse them only through the eyes of those who deny their very existence. Why should we not be called fools? The deeper the Consult secretes itself among the Great Factions, the madder our rantings sound to their ears. We are, as the damned Nansur would say, “a hunter in the thicket”—one who, by the very act of hunting, extinguishes all hope of running down his prey.
—ANONYMOUS MANDATE SCHOOLMAN, LETTER TO ATYERSUS
Late Winter, 4110 Year-of-the-Tusk, Atyersus
Summoned back home, Achamian thought, bruised by the irony of that word, “home.” He could think of few places in the world—Golgotterath, certainly, the Scarlet Spires, maybe—more heartless than Atyersus.
Small and alone in the centre of the audience hall, Achamian struggled with his composure. The members of the Quorum, the ruling council of the School of Mandate, stood in small knots dispersed throughout the shadows, scrutinizing him. They saw, he knew, a stocky man dressed in a plain brown travel smock, his square-cut beard streaked by fingers of silver. He would convey the sturdy sense of one who’d spent years on the road: the wide stance, the tanned leathery skin of a low-caste labourer. He would look nothing like a sorcerer.
But then no spy should.
Annoyed by their scrutiny, Achamian suppressed the urge to ask if they wanted, like any scrupulous slaver, to check his teeth.
Home at last.
Atyersus, the citadel of the School of Mandate, was home to him, would always be home, but the place dwarfed him in inexplicable ways. It was more than the ponderous architecture: Atyersus had been built in the manner of the Ancient North, whose architects had known nothing of arches or domes. Her inner galleries were forests of thick columns, their ceilings obscured by canopies of darkness and smoke. Stylized reliefs sheathed every pillar, providing the shining braziers with too much detail, or so Achamian thought. With every flicker the very ground seemed to shift.
Finally one of the Quorum addressed him: “The Thousand Temples is no longer to be ignored, Achamian, at least since this Maithanet has seized the Seat and declared himself Shriah.” Inevitably, it had been Nautzera who’d broached the silence. The last man Achamian wanted to hear speak was always the first.
“I’ve only heard rumours,” he replied in a measured tone—the tone one always took when addressed by Nautzera.
“Believe me,” Nautzera said sourly, “the rumours scarce do the man justice.”
“But how long can he survive?” A natural question. Many Shriahs had heaved at the rudder of the Thousand Temples, only to find that like any immense ship, it refused to turn.
“Oh, he survives,” Nautzera said. “Flourishes, in fact. All the Cults have come to him in Sumna. All have kissed his knee. And with none of the political manoeuvring obligatory to such transitions of power. No petty boycotts. Not even a single abstention.” He paused to allow Achamian time to appreciate the significance of this. “He has stirred something”—the grand old sorcerer pursed his lips, as though leashing his next word like a dangerous dog—“something novel . . . And not merely within the Thousand Temples.”
“But surely we’ve seen his kind before,” Achamian ventured. “Zealots holding out redemption in one hand to draw attention away from the whip in the
“Yes, Lord.”
Achamian fetched a silver ensolarii from his purse, and could not help smiling at the boy’s awestruck expression. Chiki snatched the coin from his palms as though from a trap. For some reason, the touch of his small hand moved the sorceror to melancholy.
CHAPTER TWO
ATYERSUS
I write to inform you that during my most recent audience, the Nansur Emperor, quite without provocation, publicly addressed me as “fool.” You are, no doubt, unmoved by this. It has become a common occurrence. The Consult eludes us now more than ever. We hear them only in the secrets of others. We glimpse them only through the eyes of those who deny their very existence. Why should we not be called fools? The deeper the Consult secretes itself among the Great Factions, the madder our rantings sound to their ears. We are, as the damned Nansur would say, “a hunter in the thicket”—one who, by the very act of hunting, extinguishes all hope of running down his prey.
—ANONYMOUS MANDATE SCHOOLMAN, LETTER TO ATYERSUS
Late Winter, 4110 Year-of-the-Tusk, Atyersus
Summoned back home, Achamian thought, bruised by the irony of that word, “home.” He could think of few places in the world—Golgotterath, certainly, the Scarlet Spires, maybe—more heartless than Atyersus.
Small and alone in the centre of the audience hall, Achamian struggled with his composure. The members of the Quorum, the ruling council of the School of Mandate, stood in small knots dispersed throughout the shadows, scrutinizing him. They saw, he knew, a stocky man dressed in a plain brown travel smock, his square-cut beard streaked by fingers of silver. He would convey the sturdy sense of one who’d spent years on the road: the wide stance, the tanned leathery skin of a low-caste labourer. He would look nothing like a sorcerer.
But then no spy should.
Annoyed by their scrutiny, Achamian suppressed the urge to ask if they wanted, like any scrupulous slaver, to check his teeth.
Home at last.
Atyersus, the citadel of the School of Mandate, was home to him, would always be home, but the place dwarfed him in inexplicable ways. It was more than the ponderous architecture: Atyersus had been built in the manner of the Ancient North, whose architects had known nothing of arches or domes. Her inner galleries were forests of thick columns, their ceilings obscured by canopies of darkness and smoke. Stylized reliefs sheathed every pillar, providing the shining braziers with too much detail, or so Achamian thought. With every flicker the very ground seemed to shift.
Finally one of the Quorum addressed him: “The Thousand Temples is no longer to be ignored, Achamian, at least since this Maithanet has seized the Seat and declared himself Shriah.” Inevitably, it had been Nautzera who’d broached the silence. The last man Achamian wanted to hear speak was always the first.
“I’ve only heard rumours,” he replied in a measured tone—the tone one always took when addressed by Nautzera.
“Believe me,” Nautzera said sourly, “the rumours scarce do the man justice.”
“But how long can he survive?” A natural question. Many Shriahs had heaved at the rudder of the Thousand Temples, only to find that like any immense ship, it refused to turn.
“Oh, he survives,” Nautzera said. “Flourishes, in fact. All the Cults have come to him in Sumna. All have kissed his knee. And with none of the political manoeuvring obligatory to such transitions of power. No petty boycotts. Not even a single abstention.” He paused to allow Achamian time to appreciate the significance of this. “He has stirred something”—the grand old sorcerer pursed his lips, as though leashing his next word like a dangerous dog—“something novel . . . And not merely within the Thousand Temples.”
“But surely we’ve seen his kind before,” Achamian ventured. “Zealots holding out redemption in one hand to draw attention away from the whip in the
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