Interregnum (14 page)

The commander shifted the weight of his pack and walked purposefully down the length of the vast corridor, trying not to think about how many Emperors had walked this very route so many times a day. He’d seen the crumbling wreckage of the curiously oval Peacock Palace from the apartments of the elders and was interested to see what they’d done with it. It was not hard to see how the Empire had functioned so well under the kind of men that had turned a crumbling palace into a fully-functioning farming and scholarly community in so few years.

Exiting the corridor, he found himself in a circular stair hall with a beautiful enclosed broad marble staircase. He vaguely remembered being told about this by one of the elders a few years back. One of the Emperors who’d no love for his wife had had the stairs devised. There were two entrances to the circular stairwell on each floor, but they ran independently of each other, and people who took different doors could not meet on the stairs and could only see each other through windows across the central well. Ingenious. Wasted on the last dynasty, though. He made for one of the entrances and began to trot up the stairs. At the first landing, he was puzzled for a moment until he realised that he’d only come halfway round the circle in one floor and there was no door. This floor would be reachable only from the other staircase. He grinned. The Emperors may have been mad, but they had an interesting sense of humour. Trotting up the rest of the steps to the third floor, he wandered out into the hallway.

The floor had been recently repaired, new oak beams in place of the rotten ones and a good coat of varnish over the lot. The carpet was still very threadbare. They perhaps had not yet managed to start weaving on this scale. He made a mental note to come back before the next six months were up and to bring a few carpets with him.

Strolling along the curved hallway that surrounded the staircase, he peered into some of the rooms. This was obviously the floor they were currently working on. Several of the rooms were totally empty apart from plastering and painting gear. He continued on round the edge until he found one of the finished rooms. It was far from the glorious majesty of an Imperial apartment, but as comfortable as an army officer could ever expect. He dropped his pack gratefully onto an old chest near the door and flung himself onto the bed, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He lay for long moments before sighing and sitting up; too much to do to lounge around lazily. He stood and wandered over to the window, glancing down across the complex. The view from this side looked out over the Temples of the Divine Triad, the Imperial Shrines and in the distance the ruin of the Golden House, the last palace of the Emperors, built by the ill-fated Quintus the Golden. His eyes settled on the burned hulk of stone and rubble and a flash caught his eye. As he watched, it came again and again. Long years in the army left Sabian in no doubt as to the source of the twinkle. A blade.

Removing his helmet and cloak he dropped them on the bed, searched for a key and, finding it, closed and locked the door. Walking steadily round the hall, he jogged quickly down the steps and back out into the Great Court. Across the intervening space with the gravelled path was an archway, blocked with a badly-constructed timber fence. As he approached, he saw the gap at the side where the obstruction had been shifted to allow access. Last time he’d examined this ruin was on his very first visit here, more than ten years ago and there’d been no such obstruction then. Nothing had been organised then on the scale it was now.

Lifting the wood aside, he scraped past it, fretting at the sound of his cuirass grating on the archway’s stone. Once past, he walked carefully down the dark corridor and trod gingerly among the fallen stones and puddles until he emerged, blinking, into the light. The ruins of the grand scheme that had been the Golden House lay sad and mouldering in the midday sun. As he pondered where to start, there came the sound of sword ringing on metal. He carefully made his way through a crumbling passageway, treading carefully among the uneven blocks of fallen masonry. Reaching out to steady himself, his hand rested on a support from a vaulted roof and the stone came away loose in his hand, crashing to the floor. Regaining his balance, he examined his hand and wiped the unpleasant reddish-brown slime from his skin with disgust.

Minutes later, as he carefully edged his way through the bones of the palace, he found himself at the entrance to an octagonal courtyard. He glanced around and realised that this huge space would have been enclosed long ago. The vaulting for a large dome was still visible at the periphery. In the centre of the space stood a young man of perhaps twenty years of age surrounded by wooden stakes driven into the ground, each bearing a piece of scrap metal, dented and torn. The young man was dark haired, with a neatly trimmed beard, surprisingly tall. He wore grey tunic and breeches with soft leather boots and swung a long, straight sword in practice swings with every bit as much skill as any of Sabian’s NCOs. He smiled. It had been six months, but young Darius was unmistakeable. Rather than interrupt, Sabian tested the strength of the charred door frame and leaned against it, watching the young man with curiosity and interest.

Again and again the boy rained blows down on the various targets, ducking, spinning and leaping to simulate different moves as required. After one particularly heavy downward swing, he landed light on his feet facing away and placed the tip of his sword down on the ground, leaning on the hilt and breathing heavily. His voice was steady and deep though it came in gasps as his chest heaved.

“Thanks for not interrupting,” he said. “Concentration’s very much a part of the game, as I’m sure you know.”

Sabian smiled again; Darius had the makings of a good soldier. Shame he would grow old and die without ever leaving the island, but then there were worse places to grow old and far worse places to die. The commander pushed his feelings deep down and spoke light heartedly.

“How’d you feel about a bit of live practice?” He tapped the decorative hilt of his blade idly, but the young man shook his head.

“Think I’m about done for now, commander” he replied. ”I have to get the sword back to storage before it’s missed anyway.”

Sabian frowned.

“I thought sword practice was one of your daily duties” he queried.

Darius sheathed his blade and turned again. “It is, but only at appointed times. Right now I’m supposed to be studying Edro’s comedies in my room and it’s only a matter of time before they check on me. I’ll see you around” he added.

He extended his arm in a gesture reminiscent of a traditional Imperial salute and picked up his bag from where it lay by a shattered column before turning to leave through one of the other exits. Sabian stepped quickly across the room and followed him, catching up easily as the lad navigated the obstacles of fallen masonry in the passage. He fell in beside him, hands clasped behind his back. Darius looked sidelong at the commander with a quirky smile and raised an eyebrow.

“You’d be better to keep your hands free here,” he offered; “you never know when you might fall through the floor tiles.”

The commander unfolded his arms, keeping step with difficulty due to the obstacles. He glanced at the young man.

“Mind if I tag along?” he said. “I’ve nothing urgent on until I meet with the elders tonight.”

Darius merely shrugged and kept walking. After a few minutes, they left the ruinous palace by a rarely used exit, clambering round the bole of a large cedar tree and onto a deserted section of lawn. The young man made straight for a small door in what Sabian recognised as the student dormitory, shared by everyone from the age of five to twenty and once the slaves’ quarters serving the main palace. A brisk walk across the lawn and they entered the building. Darius made his way down the corridor within and opened a side door. Sabian followed with interest and peered through the doorway. The lad crossed the room and, removing the sheathed sword, leaned it against a cupboard. Reaching up to a glazed weapon cabinet, he tapped the wooden frame with the side of his hand and the cabinet came away from the wall a little. Supporting its weight with one hand, he lifted the sword with the other and slipped it round the frame into its allotted space before pushing the whole assembly back against the wall.

The commander grinned as Darius turned to leave. “I see you’ve developed the art of theft in recent years” he laughed.

The young man shrugged again.

“Is it thievery if it’s yours anyway?”

Without waiting for an answer, he edged past the commander and continued on down the corridor. Sabian followed once again, taking in the flaking plaster and peeling paint in the passage and stairway as he glanced around. This building could do with a little work. Stairs led up from the storage area to the dormitory proper and the two made their way to the end of the dorm vestibule where a large window looked out over the manicured lawns. Darius turned the handle of the last door on the left and swung it open before turning to the commander.

“I probably ought to get on with my studies,” he said uncertainly, “but I’ve a bottle of elderflower wine if you want to join me. I don’t get many visitors. Except those who want to teach me rubbish or have jobs for me” he added as an afterthought.

Sabian thought for only a moment.

“I’d be happy to” he smiled. “I was hoping to get in some social time before I started all the assessments.” He followed the young man inside and sat on one of the chairs at the desk beneath the window. “I’m quite impressed with the progress you’ve made since last time I saw you. There are trainee officers in my army that couldn’t hold their own against you.”

The mechanical shrug again.

“I practice a lot” he replied absently. “In fact, it’s most of what I do when I’m awake; that or reading treatises on war or combat. Or maybe politics.”

The commander nodded and picked up a textbook, examining it briefly and speaking as he flicked through the pages with little interest in the content.

“I can understand that,” he said. “I could never be bothered with all this drama crap myself. It’s all a bit of a shame really, as I’ve the feeling you’d make a good officer.”

Darius’ face darkened.

“All I’ll ever manage though is to end up like one of the elders here, running the island for the younger generation.” He held up a dismissive hand. “Don’t try and sweeten it all for me commander, I know what I am; what we all are. We’re prisoners and with no hope of release. I’m not aware of why most of us are here. Some of us were even born here.”

Sabian sighed. This was never a duty he’d have chosen; he was a soldier, not a jailor, and the lad was absolutely right and knew it.

“Darius,” he began, “I know it’s not a perfect world, but it’s no better out there…”

He gestured at the door. Darius’ eyes followed the motion and then returned to the floor. “I’m not a child, commander. I know a pointless platitude when I hear one, but bear this in mind: empires and princedoms come and go all the time. Nothing lasts forever; not even Velutio. One day your precious master’s little empire will fall like all the others before him and we’ll find our way off the island. I might not live to see it, but it’ll happen.”

Sabian stood, placing the book back on the desk, and made for the door.

“Very well, Darius” the commander said coldly. “I think perhaps we should end this discussion for the moment and I think I’ll turn down that wine after all.”

Darius looked up at him. “It might make you uncomfortable, but you know it’s true. Velutio’s by far the strongest of the Lords, but that just makes him a juicier target for the rest of them. Not listening to me talk about it won’t make it go away.”

Sabian’s brows creased into a frown.

“Darius, we’ll talk about this again, but when I’ve done the job I came to do. Maybe tomorrow. For now I’d best go and meet with the elders. Where’s young Quintillian by the way? You two are usually together.”

Darius’ face darkened and he lowered his eyes.

“Quint’s gone, commander” he said bleakly.

“Gone?” Sabian straightened, his hand falling automatically to the pommel of his sword. He’d no real idea who many of these people were himself, but his Lordship had always impressed on his jailor the importance of these boys. Darius had been so matter-of-fact. “Gone how? When? … Where?”

The young man looked up and Sabian noted the tear crawling down his cheek.

“Dead, commander” he replied sharply. “Dead along with two of the better teachers. They were doing some restoration work when the Fortune Fountain collapsed on them. They’re all buried in the cemetery by the orchard, ok? Now I think I’ve said all I really want to about that. I think you’d best go.”

Sabian realised that he’d back-stepped slightly again and was now in the corridor. While he was trying to formulate a reply, Darius shut the door in his face. He stepped back again and sank down onto the chest beneath the large window. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see across the well tended lawn and to the orchard and the cemetery beyond. This changed things. He’d have liked to have got the tasks done first, but now he’d best get a message to Velutio. His Lordship would want to know about this immediately. Standing once again, he jogged down the corridor and descended the stairs. If he got to the dock fast, the ship might have time to get back to the city before it got too dark and dangerous. His sergeant’d have to deliver the message while he stayed here.

Formulating his plans he picked up speed, gathering surprised looks as he ran, gleaming and clanking through the corridors and courtyards of the palace and down to the dock.

Darius’ chest heaved from the effort of running as he pushed open the door of Sarios’ chamber, gasping for breath. The old man sat with a scroll of parchment and a quill and looked up in surprise at the unexpected interruption.