Speculum Enigmate Chapter 5
The weight of age hung upon Pascum like a heavy coat. The planet sweltered under the light of a red sun, casting the world into a humid torpor. Across the world oceans churned lazily, with no moon to stir the tides the seas moved slowly and unhurriedly, like an old Mastiff that was tired of running. Vast lowlands and river deltas covered the majority of the continents, the handful of mountains made low and unimpressive by billions of years of erosion. Even the volcanoes were sleeping, for Pascum was nearing the end of its geological activity, the world's core growing feebler as age diminished its strength. Yet the people of Pascum endured as they always had.
Across the wetlands caste-farmers grew rice and water-weeds, tending to their crops and shaggy-haired cattle with total indifference to the lives of others. Merchant-caste traders slooped up and down the rivers on shallow-draught boats, driven by teams of pole-men bred specifically for the task. Along the river banks constables patrolled for roaming bandits, criminals and law enforcers playing out the same chases their great-grandfathers had enacted. Lords were carried between cities in elaborate litters, bourne on the shoulders of strong servants. Dockworkers taught their sons the same lessons their fathers had taught them, as did Factorum workers and spaceport guards. Thus did Pascum endure, proud of its unchanging nature and committed to preserving its genic purity.
The Capital City of Pasdem was no different. In the oppressive heat the ancient boulevards rang with the busy cries of people. The streets thronged with bodies, the populace in this city denser than anywhere else. They went about their lives, hurrying to their business while burly guards forced paths through the crowds for their lords to pass unencumbered. Pickpockets dipped hands into purses, caste-beggars held out their arms for coins while news hawkers held out pamphlets and cried the latest news as ground-cabs rumbled along, carrying goods to and from the nearby starport. Amongst that crowd the few off-worlders stuck out like sore thumbs, their clothing not following the strict social customs on attire and their features unpleasing in their randomness. The people of Pascum clung to their lineages with fierce pride and the Imperial's indifference to such things brought many filthy looks and resentful mutters behind their backs.
Pasdem city itself displayed this division in its bricks and stone. The city was atypically smooth and with many domed roofs that were unlike the steep, jagged architecture of Imperial construction. The Governor's Palace, known long before the coming of the Imperium as the Jade Citadel, was a curious mix of low emerald domes, graceful minarets set against ugly gun-towers, vox-antennas and void-shield projectors, tacked on centuries after its construction and marring its beautiful lines. Elsewhere the bronzed trading floors of the famous Flesh-markets stood opposed to the brutal edifice of the Arbites' Precinct. The busy servitor-controlled machinery of the Starport gave way to teams of burly men shifting goods onto trucks by hand. The sprawling Laboritorum-domes of the Genic Council competed with the sharp steeples of the Ecclesiarchal Cathedral for grandeur and dominance over the minds of the locals. Even the great plaza of the First Landing was overshadowed by the Monument of Reunification, a single needle a kilometre high, that cast a long shadow over the city like a sundial. All caught in its shadow cast a bitter look upwards at the symbol of their Imperial overlords.
From the Jade Citadel a man glared at that monument to hubris and fought to keep a sneer off his lips. He was tall, with mahogany skin and dark eyes. His features were sharp with a calculating intelligence hidden behind his mask of humility. His head was shaved bald and oiled, save for a long braid of hair that fell from the back of his skull and wrapped over one shoulder. He was dressed in a tight black robe of office, with markings of the Caste-Scribes along the edges. Like all of his lineage he affected a quiet yet watchful air but his humble attire was offset by a red seal of office hanging around his neck on a golden chain: the seal of the First Secretary. His name was Odrin and he was late for a meeting but he was not concerned.
Around Odrin various servants moved quietly with their heads bowed and eyes averted in respect. Odrin paid them no mind, their presence was beneath his notice. What did irk him though was the hushed whispers as the servants scurried away, muttering about 'The Butcher of Derekes.' That name made him grit his teeth, nobody understood him, nobody had known his mind yet that black day clung to him like a stain on his robe. Angered by the ignorance of others Odrin turned from the window and set off down a marble corridor. He did not rush for all knew Odrin was never late; it was merely that others were often early.
Odrin passed along ancient marble corridors, lined with many fountains that sparkled like ruby wine in the red light of Pascum's star. The walls bore many watercolours of stunning landscapes and sweeping vistas, painted by artists bred for their depth of visual perception and hand-to-eye coordination. Nubile courtesans lounged on sofas, their forms perfected by millennia of directed breeding to make them as much a part of the scenery as the paintings. Green plant-pots hung on bronze chains, rare species from across the planet watered by plodding servitors with dead eyes. These made Odrin grit his teeth: ugly, cumbersome things that did not fit Pascum. They were typical of Imperial thinking, so brutal and wasteful, taking whatever they could get and wasting the rest. Why did the Dominus bother with such offensive tools, Odrin wondered, when the Flesh-markets could provide stock of superior quality?
Finally Odrin came to a bronze door and a pair of burly guards with ceremonial staves opened the way for him, without needing any prompting. It was known people who disappointed him tended to meet unfortunate accidents, that could be in no way traced back to him. Odrin slipped inside and found himself in a large room painted like the night sky, complete with shining constellations. Inside that room a gathering was formed around a circular Sederwood table. There were merchants and generals and the heads of various departments of government, indigenous to Pascum and Imperial. They were powerful men and women but Odrin thought them all fools.
The First Secretary slipped inside and made his way around the table. Many eyes followed him but none dared comment on his tardiness. Though he was lower in office than anyone here none would dare challenge Odrin openly, for in the deadly game of politics he held that most subtle of weapons: influence. It was said Odrin had ears in every room and half the servants in the city were his spies. It wasn't quite true, but it wasn't far off either. Certainly a word from him could make or break a deal, elevate a useful man, destroy a career or make someone disappear without a trace. He had risen from the shadows, gaining power slowly and subtly, until none could remember a day when he was not standing at the shoulder of the Dominus.
Odrin slid into a high backed chair as a ruddy-faced man with a magnificent moustache declared, "The protests are spreading, nineteen cities are plagued by demonstrations and work slow-downs. It is intolerable!"
Across the table from him a dark man with a lone strip of hair running from his brow to the nape of his neck replied, "Let me send forth my troops to put down the protesters."
They were Marshal Mungo Gunnah of the Adeptus Arbites and General Clemas Bassail of the PDF. Between them they controlled the military forces of Pascum and had they thought to work together they could have ruled the planet. Thankfully they were bitter enemies, constantly bickering and squabbling over petty slights. They were effectively stalemated, neither able to act in any fashion without being blocked. It worked out well for Odrin, which was why he had spent years fostering their petty feud.
Marshal Gunnah barked, "Send in armed troops?! No, this is a civilian matter, let the Arbites handle it."
Clemas snorted, "It is Imperials the people protest against, the sight of your men will incite the malcontents. Let the PDF handle it."
"Over my dead body," Gunnah hissed.
"That can be arranged," Clemas spat back.
As the pair bickered Odrin examined the rest of the room. The various power blocs and factions he had set up effectively neutered the vast majority of them, leaving a power vacuum for him to fill. In the entire room there were only two others worth listening to and one of them interjected, "Stop shouting you heathens. We are not here to bicker like children but to pay the God-Emperor's Due."
That was Archbishop Dunlas, the spiritual potentate of Pascum. Odrin had met a few high-ranking members of the Imperial Faith and quickly realised that they believed as little in the corpse of Terra as he did. Most Cardinals were more interested in their wanton vices than spiritual pastorship and the sham that was the Ecclesiarchy was rotten to the core. Dunlas however had the burning eyes and raging conviction of a true fanatic. He believed hard and completely, which Odrin suspected was why he'd been dumped on this remote planet where he couldn't cause too much upset.
Dunlas continued, "The people have a sacred duty to pay the Regent's Tithe."
Across the table from him a thin woman uttered, "These Emergency Tithes are too heavy, the people of Pascum cry out for relief."
She was harridan of a woman, in a black headdress that flowed around her shoulders and was tied tightly under her chin. She had pale eyes which combined with her dark complexion made her seem like she had chips of ice in her sockets. This was Matriarch Tyvis, head of the Genic Council which was responsible for planning every marriage and birth on Pascum. She was also Dunlas' chief rival for the hearts and minds of Pascum's people.
Dunlas stared at his hated rival and spat, "Such talk is blasphemy."
"Blasphemy," Tyvis snorted, "Blasphemy is what your kind has done to Pascum. Soiling our Genic hygiene with your inferior bloodlines. Putting ideas into the people's heads about breeding outside of their assigned matches. Stealing the blood of our best stock."
Dunlas grinned evilly as he stated, "The Guard Foundings are all volunteers, nobody is forcing your people to leave."
Tyvis looked like she had bit down on a lemon as she hissed, "They should be content to live in the roles I set for them. If the Imperium requires soldiers I could breed superior warriors. Strong and obedient, far superior to the endless hordes you scoop up."
Dunlas sneered, "Quantity has a quality all its own."
As much as Odrin enjoyed seeing his rivals bicker he knew this could go on for days. So he interrupted to say, "Lords and ladies, this behoves us not. Let us discuss how we are to pay this Emergency Tithe."
Faces fell as the thought loomed and General Clemas whined, "We can't, we're still rebuilding after the blood and horror of the Noctis Aeterna. This tithe will break the treasury, our economy will collapse."
Heads nodded but Marshal Gunnah argued, "The Imperium does not care for your paltry fortunes. Terra will have its due, one way or another."
Everybody looked uncomfortable at the veiled threat, knowing what a fleet of warships could do to their world. Quietly Odrin proposed, "A series of progressive tax increases could…."
Matriarch Tyvis cut him off snapping, "The people won't wear it, we are taxed to the bone already. You will start a civil war."
Archbishop Dunlas hissed, "Maybe the cleansing fire of war will purge the deadwood around here."
Tyvis bristled in anger but Odrin intervened, "Then there is but one option left… a royal marriage."
Suddenly there was a squawk from beside him as a withered crone cried, "Never!"
That was Aleys Bassail, the Dominus of Pascum. She was a shrivelled hag with parchment skin and rotten teeth. Her hair was lank and her robes hung upon her like a tent. She was lost in the arms of a life-support throne, whose pumping fluid lines and bubbling cauldrons of elixirs were the only thing keeping her alive. Her throne loomed over the table and all eyes turned to her as she spat, "I won't marry my heir to the blood of Viscount Proam!"
Odrin knew the old hag had clung to power for centuries, and she hadn't been young when she claimed the crown. Odrin had spent decades worming his way into her court, despite the fact he held her in contempt he had made himself indispensable to her rule. Aleys had played off her rivals against each other expertly for centuries but her grip was slipping at last and her reign was faltering, she depended on Odrin to survive. The fact that she had finally agreed to have her eggs unfrozen to sire heirs on surrogate mothers proved that she knew she was on the brink of doom. Odrin looked into her rheumy eyes and said, "Dominus, we must. The Viscount is the richest man on the planet and leads the largest merchant consortium. Their combined wealth could ease the Tithe burden and free your people from poverty."
Aleys snapped back, "And give that fat leach Bekes Proam a foothold in my house! I won't have it!"
"Lord Governor," Dunlas stated, unaware how loathsome the Imperial title sounded, "Do not underestimate the morale boost a royal wedding can produce. The people love pomp and spectacle, to see your son and heir marry the daughter of Proam would distract many from their woes."
Tyvis added, "The Genic Council approves, prognostications show the match will produce high-quality offspring. The union of your two houses is favourable to Pascum."
Aleys scowled as she seethed, "This is a conspiracy against me!"
Odrin sighed theatrically, "Then I have failed you, I am filled with sorrow and must tender my resignation at once."
That put a stop to the protests. Aleys knew her rule was being propped up by her First Secretary and without him her dynasty would fall. The realisation crept over her that she had no choice and the old shrew finally nodded in silent acceptance. Many faces breathed a little easier at her agreement but Odrin was laughing inside at this collection of venal idiots. They didn't know it but they had just tipped the first domino in his rise to power. Events were now in motion that would soon see Odrin topple the Bassail line, throw the Imperium off Pascum and assume the crown of the Dominus for himself. It was a good job they couldn't hear his thoughts, he gloated, else they would know how much he was looking forward to chopping off all their heads.
