Sharidan Julius Adolphus Tirasian had had an interesting childhood.
In many ways, it had been easier than a lot of people's. His every material need had been provided. He'd had friends and companions whose company he genuinely enjoyed. His parents had made a point of spending time with him when they could.
But he had always, always been learning. He'd studied history and politics, finance and economics, strategy and tactics. He'd studied the myriad cultures of the Empire, its allies and enemies. He'd learned to learn, to bring his mind slightly closer to being a machine that could run an empire.
He'd learned things that had never been taught effectively in any classroom. He'd learned to ride and fight and lead and intimidate and befriend. He'd learned through experience, his own and that of his tutors, parents and friends, and of the great men and women of previous generations.
He'd learned through success and failure, mostly the latter. By the age of twenty, his mistakes had killed more people than some of his citizens would meet throughout their entire lives – and he'd learned from that too.
He'd learned about duty and loyalty and patriotism. He'd learned to plot and scheme and betray.
But above all else, he'd learned to be afraid.
The Tiraan Empire was the largest in mortal history, and the reason this was the case was that most empires fell to pieces long before they got to that stage. To prevent Tiraas from going the same way, each day a thousand factors needed to be weighed against each other, a thousand tiny decisions made, and a thousand safeguards set in place in case any of those decisions had been the wrong ones.
Sharidan had grown up knowing that he might live to see his entire civilization fail, and that it would be all his fault.
On this night, he had come closer than ever to seeing that fear realized. Obviously the orcish diaspora had played a part in the current crisis, as had Justinian – but ultimately, the blame lay with the Emperor. He had known the Archpope had designs on the skull of Belosiphon, but had chosen to let things play out rather than confront him. The death of Price, and of who-knew-how-many others, were on Sharidan's shoulders.
(Not that Justinian and the orcs were blameless. There was more than enough blame for everyone.)
All this is to say that by time he found himself face-to-face with the most powerful of all infernal creatures, a being that could destroy him and possibly his entire capital city on a whim, he found he was no more afraid than he'd been a few minutes earlier. There just wasn't any room.
Also, the dragon had just saved his life. This was the kind of behavior the Emperor was inclined to see in a positive light.
He extended his hand. Yophiel had called him "Your Majesty" but had not bowed, so he presumably considered himself royalty. Under the circumstances, he wasn't going to argue the point.
'A pleasure to meet you as well,' lied Sharidan.
The dragon took his hand and shook it, his featureless eyes never leaving the Emperor's own.
'Thank you for saving my life,' added Sharidan, more sincerely.
'Only doing my duty, Your Majesty,' said Yophiel with a small smile.
Sharidan wasn't sure what to make of that. Dragons, let alone elevated dragons, were not generally considered Imperial subjects.
He clearly wasn't doing a good job of schooling his expression – not surprising, all things considered – because Yophiel smiled wider.
'Not my duty to you, with all due respect. I am here at my mistress's bidding. The Pantheon called for aid, and... well, it would appear we are on the same side.'
He didn't have to add the words "for now". Sharidan had no illusions about how long such an alliance could last.
He found himself feeling glad that the Queen of Hell had sent an agent rather than coming herself. He really had no idea how he'd react if he saw her again in person. And – absurdly – he was glad she was safe. This was not a sentiment he would ever voice to anyone, but he didn't need Eleanora to tell him it was probably a sign something was very wrong with him.
Not to mention the child. If time in Hell had stayed synchronized with the material plane's – far from guaranteed – then they'd be about a year old by now. Assuming their mother had opted to give birth on the normal human schedule, of course, which was even less guaranteed.
Sharidan had genuinely never thought he'd ever be in a situation where thinking about that one time he fell in love with and impregnated the Dark Lady would be a welcome distraction, but a distraction it was. He had more important things to worry about.
'I don't mean to be rude,' said the Emperor carefully, which was a bit of understatement. 'But... what exactly is your assignment here? The gods made it clear to me that only another god would be any help to them.'
The dragon smiled, an unnerving expression given his solid-black eyes. 'You can blame the Pantheon for that, Your Majesty. My mistress offered to come herself, but apparently they could not lay aside their paranoia even in this time of crisis. I myself, however, represent a not-insignificant portion of her power, and can act as her proxy here. I would not claim to be any substitute for Scyllith's own presence, of course, but I suppose it's better than nothing.'
Right. Hadn't Sharidan read somewhere that the presence of a paladin would suppress Chaos by default? It seemed to be the same principle. That would also explain why Yophiel's magic seemed to be working just fine.
Wait a second. Had he heard that right? 'Whose own presence?'
Yophiel raised his eyebrows, which made the eyes look even weirder. 'Scyllith, Your Majesty. My mistress? I'm sure you've heard of her.'
At that moment the Emperor realized that some part of him had been hoping that if they – Eleanora, Tiraas and himself – made it through all this, everything would go back to normal. By some feat of insane optimism, he'd been holding on to the delusion that if they just managed to keep their civilization intact until the gods beat back Chaos and "essential services" resumed, then tomorrow would continue pretty much as yesterday had, and this whole nightmare would become just something for his citizens to tell their grandchildren about.
The involvement of of the mother of all demons made that impossible. The goddess of cruelty was not going to help the Pantheon out of the goodness of her heart. The situation was desperate enough that she would be able to name her price, and Sharidan could only guess what that price would be. Help recovering Hell from its upstart Queen? A foothold in the surface world of the mortal plane? More?
The realization came and went in an instant, and this time the Emperor kept his face under control. 'Of course,' he said blandly. 'So, you're capable of pitching in directly in fending off Chaos?'
'Pretty much, although a magical theorist might object to the use of the word "directly". Helping you with your… trouble wasn't strictly within mission parameters, but I thought a show of good faith wouldn't go amiss.'
A show of good faith from a black dragon probably wasn't even the weirdest thing that had happened to him tonight, so Sharidan let that pass without comment.
'Well, I certainly appreciated it,' said the Emperor, because it was the middle of the night and he'd be damned if he was going to come up with original material for a being who was already unshakably loyal to someone else. 'Er... do you know how to get out of here? I think Chaos locked me in.'
It was a strange way of putting it, and Sharidan regretted the phrasing as soon as he closed his mouth. Chaos wasn't anthropomorphic, even mentally; it wasn't just some kind of extraplanar god. It didn't have agency.
Then he remembered that, less than an hour ago, he'd heard a nigh-omniscient being refer to "the will of Chaos itself", which sounded pretty agent-y now that he came to think of it.
'Spontaneous Chaos manifestations tend to be fragile,' said Yophiel. 'Proper spells have a designer and a caster behind them who can foresee possible changes and account for them ahead of time. Chaos doesn't have a mind unless it's borrowed a cultist's, so any change of occult significance tends to throw it off. In this case, I think the death of your attacker here—' he prodded the headhunter's corpse with his toe, apparently paying no mind to the hellfire that still burned at her '—should do the trick.'
That was suspiciously convenient, but the Emperor decided he was owed a lucky break at this point. He turned to the Butler now lying on the floor in several pieces. 'Your help was invaluable, Miss Price. The Throne owes you a debt.'
Sharidan had never seen a dragon look confused before. 'She's dead, Your Majesty. One might say emphatically so.'
'She's ensouled undead,' he explained. Then he looked back at Price, who didn't seem to have moved since the headhunter had sliced her up. 'Or at least, she was a second ago.'
Yophiel shrugged. 'Break up any undead creature into small enough parts and it will eventually stop moving. If the necromancer is good enough, that might not happen until it's dissolved in acid. If there's no necromancer at all, something as crude as a knife will apparently do.'
Sharidan didn't care to guess how long Yophiel had been alive, but at some point he seemed to have taken a keen interest in Chaos magic. Perhaps that wasn't surprising, given what had happened to Belosiphon – but given what had happened to Belosiphon, it wasn't a reassuring thought.
Still, if he was right then at least they could leave. 'After you, then,' said the Emperor, and gestured towards the stairs.
'Oh no, Your Majesty. After you.'
They descended in silence, but once they reached the living room Sharidan's frazzled brain finally pulled itself together. 'The only black dragon most of my citizens have heard of is Belosiphon. May I respectfully request that you avoid exposure to the public eye while you're in the city? It shouldn't get in the way of completing your assignment, and I'd rather not frighten them any more than they already are.'
'I'm afraid I must – equally respectfully – decline.' Yophiel smiled pleasantly. 'The fact that the average Tiraan immediately associates black dragons with Chaos makes it all the more important that I clear our name, wouldn't you say?'
Well, so much for good faith. On the other hand, this revealed the extremely interesting fact that Yophiel's mistress was apparently interested in publicity. There were any number of reasons why she might, none of them good, but the Emperor supposed it was better to know her plans than not.
If anything, the crowd outside Bishop Darling's house had grown while he'd been inside, but they were kept at bay by a squad of soldiers. The porch itself was nevertheless quite crowded, since it now held Eleanora, Justinian, two Hands of the Emperor including the one who'd been accompanying them throughout the evening, Quentin Vex, and an entire Imperial Strike Team.
All of those people turned to stare at him as he opened the door, obviously, because their Emperor had just been locked in a house by forces unknown. Why hadn't he thought of something to say?
'It seems Chaos doesn't like me much,' he improvised. 'But it'll have to try a little harder than that.'
The crowd hooted and cheered, so that seemed to be good enough. In a way, handling people during a crisis was actually easier than usual.
He stepped out of the doorway. 'I could not, however, have prevailed alone. The Throne presents its formal thanks to Yophiel the Black!'
The dragon stepped out onto the porch. The crowd suddenly seemed a lot less enthusiastic.
And Sharidan suddenly noticed how magnificent he was.
His physical form was perfect, which wasn't surprising considering the goddess he served. But more than that, the sheer power that radiated from him was almost tangible, like the heat of a fire. The citizens of Tiraas clearly felt it too; those closest to the house took a couple of steps away from the line of soldiers keeping them back. One of them actually raised his hand as if to shield his eyes, though the dragon wasn't even carrying a light source.
The Emperor felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. It was all over. Chaos was scary, yes, and he'd been right to be afraid; but against the awesome might of Yophiel the Black, it seemed more a nuisance than an actual threat. It couldn't even think, for Heaven's sake. What had he been so worried about?
Well, admittedly, the Pantheon had also seemed worried, so it wasn't like Sharidan had been alone in overestimating the threat. But really, who could blame them? They were young gods, not even ten thousand years old, still carrying the mental baggage of their mortal existence. They even manifested avatars when they wanted to speak to people, a childish affectation if ever there was one.
Now, finally, a grown-up had arrived on the scene. The goddess of light and beauty had sent a champion, and the dark ugliness of Chaos would surely be—
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Eleanora raise a hand to cover her mouth.
Abruptly, the sense of awe receded. Not entirely – the crowd was still staring raptly at Yophiel, even though he wasn't doing anything except stand there – but enough to allow Sharidan to realize what had just happened.
He'd met dragons before, and he'd never encountered a draconic aura like that. In retrospect, though, he should have guessed the effect would be stronger for an elevated dragon.
The Emperor knew he had to get his act together, and soon. Too many things had surprised him tonight that he should have been prepared for. Chaos was unpredictable enough by nature; if he kept failing to anticipate the things he could see coming, he was going to die, and Tiraas was going to die with him.
This wasn't arrogance; it was just one of the downsides of a monarchic government. The Empire would keep functioning in a crisis because everyone knew who was in charge and no-one was entitled to argue with him, but that meant that he, Sharidan, was the system's single point of failure.
The obvious solution to this problem was to produce an heir, which he had so far failed to do… except that once.
Could she be responsible for this whole thing? It seemed unlikely that the Archpope was actually a member of the Black Wreath, but the goddess of cunning had more subtle ways of manipulating people.
So… the Queen of Hell somehow plants the idea of going after the skull of Belosiphon, it goes predictably terribly, the Empire is plunged into a crisis during which the Emperor is killed, and the demon demigod is clear to take the throne. Plus, once it comes out that the Archpope was responsible for the whole debacle, he would be deposed and the Church discredited.
It seemed frighteningly plausible, but "frighteningly plausible" was a long way from "certain" and even if it was true it didn't help Sharidan deal with the immediate threats.
Even after that little show, he wasn't sure whether the black dragon fell into that category. Messing with people's minds without getting their explicit permission was generally considered a hostile act, but most dragons did it to mortals without a second thought, by their mere presence. If anything, keeping it suppressed while they were in the house had been an act of unusual politeness.
Yophiel spoke, addressing the crowd. His voice carried a trace of an unfamiliar accent, exotic and musical. 'I come in peace, bearing no ill will. I have been personally charged by my mistress Scyllith to aid your gods against the forces of the outside, and must therefore depart. In the meantime, I wish you luck dealing with Chaos as it manifests on this plane. Be strong, and listen to your Emperor; we have spoken, and I think him very wise.
'Scyllith's blessings upon you all.'
His shadow rose up behind him and swallowed him.
With the spell broken, the crowd's attention swung back to the Emperor, who carefully turned away to indicate that the show was over.
Eleanora closed the distance between them in a couple of slow steps, her poise so perfectly regal that probably only Sharidan noticed how agitated she looked. 'Are you all right?' she whispered. 'What happened in there?'
'I'm fine,' he assured her. 'Darling is missing but I'd bet he's still alive and in the city. I'll give you the details once we're somewhere more private.'
She nodded.
'What did you say to him?' Sharidan asked.
'Hmm?'
'To Yophiel. He was hammering us with his aura and you whispered something behind your hand.'
'Oh, that. I told him to knock it off or I'd kick him in the nuts.'
The Emperor nearly choked. 'He's an emissary of an allied power! And also a black dragon!'
'There's a particular kind of being that responds well to getting sassed by mere mortals. Dragons tend to fit the profile, particularly the blues and reds. I think they find it funny, like if your guinea pig threatened to break your kneecaps.'
On reflection, Sharidan had actually noticed that, although he himself had never been in a position to exploit it – being the Emperor generally required him to maintain a certain dignity.
'Also,' added Eleanora, 'I'm a woman. Never met a dragon who didn't appreciated a girl with spunk.'
Given how long Sharidan had known her, the vitriol in the last word was not surprising. They'd had that conversation a few times.
'Well, no arguing with results,' he conceded.
He realized he was trembling slightly. He took a deep breath, which didn't help.
Oh well. 'Let's get this party started, shall we?' He waved over one of the Hands. 'We're setting up in Army HQ. It's a central location and we'll have less layers of command to cut through if we want to get something done. One of you stay behind, try to get people to return to their homes and tell them the cults will start distributing light sources and cold storage boxes as soon as possible. Also tell them that if the threat hasn't become any more acute by then, we'll have an event set up in the central amphitheater by midnight: food, music, storytellers, the works. Then come after us.'
'Sire,' said the Hand, and moved over to whisper in his partner's ear.
The crowd parted with some difficulty as they made their way through the streets, accompanied by Vex and his strike team. It was thick enough that they were prevented from talking until they got inside the front gates of Imperial HQ, which Sharidan was pleased to note was a hive of frenzied activity, well-lit by oil lanterns hanging on the frames that usually held fairy lamps.
They made directly for the general's office, pausing occasionally to acknowledge the soldiers who kept dropping their very important work to stand at attention as they passed. It was dumb, but military wisdom held that it was worth it in the long run to maintain respect for the chain of command, and Sharidan could see the logic in that.
Toman Panissar's office was guarded, but the poor corporal posted outside barely had time to open his boss's door before Sharidan, Quentin and Eleanora barged through unannounced.
Panissar sprang to his feet and bowed. Sharidan gestured impatiently for him to straighten up.
'Status report?' asked the Emperor.
'Patrols at emergency level throughout the city, sire,' said Panissar. 'They report people are restless but no rioting, as yet. A couple of isolated instances of violence or looting, but the culprits were mostly found and locked up and bystanders didn't seem inclined to join in. Guards have been stationed around graveyards and crypts, but so far everything looks quiet on the undead front. Watchmen have been issued horns or whistles for communication, and citizens have been instructed to retreat to their homes if the alarm is sounded, since the siege bunkers use arcane air-filtration systems and they'd probably suffocate without them.'
Sharidan knew the Empire employed a lot of incompetent people, but one of the perks of being the Emperor was that none of his direct underlings were morons. 'Sterling work, general,' he said approvingly. 'Lord Vex? Anything to add?'
'I agree with the general's assessment on the mood in the street; the population seems agitated but not dangerously so.' The Imperial spymaster cleared his throat. 'Additionally, there is preliminary evidence that the Black Wreath are mobilizing in force.'
Well, this night was just getting better and better. 'Any idea what they're planning?' asked Sharidan wearily.
'Your guess is as good as mine, sire, but it's something big. As far as we can tell – and again, this is preliminary – they're pulling out everything they've got. All their fighters and summoners are gearing up, reagent and weapon caches are being unlocked... one agent reported that he saw a known Wreath operative handing out gear to children.'
'This is totally uncharacteristic,' said Eleanora. 'The Wreath are all about subtlety. An operation on the scale your talking about is just impossible to hide.'
'Obviously, since we've been getting reports about it,' the Emperor frowned. 'Hold on, when did you get these reports?' His watch wasn't working, but it had been less than an hour since he had left the palace with the Empress. 'This thing only hit... what, forty-five minutes ago?'
The other three people in the room exchanged glances. 'How long did you spend inside Bishop Darling's house, from your perspective?' asked Eleanora.
'Less than ten minutes.' Oh gods. 'How long was it from the outside?'
'A couple of hours,' said the Empress, and Sharidan breathed a sigh of relief. He'd heard about people who'd missed years in situations like this. 'It's about nine o'clock.'
'Well, not a catastrophe. We need to remember to look out for time-slips, though. Anything else?' He ran down his mental catalog of factions to look out for. 'Are the cults cooperating? Come to that, where did the Archpope get to?'
'He went off to coordinate the distribution of essential goods by the cults, as you suggested,' said the Empress. 'I'm not sure whether he actually did that, though. Lord Vex?'
'All the cults with significant manpower seem willing to do their part. They haven't been as quick to respond as the Army, though, so actual distribution is only just starting.'
Could Justinian have been deliberately dragging his heels? It was difficult to see how that would benefit him, but Sharidan still didn't know what he was plotting. That was assuming he was plotting something; in terms of evidence, he didn't really have more than some possible acting failures and the fact that Justinian had gone after the skull in the first place.
The suspicions didn't seem worth voicing for now, but he made a mental note to ask Vex in a few hours, to give him time to form an unbiased opinion. Assassinating the Archpope would have to wait; it was critical not to agitate the populace any further.
'Well, get someone to find Justinian and tell him we've set up HQ here and we'd like him to join us. On the subject of which: we're setting up HQ here. General, we'll need some offices.'
'Of course, Your Majesty,' said Panissar blandly, but the Emperor thought he caught the ghost of a grimace. He let it slide; no-one wanted their immediate superior breathing down their neck while they were trying to work, but with communications down it was really the only option.
'One more thing. We're putting together a festival at the Vidian amphitheater. Food, drink, entertainment, speeches from myself and other officials, all on the Throne's dime. I'd like it set up by midnight.'
The general frowned. 'We're stretched thin already, sire. Does that really seem like the best use of our soldiers' time?'
'Our citizenry are scared and restless and wandering the streets with nothing to do. I'd say it's a miracle we haven't seen riots already, except I have been personally informed that the Pantheon are otherwise occupied, so that means it's just blind luck. When the Silver Throne relies on blind luck, people die. We need to keep the peace, and the best way to do that is to give people something to do that's more fun than smashing up shopfronts. Am I clear?'
The other three people in the room were looking at him oddly. He realized his voice was a little louder than was strictly necessary, and that he was shaking.
The Emperor closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly. Once, twice, three times. He opened his eyes.
'My apologies, general.'
'Nonsense, sire. We're all on edge. I will see to it your orders are carried out at once.'
'Thank you.'
They waited patiently while Panissar's aide ushered a couple of unlucky colonels out of their offices; Vex took one, the Imperial couple the other, their trusty Hand silently taking a post in the corner of the room. Only once the door was shut and he was alone with his wife – well, as alone as an Emperor ever was – did Sharidan allow himself to collapse into a chair and put his head in his hands.
Eleanora placed a hand on his shoulder. 'I think you're doing remarkably well,' she said softly.
Sharidan didn't dignify that with a response.
'I particularly liked the idea of a free midnight feast. "Your very gods are fighting for their lives against forces beyond the ken of mortal men! There's nothing we can do about it, though, so here's some bread and circuses!"'
He let out a sobbing laugh. 'Just about sums us up, doesn't it? Keep the population fed and hope the Pantheon have our back. Avei said it herself.'
'Well, I could quibble with that. The Empire pushes forward art, science, philosophy – and justice, as Avei herself should know well. But tonight, yes, we're concentrating on keeping our people from eating each other, and I think you're doing a pretty good job.'
'So far,' said Sharidan darkly.
'True. It won't do to grow complacent.' She took her hand off his shoulder, and he heard the room's other chair scrape along the floor before she sat down next to him. 'Now, tell me what happened inside that house. Where did the dragon come from?'
He lifted his head from his hands and recounted the whole story. The Empress was not a woman who was easily ruffled, but she looked quite alarmed by the end of it.
'The headhunter cannot possibly be a coincidence,' she said. 'Maybe she was hiding among the Sifanese orcs and they teleported her in just before the dust hit?'
'Maybe,' said Sharidan doubtfully. 'They'd have had to convince the kaisa to tolerate having her on the continent, but I can see how that might be done.'
'You have another idea?' asked Eleanora.
'Yes. I don't know if you remember this, but Darling had two elven apprentices.'
She frowned. 'You're suggesting that Antonio Darling had a headhunter living under his roof for several years and nobody noticed?'
'We didn't notice,' he corrected her darkly. 'For all we know, the Thieves' Guild might have thought a headhunter was a pretty good ace in the hole. And if anyone could keep something like that hidden, it would be them.' He paused a second. 'Or the Black Wreath, I suppose. Something to consider.'
She cursed. 'We'll need to interrogate Tricks. And Sweet, if he shows up again.'
'Obviously. I don't think it's a priority now, though. She's dead, wherever she came from.'
Someone knocked on the door. The Emperor and Empress exchanged a glance.
If the laws of dramatic irony held true and that was the headhunter, Sharidan was just going to let her kill him.
'Come in,' he said.
Rather than an undead superpowered elven assassin, it turned out to be another black-suited Hand of the Emperor, this one bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits, which he placed on the table in front of them before taking up a position opposite his fellow.
'I knew there was a reason I kept you guys around,' said Sharidan, pouring two cups.
'Funny you should mention that, sire. Tonight you seem to keep trying to give us the slip.'
'I'm not trying to give you the slip,' he protested. 'I just had important messages to relay and no-one else I trusted to do it.'
He noticed that Eleanora was grinning, and ignored her.
'Just as you say, sire.'
Passive-aggression was really the only weapon that the Emperor's personal servants had, and he didn't begrudge them it. He just wished they weren't so damn good at it.
He sipped his coffee. It tasted horrible, which cheered him up quite a lot. When magic, death and time all became shaky, it was nice to know that coffee could still be relied upon to scorch your taste buds off.
'Right,' he said. 'Let's get to speechifying.'
The speeches they wound up going with were essentially just longer versions of the one he'd given on Antonio Darling's porch, with a few additions. They invoked specific, well-know historical crises that Tiraas had weathered, with particular emphasis on a couple during which the civilian population had played important roles. They thanked the cults, the army and various officials for rising to the occasion (Sharidan didn't actually know yet exactly who those people were, so the phrase "insert name here" occurred several times in that bit). They added some careful acknowledgment that they might be in this for the long haul, and outlined plans for establishing some kind of long-term status quo.
This, of course, required them to actually come up with those plans, which took a good deal more thought than the speech-writing did. It also wasn't something they could do in detail without consulting their advisers, most of whom weren't there yet. They did their best anyway, noting down the technical details that would have to be sorted out later with someone who actually knew what they were talking about.
Some time into the process – Sharidan thought it was about an hour – there was another knock on the door, and yet another Hand opened it. 'Bishop Branwen Snowe, sire. By order of the Archpope, apparently.'
Sharidan couldn't believe the sheer gall of the man. Who answered an Imperial summons by sending an underling?
Someone who knew he was going to be tried for treason regardless, that was who. Perhaps he should have pretended he was going to let him off the hook, but really, Justinian was too savvy for that.
Well, he might as well see her. 'Send her in.'
The Bishop entered the room silently and stood in front of their desk with her eyes cast down deferentially. She was very pretty and had clearly spent a while decking herself out in order to meet the Emperor, but if anything that just annoyed him more. Not that he didn't appreciate beauty in its place, but there was a time for play and a time for efficiency, and now was the latter.
'Well?' he asked.
'His Holiness the Archpope presents his humblest apologies for his absence, Your Majesties,' said Snowe. Her voice was modulated strangely, as if she were reciting a poem or a piece of theater. No doubt she'd gone over her intro a few times on the way here. 'He is engaged in critical research, the object of which cannot be moved, and it is his honest belief that you would prioritize this work over making a public appearance at the event tonight.'
Like Hell it was. 'What critical research?'
'His Holiness considered it best that it be kept confidential—'
That was the last straw. He was going to kill him tonight, public opinion be damned. He could even tell the populace he was to blame for the whole thing, which was actually true.
'—but said Your Majesties would know what it was. Something no-one except yourselves knew about, and no-one else could access.'
What.
'The Book,' whispered Eleanora.
Damn. It had completely slipped the Emperor's mind what with everything else that had been going on, but Justinian was right; they needed more information and that was by far the best place to get it. No doubt there was some mortal scholar in the city who considered themselves an expert on Chaos, but Sharidan was given to understand that human knowledge on the subject was so poor that after a couple of hours with the Book, Justinian probably already knew more than they did.
Sharidan didn't say any of that, of course. Instead he just said, 'Oh, yes. Well, good on the Archpope for thinking ahead. Has he made any progress?'
'Nothing urgent, but he requests a brief meeting with Your Majesties to update you on his findings later in the evening.'
'Later in the evening, we shall be attending our citizens in the amphitheater,' said Eleanora drily. 'If the Archpope would deign to join us, no doubt we would be enthralled to hear any wisdom he saw fit to impart.'
Snowe blushed deeply and curtsied. 'Apologies once again, Your Majesty. I know this must seem impertinent. If you would rather the meeting occur sooner, His Holiness will naturally take a break from his research at once.'
Well played, thought Sharidan.
'This evening will be fine,' said Eleanora testily. 'Is that all?'
The Bishop curtsied again. 'In his absence, the Archpope considered that I might speak for the Church, if it please Your Majesties.'
All at once, the Emperor had had enough. Justinian was a dead man walking and he knew it; at this point he was just screwing with them. 'Great idea. Pull up a chair.'
She blanched, which was probably the first real emotion they'd seen from her. 'Your Majesty?'
'You heard me. Wouldn't do to interrupt yet another military officer just so you have a place to work.'
'I... could work in the hall, Your Majesty. Or outside.'
'Nonsense,' said Eleanora cheerfully, as if she had any idea what Sharidan was doing. 'Really, have a seat and we'll write our speeches together. It's only sensible.'
After that, time passed quickly until a young-looking petty officer poked her head in deferentially and informed them that it was eleven o'clock.
'Thank you,' said Sharidan automatically, then looked up from his desk. 'Wait. How do you know?'
'Got an old pendulum clock downstairs, Your Majesty,' she said, keeping her eyes on the floor. 'Belonged to somebody's grandpa, I think.'
If there was something symbolic in that, Sharidan couldn't be bothered to figure out what it was.
'Right. Well, thank General Panissar for his hospitality and tell him we'll be heading out soon to make sure everything is in order.' Not that he didn't trust whoever the general had put in charge of the arrangements, but there was nothing like an impending visit from the Emperor for getting a little extra elbow grease out of people.
They finished up their speeches and left the building ten minutes later. The good Bishop made herself scarce as soon as they stepped out the office, but Sharidan was not surprised to see that a half-dozen Hands had taken strategic positions around the building, and they peeled off to follow him and Eleanora as they made their way out.
Streetlights throughout the city had been replaced with oil-burning substitutes, and the windows of many homes showed flickering firelight. Dust still drifted lazily through the air, shimmering with reflected lamplight.
'What was that about?' asked Eleanora quietly.
'I wanted to keep an eye on her, maybe put her a little off-balance. Justinian's planning something, I'll be damned if I know what and frankly I can't be bothered to find out. And did you see the way she was dressed? Anyone who wants to be underestimated that badly is trouble.'
The Empress smiled warmly. 'You're never quite the same as when someone's plotting against you, did you know that?'
'When have people not been plotting against me?' asked Sharidan, but really he wasn't feeling particularly bitter about it. He just wished the chronic schemers could take a time-out when the world was in peril.
'There, there, dear,' said Eleanora, patting him on the shoulder. 'Feel up to this?'
He snorted. 'Please. Did you see me outside Darling's house earlier? I am on fire tonight.'
'Well, better you than the capital, I suppose,' said Eleanora, deadpan.
Sharidan glared at her. 'How long have you been waiting for me to give you the straight line for that?'
'More or less since my stove exploded. It's actually the only reason I've been trying to cheer you up.'
The Emperor laughed at loud – not something he'd usually do in public, but he figured right now it would be good for his citizens to see him relaxed.
Sharidan's mood only improved when he saw the amphitheater. Two rows of oil lanterns on poles marched down the steps on either side, and an actual bonfire had been lit on the stage at the center, with an enormous pile of wood sitting just below it to keep it fed. Stalls were being set up on the flat area surrounding the top tier, some clearly intended to serve food, some left empty, presumably for sideshows. Barrels of drink were wheeled in as he watched, and the smells of roasting meat and baking bread reminded him that he hadn't actually had dinner that evening.
'I'm actually impressed,' said Eleanora.
'I love being Emperor,' agreed Sharidan. 'I'm like "throw me a party!" and a giant machine leaps into action to do my bidding.' He turned to his Hands. 'Someone find the man in charge for me.'
The man in charge was in fact a woman, a forty-something year old major with a ready smile. She bowed rather than curtsied when the Emperor and Empress approached. 'Good evening, Your Majesties.'
'Good evening, Major,' said Sharidan. 'Impressive setup you've got here.'
'Your Majesty is too kind.'
'I've always said the world could use a little more kindness,' said Sharidan, who could not remember ever saying that in his life. 'Are we on track to start by midnight?'
'I believe so, Your Majesty. I understand Your Majesty will be speaking?'
'Yes, but not right away,' said Sharidan, slipping into a more casual tone. The whole point of the event was to pretend there was nothing to worry about; if the people at the top acted relaxed, hopefully that would trickle down. 'Give people time to show up for the free food, then hit 'em when they're packed too tight to run away.'
'As you say, Your Majesty,' she said diplomatically.
'By the way,' said Eleanora. 'What exactly is in those kegs? Because I'm not sure it's a good idea to serve alcohol at a time like this.'
The major tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. 'Non-alcoholic beer, Your Majesty. The kind we serve at events on base. Soldiers claim to hate it, but in fact most people can't tell the difference if they aren't told in advance.'
Sharidan nodded appreciatively. 'Good thinking. What's your name, Major?'
'Nur Avelea, Your Majesty.'
That was unusual. 'Avelea, huh? Silver Legions not to your taste?'
Nur opened her mouth and paused for a second, and Sharidan could practically hear the gears grinding in her head as she rephrased a conversation she'd probably had too many times so it was appropriate for the Emperor's ears. 'Obviously I'm enormously grateful to the Sisterhood for everything they've done for me, Your Majesty. And I do believe it is my calling to serve Avei by wielding arms. But... I feel it's healthier for a person of faith to seek out environments that don't necessarily share their convictions.'
'Fair enough,' said Sharidan. Not everyone in the Silver Legions was Avenist, but obviously most were. 'I always enjoy getting people's thoughts on their personal path in life, since I never really had to wrestle with the question myself.'
That brought a thoughtful expression to the major's face, but before she could respond Eleanora interjected with a very regal 'Carry on, Major,' and gently steered Sharidan away by the elbow.
'Let the nice lady work,' she said quietly.
'I was enjoying our conversation,' he said.
'I could see that, but—'
The sky jerked.
There was no fanfare and no buildup. One moment the stars were in one place, the next they had all moved slightly, as if the whole heavenly sphere had been rotated a couple of degrees.
The whole amphitheater – maybe the whole city – fell silent. For a few seconds, the crackling of the bonfire was the only sound.
"What the hell was that?" Sharidan didn't ask, because no-one would have been able to tell him anything he didn't already know. Instead he said, 'I'm going to go talk to Justinian. You stay here and give the speech.'
'We're still going ahead with this?'
'I don't see why not. If the dead rise at least the bulk of the civilian population will be in one easily-defended area.'
Anyone else might have hesitated, but Eleanora just said, 'All right,' and gave him a hug. 'Be safe.'
He set off with three Hands in tow. The residents of Tiraas had apparently come to the conclusion that if they were going to die they might as well do it on a full stomach, and were already streaming towards the amphitheater. Being the Emperor, moving against the crowd was not difficult.
The crowds had thinned by the time he reached the approximate neighborhood of the Elysium, the residents of that area of the city being more the type to hole up at home during a crisis. This made it easy to spot the dark-skinned man in the white suit standing outside the bar, looking up at the sign.
'This is the first time I've actually laid eyes on the place,' he said conversationally as Sharidan stopped at the end of the street. He was some distance away, but the sounds of the crowd were muffled enough by distance and dust that the Emperor could hear him clearly. 'And believe me, I've tried before. I imagine it's only because the Pantheon are too busy to keep up their usual obfuscation.'
Sharidan didn't have the patience for Embras Mogul's brand of melodrama at the best of times. 'One of you drag this man to a cell.'
Mogul flung up his hands as the Hand of the Emperor took a step forward. 'Truce! I want to talk.'
'And I'm sure Imperial Intelligence will be very interested in what you have to say, but right now you're beneath my notice.'
'Lay a hand on me and you'll regret it,' countered Mogul. Your gods are occupied; mine isn't.'
Were high priests afforded the same special treatment as paladins and elevated dragons? Sharidan didn't know. He sighed and gestured for his Hand to back down. 'What do you want? And spare me the grandstanding, please.'
'As you wish,' said Mogul. 'We're leaving. You can all deal with Chaos on your own. Or, more likely, not.'