Firebrand

One Among Many

“Magistrate. I am glad you would join me for this meal,” Martel declared. He sat in one of his private rooms suitable for eating with guests. Two plates filled with delicacies stood on the table, offering spiced meat with the vegetables of the harvest season.

“It did not seem prudent to refuse,” Alexius mumbled, sitting down.

“I’m pleased we could find the time to speak,” the captain continued, knowing he had plenty of it. Eleanor would make sure it took all afternoon to fetch the emperor from the fortress. “My home is not far from your city, after all. I’m from Farill, and I travelled through Anvallum on my journey here.”

“I have heard you are from Nordmark.” The magistrate took a bite to eat. “Not that anybody would doubt that, seeing you.”

A reference to his eyes, Martel figured, but for once not maliciously intended. Anvallum would have others with the same hue. “It’s why I thought we should talk. Your region would benefit from our proposal above all. How often does anyone in Morcaster think of Anvallum? This way, you’ll have people present when decisions are made.”

“That same distance that makes us forgotten would also prevent that,” Alexius argued. “If every time the Senate is convened, it takes our delegate a month to reach Morcaster, all decisions will be long done before they arrive.”

“That is simple to solve. They will simply stay here permanently rather than travel back and forth.”

“I suppose. But that means they will have to decide on their own without having time to consult with their superiors back in Anvallum.” The magistrate ate with quick, fidgeting movements. “Neither is ideal.”

“Solutions rarely are. Would you rather have less-than-ideal influence or none at all?” Martel did not wait for an answer. “If we cannot agree, the threat of civil war returns to the table. To stand any chance of winning, all the northern legions will be withdrawn. Nordmark will be surrendered to the wild, and Anvallum will be a frontier city. Your farmlands and outskirts will suffer Tyrian raids.”

“We have our own legion that protects us.” Alexius sniffed as he took his cup of undiluted wine.

“Think of all the coin spent on the war against Khiva. Imagine if a small part had been invested in Anvallum or southern Nordmark. So much more land could be ploughed, reducing the fear of famine. With better roads, trade would increase, more towns could flourish, and rather than being the edge of the Empire, Anvallum would be the centre of not one, but two thriving provinces.” Martel exhaled; it had taken him a while to memorise all the arguments, most of them invented by Eleanor.

“But if that money had not gone to the legions, it would have gone somewhere else than Anvallum regardless.”

“Undoubtedly. But once my legions are discharged, that’s a lot of coin the Imperial treasury will have left in future years. When the decision has to be made where to spend it, wouldn’t you feel more comfortable knowing your delegates were in Morcaster, championing your cause?”

The magistrate did not reply, but he took another sip of his wine. “This is good,” he professed. “It’s hard to get the good vintage up north.”

In the distance, a bell rang. “I appreciate that you would take this meal with me. Please, take the pitcher with you.” Martel gestured toward the wine. “As for me, I feel the need to stretch my legs.”

***

Martel enjoyed the palace grounds more than any place indoors. However magnificent the halls, they almost tired his mind and eyes. Not so walking among the trees and flowers. Although winter was near, the green and other colours still held on, struggling to maintain their last bloom.

Alongside him walked Legate Miles of the Legio XII Ursi. He looked typically Asterian in some ways with hair and eyes of dark hue, though paler than most, no doubt given his posting far to the north. “You must tell me how you took the capital in a single night,” he demanded. “I’ve heard both that it was treason from within or a small force scaling the walls, but either sounds dubious.”

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The man was not a mageknight, and he did not speak like a noble, which meant he had earned his rank purely through merit. Martel liked him better than he had expected he might, and while revealing all details about their assault seemed ill-advised, satisfying the legate’s curiosity might be worth it to earn some goodwill.

“It was infiltration. Legate Fontaine and I did it, the two of us. Made our way into the city, waited until nightfall, and opened one of the gates.” They passed by a bush sheared to look like an animal that either did not exist or Martel did not know about. He supposed it could be an unshapely unicorn.

“I heard that as well but considered it too fanciful to be worth retelling. I know you are both mages, but still, the gate was so lightly defended the pair of you could take it?”

“We didn’t have to defeat the whole garrison. They were on the walls, expecting an attack from the outside, not within. A few spells to deal with the guards on the ground and block off the rest from reaching us.” Martel shrugged, trying to seem casual. It had in fact been a harrowing night, but he kept that to himself.

“I can accept that, being ignorant on magic. But why you? The captain. And your second-in-command? If you had been caught or killed, it would have spelled doom for your – mutiny.”

Martel wondered if the legate thought the word ‘mutiny’ was less offensive to him than ‘rebellion’, ‘insurrection’ or similar. At this point, he hardly cared what anyone called it. “I’m the strongest battlemage and thus the best choice for a task like that. The less people, the smaller risk of discovery. And where I go, Sir Fontaine goes.” Martel knew better than to reveal the existence of tunnels that led into Morcaster.

Miles shook his head, laughing in disbelief. “A battlemage who fights in the first row and acts as captain to boot. You’re the strangest man I’ve met, and I’ve spent fifteen years in the furthest reaches of the Empire.”

“You’d not be the first to express something of that nature, but I see nothing odd in this. If you are a leader, you should be willing to go where you’d send others.”

The legate glanced at him quickly before turning his eyes on a fountain. “Although a soldier, I’m not entirely ignorant in politics. You’ve asked me here because you hope to gain my support for your venture.”

“I appreciate plain talk. Will I have it?”

“I don’t want civil war, or marching my soldiers through the entire breadth of the Empire to see them slaughtered by incendiary spells before the walls of this city,” Miles spoke quietly. “You’ll find no argument from me against.”

“And in favour? You’ve banded behind Legate Honorius as your captain. Will you help sway her to avoid what you just described?”

“If I feel I have the right words to say. But between you and me, she’s a woman of great faith. If you want to make an impression on her, you should have a clergyman or two on your side,” the legate revealed.

Considering how Martel had treated the high inquisitor, he might not have the best reputation among the Faith. “I appreciate the advice.”

“Milord,” a servant called out, hurrying toward them. “Lady Fontaine has returned.”

***

They all gathered in one of the many halls of the palace. Martel had yet to figure out the purpose of having so many. They often looked similar and seemed to serve the same type of purpose, suggesting there was only need for one.

Everyone waited in a different way. Several of the magistrates milled about or spoke in a nervous manner about idle matters. Miles looked calm, if bored, while the other legate, Alexia, scowled in every direction. As for the captain of their group, Honorius, she looked stern to the point of haughty.

On a balcony, a handful of people appeared. Three children or adolescents, the eldest of whom Martel recognised as Flavius, heir to the Empire. An odd-looking fellow, expressionless and unemotional; Martel had met him twice, and both times he had felt unnerved, like being scrutinised and judged by the Imperial prince for reasons unknown. The other children had to be his younger siblings; they looked nervous.

On either side stood the emperor and his wife. Martel could not recall if he had ever seen the woman before, but he remembered his first impression of Corvinus the Third. The man had looked imposing to Martel; not due to his stature, being of average height, but because of the value of his enchanted garments. Now he wore a soldier’s tunic, and it became apparent to Martel how he was just a man.

Not everyone shared the same revelation; Giles of Marbury stepped forward and fell to his knees. “My emperor!” he cried out, and Martel felt a wave of disgust at this display of supplication. Three months ago, the emperor would never have noticed or cared about some magistrate from a city somewhere in the Empire. Yet now he raised his hand magnanimously toward his loyal subject, who looked on the verge of tears. Martel nodded toward Eleanor, who had the royal family removed.

“Where will you take them now?” exclaimed Giles. “Back to some hole, barely fit for rats, consigning His Imperial Majesty to a slow demise while we argue and bicker endlessly?”

“He’ll be provided quarters of the same comfort as yours,” Martel replied coldly. “If it’s good enough for one of us, it’ll do for all of us. I suggest we return to the table, now that you’ve had your curiosity satisfied.” One after the other, they made their way back to the negotiating table.