Brothers of the Snake Read online

  In an effort to display the sort of composure that ought to distinguish a man of high office, Hanfire went back to his coach, got in, and sat down to read some tithe returns he'd brought on the trip. He took his zinc quill out of its case, and determinedly began to make annotations in the margins of the forms by the light of the coach lamps.

  After a few minutes, he heard a pop from off in the distance. It sounded remarkably like the plosive sound that corks made when pulled from flasks of effervescent Fucean wine. There was another one shortly afterwards, then two more in quick succession.

  Hanfire put down his quill and climbed out of the coach. The footmen and drivers were still staring into the darkness.

  Two more pops. Then an odd rattle, like pebbles rolling down the swaying blade of a push-pull saw. This was followed by another sound, muffled and far away.

  'That was a man.’ one of the coachmen said.

  'Be quiet.’ said Hanfire.

  'It was a man, sir.’ the coachman insisted. 'He cried out.’

  Hanfire turned and looked sternly at the coachman. The coachman's name was Petters, and he had been the First Legislator's team driver for eight years. Hanfire couldn't bring himself to reprimand such a four-square, faithful retainer.

  He didn't have to. One look at Hanfire's disapproving expression and Coachman Petters bowed. 'My apologies, First Legislator.’

  Hanfire smiled. 'There's nothing to be scared of.’ he told the people around him. 'Did you not see the fine fellows Receiver Hensher brought with him? I doubt the High Legislator himself boasts a troop so formidable.’

  Some of them smiled. Hanfire was pleased they'd been even slightly soothed by his remark. Inside, once again, he didn't believe a word of it.

  They waited a while longer. Over the low mumble of the thunder, they heard more pops and more rattles. Then a cry again, unmistakable this time.

  The retainers looked at Hanfire. He could taste their fear.

  'Take your places.’ he told them. 'Get ready to proceed. Kester, unlock the gun chest and issue weapons to the coach riders.’

  The retainers hurried to their places, some calling out orders. Hanfire turned back to look into the black thickets. More pops, four or five in a rapid, almost frantic series.

  Then a smell came to Hanfire on the night air: a curious smell, dry and dead. He couldn't place it. Years before, he'd visited Marblevault, on the edges of the Old Desert. There, the hot wind had blown out of the empty quarters, filling the city with the desiccated, mineral stink of the desert.

  It was like that, but not quite.

  'Sir, we are ready to proceed.’ Petters called down from the driving board of the fleet coach. Hanfire raised his right hand.

  'Wait. We should wait a moment longer.’

  They waited. The quad-servitors snorted anxiously, pawing the turf. Behind him, Hanfire heard a rapid clicking. He thought it was one of the coach riders slotting shells into a repeating rifle.

  It was the Receiver's zinc box up in the luggage rack, the measuring device. It was clicking as fast and loud as the finger cymbals the houris of Marblevault clattered when they danced.

  Hanfire cleared his throat, swallowing hard again. We will proceed!' he called out.

  'Sir!' Petters called from his vantage up on the fleet coach. 'Look! Look there!'

  Hanfire looked. Something was moving out in the trees. Something was approaching them – a figure. A running figure.

  Hanfire heard weapons cock.

  'Hold your shots!' he cried.

  The running figure came closer, tearing and clawing through the underbrush in its haste. It came into view.

  It was the Receiver of Wreck.

  His clothes were torn, and his hard-boned face pricked with blood by passing brambles. He ran towards Hanfire and the fleet coach.

  'What is it?' asked Hanfire.

  'Get the coaches moving.’ Hensher said. 'Quickly now.’

  'What's going on?'

  The Receiver didn't answer. He ran to the rear of the fleet coach and dragged the canvas travel cover off the vox-caster set secured on the luggage rack.

  'What is going on?' Hanfire demanded, hurrying after him.

  'Run, First Legislator.’ the Receiver said, urgently throwing switches to power up the vox-set. 'Everyone here must run. Now! Tell them. Order them. Run south in the name of the Golden Throne.’

  'You are scaring me, sir.’ said Hanfire.

  'Good. I mean to. I've seen what's out there. Holy Terra, my men. All my men...'

  Hanfire glanced back at the dark woods then looked at the Receiver. 'What about your men?'

  'They're dead.’ said the Receiver.

  The First Legislator felt a cold, stony weight sink into his gut. What precisely do you mean?' he asked, very clearly and carefully.

  'I mean precisely that they're all dead!' Hensher barked. 'Have you shit for brains, man? Are you stupid? I'm using simple bloody words-'

  'There's no need to be offensive.’ Hanfire said, smarting.

  The Receiver of Wreck looked at Hanfire and sighed. 'I'm sorry.’ he said. 'I'm truly sorry for those words. My temper got the better of me. We're in trouble, sir, very grave trouble. I'm asking you to command the company to flee. On foot. As quickly as they can. They have to lose themselves in the woods right now. Tell them to head south. Please, sir.’

  As he spoke, the Receiver carefully tuned the active vox-caster to a particular channel, and then flipped open the optical reader mounted on the caster's fascia. It blinked as green light fluttered inside its cowled lens.

  The Receiver took off his signet ring and pressed it into the reader's slot.

  'Oh my lord.’ stammered Hanfire. He stumbled away from the rear of the coach and raised his voice, wishing desperately that it wasn't so tremulous. 'All of you!' he cried. 'All of you! Run! Run now! Into the woods! Be quick about it! Run! Head south! Run!'

  The coach crews and servants exploded off the stationary vehicles like a flock of startled crows and began to run. Hanfire watched as they scattered into the trees behind the coaches, panicking, disappearing from view. He heard fearful cries and rushing footfalls retreating into the darkness.

  The Receiver of Wreck took his signet ring back out of the optical reader and slid it onto his finger. He keyed the 'repeat.’send' toggle on the set. Monitor lights flickered and pulsed. He turned around and found Hanfire behind him.

  Are you still here?' he asked. There was a tight sadness in his voice.

  'Of course.’ said Hanfire. 'I am First Legislator of these cantons. I'm not about to run like a common fool.’

  'I wish you had, sir.’ Hensher said.

  'I'm staying here.’ Hanfire said. 'This is my land, my territory. I hold it in fealty to the High Legislator himself. I'll be damned if I flee from the soil I am elected to protect.’

  Then you'll be damned.’ said the Receiver. He climbed into the abandoned fleet coach, and pulled a strongbox off the luggage rack. It had been sitting beside his clucking zinc device. The Receiver opened the strongbox and took out two matched firing pieces, gold-inlaid bolt pistols that had been nested in the red velvet slots within. He loaded both, quickly and surely, and handed one to Hanfire.

  You are a brave soul, First Legislator Hanfire.’ said the Receiver of Wreck. 'I wish I could have got to know you better.’

  There's still time.’ Hanfire began.

  'No. I'm afraid there's not.’ said the Receiver of Wreck. 'I'm so sorry, sir. I have misjudged this. We are in trouble.’

  "You mean... you and I?'

  'I mean Baal Solock.’

  First Legislator Hanfire sighed and nodded. He took his place beside the Receiver of Wreck, in front of the empty fleet coach.

  The primuls appeared. One or two at first, forlorn and rake-thin figures in the soft flicker of the lightning. Then more, a dozen, two dozen. They were very black and hard: spiked figures that stepped quietly out of the thickets, gleaming in the storm light. They seemed to Hanfire to have the
character of hooks or thorns about them. So very glossy-black and sharp.

  The Receiver of Wreck raised his pistol. Samial Cater Hanfire did the same.

  'I really am so sorry.’ the Receiver of Wreck said.

  'No need to be.’ replied the First Legislator.

  They began to fire.

  Behind them, drowned out by the roar of their pistols, the zinc device continued its furious clicking, and the vox-caster continued to pulse.

  II

  It appeared to be a joke, though the punchline wasn't obvious.

  Perdet Suiton Antoni, primary clerk to the High Legislator of Fuce, read the wafer again, and saw no structure to the humour. Just thirty-three, a nimble-fingered woman with a nimble mind, Antoni took her job seriously, so seriously that it had already cost her a marriage and most of her circle of friends. Women were only just beginning to advance in the Legislature of Baal Solock, and no female had ever held a post so lofty or so ambitious as Perdet Suiton Antoni. It took tenacity and drive to overturn the old, hidebound attitudes to gender and profession. A woman had to work twice as hard and be twice as good as any male counterpart to win advancement, even now the rules had changed, and suffrage was recognised by law.

  Antoni was a slight woman, who looked much younger than her actual age. On state occasions, she seemed swamped by the brocade and fur of her ceremonial garments, and, many said – most of them male – by the stature of her office. For her, every day was a battlefield to get men to take her seriously.

  'This is a joke.’ she said.

  The duty rubricator in the palace's communique chamber shrugged ruefully. 'It is authentic, as far as we can see, dam. You'll note the thread line that declares the authority of the Receiver of Wreck.'

  Antoni already had. She had an eye for such things. She didn't need to be told. 'But it's a request for-' she stopped and laughed. The rubricator laughed too, soullessly, just trying to keep her company.

  Antoni stopped laughing, and so did the rubricator. 'This hasn't happened before.’ she said.

  'Please you, dam, it has.’

  'When?'

  The rubricator shrugged. Ah... I'd have to consult. Maybe five hundred years ago?'

  'This is a joke.’ said Antoni again.

  'I would hope so.’ said the rubricator. 'So much paperwork to fill out if it's genuine.’

  Antoni looked at the wafer again. She knew she could simply ignore it, that was in her power. She could ignore anything she didn't want to bother the High Legislator with.

  But she'd not won her position in the world by ignoring the rules. No one knew the Legislature statutes more thoroughly than Perdet Suiton Antoni. She was a woman of process, a woman of letter. This wafer, however ridiculous it seemed, carried about it the seal of urgency and proper procedure. Antoni knew that some protocol simply couldn't be ignored, even if it seemed daft. Just because something happened once every few thousand years didn't mean it wasn't still important.

  'Be advised.’ Antoni told the rubricator, 'I have to treat this as genuine. Inform your staff. If it's a hoax, we'll find out who's behind it. Until then, stand ready. I have to take the authority at face value. I have to take this to the High Legislator.’

  'Rather you than me.’ the rubricator said.

  Antoni nodded. 'Carry on.’ she said.

  As she hurried away down the long, draughty corridor, the rubricator turned to his staff, clapped his gnarly hands, and urged them to meet emergency conditions.

  Fra Quesh Azure, High Legislator of Fuce, was watering his high garden with a little, green, spouted can. The high garden was a long terrace on the roof of the palace, marvellously festooned with weeds and scrubby plants that the High Legislator would not allow to be pruned or cut back. He fancied himself a botanist, and this was his collection of precious samples. He had written several heavy books on the subject, all of which had been dutifully published, all of which sat, unread, in the palace library. Years before, the high garden had afforded a fine view across the roofs and chimneys of Fuce. Nowadays, it was hard enough to locate the edge railings in all the undergrowth, let alone see out.

  The High Legislator was dressed in a housecoat, a long robe of silk. The tie-sash had long since been mislaid, and the High Legislator pulled the robe shut around his portly frame with one hand. Princeps, his attack dog, a black-satin beast of hard muscles and slavering snout, trotted behind him through the weeds, leash-less.

  'My Lord Azure.’ Antoni called from the doors of the garden room. The High Legislator was invisible amongst the sprouting moss worts and climbing dreddle. 'Uh, my lord?'

  Princeps stiffened and growled, hulking his back like a fighting bull.

  'Stay now, Princeps, my good boy,' muttered the High Legislator, setting down his watering can. 'That's just Antoni. You know Antoni, don't you? Yes, you do. Yes, you do.'

  The hound stopped growling and padded off through the overgrown garden to meet their guest. Antoni stiffened as she saw the dog approaching. It circled her twice.

  'Let him sniff you!' a voice called from out of the spidery green. 'Antoni? Let him smell you. Then he won't harm you.'

  Antoni held out a fist. The attack dog came to it, sniffed it, and licked it.

  Antoni shuddered.

  With a grumble like distant thunder, the attack dog padded off into the garden room, and began fidgeting with a bone.

  'Antoni?'

  'My lord?'

  Azure emerged out of the weeds. 'Hello, my dear. What's the matter?'

  Antoni gave the wafer to the High Legislator. 'A joke, I believe.’ she said, 'but I am constrained by protocol to take it seriously.’

  Azure peered at the paper slip. 'Hensher sent this?'

  'It seems so, sir.’

  'From where?'

  'The Pythoan Cantons, sir.’

  'Never been there. I'm told they're horribly rural. Horribly rural. Who's our man up in that neck of the woods?'

  'Hanfire, sir.’

  Azure paused, thinking. He shook his head. 'No, don't know him.’

  'He was here last winter feast. Smart fellow, very proper.’

  Azure shrugged. 'Still nothing.’

  'Should we take this seriously, sir?' Antoni asked.

  'If it was from this Hamfer-'

  'Hanfire.’

  Well, whatever his name... then no. But Hensher solicited this signal.’ The High Legislator paused, and glanced around his garden. His robe fell open. Antoni looked away at some nearby sunflowers.

  'The official Receiver of Wreck ought to know what he's talking about, wouldn't you say, Antoni?'

  Yes, sir. Could you maybe pull your robe, with respect, closer to you-'

  'What?'

  'I was saying, the high garden's looking particularly lovely, sir.’

  'I'm happy you think so.’ The High Legislator looked again at the wafer. 'This is a protocol matter, Antoni.’

  Yes, sir.’

  'I mean, fake or real, this is a matter of protocol.’

  'It is, sir.’

  'How long has it been?'

  'I checked, sir. Six hundred and thirty-three years.’

  Azure nodded and dead-headed a few tuberoses. 'If this is a scare, I'll have heads on pikes for it.’

  Yes, sir.’

  'If it isn't... Antoni, you know what to do.’

  'Sir, do you really want me to-'

  The Receiver of Wreck is no idiot. He wouldn't have done this unless he expected us to take proper action. If it turns out to be his idea of foolery, then I'll flay him alive and use his skull as a goblet.’

  'Hensher never struck me as a man fond of games.’ Antoni said.

  'Me neither. Go and set things in motion, please.’

  'I will, sir.’ said Antoni.

  * * *

  The Alarum Chapel was actually a basement room underneath the Holy Cathedral in the heart of Fuce. Time and circumstance had layered buildings above and around it.

  The door to it was locked. Antoni had to wait
for several minutes while the beadle found a key.

  'Been no call for it in such a long time.’ the beadle said, blowing dust off the key. He regarded the primary clerk with eyes rendered dull by cataracts. 'Begging your pardon, dam, but is this-'

  Antoni cut the beadle off. 'I'm certain.'

  The door swung open with a drawn out, lethargic creak. Antoni walked alone into the cool, dark crypt, and ancient glow-globe systems, sensing either her body heat or motion, slowly came alive, growing in radiance until the chapel was bathed in a pearly, green shimmer.

  On the stone shelves and alcoves around her, Antoni saw urns and amphorae, thick with dust, painted with the figures of warriors. Grey-clad warriors, from the sky. Six hundred and thirty-three years earlier, they had come to Baal Solock's aid. As she wandered forward, Antoni studied the stylised, painted figures, legs splayed, lances lifted to strike.

  'This is all so much nonsense.’ she said to herself.

  The plinth was made of ebony, or some black stone that was warm to the touch. It was surprisingly small, and gave off a faint scent of energised heat, like an astropath enclave. Old systems, still ticking over. Antoni felt the surfaces of the plinth carefully, wiping away the accumulated dust with the corner of her cuff.

  Antoni had brought the codex with her. She took the small, brass-clasped volume out of her coat pocket, opened it, and began to read. No one had performed this action in a very long time, and nobody had even practised it. Some court procedures were rehearsed on a regular, formal basis, but not this one. For a moment, Antoni felt a brief connection to the last person who had taken this codex out of the palace library and opened it: another primary clerk, his name (without doubt, he had been a he) now lost, six hundred and thirty-three years before.

  The instructions were fairly simple. Antoni laid the codex open on the top of the plinth, and saw how the leaves naturally fell apart on the right page. Fabric memory. Her predecessor had pressed the book open, and laid it just where Antoni had now done, so as to be able to consult it.