The Patriarch, his face still solemn, signaled to his retinue and took his leave of Jierna’sid.
It was only matter of moments after the Patriarch had departed before the ugly nature of what was to play out became evident.
Hours into the discussions, that ugliness had taken root and begun to grow. It began with the contention put forth by the nobility, the counts who had been given right of stewardship of the city-states by the empress or her ancestors. Though unrelated to the familial line, the noble families had served for generations as titular heads of those states.
The death of the empress who had granted them their titles had given them opportunity to cement that stewardship into something more autonomous.
“The empire is no more,” stated Tryfalian, Count of Keltar, the third-largest of the Sorbold city-states. “You heard the Blesser state it: the Dynasty of the Dark Earth has come to an end. Every man with so much as a drop of the dynastic line in his veins was been weighed, and to a one, all were found wanting. There is no emperor, no empress, to command Sorbold as a nation. The empire has ceased to exist. What remains now are only the twenty-seven states, each with its own governance. It is here in which order lies.” His eyes glittered as he looked over the assemblage. “It is here that it should stay.”
“What are you saying?” demanded Fhremus, commander of the imperial army. “Are you suggesting that Sorbold be broken into twenty-seven pieces?”
“Not twenty-seven. There are nine major city-states: Keltar, Jakar, Nicosi, Baltar, Remaldfaer, Kwasiid, Ghant, Telchoir, and of course Jierna. The others are too small to be considered able to stand on their own, to support an army—”
“You are proposing to dismantle the army?” Fhremus shouted over the dozen and a half voices that rose in objection from the counts of the smaller city-states Tryfalian had just invalidated.
“Not to dismantle, Fhremus, merely to reassign, reapportion.”
“You’re insane!” The commander’s chair screeched sharply as he leapt to his feet, only to be drawn gently back down into it by a tap on the shoulder from the benison.
“Actually, it has worked quite well for us,” inserted Viedekam, representative of the southern coastal region known as the Nonaligned States. “Penzus, like each of the other Nonaligned States, maintains its own army, its own naval fleet, its own tax and tariff structure, which differs substantially from some of the other states’, particularly the landlocked ones. The autonomy has been extremely beneficial to each of the member states, allowing it to determine its own destiny.”
“And, judging by the wealth and influence the Nonaligned States exert on the world, you will only continue to consider that independence beneficial, I’m sure,” snorted Tristan Steward contemptuously, drawing glares from the counts, Viedekam, and Ashe. “It was precisely the example of the Nonaligned States that convinced Roland to band together under a single regency, so that we might not continue be a loose and messy conglomeration of conflicting laws and priorities. In the three years since the consolidation of the provinces of Roland, we have found great economy, efficiency, and, above all, strength in unity, while retaining the provincial autonomy. Sorbold has that now. Why would you compromise it?”
“Thank you, chieftain, m’lord,” said Nielash Mousa blandly, lifting a hand to forestall the angry chorus of replies rising from the nobility. “Mayhap it would be best to ask if there is any faction within Sorbold that would like to respond to the proposal that Tryfalian had placed on the table.”
“Allow me to do so,” said Ihvarr, the eastern Hierarch, smoothly, but with evident anger bubbling beneath his calm manner. “Talquist and I can assure you that a nation with the size and scope of Sorbold would fall to chaos under such a plan.”
“Why?” demanded Damir, the Count of Jakar. “As the westernmost province, I have had little to do with Jierna Tal for the last twenty years. I am all but autonomous already.”
“Perhaps,” acknowledged Talquist, Hierarch of the guilds and shipping compacts in the western region and, like Ihvarr, a heavyset man with broad shoulders and skin burnished in the sun. “And you have been a fair and well-respected ruler, Damir. But, for all that I have been the one supplying you with workers for your salt and sulfur mines, transporting your goods, and building your city, my trade agreement was with the empress. I worked for the Crown, not, with respect, for you. If I had to negotiate trade agreements, exchange tariffs, make security arrangements, and all other sort of terms with you, and each of the twelve counts to whom I supply these things, I would go mad.”
“As would I,” added Ihvarr.
“But think of the advantage your shipping lines would have under such an arrangement, Talquist,” said Kaav, the Count of Baltar. “You could sit in consultation with the rulers of the coastal states and persuade them to deploy a larger percentage of their forces to defend the shipping lanes, and they would be a more sympathetic audience to your request than the empress, who had to protect an entire realm, with far more land than sea.”
“Leaving my workers unprotected?” Ihvarr demanded. “I will brook none of that. Then who will you find to ply your copper, anthracite, and silver mines, Kaav? Who would transport your goods? For surely I will have no dealing with you if you cannot protect my assets with armed forces.”
“And where do you propose to find these forces?” Fhremus asked bitterly. “Remember, the might of the Sorbold army comes from two factors—commonality of purpose and love of our native land. Not to mention loyalty to the empress, may her soul fly freely among the clouds. I gainsay this plan because it will divide us, state to state, column to column—and we are weaker divided.”
“Nonesuch,” said Tryfalian angrily. He glared at Fhremus, his eyes lighting on the foreign dignitaries assembled in the outer circle. “And I charge you, man, do not again utter such treasonous words in the presence of those who might wish to take advantage of them.”
Beliac, King of Golgarn, snapped to attention from what had previously been a somewhat drowsy state. “I resent that,” he bellowed, rising from his chair. “We are here in this damnable heat, listening to your endless prattle, because Golgarn is your ally, not your enemy. I came to pay my respects to my longtime friend the empress, and her son, and to offer my support to the new rulership. And for this you insult me.”
“Apologies, Majesty,” Nielash Mousa said quickly. “No insult was intended, I assure you; we are grateful for your presence, and for that of all of Sorbold’s true friends.”
He turned, his eyes containing a clear look of despair, to the inner circle. “I have a suggestion,” he said to the divided group of nobles, soldiers, and merchants. “The Scales can weigh ideas as well as men. When the first emperor was chosen at the end of the Cymrian War, a colloquium similar to this one met, with many of the same concerns, expressed by the same factions. A symbol for each of the factions was placed on the Scales against the Ring of State. The scales weighed in favor of the military, whose goal was to see a single, united Sorbold, so it was from there that the emperor was ultimately chosen. I suggest that, as it is almost midnight, this might further the discussion to a better conclusion.”
Stony silence answered him. Then, after a moment, heads nodded grudgingly, and the various factions adjourned to select their symbols and plot their next moves.
Achmed waited until the inner circle had dispersed, then rose from his seat, pushing his chair back into the table. Ashe, sitting beside him, with Tristan Steward to his left, ran a hand through his draconic red-gold hair, which gleamed with a metallic sheen in the torchlight, then put his forehead down on the table.
“Gods,” he groaned.
“No, I have no doubt these are mere mortals,” Achmed said. “Well, best of luck with it.”