“Your Excellency,” said the man in lighter purple.
“Yes, dear Fulvius?” said the exarch.
“He will want his gold,” said Fulvius.
“And he shall have it,” said the exarch.
“It seems ironic, if not deplorable,” said Fulvius, “that one should want pay for doing the work of Karch.”
“Nonetheless, he shall be paid,” said the exarch. “It is well known that the obligations of the servitors of Karch are inevitably and impeccably discharged.”
“I fear he knows too much,” said Fulvius.
“Perhaps,” said the exarch, “he will think the better of the matter, and be moved to restore the gold to the coffers of the temple.”
“I fear he may not be so benevolently disposed,” said Fulvius.
“The gold will be recovered,” said the exarch. “Arrangements are already in place.”
“And what of him?” asked Fulvius.
“He will be sent to the table of Karch,” said the exarch.
“Excellent,” said Fulvius.
“He knows too much,” said the exarch.
“What of the others,” asked Fulvius, “those who closed the street, cordoned off the area, guarded the exits, and slew any who might have tried to flee?”
“They know nothing,” said the exarch.
“They will miss their pay,” said Fulvius.
“They will be unable to find their paymaster,” said the exarch.
“Perhaps he has fled from the city,” said Fulvius.
“Perhaps,” said the exarch.
“This is a good day,” said Fulvius.
“Any day is a good day, on which is done the work of Karch,” said the exarch.
“It is so,” said Fulvius, humbly.
“I have a bottle of kana, a century old, brought from the highlands of the holy world itself, at great expense,” said the exarch. “I would be pleased if you would share a cup with me.”
“I would be honored, your Excellency,” said Fulvius.
“Let us descend,” said the exarch.
“After you,” said Fulvius.
The two men then left the roof of the temple.
Behind them, as they took their way downward, they could hear, for a time, the strains of the hymn.
In the distance, from the roof, more smoke could be seen, this suggesting that the fire might have spread.
19
The Annals are often laconic.
Consider the terse entry, “The sky was dark with the coming of ships.” Much, we suppose, lies behind so curt an entry.
One can gather, of course, that there were a great many ships. Something may be gathered, as well, from the apparent fact that reports and notices from various worlds, usually toward the perimeters of the empire, seem to have lapsed at much the same time. This does not, of course, entail that such worlds were destroyed. That seems unlikely for various reasons, for example, first, the prohibitive expenditure of resources which would be necessary for shattering a world and spinning its fragments into its star, or even to scorch its surface and destroy the great majority of, if not the entirety of, its life forms, and secondly, the pointless stupidity of destroying coveted objects. It would be a strange thief who would risk destroying what he intends to steal. This is not to deny that more than one world, by the empire, or others, was destroyed, or sterilized, to avenge a perceived insult or to set into public view an example of the foolishness of rebellion or dissent. On the other hand, a shattered world, or a scarred, and burned, world, would be a dismal, sorry prize for victory, a guerdon scarcely worth seeking in the expensive, dangerous, arduous games of ambitious men. One seeks productive populations, salubrious climates, and rich mines, established industries, green expanses and teeming seas, not ashes and cinders. Accordingly we may suppose that after the clash of fleets and the hammering and extermination of resistances, things might be much the same. Perhaps new ceremonies might be instituted and new oaths required. Indeed, in some cases, the same individuals might be doing much the same thing, only in different liveries and uniforms, under new flags. To be sure, once the mighty web of the empire, with its organization, its massive civil service, its networks of communication, its facilities of enforcement, its report lines leading ultimately to Telnar, built up over millennia, was torn, a thousand worlds would go their thousand ways. Indeed, on many worlds conquerors would come and go, taking worlds, losing worlds, abandoning worlds, seeking new worlds, their engines and ships remembered only in the stories of old men. And on such worlds districts, provinces, towns, and manors multiplied, and order and law would become diversified and local, often anchored to keeps and strongholds, often extending only as far as men could ride, only as far as swords could reach.
Nonetheless it is easy to understand, as it must have begun, the terror of the darkening sky, the ships, so many of them, the fire from the sky, the flames, the sounds and roars, the whines and crashings, the collapsing buildings, the leveling of entire areas, the screaming and running, the loosed, startled animals, the frightened, swarming filchen, birds, blackened, burned, falling to earth, the disruption of commerce, the lack of order, the loss of shelter and heat, the contamination of water, the cessation of traffic on the roads, save for refugees, the guttings and emptying of stores, the lootings, the banditry, the fear of anyone not known, and that of some known.
The storm that was rising over the empire had been long in its brewing. For centuries there had been, here and there, a flash of lightning, far off, a squall, a hint of the rising of wind, a crash of thunder in the distance. These signs were evident, but, we suppose, were commonly ignored. Is that not the way of men? Small objects, a plate, a chair, a table, before one, seem larger than the mountain, so tiny, so far away. A torodont, in the distance, seems smaller than the filch crouching under the table. But the mountain is large, and the torodont is mighty, even far away.
Clearly the empire was threatened. It was under siege. Walls were weakened, and crumbling. Borders were crossed. Strange ships plied familiar skies.
But the vi-cat and the arn bear are dangerous, quite dangerous. One enters their lair only at one’s peril.
This was well known to Abrogastes, the Far-Grasper. He was no more willing, in an era of diminishing resources, where a woman might be exchanged for a cartridge, and a town for a rifle, to risk his Lion Ships than the empire was to risk the imperial cruisers.
Two parameters might be mentioned, one which favored Abrogastes and his sort, and one which did not. First, dissatisfaction with the empire, fear of its power, resentment of its oppression and tyranny, hatred of its taxes and exactions, were resented on many worlds. Indeed, some had seceded long ago from the empire, secessions often ignored by the empire, given the costs of an attempted reclamation, particularly on worlds regarded as less important. Indeed, alien forces were, on many worlds, welcomed as liberators, until the nature of the new chains became clear. This parameter worked out well for Abrogastes, and many like him, for it enabled him to woo and subvert worlds. Indeed, the industrial complexes of various worlds, some surreptitiously and others more openly, armed, supplied, and trained foes of the empire. On such worlds, Abrogastes, and his sort, could move and recruit, particularly amongst barbarian peoples, with impunity. The second parameter, however, worked muchly in favor of the empire. The empire, at least until the Faith Wars, was largely united, whereas those who would threaten, attack, and despoil it, were often foes of one another, as well as of the empire. No core of civilitas, no shared loyalties or traditions, bound them together as allies in a common cause. Indeed, the longevity of the empire was often understood as having been best explained by its skill in pitting its foes against one another.