“How do you use this preposterous thing, Horiks?” Wryn complained. His knobby fingers fumbled awkwardly with the tubing, as he attempted to draw the perfumed smoke that dribbled out of the pipe mouth into his lungs, to no avail. He threw down the pipe mouth to the ground, chipping the polished wood on the stones. “Blast it all, this is impossible to use, why’s a pipe no good anymore?” he bemoaned, reaching into his robe and pulling out an ornately carved small pipe and grasping for his tobacco tin.
“The latest thing those savage Greys have come up with, thanks in no small part to those pirates they let maraud their coastal waters. They call it a farrak: a type of piping contraption that allows you to smoothly adjust the temperatures and flavors of the tobacco through infused water containers. It’s delightful to use, and even more delightful to watch you fail to grasp, Wryn,” Horiks chuckled, enjoying his own small pipe, with a long tube dancing around the legs of his chair, both a cherry wood stained with a rich, dark color. Horiks himself wore a robe of a dark cherry red, silken fabric interwoven with golden threads that created delicate designs depicting a wild Gul’ul atop a throne of skeletal remains. All of this lay over his humble white potona, the traditional plain white robes that served as the standard uniform for all the Priests of Amune.
Wryn spat tobacco resin out of his mouth, grumbling under his breath. He waved over at the young boy behind him, gesturing for him to come closer. “Fetch some of that Donelodurian honey whisky, child, and I want braised mutton tonight. Not chicken and none of that disgusting lichen or whatever you tried to pass off to me as a meal yesterday.”
“It was mushrooms sir, and straight away, sir.”
“You really ought to be stricter with your servants, Wryn,” a slender younger woman giggled impetuously, “all this talking back nonsense. That boy needs the rod in his life.”
“You ought to worry more about your taxation efforts, young lady. Reports out of Amnh Nakh have you at five percent lower this past month than the month before; one might start to think you might need even fewer responsibilities, Vaya, rather than more.” Wryn’s eyes glinted with satisfaction with his rebuff. The younger woman snapped her fingers and a short boy, with dark skin and an open wound below his eye, appeared and knelt silently at her shoulder. She whispered something inaudible yet venomously, dismissing him as she waved her hand, nearly slapping him half accidentally.
Looking at Was Mak Vaya in comparison to Wrynell Nishuk was like comparing two faces of the same coin. Outside of their lust for power, they shared little. Vaya was tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful, although her face was ostensibly wearing a perpetual scowl. Her dark, fine hair, typical for those in northern Dunyasik, hung from her head and draped over her shoulders without volume, bleeding into her black robes hauntingly. She hated the disingenuous yet largesse nature of Horiks and the outright gluttony of Wrynell. She felt as though trinkets, whoring, and imbibing were beneath her, and she dressed as if she were barely out of her seminary years. Black robes clung over the white potona, with silver rings wrapped around each spidery finger. She must be nearly emaciated under those robes, she hardly ever eats, Wrynell thought to himself often, though he wouldn’t mind a good rutting and meal after with her.
“Vaya, my dear,” Horiks interceded, “no one here denies that you are…capable. Your ambitious nature is what got you to where you are, is it not?”
“Some would salaciously argue that her skills with her mouth did win her a spot on the council, though I’m sure they mean nothing untoward about it,” another voice joined in. As he entered, Viz dropped his robe on the ground trailing behind him, the tapestry-like stitching and designs of it crumpling into an unceremonious heap. He calmly reached a hand up to quiet the table.
A small dagger, concealed within the sleeves of her outer robe, flashed through the air, glinting in the firelight, straight at Viz’s head. Another flash and a tan hand caught the blade inches from Viz’s face, who kept walking toward the group without breaking stride. “Vaya, you put far too much effort in the martial skills. You have such a talented mind, yet you’re forced to waste it on petty assassination attempts when you put too much time at the training grounds.”
“Call me a whore again, and I’ll kill you and your pet.”
“Lights, my dear, I’d never dream to call you a whore. It’s beneath you. A former whore, however…” Viz trailed off.
A second dagger flew at Viz’s head. His guard caught this one as well, with minimal effort showing, letting them both clatter to the ground at his feet.
“No no no, Dinel. On the floor? What are you, an animal? Give them back to her, lest she not have a utensil to eat with,” Viz chided as he sat down. The tall man, older than Vaya but far younger than anyone else on the council, aside from Pila, who was nearly still a child. Invizli “Viz” Seklimissian was a man of legacy on the Council of Seven, his father was the Fifth Seat before him, with his father the Fifth Seat before that, stretching back ten generations when his family first burrowed their way into a state of apparent permanent residence on the Council. His golden hair, thinning slightly at the temples but still crowning his head generously, was oiled back. His eyes were gray with flecks of fiery crimson; his maternal side came from the deep southern lands, where the recessive red eye gene had been passed on and on but faded as his clan staunchly began to favor northern lands. He wore a matching crimson outer robe, with golden and white threads depicting fiery depths and green eyes shining above it all, the Darkness enrobed in black at the top of the collar. Despite appearing outclassed by Vaya’s quickness, he was physically imposing himself, compared to an ordinary man, two meters tall with visible musculature beneath his form-fitting potona.
Viz’s entrance into the room brought in an air of unease, tense silence gripping the Council. “So, the iconoclast graces us with his presence. Figured you would be off conducting your experiments. You’re always holed up in your tower, brooding. So gracious of you to join us today,” Wryn quipped.
Viz ever so slightly cocked his head, taking a moment to eye the walrus-shaped man before responding. “My apologies, I just had no idea you knew what the word iconoclast meant, Lord Wrynell,” he retorted, his eyes glazed over as if his mind was elsewhere. Sensing his annoyance, he seized the opportunity, “my father was the intransigent, brooding type, not me. Has your aging mind failed you and brought about his image on my arrival? I’m grateful to think I’ve inherited his good looks in addition to my mother’s intelligence.” He waved nonchalantly to one of the serving boys standing at attention near one of the torch-lit pillars. “Please be a dear, my boy, and fetch some sun spirit and fresh melon for me. I’d like to keep my wits about me and keep things light tonight…something tells me this discussion could drag on. I’ll arrange for proper victuals later this evening,” and waved the boy off with a handkerchief emblazoned with his clan’s crest, two crossed red spears encircled with a thin yellow flame. He unceremoniously coughed into the handkerchief and then recomposed himself. “My dear, Wryn, you seem ill at ease. Please know that I will soon return to my ‘brooding’ shortly after we conclude our discussions. You know I only come at the most urgent behest.” He waved the handkerchief over toward the table the Council was seated around.
“Yes, Viz, and we cherish your company,” a gravely voice that was as gray and grating as the slate stone floors he stood upon responded. “It’s been far too long since you last visited the Central Tower. One might think you prefer your books and laboratory more than our company,” he raised his glass and toasted.
Never missing a chance, Viz raised his own glass of freshly-arrived sun spirit, the honey-hued liquid dancing around the bejeweled goblet. “My dear friend, I would never prefer the company of the histories and sciences over your delightful conversational skills, Fenal.” He toasted toward the tall, aged man. “And Light, though some lesser beings may call him sanctimonious and avaricious, I find the staid company of Wrynell to be intoxicating as always,” he added cheekily, winking as Wryn’s face flushed beet red.
As Wryn gnashed his teeth at the leg of mutton, masquerading his embarrassment as poorly received rage, Fenal sat back down in his own chair, rocking the wood legs back slightly as he reclined into a relaxed posture. Fenal himself had a plate of buckwheat noodles topped with king scorpion egg yolk sauce steaming in front of him, though he seemed entirely uninterested in the dish. Fenal was an aging man, nearing his seventieth year, and yet he presided over the room with an undeniable presence. His hair had turned white at the temples but had not thinned, which he kept cropped neatly, careful to not let it reach the collar of his robe, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He was a former soldier, and carried himself as one who had fought in the earliest days of the Iron Wars should, with a stout presence and strength that made him seem terrifying to cross. His outer robe, sitting on top of his white potona, was a plain muted gray, with a gold design carved into the seams of each end of it. He also hung a large pendant, a golden circle with a yellow diamond perfectly cut as a second circle inside of it, the two eyes representative of Amune’s ever-seeing eye.
After pausing for a moment to straighten his robe, he started the discussions back up: “Wryn, you were just going through shipping estimates for the previous month. What news from Amnh Nakh?”
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Wryn composed himself, adjusting his robe as he burped and excused his manners. “Tarren had three raids in the last month from those damn pirates,” he answered. “The town’s trade carracks have all been sunk, and we’ve lost three tons of timber.” He paused to chew, gulping down his honey whiskey and surreptitiously burped again, before continuing: “Donenoledur had three ships’ worth of hawkens ready for our farmers to breed, but those damned cowards are afraid to leave their cove. They’ve sent word that they need armed reinforcement and at least a half dozen galleys in order to ensure a safe package. They claim to be blockaded. Miserable cowards,” he grumbled.
“Perhaps,” Vaya supposed, “this simply is a sign of a weakened grip on the northern lands.” She bridged her hands together, as Fenal’s gaze signaled allowance. “We have four hundred more soldiers stationed at Frenen. If you were to allow for direct governance from the Southwestern Tower of Frenen, I’d have those men rededicated to the northern territories and in place to build an armada, two dozen ships, within the year.”
“As I’ve said, child,” Wryn spat back, “your taxation collection has failed you on the western borderlands and in the northwestern fishing villages. And The Scales fall under my jurisdiction. That includes Mount Frenen and the little town. They’ve operated without direct governorship for generations; they don’t need your presence now. That battalion is in place strategically. Perhaps, given your skills, I should have you join them. You can throw knives at those that bother you, or perhaps your other gif-” he was cut off by the flash of a knife, buried three centimeters from his temple into the back of his chair. Vaya’s eyes narrowed as she acknowledged the warning throw.
“Regardless,” Fenal cooly interjected, “of their territorial claim, the battalion in Frenen guards the northern freshwaters, they can’t be moved. There’s even word of a madman roaming through the Grey Lands and torching whole farms. We need security for those farmers, so long as you all appreciate the ale and breads you have,” he nodded to Wryn, who had just ripped off a hunk of bread as he listened with honey whiskey still clinging to his unkempt beard. “Wryn,” he continued as he stared straight at his lesser, “send a messenger to Donenoledur. They may have three of the ships from the narrow cove. The Grey Lands are at ease, for the time being, so you may spare that, correct?” he nodded over to Vaya. She nodded in agreement. “But you will also ensure that the message passed along makes clear that, should they fail to meet shipping demands next report, I will not hesitate to give those barbarians free reign along their southern coast.”
Viz chuckled, sipping his sun spirit, still steaming hot, as he read his territorial reports and listened.
Fenal ignored or failed to notice the reaction, turning instead to Horiks. “I would imagine that things are unchanged with those savages in their swamps, Horiks?”
Pausing to blow nonchalantly exhale and emit a small ball light into a smoke ring, faintly resembling Fenal’s Eye of Amune pendant, Horiks shook his head. “They’re cooped up, retreating further into the western coast, almost as if they want us to take their lands.”
Fenal waved a hand dismissively, “swamps and sinkholes, they can keep the Grey Lands for eternity.”
“Horiks the Calm feels an easy moniker to ‘earn’ when nothing happens in your territories,” Viz quipped.
“There may, however, be some truth to those madman reports. One of the priests in the savages’ central village said the man has appeared in half a dozen spots in their swamps. He’s looking for something, although he seems to just be burning everything when he doesn’t find it,” Horiks took another long inhale. He picked at a pickled pinfish, navigating the spiny miniscule bones for a bite. Even the perfumed smoke can’t erase your breath, Viz thought. “Reports can’t be entirely accurate, however; he keeps popping up having traveled nearly a hundred kilometers a day.”
“Perhaps the savages have lost track of the days, they do keep worshipping the God of the Tides, or whatever they blaspheme on about,” La’arak, the Sixth Seat of the Council, added.
Fenal shot a glance to silence the man. That was how he kept order, Viz notwithstanding, with an aura of intimidation and fear. He nodded at Horiks’s report. “And you, Pila, you had seconded arranging this Council meeting, what did you wish to report about?”
The girl, barely nineteen years old, shot up from her seat, nearly knocking over her attendant as the chair wobbled behind her. She was thin to the point of seeming frail, with straw-colored hair and more freckles than one could count. Her eyes were jade green, and she wore spectacle glasses of thin gold wiring. Being the daughter of the Sixth Seat had fueled rumors of nepotism, despite the widely accepted fact that half of these seat appointments were considered birthrights anyway, but she outshone her father when it came to ambition and intelligence, another thing she inherited from her mother beyond their looks. Her voice trembled slightly, but she pulled tightly on her seafoam robe as she pushed through her nerves and read from the written report in her free hand. “Th-the southern villages report seeing a high number of wild hawkens migrating north away from the mountains. In a-all of the reports that we’ve seen there have been a number of oxen mutilations and one village reporting a string of murders. The local priests presume the mutilations and murders to be the work of the southern heathens from the mountains coming down. Despite this, crop yields are high, and weather is still mild in the re-region, so the migratory patterns aren’t evidence of an early winter.” She looked at the table, with surprisingly all six other Council members listening intently, Fenal’s eyes the most affixed. His leering eyes haunted her like nightmares, so she quickly looked back down.
“Go on, child,” La’arak urged his daughter, sipping on his own honey wine goblet without noticing the threatening gaze pointed at her.
“The um…the uh…the reports indicate from the southernmost priests that something may be driving the heathens out of Tas Utul to encroach on our lands.”
“The point being?” Vaya uttered impatiently.
“Th-this may be our…opportunity.” Pila adjusted herself, trying to regain a semblance of confidence. “It’s been generations since we’ve tried to push beyond our southern borders into Tas Utul. We could…use this perceived encroachment to push expansion to grab mining territories in the foothills of the mountains.”
Fenal grinned at this, “further reducing our need for the mines bordering with Ginlesik.”
Pila nodded, gulping inaudibly.
“Good work, Pila,” Fenal answered her nervousness. The girl fell back into her chair as quickly as she had shot up. She took a gulp of her blueberry wine so large it nearly dripped out of her lips. She swallowed, coughing as she choked on the oversized goblet.
“To that end,” Viz started, “perhaps it is time to discuss the actual war happening, rather than simply fantasizing about the ones you wish to start in the future.”
Fenal waited a moment, his eyes lingering on Pila. “Please, Viz,” he said warmly, “as our Master at War, you should truly take the stage.”
“Fen, seeing you try to feign congeniality is like watching a blood bear try to welcome you in for an embrace…it doesn’t fit my friend,” he prodded, noting Fenal’s humor didn’t seem to welcome the joke. Not sure if he hated the joke or being called ‘friend’ more. “Regardless, I do have some promising updates. Haluk falls further into sickness; he shall be dead within the month, and the Emerald Throne shall soon have a new king upon it.”
La’arak interjected, “what about the warrior princess?”
Viz waved his hand, “La’arak,” he shot back quickly, snubbing his name, “please be quiet in matters of war. I will call on you as I see fit. And I will not see fit.” La’arak quieted, reddening with anger.
“Continue,” Fenal gestured.
“My spies tell me that the succession is disputed amongst the court, despite Haluk’s pronouncement that his brother Kuncer will reign after his death. The warrior princess, Haluk’s daughter, is a famed warrior and has prowess upon the battlefield, that is without question. But in a thousand years, no woman has sat upon the Emerald Throne. The Iron Mountains may stir and break, erupting from Buyul’s ire, if a woman sits upon the throne.”
“Ironic, considering,” Fenal mused.
Viz shrugged, continuing, “Haluk is nothing, if not a coward. He lost the Iron Wars. He wishes for nothing less than to stain his legacy and name further by upending the Ginlesi ways; he will err on the side of caution and ensure Kuncer takes the throne without struggle by giving up his crown before his death.”
“Then we cannot wait. Kuncer is weak of body, the court won’t hold him up for too long. Be it Buyul or another cousin or daughter, someone will challenge him. We must use the chaos and upheaval to cut off foothills. The Ashen Hills would allow us a route to end this war with Ilerle once and for all.”
“To thin ourselves at this time is foolish,” Viz retorted, though he did so musingly. Your true plan is barely even clever enough to fool this Council, Fenal. “Would it truly be the best move to abandon the front lines on the Ilerlean borders to attack an enemy we’ve just beaten?”
Fenal smiled, a dangerous, knowing smile. “Ilerle can only continue to stall our advances in the North with Ginlesi minerals. You and I both know that Hakani will have those fat Merchant Lords sending for terms within the year if we cut off their supply lines.”
Almost there, Viz thought, you’re so close you can taste it, can’t you? Viz feigned consideration, “?atalay has reported minimal losses, despite the hand cannons and reports of hundreds of fire lances found in captured Ilerlean bases. He put a hand to his chin, considering the options. “Perhaps,” he began, “if…we were to act decisively, we could shave years from the war effort in the North.”
Fenal’s grin was nearing an unnatural toothiness now, “to expand the coffers of Council Vaults, funding the war effort and hamstringing the Ilerlean Lords, we can win this war and prevent future ones.”
There. “But, Fen, this seems awfully risky. We have the Kutsalgoz, we have the man called the General of Heaven. Do we need to take such an effort when he’ll have the war solved shortly soon anyways? Even without Ilant Hazar on the payroll, Hakani and the Spears render something like this so redundant and unnecessarily risky.” Viz had to stop himself from even batting his eyes at Fenal he laid it on so thick.
Fenal was no longer amused at Viz’s tactical deliberations, taking the bait. “No,” shaking his head and slamming his fist so hard it seemed the stone might crack. “I have received word of Ilerlean advancements. Their engineers are designing things far worse than fire lances and hand cannons. Word has spread that they have their eyes set on striking directly at Erenamune, piercing right through our defenses.” That led to audible gasps from Pila and La’arak.
“Curious, the Master at War has not yet heard such rumors,” boldface lying to the table.
Fenal did not take that bait, however. “Then you will be briefed as needed. We must move forward with the secured annexation of the Ashen Foothills. Are there any issues from this Council?” Silenced deafened, and Viz merely held back a smile, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “Good, well then, I must now depart. Light guide us.”
