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Set the Stage (To Walk the Path 1)

Paul Smith



  To Walk the Path 1: Set the Stage.

  By Paul Smith.

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  To Walk the Path 1: Set the Stage

  Paul Smith

  Copyright 2014 Paul Smith

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to people, places or events is purely coincidental, and bears no malicious intent.

  ISBN: 9781311785022

  For more information on my work, and to keep up to date with new releases please follow me on Twitter @tattooloverboi or check out one of my galleries:

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  Blog: https://paulsmithauthor.wordpress.com/

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  'For the faithful.'

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  Author's note:

  gladefaun.deviantart.com

  Thank you.

  1: Set the Stage.

  In this quiet moment of repose it was almost possible for the majority of its inhabitants to believe normality had returned to the Arc Sea.

  Time had marched on, and with it much of the Congregate as well. People looked up at skies free from dragons, saw violence recede from their streets, and assumed war had returned once again to her slumber. Even the plague of murder and disappearance that had beset the mainland's western provinces seemed to die off, in the face of the oncoming winter. With the first snows came a fresh sense of tentative peace that the commons welcomed with open arms in the face of the summer's unrest. Yes there was still the odd voice raised in dissension amongst the night time tavern crowds, but such behaviour no longer automatically presaged a show of steel, though there were still politically motivated brawls and the usual slew of stabbings in the larger cities. Out in the country such disturbances were shown a deal more forbearance, the perpetrators thrown in the lock-up for the night to cool off and consider the error of their ways. Only repeat offenders were shown rougher justice, and these were few and far between given the usual punishments of exposure to the now frequent snows.

  Winter was an unforgiving ally for the authoritarians, and even the troublesome recognised the futility of tangling with her. She did not pull her punches.

  On the streets of Kharpal it was very much business as usual once more. The merchants had holds to stock and the Manses of the Pleasure Quarter orifices to fill. No one had time for grudges when there was coin to be made.

  Whilst across the water on the mainland Incarnate spread her wings high above the surf in triumph, her people crowing proudly over their victory and the fresh flow of commerce it had brought to their shores. Even the grey sails of Isklar had been sighted once or twice in port, a thing unheard of in almost two centuries.

  Only Ishamu remained subdued. But for her people it was not the silence of fear, but rather expectation. Change was afoot, they could smell it on the wind. See it in the myriad sails that came and went from port, disappearing up the Gold Leaf in the dead of night. Tongues wagged (though quietly, and always behind closed doors). They spoke of restitution, of change. Action, finally, from the house on the ridge. And they whispered also of darker rumours, of parties visiting the far shore under cover of night, stirring up secrets amidst the ruins of their city's night time twin.

  Mark raised the napkin delicately to his lips, realised he was resting his other hand on the very slight paunch he'd developed this last few months. It was the combination of a more sedentary life and these weekly repasts. Say one thing about the Imperials, they put on a good spread.

  “There's nothing wrong with a bit of comfort in your old age,” Trillion had replied when he confided his concerns to her. He was not a vain man by nature, but the sight of his distended abdomen lolling about amidst the sheets as Anara took him in her mouth had rather put him off his game.

  “Yes but what if I need to run somewhere or something?”

  “You? Run? With that hip...” The pathfinder's cackle had turned heads in the common lounge, but by now her and Mark's nightly meetings were routine enough to be almost part of the furniture. A tacit bubble of privacy seemed to have grown about their nocturnal rendezvous. He'd even seen others warning off recently returned Daiku who'd been away from the Library and made to approach them whilst they were still tête-à-tête.

  “More wine?”

  He looked up at the man sat opposite, raising a carafe in question. Where age seemed intent on turning him soft it seemed to be having the opposite effect on the other man. They were of an age yet Traetan sported the physique of a man ten years their junior, arms and shoulders all corded muscle above a trim waist. Surreptitious enquiry suggested a rigorous regime in the training yard was responsible. That and frequent trips inland. Life in the city may have returned to a normality of sorts, but out in the farmlands things were very different. The Commandant spent a great deal of his time as military adviser to the Five managing the Imperial side of the guerilla war that still fizzed and spat amongst the drug fields of the island interior. Praesus had finally lifted her embargo on traffic upriver some time round the fall equinox (for reasons that remained obscure, thanks to her refusal to communicate). Whilst this did at least make getting to the interior easier, the fighting itself remained bitter. You'd never know the island now technically resided under the Congregate's rule.

  “No, thank you,” he replied, covering his half full glass with a palm before raising it to his lips to sip. It was an excellent vintage (as always), just as was everything else at the table. Even the music (it was the straw-haired lass again) had been superb.

  Traetan rose, gesturing that they should retire through to the conservatory. Mark nodded, bracing himself against the table as he lever himself up, doing his best not to wince at the familiar ache from his hip.

  “It getting worse old man?”

  Poker face not working apparently. He smiled lopsidedly at his friend, waving off an offer of help as they strode through to the next room. A clatter of dishes at their back announced the arrival of the servants to clear the table. “It's just the cold,” Mark explained, lowering himself carefully into one of the overstuffed couches. “Gets to these old bones.”

  “Hmm, I can imagine.”

  “Oh fuck off with your smug pity.” But he smiled to take the sting out of his words. “I'll pass on more wine, but something stronger wouldn't go amiss.”

  Traetan smiled, rising to move towards the sideboard where they both knew full well he kept the brandy.

  “So I have news.”

  Mark looked up at the other man's broad back, the pleasant fug of inebriation clearing with an unpleasant abruptness. “Oh?” This can't be good if he's waited until after food...

  “I had a bird from the capital.”

  “Really?” 'I' not 'we'... Mark pulled a face of concern, rearranging his features quickly into polite enquiry as the other man turned with their tumblers.

  “Yes. They want me to return to Incarnate.”

  Mark raised an eyebrow. “And leave poor dear Lore and Marielle to fend for themselves?”

  Traetan made a face. “A replacement is being sent.”

  Oh my, this is serious. “It's to be a permanent posting then?”

  They both heard how painful the words were; the sentiment hung between them for a moment that way strong emotion tends to between men. Mark finally plucked up the courage to meet the other man's eye, offered him a faint smile. “Have they said when?”

  Traetan nodded. “Within the fortnight. A ship's on its way.”

  “My, they do have a bee in their bonnet about something. Did they say why they want you back?”

  “In not as such. My brother can be frugal with his words, when the mood takes him.”

  “Your brother?” Mark asked.

  �
€œJaicon. God knows what he wants...”

  Oh I think I might have an idea. With an effort Mark kept his smile in place, above the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Galairel turned from the window, a smile touching his lips in anticipation of the figure making his way up from the lobby of the house on the ridge.

  Finally. This was it. This was (he hoped) the news he needed, the nod that everything was in place and they were ready to proceed. These last six cycles had been a torture of exquisite proportions, forcing himself to be patient. Odd, how after centuries of patience it was these last few weeks that had proved the most difficult.

  Like a freshman before Prom, Rivan had teased him as he stood naked brewing tea.

  A light tread on the boards outside. He crossed the room, straightening the scarecrow's head on his shoulders as he passed him.

  Lifaen peered round the doorway, high cheek boned features beaming as he spotted the other man and strode into the room to enclose him in a cheerful embrace. This is what he liked about the former militia man: his easy camaraderie. Lifaen's time on the streets of Kharpal had left him with an open acceptance of any and all.

  Happy-go-lucky.

  It was a trite phrase, but he'd never met another that suited it more.

  “Well met, my friend.” Galairel broke the embrace with a squeeze of the shoulders. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “God yes. Whisky, if you have it, that has to have been the longest boat ride in the world.”

  Galairel moved to the sideboard. “Winds bad?”

  Lifaen looked momentarily confused. “Oh! No, sorry: I was talking about the taxi into shore. Guy wouldn't shut up about his daughter. Think he was fishing...”

  Galairel grinned, passing the other man his glass. “We're going to do something about that – this...” and he gestured to Lifaen, himself.

  Lifaen nodded. “Yeah. And genie's already out of the bottle on the mainland.”

  “How are they coping?”

  Lifaen pulled a face. “They are. Which is testament to Kel. Not many could have done what she's managed, though she has had help.”

  “Hmm, this Nashiel.”

  Lifaen grinned. “Now there's someone who appreciates his lot in life.” He met Galairel's look of polite enquiry with a shrug. “You'll understand when you meet they guy. He's just...” he shrugged again “...some people are just meant to be something.” He held up a hand. “Don't worry, the guy's solid. And from what Kel tells me he's been invaluable to her campaign. Between him, Tomen and that Rina woman they've managed to wrestle back control of the majority of the underground, though it's been a long hard slog.” He took a swig of his whisky, doffed an imaginary hat southwards. “She's been fighting a shadow war, and with people who've no real military training. It's impressive what they've achieved.”

  “So the Ichthians are ours again.”

  “And the Orphans...” a quick smile for Galairel's grimace at the term “...in the capital at least. Beyond the city walls? That's not as clean cut.” Lifaen's eyes sparkled. “Though we may have a contact in the Precinct...”

  “That is good news.”

  “Just wish we could say the same about the rest of the mainland.”

  Galairel's expression sobered. “Hmm, yes: the plague of stars.”

  “Any idea whose behind it?”

  Lair shook his head, taking a swig from his glass as he studied the other man. It was a subject he'd been avoiding, putting off and off this last year as his circle slowly grew.

  Who to tell. Who to trust...

  So far it was a very short list that featured just two names. One was obvious, the other not so much unless you'd been present at the sacking of the city across the water.

  Not this one. At least not tonight, at any rate...

  But he'd have to start telling people soon, if they were setting wheels in motion. His army needed to know what they were up against. Who they were up against.

  More of that later. Aloud, he asked: “The stage is set?”

  Lifaen grinned. “And the fat lady is ready to sing.” He pulled a face. “Are you sure this is the best way to do it?”

  “Absolutely.” Pleased at the certainty in his voice as he nodded emphatically. “It's as I told Rivan at the start: Symbols, it's all about symbols. People need something to hold on to, a story they can spin after the fact to see them through the chaos that surrounds them now.”

  “If you say so. Barran and Haili both say everything's ready at their end. They're just waiting for the nod...”

  Galairel raised an eyebrow at Lifaen's obvious amusement on the subject. “What? What is it Lif?”

  The former Militia man grinned. “Just Barran. She's like a kid in a sweetshop whenever I see her at the moment. I would say she's thoroughly looking forward to 'sticking it to the man'.”

  Galairel nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, well, as long as she realises we're not looking to instigate anarchy as our final resting state here.”

  “Oh she's well aware of that,” Lifaen assured him. “Personally I think she's viewing the whole thing as one extended bar brawl.”

  “I suppose we should be glad she's on our side.”

  Lifaen produced a bark of laughter at that. “Yes. Yes we should.”

  Galairel's expression turned serious. “So, you have them? She managed to procure them ok?”

  Lifaen smiled. Slipped the envelope from his inside breast pocket and placed it on the table between them. Galairel reached out to take it, anticipation playing about his eyes as he met the other man's gaze. With a practised swipe he broke the seal, sliding the contents out.

  It was a pair of tickets, for Solstice night at the Grand Opera.

  Galairel met the other man's gaze with a nod of approval.

  Time to tell Rivan we have a date.