Like mice scratching
and scraping in the walls in the small
hours, strange sounds emanated from the furthest corners of the
palace. Heneguya knew that the most eager of the plunderers from
Tricilve had reached them. Crashes echoed and the sound of splitting
wood could be heard, though slightly muffled by the walls in between.
Laughter, running feet and loud cries could be made out in passages
where until recently groups of high-born aristocracy had paced in
earnest conversation. The Empress watched and listened, keeping
distance from the events like the audience in a theatre – even if
she would soon be forced to take to the stage herself. Suddenly
someone tried the lock on the door to the throne room and she
involuntarily jolted up, awoken from a dream already exhausted. She
was inclined to confront the intruders, for she had been a formidable
regent, but managed to suppress the impulse. How many years had she
worked and negotiated for these people’s betterment in the place of
her unfit spouse? How many years trying to help the same people who
would now defile and destroy her world? To what end?
The palace was soundly constructed and
the Chalkland guards had barricaded the entrances as well as they
could in the few hours given them, but neither the doors nor the
walls were designed to withstand an attack. It was only a question of
time until the plebs found their way in. The Empress lifted her
age-old ancestral pendant from her neck band, opening the front to
look at the silver ring and its fragile chain. The pressure in the
room rose, a sign that the air spirit Basenanji was ready to carry
out whatever she might order. He had always been there, powerful but
invisible to all. Maybe the being could protect her. In her youth the
bards of Trastamara had sung ballads telling of how these slaves of
generations had gone into battle for her ancestors, crushing armies
under flying blocks of stone and blowing whole armadas to splinters.
Air spirits were strange creatures that nobody really understood, but
through the years she had been left with the impression that
Basenanji was a peaceful sort who reluctantly showed his violent
power only at her behest. He was perhaps even a touch melancholy in
these older years of his thralldom. She did not have any great desire
to sully this servant who had obeyed her and her ancestors for
hundreds of years with the blood of thousands of people. Even if she
could escape, where would she go? Neither Chalkland nor Trachoria,
nor any of her other old friends would want anything to do with her.
No, she was a Trastamara and would not be humiliated. Her old combat
tutor had told her that the Knights of Bansikan could never be
beaten; only crushed as a single intact entity. Should she, an
Empress of the oldest blood, fare any worse?
“Basenanji”, she said as tools
were put to work on the door to her sanctuary.
“Basenanji, we require a final and
great effort on your part, our servant. In exchange you may then rest
for as long as you should like, in a place and manner which suits you
at your leisure.”
A low murmur whistled through the
room, a sign that that air spirit was listening attentively.
“We have always desired to meet the
clouds eye to eye, just as you yourself met them when you were young
and free, but we shall travel as befits us with our entire palace.
Can you manage it?”
It became so oppressively silent for a
moment that even the looters outside the door stopped what they were
doing. Then the whole building began to shake. The empress rocked
back and forth on her throne, afraid she had asked too much. Then
everything levelled out again and she felt a weight push her stomach
down into her hips. Out in the corridor cries could be heard, but
this was not the Empress’ concern. Heneguya stepped dignifiedly
down from the throne and over to the largest of the room’s stained
glass windows. It was impossible to open but the empress took hold of
a poker from the fireplace and beat out the glass and lead frame. She
and her palace were in the heavens, the warm wind of the mountains
flowing into the room as a surprised albador looped by. Far below she
could see the Coimatri River weaving its ways east, clear as a mirror
until it reached the great waters of Lake Malossi. There was only the
odd cloud to be seen in the sky, which was perhaps the reason
Basenanji had been hesitant, but a tiny cluster glided towards them,
barely larger than a haystack. It thudded softly against the palace
walls, at which point the air spirit turned the building so that the
empress could reach it from the window. The cloud felt cool and
fluffy to her touch, and she had a sudden urge to climb out onto it
and to see if it would hold, sweeping over the earth for all time up
where nobody could touch her. In the meantime though she had other
plans.
“Basenanji, turn the palace so that
we can see the city!”
At once the world around them rotated
so that her head would have been sent swimming had she not been used
to the movements of the building. A few people, presumably having
clung to an outer staircase, fell screaming to the ground far below.
She did not command the air spirit to rescue them though, for they
had come to plunder and had only themselves to blame.
Heneguya had to shield her face
against the afternoon sun with her palm in order to glimpse the
capital city as never before. Tricilve seemed tiny from above, and
not even the imperial palace on its little mound could impress any
more, though she knew how much the craftsmanship had cost as a gift
in kind for the privileges granted them by Radassabar. The street
kitchens must already have begun preparing for their evening diners
judging by the sickly yellow colour hanging over the city. The
empress toyed with the idea of ordering Basenanji to direct the
palace over Tricilve to bid a final royal farewell to her subjects,
but lost the urge, perhaps because from that height the place seemed
so small and poky. She felt endlessly wearied by it all, as if the
perspective gained by such a view had reduced in importance her life
and everything she cared about. A familiar shaking of the walls
indicated Basenanji’s powers were waning and the air spirit would
soon need to rest; despite his strength he was aged. Heneguya walked
over to the toolbox her guards had borne in at her request before
disappearing and drew out a heavy pair of pliers. She sat on the
throne and opened up the pendant with the silver-link chain shackling
the air spirit. It must have been cast at least five hundred years
before, yet the metal resisted more than she expected. Only by
clasping both levers of the pliers firmly in her hands could she
muster the force to clip through it.
“You are free, Basenanji! Thank you
for everything!” she shouted as the bonds were broken. Then all she
could do was laugh as she was struck by weightlessness, kicking off
of the throne and floating in the middle of the room. “Look
Basenanji, I am free too!” she cried. I am a floating cloud!”
From the deck of the
Chalklandian stanelast, Legate Ludenbrand
had watched the air spirit lift the palace higher and higher into the
sky, until the people standing at its windows, or clinging to its
doors balconies and climbing plants, became impossible to make out.
He held perhaps a vague hope that the empress and her home would
float away out of reach of the plebs, but also a foreboding knowledge
deep inside of how the flight would end. In any event, he howled in
terror as the chain was cut and Basenanji departed from service,
leaving the building to fall. By that point the vessel had made
enough progress out into the bay that no screams could be heard. The
palace seemed to fall so slowly that the crew could not take the
whole thing seriously, until they heard the roar of impact roll out
over the water a few seconds later and a dust cloud surged up into
the sky. Pik Tambra, where the building made landfall, was an
overgrown sandbank, but the sheer height of the drop meant what lay
beneath was of little importance. Ludenbrand sunk to his knees
against the balustrade with a copy of Retribution jerked closed in
his lap – his closest companion in mourning.
“Justice shall be done”, he
whispered over and over. Just an ounce of shame accompanied the
thought that his chronicle might now contain a climactic conclusion.
