Aethosphere Chronicles: Storm of Chains (2 page)

For Drish, he couldn’t seem to remember the
man’s name for the life of him.
Is it Dumount
, he tried to
reason.
I should know it…I would know it had the UKA not fallen.
But now what does it matter? He might as well be a common born…I
might as well be a common born for what my father’s left me.
“Yes, yes, after King Brahnan ordered everyone to evacuate the
Palace,” reminisced Drish, feigning a remembrance of the man within
an account of the war. “After the imperial ground forces got their
Siege Hulks in position across the lake…before they leveled the
industrial district and set that firestorm…I should think that was
the last time we spoke.”

“No, by then I’d signed my Oath to the
Empire and fled to the Estates,” the old man’s voice faded to a
whisper. “I watched the Riverside Slums burn from the comfort of my
own mansion…and now that mansion’s been long-since burned by the
Resistance.”

Drish offered him a hasty condolence. “I’m
sorry to hear that—”

But Dumount raised a wrinkled hand in
interruption. “It’s just as well, I suppose, and in a way they
saved my life by doing so. Many a noble’s been murdered in those
hillsides since.” He turned to the hallway windows while the Gods’
Bind painted his drooping eyes a chilling blue. “And now here I am,
a prisoner in Throne.”

“Well, sir, take comfort in the words of my
grandmother, when she said, ‘there is very little reason to ever
leave Throne’.”

A sad smile crept over the sagging flesh of
the elderly noble’s face as he nodded in rumination. “Ah, yes, the
Baroness Larken, she was certainly a woman of reckoning; though as
I recall, your father never particularly saw eye to eye with her.
Not much of a relationship either. Seems he handled the imperial
offer in a manner to spite his mother’s dying wish, but you on the
other hand…you were a precocious young courtesan, forever following
in her wake, and of like temperament and reason. As I recall, you
fought hard to uphold the Larken family name during the imperial
tribunals.”

“To no avail, however,” replied Larken,
surprised by the sadness in his own voice. “A day doesn’t go by
that I don’t dearly miss my grandmother, and yet I take comfort in
the fact she never lived to see what became of our noble
family.”

“Ah, the
Oath
…I’m sorry for what
you’ve lost, but for what it’s worth, the old guard still remembers
the noble families of King Brahnan’s time…even those who the
imperials have disavowed…even those who would despise the rest of
us as collaborators.”

“I assure you, sir, that I am not—”

“It doesn’t matter, there are urgent matters
I would discuss with you instead.”

“Oh?” Drish raised an eyebrow. “Like
what?”

But Dumount turned a leery eye to the
windows lining the hall. “Not here…” he said. “Come on, my boy,
we’ll talk outside…where the walls are less apt to be
listening.”

Perhaps having sensed the young man’s
reluctance, Dumount grabbed hold of Drish’s arm and led him away
forcefully. For such a frail old creature his grip was monstrously
firm and his pace preternaturally brisk. Even Drish, in the prime
of his youth, had a hard time keeping up as they wound a course
through the hallways and chambers of the complex, until finally
they rounded a corner and there was the building’s reception foyer.
By then Drish’s breath was coming in ragged gasps and he paused
just a meter from the exit to collect himself.

“Dumount, I think this is quite far enough,”
he managed when suddenly a voice barked out from behind, ordering
them to halt. Cold dread turned the bureaucrat’s muscles to ice.
“Turn around,” it commanded, “slowly!”

As instructed, Drish turned, finding with no
real surprise that an imperial soldier; a pale-faced Hierarch
glaring through the colorless eyes of his species; stood at the
ready, with one hand already perched on the butt of his holstered
gun.

“Let me see your hands!” His voice rang
sharp off the stonework.

This wasn’t Drish’s first run-in with the
complex’s guards. They were forever suspicious of any Candaran
working in their midst, and sometimes just lingering in a hallway
too long was provocation enough to bring down their scrutiny.
It’s all in the name of security and order,
the expatriate
reminded himself,
just another unfortunate byproduct of having
insurgents running amuck in the streets.
The key to such
encounters was to do as instructed, and so Drish raised his hands
as the guard circled around behind him and his elderly companion.
Knowing, however, did little to ease the fear.

Next to him, Dumount was openly trembling,
and Drish wonder if this might have been the man’s first encounter.
Impossible, he debated internally. If there was one thing anyone
could count on in this broken world, it was in being stopped at
least once a week by the Hierarchs.

The guard pulled out his whistle and gave it
one shrill blow, but it only seemed to push Dumount into a more
frantic state, and he began to shuffle away. The guard yelled once
more at the aged nobleman to stop, accompanying the order with the
rustle of a gun being drawn from its holster.

“Dumount,” snarled Drish, trying his best to
sound calm and civil. “Stand still.”

“You, halt,” yelled the guard, “And
you”—Drish felt the comment directed his way—“down on your knees,
cross your ankles, keep your hands up, and your mouth shut!”

Dumount seemed momentarily confused, put
off, and frightened as he reluctantly turned to face the guard. The
bolt action on the soldier’s pistol clicked back as he yelled once
more for him to stop. Meanwhile, Drish did as he was instructed,
finding the maneuver to get down without using his hands awkward
and clumsy. The stone floor pressed painfully into his knees as he
attempted to cross his ankles, all the while hoping Dumount would
stop acting so damned foolish… so damned guilty… so they could just
be done with this humiliation. Just what was the old fool doing?
Was he trying to get himself shot?

And it seemed like they were only moments
away from it actually happening when an officer appeared in the
side-door to the lobby. “Stand down, trooper,” this new addition
commanded in calm authority, as though nothing in this world could
truly bother him. It was a reassuring tone, and Drish sighed openly
in relief when the black-uniformed officer strolled into the center
of the confirmation; more so when it turned out to be Colonel
Graye. This Hierarch was renowned for his professionalism. On
occasion, Drish would pass him in the hallways, and sometimes
they’d even exchange civil courtesies. Granted, it was never as
late as it was tonight.

“Mr. Larken,” the officer said in his
characteristically sharp Hierarch accent. His leather gloves
groaned as he removed them, “you’re working a bit later than usual
this evening. I believe your section chief went home hours ago. I’m
surprised he authorized you to stay here alone. He’s not the
sort.”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if he
did,” stated Drish in a matter-of-fact sort of way, though he
regretted his knee-jerk joviality. “My work tends to get the better
of me,” he explained with more tact, “very engrossing stuff.”

“I’m sure,” interrupted the officer, cocking
an eyebrow, “but that can be rather problematic for you, sir, if
you’re
not
on my list.”

Utterly fantastic
, thought Drish.
Whether or not he was going to spend the night in a detaining room
depended entirely on him being on a list of late-night workers; a
condition not apt to be given based on the temperament of his
overseer.

“
Ah
, but Mr. Domaire,” remarked the
officer to the elderly gent at Drish’s side. “You
are
on my
list—as usual—so you’re free to go, sir.”

Domaire
; that was his name, and Drish
felt foolish for his error in calling him Dumount.

“If it’s alright with you, Lt. Graye, I’ll
wait for my friend here,” explained the Candaran liaison officer,
“we have dinner plans… he was
supposed
to be on the
authorized list. I hope it’s not a problem. I’d feel horrible if I
was responsible for this young man’s detention.”

“Well, Mr. Domaire, I am sorry, but I have
my orders. This is an election year and I would hate for my father
to lose his senate seat in the Imperium based on accusations of
having sired a son who was lax in his duties. We have insurgents
running amok through the streets, after all, and I need to make
sure everyone is where they’re
supposed
to be… when they’re
supposed to be there. So let’s just get this formality done and
over with without any further fanfare.” The officer produced a clip
board and flipped back the pages, pausing as he asked for Mr.
Larken’s identification papers. “This must be done according to
procedure, sir, especially at this hour.”

“Of course,” muttered Drish as he began
fumbling through his case for the small imperial notebook that
would prove his identity, hoping against all hope that his name was
somewhere on that list. There were so many papers to rifle through
that he found himself getting more flustered. He was on fire with
embarrassment, no doubt glowing red hot like forged-iron when the
document failed to materialize promptly.

Great
, thought the aristocrat,
now
I have to worry about getting myself shot
.

He could feel the colorless eyes of the two
Hierarch soldiers locked him, and Drish became keenly aware of the
deadly weapons they carried at their sides.
Did I drop it when I
dropped my case?
He worried, believing he could almost remember
seeing it laying on the floor. “I think I must have dropped it,” he
ventured in defeat.

“For your sake, I hope not,” replied the
colonel gravely.

Larken’s heart sank. Would they throw him in
the stockades… leave him to rot for a year like they’d done to his
father? They wouldn’t…would they? Unlike Arvis, Drish had taken the
Oath of Allegiance to the Empire; he kept his mouth shut as well,
and his head down; and that’s when Drish’s probing fingers happened
upon the small, bound documents book. Triumphantly he pulled it
out, catching a flash of his own photograph in sepia tones as he
held it out to Graye. The noble born Candaran was surprised to find
his hands shaking and his heart pounding in his chest. After two
years of working here, he thought he’d be able to handle himself
better.

Colonel Graye snatched the trophy cleanly
from his grip and snapped it open, pinning it under the board’s
clip as he scanned through the list. Time seemed to be held upon
the stern lips of the officer as he traced his eyes back and forth
over the names.

Of course my name isn’t on that list,
of that Drish was certain.
So now what? More guns, shackles, a
cold cell for the night… maybe longer?

“I’ll never understand you bean-counters and
how you can sit at a desk and crunch numbers for as long as you
do.” Graye removed Drish’s papers, folded them neatly, and handing
them back. “You’re all set, Mr. Larken.”

Drish began to laugh nervously as he tucked
the document into his coat. “Well, once you have the numbers
dancing in your head it’s hard to stop… you don’t want to lose
track of them, you know?”

“I’ll just have to take your word for it,
Mr. Larken. Alright you two move along, and have a pleasant
evening.”

Once safely outdoors, Drish shivered in the
early-winter chill that had frosted over King’s Isle, forcing him
to pull his thin coat tightly around his frame just to preserve
what little warmth he had left. Domaire, however, seemed heedless
of the cold, and instead took the lead and guided them across the
blustery parade grounds, sloshing ankle-deep through the muck
between rows of dormant assault machines, and towering armored
tread-rovers. Overhead, the clouds, blundering north into the
underspires of the High Crown, were dumping the rest of their snow
over the capital city in thick sheets. Around them, the
administrative complex stood as nothing more than a collection of
huddled light in an otherwise bombed-out wasteland of ruin and
darkness, all of which had formally comprised the kingdom’s
beautiful administrative heart. At a time of year when the city of
Throne should have been festively decorated for the winter solstice
holiday, the streets instead stood dark and empty, smelling not of
balsam and nutmeg, but of gunpowder and char. Most of the city’s
elaborate old structures were sadly nothing more than shameful
brick husks, teetering on the verge of collapse.

Despite Domaire’s continuous urging, Drish
found it difficult to navigate the slush in his fine loafers, and
so was left stewing in anger on how the old codger could be so spry
in this mess.

“Come, come,” hollered Domaire breathlessly,
“follow me, we can’t talk here…not the Administrative Square, we’ll
find someplace safe.” and the old man set a course north, towards
the dragon-eyed glow of the Gods’ Bind.

“Mr. Domaire,” barked Drish in irritation as
he slipped and skittered across the cobble, hugging tightly to his
bag to keep its contents from tumbling out again.
Enough
,
this cold was too much and all he wanted was to retire to his cozy
townhouse on Cooper Street; light a fire, warm his bones with a
glass of brandy, and sit out the remainder of the storm. “Mr.
Domaire! What could possibly warrant such a foray through this
inhospitable weather? Whatever it is you have to tell me, can
surely be said by now, sir.”

When a trundling assault machine hissed and
squealed up the road towards them, Domaire ducked from its
inquisitive headlight, and retreated into a narrow side alley,
leaving Drish with little choice but to follow, or risk being
stopped again.

Surrounded by the safety of high brick
walls, the old man’s pace slackened, while back down at the end of
the alleyway, the Iron machine tromped by like some laborious
four-legged titan, hissing steam from its seams, while the
hydraulics whinnied and sighed.