Another two weeks crawled past and still no word came from the Emperor. Aralim had done as he had asked—he had drawn Lord Sunaza’s confession out of the disgraced man—but still no word came from the Iron Palace. So, as the Moon waned toward the 5th month, Aralim went, of his own accord, to see his very old friend.
The Three Courts were in session that day, so Aralim found the courtyard bustling with activity. He carried two things with him: his lantern staff, now complete with an intricate blue lantern of similar shape to its predecessor; and a wrapped rectangular bundle. The unlit blue-paned lantern on his staff drew enough attention that the first group of mercenaries he passed bowed to him, while a scantily-clad woman locked her gaze on him and waved him over. He ignored both, of course, and approached the long, gradual slope of stairs that led up to the Iron Palace’s main level.
A short woman with a few wrinkles around her eyes stood among the guards there, robed in dark orange, silently watching the passersby as well as those who waited on the stairs to approach the Second Court. Aralim stepped up to her and asked, “May I see His Ascendance?”
She answered by only raising a hand to bid him wait. A few minutes later, she returned with a small note. It read, “The Eternal Emperor will not see you yet.”
“Give him this, please,” Aralim said, and passed the Aura the bundle. It was a light-orange lantern in the same style as Aralim’s; without a Walker, Path lanterns remained reminders of seeking enlightenment. The Emperor could hang it from a wall, if he chose. Miresh and he had come up with the idea—a gift that would imply he still walked the Path with Tag’na, and that the Emperor’s power was still his goal as well.
The Aura took the parcel wordlessly and started to go.
“Also, I’d like to speak with Soot,” Aralim called after her.
She turned back and bowed her head and shoulders to him, then climbed the stairs a second time. Aralim waited for a few moments, trying to avoid the ongoing attentions of the citizens. Then he noticed that one of those particularly excited by his presence—a merchant with a small cart—was passing out a few small books. He kept trying to wave Aralim over, so Aralim went to see what he had.
“Ambassador, sir, have you received your copy yet?” the book seller asked.
“My copy?” Aralim asked. He looked closer. The front of the book was plain aside from title and a small tower decal, inlaid with gilt. The title read: “City on the Sands: An Account of the Ambassador of Rema and Our Distant Allies.”
“Master Devran of Rainrest has finished his telling of your incredible adventure,” the merchant said.
“May I?” Aralim asked. He hadn’t brought any coins.
“I would be honoured,” the balding man said, bowing and offering Aralim a copy.
Aralim flipped through the first few pages, passing a small illustrated map and then pausing on a sketch of his own likeness. Now even more will recognize me, he thought, for better or for worse. He chuckled as he thought of Devran drawing his rough, bearded features while marching along under the arid sun.
“Aralim, welcome back,” Soot called, as he left the last couple steps. The man’s lean stature was dressed in a dark brown robe today, covering a pair of loose-fitting, off-white trousers. His short dark hair bobbed politely as he matched Aralim bow, while his thick eyebrows and well-kept moustache showed an expression of friendliness. “Perhaps we should speak in the orchard?”
“Lead the way,” Aralim replied, and turned to follow Soot. He put his hands behind his back, holding the book in both, but then wagged two fingers to subtly signal one of the Aura to eavesdrop on their conversation. He hoped they would be as stealthy as he knew the Emperor’s spies usually were—he wanted Soot’s trust, but he also wanted Tag’na’s.
Once they were out of earshot of the orchard guards—the expansive garden areas of the Palace were secluded from the courtyards by a short wall—Soot spoke up once more. “Well, how was your walk?”
“Long,” Aralim responded. “I was nearly eaten by an alligator.”
Soot snorted. “That would have been an ironic end to the venture…”
Aralim smiled and continued. “I learned a lot, and you have to understand that I can tell you neither where—nor how—the information was acquired.” He glanced over his shoulder; Soot would only think he was trying to be cautious or even paranoid. He was looking for the Aura, but he could not see any of them. He hoped the Emperor was listening.
“Why not?” Soot questioned. “You have already told me of the ‘prisoner of the Opal Valley’…”
Aralim tilted his head. “It’s less of a ‘prisoner’ and more of a ‘system’ really—a bypass for information.”
“I’ll pretend that makes sense,” Soot said. His furrowed black eyebrows could either indicate bother at Aralim’s secrets or simple confusion. “And the information?”
“There is a group of mages out there that is even more underground than you or Rema’s gang, it would seem.” Aralim looked at the morning sun streaming past the red and green fruit that dotted the trees.
Soot regarded him intently, walking half-sideways. “A group of mages? What are their goals? Do they have members in the Palace then?”
“I didn’t learn their goals,” Aralim admitted, “but they bind those that communicate with them using magic. The ‘prisoner’ is a tool to inform the Emperor of what is learned within their midst.”
“And what has the Emperor learned from this system?” Soot questioned. “If not their goals, do we know of involved members? Or of past deeds?”
Aralim sighed. “There is only so much information to be gained in so little time,” he explained. He had learned some new names and Sunaza had repeated one of them in relation to Rema’s criminal problems. “ ‘Tussom’ is likely involved, the war in the east is the result of these bandits, and the Emperor is very angry at me.”
“Tussom?!” Soot questioned. “How long has the Emperor known this? If this mages’ group has a sinister agenda, Tussom could do a great deal of damage, I’d imagine.”
“I only know that His Ascendance has known at least as long as we have,” Aralim answered. He was getting better at making his conversations with spy-masters sounding full of information, while remaining vague. “Speaking with the prisoner wasn’t a very easy method of investigation. Who is Tussom, that he could do so much damage?”
Soot blinked. “He’s the Order of Magic’s Overseer for Maykren. Each of the cities has one; they usually report back to the Grand Mage.”
Aralim rolled his eyes. He had only recently learned that the Order of Magic existed—he had assumed Rattar was just a court wizard of sorts. “I definitely need to leave Rema more…”
“Might as well. His Ascendance’s grudges are usually quite long-winded,” Soot muttered. “Thank you for bringing me this—I will consult some of my sources to look into this further.”
Aralim paused for a moment to think. He leaned on his lantern staff and looked through the neat lines of trees. After a moment he glanced back at Soot. “If you could find out if Tussom has been allowed to remain at his post for now, it would help me decide if I should visit him.”
“I haven’t heard of his removal, so I will let you know within the week,” Soot said. He made no mention of it being the ‘favour’ he had promised in exchange for information on the prisoner. It sounded more like Soot was considering Aralim a teammate than a secondary party.
“Excellent,” Aralim responded. “One more question, before we part ways—if you’d be so kind.”
“Of course,” the schemer said.
“You said your goal is to become king. Do you think attaining that goal requires you to remove the Emperor from Rema? Or simply rebalance the hierarchy in your favour?” Aralim asked. Soot had claimed to be far more open than his colleagues in regard to his goals and means of achieving them, but Aralim wanted to know from the man, not from the rumours. He also wanted the Emperor to know, if he did not already.
“You think he would step aside?” Soot asked, but then he hesitated, reconsidering the meaning of Aralim’s question. “Or are you asking if I’d be content pulling the strings of a ruler as opposed to sitting on the throne myself?”
The latter, Aralim almost said out loud. But he paused with his mouth open and rephrased. “I’m asking where you see your goal playing out.”
Soot took a deep breath. He suddenly seemed like a storm ready to blow in the shutters. Still he spoke with restraint: “Do you know my story? Do you know who I am—where I come from?”
“I am not a spy master,” Aralim said, smiling.
“It used to be that every stable boy knew it, but I suppose it’s been some time. They don’t tell the tale as much as they used to,” Soot explained. He stretched his fingers out from his hands then closed them into fists and lowered them to his sides. “I explained the Overseers of the Order before. My father was Overseer in Rema—a position now held by Master Enarrin. My mother was not an Overseer, nor a politician, nor a lady, nor a respected citizen. She was a prostitute.”
Aralim blinked. Soot spoke without shame. Though the low-hanging sun blocked out half of the spy-master’s face from the left, Aralim could see the man’s eyes locked on his own, unflinching.
Soot went on: “I came, starving and recently orphaned, before the Third Court. I knew my father—he sat among them. I pleaded with the Selected to give me my birthright. Or even a decent meal.” Soot’s lips curled bitterly. He annunciated each syllable with raw emotion. “My father stood up and told me I was his greatest error. The Court laughed so hard that day—I ran weeping from the Palace, haunted by their leering calls. ‘The Mage’s Bastard,’ became my new nickname. I was as useless as ‘smoke and soot,’ my father had said.
“Three weeks later, the Aura found me behind a condemned tavern, half starved, badly beaten, and resigned to my fate,” Soot narrated. There was the slightest gleam of tears in his hard face. “His Ascendance spoke to me that day and robed me in his finest silks and fed me boar and fine wine. You ask how my goals will play out. If His Ascendance will step aside, I will eagerly spare him and provide for him for as long as I am able. But I will make the rest of these lords and ladies choke on their entrails before they utter my name.” Soot’s rage was unfettered; he still showed no shame or reserve. His eyes glared through Aralim and into his tormented past. “They will call me the Bastard King and they will weep to be ruled over what they presumed to be no better than ash.”
Aralim resolved to never call him “Soot,” again.