Chapter 1253: Politics(1)
Chapter 1253: Politics(1)
The isle throbbed with a raw, frenzied vitality, humming with a madcap excitement that swept across the salt-sprayed rocks the moment the news of Khairo’s spectacular fall blew through every sea, land, and wind in the known world.
There was something undeniably immortal about it. They had felled one of the ancient, towering wonders of the two continents, turning a myth into splintered timber and ash.
By taking the city, they had violently tarnished the long-standing mantra of invincibility held by two great empires. No one could find fault among the captains of the Confederation if the dangerous, intoxicating idea began to take root in their minds that this was, at long last, their time.
And why not?
The proud land-dwellers had bled; they had shown a mortal weakness. So who was to say this wasn’t destined to be the century of the sea? Their unbroken string of victories gave massive weight to a concept that had first settled into their minds after the great triumph at Harmway, and the fall of Khairo had given that seed further water to grow.
So when Hardgut called for his ships manned entirely by brave men, desperate men, and madmen, there were hoards who answered the roar.
For every five ships that weighed anchor in search of plunder and adventure that first year, two of them charted a course straight for the distant lands of shifting sands. And when those initial two returned, their hulls groaning under the weight of outlandish, exotic creatures that had absolutely no business being aboard a ship, alongside chests of glittering gems, heavy bars of gold and silver, and dark-skinned women with midnight nipples and heavy teats, those two ships quickly became four.
The open sea was a treacherous, unforgiving monster, vastly more lethal than the familiar, shallow coastal tracts they had spent generations sailing and raiding. Many ships that ventured out never made landfall in the sands; fierce, sudden storms methodically separated the chaff from the grain, swallowing whole crews in the dark. Yet, the losses did little to damp the high spirits of the fleet. Every boy born to the islands knew precisely how fickle the favor of their gods truly was; it was a lesson beaten into children the very first moment they learned to speak of sailing the waves.
That was their way of life. It was hard. It was reckless. And there was only a swift, cold death waiting for the wayward or the weak of their kind.
But that absolute brutality was exactly what made them stronger than most, more fiercely united, more beautifully free.
If only every soul in that would of theirs could abide by that simple, clean code... what a magnificent world they would have.
How many times was such thought nurtured instead? How many kings did think that ? How many petty lords? How many times upon times had such a foolish notion been pondered in the minds of men whenever a crisis befell a structured state?
The only true difference now was that the Confederates were standing directly on the precipice of their own golden age instead of their end.
He cradled the heavy thought in his mind as his iron-shod boots stepped onto the smooth, wet cobbles of the Call. It was the only isle in the entire archipelago whose roads were actually paved with stone.
Though, to be perfectly truthful to any traveler, the Call was as much a massive, hollowed-out stone cave as it was the official, imposing seat of the Confederation’s political power. If there wasn’t a proper road constructed here, there would be absolutely none to be found anywhere in the islands. Not that the lack of grand masonry was an outrageous thing to his people; they were a race of reevers and sailors, not builders.
"Any scuffles down by the berths?" he asked, his voice thick with a bone-deep weariness as he glanced toward his second.
"Almost daily, my lord," replied Aulasto, offering a small, smooth bow. The man’s hands were tucked neatly away inside the deep, flowing sleeves of his long white tunic, a fine garment given as a gift from his master for the exceptionally loyal service he had rendered over the years.
’It is in the very blood of a Romelian to mingle in politics,’ his brother had told him on the day he delivered the slave into his keeping. Distate visible in each word ’Given this new road you’re walking, I am certain this one will serve you well.’
Even then, he could see the bitter resentment hidden deep in his brother’s eyes; it was entirely clear Kroll was not happy with his youngest sibling’s new line of work.
Many were the deep-seated fallacies and unspoken hatreds between the high halls of the Call and the rugged common folk who manned the oars, animosities further worsened by the two miserable decades of humiliation they had suffered at the hands of the Romelians. But just as the Call was widely misliked and deeply mistrusted by the rowdy masses, Blake himself was absolutely adored by them. And why shouldn’t they love him? He was the undisputed hero of the fleet in their eyes.
’If I do not speak for you and your friends in the council chambers, ’ He had told him as he accepted the position of steward and secretary, his tone sharp as a skinning knife, ’others will. And I promise you, it will not be praise spilling out of their mouths. You are shining entirely too brightly, brother. You are going to need someone to protect the mirror before the envious bastards smash it to pieces. Let me do what I can to guard the family’s throat.You have enough sailors to follow you but no politician to guard where your blades will not serve’
He could still see the dark shadow in his brother’s eyes when he remembered that conversation. He understood the root of the bitterness well enough.
Their people were a race of warriors, born to die with salt in their lungs and blood on their hands. Politicking and scratching ink onto parchment was considered a shameful pursuit, an embarrassment acceptable only if a man was entirely too old to row a paddle or raise a heavy bearded axe.
To have the youngest son of the proud Aiuscii family turn away from the sea to drape himself in a too similar Romelian toga was almost too much dishonor for the bloodline to bear.
Still, with their older brother Kroll currently winning the family’s grand honors out on the crimson waves, the youngest son’s perceived inadequacy could be conveniently ignored by the septs for a time. In his own quiet, calculated way, Haldon Aiuscii was doing the heavy, dirty work required to keep his family alive.
In time, Harold knew, the old captains would come to see the wisdom in it. And see him not as the weak, ink-stained runt of the proud family.
Along the sides of the cobbled road, merchants shrieked their wares into the damp, salty air, their voices competing with the constant roar of the sea below. Haldon counted at least two in every dozen shouting over chests of Azanian spices and glazed vases, likely slapping on a price tag ten times what the goods would actually cost on an Azanian wharf. It was the predictable arithmetic of plunder. Virtually all trade in the islands had choked down to this single pipeline: the victorious ships of their wayward sons returning home, hulls riding low with gold, silver, captured slaves, and whatever exotic products they could sell or banter away in the taverns.
He had never realized that being a hero could be quite so profitable.
Haldon let out a slow sigh, his mind ruthlessly pulled back from the wealth of the markets by the harsh demands of the morning. "How many fought?" he asked, not looking at his second.
"A few dozens or so," Aulasto murmured from just behind his shoulder.
Haldon sighed again, the breath pluming white in the freezing air. "Any dead?"
"None, my lord. Though there were three wounded badly enough to need the bone-setters."
Haldon hated the sudden, shameful prickle of relief that warmed his chest at the news. It was deeply worrying just how commonplace these bloody brawls were becoming right outside the sacred threshold of the Call.
Slaves and lowborn clients belonging to one Speaker were clashing against those of another in the public squares, sometimes openly led by hot-headed nephews or ambitious cousins looking to make a name for themselves. Worse, the common people of the docks were beginning to participate, throwing stones and swinging oars, further deepening a crisis that was quietly chewing at the foundations of the state.
The true poison, however, was that the more time passed, the more precarious their own position became. At the start of the season, it had been nothing but a small, insignificant movement, a few disgruntled Speakers muttering in the dark corners about this and that. Their main grievance was the mandate. They argued fiercely that the legal mandate the Confederation had granted Blake as Admiral of the Free Fleet had long since exhausted its term, and yet the fleet itself had shown absolutely no intention of disbanding.
Legally, it was a gray area; Haldon was scholar enough to admit that much to himself. But the ships of the Free Fleet were there by their own choice. They hailed Blake as their undisputed commander, rowing under his name because he brought them glory, not because of some ink on parchment. In the eyes of the sailors, it wasn’t a crime, nor had any sacred law been broken. Still, as the months bled away, ten critical voices in the halls had grown to fifteen, then thirty, and now stood at nearly ninety.
It was a terrifyingly steep rise. The more time they lost, the louder the voices grew.
Fools, Haldon thought, his jaw tightening as he navigated the crowded lane. Miserable, short-sighted fools. Can they not see beyond their noses? These squabbling politicians had done nothing but frolic and bicker among themselves for three decades of stagnation, while Blake went out into the deep waters and did all the bloody work.
And now that the harvest was coming in, they were trying to shove a stick into the wheels of the wagon? Did they truly not understand the magnificent, golden opportunity currently staring them in the face?
Haldon abruptly stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare, his attention snared by a merchant’s table covered in strange, glittering trinkets. He reached out with a calloused hand, picking up a heavy silver medallion set with a piece of polished amber that seemed to trap the weak winter sunlight within its core. He turned the piece over, his thumb tracing the foreign ridges, his mind momentarily lost in the cold, biting wind that whipped up from the cliffs, carrying the sharp scent of kelp and oncoming storm.
He thought about buying it for a moment, before he went cold.
Suddenly, a massive, iron vibration shattered the air.
Dong. Dong. Dong.
The great bronze bells of the Call began to ring, their deep, mournful tones echoing violently through the stone caverns and out across the white-capped sea.
Haldon froze, his hand dropping the medallion back onto the wood with a sharp clatter. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. That was the solemn chime that signaled the official opening of the council.
They usually opened it once at week or during special session.Still, all of them were done at dawn.
He looked up to see the clouds hiding the sun, though if he were to bet it couldn’t be below the eastern cliffs.
He wasn’t a hound but he smelled the rot all the same. And with that came the realization of the play.
The bastards were rigging the odds.