Book 7: Chapter 50: The wheels of the empire
Disregarding the name, the travellers found rooms among the staff and troupe of the tavern; the latter were pleased to see them as always, playing hosts once they had performed their play for the evening. Martel and Eleanor watched from inconspicuous seats, avoiding attention; to his relief, the play had nothing to do with him. The next day, the Senate awaited them.
Martel thought about his first visit to the palace, still a novice. The stately buildings with tall pillars surrounded by extensive gardens had been a daunting sight for a peasant boy from Nordmark. Compared to today, besides being undaunted, he noticed all the differences. Not the structures but the people. The place was overrun with patricians, clerks, guild members and merchants, and plenty of clergymen as well. Even the soldiers looked different; the Senatorial Guard did not wear purple, but red.
For once, Martel being a battlemage did not help part the crowd on the grounds. He and Eleanor had to snake their way forward just to move through the yard, where countless small groups had formed, all deep in discussions of one kind or another.
It changed once they reached the gate. Martel recognised the soldiers on duty as members of the fifth cohort, and they likewise knew their old captain prefect and legate. “Sir Eleanor! Sir Martel! You’re back!”
“We are. We have a meeting with the foreign council. Would you know where we should go? And perhaps a speedier route,” she suggested.
“No need to worry, sir, I’ll take you. Sextus, you’re alone on the gate until I’m back,” one of the guards told his companion before he turned around to enter the palace, waving for the mages to follow. “We’ll take the servants’ corridor. None of the senators or their staff ever use them. I’ll get you straight to the foreign wing, don’t you worry, sir!”
The soldier did as promised, leaving them at their destination after plenty more excited outbursts along the way. They found themselves in a wing once occupied by courtiers, as Martel recalled from his brief time living in the palace. Now, the atrium had several desks manned by clerks, one of whom looked up at them.
“I’m supposed to be made an emissary to Khiva,” Martel explained to her, unsure how to proceed. “You must be Sirs Martel and Eleanor,” she declared. “The council is currently meeting a Sindhian envoy, but they have made room to see you immediately after. Please, be seated until then.”
Looking at his companion, Martel shrugged and sat down on an empty chair; she took the seat next to him. “How does it feel to be back?”
He glanced around at the bureaucracy surrounding them. “Like we made the right choice to leave.”
The foreign council sat behind a long table, facing the doors and visitors. Martel recognised the man in the middle. The duke of Cheval, once perhaps the most powerful man in the Empire; while the creation of the Senate had diluted his political strength, he remained influential. He had tried to have Martel killed on various occasions; in return, Martel had burned down some of his possessions and cowed him into submission.
Cheval greeted them with a smile. “Sir Martel, our brave liberator! The founder of our Senate. And Lady Eleanor, of the same achievement.”
Martel did not know the others at the table; he bore them no ill will, but he already felt tired of forced pleasantries and political theatrics. “I’m told you need me to go to Khiva. On your behalf,” he added, just to stress who was doing whom a favour.
“Straight to the point,” another councillor laughed. “These military men.” A glance from Martel silenced him.
“That is correct,” Cheval continued. “It is the wish of this council that you travel to Khiva and conclude our negotiations for peace.” He glanced around the table, seeing only heads nodding in agreement. “We have already discussed this matter among ourselves, so unless you have any requests to add or information to share?”
“Not really. I know how it works.”
“Excellent.” Cheval snapped his fingers, and a clerk approached from behind to place a document in front of him. “This is the official proclamation of your status as an Asterian envoy. With everyone as witness, we will sign and seal it, and you may be on your way. Not that we are eager to see you leave, but we do have other tasks waiting for us.”
Martel could not help but marvel at how the duke acted. His face and voice betrayed not the slightest sign of enmity or their history. He behaved with perfect cordiality. As he had done so many times before, Martel considered setting him on fire. Not in earnest, given that would prevent the mage from carrying out his task as envoy; once again, the duke was protected because the consequences of dealing with him would hurt others. But considering how often Martel had burned a man to death, he could vividly imagine the flames melting Cheval’s flesh, revealing white bones underneath.
He felt a hand on the small of his back; Eleanor, perhaps sensing his mood, lending him her calm presence. “Of course. Let’s proceed,” he simply spoke.
It took a matter of moments for the councillors to all sign the parchment. Cheval followed up by sealing it with red wax, and the matter was done. Martel was officially an emissary of Aster with the powers to negotiate and conclude treaties.
“On behalf of the Empire, we thank you for your service,” Cheval declared, sounding magnanimous and earnest. It took all of Martel’s self-restraint to keep from spitting in his face.
The mage considered a parting retort; words to infuriate or unsettle the duke and the councillors, perhaps a reminder of when Martel had led an army to Morcaster in order to remove a corrupt government. He decided not to bother. Once out of this chamber, he would not see these people again. Nodding his head ever so slightly, with the barest form of acknowledgement, Martel accepted the document. Khiva awaited them.