The Dread And Fear of Kings
by Richard Paul Russo
We enter the splendid cities at dawn. Always at dawn, when the rising sun lights up the skyscrapers and towers with orange and gold flames like the fires that are to come. Isengol was the first, many months ago; Kazakh-Ir is to be the next—tomorrow morning. It will not be the last.
We enter the splendid cities at dawn, and when we leave, they are no longer splendid at all.
· · · · ·
I am the First Minister's scribe. My name is unimportant, but my words carry the weight of his station, his power. This manuscript, however, is not an official document. He has charged me with the task of preparing an alternative account, one which will, at the very least, question our objectives, perhaps even challenge the king's design. Doing so, we both risk treason. We both risk execution.
Grave doubts have begun to plague the First Minister. He sleeps poorly, disturbed by nightmares, disoriented by hallucinatory episodes that attack as he wanders the halls at night, unable or unwilling to return to sleep. His stomach and bowels trouble him.
Yet this evening, as we prepared for tomorrow's incursion into Kazakh-Ir, he stood alert and assured before the assembled host, the vast plain alight with a thousand campfires. His breath was like plumed smoke in the icy air, but his voice—strong and confident—issued forcefully from the towered loudspeakers and carried across the night to the thousands of men and women standing before him, perhaps even to some of the residents of Kazakh-Ir who might have been watching the fires from the upper levels of their homes.
"Tomorrow we enter Kazakh-Ir. As you know, the citizens of Kazakh-Ir are renowned for their stained glass—both for the production of the glass itself, and for their design and craftsmanship, especially the many majestic windows. The city is ours to take, and take it we will. But tomorrow, we take it with as little violence, as little destruction as possible. The king wants Kazakh-Ir's famous glass preserved—untouched, unbroken. Particularly the windows.
"So tomorrow, march with vigor, march with strength and purpose, but march with care." He continued for two or three more minutes, now speaking more generally. Finally, preparing to give way to the Second Minister, who would provide more specific marching orders, he paused, slowly washing his gaze across the field. "Tomorrow …" he said, "tomorrow, Kazakh-Ir will be ours."
He stepped back and turned away from the growing roars and cheers, his expression lost and pained. I followed as he hurried toward his tent; he seemed unaware of his surroundings, stumbling into one of the camp stewards, sloshing through a muddy creek just two paces away from planks laid across the water, and tripping over a loader for a rocket launcher. When he reached his tent, he pulled the front flap wide and stood for a few moments in the opening, outlined by the phosphor lamp within. He slowly turned to me.
"I won't need you anymore tonight," he said. "I'll do my drinking alone." With that, he entered the tent and pulled the flap closed behind him.
I walked up onto a small rise away from the fires and lights of the camp, tilted my head back, and looked up at the night sky, a tapestry of stars that shone with a bright and icy light. Some centuries past, it has been told, our ancestors came to this world on starships, stayed for a time, then departed, leaving behind some of their descendants along with the eggs and seeds of animals and plants from their home world, but taking with them the knowledge and technology of interstellar travel; we have not seen any sign of them since. I imagine their other descendants are out there still, plying their way among the stars, traveling from world to world. I often wonder if they will ever return.
If they do, someday, what will they think of the world they left behind? Will they be proud of the magnificent cities that have blossomed on every continent? Or will they be appalled at the old king's devastation of those cities? Perhaps they will simply be mystified, as I am, by what their descendants have done with this world.
We entered the city like a grand parade, twenty thousand strong, accompanied by rousing music and the bright flowing colors of banners unfurled atop long pikes. Most of us on foot, we approached from the south, crossed the River Thule, then spread out among some twenty avenues, and passed unimpeded through the open gates as if Kazakh-Ir was welcoming us. Yet there were no people out on the streets, no smiles, no cheers—the residents watched silently from open windows, from balconies, from turrets and doorways. As if they knew it was no parade, as if they knew what was to come.
I walked beside the First Minister, who rode straight-backed atop Tarkus, his warhorse. Behind us rode the other ministers, and then came the king's howdah on its massive, powered wheeled platform, the ride cushioned by pneumatics. I could see the shimmer of the king's Metzen Field enveloping the howdah, so strong that we had to keep our own personal fields deactivated. There was little danger, however, for there were no signs of resistance, and we were protected by several rings of heavily armed security forces.
We entered a large, grassy commons and set up a central command post. All twenty divisions were holding, preparing to disperse throughout the city, but waiting for the king's command. An enormous pavilion tent was quickly erected, and the king's howdah rolled into it. We waited for more than an hour in the frigid morning air, waited for the king to be unloaded and for his sustainment apparatus to be assembled. Eventually, a herald emerged from the pavilion.
"The king reiterates to all—preserve the city's prized glass!"
With that, twenty runners ran off toward the division commanders, and twenty more stepped to the ready. Several minutes passed, then a second herald appeared.
"The king orders—take Kazakh-Ir!"
The second twenty runners dashed away. Within minutes, two crimson-tailed signal rockets streaked across the sky above us, and seconds later three more. Horns blared and I could feel the marching resume, the ground vibrating beneath my feet. Twenty thousand soldiers began to spread through the city.
By sunset, Kazakh-Ir was taken.
The king is kept alive by machines and a large retinue of physician attendants. He has been sustained by machines since he was eleven years old, and that was more than a century ago, but now even the machines and physicians struggle greatly—they cannot forever keep Death at bay. The old king is dying, and he knows it.
I saw him earlier this evening when I accompanied the First Minister to a council session with the king and the other six ministers. The old king sat in his long glass vat, afloat in the bubbling amber fluids that preserve his withered, discolored flesh. One arm rested on the edge of the vat, the hanging skin dotted with golden droplets that reflected the dancing torchlight from all around him. The king's chamber, installed in the now imprisoned proconsul's quarters, was stifling with a damp heat; at the same time, tendrils of cold air curled across the floor from the vat's cooling fans.
The king sat up, yellowed neck and shoulders rising above the fluid. He lifted his right hand, waved it generally in the direction of the gathered ministers. When he spoke, his mouth hardly moved, but his amplified and distorted voice emerged from the base of the vat, a harsh and metallic grating like some mechanical beast imitating human speech.
"Is the city secure?"
The Second Minister, still dressed in black battle armor, stepped forward and nodded. "Yes, Excellency," she said. "There was little resistance. We took a few minor casualties, no deaths. Kazakhan deaths were minimal. Currently we have posts established throughout the city, in all major residential and commercial districts. No trouble reported."
"Hold," the king said, stiffening his fingers. He called forth the Royal Astronomer, who stepped out of the shadows—a tall, thin man with wire spectacles. "Any sign of change in the heavens?"
The astronomer sniffed, scratched at his ear, and cleared his throat. "No, Excellency." His voice was hesitant.
The king was clearly disappointed. I had witnessed this exchange several times before, but had no idea what the king was hoping for. Had he inexplicably become a convert to astrology? What changes was he expecting? He waved the astronomer away and returned his attention to the Second Minister.
"What is the condition of the stained glass windows?"
"Nearly all intact, Excellency. A few cracked, with minor damage. Only one seriously damaged, in a prelate's house."
"Good," the old king said, nodding. His eyes seemed large in that gaunt head of his. "They will believe their precious handiwork safe. Tomorrow, I want every stained glass window in this city shattered. Every one. Break every piece of stained glass you can find—windows, lamps, door panels, decorative artifacts, vases, goblets. Everything. I want to see the streets of Kazakh-Ir littered with broken glass."
"Yes, Excellency." The Second Minister stepped back with a snapping click of her boots.
"Perhaps …" the king began, rolling back his head. "Perhaps that will finally be enough to bring them back from the stars."
The king's eyes closed, and his raised hand went limp for a moment; he shuddered, rippling the surface of the amber fluids. Then his eyes opened once again and he turned to the court cartographer. "Display," the old king said.
The cartographer wheeled out his equipment, switched it on, and a holographic projection came to life in the air above the king's vat. Two continents were displayed: Duur, on which we now stood, and Galla, which lay to the east on the other side of the Diamanta Straits. Most of the cities on Duur glowed a steady dull crimson, while Kazakh-Ir itself blinked bright red. The cities across the straits, on Galla, were all glistening green lights.
"And if they do not come …" the king said in his mechanical whisper that trailed away. He stared at the shimmering chart above him. "When we are finished here," he resumed, "when we have replenished our stores, we will continue on to the coast. There, at Kutsk, we will appropriate the ferries, then cross the Diamanta Straits, and …" He raised himself higher out of the amber fluid and reached up as the cartographer manipulated the projection, bringing it closer. The old man jabbed a trembling finger at the shining emerald light of Marakkeen. "There. Marakkeen is next." He gestured violently at the map, and the cartographer silently exploded the projection and scattered the fading pieces of light around the room.
The king fell back, splashing fluid onto the floor, then closed his eyes and let his arm drop below the surface of the liquid, so that only his head remained visible, appearing as though disembodied, afloat in the long glass vat. We were dismissed.
The air is filled with the sounds of shattering glass. Shattering glass punctuated by an occasional scream or piercing cry or muffled explosion, all accompanied by the music of trumpets and French horns. I am sitting in the upper tower of the proconsul's quarters, fifteen floors above the street, with expansive views of the city and the fires that burn throughout.
The First Minister and I had taken the groaning, halting elevator to the tenth floor, then climbed the spiral staircase up into the tower room and stood together at the window, listening to the sounds of breaking glass. From our vantage we could make out a large cathedral to the east, and watched as its beautiful stained glass windows were destroyed one after another, the king's soldiers smashing them from within; they used pikes and clubs, threw heavy objects through the windows, hacked at the glass and wood with swords and axes. A rocket burst through the large rosette window above the steeple door. Colored glass rained onto the street below.
"When will it end?" the First Minister murmured. His face was drawn, his skin ashen except for dark, sunken shadows beneath his eyes. Although the day was cold, his forehead was beaded with sweat.
"Some of the citizens are resisting," he said. "I have heard reports. They accepted our occupation, but this.…" He pulled at his beard; his fingers shook. "Today there have been many deaths, and there will be many more before the sun sets." He turned away from the city and leaned back against the stone parapet as though he were in danger of collapsing. "You are still keeping the other record?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And it is safe?"
"On my person, always," I assured him. "I can destroy it without a trace in an instant."
He nodded absently, his gaze wandering as if he was unable to focus on anything. "I don't know what purpose it can serve, but we must do something, we must …" He sighed heavily. "If I were a better man, I would act more forcefully, and to greater effect."
"What could you do?" I asked.
"I don't know." He smiled sadly. "If I were a better man, I would know what to do."
"What did the king mean yesterday, when he spoke of someone returning from the stars?"
"His wits are deteriorating along with his body," the First Minister said. He turned and looked out over the city, then sighed heavily. "No, that's not completely fair. How well do you know the Levancian Chronicles?"
"Passing knowledge," I replied. "My parents were indifferent believers."
"There is a passage in the book of Ishiaua, which the king quotes extensively in the private sessions where no scribes are permitted. 'The day will come when the great cities wither. The land will become barren, art and spirit and hope will lie fallow, and the skies themselves will burn day and night with unholy fire. In that time will we return. The blood of the land shall be washed clean, and the profane shall be purified. We shall resurrect the dead, and bring life eternal to the living.' Are you familiar with that passage?"
"Yes. Prophecy of the end times."
"The king does not much believe in a god or gods. But what he chooses to believe, because he desperately wants to believe it, is that the Chronicles were written by those of our ancestors who journeyed back to the stars, and that this passage lays out the preconditions for their return to this world. He is dying, and afraid, and he is mad, and he is attempting to bring about those preconditions himself so that the starfarers will return. And when they return, he expects them to not only prolong his life, but also to vitalize his body so that he can live free of the machines and that obscene vat that sustains his life."
"And what do you believe?" I asked.
He turned and regarded me with weary eyes. "I believe the king is destroying this world … and all for nothing. For nothing." With that he pushed away from the parapet, crossed to the spiral staircase, and quickly descended, as though fleeing from his own words.
Isengol was first. Isengol, sister city to the old king's own city of Glinn, and just as beautiful. Was just as beautiful. A city of lush and picturesque gardens both public and private, and a number of colorful outdoor markets that served as centers of the people's social lives. A city of great pride and community.
In the early morning hours, the sky still dark, we crossed the Asunciol River, marched across the Naming Field, then, as the sun was beginning to rise, entered Isengol. The residents believed we were some kind of parade, for they emerged sleepy and mystified from their homes and began to wave and smile and cheer at the host marching through their streets.
It was not long, however, before the soldiers began to set fires and retreat, until the entire force had withdrawn back to the Naming Field, where we watched the city residents desperately attempting to put out the dozens of fires; watched them frantically trying to retrieve their precious belongings, their children and pets; watched the fires spread from home to home and shop to shop. Watched Isengol burn.
Two days later, when the fires were finally either extinguished or fully spent, we marched back into the city, ignoring the stunned and lost and desperate faces that watched us, marched through the smoking ruins until we at last emerged on the other side of the city, and headed toward the next.
Tonight the First Minister slept with the aid of a strong soporific, while I could not sleep at all. Near midnight, I dressed for the cold and for anonymity, and went out into the city. Snow fell, bringing a hushed quiet to the air, an almost holy light and purity despite the fires that still burned and the pale gray ash that drifted down with the soft white flakes of snow. I deactivated my Metzen field and let the snow through to my face, melting on my skin.
Unsurprisingly, the streets were nearly deserted, but phosphor lamps burned at each intersection, giving the snow and the city a pale, bluish cast. Broken glass crunched under my boots with each step. In the distance, a flickering orange-red glow pulsed above the buildings. At first I thought it just another fire, but there was something different about the light, and I headed toward it. As I neared, I heard a quiet chanting. Two minutes later, I entered a large open plaza.
Two long pyres blazed to one side of the plaza, each surrounded by men, women, and children who held hands and chanted and watched the flames and smoke rise into the night sky. The burning bodies of the dead were still visible, twenty or thirty corpses carefully laid atop each pyre, shrouds and skin blackening.
More people entered the plaza, one or two at a time, occasionally an entire family. These newcomers did not attend the pyres, but gathered at the perimeter of the plaza, on all four sides. Although they watched the fires, they appeared to be waiting for something else; they huddled together, rubbed hands, and spoke quietly among themselves. I stood apart from them, backed up into a burned-out alcove, and watched.
A delicate chime sounded in one corner, followed by another, then a third, and finally a fourth. The people stopped talking, and the mourners' chanting diminished until it was only barely audible. A hushed sense of anticipation hung in the cold air, and seemed to momentarily suspend the snow; the flakes drifted sideways for a few seconds, danced upward, then began falling again.
From each corner of the plaza stepped a figure dressed in voluminous layers of brightly patterned clothing. I could not determine whether they were men or women, for they were masked with sequined strips of bright red cloth, and the folds and layers of their costumes hid all hints of body contour. A wide, shining metallic band circled each of their waists, and from the back of each band rose a thick, stiff wire that arced up and over their heads, then down, ending in a delicate stained glass vessel that hung about a foot before their eyes.
They moved slowly and deliberately, taking one long step, pausing, taking another step, then pausing again. When they had advanced several paces into the plaza, they stopped, touched the waist bands, and lights came on within the stained glass vessels. They resumed their progress toward the center, and four more figures in the same dress appeared at the plaza corners, with the same glass lamps hanging before their faces, moving forward in the same deliberate manner. It was elegant and moving, and I felt as if I had entered some other world.
"Beautiful, yes?" The shadowed face of a woman looked into the alcove, and her gaze met mine. She sidled into the alcove beside me. She wore charcoal gray trousers and heavy jacket, black boots and gloves; her hair was long and straight and black, reflecting highlights from the flames. "They're called lightbearers. You're not one of us," she said, "so you won't know."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"It's the way you hold yourself, standing here. You don't have the bearing of someone whose city has been overrun and half burned to the ground. You're part of the invading force." Her tone was matter-of-fact, and seemed to hold no judgment. "With that sorry old king."
Her even tone and words annoyed me. "I would say occupying force," I said recklessly. "The invasion is complete."
The woman nodded. "You're right, that's more accurate." She turned to watch the lightbearers, who now wove complex patterns among each other, but she leaned her shoulder against mine, pointedly making contact. "You have a field generator, but your field is down. That's risky in the current … climate."
"I thought I would be anonymous," I said. "And I am no threat. I have no intentions of harming anyone."
She gestured at the burning pyres. "Like the invasion, the harm, too, is complete."
"I've never killed anyone," I told her. "Never harmed anyone."
"Not directly, perhaps. Since you have a field generator, you must be a member of the old king's inner circle. And here you are, your field down, vulnerable, only a few strides away from dozens of people who would gladly see you dead. Or perhaps you would be more valuable as a hostage."
I shook my head. "I am only a scribe. If you took me prisoner, the king would let me die. I am easily replaceable."
The woman considered this, then gave me a faint, wry smile. "I think you underestimate your value. Probably the king does as well, along with all of his ministers, whoever employs you. I suspect a superior scribe would be very difficult to replace." She turned back to the plaza and pointed at the lightbearers. "They celebrate the first snowfall of the year. They've done so every year for centuries, and they decided the ransacking of their city wouldn't stop them from doing so this year."
"So you are not one of them, either," I noted. When she looked at me, I added, "You said 'they.' You, too, are foreign to Kazakh-Ir."
The woman nodded. "Not so foreign as you, but yes."
"Where are you from?"
"Marakkeen."
I did not reply. I saw the king's trembling finger pointing at the pulsing green light on the topographic chart as his harsh voice condemned Marakkeen.
As though reading my thoughts, the woman said, "Oh, I know Marakkeen is next."
"How can you know that?" I said carefully.
"Just have to look at a map of the world, and chart the king's progress. The pattern is clear, and we are next. When you are finished here, you will march to the coast, to Kutsk, and then you will cross the straits to us."
She was right—that is exactly what the king and ministers had planned. We watched the lightbearers in silence as they formed a ring in the center of the plaza, all facing outwards, the headlamps dipping gently.
"My name is Kiyoko," the woman said.
"Named for one of the old dead gods."
"Yes, but I am very much alive, scribe." She tipped her head to one side and asked, "Why are you here?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"One of you has a conscience, then."
I chose not to reply.
"Why did you come out here, though? You could have stayed in the protection and comfort of your command quarters, roamed the corridors without the slightest danger."
"I wanted to see the city. When it was quiet, and peaceful. I.…" I didn't know what else to say.
She nodded at the lightbearers now bowing in unison to the people around them, the tiny bright lamps leaving fading electric streaks in the air. "This will continue until dawn. Let's go inside, in from the cold, where we can watch in comfort. I can even offer you warm grog."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you and I have much more to discuss."
Why did I go with her? Because it seemed the right thing to do, though I had no idea why. And I believed, somehow, that the First Minister would approve. I followed her along the plaza perimeter, into a narrow street, then through a door and into a brick building dark and gutted and still reeking of damp, charred wood. She led the way up two flights of unsteady wooden stairs, down a deserted corridor, and finally into a warm and comfortable room that looked out onto the plaza, the glass windows surprisingly intact. A cone-shaped ceramic heater glowed a wavering pink in the center of the room. In the corner was a cot piled with blankets, and against the window stood a small table and three chairs. A few other objects were scattered about the room, unidentifiable in the dim light.
I sat at the table and looked out at the lightbearers. They were walking slowly through the crowd, randomly it seemed; they dipped their heads, and each time they did someone would cup the lamp in his or her hands and stare at the colored light through gaps between their fingers for a few moments before releasing the lamp and stepping back. Kiyoko set two mugs on the table, then sat across from me.
I picked up the mug and drank; the grog was hot and strong with alcohol.
"You didn't hesitate," Kiyoko said. "Maybe I've just poisoned you."
"You could have killed me out there," I replied. "As you noted, no one would have objected." I drank again, relishing that warmth flowing into my belly. "Why are we here?"
She regarded me as she slowly drained her own mug, then carefully set it on the table. "The king must be stopped. Otherwise, by the time he dies this entire world will be in ruins, and it will be a century before we can recover. You've been lucky so far. You've met with very little resistance. Too many decades have passed without wars. Weapons have rusted, ammunition has deteriorated, defenses have been neglected; people have forgotten what it is to fight, or have lost the will, or have never even known what fighting is. They've known you were coming, but could not quite believe it would really happen, that you would destroy their cities, their cultures, their way of life." She paused, and when I did not reply, she went on.
"That won't continue. This has been your last easy conquest. At Marakkeen we will fight back."
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. "When I can inform the king and his ministers, so that they will be prepared for resistance?"
"I don't believe you will. But I know I'm taking a great risk."
"I still don't understand why."
"I want your help."
"My help?"
"Yes. This is wrong, and you must know that. Besides, the king is doomed to fail at what he is trying to accomplish."
"Which is?"
"Take us all with him when he dies. Take this world with him. He will fail. We will survive, we will endure. The cities will endure and rebuild and recover the art and beauty and spirit that makes life special, those qualities that make life something more than simple survival and existence. But for now we have all this needless death and suffering, and if he is not stopped, it will continue until he dies." She shook her head. "It's all such a horrible waste."
"You think it's that simple? What the king wants?"
"You don't?"
"No."
"Explain to me, then, what the king is hoping to accomplish."
"I can't. I don't understand it myself, I just know it's more complex than that."
She considered that, then said, "Can any good at all come from his actions, whatever the reason?"
I breathed deeply and looked out once again at the lightbearers, the other people in the plaza, the slowly dying pyres. "Perhaps not." I turned back to her. "But I can't help you. I am only a scribe."
Kiyoko shook her head. "Oh no, that won't do. You must have access to all sorts of useful information. You are, I imagine, privy to the most vital deliberations, strategy sessions, planning councils."
"I only record."
She continued to shake her head. "You would have me believe you retain nothing? That you don't consider what you hear and see, that you don't assess and evaluate and make judgments?"
"I don't make judgments, no."
"That's why you suffer from insomnia and wander the dark streets of a conquered city with your field down."
I stood. "I had my field up," I said. "I turned it off so I could feel the snow."
Smiling, Kiyoko said, "Risking your life for such a small pleasure. Even better, scribe."
"I'm leaving now," I told her.
"I'll be here," she said. "For a few days. Come out into the city, and I'll find you."
"We won't see each other again."
She offered no reply. I turned and made my way out of the building, then walked back to command quarters. For some reason I still do not understand, I never brought my field back up.
I did not see her again. A week has passed, the king waiting with growing frustration for the arrival of starfarers who never appeared. This morning, with our stores replenished—taken, not bought, from the city's residents—we moved out of Kazakh-Ir and marched into the rising sun, trailing long shadows behind us.
The morning was cold; frost dusted the vegetation, while thin cracked ice coated puddles and trickling streams. There has been no snow since the night I met Kiyoko, and none remains on the ground—the terrain we march through is all hard ice and rock and stunted brush, frozen mud and frozen grasses. But the road is in good condition, well-traveled and well-maintained, straight and wide and marking the way east to Kutsk … and then to Marakkeen.
In the early Autumn we entered Salterno, city of canals and lagoons. Nearly all transport takes place on water, and a greater part of the city's food is (or was) provided by the abundant fish and mollusks harvested by fishermen with their boats and nets. Once we had occupied the city, and restocked our own food supplies, we fouled the waters, dumping into them noxious chemicals and neurotoxins and bio-contaminants, so that by the fourth day a poisonous stench hung in the air and the waterways were choked with dead aquatic life that floated to the surface. Starvation for the city's residents was assured, as was despair. By the time we were ready to leave, the elegant boats were rotting, disease was rampant, and as we left that once beautiful city, we poured flammable compounds into the canals and set them alight. For days afterward, even as we traveled farther and farther from Salterno, we could see black smoke rising from the ruins of the city.
Kutsk is no city, is hardly even a town—it's an agglomeration of makeshift, run-down buildings on the barren coastline at the narrowest passage in the straits, the men and women as drab and ruinous in appearance as their dwellings. The residents of Kutsk operate the ferries that cross the Straits of Diamanta, and service the basic needs of traders and travelers who pass through their town—no one travels to Kutsk, they only travel through...
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