Work Text:
Cliopher sayo Mdang stood squarely in front of the beautiful carved door that led to the study of the Last Emperor of Astandalas and Lord of Zunidh, Artorin Damara.
He had not expected to be standing here, not until a few days ago when the Master of Offices told him of this assignment. He had done his best since then to forget the oily glee on the man’s face, the delight with which he had reminded Cliopher of the importance of observing every ritual and taboo. Of the danger of putting a foot wrong, a word out of place, in front of the holy Sun-on-Earth.
Cliopher had known then, and knew now, that he was not expected to survive this experience. He had not precisely made his peace with it.
The guard met his eyes, steady and appraising. Cliopher lifted his chin. He had not been intimidated by the massive gold-and-black portal at the entrance to the Tower. He had not been dismayed by any of the gleaming and massively muscled men standing at the series of entrances between there and here. He was too irritated to be scared.
No, not irritated.
Furious.
The door swung open, ponderously. He was expected. He clutched the bag with his writing materials in it to his chest, held his head high, and stalked into the Imperial Study.
The former ruler of five worlds was standing at the far side of it, facing the far wall, a shapely dark slim figure against all the ivory stone and warm golden light. Cliopher had spent long enough revising the etiquette of this meeting. He paced forward to the prescribed distance, fought a brief battle with himself – he knew he was here to die, so why go through the motions? – and then decided not to give the watching guards the satisfaction of saying that he hadn’t been up to the job. He sank into obeisance.
A guard behind him said, “Cliopher sayo Mdang, Glorious One.”
He said it in an Azilinti accent. For once – for once – in this terrible mausoleum of a Palace, Cliopher was announced with the pronunciation of his name almost, almost correct.
That thought congealed into the undifferentiated rage and shame in his belly like a reactant triggering a transformation.
He lifted his head, compelled by an instinct he would not name and could not resist, and took in the long, lean figure. The jewels. The narrow arms and long, slim fingers.
The shoulders, rounded and gleaming in the brightness of the morning light that suffused the whole room – one entire wall was made of marble finely carved to the point of translucence – the face, utterly still.
He kept looking up, until he met the startled eyes of the Sun-on-Earth.
There was a snapping sensation, a sound which might almost have been a collective sharply indrawn breath, and a humming sense of challenge between them.
Cliopher’s eyes watered.
Nothing further happened.
He was dead already, he reminded himself. This was merely the shape it would take, the contours of the story that would be listed later in the executioner’s book. He blinked hard, moisture on his cheeks, and held the emperor’s gaze.
He would not, he thought grimly, be distracted by the sight of the rest of him, however beautifully presented. He was not here to admire. He was here because he was difficult, and stubborn, and too good at his work to be dismissed without awkwardness. And also because the Master of Offices wanted to see him squirm, and the Ouranatha who had that slimy noble in their pockets wanted to see the Princess Indrogan disgraced.
After a strangled interval the emperor raised a hand, gestured, and said, “Rise and take your seat.”
Cliopher did so, the anger simmering inside him. He was a professional, and he was here to act as the emperor’s secretary, and so his brushes and ink and papers were out and ready on the desk before the chimes of the hour bell stopped ringing.
His Radiancy was standing there, staring at him. Cliopher stared back, letting the challenge show. What was his new lord going to do about it? Have him hauled away by the guard?
The uncertainty was making him itchy. The emperor was almost certainly not stupid, unless the Fall had hurt him worse than the court was allowed to know – always a possibility – but no, having been part of his government for several long years, Cliopher didn’t think this man was stupid. Badly informed, badly advised, and the linchpin of an awful system, but not foolish. So why was he just standing there staring?
Cliopher’s mouth was dry. He swallowed. He was supposed to let the emperor set the tone and start every subject. He was not supposed to speak first. On the other hand, he was already going to die.
“The empire of Astandalas was fundamentally a tyrannical system.”
That was considerably more treasonous than he had intended, but the fury was boiling in him now. How dare this beautiful man stand there, with gold in his ears, round his neck, painted over his lips, while children starved in every city of the world he ruled?
The silence in the glorious room deepened. The Lord of Rising Stars stood there like a carved pillar, unmoving. Cliopher was not sure that he was breathing.
“The entire government of the better part of five worlds sat in the hands of one person, obedient to their whims. Since no one person can hold all the concerns of a single province – even a single city! – in their heart at once, the emperor was forced to delegate. Absolute power was vested in their person, magically, ritually, and through the oaths of nobles and armies and officials alike, and they distributed it at will between corrupt governors, bloodthirsty generals, and selfish priests.”
Now, at last, the emperor moved. His hand rose in a gesture more ancient than any of the household signals Cliopher had been desperately trying to learn in the past two days. It read: please continue.
The emperor wanted him to hang himself, did he? The ink was drying on the tip of his brush, so Cliopher cleaned it. “Your armies killed and plundered their way across the worlds, forcibly binding ancient and proud peoples into the net of the Pax Astandalatis. Stealing their magic, and their wealth, and their best and brightest, all for the glorification of Astandalas.” He tilted his head slightly. “There are many good things in Shaian culture, my lord. You had no need to take others by force.”
“Some say that the empire brought blessings that outweighed any regrettable inconveniences for those conquered.” Artorin Damara had a pleasant voice, light and melodic. His expression was still entirely frozen, except for a very small tilt of his left eyebrow, a miniscule acknowledgement and return.
Cliopher snorted. “It’s easy to find some way to justify the wrongs that feather your nest,” he said. “Statistically, according to some measures – those created and preferred by the Imperial Service – the position is defensible. Morally, and with regards to the actual preferences of those affected, it is reprehensible. The value that was created was stripped from the people creating it.”
“And yet you acknowledge good things in Shaian culture?” The emperor stepped closer, as if fascinated.
Cliopher felt his lip curl. He was flying on wings of righteous rage. “Naturally,” he said, “Fitzroy Angursell is Shaian, after all.”
Whatever the emperor had expected, it wasn’t that. He stopped short, amber eyes widening in shock, hands lifting slightly – almost pleading.
Well. If he wasn’t going to be dragged away for any treason he could devise – if Artorin Damara wanted to draw this out – Cliopher had written a whole dissertation on the measurement and distribution of economic growth in the reign of Eritanyr. He was delighted to share it. At length. With references, which he scribbled down on the paper on his desk as he went.
The Sun-on-Earth did not interrupt him. He stood there, letting Cliopher continue to incriminate himself.
When, at last, the subject was exhausted, Cliopher pushed his little paper of references across the desk, deciding at the final second against adding his dissertation to the list in case his tutor at Gorjo City University came in for any trouble.
“I’m done,” he said.
“Thoroughly,” the Lord of Rising Stars agreed, sounding winded.
They stared at each other some more. The emperor was looking at him almost hungrily, Cliopher thought, with another pang of irritation. The man’s appreciation was evident. And very, very annoying.
“You can arrest me now,” he prompted.
“I could.” The emperor turned and walked over to his desk. Cliopher watched warily as he dragged a slip of paper of his own across and scrawled something on it with a flourish. He came towards Cliopher holding it out before him gingerly, rather like a man offering food to a wild creature. “Swap? Yours for mine?”
Cliopher shrugged, and took it.
The emperor swiped the list of references from his desk.
Cliopher looked disbelievingly from the note in his hand to the glinting expression of his lord. “This is a pardon,” he accused.
“You’ve just given me the clearest account of the economic mess I inherited that I’ve ever heard,” the emperor said. “Concise, cogent, and with footnotes. I certainly can’t let them execute you.” After a brief pause he added, uncertainly, “Sorry?”
Cliopher opened his mouth, stared at the gold-flecked pardon – written in the emperor’s own hand – and closed it again.
The emperor’s face, while he had been listening, had been almost motionless and rather solemn. It was still serene, but now the serenity was transformed, lit up by that subterranean mirth. “Besides, I’ve been waiting a long time for an honest assessment.” He turned around slowly, arms outstretched. “Fashion has moved on since the Fall,” he commented, “and the Palace is lucky enough to host some of the greatest tailors in all the nine worlds. We were recently visited by a fae couple who outshone them all, however.”
“Were you.” Cliopher said, flatly. He was not going to be moved by the splendour of the sight before him, whatever his Radiancy thought.
The emperor completed his turn and waved expansively at his own body, from head to toe. “They asked for a truly exorbitant quantity of gold, and in exchange offered to fashion my clothing from a fabric that can only be seen by those who are truly intelligent and honest.”
Cliopher had no idea what expression was showing on his face, but he doubted it was one the court would deem appropriate. He clutched his pardon. “Did they.”
“I said yes, of course.” The emperor was smiling now. No, the emperor was grinning. It was unfair how his face lit up with it. “What do you think?”
The pardon was written on the thickest, finest grade of paper. It was almost a pity to tear it in two. Cliopher folded it over and tore it again, and again for good measure. Then he met his Radiancy’s eyes. “The fae have taken you for a fool, my lord. There’s nothing there.”
Another one of those sparkling, cliff-edge silences. The scraps of the pardon drifted down across the desk and the floor. Cliopher resisted the urge to tidy them away. He held the emperor’s gaze.
There was mirth there, a great hidden fountain of it, a gleaming ocean of delight. “Are you saying that I’m underdressed?” Artorin Damara asked, in exaggerated tones of courtly Shaian shock and scandal.
“Bare-arse naked, your Radiancy,” said Cliopher, primly. He could feel the answering joy gathering, swallowing up the last of his anger and transforming it into purpose.
They held each other’s gaze a moment more, the challenge hanging between them.
Cliopher’s lips twitched. He pressed them firmly together.
The Sun-on-Earth’s shoulders were shaking, just a little.
From beside the door, one of the guards made a strange choked sound that might have been a snicker.
“If you aren’t intending to execute me today, my lord,” Cliopher kept his voice as prim and colourless as he could manage, “perhaps we could continue with the business of the morning?” He tapped his brush meaningfully against the side of his inkstone.
And his Radiancy – the Sun-on-Earth – the Lord of Rising Stars – the Last Emperor of Astandalas and Lord of Zunidh – turned on his heel, his whole glorious self spinning once more in front of Cliopher Mdang, and collapsed over his desk in a great whoop of laughter.
“You know,” said Cliopher thoughtfully, considering the sight, “those tailors may be frauds, but your body artist is magnificent. Perhaps you should promote them?”