Lords of Misrule
(US title: Against the Rules)

pilot: Deus ex Machina

VHS recording

Act 4

Black fades back up to space once again; the quasi-familiar red-orange image of a planet: Mars.

Cut to…

The bridge of the Argai Defender. The admiral stands on a podium, feet apart, back rigid, a swagger-stick clutched in his hands behind his back.

Alarms are sounding.

Two rocket trails are streaking towards the 'Banner of Glory' from the mouth of the shipyard.

"How dare they!" the admiral is shouting. "How dare they!"

Admiral Vain's Story

["Knights of the Spire" Vol.1 No.6]

Vaynar sur Amonesh, by the Grace of the Divine Emperor vice-admiral of the Condor rank, commadore-commander of the 33^rd Imperial Fleet and captain-commander of the Defender 'Tears of Jubilation', was pleased to present himself before the Court of Martyrs.

It was nearly noon and the tropical heat of Throne's sun – the 'golden face' – beat down on the sandy arena but sur Amonesh stood, in full uniform, at rigid attention, even as the beads of sweat began to form and trickle down the back of his dress shirt.

"The soul is stronger than the flesh," he told himself. "The soul is stronger than the flesh," repeating the Red Argai prayer.

He stood with his personal staff and the three captains who he had picked from his fleet, and at the head of a train of fifty porters, whose landriders carried the tribute that he was there to deliver. Thousands of bushels of grain; hundreds of barrels of sweet wine; coin in gold and silver. Stood next to him, sur Amonesh's own adjutant, Tawlb, bore the heavily-shielded flask containing a half measure of arcadium, enough of the rare mineral to power the entire Court for a solar year or longer. sur Amonesh himself cradled the two precious tablets in his arms, thin sheets of metallised silica punched with slits that spelled out the holy texts, in glyphs of the ancient tongue.

The Court was, by some way, the second largest city on Throne, after only the Imperial Capital itself, and occupied most of the vale of the two rivers, Mosha and Orla.

It's outermost bastion, the St Celestine Wall, was an unbroken loop, some one hundred and twenty kilometres around, bridging each of the rivers twice, and enclosing an area of around fifteen hundred square kilometres of forests and orchards and gardens. Mile after mile of black flowers, their beauty visible only in the ultraviolet to the dusky blackwings and dourmoths that were their pollinators.

The black flowers were sacred, in all the Argai religions. There were other glades and gardens, some large, some small, though none so grand as here, scattered all over Throne. The priesthoods were sworn to protect them. It was one of the oldest customs. No one was entirely sure why.

Nine academic districts, including the New College, which was itself four-hundred years old, surrounded the citadel, like foothills around a snowy mountain. The oldest were the College of Arts and the College of Arms, which dated back to the time of the White Emperor, and the College of Goldsmiths which was only a century or so younger. All of them were long since turned to theological institutions, although the College of Arms does maintain a small military academy.

The citadel itself, or to give it its full title the Sanctury and Reliquary of St Sebastian the Martyred, had been founded on an island in the Mosha river, said to have been called the Tear of Juno, but had over many ages spread to both shores and now occupied an area of around twenty square kilometres and was surrounded by the St Michael Wall.

Almost the entire area inside the Wall was essentially a single building now, pierced by service tunnels and skylanes, closed off to the heavens except for the Imperial Park, the Patriarchs' Park and the common park and ornamental lake, which was open to the public.

And also the central assembly, a circular arena some thirty stories deep and half a kilometre across. A dozen enormous sarcophagi surrounded the ring of the amphitheatre; twelve beast-headed statues: bull and cat and hawk and the rest, so tall that they crested the upper roof of the citadel. Nine were occupied, it was well known; three were empty, awaiting their foretold residents. Behind each statue were the libraries and halls of the sects and chapters of each of the prophet martyrs under the auspice of the one true faith.

The centre of the assembly, the focus, the hammer point of the whole religion, was the humble chapel of St Sebastian itself. But no one ever went there.

Vaynar sur Amonesh presented himself before the Patriarchs, then, perspiring under the eyes of the twelve: the nine who were and three who would be. The Unicorn was not due – if you believed in prophesy, that is – for centuries. And the Dragon would not come before the end of time. But the Bat… rumour had it that the day of the Bat was soon, if not now. The prophecy of the Bat spoke of victories, of course – all the prophecies spoke of victories – but also of treason and darkness and a terrible change to come.

The vice-admiral was surprised at himself for even thinking such thoughts, and dismissed them from his mind. He considered his record instead.

It had been a good war. Rebellion on Malphas and Halphas. The Empire was not truly a thousand worlds, but near enough that there was always somewhere for revolutions to simmer. The Red Emperor had ruled with strength and, in sur Amonesh's estimation, a certain low cunning for one-hundred-and-thirty years, but he was old and his attention was on the border with the Ellagab. And the crown Prince was a hedonistic fool who had taken himself off to his sky palace at Agores. That left some people with enough time to start thinking that they could seize power for themselves. That was when the fleet had to go in.

The two worlds had had no real space navy of their own to speak of. They were builders, mostly, not warriors. The castles and palazzos of Halphas northern cities, in particular, had been quite beautiful. Had been. They had had substantial ground forces, though: enthusiastic volunteers and conscripts alike, and they were well dug in.

sur Amonesh had selected the junior centurion for the sacrifice, but then left the soothsayers to it. They had predicted victory, so he had bombed the Halphas cities from orbit, and sent in the troops.

He told the men that they were facing Green Argai. He didn't care whether the rebels were Green Argai. But a crusade against heretics always geed the troops up.

Even with their beautiful cities turned to rubble, they proved a stubborn foe. But freedom turned out to be quite a nebulous dream to die for, when the Imperial forces fought for their very real divine Emperor. Victory had been inevitable by the second year of the war; before the end of the third they were crushed.

There was looting and executions. Such things are expected. sur Amonesh allowed his men their head; he liked them to think of him as a generous overlord. His spies among the ranks told him he was spoken of as a good master.

In the course of the sack, though, his men had made the precious discovery: two of the lost codices, numbered ninety-five and ninety-seven. It was perhaps more fortunate still that the chaplain with the patrol that found them had recognised them for what they were and referred the matter to his unit's deacon. And that the deacon was an honest man who had informed the general. sur Amonesh would not have put it past Arch-prelate Partokles to have kept the discovery to himself if he had been able. Instead, Partokles was stood in the train below the three captains, a smile plastered to his shaved face, feigning enjoyment of sur Amonesh's triumph.

Patriarch Marjam, flanked by three female ordinands in white shifts, led the Sanctuary delegation. He would speak the first blessing, and then hand over the guests to the lord Almoner while the lord Cellarer would take charge of receiving the goods and chattels. All this had been arranged in advance between sur Amonesh's office and the lord Precentor.

According to sur Amonesh's briefing, Marjam was of the third circle, and a follower of Rayomon, known as the Boar, the fourth prophet-martyr. This made him favoured of the Emperor, which was a good sign. The Patriarch's soil-red face glistened with perspiration in the bright sun.

sur Amonesh bowed from the waist.

His captains, and his adjutant, went down on their knees.

Behind him came a susurration as the priests and porters in the train went down in even deeper obeisance, bowing their heads to the sand.

Marjam smiled compassionately, and made the circular gesture of blessing.

"Welcome, children," he said, "be welcome. May the light of the blessed saint shine upon you, that you may grow strong and true; may the waters of Eden wash over you, that you may be fed and succoured; and may the benevolence of the Emperor illuminate your path, that you find your way home."

"And upon you, and upon you, and upon you," they intoned the prayerful response.

"You may rise," one of the ordinands spoke.

Stiffly, sur Amonesh straightened up. Marjam was continuing to smile, in a way that was becoming patronising now. But one of the other ordinands stepped forward expectantly, and held out her arms to take the tablets from him. For a moment he was reluctant to let them go. But the scene was being tri-cast live across the Empire and sur Amonesh was not going to ruin the moment. He turned the pause into a moment of dignity, before graciously handing over the relics into her waiting embrace.

"In the name of the Emperor, I have the honour of presenting this tribute," sur Amonesh spoke the lines agreed – and, to him, highly agreeable, given the light they presented him in.

"And in the name of the Saint, we gratefully receive this offering," Marjam replied. "And in gratitude to his Divine Majesty, may the blessings upon the Imperial Reign never cease," he added.

"Never cease," echoed sur Amonesh, concealing his annoyance that the prelate had gone off script.

The Patriarch and the ordinands stepped back, and one of the other religious made a discrete gesture ushering the almoner and cellarer forward.

The obedientiaries robes were a simple beige, though very fine if you were close enough to observe the fabric, contrasting with the cruder finery of the Patriarchs, in white and gold and red.

Lord Almoner led sur Amonesh and his companions to one side while a chorus of deacons came forward to perform blessings on the goods before they could be formally accepted into the Sanctuary.

The ceremony was scheduled to go on for another tedious hour, but then there was a stir amongst the dignitaries. An Imperial Messenger was approaching. In full crimson armour in this heat, they must have been boiling like a lobster. sur Amonesh was delighted by the interruption; it would make great content for the propaganda newswires.

The messenger bowed first to the Patriarchs – like the vice-Admiral before them, they bowed only from the waist, a sign that they were a representative of the Imperial Court – and then approached sur Amonesh, saluted, and indicated they should step aside.

sur Amonesh made his own bow to the Patriarchs and, beckoning Tawlb to follow, accompanied the messenger who led them to a small port adjacent to the feet of one of the great statues. Not the boar-headed Rayomon but the cat-headed figure of the Second Prophet, Abbastis. There was a small vestibule within. A male sexton was polishing the marble benches until the Emperor's messenger shooed him away, and he vanished through an inner door.

The messenger drew off their helmet, to reveal a woman of short dark hair, and hawkish features decorated with several ear and nose piercings. General Ewa tol Amada herself. This was the highest honour. And extremely serious. sur Amonesh went down on one knee. Tawlb was already kneeling.

The General drew off her mail gauntlets too, and placed them inside her helmet, before putting it down on one of the benches. Then she took out a scroll from her messenger bag.

"The Empire is pleased with you, Vaynar. Here, by the grace of his Imperial Supremacy, you are commissioned to the title of full Admiral of the Eagle rank."

"I am humbled, my lady, by the honour his majesty does me," sur Amonesh replied.

"I'm not done," tol Amada replies. "You are relieved of all command of the 33^rd Imperial Fleet, and of the flagship 'Tears of Jubilation'."

sur Amonesh struggled not to respond. He was monentarily dizzy. It was not unheard of for Imperial Officers to receive promotion and execution in the same warrant. He heard Tawlb's intake of breath.

But the general still hadn't finished.

"You will travel with all haste to the Imperial Protectorate and there you will take command of all security forces, under the direction of Grand Procurator Imwe zo Callandar. You are promoted to admiral-commander of the 59^th Imperial Fleet and captain-commander of the Imperial Argai Defender 'Banner of Glory'.

"Captain Tawlb, you are promoted to Major in order that your rank may suitable reflect the glory of your commander's new appointment.

"Now I am done."

sur Amonesh, able to breathe again, took the scroll, bowed more deeply from his kneeling position, and made appropriately humble noises of gratitude.

The General was already redonning her helm and gloves and leaving. "Don't fuck this up, Vain," she said before sweeping out.

sur Amonesh drew in his breath. Full admiral, he was thinking. But sent to the Protectorate. Bloody Fallen. A reward, true. But a long way from the Imperial Court. And under the eye of the Order.

"Tawlb," he snapped. "We must depart immediately. Summon a chariot to take us to the space elevator."

"I'm already securing us passage on a courier bound for the Protectorate, Admiral."

"On top of things as always, Tawlb. Where would we be without you."

"Just doing my job, sir. I know you like to be prepared. I – aah – speaking of which, I will have to cancel our meeting with your agents in the Sanctuay, sir."

"Understandable. We cannot be seen to dawdle if there's an Imperial Command. Do we have any spies in the 59^th Fleet?"

"No many, sir. Just a few sleepers kept on ice."

"Well wake them up and warm them up. We are going to need to know what we are getting into. I'm going to need to know the captains of the fleet and I'm going to need to speak to the Soothsayers. We can arrange that en route, can we not?"

"It will all be in hand, sir. I'll have it for you before we leave the space elevator."

"Always dependable, Tawlb."

"Thank you, sir."

"And Major Tawlb."

"Yes, sir?"

"Why is the Emperor sending us there?"

"I don't know, sir. That I do not know."

The sound of an electric chariot drawing up outside the port brought the hurried conversation to an end. Tawlb bustled out, still using his wrist-comp to make preparations. sur Amoneth followed.

He paused before stepping into the waiting chariot, Tawlb holding open the door.

His eye was caught again by the statue of the tenth prophet, the statue of the Bat. Treason. And darkness. And terrible change. sur Amoneth dismissed the thoughts once more and, making what show he could for the tri-casters, boarded the chariot to depart.