The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy-Chapter 180 - Threads to Weave Into Strings

Mirian strode through the room with her head held high. She quickly found the Sacristars, who were talking to a man Alexus seemed to know.

Nicolus’s jaw was open as she approached. “Damn, Mirian,” he said. “I knew you—but I didn’t know—I mean—”

Sire Nurea let out a soft exasperated noise. “It’s like I taught him nothing,” she complained to the air.

Alexus let out a chortle.

“Lady Mirian, if you would,” she told them.

“My lady,” Nicolus said, giving her a curt bow that somehow managed to be sarcastic.

“Lady of what?” one of the businessmen at Alexus’s shoulder asked, mirroring Nicolus’s bow.

“I find it a bit crass to discuss such things, don’t you?” Mirian replied haughtily.

“Lady Mirian,” Alexus said, without missing a beat. “This is Clement Stalswrot. Friend of mine. He’s just made some large acquisitions.”

“Oh?” Mirian said, giving him a small smile. It was easier to play her role if she thought of the people here as game pieces to be manipulated, rather than human.

She saw Clement’s mouth twitch and his eyes briefly scanned her. “Just a small thing,” he said dismissively.

Alexus laughed. “A small thing, he says! Too modest, I’m afraid. He’s gotten ahold of most of the myrvite hunting rights from Westshire to the Hikstoluck! A lot of wilderness out there, but with all these factory expansions, it’s a surefire investment.”

“Interesting. Why didn’t the others buy it up first?” she asked, gesturing at the rest of the party.

“Ah, that’s the trick, isn’t it?” Clement said. “A good businessman can’t be revealing his tricks. Suffice to say that what people believe about an investment is far more important for its price than what it sells for on the market.”

Alexus let out a guffaw and slapped the man on the back as he doubled over at what, apparently, was a clever joke. Even Clement seemed a bit taken aback by his reaction, and a bit of his drink splashed.

“So Akana will keep moving west?”

“Of course, Lady Mirian.”

“And then where will it go?”

Clement’s eyes twinkled. “By then, we’ll be living in a new world, the world we’ve laid the foundation for.”

Mirian considered the conversation and how to maneuver it. “People are so set in their ways in Baracuel. There’s maximum quotas south of the frostlands, and bits of wilderness cut into neat little ranches. There, the spellward is the king on the throne. Here, though, you eschew such limitations. How many myrvite organs do you ship down the Hikstoluck River?”

“Twenty tons per annum,” Clement said.

Mirian reeled at the number. “And that’s just the spell organs? Is that you, or the whole industry?”

“Oh, just me, my lady,” Clement said, smiling again.

Mentally, Mirian was calculating just how many beasts that would be. A bog lion mane was about three pounds once shaved, while a chimera skull was usually between one and twenty pounds, depending on the size of the creature. A cockatrice heart was only two-fifths of a pound. Depending on what the breakdown of the myrvites they were killing out there was, Clement’s operation was killing and shipping some 50,000 myrivtes per year. No wonder the Ennicus family couldn’t compete, she realized. She had seen some of the operations out west, but only now did she truly comprehend the scale.

“See, Nicolus, that’s what I’ve been saying,” his uncle said. “Akana is the future. Baracuel is too tied down by the past. That’s the kind of numbers a Bardas could only dream of!”

Shortly after that, Clement excused himself to join another circle of businessmen, and Alexus whispered, “He spread rumors of a Mianol uprising and that Westshire reformists were going to ban myrvite hunting west of the mountains. Used his broadsheet business in Westshire to help spread that. Then he used shell companies to pick up all the rights on the cheap before his rivals figured out he was behind it. Vicious as a Florinian portmaster!”

“Brilliant,” Nicolus muttered.

“Psychotic,” Mirian said. Akana’s invasion of Baracuel is just another opportunity to seize valuable resources to put to market, she realized. She went to one of the windows and looked down. Below, glyphlamps illuminated people scurrying about like ants. Here, above the fray, what happened to the little people was of no concern to them. Then how to convince them? As separate as they thought they were, they were still a part of Enteria. And when the foundation crumbles, there is no tower they can build high enough to preserve themselves.

As she turned away from the window, idly setting her drink down for the spell engine to pick up, she caught sight of several figures moving towards a window. Lord Saiyal and Magnus Tyrcast were among them, along with Tyrcast’s wife, Josephine Rosen. Her father, Lester, appeared to be talking to Lord Saiyal.

She moved towards them. She kept the two in her peripheral vision and went to stand by the window, gazing out at the city. She wanted to know what they were talking about before she started making changes. As she listened, the city of Vadriach caught her eye, tens of thousands of glyphlamps glittering from buildings and from the spell carriages roaming the streets. It was hard to comprehend just how many people there were.

And all of this is possible because of spell engines, she knew. Before the invention of the spellward, people had been forced to live in small communities. Farmland had to be hidden behind walls that were routinely patrolled. For thousands of years, there had only been a few great cities able to sustain a periphery that could bring in enough food for them. The rest of humanity had been small and scattered. Now, it had burgeoned into this.

Lester Rosen was getting up there in age. His hair had given up on silver and was now settling into white, while his wrinkled skin reminded Mirian of cracked leather.

Lord Saiyal said something to Lester that she didn’t catch. Lester replied. His voice had a creakiness to it. “I’ve always thought the Gods made a mistake when they decided not to charge for the price of a sunset,” Lester was saying. “Even a breath of air should cost a beadcoin. Then, people might value what they have more. And oh, how I’d like to buy the breaths of those who don’t know the value. How I’d like to put them to better use.”

“Plenty of people to buy from,” Lord Saiyal said in heavily accented Eskinar. He paused to take a drink, then said, “You heard what that crowned-rat was saying?”

Mirian adjusted her view so she could just see the reflection of them on the window. She could see Lester sneering. “Can’t even wipe your ass without hearing about him. Withdraw? He’d hand your whole country over to the rebels, and then what would fuel the factories? A menace, and absolute menace.”

Kinsman, she realized. They’re talking about Prime Minister Kinsman.

“In Alatishad, if there’s a rat infestation, we find cats to hunt them down,” Lord Saiyal said. “Surely, you have methods of pest control here?”

“Oh, we do, we do,” Lester said.

Just then, Mirian caught a piece of the conversation to her right. Another group of businessmen had picked up the same topic, and she heard one say, “—well, someone ought to do something about him.” Murmurs of agreement followed.

On impulse, she looked back through the party. Through a faint illusion of ribbons dancing in the breeze, she saw him: Allen Matteus. He would stop, shake hands, talk briefly with a group, then move along. Getting a sense of the mood, she realized. The pieces were all starting to come together in her mind, like how she visualized the pieces of a magical device assembling before she started building an artifact. The conspiracy was here, but at these heights, it didn’t have a name anymore. Matteus took no orders. He would simply roam about the party and take away one idea, that very idea that was circulating all about the party like a disease: that Kinsman was universally loathed. He had to go.

The idea would seem unanimous. After all, Matteus wouldn’t be shaking hands with any of Kinsman’s supporters in the streets. Either he didn’t know, or didn’t care for the opinions of people that little.

Mirian turned back to the window. From here, the people below were literally small; they were specks, ants, that could roam around in this hive. As long as they produced, they could crawl around any which-way they wanted. If there seemed to be a problem, they could poke at the hive and stir it up, then point the swarm at something they wanted.

An individual person looked up at the golden tower scraping at the clouds, looked around at all the endless buildings and streets, and knew just how little they were. How could they change any of it? They were so small, and the world so big. Best to go along with the flow.

Up here, there was a sense of community, however perverse. Through handshakes and smiles, the people here knew they had each other’s backs, and when they looked down, they saw a world made small, shrunk to the size of toys they could manipulate. Even if out in the world they vied to win the most coin, here, there was class unity. Playing dirty was just part of the game.

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“May I ask your name?” a woman’s voice asked, snapping her out of her reverie.

Mirian turned to see Josephine Rosen in a beautiful blue dress. She too had a ribbon circling her bare shoulders. Josephine was nothing like her father. Where he seemed like dried leather, she was soft silk. Her hair was done up with elaborate weaves and ornaments.

“Lady Mirian Sulalnahr,” she said as they both curtsied at each other.

Josephine furrowed her brow. She wasn’t recognizing the name, and likely, that was unusual for her. “My husband here couldn’t help but notice you standing there,” she said.

Archmage Tyrcast blushed, which was something she’d never seen him do before. Usually, he was too busy acting like everyone in the world should be thanking him just for being in the same room. “Told you it was probably just a coincidence with the placement of the spell engines,” he muttered.

Mirian looked at Tyrcast, keeping her posture formal and her attitude aloof. A third of her knowledge of these events came from Nicolus, a third from a book on Akanan high society and etiquette, and a third from those mystery novels she’d read so many years ago. The protagonist of them had sometimes needed to attend an event to meet suspects.

“Well now I’m curious. I haven’t heard of the Sulanars,” Josephine said, butchering the pronunciation.

“Oh, we’re one of the oldest families in Baracuel,” Mirian replid. That was the second background story she’d come up with, since her first about being Persaman nobility had apparently been caught. “Sadly, my great great grandfather picked the wrong side of the Unification War. But that’s old news. I’m fascinated by some of the developments here. It’s just the kind of innovation that eastern Baracuel needs.” If she talked as if she was a powerful ally in east Baracuel, just waiting for a strong ally, she hoped the warmongers in the gala would push for some sort of alliance. She could start to figure out who knew the most of the conspiracy.

“I dare say,” Josephine said. “We went on holiday there a few years back. Far too much sand and little color for my liking. And the spell engines they’re using are rudimentary, aren’t they, dear?”

Tyrcast was staring at Mirian again. She could guess why. His aura was refined enough that he could sense how the ambient mana was interacting with Mirian. As best Mirian could tell, she’d actually started to absorb ambient mana now—in amounts small enough it was hard to notice—but no doubt Tyrcast’s arcane sense was picking up something new and enthralling him.

“Dear?”

“Hmm? Ah, yes. Yes, Baracueli spell engine production is in a dire state. They’re still assembling the things by hand instead of assembly lines. A bit primitive, still pretending like the old crafting professions are some noble thing rather than a relic of the past. Might as well still employ wainwrights and coopers,” Tyrcast said, back to his usual scorn.

Mirian found the subsequent discussion of spell engines mildly interesting, but Tyrcast wasn’t exactly revealing his trade secrets. She was about to make an excuse to leave when Allen Matteus made his way over. Josephine was all smiles as he said hello, but Tyrcast’s attitude immediately changed. He wasn’t groveling, precisely, but the way he spoke made it clear he saw Matteus as his better.

“And who’s this fine lady?” Matteus said, turning to Mirian.

“Mirian Sulanar,” Josephine said, mispronouncing it again.

“Sulalnahr, surely,” Matteus said.

“That’s correct,” Mirian said, putting on a smile. Inside, alarm bells were ringing like she was being stalked by a bog lion. There was something predatory about Matteus that was hard to put a finger on.

“How interesting. I didn’t know there were any of those left.”

Mirian waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, plenty of people did their best, but we survived. Go far enough east in Baracuel, and people stop paying so much attention. We’re slowly rebuilding what we lost. Hard to do when your rivals are in power. How I wish that would change.”

Matteus looked her up and down and gave her soft smile. “Best of luck,” he said, and walked away.

Hmm. Maybe I made the bait too obvious, she decided. Or maybe he’s going to go investigate first. One doesn’t become the head spymaster without a bit of caution.

Another man walked by, this one wearing a formal jacket with military epaulets. Mirian had studied the Akanan symbols of rank when she was preparing to infiltrate the airships. Those indicate a rank above a regular marshal. That only meant he could be Grand Marshal Maximus Caldwell. So he attends, but not Marshal Cearsia.

Something had been bothering Mirian. In Baracuel, the Luminate Order still didn’t like the idea of women joining it, but it was something of a holdout. Women still occupied top positions in the army, in businesses, and in academies. Yet here, she noticed with the exception of Josephine, most of the women here were finely dressed, but saying little. The words the maid had said to her repeated in her mind. It’s not just the poor people of the streets they scorn, she realized.

The Akana Praediar she’d read about in history class was one of brave men and women conquering the frontier to break with the old oppressive traditions of the Twenty Kingdoms of Baracuel. It had been their rebellion against the noble houses, against kings, that had eventually led to the Unification War.

Mirian saw a woman coming down one of the spiral staircases that led to the top floor, escorted by a man dressed as a servant, only he had two wands at his side. He saw Mirian lingering and said, “Ma’am, if you would follow me?”

She cocked her head, confused. At first, she thought perhaps she’d been discovered, but no, something else was going on. She realized this wasn’t the first woman she’d seen coming and going from the top floor. Ah, she thought. Uncle Alexus mentioned Mr. Aurum is still single. She followed the servant.

While the penultimate floor had been dense with illusions and busy with circles of wealthy men and women, the top floor was relatively calm. The floor was mostly dark, except for a soft blue lighting. The tables they would all use for dining later were set, but empty, leaving an unobstructed view of the city. In the center of the south facing window, looking out across Vadriach, was a man wearing a pristine black suit decorated with gold thread. To his left and right, there were several figures. Male and female servants, but each carrying wands in sheathes. They were dark silhouettes. Contrasting them, Mr. Aurum had tailored his suit so that the lights up here caused a special material suit to fluoresce so that the elaborate patterns sewn into it glowed.

Mr. Aurum’s back was still to her. Mirian took her time as she examined the man, embracing her focus to get a better look at his soul. It was as most souls were: a chaotic mess of streams. No holes, no bindings. Just a man.

As she walked forward, Mirian contemplated the appeal of such wealth. An army of servants at their beck and call, a gorgeous view of the city, all from such a height that they really did feel like masters of the world. The most expensive luxuries provided at the snap of their fingers. Mr. Aurum could even afford for arcanists to be his servants, and force them to dress how he pleased so that everything he saw conformed to his pleasures.

And how does one go about convincing such a man he should bow to the greater good? she wondered.

Sylvester Aurum turned as she approached, heels echoing in the otherwise quiet room. He had a posture that was perfectly formal, and yet relaxed. His smile was disarming. Mirian could easily imagine him walking into a room full of businessmen and putting them at ease in an instant.

His poise slipped just for a moment as he saw Mirian. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.” Mr. Aurum had a deep, melodious voice. He raised an eyebrow at his servant.

“You said she had a purple dress in Baracueli style,” he murmured.

Mirian put on a fake smile. “I couldn’t exactly say no to a meeting, could I?” she said. Given a few more minutes, her subterfuge was about to be discovered. All it would take is comparing her name with the guest list. She decided to go with a gambit. “It’s not his fault, I snuck into the gala. I wanted to see what the heights of Akana looked like myself,” she said, walking past Mr. Aurum to gaze out the window. “And I must say, it’s quite the view.”

In her peripheral vision, Mirian saw one of the arcanist maids reach for her wand. Mirian was ready to react at a moment's notice, but only if the spells actually started flying.

Instead, Mr. Aurum let out a laugh. “That’s the first interesting thing anyone has told me tonight,” he said.

There was an opportunity here. She decided to seize it. Mirian turned and smiled at him, putting on as much charm as she could muster. When his eyes ran over her, she knew she had at least a few minutes to talk to him. “All this,” she said. “What will you do when you have enough?”

“A man can never have enough. There’s always a new frontier.”

She’d talked to enough of the RID conspirators to have something of an idea of how they wanted it all to go. In private, they were quite open about their hopes and dreams for the expansion of Akana. “First, redraw the map of Baracuel so they no longer are so annoyingly independent. Then, Persama, through proxies like Lord Saiyal. Then Zhighuia, I assume, since its already weak and in turmoil, again, through some sort of proxy since they’d chaff at the direct control. That gives you enough fossilized myrvite for generations. Tlaxhuaco then becomes isolated, though there’s no rush dealing with them. Then what?”

“There’s more to Enteria than the known world. The spellward defeated the common myrvite. The leviathans and storms can only hold us back for so long.”

And what if myrvite titans roam the unexplored places? she didn’t say. She looked Mr. Aurum in the eyes so she could gauge his response, and took a step closer. “And what of the leylines?”

She could see the light glisten off his eyes. “What of them?”

“You know the arcane eruptions have nothing to do with Baracuel. The leylines are growing unstable, far more rapidly than anyone realizes. The eruptions have started in my homeland too. I’ve paid my arcanists to tell me the truth, not the lies they think I want to hear, and they predict a leyline will breach the surface in just a few more weeks. Entire cities could be wiped off the map.”

Concern briefly crossed Mr. Aurum’s face. His eyes glanced over at one of his arcanists before he reasserted his composure.

Mirian looked at him, eyes widening. This, she hadn’t expected. “Something happened, didn’t it? Worse than the Ferrabridge eruption?”

Mr. Aurum turned away. “Tell her,” he said.

One of the women stepped forward. “Two days ago, a leyline breached near Westshire. It destroyed a train and killed everyone on board.” She stepped back.

“Allen asked my newspapers not to publish such a thing, as it might spread unwarranted alarm. I did as he asked, because he’s a good friend,” Mr. Aurum said. “We will overcome this thing,” he said.

Mirian took another gamble. “Have you and Tyrcast considered that two airships of significant mass putting pressure on the leylines might cause further disruptions?”

This time, Mr. Aurum was startled. “How did a beautiful creature like you… are you one of Allen’s?”

“No. I have my own sources. And my own proposal. What if you could power spell engines without fossilized myrvite?” She stepped up to Mr. Aurum so she was near his ear and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What if you could harness the power of a leyline?”

She was pleased when she saw the visceral shiver run down the industrialist’s body.

“Impossible,” he said.

“Now now. That sounds like a man finding his limits. I like someone with a bit more ambition.”

She could see the man’s neck tighten, and his breathing quickened. She’d found the right strings to pull. He forced a laugh. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Well then, let’s hear it.”

Mirian smiled, and began to talk.