Gazetteer X
The Empty Quarter
Amenophis IV
Imperial Hive World, Subsector Tertius
5-571.598.M41
“Neshi! My love? Are you out there?”
Ipip shivered and drew her sandcloak closer around her. The cheap lumen threw jagged, dancing shadows on the walls of the tent as the winds whipped it back and forth. She tried to ignore them, staring down at the orison-beads in her hand.
“Mama, I can hear voices…”
“Hush, sweetheart. There’s nothing out there.” She hugged little Djedi closer to her knees and set his slender fingers on the Aquila bead. “Now, like we practiced. You rise in perfection on the horizon of the sky, living Emperor, Who started life…”
“Neshi! I can’t see you! Neshi, are you there?”
“He’s sad, mama.” Djedi looked up at her through the muffling layers of hides, his mouth a little o of concern. “He’s sad, and he’s lonely, can’t we help him?”
“It’s just the wind, little one.” She guided his fingers from skull to skull, wishing Lena was here, wishing she’d done as she promised her wife and stayed at the mining camp until these unseasonal sandstorms had passed. But after two dry, starving years, the ships were finally coming and going from the shuttleports on the Aur again, and that meant thronegelt in the pocket for the enterprising; and besides, Djedi was old enough now to learn the ways of the empty quarter. “Just the wind.” Sand rattled and scrabbed at the guylines outside with a noise far too much like skeletal fingers. The grox lowed, long and mournful. “Whenever You are risen upon the eastern horizon, You fill every land with Your perfection…”
“Neshi! Neshi, where are you, my love? Come back to me!”
The Opera Imperial, Hive Secundus
Amenophis IV
Imperial Hive World, Subsector Tertius
5-572.598.M41
On stage, the countertenor was beginning the Balcony Aria in a high, clear voice, carrying over the low and ominous bass from the orchestra pit. The Magos Cantatus raised a baton in each of their long, delicate mechadendrites, bringing the strings up together as the lights dimmed and the volume swelled.
Margarita Setep reclined into the plush cushions of her couch, letting the aching purity of the boy’s voice wash over her as she sipped her amasec. When the lights went up for the interval, she would be the picture of Imperial authority, enthroned at the front of her box with crook and flail crossed upon her chest, straight-backed and stern; but for now, the one-way plasteel privacy screen allowed her to relax and enjoy the pleasure of the music.
Thou dost appear beautiful
On the horizon of heaven
Oh, living Emperor
As much as one could enjoy such a magnificent spectacle alone. She brushed a thumb absently over the faint traces of lipstick on the goblet, feeling the cushions beside her already grow cold with another body’s absence. The piercing solo shifted to a minor key, mournful and lonely.
When Thou hast risen on the Eastern Horizon
Thou art fair, great, dazzling,
High above every land
There was a rustle behind her; the click of the box door sliding open on hushed hinges. She sat up, surprised, her hand reaching instinctively for the digiweapon concealed in the string faience beads at her wrist. It had been generations since a Governor-Castellan had been assassinated, but the Sector was unsettled, and her guards had given no warning–
“Oh! What happened?” She let her hand fall from her wrist as Luisa gently closed the door behind her, warmth bubbling unaccustomed in her breast. “Was there a problem with the shuttle?”
Before answering, Luisa joined her on the couch, sinking gratefully into the cushions she had so recently vacated. She plucked the goblet from her grip and sipped, smiling into her eyes. “Another dust storm. Your auspex people say there’s a high chance of ion discharge and, quote, ‘You may fly if you wish, Governor-General, but it shall be at your own risk, and we cannot guarantee a search party should the shuttle run into difficulty’.” She sighed and shucked off her dustcloak, pulling Margarita against her and tangling her long legs around her. “Tragically, I shall have to see out acts four and five in your company rather than leaving on schedule.”
Thy rays encompass the land
To the very end of all Thou rules
“A terrible imposition on your time.” Margarita let her head fall back against Luisa’s shoulder, closing her eyes in catlike satisfaction as the younger woman’s fingers carded through her hair. “I shall send my formal apologies to your office.”
“Send your formal apologies to my mother,” Luisa laughed, low and breathy, not letting her voice carry. On stage, the procession of priests arrived to escort the countertenor to his barque upon the Aur, each one bearing a jewelled crown of office. The factorum workers in the lottery seats at the back gasped and murmured at the splendour. “She had another suitor for me lined up at the palace tonight. At least this one I can spurn by my absence, without having to endure an hour or two of their company.”
“You shouldn’t dismiss them so quickly.” Margarita’s voice was soft and almost sleepy, but she felt a ripple of tension run through Luisa, and she turned to peer thoughtfully into her eyes. “I mean it. Just because we can’t…”
“I don’t want to entertain suitors and play the good Setep girl.” Luisa’s voice was close to peevish. “When the time comes to produce an heir, I shall simply adopt someone with good teeth and passable genetics. I don’t want to pretend to be courted. I want to sit here and enjoy the opera. With you.”
Margarita relaxed back against her lover and shook her head, smiling softly. “You know the longer this goes on, the more the rumours spread that we’ve some vat-grown bastard hidden away, waiting to claim the Double Crown.”
“Let them talk. Hush.” Luisa dug strong fingers into the meat of her shoulders, and Margarita sighed, stretching like a cat. “Listen to the music.”
Oh Emperor, how manifold are Thy works
In wisdom hast Thou made them all
The earth is full of Thy riches
Who coverest Thyself with light as with a garment
Who stretchest out the Heavens like a curtain!
Beneath Consecrated Ground
Amenophis IV
Imperial Hive World, Subsector Tertius
5-573.598.M41
The stones in front of Aret blurred as another tear forced its way from burning ducts; the sand beneath his knees scraped as he shifted and nearly overbalanced, exhaustion dulling his reflexes. His movement, in turn, guttered the meagre candle in its cage above. Was there even half a centimetre left? He swallowed a sob, the fear churning through his stomach, and raised the little chisel again to return to his task, carving another line of High Gothic around the stonework. Ave St Decessio, who keeps the scrolls unsullied, I have not kindled fire nor flame within the Sacred…
He needed to turn to finish the line, shuffling again inside the cell, balancing himself against the brickwork. Enough room to stand, if he stooped to avoid the candle. Not enough room to extend his arms even halfway to either side. His chest felt tight, and for a moment in spite of himself he pushed at the walls; cried out, the sound muffled in the tiny cell. The tiny tomb. He ran numb, dusty fingers over the litany scratched into the walls, counting to reassure himself, and continued carving. Not kindled fire nor flame within the Sacred Library. Ave, St Sebastian, who reforges and purifies, I have not denied the word of the Emperor. Ave, St Asceline, who seeks the path, I have not led others astray…
A scrape of stone overhead, and a whine of fear escaped before his throat clamped shut. Heartbeat thundering in his ears he stared upward at the tiny gap into darkness; reached up with a shaking hand.
“Please. Please.”
“Finished with your work?”
“No, please, there isn’t enough light - I need more - I need more time, oh please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise I won’t, just let me, please let me out. Please take down the wall. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Hush, Aret. Hush. It’s alright. You did well.” For a second he felt wild hope bubble in his chest. “But this is, in all honesty, not about you. The carving is complete. I suggest you pray.”
“No, no! Please!” Something else scraped against the stone, and he could smell something strange, almost sweet, metallic. The first drops spattered onto the sand, barely visible; then the thick liquid began to pour and splash, and Aret screamed as crimson blossomed on his white shirt. He flung himself back against the brickwork away from the aperture, retching and shaking his head. The blood was warm, still, and - it didn’t stop. He begged, in between the screams, as it soaked the layer of sand, pooling up around his toes.
“Pray, little artist.” Head spinning, Aret thrashed against the walls, a wordless howl of terror and pain and desperation. The blood was rising faster now, splashing up the walls. It had begun to run in from between the bricks, here and there; dripping into the lines of his carving. How? He knew the wall was all too solid. This had to be a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare, oh Emperor, please. “Pray, or be lost to your Corpse God forever. I care not which, but I imagine it matters to you.”
Even rising into a painful crouch, the blood was creeping up past his ankles. Something in Aret’s chest died, and - sobbing, in the guttering light - he began to trace out the prayers he had inscribed upon the walls, each line forced out in hoarse, broken misery.
“Ave, St Alicia, who strikes down falsehood, I have not broken an oath - ave, St Malcador, who stands at Their hand, I have not cursed the Throne - ave, St Jerome, who defies all torment--”
Above his cell, steady hands held the great urn and poured at an even pace, until Aret’s howls - and, eventually, bubbles - stopped. The echoes had died before him; the passageway fell quiet. The urn was set down with a scrape; and then the soft click of a tile, and the neat, final swipe of mortar. All done, for tonight. At a curt gesture the servitors recovered their burdens, and followed their master back up, out of the catacombs, toward the light just rising into the eastern sky.