The Hands of the Emperor
The Hands of the Emperor
Victoria Goddard
Published by Underhill Books, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE HANDS OF THE EMPEROR
First edition. January 8, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Victoria Goddard.
ISBN: 978-1988908151
Written by Victoria Goddard.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Victoria Goddard
Dedication
The Hands of the Emperor
Volume One | The Meeting Place of Iki and Ani
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Interlude One
A Letter
Volume Two | The Nobody from the Islands
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Interlude Two
A Letter
A Letter
Volume Three | The Heart of the World
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Interlude Three
A Proclamation
A Letter
Volume Four | Aōteketētana
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Interlude Four
An Announcement
An Invitation
A Response
A Reply
Volume Five | The Song of the Home Fire
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Epilogue | The Sum of All Things
Epilogue
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Further Reading: Stargazy Pie
Also By Victoria Goddard
About the Author
To all those who work to change the world from within the system, and especially to Anita and Charles, whose dedication to their work is only matched by their hospitality: thank you.
An impulsive word can start a war.
A timely word can stop one.
A simple act of friendship can change the course of history.
Cliopher Mdang is the personal secretary of the Last Emperor of Astandalas, the Lord of Rising Stars, the Lord Magus of Zunidh, the Sun-on-Earth, the god.
He has spent more time with the Emperor of Astandalas than any other person.
He has never once touched his lord.
He has never called him by name.
He has never initiated a conversation.
One day Cliopher invites the Sun-on-Earth home to the proverbially remote Vangavaye-ve for a holiday.
The mere invitation could have seen Cliopher executed for blasphemy.
The acceptance upends the world.
This is not quite what Cliopher expected when he first contemplated the prospect of retirement.
Volume One
The Meeting Place of Iki and Ani
Chapter One
IT WAS AN INDICATION of Cliopher Mdang’s status in the eyes of his lord that he was given the use of a sky ship for personal business.
Of course, Cliopher mused as he looked up from his reports to see the Vangavaye-ve suddenly there below him, that was being generous. He was from so very far away from Solaara that every other method of getting to Gorjo City was measured in months, not days. It had been many years since he could take six months off at a time.
The ship heeled as it began the spiralling descent. Out of his porthole window Cliopher saw familiar landmarks of the Outer Ring: the narrow Gates of the Sea permitting egress from the Bay of the Waters; the Five Sisters; all the sweep of reefs and islands and volcanic mounts, remnants of the prehistoric supervolcano that had formed the archipelago.
He loved the view down, the bright turquoise of the shallow lagoons, the darker blues of the Bay of the Waters, the green jungle and white beaches. He permitted himself to watch for a few minutes, until the ship brought him round to the full glare of the sun, wh
ereupon he resolutely turned back to the report he was writing about the state of affairs in Nijan, half an ocean away.
He had almost finished when the shouts of the sailors changed in tone and urgency. The movement of the vessel shifted at the same time, righting itself and slowing appreciably. He had packed his luggage earlier, so all he had to do was mark his spot, layer the documents back into their case, set that into the shoulder bag of travelling clothes and presents, and clean and stow away his pens and ink into his writing kit.
All this accomplished, he slung the bag over his shoulder, tucked his writing kit into its familiar spot in the crook of his arm, and gathered the four finished dispatch cases in his free hand. Because it was not one of his usual holidays he had felt obliged to keep up his work until the last minute.
He smiled to himself. He usually did keep working until the Vangavaye-ve came into sight. On this occasion his Radiancy’s unexpected gift of an extra holiday had come when he had just begun writing up a set of reports about his last brilliant mad start, as the various members of his office called his more unconventional ideas. He preferred to call them his carefully developed plans for the betterment of the world.
He straightened one of the dispatch cases, which was showing a desire to slip out of his hold, and cast one further glance around the cabin to ensure he had not forgotten anything, especially any stray report. Once, when he was much younger, he had imagined that success would involve a reduction in the quantity of reports.
His faint smile widened into a grin, here where no one could see him so openly amused. He had learned better.
He’d also learned just what you could do with all those reports and how they were written and by whom and under what circumstances they were read.
At a sudden falling series of whistles from outside the room, Cliopher straightened his expression to his habitual mildness, exited his cabin decorously, and made his way to the rope and wood bridge two of the sailors had just finished lashing into place.
“Thank you, Captain Diogen,” he said as he passed him.
“My pleasure, sir,” the captain replied, saluting. “We’ll pick you up two weeks from today. The third hour of the morning, that’ll be.”
“I shall be here,” Cliopher assured him, shifting the dispatch cases slightly. He took a deep breath, tasting the air, that familiar scent of flowers and greenery and moisture and home. “Safe travels.”
“Aye, you’re my most punctual passenger. Till then, Sayo Mdang.”
The captain saluted again, fist to temple. Cliopher bowed slightly—did not drop all the dispatch cases—and stepped onto the bridge, resolutely not looking down. Heights did not particularly bother him but he did intensely dislike looking between his feet to see land several hundred feet below.
On one occasion he had been forcibly escorted across the rope bridges of the Southern Grey Mountains, and he had never quite lost the memory of terror and helplessness. He had learned what he must do to cross the rope bridges between ship and Spire, however, and with his gaze trained on the wall before him he did not even need to catch his breath.
He stopped in the Light Minders’ office at the top of the Spire. Princess Oriana was in Jilkano visiting her relatives, so only two people were on duty there, one for incoming and one for outgoing messages.
Cliopher’s cousin Tya was one of the Light Minders, but she wasn’t on duty this morning. “Some sort of family thing,” the outgoing message taker said. Cliopher vaguely recognized her as a contemporary of his nephew, a minor wizard of about twenty. She looked at his cases. “Didn’t you just get off the ship?”
“I did,” he replied, setting the dispatch cases down on the counter. “These need to go to Solaara, please.”
“I’ve always wanted to go on one of those ships,” the other Minder said, turning in his chair from the scrying mirror. His brother had been in Cliopher’s year at school, but he couldn’t quite remember the Minder’s name. “Oh, hello, Kip. No one said you were coming this month. Didn’t you already have your holiday this year? Ah, well. It’s not like the princess takes people for rides, and the only other ships that come in are on government business.”
“Which this is,” Cliopher said patiently, pushing the cases over. “The address is on the boxes—”
“We always send them to the same place anyway,” the outgoing Minder said. “Practically everything either comes from or goes to you, Kip. I swear you’re the very definition of the dedicated correspondent.”
Cliopher chuckled obediently at this gentle barb and spent another couple of minutes asking questions about the Minders’ families and connections to his own. The outgoing Minder finally promised to send his cases off to Solaara at the next turn of the Light, and Cliopher escaped the interrogation with a mild sense of relief.
The Light Minders’ office was a small room at the top of a tall tower, next to the equally small room for the sky ship officials, which was empty. If he’d been on duty—but he wasn’t, and it wasn’t exactly his business whether the princess wished to keep track of visitors by sky ship or not.
There would not be many, in any case. The other princes rarely, if ever, made the long trek across the Wide Seas, which took days even by sky ship. As far as government business went, Cliopher came for his holidays once a year. Parcel deliveries to Princess Oriana would be more frequent, but that was it. Nothing much of world-affecting note ever happened in the Vangavaye-ve.
The upper portion of the tower was wrought iron painted white; the lower was stone, holding various magical devices and supplies for the princess’ sky ship. Cliopher went down the tight spiral slowly, feeling his age in the protests from his knees and thighs.
He had not been exercising enough—he had been too busy—and he hoped, guiltily, that he would not need to participate in whatever family event was going on. Events meant feasts, and feasts meant dancing. And dancing, alas, was not quite as much fun as it used to be.
Cliopher dutifully admired the beauty of the provincial palace, halfway up the eastern slope of Mama Ituri’s Son. He derived more pleasure from looking at the university grounds below the palace gardens. He had many fond memories of university studies and friends.
Below the university were a few grand houses and parks at the shoreline, meeting the boardwalks and bridges from the outcropping on which the Spire was located. The royal and university marinas took up the space between the two islands and the floating houses of Gorjo City proper.
He could not pick out his family home near the Tahivoa lagoon from this angle, but the network of canals, private pools, and lagoons, housing and business complexes, rooftop gardens and brightly-coloured sailboats, was every step more familiar and more beloved.
By the time he reached the bottom of the Spire he no longer felt like Cliopher Mdang, personal secretary to the Lord of Rising Stars, Secretary in Chief of the Private Offices of the Lords of State, official head of the Imperial Bureaucratic Service, unofficial head of the world’s government, the Hands of the Emperor.
He was, instead, merely everyone’s Cousin Kip, the one who left.
CLIOPHER WAS WEARING the basic black and burnt umber linen robes of the upper secretariat, since he was technically on duty until he got off the sky ship but had no desire to muss his finery to no purpose. He had put on a third layer that morning, for the ship’s cabin was cool.
Despite the fact that it was still early enough that the sunlight hadn’t reached water level, by the time he got down the lower slope of Mama Ituri’s Son he was overheating. He stopped at a row of benches by the university marina to take off his over-robe.
After he packed it into his bag, he leaned against the balustrade behind the benches to watch the activity in the marina.
Activity was not perhaps the right word; not even the pelicans were doing more than sitting on the mooring posts. The sunlight glittered on the water, a black cormorant flew low and swiftly across the open lagoon, the
various craft bobbed gently. The university marina had a delightful assortment of vessels, ranging from small wooden dories to a half-finished replica of one of the ancient ocean-going ships, made out of balsa wood and banana leaves, in which his ancestors had crossed the Wide Seas.
He regarded the construction with mild interest, but was too far away to see what peculiarities of design might have gone into it. And it was not as if he knew what to look for, or at, not really. His own experience with a similar vessel had been one he’d made himself, and neither he nor his instructor had been particularly expert.