She pauses to survey the Council before taking her seat, twenty men in fine red robes seated around a perfectly circular table. The council chamber sits halfway up the tower, each member having been hauled to this height by the strength of a hundred slaves working the intricate pulleys that trace the length of this monolith. Blessed by endless life though they are, no Council-man relishes the prospect of climbing so many stairs.
She sits through the tedium of the opening formalities as Arklev intones the formal commencement of the fourth and final council meeting of this, the eight hundred and twenty-fifth year of the empire, the slave scribes scribbling away with their unnatural speed as he drones on, introducing each member in turn, until finally he comes to her.
“. . . and newly ascended to the Slaver’s Seat, Council, ah, Woman . . .”
“I am to be recorded as simply the Ally’s Voice,” she tells him, casting a meaningful glance at the scribes.
Arklev falters for a moment but recovers with admirable fortitude. “As you wish. Now, to our first order of business . . .”
“The only order of business,” she interrupts. “The war. This council has no other business until it is concluded.”
Another Council-man stirs, a silver-haired dullard whose name she can’t trouble herself to recall. “But, there are pressing matters from the south, reports of famine . . .”
“There was a drought,” she says. “Crops fail and people starve. Have any surplus slaves killed to husband supplies until it abates. All very sad but survivable, our current military situation may not be.”
“Admittedly,” Arklev begins, “the invasion has not progressed according to plan . . .”
“It’s been a miserable failure, Arklev,” she breaks in, smiling. “That preening dolt Tokrev orchestrated his own death and defeat with more efficiency than any of his victories. Sorry about your sister by the way.”
“My sister yet lives and I have no doubt as to her facility for continued survival. And we still hold their capital . . .”
“No.” She reaches out to pluck a grape from the bowl nearby, popping it into her mouth, savouring the sweetness. Although not entirely to her liking, this shell does possess an impressively sensitive palate. “As of three days ago, we don’t. Mirvek lies dead along with his command. The Unified Realm is lost to us.”
