webcrawl/APGTE/Book-3/out/Ch-094.md.tex

\hypertarget{hierarchy}{%
\chapter*{Bonus Chapter: Hierarchy}\label{hierarchy}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{hierarchy}} \chaptermark{Bonus Chapter: Hierarchy}

\epigraph{``Heed my warning princes and princesses of Procer: for every
empire laid low by Evil, a hundred were wrecked by mere greed and
stupidity.''}{Extract from `The Ruin of Empire, or, a Call to Reform of the Highest
Assembly', by Princess Eliza of Salamans}



They kept telling him he had servants now.

The League of Free Cities had no official seat even when a Hierarch
ruled since Prokopia Lakene, first of that Name, had never established
one. Her native Penthes was too far from the heart of the Free Cities,
and she'd preferred playing off cities against each other to aligning
with a single one. In the end Nicae was where the Conclave was called,
with the Tyrant's armies still camped outside the recently-breached
walls. Delegations from the cities arrived within days of each other,
begun to travel long before the Siege of Nicae came to its bloody end.
They all came to answer the call to elect the Hierarch of the Free
Cities. Atalante, now freed of Helikean occupation for the price of its
vote. Delos, whose Secretariat had sent a swarm of \emph{askretis} to
harass him with scrolls before the Conclave even confirmed his
ascension. Magisters of Stygia from the ruling faction in their
Magisterium, politely inquiring if he desired slaves to run his
household affairs. The filthy Penthesians had sent five claimants to the
title of Exarch of their wretched city, all demanding his arbitrage. The
Strategos of Nicae was dead, slain in battle while she fought the
Helikeans, and until one could be appointed the Basileus of the city had
seize power in full. The man had granted him the ancient palace of the
Strategoi as a residence, as much a bribe to Anaxares as a slight to the
office that was ancient rival to his own. For Helike the Tyrant stood
alone, and the Republic had sent only one diplomat. The rest of the
delegation were kanenas that followed him like a second shadow wherever
he went.

He'd refused it. The palace, the servants -- servants, as if any soul in
Creation was suborned to anything but the Will Of The People -- the soft
bed and the draperies. Anaxares would have naught to do with this
madness. He could not return to Bellerophon, to the Republic, and so he
had tried to find work in the city. But the fishermen knelt and shook
when he'd asked if hands were needed, and the fields outside the city
went without tilling for they were still covered by soldiers. He knew
nothing of smithing or shoemaking, for his entire life he had been
nothing but a diplomat for his people and he had learned no trade. And
so he had wandered into the ruined parts of the city, freshly sacked,
and sat in the ashes with a begging bowl. For warmth he burnt trash, for
unlike civilized Bellerophon where such things could only be done where
an assembly of citizens from the quarter decided to allow in Nicae
anyone could do so wherever they wished. He had a threadbare blanket
ripped from a burnt house for his bed, and the sea for bathing water. It
was a wretched living, but better than this talk of \emph{palace}.

Anaxares had become a curiosity, to his distaste. Noblemen and
functionaries came to his alley to drop coins in the bowl and attempt
conversation, though he never replied. Some left gold, and that he
tossed aside for other vagrants to have. Copper he took as alms, and
silver if there were few enough, not that merchants accepted to take his
coin. He had to leave it on their stalls over their protests, and some
even tried to force it back into his hands. \emph{Mighty Hierarch}, they
wept. \emph{Glorious One. All I have is yours}. When he first heard the
words he threw up in an alley afterwards, shaken to his core. It was
wrong. All wrong, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. There was
no hope some delegation would come to its senses at the last moment and
gave the single vote against that was needed to prevent his election.
The Gods had elected him before men ever spoke their piece, cursing him
with a Name regardless of his desires. The Tyrant had been their
instrument in this, and for that Anaxares was glad he had seen nothing
of him since the night where Nicae fell.

Kairos had ordered dragged at his feet a bloodied hunk of meat that he
said was the White Knight, a hero anointed by the Heavens. Taken
prisoner in the fight, he said, and now it was the Hierarch who must
decided his fate. The Tyrant was, the boy grinned, ever the head of the
League's loyal servant.

``I give no orders,'' Anaxares had said.

``Silence is an order as well, old friend,'' the Tyrant laughed. ``Your
will be done.''

The diplomat had washed his hands of the affair, walked away, and in the
days that followed men and women of import had come in his alley to
praise his mercy. Called his restraint in allowing the heroes to leave
unmolested a beginning to mending the wounds of the League. He did not
reply, but learned even his silences had weight now. Consequences.
\emph{There is no escaping this}, he thought. \emph{Even when I do
nothing, it is something.} He tried regardless. Decades under the
watchful gaze of the kanenas had taught Anaxares to think along grooves
already learned, to stay within the path decided upon by the People, but
he went further. Eyes open, breathing steady, the diplomat tried to
think of nothing at all. To abnegate life, for he was forbidden from
taking his own. Hours became mere blinks of blank absence but Creation,
Creation always dragged him back. Through hunger or heat or a myriad
other little pulls that there was nothing he could do about. Never
before had the diplomat so despised that he was but a sack of blood,
bound together by bones and skin. He leaked and scraped like a peach,
years of soft living having made him too tender by far.

The scrolls from the Secretariat kept coming, and though he was tempted
to use them to feed the flames he refrained. That would be statement as
well. He let them pile up at his side instead, pretending they did no
exist and ignoring anyone telling him otherwise. He only understood his
mistake too late. Anaxares had made himself a story, and stories were
the beating heart of Names. He bit his tongue until it bled to avoid
saying the word, but it sounded in his mind anyway. \textbf{Receive}.
Another curse forced upon him, beyond his control. To his eyes and ears
came whispers and images on the wind, and there was no avoiding them.
There was no rhyme or reason to the aspect -- it came and went as it
wished, sometimes twice in an hour and sometimes absent for two days.

``You're sure he's just staying there?'' a man in Penthesian robes said.

``Our men say so,'' some kneeling figure replied. ``The Hierarch has
gone mad.''

``All Bellerophans are mad,'' the Penthesian said. ``This is\ldots{}
something else.''

The morning after the man he'd glimpsed came and left gold in the
begging bowl, speaking of supporting him as Exarch to restore order to
Penthes.

``The third request for war reparations had been delivered,'' a
plain-faced woman said.

Her face was tattooed with lines of blue and black ink, marking her as
appointed askretis of the twelth rank.

``It was ignored?'' a man asked.

His own tattoos were but two thin stripes, black and blue. Anaxares had
never seen a member of the Secretariat so highly placed as to have only
two lines, not even as an envoy.

``But not burned,'' the woman said.

``There must be some manner of proper method for submission we are
unaware of,'' the man said. ``Send a scroll requesting it.''

The woman he'd seen stood before him before an hour had passed with a
scroll in hand, and Anaxares was forced to admit the visions were true
and not merely torment set upon him by the Gods. The next vision he
received, there was no mystery as to who he saw. The Basileus of Nicae
had visited him before, a young olive-skinned man with perfect teeth and
braided black hair.

``It would be improper to appoint a Strategos before the Conclave has
taken place,'' the Basileus told an assembly of nobles. ``We must not
slight the Hierarch by proceeding without his guidance.''

``A Strategos would best represent us \emph{at} the Conclave,'' an old
man in armour bit back.

``The Bellerophan's demented, Your Excellency,'' a woman intervened
soothingly, addressing the Basileus. ``The Tyrant will be the power
behind the throne.''

``No one knows what the Tyrant wants,'' the Basileus said, looking wary.
``He could have seized the Free Cities by force, if he so wished, yet
he's withdrawn from all his conquests. I will not act recklessly before
knowing his plan.''

Bickering erupted after and Anaxares was reminded of the debates in the
Republic, for a moment. It passed. These were richly dressed, in some
closed room away from the people they claimed to rule for. There was not
even an empty space left for the Gods Below to fill, should they care to
vote -- they never had in the history of Bellerophon, but the right had
been granted and so it remained. The vision did not die, it merely
shifted to another sight. The diplomat felt his fingers clench. Kairos
Theodosian was seated alone in his tent, sipping at a goblet of water
with a slice of lemon in it. His hand shook like a lead as he added some
pale powder to the water from a satchel. A pair of gargoyles were
fanning him with long feathered fans, though not very well. Their
movements were too choppy. His red eye closed as he sighed in pleasure,
drinking deep, but when it opened it was looking straight at Anaxares.

``So which one is this?'' the Tyrant grinned. ``Bard likes the personal
touch and scrying's not that subtle. Is it you, my glorious liege?''

The monster cackled.

``Already an aspect,'' he crowed. ``I knew you'd take well to this.
Belief, Hierarch. That's what makes Names, and it's not something you
can fight.''

The vision ended, and Anaxares was unsure whether it had ended naturally
or been broken. He forced himself not to consider the ways of his
`aspect' more closely. It would have been leaning into the madness to
embrace this Name even slightly. Once begun, there was no going back. In
the end, two week passed before the Conclave was held. Every delegation
sent messenger to inform him of it, the Basileus even coming to the
alley. The young man looked at the filth and ashes with barely
veiled-distaste, repeating the hour and location thrice as Anaxares
ignored him. It would be in the palace, he said one last time as he
dropped coppers into the bowl.

The day came and Anaxares did not go.

It was near nightfall when they sought him out in the alley. Servants
preceded them, a swarm carrying carpets and wooden seats so that no part
of the representatives would have to be soiled. Only Bellerophon, he
saw, did not bother. When the diplomat came, she sat on the ground.
Anaxares spared her a glance, but did not recognize her. She was too
young to have served with him. In that broken alley, a crowd of the most
powerful men and women in the Free Cities assembled around him. Five
Exarch claimants from Penthes. Two two-striped askretis of the
Secretariat. The Basileus and the Tyrant, and from Atalante a pair of
grim-faced preachers clutching beads representing the seven Heavenly
Choirs the city claimed as patrons. From Stygia a familiar face watched
him: Magister Zoe, the only other delegate spared when Helike first
began the war. Mercantis had no representative. The Consortium had right
to sit on on League session, but this was not one like the others -- the
City of Bought and Sold had no say in the election of a Hierarch, as it
was not member of the League. In the end, the Basileus was the first to
speak. It was his right as host.

``A powerful message, my lord,'' the young man said. ``Making us come to
you.''

Anaxares' fingers clenched.

``If I cut out my tongue,'' he bitterly said, ``you would expect me to
give verdict in ink. If I cut off my hands, you would demand I blink my
agreement. Were I but a burnt husk, still answers would be asked of
me.''

He bared his teeth.

``Fine, then,'' he said. ``I will speak. I am no \emph{lord}, Nicaean.
The very existence of that title is offensive to me. Do not ever call me
such again.''

The man's face flushed with anger, but he mastered himself. Young, the
diplomat thought. He was too young and green to participate in such
matters. Ambition had blinded him.

``No offence was meant,'' the Basileus said through gritted teeth. ``I
misspoke.''

The moment of silence that followed was broken by the Bellerophan
diplomat. Once upon a time, Anaxares thought, he might have been the one
sitting there.

``The People have decreed the Republic is to put forward motion for the
election of Anaxares the Diplomat as Hierarch of the Free Cities,'' she
said.

``Would that I could rip that treason from their mouths,'' he replied
harshly.

``Delos vote for,'' the askretis he'd seen in the vision said.

``Atalante votes for,'' one of the preachers said. ``Mercy smile on us
all.''

``Penthes-`` an Exarch claimant began, but he was interrupted.

``Votes for,'' another barrelled through.

``Nicae votes for,'' the Basileus flatly added.

``I bear mandate from the Magisterium to vote in favour,'' Magister Zoe
said.

``Helike,'' the Tyrant smiled, red eye shining in triumph, ``votes
for.''

``Damn you all,'' the Hierarch whispered hoarsely.

``All rise for the Hierarch,'' the Bellerophan diplomat said.

The sheer wrongness of watching one of his own people honour a Foreign
Despot -- for what else could he be called, now? -- saw bile rise in his
throat. The delegates rose one and all, bowing low. Kairos was the first
to be seated again, allowing a gargoyle to feed him grapes. It kept
hitting his chin instead and chattering in anguish, but of anything it
brought the boy enjoyment.

``The League of Free Cities now stands united again,'' the other
two-striped askretis said, her voice solemn. ``And so Delos now presents
a matter for the Hierarch's arbitrage.''

None of the delegates showed surprise. This, he thought, had been
arranged before they ever came here.

``First Prince Hasenbach has been corresponding with the Secretariat,''
she said. ``And most other cities as well. She seeks truce, and alliance
if she may. This is no longer a matter that can be settled by the
cities.''

Years as a diplomat had taught Anaxares the ways of the League, and so
he knew she spoke truth. In the absence of a Hierarch, the only way for
every city-state to be bound to a treaty was if it was agreed upon by
member majority vote. Otherwise every city chose for itself. The passed
motion to make truce with the Principate had been what first drove the
Tyrant to begin his war, and now that the war was over the point of
contention was resurfacing. Worse, after the election of a Hierarch
precedent dictated they alone held authority to make such treaties for
the League as a whole. The head of the League held no more sway than
allowed within the walls of the Free Cities, but they spoke for the
League as a whole -- Prokopia Lakene, his only predecessor, was said to
have believed this to be the only way the Free Cities would stand equal
to powers like the Principate and the Thalassocracy. Her opponents had
whispered she sought to make another Procer out of the Free Cities, and
her work had collapsed after her death and the round of wars that
followed.

``Procer's itching for a crusade,'' Magister Zoe drawled. ``'tis nothing
unexpected. Let them cut their teeth on the Empire. Whoever wins, we can
extract concessions from the loser.''

``A Stygian preaching opportunism,'' the Basileus bit out. ``Speaking of
expectations. Some of us had the fucking Calamities raining hellfire on
our cities but a month ago. Where is your talk of cranes now, Magister?
Where are my people's retribution and redress?''

``You had the Sovereign of Red Skies wrecking your city,'' Zoe said
slowly, her tone implying she was addressing an imbecile. ``And now that
you survived this, you want to give him reason to \emph{come back}? Boy,
appoint a Strategos and let someone with godsdamned sense do the
speaking for Nicae.''

``Language, my friends,'' the Tyrant chided cheerfully. ``In front of
our Hierarch, no less. For shame.''

Half-hearted apologies were muttered at Anaxares.

``Praes is a den of darkness and iniquity,'' one of the Atalantian
preachers said. ``Let us walk in the light of the Heavens, and join the
First Prince's righteous enterprise.''

``This and a slave's pisspot for your Heavens, priestling,'' Magister
Zoe replied tartly, her following gesture highly obscene.

Kairos frowned at the sight, but did not repeat himself.

``There are still three Calamities left,'' the male askretis said.
``This is not a war to be undertaken lightly. What do we stand to gain,
by fighting monsters in their own lair? Let us make truce with Hasenbach
and wash our hands of it.''

``Truce doesn't mean the end of trade,'' a Penthesian claimant said.
``The Empire will be hungry for grain and steel. Procer will need truce
before it feels safe to invade, but we need not grant them more. The
longer the war lasts, the greater our profits.''

``And if Procer wins?'' another claimant sneered. ``Will Hasenbach think
fondly of us, then? Best we side with her now, and avoid trouble after
the dust settles.''

``It is the belief of the People that nothing is owed,'' the Bellerophan
diplomat said. ``The wars in the north are of no import to Mighty
Bellerophon, First and Greatest of the Free Cities. Involvement is
unnecessary.''

``Spoken as a delegate whose city shares no river with the Praesi,'' the
female askretis said. ``Isolation is a valid choice only for those who
are isolated.''

``There'll be a flood of refugees going south if Procer manages to take
the Vales,'' a Penthesian predicted. ``The Wastelanders will dig in and
flip open the grimoires, but the Callowans? We've all heard the rumours.
Open rebellion followed by the fae, and they've got some girl villain
stirring the pot. The place is a wreck, and it'll bleed people down the
Hwaerte and the Wasiliti on every boat they can find.''

``Mercantis will take in many,'' Magister Zoe said.

``The Consortium will welcome the rich and send the desperate on their
way,'' the Basileus replied flatly. ``Save for those they force into
slavery.''

``The Red Flower Vales are not so easily breached,'' the male askretis
said. ``And the Legions of Terror are no mere footmen. None of us
believed Callow would fall, twenty yeas ago, yet the Dread Empress
surprised us. She may yet again.''

``The Vales are only one flank, Delosi,'' a preacher said. ``If Ashur
lands an expeditionary force on the coast of Praes, the Empire may well
collapse from the inside. As is ever the lot of Evil.''

``We do not know for a fact the Thalassocracy's siding with the
Principate,'' the Basileus warned. ``Ashurans are a treacherous people
by nature, it springs from the Baalite blood.''

``Magon Hadast pulled the rug out from under Levant to her benefit last
year,'' a Penthesian snorted. ``The man's made his choice, and the rest
of the citizenship tiers will follow his word like heavenly decree.''

``Blasphemy,'' an Atalantian hissed.

``Kiss angel feet all you like, priest, it makes you no holier,'' the
Penthesian sneered.

Anaxares let the squabbling wash over him and studied the envoys,
tightening the blanket around his shoulders. The diplomat from
Bellerophon had not spoken again, and watching her he had no trouble
guessing wise. The Republic had not granted her right of negotiation,
only to present its position -- her hands were tied. Two of the cities,
he understood, were truly married to their stances. Stygia pushed for
absence of treaty, because it desired to raid the losing side for
slaves. It had no real allies in this, but Magister Zoe was unmoved. The
Magisterium must have given her strict orders. Atalante, though fresh
out of Helikean occupation, was intent on joining the shaping crusade.
Why? The city was broken: he had seen it with his own eyes. Was it truly
faith guiding the preachers, or the need for plunder to fill the coffers
for the rebuilding? It may be both. Atalantians were an emotional breed,
and now that they were forbidden revenge on Helike they might be seeking
to even the scales with the Tyrant's allies. Foolishness. They should be
seeing to the harvest, not talking of war. The Hierarch watched them,
and saw the lines. The words he needed to speak to sway them to war or
peace, to alliance or enmity. They were on the tip of his tongue. He bit
down on it until it bled.

There was no greater sin than to rob the free of their freedom, and he
would have no part in it.

``Ladies, gentlemen,'' Kairos Theodosian said. ``Lend me your ears.''

The silence that followed as absolute. There'd been many among those
present who'd mocked the Tyrant, once, but that had been before the war.
In the span of a year the Tyrant of Helike had sacked two cities of the
League, forced a third to surrender and forced the election of his
chosen candidate as Hierarch. For all that -- horrifying as it was --
Anaxares had been named head of the League, the true power within it was
a crippled boy with shaking hands and too broad a smile. When he spoke
now, men listened.

``All this talk of the crusade whispers that we are but accessories to
it,'' the boy said mildly. ``Witnesses and servants, not truly of
import. Without even knowing it, you have surrendered the fate of
Calernia to Cordelia Hasenbach and Dread Empress Malicia.''

His good eye twitched, a spasm he did not control.

``Does this not shame you?'' he smiled. ``To have learned the lesson of
our irrelevance so deeply you no longer question it?''

``No one wants to follow you into war with Procer, Theodosian,'' the
Basileus said.

Brave young man, Anaxares thought, but not a very clever one.

``Leo, Leo, Leo,'' the Tyrant sighed. ``Is silver truly all that is
needed for you to become Hasenbach's pet?''

``How dare-``

``The days of Tyrant Theodosius are past,'' Magister Zoe interrupted,
cutting of the Nicaean. ``No one disputes your\ldots{} achievements, my
lord. But Procer is no longer a loose confederation of warring princes.
Should we strike at one principality, we bring the full weight of the
Principate down on our heads. No amount of lightning will turn back that
tide.''

``Then your objection is one of capacity,'' Kairos said. ``Not intent.''

``The Magisterium has no love for the Principate,'' she snorted.
``Neither does anyone here with any sense.''

``Procer is the bulwark against Evil to the north,'' the Basileus
barked.

``The Lycaonese have served such a purpose with distinction,'' the
female askretis said. ``This does not erase the many bloody deeds of the
Arlesites. Many a war has the League fought against the principalities
of the south.''

``The League of Free Cities,'' the Tyrant said smilingly, ``is pathetic.
We have held on to our borders by the skin of our teeth, but what great
power has not humbled us? Praes occupied half our cities for two decades
under the second Maleficent. Ashur strangles our trade whenever it
pleases and Procer, oh \emph{Procer} -- have you all forgotten why this
League exists at all? How close we came to being under the rule of
princes.''

``Tyrants ever speak of war,'' an Atalantian said. ``Yet always defeat
finds them. How many of our people need die for your ambitions?''

``Look at the world, my friends,'' Kairos chuckled. ``Look at the lay of
the land. The Empire stands besieged, Procer prepares to bleed breaching
it. Ashur is led by an old man who would send the Thalassocracy's fleets
to war very, very far away.''

The boy's eye shone red, red like blood, and his grin was a villain's
grin.

``When has such an opportunity ever come to us?'' he asked. ``Never
before, and it may never come again. Do you want to be remembered as the
men and women who had a chance to bring greatness to their people but
flinched away out of mere \emph{fear}?''

His bad hand was steady now, curled like claws.

``Are you not tired, my friends,'' he asked, ``of kneeling to these
greater nations? Are you content with forever remaining pressed between
titans, hoping none turns and rolls over us?''

He bared his teeth.

``I want the Samite Gulf,'' he said. ``I want Tenerife and Salamans and
Valencis to be cities freed, brought into our league. I want Praesi and
Procerans to cease warring over who rules our own streets.''

He raised his hand.

``And so I call for war,'' he hissed. ``A good old war, my friends, the
kind that carves up a continent forever. I want sieges and desperate
charges, I want hosts breaking and smoke darkening the sky. I want the
rivers to run red and palaces to burn. Give me the sound of horns and
shields shattering, the sound of arrows falling like a rain of steel.
Give want victories so great they will tremble to hear of us from Smyrna
to Rhenia.''

The red was deepening, Anaxares thought, to unearthly crimson. The boy's
words hung in the air like a haze, silvery as a fae's glamour.

``And those victories I promise you, true as my Name,'' the Tyrant
grinned. ``There is a fate just within our reach, if we dare to grasp
it.''

Kairos turned to him then, and inclined his head in a gesture of respect
that was anything but.

``Your arbitrage, Hierarch,'' he said.

There was no greater sin, Anaxares of Bellerophon thought, than to rob
the free of their freedom.

``I give no orders,'' he said. ``You may all do as you wish.''

The man looked in Kairos Theodosian's red eye, and wondered if he was
imagining the faint sound of laughter ringing in his years.