Mark Newton: The Broken Isles

‘The forces from other worlds,’ he said, ‘are going to continue flowing into ours. This cannot be stopped. They will bring with them — no, they’ve already brought with them — their long war. One side,’ he gestured to Artemisia, ‘is looking to settle alongside us. Their long-term opponents are. . well, you have all met their ambassadors, the Okun. Their opponents would see all our cultures destroyed, humanity effectively cleansed, to make way for their repopulation of the Boreal Archipelago. You would have no farms, no banks, no buildings. No life.’

The noise in the room began to increase. Brynd waved to calm the hubbub, yet it had little effect. He caught the eye of his soldiers, who looked to him for guidance, but he shook his head. These weren’t people who needed threatening — they had to work with him. Artemisia, it seemed, wasn’t one for patience. She lurched forward, withdrew her twin blades from over her shoulder, and rested them on the table.

Everyone fell into silence, staring at the massive weapons, and then at her. No one dared say a thing.

‘Thank you,’ Brynd muttered.

Artemisia stepped back, satisfied.

‘As I was saying,’ Brynd continued, ‘we can assume the Empire as we know it — our culture as we know it — is not as it used to be.’

One of the moneylenders, a man with a narrow face and blond beard, leaned forward and interrupted. ‘How can we believe. . what she says? What’s to say we’re not being used?’

A chorus of voices flowed and ebbed around the room.

Randur Estevu, surprisingly, stood up to answer. ‘This foreigner ,’ he said, ‘saved the fucking lives of Empress Rika here and Eir.’ He gestured to them both. ‘As well as saving my arse. I was bringing these women all the way across to Villiren, due to. . events in Villjamur. Artemisia saved us from Urtica’s men, cut down anyone who tried to capture us, and brought us all the way to Villiren. Not only that, but while you lot were probably pissed out of your faces, she killed a fair few of the Okun in the city on the way to see the commander here. Shitting hell, I’d personally vouch that we can trust her. For what it’s worth.’

‘Thank you, Randur,’ Brynd said, ‘for your colourful contributions.’

Randur slumped back in his seat and folded his arms. Eir placed a hand on his shoulder.

Brynd looked around the room trying to gauge the mood. It was hard to tell: these were people who made careers out of furthering their own interests. To suddenly think about the rest of society did not come naturally to them. ‘I can understand the trust issue, but as Randur has pointed out, we shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Artemisia’s people.’

‘So who are these people? We know nothing.’

‘They’re coming soon enough,’ Brynd said. ‘Many of them are already here, south of the city.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘We find ourselves in the middle of a conflict that we can barely comprehend, and from both a military and ethical point of view the only possible way we can continue is to side with Artemisia’s people.’

‘Tell us simply, commander. Is there going to be another war?’

‘Indeed,’ Brynd replied. ‘And it might be one on a scale that we’ve never seen before, or are ever likely to again.’

‘Good,’ said one of the moneylenders, laughing. ‘Wars are good for industry. I’ve investments in arms manufacturers and I can tell you business has never been better. The mines are thronging, commander, and the ore is flowing like a river. As is the money. We’ll get some good employment out of this. You want jobs, we can get jobs. You want industry, we can create it.’

‘A river of cash,’ someone muttered, possibly the wealthy merchant Coumby, and a smattering of laughter moved around the room.

‘I want to make an offer to all of you,’ Brynd announced. ‘For your participation in our plans, I will see that you each hold valuable positions in the new society we are seeking to forge. I’ll need weapons made, a food supply chain established — you can use cultist technology freely for rapid yields if need be — and I’ll need the money to build this army. We’ll need our biggest ever enlistment programme, rolling it out across this and neighbouring islands.’

‘You’re asking us to bankroll some kind of revolution!’ someone shouted.

‘That is not untrue ,’ Brynd replied. ‘It’s been the way of things in Villjamur. Given that a new landscape is the inevitable outcome from war, I am seeking your backing. As I said, each of you will find the returns from your investments and your participations to be attractive and we can have a look about forming our own regulation for you — a different kind from former Imperial policy.’

‘What form will our returns take?’

‘New estates,’ Brynd replied. ‘New markets to control, new constructions to build across the Empire, and new statutes that need to be written. This will be a long-term plan, but in the first instance I will see land taken from the Empire, and handed over.’

‘I imagine these new statutes will be complex, eh?’ someone asked.

Probably a lawyer.

‘Because we’ll be sharing our world with aliens,’ a merchant blurted out. ‘Ain’t that so, commander? There’ll be foreigners here, sharing our towns. There’ll be monsters walking up and down our roads and people’ll be expected to just get on with it. Ghettos will form, mark my word. Things won’t be the same.’

‘It’s the people who leave who create the ghettos,’ Brynd said. In another time, in another setting, Brynd would have had that man roughed up for his tone. Instead he simply continued, ‘Though much of what you describe may well be an inevitable consequence of them helping us, but don’t forget they will be bringing with them their own industries, their own wealth. .’

‘They should be segregated — given their own land well away from the rest of us.’

‘Aye,’ another said. ‘I ain’t living with things like that walking the streets.’

‘Please,’ Brynd said, ‘if we’re lucky enough to be alive in the future, and to have a society, then we can discuss such matters; though I ask you to concentrate on what’s happening right now, in the immediate future.’

Once they had accepted that statement, the questions followed from those around the table for another hour at least. Each of them demanded to know some fine detail relevant to only them, creating a disparate set of conversations. There were questions concerning payments, land divisions, how much ore would be needed and by when, and whether common land would be privatized — a firm no from Brynd. What surprised him the most was that few of the questions concerned Artemisia or indeed the inevitable war and races that would be crossing into their own world.

‘I’m in,’ said a balding, fat man in the corner smoking arum weed, wearing purple robes that almost matched the colour of his cheeks. It was Coumby, someone who once owned many of the buildings in Villiren, before they were destroyed. ‘I got dealings in ores, and smiths, and the fishing industry.’ He paused to take another drag. ‘I’ve heard enough talk to last the day. I think I could be of use to you, commander.’

‘Good,’ Brynd replied loudly, optimistically. ‘Thank you, sir. So who else can we add to the list?’

‘Fuck else is there to do in this city?’ the thin-faced lawyer chimed in eventually. ‘I’m intrigued at the prospects of designing laws from scratch.’

‘One thing,’ Coumby muttered, then inhaled again. His face was becoming obscured by smoke. ‘This young lady here,’ he nodded his head towards Rika. ‘She’s in charge, you say? You’re the one doing an awful lot of talkin’, is all I can see. . What’s her role?’