Choose the Fate, Chapter 1

Andrinius leant on the lacquered countertop, eyes flitting from shelf to shelf. Tinned food, glass bottles, tightly wrapped bundles of biscuits and trail mix. Packs of bullets and shells. Behind him - kegs of alcohol, barrels of water, waterskins. coils of rope, whetstones, lanterns, torches. Canisters of paraffin, batteries. Racks of clothes.

     He sucked air through his teeth as he waited for the telegram officer to transcribe the message.

     Finally, it was done.

     He took the paper in ink-stained fingers and read it:

     Interesting, thought Andrinius. He pocketed the paper, thanked the officer, and left.

     He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of Salt, oil, and grease mingled in his nostrils. He could hear the gentle lapping of water against the quay as porters hauled crates up and down gangplanks. The whirring of engines and mechanical cranes and idling engines of ships.

     Memories of past expeditions came rushing back to him. His sojourn in the diplomats' village on the grounds of Queen Hetepheres' palace compound. The city-sized manufactory complexes of Zephanichan. The scrub plains of southern Mharokk and their giant fauna.

     Good times. Hard times, he grinned, but good. He'd met some good, honest people in those days on the road. He looked at his hands, old callouses hidden by ink stains. He'd spent the past few years behind a desk, delegating work, planning and… he hated to think of the word… bookkeeping. It was good work, as far as life in the empire went. He had no complaints. But it had become a sedentary life, and it had slowly sapped any memory of past expeditions and adventures.

     I need this, he thought. It had been years since he'd done any fieldwork of note. And though he hadn’t realised it until now, he was itching to get back out into the world.

     The library loomed ahead, a centuries-old structure flanked by an even older chapel and a boarded-up storehouse that hadn’t been entered since before he started working there, years ago. Rusted statues of saints and the Archpotentate glowered down at him from the chapel. It had been weeks since his last confession, and he hadn’t stepped foot inside the place of worship in days.

     I’m a busy man, he thought, trying to justify his amorality to himself.

     He turned away as he walked into the library, chastised by the idols’ stares. Behind him, the sky was beginning to turn red as the sun dipped behind a picturesque blanket of clouds. The sounds of the city were dying down, replaced by the chiming of bells both near and far.

     He nodded to the guards, his eyes taking in the design of their uniforms, the way they hung unevenly from their slightly hunched shoulders; the scuffs on the sleeves, elbows and knees; the mismatched colour of their pauldrons; the way they leant on, rather than held, their poleguns.

     His footfalls echoed across the wide staircase as he went down into his lair. Surrounded by statues, stucco designs and faded frescoes, it was easy to stop and marvel at the artistry of the building. Still, after all those years of going up and down those stairs, stopping to look at every statue and design, reading every plaque and marker, the wonder had diminished. What had once been a bright memory of the wealth and pride of Korachan had become simply a place of work.

     He rushed down a corridor, narrow than the stairs, the air possessed of less light, the walls less decorated than higher up. It was late in the day and the building was largely empty. Most of the workers had returned to their dorms, and those who remained at work were likely busy in the repositories, sorting through decrepit records or cleaning old books and artefacts.

     Down another staircase - spiralled, narrow - and down one last corridor before he reached a metal door, its green paint peeling at the hinges, revealing browned metal beneath. A faded name sign heralded his arrival - Andrinius Ochan, Curator, 2nd St Nanael Collection - Antiquities.

     He flipped a switch and light hummed to life, flickering in a false orange halo that emanated from a handful of filament bulbs around the cramped windowless room. A small bed in the far corner, a metal desk on the opposite side, a small corner sink, and surrounding everything else, shelves filled with books, artefacts, boxes, and tools, stacked on top of one another from floor to ceiling.

     He pushed through the intervening barriers towards his desk, his eyes drawn inexorably to the workload that awaited him there.

     He slumped into the hard chair with an audible exhalation and sat there with his eyes closed, breathing for a moment. The ticking of his crude clock brought him back to the now. 6:32

     Visible strata of papers - primarily dockets and work orders for the various ongoing restoration projects, but also consignment papers, catalogue records, and invoices of all the works and services. Just the look of it all, pregnant with the threat of countless hours of work, made his shoulders slump farther down.

     He leaned back, ran his fingers through his hair and sighed again.

     “It’s late Andrinius. In the name of the Throne, you can stop working.”

     Then he remembered the telegraph. He took the crumpled paper from his pocket and looked at it again.

     Without a thought, he pushed the stacks of paper aside, put a fresh sheet in front of him and began thinking of proposals for the Editor-in-chief of the Encyclopaedia.

     He’d done assignments for the venerable institution before and knew that the trustees were open to most suggestions - after all, the purpose of the Encyclopaedia Elyden was to collect as much information about the world and present it in an unbiased nature, to educate and illuminate. Of course, the Council of Seven had its own interpretation of the word unbiased, often confusing it with propaganda. But that, like so many other things in his life, was just something out of his control. He’d learnt to present his findings to the editors in an impartial manner and forget about it. Once his articles were out of his hands, it was, well… out of his hands, so to speak.

     He looked up at a small framed map of the empire, its territories highlighted unevenly in purple and settled on the spiderweb of roads that linked the myriad of cities and provinces with each other. Perhaps he could travel the Great Road - the expansive Korachani trade route that circumvented the Inner Sea, writing about what life was like in the various cities he encountered, profiling its people, their struggles and passions. On a more pragmatic note, he could consult the encyclopaedia for any inaccuracies or outdated information and present suggested amendments to the editors to look into.

     He made a note of that possibility and began thinking of something else.

     His gaze fell upon a paperweight on the desk. It was an old amulet that bore an ancient Thymi design on it. He’d heard scattered mumblings around the offices that a new expedition was being organised into Sammaea to explore old Thymi ruins. Perhaps he could convince the Society to fund his passage to accompany the expedition, where he could catalogue any findings, and interview the archaeologists and mythologists as they worked. The prospect was intriguing, and there was always the possibility, narrow as it was, that he might be involved in some great discovery. If only, he thought, smiling.

     He jotted down a note and continued thinking.

     As he stopped to think of something else, he looked off to the side, eyes staring into nothingness. They focused on what lay directly ahead - the symbol of Tartaruch, the sword the Archpotentate carried during his conquest of the Inner Sea, and now-symbol of the Church of the Undying Machine. Andrinius;’ relationship with the church had never been close. He’d always been too busy with his academic pursuits to care much for it. Indeed, he’d always thought the church was little more than a spiritual refuge to the slaves and helots of the empire. He’d been fortunate enough to have been born free and had never needed to seek the succour of the church.

     Perhaps it’s time I paid my dues, he thought.

     No, he thought. Pushing the thought away.

     He stalled, trying to conjure some other idea, but found his thoughts returning to religion, and his irreligious ways. He was not a bad man. He paid his taxes, obeyed the laws of his empire, and respected others. He might not spend his nights uttering litanies and flagellating himself, but… was that really what the Undying Machine was looking for?

     Probably.

     It might do him good to do something that would bring him closer to the Church and its people. Then he found himself thinking of what he’d been avoiding. The Shadow March.

     The great pilgrimage south into polluted lands tested the resolve of the faithful in ways that they could not be tested at home. It was notoriously difficult, and most died on the road before even reaching the Holy Lands of Kharkhardaontis. But those who did were said to experience such rapture and elation as to draw others into the experience. Men and women saved their meagre earnings to buy their freedom only to spend the remaining years of their lives as part of the great March, in the hopes of catching a mere glimpse of their rotting god. Most saw that as a fitting end to a miserable life.

     Andrinius didn’t see the appeal, but to each their own, he shrugged. It might be cathartic to document the struggles and reasons why people decided to go on the March.

     “Shit.” he noticed he’d been holding the nib of his pen down on the paper, letting the ink collect in a big spot that ruined the notes he’d taken.

     He discarded the paper, and copied the previous notes from memory onto a new sheet, but found his hand hesitant when he came to add the third note, of accompanying the Shadow March south.

     “Come on Andrinius, if a half-starved helot can do it, why not you?”

     He nodded and put down the third note.

     Now, which to choose?

On to Chapter 2