[indent][i]In the world of mortal man, one finds all life to be essentially preordained, deterministic and futile, without the intervention of the divine and the gigantic. This the result of mortal ignorance, born in formative chaos and an empty seat of rule. Bereft of guiding hand and miserably adrift in the causal sea, blind and grasping, who are we to neglect to grant Man keel, sail and wind alike? But we cannot see him informed of the greater workings of the world; we shall be informed for him. For small-minded men, too much knowledge is a poison. The death imposed by Truth, be it the first or the second or in whatever order, cannot be withstood and therefore cannot be imposed upon the multitude all at once. Fools of a mind to speak of ‘freedom’ outside Sovereignty will decry such a course as manipulative or tyrannical, and they would be correct on both counts, though the latter only in the original sense of ‘usurper’ to that seat on high; and yet I see no reason to leave Man to an unknown fate, of unknown cruelty, as opposed to one of our own devisement. They cannot be free, for the world is not ready for a society of masters alone as we strive for, and to see ourselves chained to rulership and them in the chains of rule is only to their own benefit.[/i][/indent] [indent]-Bhaskara Aniruddha Shyama, otherwise Asurishvara, [i]Rites of Kings and the Right of Rule.[/i][/indent] [hr] [b]Rajazul, somewhere in the southeastern quarter streets, at dawn.[/b] [i]“To he whom has built the city…”[/i] A familiar refrain begins from out of the switchback alleyway, accompanied by sitar strings. The player is swaddled, enmasked and dressed in chromatic rags, frayed but beauteous. As dawn breaks over the sharply cut spires and bulging domes, towering skyward as if to meet the sun halfaways, that refrain is echoed. At first, a few dozen lazing strings call back from faraway alleys and underhangs, out of rhythm. An ascetic voice sonorously rises some ways away from the first, perhaps a block away. [i]”To he whom has built the city,”[/i] The dual strike of a twin-headed drum sounds from the nearby waterfront, and then more like it, rolling up into a light beat along the canals. Whining flutes, braying reeds and trumpets, more voices speaking and chorded call and respond and begin to play near the first singer, block to block, and other pockets of music afar begin in parallel with this one. More voices rise, now, and say, [i]”To he whom has built the city,”[/i] The void of rhythm slowly works itself otherwise, taking to itself a shape. Strings plucked as one, to one chord, wind blowing with notes of hanging clarity, chime and rattle and struck wood chattering like hail, the drums rolling into a pealing thunderstorm of noise, rising, rising, and then nothing, as silence reigned; the players’ halt so abrupt that the specter of the music still seemed to ring out, living yet within the walls and the spires and the clear waters of the River Uma. Ten thousand voices and more spoke then as one, unaccompanied and clear. [i]”To he whom has built the city, give praise.”[/i] And the storm began anew, in full rhythm. Curtains draw, shutters are set aside, doors swing wide to air fresh and warm. The first bustlings of traffic begin to funnel outwards into the dye-stained streets. A second music begins alongside the first, that of idle conversation, greetings, callings, of endless footsteps, sounds of life. A few coins rattle into the dish at the end of the switchback alleyway, where the enmasked man plays. To the call of the Priests of the Mendicant Fable, the city lives, breathes, and awakes. [hr] [b]Washhouse, somewhere in the middle quarter, early morning.[/b] Beneath a low roof, the churning and spattering of water underscored the din of chatter. Dozens surrounded the low basin, almost all women and girls, with a few grumbling boys, washing cloth and sheet. Above the rest, one conversation between mother and daughter begins to stand out. “I tell you, Richa, don’t you ever yearn for the countryside?” beggared the mother. A woman by the name of Nishat, simply dressed, darkly hued, and unadorned. “No, mother, not once have I,” was the immediate reply, sing-song with just a hint of irritation. This was neither the first nor the last Richa would hear of this, as her family and indeed many of those present had immigrated from the countryside during the last period of expansionary building through the decade. Contrary to her mother, she was dressed finely for their low-middling class, bejeweled and made up; ink ran across her skin in swirling script. “But the open air and the uncrowded living?” Nishat queried. “They hardly compare to the splendor of Bhaskara’s city,” Richa shot back. “Splendor, she says, as every morning we wake to a racket of mantras. It was novel the first time, but...” “I have not tired of the beauty of it even a little, even now.” “And yet-” “Every day with this! Would you leave the poor girl alone, Nishat?” began a centennial looking little woman- hunched and olive-hued, her name was Parvati, and she had lived there in that neighborhood as long as any could remember, regarded as no one and everyone’s grandmother. “Racket or no racket, I don’t think you would relish returning to doing your laundering in the streambed. Hm?” A chorus of giggling resounded as the nagging was silenced. Nishat, glowering and sighing, turned her frustration towards wringing work, and began to drain one end of a heavy sheet. As graywater spilled over the basin’s lip or was thrown out into the drains, Richa tugged down a heavy pull-chain, letting freshwater flow in through a pipe cut through the rooftop. She smiled, thinking to herself that this was one thing she might never have seen in the country. And yet, following that pipe over the rooves on which it laid, it spiraled up the pillared support of a great aqueduct, reaching high over the streets, stretching on through the whole city, and out from it beyond and over the coast. [hr] [b]Traders’ galley [i]Chrysanthos,[/i] at a dockyard on the mouth of the Savitr, morning.[/b] Gerasimos, at wits’ end, looked on his shipmate sternly. “I will tell you what I told you when we first embarked, Emilios; I am not getting off this boat.” This elicited a sharp bark of laughter from his shipmate. “I don’t believe you. Do you not see it? This is [i]the[/i] city. I póli! The conflux of nations, the jewel of the east, great center of worldly trade. The seat of a demigod, the Great Archon, Justinian’s own rival and suzerain to the mortal Basileus and master of Kyriakos both!” “Oh, yes, indeed. Demon-king of a second Tushiena, itself a second Dratha, ruler behind a weak emperor, leash-holder of the butcher of the Tshrivs & hundred-man slayer. I am [i]dearly[/i] impressed by his overgilded labors and the illustrious company he keeps.” A scowl turned their way at this remark, cast down from a tawny mariner resting at the taffrail of the twice-taller military galleas that was their neighbor at dock. Emilios excused his companion with no more than a shrug and a politely strained smile, which was enough to put the mariner on his bitter elsewhere on the ship and out of sight. “You are a joyless ingrate, you know that? And seditious, too. You might be able to get away with that sort of talk in Bakt, but I wouldn’t go shouting it to the heavens here. The Bhaskara certainly live here in plenty enough number, and they named themselves for him, such was their love for all this- this [i]gilding![/i]” “Well, I hardly share in it, and I won’t have to shout if I don’t go into the city to begin with, will I? There’s plenty of accounting left to do below deck. It’s how I’ve avoided a tan for so long.” “You won’t have anything to shout about if you don’t start ‘sharing,’ and I wouldn’t call transparence ‘avoiding a tan.’ Must you view life so dismally?” Emilios pinched the bridge of his nose tight enough to mark the skin, hoarsely irritated. This sort of bickering had become quite familiar to the crew of the Chrysanthos. The rest of their shipmates and workmen had by now begun to politely ignore them as they set about their labors, or left for shore leave as Emilios clearly and dearly wished to. The two seemed to be eternally at odds; even their pallor was opposing, Gerasimos dark-haired and pale, Emilios blonde and rosey. “Listen, I’ll tell you what. You come with me into the city. You hate it. You wish you’d never set foot in it. And you don’t get eaten by some ghastly Asura as you so deludedly expect,” Emilios began. “And?” Gerasimos inquired. “And in recompense, I’ll let you toss me straight into the bay soup for the merfolk to eat as you’ve kept threatening. I’ll even cooperate! Jump right into the maw of some great angler thing straight from the abyss.” Gerasimos considered this for a moment. His face indescribably twisted in conflict. Then, a sharp outtake of breath as he stands, setting off from the ship. “If something goes awry, I swear, I’ll dive in there with you for my pound of flesh.” Emilios clapped his hands, grinning ear to ear. “Well, I’m sure the Deep Ones will recognize you as one of their own. You certainly look pale enough to be a fishman out of water!” For this remark, he received an elbow in the ribs as the two departed down the wharf.