“But he wasn’t quite you.” There had been something off about Grija. “There was no simpering, no fear.”
“I do not simper.”
Jorim growled and Grija shrank back. “If our father could replace you, why hadn’t he done that earlier?”
“He had plans, brother, and they have come to fruition. He was never strong enough to rip your essence from you. You gave it freely.”
Did I? His memories of being a god weren’t fading. In sensing the changes in Grija, had he clung to them more tightly?
Grija peered at him closely. “You’re more than mortal, aren’t you?”
Jorim looked down over his body. It showed no sign of decay or the traumas he’d suffered before death. “I’m not sure what I am. Not a god. Perhaps a user of magic-unless Nessagafel healed me. Why would he do that?”
The craven god whimpered. “For his own terrible reasons.”
Jorim stood. “We’re in the Ninth Hell, you said. Wangaxan?”
“Yes, and there is no escaping it.”
“Ha!” Jorim looked around. A side from his brother there was nothing. “Nessagafel escaped. If he can do it, so can I.”
“You will have cause to reconsider that statement, Jorim Anturasi.” Nessagafel materialized as a Viruk. “After all, this place was meant to imprison gods. What chance has a mortal of escaping it? Especially when I have no intention of letting you get away.”
Chapter Eighteen
33rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Wentokikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Though the stump of his arm itched fiercely, Prince Cyron had no time to scratch it. It had been itching for a while, but he’d not really noticed…which surprised him. Less than a month previous, the way that arm had been sucking the life from him had been the center of his existence.
The unhealed wound was a metaphor for the world. The invasion from the south, the invasion from the north, Qiro Anturasi’s disappearance, and the revolt of his western provinces had torn him apart. They had distracted him, made him incapable of anything but surrender. He had been as dead as the flesh the maggots devoured in his wound.
But now… Cyron laughed as a junior minister handed him a sheaf of figures detailing the inventory of arrows, bows, and bowstrings in Moriande’s nine armories. He had thousands of bows, and hundreds of thousands of arrows, but fewer than two thousand bowstrings.
He raised the papers in his right hand. “What’s more likely to break? A bow or a bowstring? What is worse, a wet bow or wet bowstring?”
The clerks and minor ministers remained hunched at their tables, nodding to acknowledge his question. They’d become used to the outbursts but, at first, they had been completely disturbed by them. None dared answer.
But circumstances had changed.
A clerk turned. “Strings, Highness. How many do we need?”
“Two per bow.”
“I shall arrange for three, Highness, and settle for two and a half.”
Cyron gave the man a curt nod. The clerk wrote out an order and a runner-wearing a broad, bright red sash around his middle-took it and sped from what had once been Cyron’s private receiving room. He would carry the order to another room in the Dragon Tower, where it would be duplicated and distributed to every bowyer in the city and beyond. They’d sell him everything they had and produce more, quickly.
Cyron set the archery inventory on a table and another clerk removed it to be sorted and filed for immediate retrieval. Yet other clerks would pore through the files, reading everything, noting anomalies and similarities, and they would be brought up to him. He’d make a quick decision, more orders and reports would be written, and the process would cycle on.
The standing bureaucracy hated Cyron from the first. Some of it was a holdover from before, but his appointment as the Imperial Grand Minister made things worse. He compounded them. Instead of passing orders down through Pelut Vniel and the other high ministers, Cyron had demanded a staff of low-ranking clerks. He wanted men and women who had not yet become entirely beholden to their superiors. This meant he raised up many clerks who had not formally been recognized by their ministries. Cyron catapulted them ahead of others who had labored far longer.
Thirty clerks filled the room; their counterparts were scattered in a half dozen rooms throughout the castle. When a project demanded more resources than immediately available, a clerk would leave to handle that problem and another would replace him. While waiting to be called into the First Chamber, the others would engage in the review process.
This turned the bureaucracy completely on its head. Previously, it had acted as a filter. It distilled information so that the Prince only learned what the bureaucracy felt he should know. Ministers hoarded information, concealing it from their fellows and superiors. Because information was power, it flowed none-too-freely.
Cyron shook his head. The bureaucracy had enshrined inefficiency by stifling the creative power of those working in it. Innovations died at roadblocks. Problems were sequestered and buried so no shame could come to the minister whose responsibility it was to find a solution. This allowed problems to fester-even simple ones.
Cyron expanded distribution of information and encouraged solutions. With every fact passed up to him, he demanded analysis and solutions. The bureaucracy would have previously made decisions on their own, but Cyron relished having options. If he chose to ignore them, so be it; but he had hundreds of people concocting solutions that might never occur to him.
Pelut Vniel tried to stop Cyron. The Prince had gotten everything he asked for and more. Ministers buried him beneath an avalanche of information. It came in jumbled and confusing-the mess begged for ministers to sort it all out. Vniel magnanimously allowed Cyron to take as many clerks as he wanted-especially those with no experience-to deal with the information.
Cyron had turned the tables on them. He’d started by drafting plans based on the data he’d been given, then forwarded them to the ministers for their opinions. They’d taken their time getting back to him, but he’d anticipated that. He’d acted without their advice, tweaking things when they did respond, but mostly moving ahead with his plans. When they protested that he had ignored their input, he noted that their belated comments agreed with his actions.
Then he turned around and buried them with reports, requests, and other make-work. Those ministers who complained he was not giving them anything substantive to do were rewarded with serious tasks. If they delivered solid product, he continued to use them. If they did not, he neutered them with flattery and marginalized them.
Pity stupidity isn’t lethal. The bureaucracy had practiced stupidity in a manner calculated to harm the nation. Primarily they neglected maintenance. The armories were a prime example. The first inventory had indicated there were twice as many arrows, but there had been no physical inventory-the number had been derived from adding up old records, some of which came from Imperial days. Weapons disbursed in time of emergency weren’t counted as they went out, and few enough came back. As a result, a prince could look at the numbers and feel secure about his nation’s preparedness.
But when an enemy came to call, he would be in serious trouble.
That worked in the bureaucracy’s favor and Cyron understood that. A secure prince promoted stability. An aggressive prince might consider going to war, but his ambitions would be blunted when the true numbers were produced. The bureaucracy would promise him weapons, and would procure them; but their counterparts in other nations would then prepare for war themselves. A stalemate would ensue and stability would be preserved.
The Prince did not doubt that there were other benefits to the bureaucracy. When arrows had to be produced in haste, prices rose. Bowyers who wanted part of a government contract would willingly reward bureaucrats for favoring them. Likewise for those paid to transport the arrows and those whose warehouses stored them. The wastage inherent in that system could easily enrich bureaucrats, so motivation to change it didn’t exist.