23. Bread and Circuses (Gadarien)¶
“What are we doing here again?” Vaye whispered. Gadarien could barely hear her over the excited chatter of the crowd. A thick rope separated the novitiates and faculty from the mass of impoverished Cantereians milling around in the weak morning light beneath the Tower of the Tempest. They reeked of cheap liquor and hard labor, eager to hear the Vorkyrda’s proclamation. In the distance, the Eyewall crackled with lightning, as agitated as the crowd.
“Are you feeling okay?” Gadarien murmured. “Maybe you should lie down.”
Vaye shook her head, blinking fiercely. The poor girl was barely holding herself upright, the skin around her eyes like two bruises. Since briefly catching sight of her in the Hall of Vapors, Gadarien had learned that Yobaza was forcing her to work in the kitchens every single night, a totally unreasonable burden for a novitiate. If he hadn’t already hated Yobaza, it would have been enough to make him start.
“I’m not going to give her that,” Vaye said. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to do. I missed the instructions.”
“Follow along with the chanting and sit down when everyone else does,” he whispered. Vaye nodded, clearly looking forward to a chance to sit.
On his other side, Adranaya shifted uncomfortably. He had observed the tension between the two after they returned from their day together—separately, he had noted—but neither had been willing to give him details. The gist was obvious enough, though.
He caught the creak of the ropes just in time to close his ears. The School’s giant bell rang like a boulder rolling down an iron mountain and the crowd quieted into an expectant silence. The doors of Tower, inlaid with lines of witchglass in dizzying geometric patterns, swung open in slow, eerie silence. A double rank of Sihiri in full ceremonial dress swaggered out, the thorns glinting along their bare arms and shaven scalps echoing the Vargashi motifs on the doors.
The Vorkyrda emerged alone. She was dressed plainly in soft gray robes, a sun-shaped headdress her only indication of office. The two ranks of soldiers halted and turned smartly to face each other, and she passed between them, smiling at the crowd.
Dalanat Kenem was an ordinary-looking woman. With her brown hair, iridescent Sarmalan skin, and wide hips, she could easily have been mistaken for a merchant or artisan, a look that was certainly engineered for this day. Gadarien had to admit that the woman had gravitas, though. She ascended the wooden dais and looked out over the silent crowd like a bear standing in a river. An assistant handed her a speaking horn.
“We gather today not to praise the powerful or worship the wealthy, but to celebrate the holiness in each of you, my children. The Sky Mother has selected twelve of your number for the glory of being Raised. This tradition, begun by my Great Aunt, the first Vorkyrda, has become a cherished part of our culture, a way for those from outside our borders to enjoy all that Sarmala has to offer.” Gadarien almost laughed at the blatant revisionism. Many in the crowd were from families that had lived in Thelenza since long before the Sarmalan empire had swept in and stolen their city.
“I hardly need speak the names of those who have been Raised,” The Vorkyrda continued. “Ilano Rôs. Thiála Baniavão. The incomparable singer, Lirola.” Kenem spoke the Cantereian names with aplomb, even getting the harmonics right. Gadarien wondered if Jovadão had coached her himself.
“But today,” she said, “I have a special guest, a man who doesn’t often speak in public.” A wave of excited chatter spread through the crowd as a bald, portly Cantereian in rich red velvet emerged from the Tower. His head glistened as he waved, grinning like a village drunk.
“Who is that?” Vaye said.
“It’s Umbo Faisál,” Adranaya whispered excitedly, her awkwardness forgotten. “He’s one of the most famous merchants in Thelenza. He designs clothes for everyone important. My mother has one of his hats. Or was it a cape? Anyway, he’s eccentric, likes to show up riding a big white mule and throwing money around. Literally—he actually tosses silver into the crowd. Some say he took the money from being Raised and sold his soul to—” Adranaya paused, glancing at Vaye uneasily. “Uh, to a demon. Anyway, he’s very popular.”
Adranaya was right. The crowd loved Faisál. Gadarien coughed into his fist to hide his disgust. In the lead-up to the Reconquest, which had resulted in Cantereia being sliced up like a dozenday cake, Cantereia had gone through a period known as the Discord. The Tementeira had come into power, advocating for a “purification” of Cantereia and the expulsion of Sarmalans and their friends, including Gadarien’s family. Ironically, the resulting fractures in Cantereian society had been exactly the opportunity Sarmala had been waiting for. The Vorkyrda had invaded, beginning a terrible war that had ended with Sarmala and Dzhar snarling at each other over Cantereia’s corpse.
After the blood had dried, Cantereia found itself carved into Dzharian and Sarmalan provinces, held down by the boots of their foreign governors. But that control wasn’t achieved through military force alone. It required collaborators who were more interested in their own gain than the freedom of their nation. People like Umbo Faisál. The merchant had indeed sold his soul, but not to Grandmother. Gadarien had it on good authority that Faisál had funded a number of smear campaigns against peaceful Cantereian separatists who had subsequently been abducted and killed. Faisál had his eye on the Governorship of Sarmalan Cantereia, and was willing to do anything to rise in the Vorkyrda’s favor. He might ride around throwing money at people, but Gadarien longed to one day repay the man’s largesse in a dark alley.
The cheers spread to the back of the square as Faisál took the speaking horn. “Brothers and sisters!” he cried. “Ten years ago, I was like you. I was hungry. I was struggling. I was pecking for scraps like a pigeon. But then I was Raised. Our Holy Light,” he said, indicating the Vorkyrda, “changed my life. I’ve done my best to share that good fortune with you, my people! It is only by the grace of the Vorkyrda that this city thrives. She keeps us safe. She builds the bridges and roads and fountains that we use every day. She is merciful and just!”
Gadarien wondered idly if Faisál actually believed his own propaganda. The irony was that most of these Cantereian families had only come to Thelenza because the Eyewall had destroyed their farmland and livelihoods. The more that people like Faisál repeated the lie, the easier it was to forget what had really happened.
“All the Vorkyrda asks in return is your loyalty. Will you give it to her?” He lifted his arms, each of which probably outweighed most members of the crowd, and the cheering turned to a roar.
“What?” Adranaya said, and Gadarien realized he had scoffed out loud. Sloppy. He needed to reign in his emotions.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t like that guy.”
“Let the Raising commence!” Faisál said, reveling in the adoration. He gave a final wave before giving the horn back to the Vorkyrda.
“Each of you has your ticket,” she said. “If your number is called, you and your family will receive enough aurei to start a new life. Open a business. Pay for your children to attend one of our fine academies. Give back to your community—to our community!” More cheering. “The Sisters of the Sun will draw twelve numbers from the Singing Bowl. If your number is called, make your way to the front, and your new life will begin!”
A group of Sisters in bright yellow habits and face coverings, indistinguishable from one another, emerged from the Tower bearing an ornate wooden stand and a glimmering witchglass bowl filled with paper chits. According to Teira, the bowl had been looted from a temple in Tenoava during the war. It was probably worth more than the Raising by itself.
The lead Sister bowed and made a show of stirring the chits around before selecting one and handing it to the Vorkyrda, who smiled as she turned to the audience. “Nine!” she cried. Vaye gasped, her head jerking up. She glanced at Gadarien, who grinned.
“Stop staring at me,” she whispered, surreptitiously wiping drool from the corner of her mouth. “You’re obsessed.”
He chuckled. “Yes, who wouldn’t be?”
Another Sister produced a rubber mallet and deftly ran it along the rim of the bowl, which produced a gorgeous tone rich with harmonics, vibrating the chits within. She pinched the rim, halting the ringing, before striking it eight more times. The Vorkyrda continued reading the numbers, letting the bowl ring dramatically between each digit. “Five. Seven. Four. One.”
Before the bowl had finished ringing for the last number, a middle-aged man in the crowd began whooping and jumping up and down like an excited child, one hand held high in the air. The crowd parted for him, rubbing his piebald head affectionately or slapping him on the shoulder as he made his way toward the attendants. He wept as the reality of his good fortune hit him.
And weep he should, even if he didn’t know it. From what Gadarien had seen, the sudden wealth was more often a curse than a blessing. It wasn’t unheard of for those who had been Raised to later be found dead, their winnings turning them into irresistible targets. Some even took their own lives after realizing they could no longer trust their friends and family. Based on the ecstatic mood, though, Gadarien doubted the gullible crowd would believe the truth if he told them.
The rest of the ceremony proceeded in the same fashion: numbers called out, cheering, and the mob stirring like a huge bowl of porridge. Vaye’s head drooped again, and Gadarien deliberated about whether to nudge her awake.
“Let her sleep,” Adranaya whispered. “No one’s watching.” Gadarien disagreed, but let it slide. At the moment it was possible to pretend that Vaye’s head was bowed in prayer. He would catch her if she started to fall over.
The Vorkyrda read out the eighth winner, but no one stepped forward. The crowd murmured. Had someone lost their ticket? They went silent as a rail-thin Cantereian with a thick beard slowly raised his fist. The people around him pulled away like water retreating from a drop of oil. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his other hand and tore the chit in two. The paper fluttered silently to the ground.
Behind the Vorkyrda, Faisál growled with anger, but Kenem herself merely looked puzzled. She made a tiny gesture and several Sihiri started pushing through the crowd. The man, most likely a Tementeira, didn’t resist as the soldiers seized him. The Vorkyrda wordlessly drew another chit from the bowl, as though the protestor hadn’t existed. But as she read out the next number, Gadarien could hear chaotic overtones of white-hot rage rippling below her words.
“What was that about?” Vaye whispered.
“A partisan, making a pointless gesture,” Gadarien spat. His own anger was impossible to hide, but he hoped it would be taken for contempt. He was, after all, being watched.
“What will happen to him?” Adranaya said.
“Nothing good,” Gadarien replied.
“That poor man,” Adranaya said, tearing up. Her concern for this man she’d never met was moving, but Gadarien choked back his own reaction. He couldn’t afford to show sympathy.
The partisan walked upright, refusing to be dragged. As he passed, he caught Gadarien’s eye, and his hatred speared into Gadarien’s guts. The man was a fool, throwing his life away for nothing. But Gadarien realized with a sinking feeling that he had been using his disdain to distance himself from his brothers, to avoid feeling the pain of their sacrifice. As ineffectual as this Tementeira’s act might be, it had taken tremendous courage. Gadarien would avenge this fool and all the brave fools like him, even if he went to his death with his countrymen cursing his name.
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