One Piece: Lead, Kindly Light (1/3)
Feb. 13th, 2011 12:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamTitle: Lead, Kindly Light (1/3)
Series: One Piece (Alabasta)
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Apparently when I wrote this I was in a frame of mind where exposition = what a cool idea! x.x Other than that, not sure this will ever be finished, so. Yeah. UNFINISHED.
Summary: The events leading up to the Alabasta civil war. Sometimes you do everything right, and the world still goes to pieces.
Alabasta was in danger. There were whispers coming out of the west on the desert wind, dry and empty as a sirocco. They carried no substance, no trace of moisture to sustain an investigation. No facts which Cobra’s advisor thirsted for, no names which his Guards waited for. Only a vague threat, hanging quiet and insubstantial over their heads like a sibyl’s curse, waiting for the proper events to unlock it. And they were sliding into place, teeth into the key. Droughts. Storms. Famines.
Alabasta was, of course, not unused to droughts. Even a year without rain, the current situation, was not unheard of in the driest years. And, even with off-shore storms wreaking havoc with efforts to import grain and other necessities, the situation should not have been one for immediate concern. But it was, and that reason lay in the two words common to all the whispers: Dance Powder. Dance Powder, the miracle green sand which could bring rain. And which, to do so, drew the water particles from the surrounding air, creating a drought in all nearby areas and then farther afield with each new use.
The rumours were too vague to create implications, to link names. But it was easy enough to lay out the fears of those spreading them. Alabarna, the King’s city, the country’s capital, had always been blessed with more rain than the rest of her desert surroundings. The King’s Miracle, they called it. Enough rain that it was possible to sustain small plots of grass, and warm walled gardens of scented flowers and fruit-laden vines year-round, an impossibility anywhere else in the thirsty country. It wasn’t surprising, really, for the accusation to be thrown out, for the suggestion to be made. That the King might support his Miracle, not by the holy and blessed ways always supposed, but by the more pragmatic method of Dance Powder. It would be sure to provide rain whenever needed, to enhance his reputation, and to favour his home. At the expense of the rest of the country.
Nefertari Cobra, His Royal Majesty the King of Alabasta, did not blame his people for scepticism. He had been known to engage in it himself. And, having been taught as a child that rain fell in Alabasta not under royal prerogative but as the tears of the gods, he did not blame others for disbelieving in his role in Alabarna’s prosperity. Further, understanding the despair twelve months – more in some regions – without rain could bring, he was less stung by the accusations of Dance Powder than anyone had expected. He had seen dead towns, sand blowing a foot thick in doorways, buckets clanking uneven death knells at the bottom of empty wells. He had seen cattle more skeleton than beast, men and women hoeing plots more dust than dirt, and children sitting hollow-cheeked and dull-eyed without the strength to play. He knew the horrors of drought. And he knew that, when the rain came, everything else would fade away, mirage-like. Provided it was Alabastans who were casting doubt.
The only other definitive information in the whispers came in another two words: Baroque Works. If Dance Powder had been passed quietly, Baroque Works came and went silently, without a sound but possibly with the flash of a knife. No one knew anything, and anyone who had known even those two words forgot them immediately when questioned. In two months of investigation, absolutely nothing had been uncovered. Scouts had been sent out to all major cities, and several minor ones. Interviews had been conducted with leading citizens, with ordinary citizens, with the poor struggling to scrape by. Attempts had been made to infiltrate the organization, group, or company. Profiles had been run on criminals, suspected criminals, those particularly injured by the drought, and conspicuous foreigners. Every single avenue had drawn a total blank.
And yet, nearly silent, whispering in the hot desert wind, the rumours continued. Dance Powder. Baroque Works. Danger.
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The throne room was never silent. The acoustics of the huge hall, separated into three long sections by a vaulted ceiling and faceted marble pillars, had been designed to allow a speaker anywhere in the hall to be heard anywhere else, but to facilitate particular amplification of words spoken from the dais. The narrower side sections let out onto four different corridors, providing convenient access to the throne room from several guard stations as well as the kitchen, council rooms and treasury. The wide central section, headed by a high dais set back from the room in an elaborately tiled alcove, let out at the far end to a wide balcony which looked out onto the city and the central marketplace. Although thick woven hangings were mounted over the wide arched balcony exit, they were never closed, allowing a constant stream of fresh air into the hall. This also meant that all the sounds of the city drifted in; the lowing of oxen and the nuzzing of camels, the cries of peddlers and the oscillating shouts of auctioneers, the reedy tunes of snake-charmers and the sweet ringing of silver chimes. And below these more obvious noises thrummed the underlying murmur of hundreds of thousands of people speaking, joking, laughing, crying, living. The heartbeat of the city, never silent, not even in the darkest hours of the night when the moon had set.
It was here that Cobra sat on a tall sandstone throne carved for long-dead ancestors, listening to the pleas of his subjects, and the reports of his guards, and the recommendations of his advisors. And it was here now, late in the evening when the sun was setting low over the western sands and painting the city red, that he was given the first definitive information surrounding the danger looming over them all.
“Rain Base,” said Igaram simply, calloused hands empty, clothes dusty from a long ride. He had only just returned from Katorea in the south, one of the many large sea-side towns which depended on the milder ocean-climate to provide them with rain the desert was loath to surrender. He had arrived in the city only an hour ago, and stood now on the carpeted foot of the stairs, flanked by his two subordinates Chaka and Pell. Bearing new information as a hard-won prize.
“Rain Base?” repeated Cobra. “But the city’s booming. They’re hardly affected by the drought, less even than Alabarna.” It was true. The city had sprung up almost overnight like a desert shoot after rain, from a tiny outpost town to one of the largest and most prosperous cities in the country. Foreign investment, particularly from the legendary Shichibukai Crocodile, had led to the opening of casinos and other high-priced amusements which Alabasta had traditionally been too poor to afford. It had been startling, and still was, and the Guards and Cobra himself had kept a wary eye on the city for a long time. But nothing untoward had come of it, and the patronage of one of the strongest men at this end of the Grand Line, as well as a favourite of the Marines and a nominal member of the World Government, was not something to refuse. Alabasta had always been, like the desert, open minded. Anyone was welcomed. Whether or not they could survive was wholly dependent on their wit and stamina.
“Nevertheless, sire, whatever is happening, I believe there is a tie there. Rain Base is the inside connection.”
“Inside? There’s an outside?” The news that there was some foundation to the rumours, that the unrest might be the tip of something greater, was unsettling. The idea that it might be being provoked from the outside, an attempt at destabilizing the country at the very least, was staggering. Alabasta had been a peaceful country, both nationally and internationally, for more than a thousand years. She had known no war, no great conflict, for generations upon generations. Planned foreign aggression had become almost unthinkable, peace a way of life. And now it seemed that someone might be trying to topple Alabasta into turmoil. Bloody, violent, destructive turmoil.
“The one other piece of information I found, your majesty, was ‘Whisky Peaks.’”
All their information, their supposition, their fears were based on these empty, unsubstantiated names. They were all considering, fearing in their deepest darkest hearts, the prospect of war, on the basis of a set of names. Destroying in their minds lives and happiness on evidence less substantial than a shadow, less even than a mirage. “Am I the only one who finds it irritating that all our information must come to us in the form of two words?” Cobra raised his eyes to the carved ceiling, voice echoing like summer thunder in the huge room. “Surely these names do not suddenly surface without some sort of context.” He set a hard stare on Igaram, while his head throbbed with fears of so many horrors he would not yet name, pouring in over the horizons of his thoughts like blinding morning sunlight over the dunes.
“I am afraid, your majesty, that that is, in fact, the case-” Igaram met his eyes with sympathy, and pity. Cobra returned it with a harsh snarl.
“It is the case that people in the street just drop these words, and then vanish before the echoes have ceased?”
There was an awkward silence. Igaram dropped back into subservient neutrality, the two captains there already, each staring straight ahead of him with a carefully expressionless face. Cobra broke the silence after a minute with a ragged sigh, closing his hard eyes for a moment. The storm broke. The others breathed again. “Very well.” He opened hands he did not remember clenching, rested them on slightly warm stone armrests. The throne had been designed to be arresting in its size and simplicity. Carved entirely from one piece of stone, the back was ten feet high and completely unadorned. It weighed one tonne, and had split the dais when it had first been set in place. The crack ran through the marble of the floor from the foot of the throne to the first stair, hidden under an elaborately woven carpet replaced every generation or so. It was a small secret passed down by the royal family, who had ruled in peace for those long thousand years, as a reminder. Do not be complacent: today, only the stone is cracked. Tomorrow, if you do not watch it, care for it, nurture it, you may wake to find a fissure running through the country.
“Very well,” he said again. “There is nothing new to be said now of Rain Base; apart from this new suggestion nothing suspicious was found there. A new search will do nothing but further empty the treasury.” He paused to be sure and met no interruptions. “What of Whisky Peaks, then? It, at least, is a new and uncharted source to pursue.” He spoke wearily, and with a touch of sarcasm, but he raked sharp eyes over his captains.
“It’s a den of lawlessness,” growled Chaka, tapping the handle of his sword with blunt fingernails.
“Or a den of lawfulness, to put it another way,” said Pell, addressing his comment equally to his king and his co-captain.
“Taking out all the pirates on their way to the Grand Line is one thing. Taking out everyone else is another entirely. You’ve heard the stories; they’re all beri-mad. They sell the pirates for bounties. Anyone not obliging enough to be worth up-front money from the World Government is lucky if it’s just their possessions that are sold.”
Pell shuffled with a whisper of fabric but said nothing. Igaram shrugged. “Whether the darker rumours are true or not, it is a fact that the town lives off bounties. They lure in pirates, treat them to whatever will put them off guard, and then turn them in. There’s no ruling organization, no monarchy, government or even a council to do business with. It’s every man for himself; top dogs on top and bottom on the bottom. A constant fight to survive.”
“Formally,” said Cobra slowly, “Alabasta has never had any dealings with Whisky Peaks. Both because there is no one to deal with, and because we find their ethics highly questionable. Informally?” Cobra looked again to Igaram.
“There are few records of Alabastan transactions with Whisky Peaks. I know in the past on a very few occasions we have sent squads to extradite criminals caught by Whisky Peaks bounty hunters to be tried in Alabasta. I couldn’t give dates or names without reviewing the books. I know of no one, off hand, still in the Guard who has visited for any reason. You two?” He turned to his subordinates. Pell shook his head. Chaka paused. When he spoke, his words slipped slowly into place as he considered.
“I met a man once, years ago, at one of the World Government councils. Don’t remember his name, think he came from Taluu. He had been; got shipwrecked on the way to somewhere else. Said everyone there was a bottle covey, off his head, ready for any kind of trouble when there weren’t any pirates in town to beat to death. He laid low as a bounty hunter, got in three fights a night, lost half his ear and caught a ride out by stowing away on a grain ship. He looked tough as a camel, big as me and covered in scars. And he said it was by the grace of God he didn’t end up decorating one of their damn cacti.”
A pause. In the marketplace, the last auction of the day was concluded amidst general cheering, and a strong gust of wind set the chimes ringing. Out in front of the palace, the evening watch marched by, marked by the dull clanking of armour and the timed thumps of steps.
“It sounds like the kind of place I would finger, if I were looking to suggest foreign aggression,” said Cobra slowly. “Tough, lawless, and difficult to obtain substantiation from. We’ve been hearing these names, Dance Powder and Baroque Works for two months, and now Rain Base and Whisky Peaks. How sure are you that any of them, never mind all of them, might be involved in some kind of coup. If there is such a thing?” It was a peaceful evening. The sun had set now, the sky slowly darkening from deep red to a pearly pink and then into a silky violet. The stars would be shining soon. The sounds of the market were quietening now, vendors and shoppers alike going home for the evening. The air in the throne room smelled of sweet rose water, the hall itself kept comfortably cool by the tonnes surrounding marble. The world was calm and peaceful. It seemed impossible, ridiculous, to sit here contemplating mass conflict because of eight whispered words. And yet, there was always the crack.
“Sire, I know the evidence is … frankly, nonexistent. All we have to go on is our guts, and the fact that these rumours feel dangerous. And everything they say, Dance Powder and Rain Base, Whisky Peaks and whatever this Baroque Works is, they all ring true. They make sense. None of us wants …” Igaram paused, obviously unwilling to voice his fears. “Well, anything other than what we have now. Peace. Prosperity enough to live happily. I can’t give any reassurances, I don’t have them. But how many times have you known me to jump at ghosts?” The commander’s face displayed honesty, and sincere belief. Worse, everything he said was true. There was no reason to believe the rumours, none at all. But they all did, every one of them. And he trusted his commander, with his life, with his daughter, with his country.
Cobra turned to the two captains, still standing quietly and keeping out of the way of the main conversation. Alabasta had few reasons for a military, other than that she lived in lawless times and had a need as any country did for coordinated policing. As such, until now there had rarely been matters important enough to require Guard captains to confer directly with Cobra; they had always in the past taken their instruction from Igaram. The role of advisors of any kind, much less political, was new to them, and they were much more comfortable with concrete questions involving feasibility and timetables or the gathering of information than with suggesting actions which the King should take or beliefs he should hold. Offering advise unasked was something they would not consider; offering it when asked was as of yet strange enough.
Oddly, due to their positions, Cobra had none of these problems in either confiding in them or asking advice, despite the situation being just as new to him. Although Cobra as King was their superior, the two captains occupied a special and unusual niche in Alabasta’s political and social hierarchy which placed them in some respects almost above him. As avatars of the Protecting Gods, it fell to them to protect Alabasta and the Nefertari family at all costs. The Jackal, He Who Passes Judgement, and the Falcon, He Who Destroys. Even if the rest of the country fell, they would stand in defence of their lord, and their land.
In reality, their functions were more mundane: keep the temple clean, serve in ceremonies, and to protect the country if the occasion demanded. Chaka and Pell, as captains in the Royal Guard, held additional responsibilities which they fulfilled admirably, and which distinguished them quite apart from their holier associations. But it was these associations, which Cobra had been raised to revere and trust, that made it simple for him to place faith in two men of whom he knew comparatively nothing.
“What do you two think?” he asked, watching as the surprise flitted across their faces. It disappeared quickly.
“I think something’s going on; the country stinks of it.” said Chaka flatly, after only a second of consideration. “These are the best leads we have. If there’s a possibility of danger, they must be checked into.” Plain, gruff and noncommittal.
Pell shifted slightly, and Cobra turned his attention to the slighter captain, who waited a moment longer before speaking. “I believe it,” he said simply. If he thought anything more, he made no move to suggest it. Cobra turned his eyes back to Chaka.
“Checked into how?”
Here again, there was silence, the captains clearly having gone as far as they felt comfortable, especially on the fly. Cobra sighed once more. “Until such time as a brainwave washes over us, we shall have to settle for less. Increase investigation into Rain Base. Not anyone recognizable; no one in this room should be seen there under any circumstances. And review all material on Whisky Peaks, especially any involving Alabasta directly.”
“Yes, your majesty.” Their voices rumbled through the hall like thunder as all three dropped to one knee.
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“Papa?”
“Hm?” Cobra glanced up from the notes he was reading, inconclusive summaries of Alabasta’s dealings with Whisky Peaks in Igaram’s large, loopy writing. Nothing led to anything, each new clue withering away into ash in their hands. The harder they looked, the less they found, and the more suspicion they aroused.
He turned his mind away from the fruitless search and, seeing his daughter’s face pulled into an unusual expression of concern, pushed the reports back on the desk and sat back in his chair. The aged wood creaked gently.
“Something’s wrong in Yuba,” she said simply, standing tall and straight and ready for trouble, a stance she had learned young. She had outgrown short smocks and skinned knees, but her long hair was twisted up in a pony-tail, and she wore no jewellery or adornments. A sure sign she had come ready to argue her position.
“Why do you think so?” he asked, rather than pointing out nothing of that sort had been reported. Vivi’s strong-headedness had always been well tempered by her sensibleness. For a child who had gone through her life so far swinging her proverbial stick at every opportunity, she had turned up very few mares’ nests.
“Leader’s been sending odd letters for the past few months. And now he’s stopped answering mine all together. And I can hardly get any answers out of anyone else.”
“Have you two been quarrelling?” It wouldn’t be unexpected; if anyone else was as hard-headed as Vivi it was Kohza. He easily remembered the first day they met, Vivi returning to the palace bruised and dirty from scrapping with him, and felt his lips twitching.
“This isn’t funny, Papa! Of course we were quarrelling, but not like this! He’d never just stop sending letters; he always wants the last word!” She paused, waiting for her father to show suitable contrition, which he did, his dark eyes still shining. “It’s something else. Something bad. About Dance Powder, and the drought. People out there are getting restless. The kids are starting to think the grown-ups are too complacent, are letting the wool be pulled over their eyes.”
At the mention of Dance Powder, Cobra straightened in his chair, amusement draining away completely.
“Someone’s been telling them things, Papa. Leader wouldn’t say what, but I think… I think they’ve been blaming us. Our family, I mean. They’re saying we caused the drought, that we’ve been using Dance Powder to make it rain in Alabarna and drying up the rest of the country. That we don’t care about Alabasta; that if no one questions us, things will just get worse. Terrible things!” Vivi’s voice shook, breaking in anger rather than fear or horror. In Cobra’s study, a room decorated in muted browns and beiges, she was the only bright thing, her hair flashing in the sunlight streaming in from a set of wide windows, her dark eyes burning. She had always been like that, vivid, fiery, standing apart from others even when not moving; a flaming star shooting across a dark sky. It made him proud, and afraid.
“Do you know who has been saying these things?”
“No one would say. I don’t think it’s one person, it must be several passing through, all with the same story. Strangers. But, Papa… they’re starting to believe it. Leader – Kohza – is starting to believe it.” Her voice dropped here, almost to a whisper, and her eyes fell to the rich chocolate-coloured carpet.
“Vivi…”
“We have to do something, Papa! We have to tell them it’s a lie, convince them it’s all a lie! I can go to Yuba; Leader, everyone, they know me. They’ll believe me!” She rallied, shifting quick as light dancing on waves, her jet eyes shining. “Please, let me go, if I leave now-”
“Vivi-”
“We can get there by tomorrow, and I know I’ll be able to-”
“Vivi,” Cobra broke over her voice, his own dry and stony in comparison. “You’re right – they know you. Even while you’re here in Alabarna and they’re in Yuba, they still know you. And they still choose to believe this. They will have convinced themselves knowing you would deny it, knowing all the objections you would make. If you run out there, it will look-” he stopped short, unable to finish. Unable to tell his daughter her friends would not believe her, that her pleas would be seen at best as personal naïveté and at worst as cold political manoeuvring on his part.
“You think they won’t listen. You think they would believe it, even if I went, even if I told them the truth,” she said slowly, her eyes reflecting his own, and the pain there. She paused, and he waited for her to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, he didn’t understand.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said slowly, instead. Cobra’s heart twisted. “Maybe they wouldn’t.” She turned to look out the tall bay windows, watching the palm trees shake in the afternoon wind out on the courtyard, her face hidden from him. “What can we do then, to convince them?” Her voice, at least, was steady.
“We’re doing everything we can. We must find the people behind these lies, and stop them.”
“Pell can find them,” she said immediately, turning to look at him wide-eyed, surprised he hadn’t thought of it already. Cobra almost smiled, heart twisting further at her blind faith.
“He’s trying. We all are. But it’s difficult, and there isn’t much information.” His daughter had more than he did. Without even having looked. Because these people, this Baroque Works, they were targeting children. “If you hear anything more, Vivi, anything, you must tell Igaram or myself.”
“But Papa-”
“Promise me, Vivi. It’s important.”
She nodded, strong and serious, a single flower in a dead garden. “I promise.”
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“It’s like a thick blanket has been drawn over the country, Igaram, smothering our children, blinding our people. All the guiding light has been hidden from them, and they don’t even realise it. We’re being pulled into darkness, without a struggle, without a fight, without anything to hold on to.” Cobra stood on the balcony of the throne room, overlooking the city. The sun was beating down, as always, the people down below hurrying on with their tasks, their duties, their lives, unaware of the web slowly being woven about them. The trap slowly being sprung. “If this continues the people will be turned against each other. City against city, family against family, man against man. We cannot allow that.”
“Sire, the only option left to us is to sent a delegation to Whiskey Peaks. A well-trained group, with a suitable back story might be able-”
“You’ve heard the reports, Igaram. Chaka’s, and the others we’ve gathered. Ungoverned, ununited, the place is a death trap. Imagine the dangers if the hundreds of lawless bounty hunters gathered there were joined against our delegation.”
“Imagine if they were joined against Alabasta,” suggested Igaram. Cobra’s eyes narrowed.
“We could handle such an invasion here, with the full force of the Royal Army to counter it. Sending in a small team would be suicide.”
“We could send them in incognito. Bounty hunters are a dime a dozen. It’s not as though anyone there would know who we were if we didn’t tell them, sire.”
“Nevertheless, they would still have to be proficient fighters, and I can’t spare Chaka or Pell. Not when the danger to the country hangs so close over its head.”
“I doubt they would go in any case, your majesty. They know their place, better than anyone else, perhaps.” There was a pause. Down below, a gong was rung, its echo thrumming through the marketplace. A new auction had begun. “Sire, I would suggest-”
“No. This topic is closed. There will be no delegation sent to Whisky Peaks; the dangers are too high for such uncertain gains, and I certainly cannot lose anyone suitable enough to go. I will contact the World Government and let them try their hand in that den of asps.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Whatever awaits for this country, Igaram, it is our duty to see that it passes by with as little bloodshed as possible. It is our people, all of them, whom we must safeguard. I will not sacrifice them, not even for Alabasta herself.”
He turned to watch admiration war with doubt on Igaram’s face, to see the two finally put aside by neutrality. “Yes, your majesty.”
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Things were falling apart, crumbling like the ancient cities in the deep desert, now just desiccated stone outcroppings buried in sand and filled with lizards and scorpions. It wasn’t difficult to see. They were toppling even though no direct threat had materialised. Or, more accurately, because no direct threat had materialised. The palace, the city, the people were becoming divided in their opinions, and in their courses of action. Igaram was counselling him while working on reports for supposedly cancelled plans, Chaka and Pell were following orders and lurking together in corridors, and Vivi was avoiding everyone. In the streets of Yuba, and Erumaru, and Katorea, back alleys and taverns were full of whispers and, in some cases, outright discussion. Even in Alabarna, the talk was beginning, growing strong and insidious as bamboo, smothering other conversation as it spread. Already there was a marked rise in Yuba’s population. Yuba, the polar opposite to Alabarna. Young where the capital was old, nestled in the hot desert sands where the capital was raised high on a dais of stone, dry and thirsty where Alabarna was moist and content. Yuba, where what was becoming the rebel party, was centred. Yuba, where Vivi’s best friend lived.
Cobra was disturbed at how meekly she had promised to stay away from the Hub of the West. He was disturbed by Igaram’s silent and expressionless obeying of his orders not to pursue a more active campaign against Baroque Works. He was disturbed by the thick trust between the captains, which did not seem to extend to himself.
It never rains, but it pours. In Alabasta, unlike most other places, the expression was actually true.
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“Cobra-sama, Katorea has sent a messenger to report that slavers have been sighted off the coast, and should they deploy a ship for a pre-emptive strike or wait to see if the ship enters Alabastan waters?”
“Sire, a cart of anti-monarchist propaganda has entered the West Gate from Yuba, which I strongly believe should be confiscated.”
“Cobra-sama! Cobra-sama! Vivi-sama has disappeared!”
For an instant, all activity in the throne room ceased. Pell and Chaka, in the middle of urgent reports, froze and turned. Cobra half-rose from the throne, and stood there, hands on cold stone, dark eyes flashing. In the city below, a cock crowed.
“What do you mean?” said Cobra, with the carefully calm of the ocean before a tropical storm.
Terracotta, who had brought the news and now stood alone and stranded in the middle of the hall’s eastern section, pinned by Cobra’s eyes, twisted a scrap of parchment in her hands. “Irena went in to bring her her breakfast ten minutes ago, and found a note. She fetched me and … she’s gone, your majesty. Out the window, or through the halls, I don’t know, but…” voice shaking slightly, the cook advanced uncertainly towards the dais, holding the piece of parchment out in front of her. Cobra had descended the stairs and taken it from her before she set foot on the carpet. It was only one line, scrawled hastily by a sputtering pen.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a way to help everyone.
Vivi
He was aware, even as he scanned the lines a second time for a hidden meaning, a clue, anything which might tell him what the hell she was thinking, of his captains reading over his shoulders. He turned on them.
“Where’s Igaram?”
There was a pause, as both men looked around, as if expecting him to appear from the shadows.
“I haven’t seen him since last night,” growled Chaka, glancing back at the note still held slightly crumpled in the king’s hands.
“I have,” said Terracotta darkly, and then flushed. When no on interrupted, she continued in only slightly moderated tones, “he was up when I left this morning, which is damn – pretty unusual, your majesty.”
Cobra turned to the guards, face suddenly drawn, fear crashing down in heavy waves. “Check his office; if he’s not there-”
“He’s not,” cut in Chaka. “I stopped on my way here.”
“Then, with your permission Terracotta,” he hardly waited for the nod, “check his quarters.”
The two captains flashed out of the room quick as fire shadows, Terracotta hurrying after them. Cobra, who had never been one to value dignity above family, waited only a second before following himself. Each stroke of his sandals on the sandstone floors sounded like a slap of skin on skin. He sped up.
Despite his dash, the captains had already completed their search of the room by the time he arrived, and were standing together in the centre with their backs to him, staring down at something. Terracotta was standing in the doorway, fear and rage waging a war over the plains of her face.
“What is it?” He bit the words out; they tasted hard and stale in his mouth, like fruit dried black on the vine in the harsh desert sun.
Chaka turned, and Cobra’s heart clenched. In his hands was a second note scribbled on rough parchment – Igraram never one to waste money on fineries.
I will bring light to the country. Igaram.
The storm descended, tearing through him mercilessly, and in its grasp he swivelled on the captains. “Find them. Now.”
They were out the door in the blink of an eye, halls echoing with the clatter of claws on tile and the harsh beats of wide wings. Mind black with rage, Cobra crushed the note in his hand and stalked out.
Series: One Piece (Alabasta)
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Notes: Apparently when I wrote this I was in a frame of mind where exposition = what a cool idea! x.x Other than that, not sure this will ever be finished, so. Yeah. UNFINISHED.
Summary: The events leading up to the Alabasta civil war. Sometimes you do everything right, and the world still goes to pieces.
Alabasta was in danger. There were whispers coming out of the west on the desert wind, dry and empty as a sirocco. They carried no substance, no trace of moisture to sustain an investigation. No facts which Cobra’s advisor thirsted for, no names which his Guards waited for. Only a vague threat, hanging quiet and insubstantial over their heads like a sibyl’s curse, waiting for the proper events to unlock it. And they were sliding into place, teeth into the key. Droughts. Storms. Famines.
Alabasta was, of course, not unused to droughts. Even a year without rain, the current situation, was not unheard of in the driest years. And, even with off-shore storms wreaking havoc with efforts to import grain and other necessities, the situation should not have been one for immediate concern. But it was, and that reason lay in the two words common to all the whispers: Dance Powder. Dance Powder, the miracle green sand which could bring rain. And which, to do so, drew the water particles from the surrounding air, creating a drought in all nearby areas and then farther afield with each new use.
The rumours were too vague to create implications, to link names. But it was easy enough to lay out the fears of those spreading them. Alabarna, the King’s city, the country’s capital, had always been blessed with more rain than the rest of her desert surroundings. The King’s Miracle, they called it. Enough rain that it was possible to sustain small plots of grass, and warm walled gardens of scented flowers and fruit-laden vines year-round, an impossibility anywhere else in the thirsty country. It wasn’t surprising, really, for the accusation to be thrown out, for the suggestion to be made. That the King might support his Miracle, not by the holy and blessed ways always supposed, but by the more pragmatic method of Dance Powder. It would be sure to provide rain whenever needed, to enhance his reputation, and to favour his home. At the expense of the rest of the country.
Nefertari Cobra, His Royal Majesty the King of Alabasta, did not blame his people for scepticism. He had been known to engage in it himself. And, having been taught as a child that rain fell in Alabasta not under royal prerogative but as the tears of the gods, he did not blame others for disbelieving in his role in Alabarna’s prosperity. Further, understanding the despair twelve months – more in some regions – without rain could bring, he was less stung by the accusations of Dance Powder than anyone had expected. He had seen dead towns, sand blowing a foot thick in doorways, buckets clanking uneven death knells at the bottom of empty wells. He had seen cattle more skeleton than beast, men and women hoeing plots more dust than dirt, and children sitting hollow-cheeked and dull-eyed without the strength to play. He knew the horrors of drought. And he knew that, when the rain came, everything else would fade away, mirage-like. Provided it was Alabastans who were casting doubt.
The only other definitive information in the whispers came in another two words: Baroque Works. If Dance Powder had been passed quietly, Baroque Works came and went silently, without a sound but possibly with the flash of a knife. No one knew anything, and anyone who had known even those two words forgot them immediately when questioned. In two months of investigation, absolutely nothing had been uncovered. Scouts had been sent out to all major cities, and several minor ones. Interviews had been conducted with leading citizens, with ordinary citizens, with the poor struggling to scrape by. Attempts had been made to infiltrate the organization, group, or company. Profiles had been run on criminals, suspected criminals, those particularly injured by the drought, and conspicuous foreigners. Every single avenue had drawn a total blank.
And yet, nearly silent, whispering in the hot desert wind, the rumours continued. Dance Powder. Baroque Works. Danger.
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The throne room was never silent. The acoustics of the huge hall, separated into three long sections by a vaulted ceiling and faceted marble pillars, had been designed to allow a speaker anywhere in the hall to be heard anywhere else, but to facilitate particular amplification of words spoken from the dais. The narrower side sections let out onto four different corridors, providing convenient access to the throne room from several guard stations as well as the kitchen, council rooms and treasury. The wide central section, headed by a high dais set back from the room in an elaborately tiled alcove, let out at the far end to a wide balcony which looked out onto the city and the central marketplace. Although thick woven hangings were mounted over the wide arched balcony exit, they were never closed, allowing a constant stream of fresh air into the hall. This also meant that all the sounds of the city drifted in; the lowing of oxen and the nuzzing of camels, the cries of peddlers and the oscillating shouts of auctioneers, the reedy tunes of snake-charmers and the sweet ringing of silver chimes. And below these more obvious noises thrummed the underlying murmur of hundreds of thousands of people speaking, joking, laughing, crying, living. The heartbeat of the city, never silent, not even in the darkest hours of the night when the moon had set.
It was here that Cobra sat on a tall sandstone throne carved for long-dead ancestors, listening to the pleas of his subjects, and the reports of his guards, and the recommendations of his advisors. And it was here now, late in the evening when the sun was setting low over the western sands and painting the city red, that he was given the first definitive information surrounding the danger looming over them all.
“Rain Base,” said Igaram simply, calloused hands empty, clothes dusty from a long ride. He had only just returned from Katorea in the south, one of the many large sea-side towns which depended on the milder ocean-climate to provide them with rain the desert was loath to surrender. He had arrived in the city only an hour ago, and stood now on the carpeted foot of the stairs, flanked by his two subordinates Chaka and Pell. Bearing new information as a hard-won prize.
“Rain Base?” repeated Cobra. “But the city’s booming. They’re hardly affected by the drought, less even than Alabarna.” It was true. The city had sprung up almost overnight like a desert shoot after rain, from a tiny outpost town to one of the largest and most prosperous cities in the country. Foreign investment, particularly from the legendary Shichibukai Crocodile, had led to the opening of casinos and other high-priced amusements which Alabasta had traditionally been too poor to afford. It had been startling, and still was, and the Guards and Cobra himself had kept a wary eye on the city for a long time. But nothing untoward had come of it, and the patronage of one of the strongest men at this end of the Grand Line, as well as a favourite of the Marines and a nominal member of the World Government, was not something to refuse. Alabasta had always been, like the desert, open minded. Anyone was welcomed. Whether or not they could survive was wholly dependent on their wit and stamina.
“Nevertheless, sire, whatever is happening, I believe there is a tie there. Rain Base is the inside connection.”
“Inside? There’s an outside?” The news that there was some foundation to the rumours, that the unrest might be the tip of something greater, was unsettling. The idea that it might be being provoked from the outside, an attempt at destabilizing the country at the very least, was staggering. Alabasta had been a peaceful country, both nationally and internationally, for more than a thousand years. She had known no war, no great conflict, for generations upon generations. Planned foreign aggression had become almost unthinkable, peace a way of life. And now it seemed that someone might be trying to topple Alabasta into turmoil. Bloody, violent, destructive turmoil.
“The one other piece of information I found, your majesty, was ‘Whisky Peaks.’”
All their information, their supposition, their fears were based on these empty, unsubstantiated names. They were all considering, fearing in their deepest darkest hearts, the prospect of war, on the basis of a set of names. Destroying in their minds lives and happiness on evidence less substantial than a shadow, less even than a mirage. “Am I the only one who finds it irritating that all our information must come to us in the form of two words?” Cobra raised his eyes to the carved ceiling, voice echoing like summer thunder in the huge room. “Surely these names do not suddenly surface without some sort of context.” He set a hard stare on Igaram, while his head throbbed with fears of so many horrors he would not yet name, pouring in over the horizons of his thoughts like blinding morning sunlight over the dunes.
“I am afraid, your majesty, that that is, in fact, the case-” Igaram met his eyes with sympathy, and pity. Cobra returned it with a harsh snarl.
“It is the case that people in the street just drop these words, and then vanish before the echoes have ceased?”
There was an awkward silence. Igaram dropped back into subservient neutrality, the two captains there already, each staring straight ahead of him with a carefully expressionless face. Cobra broke the silence after a minute with a ragged sigh, closing his hard eyes for a moment. The storm broke. The others breathed again. “Very well.” He opened hands he did not remember clenching, rested them on slightly warm stone armrests. The throne had been designed to be arresting in its size and simplicity. Carved entirely from one piece of stone, the back was ten feet high and completely unadorned. It weighed one tonne, and had split the dais when it had first been set in place. The crack ran through the marble of the floor from the foot of the throne to the first stair, hidden under an elaborately woven carpet replaced every generation or so. It was a small secret passed down by the royal family, who had ruled in peace for those long thousand years, as a reminder. Do not be complacent: today, only the stone is cracked. Tomorrow, if you do not watch it, care for it, nurture it, you may wake to find a fissure running through the country.
“Very well,” he said again. “There is nothing new to be said now of Rain Base; apart from this new suggestion nothing suspicious was found there. A new search will do nothing but further empty the treasury.” He paused to be sure and met no interruptions. “What of Whisky Peaks, then? It, at least, is a new and uncharted source to pursue.” He spoke wearily, and with a touch of sarcasm, but he raked sharp eyes over his captains.
“It’s a den of lawlessness,” growled Chaka, tapping the handle of his sword with blunt fingernails.
“Or a den of lawfulness, to put it another way,” said Pell, addressing his comment equally to his king and his co-captain.
“Taking out all the pirates on their way to the Grand Line is one thing. Taking out everyone else is another entirely. You’ve heard the stories; they’re all beri-mad. They sell the pirates for bounties. Anyone not obliging enough to be worth up-front money from the World Government is lucky if it’s just their possessions that are sold.”
Pell shuffled with a whisper of fabric but said nothing. Igaram shrugged. “Whether the darker rumours are true or not, it is a fact that the town lives off bounties. They lure in pirates, treat them to whatever will put them off guard, and then turn them in. There’s no ruling organization, no monarchy, government or even a council to do business with. It’s every man for himself; top dogs on top and bottom on the bottom. A constant fight to survive.”
“Formally,” said Cobra slowly, “Alabasta has never had any dealings with Whisky Peaks. Both because there is no one to deal with, and because we find their ethics highly questionable. Informally?” Cobra looked again to Igaram.
“There are few records of Alabastan transactions with Whisky Peaks. I know in the past on a very few occasions we have sent squads to extradite criminals caught by Whisky Peaks bounty hunters to be tried in Alabasta. I couldn’t give dates or names without reviewing the books. I know of no one, off hand, still in the Guard who has visited for any reason. You two?” He turned to his subordinates. Pell shook his head. Chaka paused. When he spoke, his words slipped slowly into place as he considered.
“I met a man once, years ago, at one of the World Government councils. Don’t remember his name, think he came from Taluu. He had been; got shipwrecked on the way to somewhere else. Said everyone there was a bottle covey, off his head, ready for any kind of trouble when there weren’t any pirates in town to beat to death. He laid low as a bounty hunter, got in three fights a night, lost half his ear and caught a ride out by stowing away on a grain ship. He looked tough as a camel, big as me and covered in scars. And he said it was by the grace of God he didn’t end up decorating one of their damn cacti.”
A pause. In the marketplace, the last auction of the day was concluded amidst general cheering, and a strong gust of wind set the chimes ringing. Out in front of the palace, the evening watch marched by, marked by the dull clanking of armour and the timed thumps of steps.
“It sounds like the kind of place I would finger, if I were looking to suggest foreign aggression,” said Cobra slowly. “Tough, lawless, and difficult to obtain substantiation from. We’ve been hearing these names, Dance Powder and Baroque Works for two months, and now Rain Base and Whisky Peaks. How sure are you that any of them, never mind all of them, might be involved in some kind of coup. If there is such a thing?” It was a peaceful evening. The sun had set now, the sky slowly darkening from deep red to a pearly pink and then into a silky violet. The stars would be shining soon. The sounds of the market were quietening now, vendors and shoppers alike going home for the evening. The air in the throne room smelled of sweet rose water, the hall itself kept comfortably cool by the tonnes surrounding marble. The world was calm and peaceful. It seemed impossible, ridiculous, to sit here contemplating mass conflict because of eight whispered words. And yet, there was always the crack.
“Sire, I know the evidence is … frankly, nonexistent. All we have to go on is our guts, and the fact that these rumours feel dangerous. And everything they say, Dance Powder and Rain Base, Whisky Peaks and whatever this Baroque Works is, they all ring true. They make sense. None of us wants …” Igaram paused, obviously unwilling to voice his fears. “Well, anything other than what we have now. Peace. Prosperity enough to live happily. I can’t give any reassurances, I don’t have them. But how many times have you known me to jump at ghosts?” The commander’s face displayed honesty, and sincere belief. Worse, everything he said was true. There was no reason to believe the rumours, none at all. But they all did, every one of them. And he trusted his commander, with his life, with his daughter, with his country.
Cobra turned to the two captains, still standing quietly and keeping out of the way of the main conversation. Alabasta had few reasons for a military, other than that she lived in lawless times and had a need as any country did for coordinated policing. As such, until now there had rarely been matters important enough to require Guard captains to confer directly with Cobra; they had always in the past taken their instruction from Igaram. The role of advisors of any kind, much less political, was new to them, and they were much more comfortable with concrete questions involving feasibility and timetables or the gathering of information than with suggesting actions which the King should take or beliefs he should hold. Offering advise unasked was something they would not consider; offering it when asked was as of yet strange enough.
Oddly, due to their positions, Cobra had none of these problems in either confiding in them or asking advice, despite the situation being just as new to him. Although Cobra as King was their superior, the two captains occupied a special and unusual niche in Alabasta’s political and social hierarchy which placed them in some respects almost above him. As avatars of the Protecting Gods, it fell to them to protect Alabasta and the Nefertari family at all costs. The Jackal, He Who Passes Judgement, and the Falcon, He Who Destroys. Even if the rest of the country fell, they would stand in defence of their lord, and their land.
In reality, their functions were more mundane: keep the temple clean, serve in ceremonies, and to protect the country if the occasion demanded. Chaka and Pell, as captains in the Royal Guard, held additional responsibilities which they fulfilled admirably, and which distinguished them quite apart from their holier associations. But it was these associations, which Cobra had been raised to revere and trust, that made it simple for him to place faith in two men of whom he knew comparatively nothing.
“What do you two think?” he asked, watching as the surprise flitted across their faces. It disappeared quickly.
“I think something’s going on; the country stinks of it.” said Chaka flatly, after only a second of consideration. “These are the best leads we have. If there’s a possibility of danger, they must be checked into.” Plain, gruff and noncommittal.
Pell shifted slightly, and Cobra turned his attention to the slighter captain, who waited a moment longer before speaking. “I believe it,” he said simply. If he thought anything more, he made no move to suggest it. Cobra turned his eyes back to Chaka.
“Checked into how?”
Here again, there was silence, the captains clearly having gone as far as they felt comfortable, especially on the fly. Cobra sighed once more. “Until such time as a brainwave washes over us, we shall have to settle for less. Increase investigation into Rain Base. Not anyone recognizable; no one in this room should be seen there under any circumstances. And review all material on Whisky Peaks, especially any involving Alabasta directly.”
“Yes, your majesty.” Their voices rumbled through the hall like thunder as all three dropped to one knee.
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“Papa?”
“Hm?” Cobra glanced up from the notes he was reading, inconclusive summaries of Alabasta’s dealings with Whisky Peaks in Igaram’s large, loopy writing. Nothing led to anything, each new clue withering away into ash in their hands. The harder they looked, the less they found, and the more suspicion they aroused.
He turned his mind away from the fruitless search and, seeing his daughter’s face pulled into an unusual expression of concern, pushed the reports back on the desk and sat back in his chair. The aged wood creaked gently.
“Something’s wrong in Yuba,” she said simply, standing tall and straight and ready for trouble, a stance she had learned young. She had outgrown short smocks and skinned knees, but her long hair was twisted up in a pony-tail, and she wore no jewellery or adornments. A sure sign she had come ready to argue her position.
“Why do you think so?” he asked, rather than pointing out nothing of that sort had been reported. Vivi’s strong-headedness had always been well tempered by her sensibleness. For a child who had gone through her life so far swinging her proverbial stick at every opportunity, she had turned up very few mares’ nests.
“Leader’s been sending odd letters for the past few months. And now he’s stopped answering mine all together. And I can hardly get any answers out of anyone else.”
“Have you two been quarrelling?” It wouldn’t be unexpected; if anyone else was as hard-headed as Vivi it was Kohza. He easily remembered the first day they met, Vivi returning to the palace bruised and dirty from scrapping with him, and felt his lips twitching.
“This isn’t funny, Papa! Of course we were quarrelling, but not like this! He’d never just stop sending letters; he always wants the last word!” She paused, waiting for her father to show suitable contrition, which he did, his dark eyes still shining. “It’s something else. Something bad. About Dance Powder, and the drought. People out there are getting restless. The kids are starting to think the grown-ups are too complacent, are letting the wool be pulled over their eyes.”
At the mention of Dance Powder, Cobra straightened in his chair, amusement draining away completely.
“Someone’s been telling them things, Papa. Leader wouldn’t say what, but I think… I think they’ve been blaming us. Our family, I mean. They’re saying we caused the drought, that we’ve been using Dance Powder to make it rain in Alabarna and drying up the rest of the country. That we don’t care about Alabasta; that if no one questions us, things will just get worse. Terrible things!” Vivi’s voice shook, breaking in anger rather than fear or horror. In Cobra’s study, a room decorated in muted browns and beiges, she was the only bright thing, her hair flashing in the sunlight streaming in from a set of wide windows, her dark eyes burning. She had always been like that, vivid, fiery, standing apart from others even when not moving; a flaming star shooting across a dark sky. It made him proud, and afraid.
“Do you know who has been saying these things?”
“No one would say. I don’t think it’s one person, it must be several passing through, all with the same story. Strangers. But, Papa… they’re starting to believe it. Leader – Kohza – is starting to believe it.” Her voice dropped here, almost to a whisper, and her eyes fell to the rich chocolate-coloured carpet.
“Vivi…”
“We have to do something, Papa! We have to tell them it’s a lie, convince them it’s all a lie! I can go to Yuba; Leader, everyone, they know me. They’ll believe me!” She rallied, shifting quick as light dancing on waves, her jet eyes shining. “Please, let me go, if I leave now-”
“Vivi-”
“We can get there by tomorrow, and I know I’ll be able to-”
“Vivi,” Cobra broke over her voice, his own dry and stony in comparison. “You’re right – they know you. Even while you’re here in Alabarna and they’re in Yuba, they still know you. And they still choose to believe this. They will have convinced themselves knowing you would deny it, knowing all the objections you would make. If you run out there, it will look-” he stopped short, unable to finish. Unable to tell his daughter her friends would not believe her, that her pleas would be seen at best as personal naïveté and at worst as cold political manoeuvring on his part.
“You think they won’t listen. You think they would believe it, even if I went, even if I told them the truth,” she said slowly, her eyes reflecting his own, and the pain there. She paused, and he waited for her to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, he didn’t understand.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said slowly, instead. Cobra’s heart twisted. “Maybe they wouldn’t.” She turned to look out the tall bay windows, watching the palm trees shake in the afternoon wind out on the courtyard, her face hidden from him. “What can we do then, to convince them?” Her voice, at least, was steady.
“We’re doing everything we can. We must find the people behind these lies, and stop them.”
“Pell can find them,” she said immediately, turning to look at him wide-eyed, surprised he hadn’t thought of it already. Cobra almost smiled, heart twisting further at her blind faith.
“He’s trying. We all are. But it’s difficult, and there isn’t much information.” His daughter had more than he did. Without even having looked. Because these people, this Baroque Works, they were targeting children. “If you hear anything more, Vivi, anything, you must tell Igaram or myself.”
“But Papa-”
“Promise me, Vivi. It’s important.”
She nodded, strong and serious, a single flower in a dead garden. “I promise.”
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“It’s like a thick blanket has been drawn over the country, Igaram, smothering our children, blinding our people. All the guiding light has been hidden from them, and they don’t even realise it. We’re being pulled into darkness, without a struggle, without a fight, without anything to hold on to.” Cobra stood on the balcony of the throne room, overlooking the city. The sun was beating down, as always, the people down below hurrying on with their tasks, their duties, their lives, unaware of the web slowly being woven about them. The trap slowly being sprung. “If this continues the people will be turned against each other. City against city, family against family, man against man. We cannot allow that.”
“Sire, the only option left to us is to sent a delegation to Whiskey Peaks. A well-trained group, with a suitable back story might be able-”
“You’ve heard the reports, Igaram. Chaka’s, and the others we’ve gathered. Ungoverned, ununited, the place is a death trap. Imagine the dangers if the hundreds of lawless bounty hunters gathered there were joined against our delegation.”
“Imagine if they were joined against Alabasta,” suggested Igaram. Cobra’s eyes narrowed.
“We could handle such an invasion here, with the full force of the Royal Army to counter it. Sending in a small team would be suicide.”
“We could send them in incognito. Bounty hunters are a dime a dozen. It’s not as though anyone there would know who we were if we didn’t tell them, sire.”
“Nevertheless, they would still have to be proficient fighters, and I can’t spare Chaka or Pell. Not when the danger to the country hangs so close over its head.”
“I doubt they would go in any case, your majesty. They know their place, better than anyone else, perhaps.” There was a pause. Down below, a gong was rung, its echo thrumming through the marketplace. A new auction had begun. “Sire, I would suggest-”
“No. This topic is closed. There will be no delegation sent to Whisky Peaks; the dangers are too high for such uncertain gains, and I certainly cannot lose anyone suitable enough to go. I will contact the World Government and let them try their hand in that den of asps.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Whatever awaits for this country, Igaram, it is our duty to see that it passes by with as little bloodshed as possible. It is our people, all of them, whom we must safeguard. I will not sacrifice them, not even for Alabasta herself.”
He turned to watch admiration war with doubt on Igaram’s face, to see the two finally put aside by neutrality. “Yes, your majesty.”
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Things were falling apart, crumbling like the ancient cities in the deep desert, now just desiccated stone outcroppings buried in sand and filled with lizards and scorpions. It wasn’t difficult to see. They were toppling even though no direct threat had materialised. Or, more accurately, because no direct threat had materialised. The palace, the city, the people were becoming divided in their opinions, and in their courses of action. Igaram was counselling him while working on reports for supposedly cancelled plans, Chaka and Pell were following orders and lurking together in corridors, and Vivi was avoiding everyone. In the streets of Yuba, and Erumaru, and Katorea, back alleys and taverns were full of whispers and, in some cases, outright discussion. Even in Alabarna, the talk was beginning, growing strong and insidious as bamboo, smothering other conversation as it spread. Already there was a marked rise in Yuba’s population. Yuba, the polar opposite to Alabarna. Young where the capital was old, nestled in the hot desert sands where the capital was raised high on a dais of stone, dry and thirsty where Alabarna was moist and content. Yuba, where what was becoming the rebel party, was centred. Yuba, where Vivi’s best friend lived.
Cobra was disturbed at how meekly she had promised to stay away from the Hub of the West. He was disturbed by Igaram’s silent and expressionless obeying of his orders not to pursue a more active campaign against Baroque Works. He was disturbed by the thick trust between the captains, which did not seem to extend to himself.
It never rains, but it pours. In Alabasta, unlike most other places, the expression was actually true.
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“Cobra-sama, Katorea has sent a messenger to report that slavers have been sighted off the coast, and should they deploy a ship for a pre-emptive strike or wait to see if the ship enters Alabastan waters?”
“Sire, a cart of anti-monarchist propaganda has entered the West Gate from Yuba, which I strongly believe should be confiscated.”
“Cobra-sama! Cobra-sama! Vivi-sama has disappeared!”
For an instant, all activity in the throne room ceased. Pell and Chaka, in the middle of urgent reports, froze and turned. Cobra half-rose from the throne, and stood there, hands on cold stone, dark eyes flashing. In the city below, a cock crowed.
“What do you mean?” said Cobra, with the carefully calm of the ocean before a tropical storm.
Terracotta, who had brought the news and now stood alone and stranded in the middle of the hall’s eastern section, pinned by Cobra’s eyes, twisted a scrap of parchment in her hands. “Irena went in to bring her her breakfast ten minutes ago, and found a note. She fetched me and … she’s gone, your majesty. Out the window, or through the halls, I don’t know, but…” voice shaking slightly, the cook advanced uncertainly towards the dais, holding the piece of parchment out in front of her. Cobra had descended the stairs and taken it from her before she set foot on the carpet. It was only one line, scrawled hastily by a sputtering pen.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a way to help everyone.
Vivi
He was aware, even as he scanned the lines a second time for a hidden meaning, a clue, anything which might tell him what the hell she was thinking, of his captains reading over his shoulders. He turned on them.
“Where’s Igaram?”
There was a pause, as both men looked around, as if expecting him to appear from the shadows.
“I haven’t seen him since last night,” growled Chaka, glancing back at the note still held slightly crumpled in the king’s hands.
“I have,” said Terracotta darkly, and then flushed. When no on interrupted, she continued in only slightly moderated tones, “he was up when I left this morning, which is damn – pretty unusual, your majesty.”
Cobra turned to the guards, face suddenly drawn, fear crashing down in heavy waves. “Check his office; if he’s not there-”
“He’s not,” cut in Chaka. “I stopped on my way here.”
“Then, with your permission Terracotta,” he hardly waited for the nod, “check his quarters.”
The two captains flashed out of the room quick as fire shadows, Terracotta hurrying after them. Cobra, who had never been one to value dignity above family, waited only a second before following himself. Each stroke of his sandals on the sandstone floors sounded like a slap of skin on skin. He sped up.
Despite his dash, the captains had already completed their search of the room by the time he arrived, and were standing together in the centre with their backs to him, staring down at something. Terracotta was standing in the doorway, fear and rage waging a war over the plains of her face.
“What is it?” He bit the words out; they tasted hard and stale in his mouth, like fruit dried black on the vine in the harsh desert sun.
Chaka turned, and Cobra’s heart clenched. In his hands was a second note scribbled on rough parchment – Igraram never one to waste money on fineries.
I will bring light to the country. Igaram.
The storm descended, tearing through him mercilessly, and in its grasp he swivelled on the captains. “Find them. Now.”
They were out the door in the blink of an eye, halls echoing with the clatter of claws on tile and the harsh beats of wide wings. Mind black with rage, Cobra crushed the note in his hand and stalked out.
