Free Drakenfeld by Mark Charan Newton

in the arts, of which I approved – as well as gods, kings and emperors of the past. The colours used here were well beyond the everyday palette, and would have cost a small
fortune. Here was a bold statement of power and wealth indeed. The rooms through which we were taken – each one equally as large as the predecessor – forcefully humbled whoever walked
through them.
    My pulse quickened as we passed through gold-plated double doors and into a room packed full of people. It was obvious that this was no longer a celebration – it seemed more like a wake
for the dead. People muttered to themselves in small groups, seated on the floor, their expressions glum or exasperated. At regular intervals along the walls, and in larger numbers by the door,
stood soldiers in bright armour. Two of them gestured with their spears for me to pass through the doors. One of them paused as Leana followed, but I stressed that she was my assistant, and she was
permitted soon enough.
    Senator Veron veered towards me wearing his finest red robes of state, which contained incredible gold details and religious motifs. Stepping carefully over more people sitting on the marble
floor, or simply shoving through clusters of those who were still standing, he arrived somewhat shaken.
    ‘Drakenfeld, I’m glad you’ve made it.’ We shook, gripping each other’s forearms.
    ‘You were the one who sent for me?’
    ‘I certainly was. I thought you might be available to cast some light on the matter. This isn’t one for the lawyers either – at least, not yet. I only hope you’re half as
good as your father.’ Close up, I could see that he was clothed splendidly in a fine, crimson tunic, and both his belt and boots seemed to be of sublime craftsmanship. His expression was far
more serious than that of the light-hearted senator who’d visited my house.
    We turned to face the room. ‘What’s the situation?’ I whispered, suddenly aware of the volume of people around us. ‘All I’ve heard is that there’s been a
death.’
    ‘I’ll say. This way.’ Veron steered me through the glum faces of the guests. Nearby the guards were closing the door, as if to make sure no one could escape.
    ‘Can you tell me anything else about the situation?’ I asked.
    ‘Best if I showed you,’ Veron said turning back.
    For some time we walked through the throng – a good few hundred, all in all, each in their most opulent clothing. Platters of food were discarded on side tables, having been pillaged long
ago. A low-level muttering had replaced lively chatter; more than once we stepped through deep silences as conversations suddenly paused at our approach. Along the walls, bright banners of Detrata,
each one bearing either the image of the double-headed falcon or the cross of the founding gods, hung down from an impressive height.
    Towards the end stood two copper-coated statues of Trymus in different dynamic poses, and we passed between them and into a small corridor with rooms branching off either side. The aesthetics
remained the same: continuing the bright and bold displays of wealth, the marble, the gold leaf, and the over-the-top artistic statements.
    Then before us stood a structure set within a large hall. It was marked by a much larger set of doors, above which stood a stone carving of the god Trymus – wild eyes and big beard. A
solid wall extended for some way on either side, and there were no paintings on this – merely the pure unadorned limestone. Soldiers and a few high-ranking officials were loitering here
– the crowds had been kept well away.
    ‘This is a private temple of Trymus,’ Veron informed me. ‘Maxant’s ceremony was to be held here, they were due to enter the temple at midnight, but the temple had been
locked. The door had to be broken down by Maxant’s soldiers so that they could get in. And when they did . . .’
    I frowned. ‘Did they not have a key?’
    ‘They didn’t expect it to be locked. They tried to