“One last thing, Jagdish. Have Keta tell the villagers that when more warriors arrive to collect their dead, to say that I’m responsible for both deaths.”
Jagdish stopped. He knew all too well what it meant for a warrior to lose his good name. “You would do that for this man?”
Ashok had meant it when he had said he was no liar. “It’s true enough. In a way, my very existence killed them both.”
He had no doubt there would be many more before this was through.
Chapter 3
The prisoner woke up gasping and choking. “Am I still alive?”
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Grand Inquisitor Omand said. “Not for much longer.”
Khangani Vokkan was of the first caste and a high-ranking member of one of the Capitol’s oldest Orders, but social status meant nothing once beaten, starved, tortured, and chained naked atop the Inquisitor’s Dome. He had poured a cup of water down Khangani’s mouth to wake him and to moisten his tongue enough to have this conversation. Rivulets were running down this filthy face, cutting tracks through the dirt and dried blood. Omand knew from long experience that if Khangani had realized that was the last drink he would ever have, he would have savored it more.
“I’m blind. Have you cut out my eyes?”
“Of course not. My men are not clumsy butchers. They only do what is necessary to ensure our subjects are telling the truth. You were telling them the truth, weren’t you?”
Khangani wheezed, as he tried to breathe with broken ribs and through missing teeth. “Yes.”
They had grown up together in distant Vokkan, been obligated to the Capitol at the same time, Omand to the Inquisition and Khangani to the Historians; one learned from trinkets collected from dusty tombs while the other learned from knives and confessing screams, yet they had remained cordial over the years. Omand did not really have friends, merely associates or contacts with varying degrees of usefulness. Khangani’s usefulness had run out, which brought them here this morning.
“You still have eyes. It’s just the swelling and dried blood, not to mention it’s very bright here beneath the sun today, and we’ve kept you in a dark cell for a very long time.” The fortress of the Inquisition was high on the slopes of Mount Metoro, the peak overlooking the entire sprawling magnificence of the Capitol. “Should you regain your sight before the buzzards pick the flesh from your face, it is a fine view from up here.”
Khangani knew what that meant. “We’re upon the dome.” It was the dreaded final destination of the condemned. He pulled against his chains. They were so heavy, and he was so weak now, that they barely rattled. “Kill me, please, Omand.”
“You are a confessed traitor. The Law declares the sun and desert wind will kill you…eventually.”
The two of them were alone except for the dead. There were a dozen other corpses chained atop the dome in various states of decomposition. That smell, and the others like it—a red hot branding iron pressed against blood and bone, or burning hair, or bowels loosed by fear—was why Omand had begun smoking a pipe as a young man. The hot tobacco smoke provided a distraction from the unpleasant odors of an Inquisitor’s duties.
Now, as the leader of the entire Order, he was above such petty dirty work, but he still retained the smoking habit.
“Omand, I beg you. Have mercy, please.”
“You were a Historian. You must know how the tradition of the Inquisitor’s Dome came about. Long ago, in the mad times before religion was banned, there was one small sect that neither buried nor burned their dead. They believed fire and earth should never be polluted with death—an absurd concept to a civilized Law-abiding man—yet this did force them to be creative. So when one of them passed away, they left their bodies atop a tower for the birds. Once they were picked clean and bleached white, the bones were simply swept into a central hole in the tower, forming a great ossuary.”
Even beaten and broken, Khangani couldn’t help but be the historian. “It was called the Tower of Silence, and it was a sacred place of respect—”
Omand had to laugh at the concept of sacred.
“—not this fiendish method of execution!”
“I believe the first Inquisitors adopted the tradition due to its public nature, because every now and then when the weather is just right, the proud residents of the Capitol will get just a hint of death on the wind. It serves as a reminder that the ever vigilant servants of the Law are watching, prepared to deliver punishment against all transgressors…Not to mention it’s exceedingly efficient. You can’t see it right now, but there’s a hole only a few feet away. Eventually your remains will be hurled down that shaft to eternally join with the thousands of traitors who came before you.”
“You’re a demon!”
“Spare me. I’ve dealt with real demons. They are not subtle creatures. Now the question is how long will you last? If we were here in the summer the heat would already be unbearable, but even winter in the desert is hot. This time of year most will linger for several days, though I’ve seen proud warriors last nearly a week. Their skin is charred black by then. Whenever they move it cracks, but with no moisture their blood is too thick to seep out. It’s like their veins are filled with scabs.” Omand looked up at the circling carrion birds. He’d always thought that the token of his office should have been a vulture instead of the golden raven he wore around his neck. “Though sometimes the birds get a little eager and start eating your extremities before you expire. That speeds up the process, but in a most unpleasant way.”
Khangani began to weep. That was a terrible mistake. He would soon regret wasting water.
Omand wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe. He wasn’t wearing his Inquisitor’s mask today, because there was no need to hide his face here. His assistant Taraba had thoughtfully left a stool for Omand to sit on, so he got comfortable, and began preparing his pipe with a pouch of fine tobacco he had brought back from his recent journey to Great House Vadal. He had forgotten just how much he disliked the smell atop the dome. The death stink would linger in his clothing all day.
“I suppose it doesn’t have to be this way. We did play as children together…I can’t believe that was nearly forty years ago. Can you?” Omand struck a match and lit his pipe, savoring the cleansing smoke. He got it started with a few puffs. Much better. “The Law is clear, but we’re alone and I have a sharp knife. No one would ever know I sped you on your way. Despite what the other Orders say about us, Inquisitors don’t enjoy being cruel. It’s simply our obligation.”
“You were always a monster, Omand. They whispered about some of the things you did as a child back home, about the tortured pets, and the missing servants. The Inquisition merely gave you an excuse to be what you really are.”
“Every man has his place.” Omand blew out a cloud of smoke. This was the best part, after the subject had been so broken they were no longer wasting his time with protestations of innocence, and once they accepted, even welcomed death, they could become rather pliable. “Answer a few of my questions and I will gladly end this.”
“Anything. I’m tired of suffering.”
The Grand Inquisitor smirked. This weakling knew nothing of suffering. It was a sad commentary upon the character of his caste that so many of the ruling class broke so easily. Omand glanced around to make sure they weren’t being spied upon. Then he called upon a small fragment of black steel tied to a bracelet around his wrist to make sure no one was listening through magical means. Air whistled as a tiny portion of the ancient material was consumed. The world seemed to shake around him. The circling birds screeched and climbed away. Now he was certain they were truly alone.
“When you became aware of a plot within the Capitol to overthrow the judges and install a king in their place, who else did you tell?”
“I already told your torturers every name! That’s all of them I know.”
Omand had thought so. His men were extremely thorough. They’d been taught by the best. “These con
spirators, they are hoping the chaos caused by the casteless rebellion in the south, and the rampage of the murderer Ashok Vadal and his ancestor blade, will make the Capitol look weak and ineffectual to the houses.”
“I know nothing of that!”
“Of course not. Do you know of their plot to bring about the extermination of all the casteless?”
“They spoke of it with pride. The conspirators want all the non-people killed. In every land, in every house, slaughtered to the last.”
“Do you know why?”
“I…I don’t. To cause a crisis in the Capitol somehow.”
Of course Khangani didn’t know, because the fool who had approached him about joining their conspiracy hadn’t really understood either. The Grand Inquisitor had told very few people about that part of his plan. Such sloppiness also demonstrated that Omand had been correct in insulating himself from his lower ranking co-conspirators. Even when someone did slip, the crime was simply reported back to the very Order that he controlled. Omand knew more about the crimes being committed than those he was torturing confessions from, because he was the one who’d organized them to begin with.
“Casteless uprisings happen periodically, but they inevitably fail. However, if one were to succeed, other non-people would be inspired to act. It would spread like wild fire to every house. Chaos would engulf Lok. Many of the great houses would be damaged from within. The others would take advantage of their weakness and attack. War would consume the continent. The Law itself would be threatened, as it only stands as long as the houses respect the Capitol. A committee of disharmonious voices would be insufficient to bring us back from this brink. A strong leader would be necessary to restore order, one powerful vision to unite us, and only he could institute the reforms to keep such turmoil from ever happening again. The conspiracy is prepared to offer such a man.”
“They didn’t tell me that much. I swear.”
When you play the game, there are secrets within secrets, and lies on top of lies. Even the other members of Omand’s dark councils knew little of what would come next. They thought ordering the extermination of the casteless was merely a distraction to exacerbate the rebellion. “Don’t think as a politician, Khangani. Think as a Historian. Your Order is remarkably tight lipped. You were the first among you to accept an invitation into this conspiracy, a fact which should make you deeply ashamed. Think of the forbidden texts and the old sealed histories from the Age of Kings. Why would anyone want to exterminate all the casteless?”
“Historically? They’re the descendants of the original first caste, the supposed Sons of Ramrowan, the Forgotten’s warrior, and the former priest caste who served them.”
“Indeed. Your Order was created to preserve history, and mine was created to protect us from the bad parts. Now this is the most important question of all. Who among the Historians is the caretaker of Asura’s Mirror?”
Even after all the torture, Khangani appeared stunned at that question. “How do you know of that? My people never speak about the relics.”
“I know everything. I know this conspiracy asked you the same question, but despite your predilection for treachery, you still honored this particular vow and told them nothing. You were fine with rebellion, but perhaps you felt giving up the ancient secrets of your Order went too far? Regardless, the criminals asked so the Inquisition must know. Your next few words will determine whether you die quick and painless, or with a buzzard’s beak scissoring through your guts, so I would encourage you to answer truthfully.”
Much like iron held in a fire, even the strictest vows of secrecy became malleable after a great deal of torture. “Ever since I was first obligated, studying that era was frowned upon. Only volunteers are assigned to safeguard relics. It’s an insular section. Going down that path meant an end to your advancement in our Order, so that wasn’t an area I paid much attention to.”
“Who among you did?”
“Vikram Akershan is in charge of that section, but surely he has nothing to do with the conspirators. He has total dedication to his obligation.”
“Anyone else?”
“Outside of Historians, Lord Protector Ratul used to inquire about the safety of the relics often, only he disappeared years ago. That device is a reminder of the evil times, when fools thought they were communicating directly with the false gods. But no one ever thinks about those old myths anymore.”
“Some of us still do.” And then Omand leaned over and sliced Khangani’s throat wide open with his knife.
As his prisoner bled out, Omand finished his pipe and enjoyed the view. It was the only break he would allow himself that day, because the Grand Inquisitor was a very busy man.
From up here the Capitol truly was a marvel to behold. The greatest city in the remaining world, over half a million lives existing in a place so harsh nothing should live at all, as far from the corrupted ocean as possible. There were thousands of men equal to or of higher station than Khangani down there, all playing the great game. It was supposed to be the ruling class, but most of the first caste were gray, featureless bureaucrats, signing their forgettable names onto mandatory forms which would never be read by anyone, passing time until their inevitable demise, unmissed and unremembered, replaced with another unremarkable man, but among them were a few with vision. They were the real rulers, the ones who made things happen. Some of those were with Omand, others against him, most didn’t even know they were involved yet. Momentous events had been set in motion, so they would all know soon enough.
It was getting uncomfortably hot, and that was only going to make the smell worse. It was time to get back to work. Omand felt the aches and pains as he got off the stool. You did not earn the reputation as the most successful witch hunter in the history of Lok without sustaining a great number of injuries in the process. He was paying for them now. Hopefully soon, if everything went according to plan, troubles of the flesh would no longer be an issue.
Inquisitor Taraba met him in the stairwell. He was a hard-working, meticulous young man, and just ambitious enough to make a good assistant. “You appear in a good mood, sir. I’m assuming the interrogation went well.”
Taraba meant nothing of it, but his being able to read Omand’s facial expression reminded the Grand Inquisitor that he needed to put his mask back on before dealing with any other subordinates. “Why wouldn’t it have?”
“Forgive me. I simply meant that I knew the two of you had grown up together. Those of us lacking your experience and dedication might find such an interrogation difficult.”
Omand waved one hand dismissively. “It was a very large house. Now I want to know everything there is about a Historian named Vikram Akershan, and this must be gathered with the utmost discretion.”
Taraba knew better than to ask why. “I will see to it personally.”
Good. Taraba was an excellent Inquisitor and Omand’s right hand. There was no crowd he couldn’t vanish into, secret he couldn’t find, or back he couldn’t stab. He was also one of the chosen few privy to most of Omand’s grand vision. Taraba was very good at his obligation, but he would never be as good as Omand. He had the skills, but lacked the detachment. Taraba saw people. Omand saw things. Really, everyone might as well be casteless as far as Omand cared.
They began walking down the curving stairwell. It was much cooler in the shade.
“Tell me, Taraba, is there word from our agents in the east?”
“Nothing from Sikasso yet, which is odd.”
The Lost House were a malicious, secretive lot. He fully expected them to betray him as soon as it was expedient, but he’d thought they would do so in a self-serving—thus predictable—way. “I assume that rather than following and observing Ashok Vadal as ordered, they simply decided to murder him, steal his ancestor blade, lie to me that he was still alive, and then go about committing atrocities in his name so that I will continue paying them.”
“It sounds like they may have tried in a small Thao mining village called Jh
arlang. Only it resulted in a few dead wizards and a hundred dead Somsak raiders.”
Omand nodded. “So Sikasso made some new friends, yet Ashok the Black Heart lived up to his fearsome reputation one more time. Good. We will see to it by the time the rumors reach the Capitol it will have grown to a thousand dead warriors and Ashok will have slaughtered the whole village and consumed their flesh in a cannibal frenzy. I need every judge terrified that Ashok will inspire the casteless in their homelands to rise up.”
“Inquisitors have been dispatched to Jharlang to investigate, and we’re watching every route through the region to pick up Ashok’s trail. He either has forged traveling papers or is hiding like a bandit.”
“Excellent.” He needed to keep an eye on their symbol of rebellion. The Inquisitors had been ordered to observe, but not hinder. “What else?” Taraba was not wearing his mask either, probably out of respect to his superior, so Omand could tell that the young man was nervous to bring up the next part. “Spit it out.”
“There are rumors that Angruvadal may have shattered.”
“Ah…” If true, that was unfortunate. With that sword, Ashok could threaten armies. Without it, he wasn’t nearly the menace. He had ordered someone possessing one of the most dangerous magical devices in existence to work for a religious lunatic. Omand had been hoping for so much more destruction.
“This is not yet confirmed.”
“I knew it was a risk to put Ashok onto such a path. He was remade into a living embodiment of the Law, and thus perfectly obedient, but his ancient sword was not. Black steel blades are aware and their motives inscrutable. They’ve broken before when they didn’t approve of how they were being wielded. Being used by a criminal must have been too dishonorable for Angruvadal to bear and it destroyed itself.”
House of Assassins Page 4
