A Plague of Giants

by Kevin Hearne

  Halsten ushered petitioners to and fro, and when the fire priestess arrived, it was I who spoke, but Sefir was at my side, listening intently. Halsten introduced her as Mirana Mastik. “Honored to meet you, Mm—La Mastik,” I said, remembering the church honorific for lavaborn at the last moment. “Your ascension to Keeper of the Flame came under regrettable circumstances, but I am sure you will guide our people wisely.”

  “I am honored to meet you, Hearthfire Mogen,” she replied. She had thin, almost nonexistent lips, as if she were hiding them. “I certainly did not expect to lead Harthrad’s population. I am a transplant, after all, from Tharsif.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I came to Harthrad with Olet Kanek. I was her personal cleric.”

  I shot a glance at Halsten, annoyed that he hadn’t told me this ahead of time, and he gave a tiny shrug. But perhaps this was fortuitous. If the new head priestess of the church was intimate with my soon-to-be daughter-in-law, that might make her more willing to work with me.

  “Your delivery of Thurik’s Flame is somewhat unusual,” I said. “Or is it common to set your head on fire in Tharsif?”

  “It is a fairly common practice there,” she admitted. “But some priests are more vain about their hair than others.” Her eyes flicked to Halsten’s silver-threaded mustaches, and I almost smiled. “I do not expect others to follow my example, of course. I simply follow the path that Thurik has blazed for me.”

  The ego required to utter such statements always took my breath away. “Thurik blazes your path?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “You are suggesting that Thurik made Mount Thayil erupt and wipe out our city so that you could be head priestess of the survivors?”

  She did not pale at the insinuation or stammer. No, she laughed at me.

  “I did not say that in jest, La Mastik.”

  “Please forgive me, Hearthfire. We were speaking of my shaven head, not Mount Thayil. To jump from one to the other was surprising. I make no claims that Thurik arranged matters here to suit me or that he killed my elders to give me a promotion.”

  She handled that well, and unlike my advisers, she managed to look me in the eye as she spoke. Admirable.

  “Then tell me, if you will, what path you believe Thurik is blazing for us now. I found your earlier words interesting.”

  “Which words, Hearthfire?”

  “The ones regarding a wise use of our resources and the people of the First Kenning becoming first in civilization. You spoke aloud my wish for the Hathrim: not only to be first in our size or first in appetite but first in craft and culture. We have been wood-starved and resource-poor for so long that we could never hope—until now—to build a society equal with our stature. I have long held that the power of fire should allow us to shape and forge our own destinies as it shapes glass and metal, but fire needs fuel, and here we finally have enough of it to make a difference.”

  She frowned, and her head tilted slightly. “Build a society? You speak as if you intend to stay here.”

  “And why shouldn’t we? What better place for a new Hathrim city than here?”

  She spoke with a tone of patient disbelief, as if I were some child. “This place belongs to Ghurana Nent. We cannot stay.”

  “We most certainly can,” I growled. “There is only a piece of paper signed by our ancestors that defines where we can build and thrive. And it says we can only build in treeless wastes, where we most certainly will never thrive. Time to set that nonsense aflame.”

  “That nonsense will have serious consequences if you flout it,” La Mastik said. “I cannot condone it.”

  “I’m not asking for your approval. Or anyone else’s.”

  “Clearly. But you’re putting all our lives in danger acting alone like this.”

  “We won’t be alone for long. You’re from Tharsif, and so you must know that Winthir Kanek is a Hearthfire of my mind. That’s why he sent his daughter to marry my son.”

  La Mastik’s brows drew together, and a corner of her mouth turned up. “Are you sure about that, Hearthfire? It’s true he may be in favor of expanding his territory, but I rather think sending his daughter to you announced his intention to expand into Harthrad next.”

  My hand twitched toward my axe, and Sefir grabbed it and interlocked my fingers with hers, a seemingly loving gesture. Which it was. She saves me so often. “He’s welcome to expand into Harthrad now. It’s a lava flow covered with a thick frosting of ash. I think he’ll prefer to profit from the trade we can offer. The first shipment of lumber should do much to convince him. And if you wish to depart with that shipment, La Mastik, you’re welcome to do so.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “A kind invitation, Hearthfire. But I’ll remain to minister to Olet Kanek and the good people of Harthrad who have no other spiritual guidance. I notice you have not tended Thurik’s Flame since I came to Harthrad.”

  “The crush of responsibility prevents me. But never fear, I’ll make sure someone attends in my stead and pays rapt attention to your every word.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “Speak all you want about rebuilding strong and well, La Mastik. But I hope we’ll hear no more from you about returning to Hathrir.”

  That finally fueled some anger in her, and she pointed a scolding finger at me. “Thurik’s Flame is not subject to the governance of a Hearthfire. You cannot prevent me from speaking my mind.”

  “You are quite correct. And you cannot prevent me from splitting your unprotected head with my axe.”

  Her hand dropped, and she sneered at me. “Ah. So it’s a naked threat, then.”

  “I dislike threats. They carry the implication that one might not follow through on them. Do spout what other fire you wish, La Mastik, but speak another word to my people about leaving here or one word against me and I promise you will be dead moments later, consequences be damned.”

  Her eyes shifted to Sefir, searching for assistance, perhaps, or some sign that I was insincere. She would find no help there. When her eyes returned to me, she said, “I appreciate your candor, Hearthfire.”

  “And I yours. We both want the best possible lives for these people. Let’s focus our efforts on making that happen.” I pointed a finger at the ground. “Here.”

  When her thin lips pressed together she almost appeared to have no mouth at all, just an unbroken mask of skin beneath her nose. I waited for a retort, some blast of defiance, but she only nodded once.

  “I’ll bid you good evening, then,” she said, and Halsten escorted her away. Sefir told him to wait a few minutes before bringing anyone else forward. Once the priestess and the houndsman were out of earshot, Sefir kept her voice low and spoke her concerns. “What are you hoping to kindle here, Gorin? Confronting her like that could complicate matters.”

  “She would also be a complication if I did nothing. Better to control the fire when it starts than let it burn freely. You saw her at the hearth. She has far too much charisma. Let her continue to preach about returning to Hathrir and that’s all we’ll hear about.”

  “Fair point. But she’ll go straight to Olet now and blacken your name for this. She may try to get the marriage called off.”

  “Let her. I only agreed to the arrangement so as not to provoke Winthir. Let Jerin choose his love and be chosen in turn, as we did.”

  Sefir hummed with pleasure. “That would be my wish for him. And if he truly likes Olet, then …”

  “Of course, of course. It’s too soon to tell.”

  “You should make some art with him as soon as possible. New glass, new steel for our new city. Inspire others with your fire and hers will be doused.”

  “That’s a fine idea. I’ll begin building a smithy tomorrow.”

  “Good.” My bride released my hand and turned around, surveying the site. “Are we settling our hearth here, then?” We were slightly elevated above the rest of the plain and could see the dozens of campfires spread out beyond us, stretching to the beach on our le
ft. Behind us lay the roots of the Godsteeth, inestimable riches in fuel growing on their slopes. An excellent spot: the view was priceless, yet we were not so high that people would think we were looking down on them.

  “It suits me well if it suits you. But then I am well suited wherever you are.”

  Sefir smiled at me and ran the tip of her finger along my jaw, through the beard. “Gorin?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you been reading Raelech romances again?”

  “Shh! Halsten might hear.”

  Sefir laughed low in her throat, and her eyes sparkled at me. “He might, but he would never dare speak of it.”

  “He’d better not.”

  “I am content, Gorin. We will build our new hearth here, and it will be the envy of the world. Give it time and fire and the hammer and you will see.”

  The orange glow of open hearths didn’t look like much at that time, but I knew Sefir was right.

  This humble refugee camp will be a great city someday. I should probably start thinking of a name for it.

  Once he returned to his normal form, the bard paused for a drink and then raised both hands, a seeming stone in one of them.

  “Now I need to introduce you to a new figure, Melishev Lohmet, the viceroy of Hashan Khek and closest Nentian government official to Gorin Mogen’s occupation of his country. His city is many leagues away from the Godsteeth, but the responsibility to confront Mogen will still be primarily his.”

  The black smoke curled around the bard, and his tailored Raelech silhouette faded away to be replaced by a formal Nentian tunic, the kind with excessively flared lapels that roamed uphill to the shoulders and around them, providing a stage of sorts for the new glossy black hair that fell to the middle of his torso. Pale green with silver accents to let the hair shine, the tunic was belted at the waist with a silver sash embroidered with vertical lines of gold thread. Very fine clothing indeed, but the viceroy’s expression failed to reflect similar refinement. His broad cheeks and generous nose were pinched in a scowl, and his voice dripped contempt like bitter syrup..

  I despise unctuous shits, yet I am surrounded by them.

  And I am sure that there is someone in Hashan Khek who envies my position as viceroy, but if they knew what I had to deal with, they might reconsider.

  I have demands from authority in Talala Fouz that have nothing to do with reality.

  I have transient families that enjoy the city’s services and drain its coffers yet never pay taxes.

  Corrupt merchants do the same and profit immensely by it but then pull out their giant hairy balls, plop them on the dining table of my welcome hall, and complain that I’m not doing enough for them.

  I have a military that can’t be trusted to do anything but sleep on duty and eat everything.

  I have the responsibility to defend a huge portion of the country with that same military.

  And the Raelech stonecutters, whose services come at great cost, are taking far too long to expand our walls.

  I also do not understand this extreme discomfort whenever I urinate.

  But who am I kidding? The entire city envies my position because they are surrounded by shit of a slightly different stench from mine and think the viceroy never has to smell any of his own. They think I live a privileged life—and they are right. I certainly do. My boot closet is probably second only to the king’s. But that does not mean I am free of worries.

  I have material comforts and no security. People see the material comforts and believe I must have security, too, but no, that is not the case. I only have a finer bed, a chef to cook my food, a man to taste it for poison (after which it is cold), and a safe place to dump it all when my body is through with it.

  These privileges, no doubt, are very fine indeed: a safe dump should never be scorned.

  And yet I think the stress of my existence will end me. If the king doesn’t send an assassin to kill me first. I’m on his list now, I can feel it, because he knows I covet that cushy chair of his. But he needs a good reason to replace me. He would find it very convenient if I died, but if I do something he can label as a failure of leadership, that will serve as well. If I don’t get the city expanded on time, that might be all the excuse he needs. Even a dip in revenue could spell my doom if it’s big enough, and now it might be here.

  That simpering wine-soaked liaison to the merchant clave, Badavaghar, claims that we have lost our trading partner in Harthrad in a single night and this will create a costly deficit in the treasury; they imported a lot of our goods. New trading partners will have to be secured in other Hathrim cities if we want their glass and steel and terms might not be as favorable as before, and so on. I banish him to the cellar where he can marinate in his favorite cask, leaving me to think. I climb the dank stone steps of the tower, spiraling ever up and misted with sea spray under the open windows, until I can look out at the entirety of the city without obstruction or interruption. The cry of seabirds and the bustle of industry reach my ears, and underneath it the dull whoosh and hiss of the ocean, but that is all.

  Strange, looking out at Hashan Khek from the Tower of Kalaad, to think that the city might be in any kind of danger, economic or otherwise. It is a vista of prosperity viewed from on high, the beasts of the plains all safely deterred by our walls, and it is easy to imagine that everyone below is happy and fulfilled. Rooftops shield the people from rain and their rulers from the reality of the streets.

  I know that they suffer. I know that they need more room and that the farmers and herders outside the walls need more protection. That’s why I approved the expansion of the city at great expense. And if we don’t make up this sudden trade deficit, we won’t be solvent and the king will shove a hot poker up my anus before he kicks me outside the walls for the animals to eat. He won’t care that a volcano melted and buried our revenue stream.

  Dhingra bursts into my tower study while I’m meditating on what to do next. “Viceroy, the Raelech stonecutters are gone. They’ve been hired away.”

  That means the city expansion is on hold indefinitely—another reason for the king to serve me whole to a family of harkha weasels. “Who hired them?”

  “Hathrim—I mean the ones from Harthrad. The Raelechs left a note. Said they’d return in a month to finish with no further payment required.”

  “The ones from Harthrad? But Badavaghar just told me that Mount Thayil killed them all.”

  “Yes, but Badavaghar needs help to find his boots in the morning.”

  That was certainly true. The drunken sponge needed help to take them off at night, too. “Wait a moment, Dhingra. We may have a problem here that could solve all my other problems.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I’ve been given two steaming piles of shit news mere minutes apart: Harthrad was destroyed, but the survivors just hired my Raelech stonecutters out from under me. What does that tell you about the direction the survivors sailed?”

  My chamberlain’s eyes widen. “They didn’t stay in the south. They’re in the north!”

  “And they would be foolish to land in Forn, correct? That would be about as smart as sliding your penis into a monkey’s cage to see if he tries to pull it off. But we have all that empty land between us and the border.”

  “You think they’ve landed in Ghurana Nent?”

  “I think it’s possible. And if our trading partners have become invaders, I’d like to know sooner rather than later. Fetch Badavaghar out of the damn cellar and bring him to me under the skylight. We’ll use him to find out what’s going on.”

  Descending from the tower, I smile to myself, hoping the Hearthfire was dumb enough to invade us. That would start a war. The king wouldn’t replace me in the middle of a war. And if I wound up winning that war, well … I might as well be the new king. I would be the new king.

  I beat Badavaghar to the skylight and wait for him, standing in front of my throne. He shuffles into my presence a few minutes later, asking how he can serve. His speech
is slurred; he had taken my caustic suggestion to drink some more as a command.

  “Outfit a fast ship with a lot of food but only ten swords. It’ll be an honor guard for someone from the merchant clave. Someone who has—or had—a lot of money tied up in Harthrad. Who’s into their glass and steel?”

  “Chumat hash—or rather had—shignificant glassh holdings,” Badavaghar says right away, and after a moment’s thought adds, “Panesha buys finished shteel pieces but not so much raw material from them.”

  At least the sot knows his clave. Perhaps his only redeeming feature. “Either or both will do. Find out where the survivors of Harthrad have gone and reestablish ties. Offer our aid now in return for favorable terms in the future. They’ve hired our Raelech stonecutters; tell them they’d better make sure they return here to finish the job they started or I’ll be lodging a formal complaint with the Triune Council. And if Chumat or Panesha wants to visit any other Hathrim ports while they’re down there and spread their assets, so be it. But the survivors of Harthrad need to be found first, am I clear?”

  His hands lift up to the sun shining through the glass ceiling. “As the sky when Kalaad shmiles upon us, Viceroy.”

  “Good. And tell the ship captain not to take the safe route down. I want them to hug our coast on the way south and watch for anomalies.”

  “What sort of anoma-loma-nomalies, m’lord?”

  “Giant ones.”

  Badavaghar gapes at me, his brain trying to attach meaning to my words. His yellow teeth flash when he finally gets it. “Oh! Because the Hathrim are giants. You did a … you made a pun. Hee hee hic!” He belches after his hiccup and apologizes for that but not for getting smashed on my wine. Kalaad save me from unctuous shits.

  Fintan offered a sardonic twist of his mouth to the spectators sitting on the wooden benches below the wall. “His leadership style is a bit different from Pelenaut Röllend’s, yes?” Laughter from the crowd. “More from him later. Let us stay in Ghurana Nent, though, and see what happened next with Abhinava Khose.”