A Blight of Blackwings

by Kevin Hearne

The priest shakes his head, throwing droplets from the tip of his nose and the tops of his ears. “I do not have multiple couriers.”

  “Their services are easily bought, and I can give you coin. A courier per boat on the next five boats out of town.” I toss him a purse and it lands in his palm with a sort of damp squelch.

  “What do these messages say?”

  “Something along the lines of ‘Dear Cousin, I’m trapped in this tower and I fear I may be violated. Please save me.’ And then there’s a bit about maybe asking the king to help retake one of his cities, since it’s essentially been lost.”

  “The king will remove you, you know. For losing the city.”

  “I do. I do know that, Patriarch, but thank you kindly for taking the trouble to point out that I am doomed. But I defy anyone to do better playing the hand I was dealt. I have been constantly surprised rather than reliably informed. Your spies, I note, have delivered nothing of worth in all this time. Are they that incompetent, or have you instructed them not to work very hard?”

  The patriarch practically turns into a fountain as he splutters, adding his spittle to the sweat spraying from him in his apoplexy.

  “Never mind, Dhanush, never mind. It doesn’t matter at this point, does it? What matters is taking back control. Because these kids don’t seem like the especially devout type, do they? We haven’t seen a lot of praise for Kalaad in these broadsides and these riots they’ve been throwing. A healthy relationship with the church is probably not very high on their agenda, if it’s on there at all.”

  “They have an agenda?”

  “Neutralizing me was one item on it, no doubt, and they’ve ticked off that box. What if neutralizing the church is next?”

  “Well, they can’t do that.”

  “They can’t?”

  “The church is an idea!”

  “True, but they have plenty of other ideas, don’t they? The kinds of ideas a large number of people seem to be listening to right now.”

  “Kalaad, you’re right. We have to stop them.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page. So you’ll get these messages to my cousin safely, then?” I hand him a sheaf of sealed envelopes, all copies of the same letter.

  “I will.”

  When he leaves, I summon the new captain of my guard up to my room and order him to bring all the incendiary arrows from the armory and leave them with me, along with a bow. I can hit every neighborhood from my windows atop this tower, and, by Kalaad, I will. They’ve surprised me at every turn and I never responded in kind. Well, that ends now. They won’t be expecting me to take any direct action. They expect me to give orders and work my will through my remaining men, except they’re all trapped like I am. They think they have me secured and neutralized. But I’ll burn this city down before I let those kids take it from me.

  I heard news that could be good or bad when I reported to the refugee kitchen in the morning. Rumors were sweeping through the city and Survivor Field that the Raelech army and supply train were less than two weeks away. That meant food! Those metaphorical floodwaters I was trying to ignore might not ever make it up to my chest and start a panic. It meant that soon we would strike back at the Eculans. That is, if the Raelechs were really coming to help.

  What if, some whispered, the Raelechs wanted to take control of the Fourth Kenning? They could mount a siege, cut off our trade, and we wouldn’t be able to last for any length of time. Already there was practically nothing to eat. Restaurants were closing, the markets picked clean.

  I couldn’t help anyone climb out of a dark conspiracy well once they’d fallen in. They’d have to do that work for themselves. Could the Raelechs betray us? Yes. But they’d have to betray their national character to do so. They had been attacked as well and had already liberated Möllerud for us. If people wanted to believe that they were coming here with the Fornish and the Kaurians to take over after that, well, I didn’t know what to say to them.

  The news of food was quite welcome. Chef du Rödal was on the last of her flour, and we’d have nothing but what the sea could provide until some new boats came in. Word in the markets was that there’d be some new fish soon, since the pelenaut had sent some boats to the Mistmaiden Isle called Bean.

  So while the chef put me to work gutting some striped red-tail perch, we distracted ourselves from the prospect of a hungry couple of weeks ahead with speculation about what was going on in Ghurana Nent. What was going on in Khul Bashab now? Did the rebellion against the viceroy succeed? Why had we received so little news from Ghurana Nent in general? Were they essentially locked in a civil war now? Or had Hanima and Tamhan and the rest been crushed by some response from the throne?

  Fintan and I met at the fishblade’s benches again, since fish would be all we would have been able to find elsewhere anyway, and it was a good place to work. He played an instrumental tune for his song that day, and after the break, he addressed what most everyone had been talking about when they weren’t worrying about food shortages.

  “Yesterday we heard of momentous events in Khul Bashab, and I promise we’ll get back to them tomorrow. Melishev Lohmet, if you recall, was not especially worried about the beast callers there when he was viceroy of Hashan Khek, but once he was king he became more concerned. Let’s check in with Mai Bet Ken.”

  It is easy to say a city has burned down. Less so to grasp the enormity of it, the sheer scale of the damage, the ever-present char in the nostrils, the stink of ashes and burnt garbage, burnt everything.

  By the time I arrive in Talala Fouz with my small staff, Melishev Lohmet and his pet army have utterly crushed any resistance—I’m not sure there was much—and the former viceroy of Hashan Khek has crowned himself the forty-fifth King Kalaad, with almost none of the infrastructure the previous forty-four kings had enjoyed.

  Rumor has it he already has an epithet before he has a palace—indeed, he resides in a fancy tent in front of a construction site—and if it is true, I could not hope for a better or more accurate name than “the Unwell.”

  I don’t think there is any need to present myself to him, so I send a message that I’ve arrived, I can be found on the former grounds of the Fornish embassy pitching in with the rebuilding, and, incidentally, no Brynt hygienists could be found to aid him. I was sorry about that, but I hoped he was feeling better. Though, of course, I am not sorry at all and I have no such hopes.

  For a couple of weeks, that is enough. We make significant progress on the embassy building and make sure to leave a proper area for the eventual tea treehouse that ben Fos will grow when he gets here.

  Thinking of him drives me to distraction, however. I managed to paint over my own hand one afternoon. I had to spend the rest of the day scrubbing it off to avoid awkward questions.

  But Melishev Lohmet—now King Kalaad—summons me eventually to his royal tent. Tactician Hennedigha is not there this time, I note immediately. The king himself is dressed elaborately in what is considered high Nentian fashion, but it cannot hide that he is still very ill. I expect him to implore me again to magically secure a hygienist from Brynlön, but that’s not what he wants at all. He dives into it without any inquiries into my journey or my embassy’s situation or anything.

  “You’ve heard of these kids who say they’ve found the Sixth Kenning?”

  “Yes, you discussed it with me briefly before you left Hashan Khek.”

  “Well. It’s real,” he says, though I had not disputed its reality.

  “That’s wonderful news.”

  “No, Ambassador, it’s shit. They are causing unrest in Khul Bahsab. Stirring up the people against the viceroy and the crown. And they’re killing members of the city watch. They’re murderers.”

  I almost leap in at that point, but I wait instead. Let him ask first. “I see,” I reply, forcing him to continue.

  �
�I want Forn to help me root out these rebels, so to speak.” He gives a tiny laugh. “You see, I made a pun there. It is the preferred humor of all civilized leaders, though I cannot explain why or how this came to be so.”

  Ignoring the king’s inept attempt to be funny, I repeat to him what I believe is his point: “You are upset that they have disrupted order in one of your cities, and you want order restored.”

  “Yes. Obviously.”

  “I empathize. Can you empathize with me, perhaps, in the same way? I want a certain lieutenant brought to justice for the murder of a Fornish citizen, thereby restoring the rule of law.”

  “Kalaad, Ambassador, not now—”

  “Yes, now. Now before anything else. You will not get the position of the sun in the sky from me until I see that lieutenant dishonorably discharged and thrown in a dungeon. And note that I said see, as in with my own eyes. I will accept no assurances. Ghurana Nent has breached trust with Forn, and so the evidence must be clear. Only when I see that lieutenant in a dungeon for murder will I be concerned with the murderers you want to see in a dungeon.”

  “Be careful how you speak to me.”

  “Be careful how you speak to the spokesperson of Forn. We have been your ally in the past—in the very recent past, I apparently need to remind you—but your refusal to enforce the law in this matter may cause the clans to reevaluate our relationship.”

  “The law is whatever I say it is.”

  Astounding. Did he think I’d have no reply to that? “Arbitrary law is no law at all and destroys people’s trust in their government,” I point out. “Not to mention Forn’s trust in your government. Perhaps that is why you are facing unrest in Khul Bashab—is your viceroy making similarly arbitrary decisions?”

  “If he is, I’m sure he’s neglected to inform me,” the king spits. “Look. In the confusion of the succession and my haste to get up here, this is a matter that’s slipped my attention. Thank you for reminding me. But when I have this lieutenant in the dungeon, and you’re satisfied, can—or rather, will—Forn send a greensleeve to take care of these rebels?”

  That surprises me and I blink a few times. “Why a greensleeve?”

  “Because they’ll be able to handle whatever the rebels are dishing out. If Viceroy Senesh was capable of handling them, they would have been handled by now.”

  “Leaving aside the rather important detail of what you mean by take care of or handling them, greensleeves are not typically anxious to leave the Canopy and even less likely to agree to act on a mercenary basis. But when you have that lieutenant in the dungeon and I’m satisfied, then I will make inquiries. I wouldn’t want to give you any undue hopes, however. Since Gorin Mogen and Winthir Kanek have left a power vacuum, there is plenty of jockeying among would-be hearthfires in Hathrir at the moment. One of the things they like to brag about to their people is how successful they’ve been at raiding the Fornish, so most all our resources are occupied fighting off timber pirates in the southwest.”

  “I understand. Whatever aid you can give will be welcome. My army is currently engaged in rebuilding this city, and I have these thousands of mouths out there waiting to be fed, you see, as if I have a harvest hiding up my ass and I can just pull it out anytime. I swear they act like this tent is just one huge tit for them to suck.”

  Is he expecting me to laugh at that? “I’m aware of the hungry people, sir.”

  “Right. Good. Yes. Well, that’s all. I’ll send for you when this lieutenant business is concluded.”

  As I leave I think that it will be days, but it’s mere hours, right after dinner, when Melishev himself arrives with two soldiers to escort me to my proof. Wary of his intentions, I ask if I can bring a couple of my staff with me.

  “I don’t care,” he says. “I just want this over with so we can move on.”

  I bring two of my staff, and Melishev hands me a scroll to read on the way: It’s the cashiering of Lieutenant Mukhab’s military commission and an order to imprison him for the murder of a Fornish citizen in Hashan Khek. The king babbles as we walk.

  “The dungeon survived the fire, since it’s underground. It’s a pretty nice one too. By which I mean it’s awful. Dank and plagued by creeping mold. Bad lighting. Full of rats and the bones of prisoners they’ve gnawed on. Also lots of things that eat rats. Rumor has it there’s a face jumper prowling around there somewhere. It’s a bloody bonanza.”

  He continues on about how you can’t build a dungeon that way, you have to wait and let it grow into such a horror with years of cruelty and neglect, so his predecessors had known how to do at least one thing right. Once we descend into the dungeon, all of this turns out to be true, apart from the unverified rumor, but Melishev had neglected to mention the smell. It’s much, much worse than the burnt city above; it’s nearly enough to gag me. My eyes water and I must, of necessity, become a mouth breather, though I do it through a handkerchief held up to my face.

  “Mmm, rot, am I right?” the king says. “Part of the terror of being chained down here is knowing that your body will be contributing to the smell sooner or later, that you, too, will offend someone’s delicate senses.”

  “Where is he?” I prompt him.

  “Ah. Just ahead, where we’ve placed a couple of extra firebowls.”

  “Please take me there.”

  “After you.”

  “No, please, you lead. I’d rather not have anyone between the exit and me.”

  The king chuckles at that. “Of course. I must reestablish trust and so on.”

  “Yes.”

  I’m expecting someone other than Lieutenant Mukhab to be in the cell. We had the eyewitnesses to the murder describe him to an artist, and we took written notes as well. I have studied the drawings and notes carefully. If I find someone in the cell who doesn’t match them and call the king on it, I might need to make a hasty exit.

  The cell in question is not lit from within, so the prisoner looms out of the darkness, his face pressed up to and framed by a couple of vertical bars, the light lurid on his features. He’s a long-nosed fellow with a dimpled chin and a scar slashing through his left eyebrow, very distinguishing characteristics that would be difficult to find duplicated elsewhere and, I imagine, impossible to create on an impostor in the scant few hours since I made my ultimatum. Perhaps Melishev is experimenting with acting in good faith. But I still don’t trust it.

  “What is your name?” I ask the prisoner.

  “Are you the reason I’m in here?” he says. His voice is a low growl, resentful and contemptuous.

  “Answer my questions and I’ll answer yours. Your name?”

  “Lieutenant Ranoush Mukhab.”

  “Thank you. You are the reason you’re in here. You murdered a Fornish man in Hashan Khek.”

  “I defended myself. He attacked me.”

  “Multiple eyewitnesses say you were the attacker. Regardless, he’s dead because you killed him, and that was not necessary. You belong here.”

  He spits at my face and hisses a few Nentian insults that mean nothing to me. The spittle lands on the back of my hand holding the handkerchief over my nose and mouth.

  “Rumor has it there’s a face jumper down here,” I tell him. “Maybe that will end your time early. Otherwise, this dank cell is the entire sum of your future.”

  His angry expression morphs into confusion. “What? I’m just going to be left down here forever?” Apparently no one had informed him of his actual sentence.

  “I thought it would be more merciful than the alternative. You can opt at any time to be executed according to Nentian custom. I believe that entails being tied to a post outside the walls and beheaded, your body left to be eaten by the creatures of the plains. Is that correct, King Kalaad?”

  “That is correct. You have only to let one of the guards know an
d we will end your misery,” he says to the lieutenant.

  “If he does opt for execution, I wish to bear witness,” I say. “Not because I relish it, but because I must see that justice is done on behalf of my murdered countryman.”

  “I will leave instructions to that effect with all the guards,” Melishev says.

  “I also wish to be given leave to visit Lieutenant Mukhab at any time to verify he’s still actually in here.”

  The king lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “Still no trust, Ambassador?”

  “You have kept your word thus far and I thank you. But since Tactician Hennedigha objected so strenuously to the lieutenant’s imprisonment, I worry that this is a ploy he’s orchestrated to make the problem go away.”

  “Hey, now, listen,” the lieutenant tries to interject, but I ignore him and continue talking to the king.

  “Should the lieutenant escape or otherwise disappear, or if I am fed a story that he was ‘accidentally’ executed without my witness and his body just carried away by various creatures, I will treat that news as confirmation that I’ve been deceived and the Nentian government has acted in bad faith.”

  King Kalaad chuckles again, grinning at me and somehow sweating in this cold moist air. He shakes his head and turns to the lieutenant. “I told you she was sharp and this could happen. Sorry, Lieutenant, but this is the end. It shall be as she says.”

  “Wait, what? You’re really going to leave me here?” His voice breaks as he confirms that they did conspire to deceive me.

  “To preserve our country’s good relationship with Forn? Absolutely. Ghurana Nent thanks you for your service, Lieutenant, but since you are so profoundly stupid as to commit your crimes in front of many witnesses, that will be all.” He gestures toward the exit. “Ambassador, if you please? I think our work is done here.”

  “Hey, no, it’s not!” the lieutenant shouts as I turn to walk briskly to the exit. My staffers and Melishev’s follow, with the king laughing uproariously at the lieutenant’s increasingly strident protests. “This is khern shit! We had a deal with Hennedigha! He’s gonna hear about this. You can’t leave me in this place! I didn’t do anything!”