The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

by Daniel Abraham

  The impact came from the side and sent Geder tumbling out of the path of the charge. In the moonlight, the brown robe looked like a paler shade of night. The priest stood before the attacker with no time to so much as dodge.

  “Basrahip!” Geder screamed, realizing as he did that it wasn’t the high priest, but one of the new initiates. The blade came down, taking the new priest in the jaw and spinning his body as he fell. Blood spattered horse and rider, and the swordsman leaped from his saddle toward Geder. The moonlight shone on tight bronze scales.

  A Jasuru. Geder felt a stab of confusion and outrage. Why would a Jasuru want to hurt him? He’d only made war on Timzinae. He fumbled for his sword.

  The Jasuru stopped and clutched at his eye. Behind them, the horse he had been riding began to scream and kick. Geder’s sword-and-bows arrived at last, pressing themselves between Geder and his attacker, but the Jasuru had dropped his sword and started clawing at his eyes. He couldn’t be certain, but Geder thought there was blood on the man’s fingers. The black horse screamed again, bucked, and ran madly away into the night.

  “Stand away,” Basrahip said. “Do not approach. The hand of the goddess is upon him now.”

  “Fuck,” one of the soldiers at Geder’s side said. “Can she do that?”

  The Jasuru fell to his knees and began to scream low in his throat. He thrashed, clawing at his arms and neck. Geder looked around. His personal guard had pulled one of the other riders from the saddle and were savaging him. The other seemed to have fled. Basrahip stood at Geder’s side, the one remaining initiate behind him. The Jasuru screamed again. Basrahip raised his hands and walked toward the screaming man.

  “You feel the hand of the goddess, sinner,” Basrahip said. “Your days of lies are ended. Say now, who sent you?”

  “Get them off of me!” the Jasuru howled. “Please God, get them out of me!”

  “You have no hope but me,” Basrahip said. “Listen to my voice. You have no hope but me. Who sent you?”

  The Jasuru collapsed to the ground, and Geder thought for a moment that he’d died. Then, weakly, his voice came.

  “Callon. Callon Cane.”

  Basrahip turned back. His eyes met Geder’s, and Geder shrugged. The name was nothing to him.

  “Who is Callon Cane?”

  “For God’s sake, kill me. Kill me.”

  “I am your only hope of peace. Who is Callon Cane?”

  “He’s some rich bastard in Herez. Put a price on the Lord Regent’s head. Me and Siph and Lachor found a mess of angry Timzinae ready to help us if we made the try. Thought if we hit fast—Oh God. They’re in me. They’re under my skin! Kill me! Please, by all that’s holy, kill me!”

  “No,” Basrahip said. “That will not happen. The hand of the goddess is upon you now.”

  The Jasuru screamed, his body arching until only his toes and the top of his head were touching the ground. Basrahip turned back to Geder.

  “You must not approach him, Prince Geder. You and your men should return to your places. There is no danger now.”

  Geder felt a wash of relief, but he didn’t sheathe his sword.

  “What happened to him?”

  “The hand of the goddess is upon him,” Basrahip said. “He is our brother now. We will care for him as we would any initiate to her truth.”

  Geder’s jaw dropped.

  “Are you serious? Basrahip, he just tried to kill me.”

  “The goddess is upon him. He will not rebel again.” The Jasuru screamed again and kept on screaming, barely pausing to catch his breath. Basrahip put a wide hand on Geder’s shoulder. “The lies and sin are being burned out of him. It will take time, but he will become holy or he will die.”

  “You’re sure about this?” Geder asked.

  “I am certain.”

  “Well. All right,” Geder said. “But this won’t make it easier to sleep.”

  Suddapal was a strangely diffuse city. It had no wall, no defenses. Not even a solid marker to say where the city began. Shacks and low buildings became a bit more frequent. Paths crossed the wider track that Geder and his men had been following. And mile by mile Suddapal grew up around them. The spot where Fallon Broot and his men waited to greet him wasn’t particularly different from any other, but they made it the edge of Suddapal by their presence. Geder gave the order to sound the halt and climbed down from his carriage.

  Fallon Broot looked older than the months since he’d left with the invading army could explain. His face seemed pinched, his skin an unhealthy color. Geder felt a rush of sympathy for him. Broot was a decent man, and well-meaning, but possibly not suited for the burdens of authority.

  “Lord Regent,” Broot said, dropping from his saddle into a deep bow. “Welcome to your city.”

  Geder grinned. “You don’t need to bow to me, Broot. We’ve known each other long enough we can afford a little informality, don’t you think?”

  Broot’s smile was sickly. “Good of you, my lord.”

  “I don’t want any feasts,” Geder said, setting off deeper into the city at a walk. Broot followed, and Geder’s personal guard behind them. “I’m not here to take control of anything. It’s more private business. You understand.”

  “Of course, Lord Regent,” Broot said.

  “All going well in the city, I hope?”

  “Some troubles,” Broot said. “Nothing desperate so far. We’ve … ah. Well, we’ve found some evidence of a group that was spiriting Timzinae away.”

  “What do you mean away?”

  “Hide them on ships. Sneak them into caravans. Away.”

  That wasn’t good. It was almost certain that any of the people central to the conspiracy against him would have been the first to escape. They were, after all, the ones with the most power. The most connections. They’d been able to corrupt Lord Ternigan and Dawson Kalliam. These were a dangerous people.

  They reached a corner, and Geder paused, letting Broot show him the way, only instead the man stopped, laced his hands behind his back, and faced Geder like he was sizing up his executioner. Between the gravity of his demeanor and his lush mustache, Geder couldn’t help thinking he looked vaguely comedic.

  “Have you broken the conspiracy?” Geder asked.

  “In a manner of speaking. We’ve reason to believe it’s not operating any longer.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’ve had several people confess to the minister you sent us that they were brought into a group for this purpose by Isadau rol Ennanamet, voice of the Medean bank in Suddapal. And a Timzinae.”

  “Hmm,” Geder said. “What does Cithrin say about it?”

  “Cithrin bel Sarcour, you mean? She doesn’t say much, my lord. She fled the city last night along with all her people.”

  Geder smiled and shook his head. Broot had spoken, but something must have distracted Geder. He hadn’t heard the words.

  “Well, where’s the bank? We can go there now.”

  “She’s not there, my lord. She and her guards and what was left of her staff got on a boat last night. They’re gone.”

  Something cold was happening in Geder’s chest. Some kind of thickening. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick.

  “No,” he said. “That didn’t happen. She knew I was coming. I wrote to her.”

  “That’s as may be. But what I’m telling you is the woman left the city. She and the old magistra before her were shuffling Timzinae out of the city right under our noses. And with your grant of immunity,” Broot said, an angry buzz coming into his voice, “there wasn’t anything we could do to stop her.”

  The meaning sank in, and the coldness in Geder’s chest detonated. For a moment, he couldn’t hear. Then he was standing in the street, his fist hurting badly, and Fallon Broot was on the ground with blood flowing down his mustache and shocked expression.

  “Take me to her house,” Geder said. “Do it now.”

  The compound of the Medean bank stood deserted. The doors swung open and clos
ed in the wind. Straw from the stable littered the yard, caught up in tiny whirlwinds. Geder walked through the abandoned halls and corridors, tears running down his cheeks. He’d ordered Broot and his guards to wait in the street. He didn’t want anyone to see him.

  She was gone. He’d come all this way for her, and she was gone. He’d told her how he felt for her, and she was gone. He loved her, and when he came to her to feed that love, to make it something that would have lived for the ages, she’d betrayed him and left. She hadn’t even had the kindness to tell him to his face.

  He found a small bedroom with a mattress and pillow still in place. He lay down and curled up into himself the way an animal might to guard a wound. He didn’t feel sad or angry. He didn’t feel anything. He was empty in a way he’d never felt before. Cithrin had emptied him. When he began to sob, it was a distant sensation, but with every breath it grew closer and harder. When the grief finally came, it was like nothing he’d felt before except once. When he’d been a boy and his mother had died, it had felt just like this. His body shuddered and tensed. His breastbone ached like someone had punched him, and tears flowed down his cheeks like a rainstorm. He was sure they could hear him in the street, sure that they knew, and he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. He’d started, and now he was too far gone to stop. He raged and he wept and he kicked the bed to pieces and ripped the pillow apart with his teeth and then collapsed on the floor, beaten and humiliated.

  It was almost night when he drew the shell of his body up, blew his nose on a scrap of the ruined mattress, and did what he could to clean his face. His eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand in them, and his chest ached to the touch. His limbs felt heavy, like he was waking from too deep a sleep.

  Broot and his men were still where he’d left them, standing in the street. Basrahip had joined them as well. Geder walked out to them and shrugged.

  “You were right,” he said. “She’s gone.”

  Broot’s nose was swollen and bruised. When he spoke, he sounded congested. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “Not your fault,” Geder said. “This was my mistake. I … misunderstood.”

  Basrahip put his arm around Geder’s shoulder, and Geder leaned into the priest.

  “I’ll call your carriage,” Broot said, and a few minutes later Geder was rattling down the rough, wide roads past squares and marketplaces, all of them blighted and emptied by the winter cold. He thought he would never feel warm again, and he didn’t care. Suddapal spun past his eyes without being seen. When the carriage stopped, he was mildly surprised to find himself at the protector’s mansion. A footman helped him down. Basrahip helped him up the stairs.

  “Jorey,” Geder said. “I need to get a message to Jorey.”

  “Yes, Prince Geder.”

  “We have to take the army back from Kiaria. Just leave enough to keep them from getting out, take back the rest.”

  “As you say,” Basrahip agreed.

  “I need them. I need all of them. And the priests. I need them too. I need everyone.”

  “They are yours,” Basrahip said. “You are blessed of the goddess, and her will can bring you all that you wish.”

  “Good,” Geder said.

  Basrahip paused in the doorway.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What do you want?”

  When Geder spoke, his voice was rough and sharp as a serrated blade.

  “I want to find Cithrin.”

  Marcus

  In the aftermath of the storm, the sky was as wide, calm, and clear as a highwayman’s smile, and Marcus put as much faith in it. With every step along the rocky shore, he was aware of the capricious power of the world around him. The clouds in the sky might be nothing or they might be the vanguard of another storm bent on wiping them all from the face of the world. And while they might be able to find their way back to the lodge house of Order Murro, they also might not. Or the Haaverkin might decide not to extend hospitality. Or, for that matter, the earth might open up and swallow them all.

  Truth was, Marcus was feeling more than a little jumpy.

  The stone shore stretched out before and behind them. Frozen waves cracked and shattered. Spears of ice lay white and silver in the sunlight. The air was thick with the scents of salt and cold. Even wrapped in half a dozen layers, he started shivering if they stopped for too long. It was the third day of their search along this stretch of shore, and the tide was beginning to turn already. If they didn’t come across something soon, it would mean another day’s waiting. Another chance for bad weather or angry Haaverkin or any of a thousand complications and dangers Marcus hadn’t thought of yet. The poisoned sword was slung across his back. It wasn’t useful against all threats, but it might help with some.

  “Hey!” Sandr called. “Look at this!”

  Marcus turned, his senses sharpening and ready for danger. Sandr stood near the high-water mark where the stones became land. He held what looked like a long, crooked stick, bent once in the middle and once at the end.

  “What is it?” Cary called.

  “I think it’s a crab’s leg,” Sandr replied. “Big, isn’t it? Catch one of these, it would be a good meal.”

  “It would or you,” Cary said.

  Sandr shrugged and dropped it back where it had been. Marcus walked forward. The stones grated against each other under his feet. He swept his gaze back and forth across the ground in front of him, moving slowly, his eyes a little unfocused, waiting for some detail to draw his attention. So far, Sandr was winning the prize for most interesting discovery.

  “You’re sure about this, Kit?”

  “No,” Kit said. “I’m sure that old Kirot thought there was something out here, but he may have been wrong.”

  Marcus stepped across a gap between two larger stones, wary of the thin coating of ice that made them slick and treacherous.

  “Would have been nice if we had a damn clue what we were looking for,” he said.

  “Not a giant, not a sword,” Kit said. “Not a weapon, not a medicine, and no sort of armor.”

  “How about a rock?” Marcus said. “You think any of these might be a magic rock?”

  “Possibly,” Kit said. “But probably not.”

  The storm had lasted three days, and so for three days and nights they’d sat in the great, smoky lodge house, trading stories with the Haaverkin and playing songs. Cary and Smit had danced a number in way that caught the attention of the Antean force and left Marcus wondering whether there was something more going on between them than he’d guessed, but the Haaverkin didn’t seem impressed by it. People who weren’t thick with insulating fat and heavily tattooed didn’t have much erotic charge for this crowd.

  When at last the weather broke, Dar Cinlama and his men packed their things, offered to travel with them one last time, and then headed south for Borja before they froze in place. Marcus had to admit that their plan had an appeal. Dar Cinlama was powerfully impressed with himself, but he told a good tale and he didn’t drink more than his share of the beer. It was enough to win him some respect as far as Marcus was concerned, even with who he was working for.

  “How do you think it’s going out there?” Marcus asked.

  “Out there?”

  “In the world. Where there are people.”

  “I don’t know,” Kit said. “At a guess, poorly.”

  “That was my thought too.” He stepped forward. A flash of yellow in one of the small tidepools caught his attention, and he leaned close. A tiny starfish clung to a stone. Probably not the source of earth-shattering magic. “Do you think Cithrin and Yardem are all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s why they call it a guess.”

  Kit smiled. “Well, then, since I know that they are both clever and competent, I would guess that they are fine, whatever’s happened.”

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “No.”

  They moved on, Marcus sweeping his eyes over the ground, then moving forward. Sweeping,
and moving forward. Almost half an hour later, he spoke again.

  “I keep thinking about the war. About how it’s just like all the other wars I’ve seen, only it isn’t.”

  “I’m not certain what you mean,” Kit said, and squatted down.

  “Find something?”

  The actor reached into one of the salt puddles. When he drew out his hand, he had a thin stem of hollow bone.

  “Pipe stem,” Kit said. “It might been carried in by the waves.”

  “Or it might have been dropped by someone walking this same path. I’m going to call that a good sign.”

  “But you’d been talking about war.”

  “Right. I’ve seen a lot of wars fought for a lot of reasons. Pride. Fear. Power. The right to use land. Trying to keep someone else from using land. Even just the bull-blind love of winning. And I look at what Antea’s been doing, and I see all of that. But the other thing—and I’ve always seen this no matter who’s fighting and whatever they’re fighting for—is once you’re in a war, you want out of it. You want to win or you want to sue for peace or you want to get away from the mad bastards who are stabbing at you. Even the ones that love winning don’t love the war. And that’s not something I see.”

  “Ah. I understand. You’re thinking of this as if Antea were at war.”

  The stone under Marcus’s foot shifted and he danced back. “There’s some evidence that it is.”

  “Consider that Antea is waging war the way that a horse leads a cavalry charge. It seems to me it is being ridden by men like myself. Perhaps Antea will rise and spread across the world with the goddess at the reins. Or it may founder and be abandoned for another champion or some number of others. When you look at Antea, you see the enemy. I see the first among victims.”

  “Odd kind of victim when you get all the power from it.”

  “I don’t fear this high priest as much as I do his first enemy within the temple,” Kit said.