“You are angry with me?” Her words were curiously soft.
“What?” He looked at her. “No. Not at all. You were defending yourself, obviously. I’m angry at myself for not warning you.”
The man whose throat she had crushed thrashed and shuddered behind her, and a moment later was as still as the death that had come to claim him.
“Do the men in your land always try to mount women they do not know?”
“No.” He spat. “No but some of the men think they have that right.”
“They are wrong.” She shook her head and then moved toward him. She dismissed the dead and dying as if they did not matter. In truth they didn’t, not really. There would possibly be trouble if they lingered and less if they moved on, so he moved with her, back toward the bakery.
“What made you come this way?”
Swech looked at the small carts where vendors were suddenly reappearing. They had been gone as soon as the trouble started and now they were back as if they had remembered it was rude to watch a woman get raped. Now that the possibility was gone they were glad to once more hawk their wares.
“That one.” She pointed to a flat cart where a withered crone of a woman crouched over a collection of baubles and tokens. There were medallions and rings and an assortment of well-crafted leather works, all meant for decoration rather than any practical use.
Merros smiled. Of course a woman would find the jewelry. He shook that thought away. The woman in question had just killed three men with frightening ease. Best not to underestimate her. “You see something you like?”
“What does it do?” She pointed to a bronze medallion with a feathered serpent adorning it. The craftsmanship was exemplary. Like as not the lady in question had either stolen a few of the pieces or she was dealing with someone from the Guntha. The winged snake was one of their symbols.
“The items she sells? Nothing. They are meant to be pleasant to look at and to wear. That is all.”
Swech stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide with wonder. “They mean nothing?”
“Well, I suppose they mean something to someone.” He pointed to the medallion she’d been looking at a moment ago. “This is a symbol to the people we’re going to observe. Here? In this area? It is just a pretty piece to wear around the neck.”
The old woman tending the cart looked from Swech to Merros and back again and then snatched the medallion that had struck Swech’s fancy and held it out to her. She chattered in the local tongue – same language but a sharp, fast dialect that even Merros had to listen to carefully – offering the prize up as a reward for having stopped the group of men from hurting anyone else.
Swech stared hard at the woman for a moment while Merros translated and then waved the offer away. “Tell her I did not do this for her, but because they offended me. I would no more take her offering than I would steal from her.”
Merros conveyed the message and though she seemed puzzled, the woman nodded her head in understanding.
As they walked the short distance back to the bakery Merros kept his eyes peeled for signs that the two who got away might want to come back with reinforcements, but he saw nothing.
“She merely wanted to say thank you.”
“No.” Swech shook her head. “She wanted to feel better about not stopping the men or reporting them. I am not here to make her feel less guilt.”
Merros chose not to argue the point. Instead he asked, “Where did you learn to fight that way? Without weapons?”
“Wrommish tells us that we must never forget the body and mind are weapons before the tools are weapons.”
“Wrommish is one of your gods?”
“Of course.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“But who taught you?”
Swech stopped just before they reached the bakery. “We are taught. From the time we can stand we are taught all the ways of the Daxar Taalor. We are always taught. We are always learning.” She patted the blade on her belt, and gestured to the short sword he knew was strapped to her side. “Before we can forge a blade we are taught. When we walk we are taught. When we hunt, when we grow crops. We are always taught.”
He nodded and smiled. This was one of the differences he was trying to understand. The Sa’ba Taalor seemed to take for granted that everything they did was about learning the ways of their gods. Everything. From the way they walked to the way they trained their mounts, everything seemed directly connected to their deities. He wasn’t sure if he envied them their connection to their gods or pitied them their delusions. Time would tell, he supposed.
The baker called to him. There were negotiations to finish.
Blane nodded. He seemed indifferent to the events that had unfolded. As far as the man was concerned it was simply another day and Swech had never been in danger. Then again, considering what she had done to three men, Blane seemed to have the right mentality.
Ten
Desh Krohan stood next to the Emperor and looked out at the sea of people. There were five great tables, each capable of seating twenty people, and every last one of them was seated to capacity. The only exception was the table where he and Pathra would be sitting soon.
“What have you learned about our guests?” Pathra gazed past the simple spell Desh had placed on the wall. The men could look upon the dining hall and see all that needed to be seen. The people on the other side of the wall could only see the tapestry that covered the stone. The spell was permanent and had been set by Desh before Pathra Krous was born. People without the right jewelry could not use the scrying portal. There were exactly three pieces of jewelry that had been ensorcelled at the same time. Two of them were on Desh’s person. The third was the ring that bore the Emperor’s seal.
“Which ones? The Sa’ba Taalor? Or your family?”
“My family I know all too well.” The Emperor’s voice was dry and bitter. “Tell me about the strangers.”
“I’ve only just met them myself. They’re not like us, I can certainly tell you that much. They are more direct, for one. From what I’ve seen so far they tell a soul exactly what they think and what they feel.”
“That alone should make this an interesting feast.”
“True enough, Pathra.” The Emperor’s kin were a very large assembly of liars and collaborators. The path to the throne was murky at the present time and everyone knew it. There were no heirs as yet. The Emperor was a widower and his wife had passed while delivering a stillborn child. To date he had not successfully sired an heir and that was a pressing matter. In reality, in comparison to other issues it was hardly urgent, but it was a consideration in almost every discussion. Thus the young princess from Roathes, Lanaie, was meant as a messenger, true enough, but she was also offered as a consideration for a bride. No one was openly saying anything, but everyone knew that was the situation.
There were many women at the Emperor’s table. Most of them were guests from the Valley of Seven Forges – Taalor, Desh reminded himself, was the proper name as far as anyone could tell – but there were a few exceptions. Lanaie was sitting to the Emperor’s left. To his right his cousin Nachia was already seated and waiting. She had changed since last Desh had seen her. She was always a beautiful girl but now she had grown to full womanhood. Her red-blonde hair was falling in curls around her face; the difference between her and her cousin was that her curls were natural, and her cousin’s were the product of rare oils and a hairdresser he desperately wanted to bed. Her eyes were clear and her skin was flawless. Most of the men in the area looked at her with open admiration, but they did so most often when she was not looking at them. Nachia was not a woman known for keeping her tongue.
Desh rather liked the idea of keeping the woman company. Nachia’s claim to the throne was the most legitimate. If anything happened to Pathra before he sired an heir she would likely take the throne. She was not overly concerned about it one way or the other, and that made her the exception. As far as Desh Krohan could tell, Nachia genuinely liked her
cousin, despite the decades of difference in their ages. She had been raised at the Emperor’s side for several years before heading off to her own place on the other side of the great city. Her parents had rudely decided to die at a fairly early age, and left her in Pathra’s care.
Certainly she would have Desh’s backing if something happened. But that didn’t mean there weren’t a dozen others who felt they had claim as well. That was the problem with the Krous family: there were a lot of them and it seemed most believed they should be in charge of the Empire. Pathra didn’t take the threat seriously enough for Desh’s liking. Towdra Krous, a bilious waste of breath as far as Desh was concerned, was even now wandering around and leering at the various members of his family. He didn’t much seem to care if they were male or female. He just leered and pretended to know what everyone was talking about.
Aside from Towdra, most everyone else in the family was at least pretending to behave. Pathra had made clear that this was a very serious situation. He had no intention of letting his family cause an incident. Desh looked at them just the same: Nachia, the heir apparent; her brother Brolley; a few withered men who had once been important and now were merely decorations. The men in question dressed in finery and smiled and nodded at all the right times, but they knew the situation well enough. They were there mostly to show their support for the throne.
Further away from the head of the table a very heavy man – portly, but also muscular – sat scowling at his plate. His hair was also dredged in fine oils and formed into tight curls. Desh scowled. He hated the latest fashion. There had been a time when Laister Krous had been considered a possible heir to the throne, and there were still a few who believed he should be on the throne right at the moment, but his backers lacked the power to place him there when Pathra was younger and the Emperor had done an excellent job of making sure that fact didn’t change.
There were other members of the family there, but mostly they preened and did their best to look at everyone around them without being seen to show any curiosity.
Desh spoke softly as he looked away from the family members. “You’ve met Drask. He seems to be a rather tolerant example of his people.”
Pathra looked at him. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yes.” Desh nodded. “The Sisters assure me that the Sa’ba Taalor are a very direct people and from what they have gleaned, the people as a whole do not appreciate anything but direct answers and brutal honesty.”
Pathra stared at the visitors again. Almost half the seats were occupied by them. There were forty-one in total in the town and they were all present. All of them came offering gifts, and all of them came wearing clothes that seemed positively barren. To be sure, a few sported jewelry, but most wore only simple outfits and even the women wore outfits better suited for farming or riding than for the palace. In comparison the Krous family was wearing insane finery at the very height of fashion. The only exception was Nachia, who wore comfortable clothes that were well-crafted but bordered on being scandalously out of fashion. She liked to walk her own path, and as one of Pathra’s favored relatives she could get away with a great deal.
“Are we sure about this?” The Emperor of the Fellein Empire gestured down the length of his body, which was currently sporting a nice pair of leather breeches and a tunic of blue silk. He did not wear his crown, nor did he cover himself with robes, as was the tradition. The wizard sported his robes as he always did, but they both understood that was for show.
“We discussed this. You want to make these people feel welcome, then you should dress as they do. To do otherwise might well prove insulting to them.”
“And you wear your robes because…?”
“Because half of your family remains in the dark about me and that’s for the best. They don’t need to know more about me than they already do.”
“And I don’t need to wear a veil before these people? Because I would rather not.”
“No. The veil is because their gods have decided we don’t need to know their faces for some reason. It’s not an insult, it’s just the way of their people.”
“It still feels like an insult.”
“They’re a very direct people. If they wanted to insult you, I suspect they would have spit at you or just possibly sent one of those great slavering mounts of theirs to piss on your leg.”
Pathra chuckled. “They are outrageously large things, aren’t they?”
“Do you know they feed on the Pra-Moresh?”
“That’s a terrifying notion by itself.”
“Let’s go, Pathra. It’s time to eat and to meet your new neighbors.”
The Emperor shook his head. “Why do I think I’m going to regret this?”
“You say that whenever your cousins are around.”
“Yes. And I’m normally right.”
“You’re the one that decided not to have them all executed on general principles.”
“You know, I am never quite certain if you’re joking when you say that.”
“You know, neither am I.”
They entered the room and dealt with formalities for nearly twenty minutes. Pathra nodded and listened to half of his family making speeches and praising him, and while that went on, Desh settled himself at his normal location to the right of the Emperor and flirted shamelessly with Nachia. Shamelessly, but subtly, because there are only so many ways you can misbehave in front of the royal family.
He paid better attention when the visitors came forward and introduced themselves. The surprise came from the first man he’d met aside from Drask, the fellow who’d been introduced to him as Tusk. The man was dressed in black breeches and a black tunic. He sported no finery. His presence was enough. Everyone looked at the man as he rose from his seat.
The stranger stood, took four paces toward the throne and bowed formally to the Emperor, his pose flawless, the scars on his body made more prominent as a result of his lack of accessories. There was nothing to hide every wound he’d suffered, except of course for the veil that covered his face below the eyes.
“I am Tuskandru, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem and Obsidian King.” Well, that was a surprise. “I come to you with my brethren, the Sa’ba Taalor. We bear gifts from the Seven Kings in your honor and a hope for a long and lasting friendship.”
He nodded and the first two of his people came forward bearing a metal box of apparently impressive weight. Neither of the men carrying it was small, but they strained with the burden. Once the box was set down the men raised the lid. Inside the crate was a small fortune in gold, presented as a gift from N’Heelis, Chosen of the Forge of Wrommish and King in Gold.
Next the Emperor was offered a shield made of what seemed to be pure silver. The craftsmanship was as brilliant as the metal itself and sported an image of an oak tree planted on a mountain top. A gift from Ganem, Chosen of the forge of Ydramil and King in Silver.
There were more offerings, different metals and different designs. It was the last offering from Tuskandru that stuck out the most. Four of the Sa’ba Taalor brought forth the offering, the skull of a beast, a truly terrifying thing by any account. The head was as long as a man and nearly as tall. The entire thing had been cleaned and preserved, and was adorned with gold and gems. Every surface had been meticulously carved, and even from a distance Desh could see the loving detail that had gone into the work.
Several of the Emperor’s kin looked upon the offering with contempt, but not Pathra. He rose from his seat and walked a slow circuit of the great skull, marveling. Pathra had always loved the idea of traveling, had longed to explore his realm and well beyond it, but had never been given the opportunity.
“What sort of beast is this from, friend Tuskandru?”
Tuskandru – “Tusk” as he corrected – called it a Mound Crawler. “They are glorious enemies. We have only seen two in my lifetime, and they always bring with them great carnage and bloodshed.” Tusk walked to the head and rested one scarred hand on the largest of the canines. There were
rows of the things. “This Crawler came from the Mounds and found entrance into Taalor through the Gate of Durhallem, my kingdom. Once there it killed my father, my uncle, my mother, my brothers, and seventeen of my people.”
Pathra Krous looked at the man with horrified eyes. “I am so very sorry. Your sorrow is mine.”
Tusk nodded brusquely. “Their names and their stories adorn the skull of my enemy. This Mound Crawler earned the name Kingmaker and Kinslayer. Its actions brought it to my attention and so I was forced to kill it. That was when I was made king of my people. I offer this to you as a gift. It is my greatest prize and my greatest sorrow. It is the cause of my pain and my ascension. I ask that you do me the honor of caring for it.”
Pathra Krous looked at Desh Krohan and remembered their earlier conversation. “It is I who am honored by your request, Chosen of the Forge of Durhallem. It is my hope that we will long remain friends and allies.” He offered a formal bow to the king who had come before him and after a moment the king returned the gesture.
And after that there was feasting.
The meal was excellent, some of the finest food that Andover had ever consumed, but he was far more interested in the people he would be joining on their journey back home. All of them had the same odd tint to their skin, though the amount varied. Drask had a strong shade of gray. But Tusk looked to have been rolled in ash in comparison.
Tega sat at the same table during the meal and though she was friendly enough there was a distance between them now. Maybe it was his imagination but it seemed she frowned upon his dubious mercy when it came to his enemies.
That was hardly important. His hands were his now, and Drask assured him that Truska-Pren was satisfied that he had paid the price to keep them.
Blood, yes, but not necessarily lives. He would remember that.
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