“For horses,” Mehen pointed out. “I doubt she’ll be pleased about a fire-breathing hellhound bedding down amongst her prized brood mares.”
Zoonie scratched her ear and sneezed. “Yeah, she’s a killer,” Havilar said dryly. “The stables will be fine for now.”
Until Verthisathurgiesh finds out about you, Mehen thought. Until someone says something cruel or callous or thinks to use you against me. He blew out a breath. His daughters didn’t have to exchange a word to Anala or any of the Verthisathurgiesh clan. Mehen would make it clear he wanted nothing to do with Verthisathurgiesh or Djerad Thymar, and they could be on their way tomorrow.
“I’ll take you,” Dumuzi offered to Havilar. “Then we can all go to the enclave—”
“No,” Mehen said. Dumuzi clamped his mouth shut, stiff and startled. “I mean,” Mehen said, a little more gently, “it’s not necessary for all of us to go tramping through the City-Bastion. I don’t expect this will take long.”
The twins exchanged skeptical glances, which only made Mehen’s resolve firmer. It wouldn’t take long. It couldn’t.
“The stables are on the western edge of the pyramid,” he said. “Dumuzi will give you whatever insignia Anala handed off to him.” He spared a dark look for Dumuzi that all but forced the brass disk etched with Draconic from his pocket and into Farideh’s hand. “After the dog’s settled, wait for me in the …” The Munthrarechi word eluded him. “Tavern,” he decided. “There’s a tavern near there, Reshvemi’s Shield—”
“They can’t go there,” Dumuzi interrupted. “Chaorkartels are for warriors.”
Mehen blinked. The memories of uncountable evenings spent in that chaorkartel, the farthest place in Djerad Thymar from his father’s reach besides the barracks—laughing with his friends, laughing with Arjhani, late into the night—tripped him up. His girls were warriors, he almost said—but no, not by Djerad Thymar’s standards. They were not pierced, they had no status swords, they hadn’t served in the Lance Defenders or killed a dragon.
“I …,” he started. But his memories refused to give him the name of a single other place the twins and Brin could wait, snagged as they were on Reshvemi’s Shield and the taste of watered apple brandy.
“You could wait at, umm, the Horn of Shasphur?” Dumuzi asked. “It’s on the market floor. My cousin owns it—they have the sort of things you like to drink. It’s nice enough,” he said to Mehen.
It’s inside the city, Mehen thought. He held his tongue. They would just be tieflings, travelers, passersby. Kepeshkmolik wouldn’t know who they were either. “Fine,” Mehen said. Then, “You’re not to have whiskey.”
Havilar’s eyes danced. “Too late!” she teased. “It’s our coin now.”
“I think she’s joking,” Dumuzi offered as Zoonie cut a path for the three of them through the crowd of dragonborn. “She’s probably joking. Shall we go?”
Mehen snorted and turned, heading toward the pyramid’s entrance. There were more buildings beyond the city’s massive main structure than he remembered, more people—dragonborn and otherwise—milling around the gates and through the outer city. At a glance, Mehen was left with the impression that the city had become something entirely new.
But as he walked, his eyes would find a chink in the stone, a stain of lichen, a shape of the ground, and he’d suddenly be a boy all over again. It was as if Djerad Thymar were stirring in his blood.
The first time Mehen had ventured into a human city, he’d been struck by the overwhelming sense of the sky. Although there had been comfort to be found in the closeness of people, the embrace of dwellings and shops squeezed against one another, the way everything just stopped around twice or three times his height had been disorienting. Returning didn’t throw him in the same way—it felt right to have the stone over his head again.
In Djerad Thymar, the base of the pyramid city supported a sprawling network of shops and stalls, taverns and offices and homes for those who had displeased their clan. Rather than spreading out, the city ran up the pyramid’s walls, with balcony after balcony jutting out over the city, clan enclaves linked by arching staircases and walkways, all dripping with plants that grew in the magical light that flooded the City-Bastion. More dragonborn than he had seen in twenty years passed by him.
Staring, Mehen realized, at the empty holes along his jaw. One thing that hasn’t changed, Mehen thought. What did he do? their frank gazes wondered. What was worthy of exile? He caught a pair whispering to one another, and glared at them fiercely enough to cut them off.
He looked back over his shoulder, at Dumuzi straggling ten steps behind him as if he hoped not to be noticed by the passersby or by Mehen. Mehen rolled his eyes. “Your task’s almost done,” he said. “Thought you’d quit being skittish by now.”
“You have my apologies,” Dumuzi said, picking up his pace. “Here I … I’ll lead.”
Mehen muttered a curse under his breath as the younger dragonborn pushed past him. He’ll grow out of it, he told himself. Most of us do. And Dumuzi wasn’t his to worry about anyway.
Neither were the girls—Havilar’s rebuke still needled at him. They were grown enough to manage their own coin and their own lives. They didn’t need him like they once did—even Brin didn’t need him anymore, without a network of nobles trying to assassinate him. Once he’d sorted himself out, he’d be fine on his own.
You were someone before you were a father, he thought. If they don’t need you, you can always find something else.
A handsome sellsword was a poor substitute. Even if he still found his thoughts wandering to Yrjixtilex Kallan more often than he was willing to admit.
Done is done, he thought, weaving through the passersby.
Mehen stretched his jaw twice as Dumuzi approached the staircase that led up the pyramid’s northwestern wall, into the enclaves of half a dozen clans—most importantly Verthisathurgiesh. But his thoughts rattled with memories of the Lance Defenders’ barracks, of riding bat-back over the plains, of crossing swords with Uadjit. Of kissing Arjhani. It slid into his thoughts like a knife, the heart-shattering memory of a slim, brassy dragonborn boy in his arms.
The Verthisathurgiesh Enclave’s doors loomed deep into the passages through the thick walls of Djerad Thymar, their enormous faces hung with a mock red dragon skull carved of lusturl root, mottled brown and gleaming and split down the center. The real skull had been lost, they said, when the Blue Fire came, but Verthisathurgiesh’s name was still present many times over in the Hall of Trophies. Mehen wondered if the skull of the green dragon he had killed to finally earn his long sword still hung there, or if Pandjed had destroyed it in his pique. He wouldn’t put anything past the old man, and if he said one word about the girls—
He is dead, Mehen reminded himself as they entered his childhood home. Pandjed is dead and his bones are gathered. He can say nothing at all.
And the girls will stay far, far from here.
Dumuzi stopped in the large entryway and turned to Mehen so suddenly the older man almost crashed into him. “I have to tell you something,” he blurted. “Your forgiveness, I should have told you before, but … I was advised not to, but I suspect Matriarch Anala will have it all out and then you’ll know—”
“Spit it out,” Mehen said with a sigh. A thousand possibilities—none of them mattered. Kepeshkmolik opposed him returning, surely, he thought. Or perhaps the Lance Defenders would not have him—as if it mattered to Mehen. Or maybe—
“I came for you because my father was … he didn’t think it was his place,” Dumuzi said. “But Matriarch Anala sent him at first, and he passed the task to me. To prove myself. But I think also to excuse himself.”
Mehen raised his brows. Bold words from such a correct and proper hatchling. “So you think she’s going to chastise your father.”
Dumuzi shook his head, his tongue fluttering in an agitated way. “If so, she already has,” he said. “I should have told you when I … My father is Verthisathurgiesh Arjhani
.”
Mehen’s heart stuttered, and he saw it. The boy had his mother’s coloring, the steel-blue scales and amber eyes of Kepeshkmolik Uadjit, daughter of Narghon of the line of Shasphur, scion of Kepeshkmolik. But in the shift of his scale ridges, in the crooked shape of his smile, there was a man whose claws still dug into Clanless Mehen’s heart. How had he missed such a thing?
Because for all Arjhani had done, he realized, he could never have expected a slight this deep. He had turned from everything because he loved Arjhani … and then Arjhani had taken his place beside the bride Mehen wouldn’t abandon Arjhani for.
“I see,” Mehen said. Then, “Do the girls know?”
Dumuzi nodded, looking abashed. “I told Farideh, before you returned. And Havilar guessed.”
“She has an eye for such things,” Mehen said, crushing down everything he wanted to say instead. He gestured at the door. “Shall we?”
Dumuzi didn’t move. “Are you angry?”
“You cannot help your parents,” he said, chillier than he meant to. “Farideh told you to hold your tongue, didn’t she?” Dumuzi nodded. “It was wise.” Mehen would have words with her later. “Lead on.”
Let’s get this over with, Mehen thought. An elder who would send Arjhani to find him, to apologize, would have nothing Mehen wanted, so at least he knew that much.
Thirty years had wrought their changes on the clan’s quarters—hangings faded, statues replaced or moved, rugs now lying upon the granite floor. It was as if Mehen moved through a dream, his memories jumbled together into nonsense, while he tried vainly to refit them.
The audience chamber on the other hand, looked exactly as Mehen remembered, the skull of a colossal red dragon hanging high on the slanting outer wall, so that it looked as if the beast bowed its head over the elder’s throne. The floors were uncovered, built of bloodred stone. On every wall, the weapons of past elders hung, testaments to their strength and protection. It had not changed a bit from Mehen’s last day in Djerad Thymar.
His father had sat upon the elder’s throne, all the gray-scaled aunties and uncles arrayed around him, cheated of the patriarch’s position by their line and their own elders. A potent audience for the scion of Khorsaya’s line.
I don’t wish to marry Kepeshkmolik Uadjit.
Your wishes don’t enter into it, you spoilt hatchling. The agreement is made. You live at my pleasure. You will wed her, or you will be no son of mine.
Verthisathurgiesh Anala did not sit upon the elder’s throne, but stood over a stack of scrolls on a table to the side, a filmy wrap draped over her shoulders. Her greatsword lay across the throne in her place. She had the height Mehen and his father had inherited, but not the bulk. Lithe and loose-limbed, her scales the color of damp brick, and her plumes nearly black and hanging neatly to her shoulders, Pandjed’s youngest sister seemed not to have aged a day.
Dumuzi started to speak an introduction. No more than a syllable had crossed his teeth but Anala raised her head, eyes bright, and clapped her hands.
“Mehen,” she said warmly. “You came.”
“I’ve … I found …,” Dumuzi stumbled.
“Thank you, Dumuzi. You are a credit to your sire’s line. Give your clan our deepest appreciations for your help,” Anala said with a polite bow. “And if you see your father, kindly remind him of your success.”
The younger dragonborn nodded. “Thank you.” Dumuzi’s eyes darted to Mehen again, and Mehen’s annoyance at the boy softened slightly. But Dumuzi turned and fled the room before Mehen could think of a single thing to say.
Anala crossed to him without warning and embraced Mehen tightly, rubbing the frill of her jaw against his shoulder. “You won’t want to hear it, but it must be said: You look exactly like your father.” She held him at arm’s length, dropping her voice. “Though, I do hope you’re happier than he was. Miserable old henish.”
“That’s not hard, but I think I’ve managed it.”
“Please sit. May I offer you some refreshments?” Mehen didn’t answer and didn’t sit. Anala poured two glasses of something ruby colored and steaming from a clay teapot. “You must be buzzing with questions.”
“Not really,” Mehen said. “I’ll save you the trouble. I’m not coming back.”
Anala smiled. “You always were a stubborn one. I agreed with your father about that much. Have a drink and talk a bit if you’re so sure you won’t change your mind. Give an old woman the comfort of hearing her favorite nephew is well.”
Mehen took up the cup from the table. “How did he die?”
Anala’s smile fell from her eyes. “Pandjed? An excess of bile, one presumes. It caused a heartstop and he didn’t recover.”
Mehen recalled his powerful, furious father and imagined the old man clutching his broad chest, imagined the roars, imagined him looking for someone to blame death on.
“Should have seen that coming,” Mehen said.
“I wish I could say he mentioned you at the end,” Anala said. “But we both know that would be untrue and unkind to you.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Mehen said. “Pandjed’s regrets don’t matter to me.” He drained the cup—a mild wine, heavy with spices that bloomed up more memories. You couldn’t find these in Cormyr. “How’d you end up matriarch? If I recall, Pandjed didn’t love you either.”
Now her eyes smiled. “Nor did he hate me. I annoyed him—every day of my life—but I never angered him, never enough to warrant exile. When he lay on his deathbed, he had me and a great bunch of pothachi and hatchlings to choose from.” She set her cup down, leaned against the table. “Between you and me,” she said in conspiratorial tones, “he’s left us in quite the bind. Verthisathurgiesh is damaged, no doubt, and every other clan marks it.”
“So you want me to come back,” Mehen finished. He sat in the chair beside the table, to spare his tired knees. “Shore up your numbers. That didn’t work out so well for Pandjed.”
“I’m only asking for you,” Anala promised. “You represent, Mehen, the days before Pandjed’s anger twisted us. The glorious young scion returned. That’s more than enough, and—selfishly—it would do my heart good to know you weren’t out in the wilds. Although,” she added, sitting against the table,” I won’t say no to more eggs. Maybe we’ll find you a handsome fellow with an over-fertile sister or cousin. Broker something clever.”
“What would the other clans say to that?”
“Does it matter? I want to remind the others, after all, that Verthisathurgiesh has always adapted when others made themselves stagnant. Besides, I suspect that you aren’t the only one who’d prefer a marriage brokered that way.”
Mehen studied the matriarch, wondering if she meant to surprise him, or entice him. Wondering, briefly, if Kallan had sisters, before he brushed it aside. Anala wouldn’t catch him off guard like that.
“I think you’ll find I’m less of a catch for Verthisathurgiesh than ever before.”
“Ah, Mehen,” Anala said. “I think you’ll find Verthisathurgiesh less choosy than ever before. What is it you’ve done that’s so insurmountable?”
The doors to the rest of the enclave squealed open, and a rusty-colored dragonborn man came flailing through them. When he caught sight of Anala, he skidded to a stop, making a hasty bow.
“Matriarch Anala!” he said, breathless. “There’s been a … a crime, a terrible crime! Baruz is dead! Murdered!” He glanced at Mehen, at the missing piercings, as if realizing how incautious he’d just been, and then continued anyway. “You must come. Right now. It’s terrible.”
Anala became still, as if her whole spirit had left her, as if she were the one to discover the murdered body of Verthisathurgiesh Baruz, her third-hatched son, and not this stranger. She was not the matriarch in that moment, and Mehen watched her, just as still, just as startled, his heart aching as it wrapped itself in memories, warding off the imaginary pain of losing his own children.
Baruz. Baruz had been just a baby when he left, just start
ing to walk, overbalancing on his clawed toes. Mehen could remember minding him and his two clutchmates in the summer before he left—knowing Pandjed would have said that wasn’t a warrior’s task. Pulling faces and making puppets of dollies, the same way he would for the twins, years later. Baruz had laughed loudest, always.
“Matriarch Anala?” the frantic man said. “Please?”
“Of course,” Anala said, her voice shifted, as if she were speaking through the mask of Verthisathurgiesh. She turned to Mehen. “I … I have to take care of this. Would you … Would you mind—”
“I’ll come with you,” Mehen said, standing.
“That’s not necessary,” Anala said. “You’re a guest.”
“That’s not what you were saying a moment ago,” Mehen said, taking his aunt by the arm. “This is what I do now. A bounty hunter. If someone’s … If Verthisathurgiesh has been wronged,” he amended, sliding into that safer, less personal position, “I can find them. Get you justice.”
Anala nodded, her expression closing swiftly as the enclave’s heavy doors. “I’ll pay,” she said, and named a sum that meant nothing to Mehen in that moment, snarled as he was between the past and the present. Imagining Baruz the hatchling and the twins’ in the same moment. Imagining the agony of hearing his daughters were gone.
“We’ll discuss it,” Mehen said. “Maybe you should stay here.”
“No,” Anala said, retrieving her arm. “I am Verthisathurgiesh. I need to be present. But I’d be glad to have you with me,” she added softly. She nodded to the young man, “Lead on.”
Mehen followed her from the enclave, all thoughts of fleeing Djerad Thymar pushed aside as death made him a member of Verthisathurgiesh once more.
TURN. TURN. DOWN into the shadows. Blood smells so sweet, so thick—no, must follow orders, must find the—oh such fury, such passion. Just a taste, just a morsel, just one more …
No, no, no. These must be enough for now. More later. More soon. Too many eyes and too many weapons mean meanness. Mean using what you have.
Ashes of the Tyrant Page 3
