Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  Abban worked hard to keep his face and stance relaxed as he watched the warriors surround the warehouse, but his jaw was tight. He had begged Jayan to let him send his Hundred for the delicate mission instead of the dal’Sharum, but was dismissed out of hand. There was too much glory to be had.

  The massive dockfront warehouse had great windows facing the three great piers jutting into the water like a trident. The local merchant prince, Dockmaster Isa, had reportedly barricaded himself and his guards inside.

  According to Abban’s spies, the dockmasters were the real power in Lakton. Duke Reecherd was the strongest of them, but unless there was a tie, his vote had little more weight than any other.

  “You shame him with that task,” Qeran said.

  Abban turned to the approaching drillmaster, who was nodding at Earless. The rest of Abban’s Hundred ranged all over the town, surveying and preparing reports.

  “Earless is one of the finest close fighters I have ever seen,” Qeran went on, free with his praise, knowing the warrior could not hear him. “He should be out killing alagai, not shading a fat khaffit afraid of a little sun.”

  Admittedly, the kha’Sharum, seven feet of roped muscle and bristling with weapons, did look a bit foolish holding the delicate paper parasol over Abban. Mute, he could not protest, not that Abban would have cared. He thought he knew sun after a lifetime in the Krasian desert, but the refection off the lake water was something else entirely.

  “I pay my kha’Sharum very well, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “If I wish them to put on a woman’s colored robes and do the pillow dance, they would be wise to do it with a smile.”

  Abban turned back to watch the Sharum kick in the doors and storm the warehouse. Bows were fired from the second and third floor windows. Most deflected off round warded shields, but here and there a warrior screamed and fell.

  Still the warriors pressed, bottlenecking at the door. Above, a cask of oil was dumped on their heads, followed by a torch, immolating a dozen men. Half of them were wise enough to run off the pier and leap into the water, but the rest stumbled about screaming, setting others alight. Their warrior brethren were forced to turn spears on them.

  “If he has half a brain,” Abban said, “Earless prefers the parasol.”

  It was the first real organized resistance Jayan’s men had encountered, killing and wounding more warriors than the rest of the town combined. But there were hundreds of Sharum and only a handful of Isa’s guards. They were quickly overwhelmed and the fires extinguished before they could destroy the grand building Jayan had already claimed as his Docktown palace.

  “Everam,” Abban said, “if ever you have heard my pleas, let them bring the dockmaster out alive.”

  “I spoke to the men just before the assault,” Qeran said. “These are Spears of the Deliverer. They will not fail in their duty just because a few men were sent down the lonely path. Those men died with honor and will soon stand before Everam to be judged.”

  “The best trained dog will bite unbidden if pressed,” Abban said.

  Qeran grunted, the usual sign he was swallowing offense. Abban shook his head. Sharum were full of bold speeches about honor, but they lived by their passions, and seldom thought past the moment. Would they know the dockmaster from one of his guards?

  The clear signal was given, and Abban, Qeran, and Earless moved in to join the Sharum Ka as the prisoners were brought out.

  A cluster of women came first. Most of them were in long dresses of fine cloth in the greenland fashion. Whorish by Krasian standards, but demure by their own. Abban could tell by their hair and jewels that these were women of good breeding or marriage, used to luxury. They were largely unspoiled, but through no mercy of the warriors. Jayan would be given his pick of the youngest, and the rest would be divided by his officers.

  A few of the women were dressed in breeches like men. These bore bruises, but their clothing was intact.

  The same could not be said of the chin guards marched through the doors next. The men had been stripped in shame, arms bound behind them around spear shafts. The dal’Sharum drove them outside with kicks, shoves, and leather straps.

  But they were alive. It gave Abban hope that this once, the Sharum might exceed his low expectations.

  Some women watched the scene in horror, but most turned away, sobbing. One, a strong woman in her middle years, watched with hard eyes. She was dressed in men’s clothing, but of fine cut and quality. Other women clutched at her for support.

  The warriors kicked chin’s knees out and put boots to their naked backs, holding their heads to the ground in submission as Jayan approached.

  “Where is the dockmaster?” Jayan demanded in accented but understandable Thesan.

  Hasik knelt before him. “We have searched the entire building, Sharum Ka. There is no sign of him. He must have disguised himself among the fighting men.”

  “Or escaped,” Abban said. Hasik glared at him, but he could not deny the possibility.

  Jayan approached a man at random, kicking him so hard the man was flipped onto his back. He squirmed, naked and helpless, but his face was defiant as Jayan put the point of his spear to the man’s heart.

  “Where is the dockmaster?” he demanded.

  The guard spat at him, but his angle was wrong, and the spittle landed on his own naked belly. “Suck my cock you desert rat!”

  Jayan nodded to Hasik, who gleefully kicked the man between the legs until his sandals were bloody and there was nothing left to suck.

  “Where is the Dockmaster?” Jayan asked again, when his screams had turned to whimpers.

  “Go to the Core!” the man squeaked.

  Jayan sighed, putting his spear through the man’s chest. He turned to the next in line, and Hasik kicked this one onto his back as well. The man was weeping openly as Jayan stood over him. “Where is the dockmaster?”

  The man groaned through his teeth, tears streaking his face. The boardwalk grew wet around him. Jayan leapt back in horrified disgust. “Pathetic dog!” he growled, drawing back his spear to thrust.

  “ENOUGH!”

  All eyes turned to the speaker. The woman in fine men’s clothing had broken away from the others to come forward a step. “I am Dockmaster Isadore.”

  “Mistress, no!” one of the bound men cried. He tried to get to his feet, but a heavy kick put him back down.

  Isadore? Abban thought.

  Jayan laughed. “You?! A woman?” He strode over and grabbed the woman by the throat. “Tell me where the dockmaster is, or I will crush the life from you.”

  The woman seemed unfazed, meeting his savage stare. “I told you, I am the dockmaster, you ripping savage.”

  Jayan snarled and began to squeeze. The woman kept her defiant stare a few moments longer, but then her face began to redden, and she pulled helplessly at Jayan’s arm.

  “Sharum Ka!” Abban called.

  All eyes turned to him, Jayan never losing his grip on the woman, supporting her by her throat as the strength left her legs. Khevat and Hasik especially watched him, ready to strike at the first sign of Jayan’s disfavor.

  Abban was not beyond kneeling when it was called for, and quickly lowered himself, hands and eyes on the wooden boardwalk. “The ways of the greenlanders are strange, Most Honored Sharum Ka. I heard the dockmaster’s name as Isa. This woman, Isadore, may be telling the truth.”

  He left unsaid the words he had hammered into the boy privately. The dockmaster was worth far more alive than dead.

  Jayan gave the woman an appraising look, then released her. She fell purple-faced to the boardwalk, coughing and gasping for air. He pointed his spear at her.

  “Are you Dockmaster Isa?” he demanded. “Know that if I find you have lied to me, I will put every man, woman, and child in this chin village to the spear.”

  “Isa was my father,” the woman said, “dead six winters today. I am Isadore, and took his seat after the funeral barge was burned.”

  Jayan stared at her, cons
idering, but Abban, who had been watching the other prisoners as well, was already convinced.

  “Sharum Ka,” he said. “You have taken Docktown for the Skull Throne. Is it not time to raise the flag?”

  Jayan looked at him. This was a plan they had discussed in detail. “Yes,” he said at last.

  Horns were blown, and the Sharum drove the captured chin villagers toward the docks at spearpoint to watch as Dockmaster Isadore was marched to the flagpole and made to lower the Laktonian flag—a great three-masted sailing vessel on a field of blue—and raise the Krasian standard, spears crossed before the setting sun.

  It was a purely symbolic gesture, but an important one. Jayan could now spare the remainder of her entourage, and accede her status as a princess of the chin without appearing weak.

  “A woman,” Jayan said again. “This changes everything.”

  “Everything, and nothing, Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “Man or woman, the dockmaster has information and connections, and her treatment will influence those in power in the city on the lake. Let the powerful think they will keep their titles and holdings, and they will deliver their own people to us on a platter.”

  “What is the point of taking the city, if I let the chin keep it?” Jayan asked.

  “Taxes,” Khevat said.

  Abban bowed in agreement. “Let the chin keep their boats and bend their backs to the fishing nets. But when they come to your dock, three of every ten fish will belong to you.”

  Jayan shook his head. “This dockmistress can keep her title, but the fish will be mine. I will take her as Jiwah Sen.”

  “Sharum Ka, these are savages!” Khevat cried. “Surely you cannot truly mean to taint your divine blood with the camel’s piss that runs in the veins of chin.”

  Jayan shrugged. “I have a Kaji son and Jiwah Ka to carry on my blood. My father knew how to tame the chin, as he did with the tribes of Krasia. Become one with them. His mistake was in letting Mistress Leesha keep her title before she accepted, giving her liberty to refuse. I will not be so foolish.”

  Abban coughed nervously. “Sharum Ka, I must agree with the great Dama Khevat, whose wisdom is known throughout all Krasia. Your father acknowledged Mistress Leesha’s title and gave her liberty, for a child’s claim to her power depended upon that legitimacy. If she only has the title you give her, then she has no title for you to claim.”

  Jayan rolled his eyes. “Talk and worry, worry and talk. It’s all you old men do. Sharak Ka will be won with action.”

  Abban turned his own eye roll away as Khevat took a turn.

  “She is too old, in any event.” Khevat spoke as if the very words were foul upon his tongue. “Twice your age, or I’m a Majah.”

  Jayan shrugged. “I have seen women older than her with child.” His eyes flicked to Asavi. “It can be done. Yes, Dama’ting?”

  Abban’s eyes flicked to Asavi, waiting for the dama’ting put an end to this foolishness.

  Instead, Asavi nodded. “Of course. The Sharum Ka is wise. There is no greater power than the blood. A child of your blood put upon the dockmistress will make the town yours.”

  Abban hid his gape. It was terrible advice, and would add months at least to their siege of Lakton. What was the dama’ting playing at? Was she purposely undermining Jayan? Abban would not fault her for it. Everam, he would willingly help, but not without knowing the plan. He was used to being a player and not a pawn.

  “At least let me negotiate the terms,” Abban said. “A short delay, for appearances’ sake. A month at most, and I can deliver …”

  “There is nothing to negotiate and no need for delay,” Jayan said. “She and all her holdings will be my property. The contract will be signed tonight, or neither she nor her court will see the dawn.”

  “This will inflame the chin,” Abban said.

  Jayan laughed aloud. “What of it? These are chin, Abban. They do not fight.”

  “I do.” Dockmaster Isadore wept as she said the words.

  Abban’s spies had worked frantically, learning everything he could about the woman before the ceremony. Her husband had been among the men who fell protecting her. Abban had told this to Jayan in hope the fool boy would at least leave give her the seven days to grieve as prescribed in the Evejah.

  But the Sharum Ka would hear no reason. He eyed the woman like a nightwolf eyeing the oldest sheep in the herd. He had warmed to the idea of taking her this very night, and would not be swayed. When he thought no one was watching him, he squeezed himself through his robes.

  Ah, to be nineteen and stiff at the very idea of a woman, Abban lamented. I don’t even remember the feeling.

  Isadore had children, as well. Two sons, both ship captains already bound for Lakton when Jayan’s forces struck. They would keep the line hard against the Krasians, knowing Jayan must kill them to assure title for his son—should he manage to get one on the aging woman with the aid of Asavi’s spells.

  The two moved to the pitiful excuse for a contract. Krasian marriage contracts typically filled a long scroll. Those signed by Abban’s daughters were often several scrolls long, each page signed and witnessed.

  Jayan and Isadore’s contract was barely a paragraph. As he promised, Jayan had negotiated nothing, taking all and offering Isadore only her title—and the lives of her people.

  Isadore bent to dip the quill, and Jayan tilted his head to admire the curve of her back. He squeezed his robes again, and everyone, including Khevat himself, dropped their eyes, pretending to ignore it.

  And in that moment, Isadore struck. Ink splashed across the parchment like alagai ichor as she spun and leapt at Jayan, burying the sharp quill in his eye.

  “Stop moving, if you ever hope to see again,” Asavi snapped. It was a tone few would ever dare take with the young Sharum Ka, but his mother had instilled a deep fear of the dama’ting in Jayan, and Asavi was his aunt in all but blood.

  Jayan nodded, gritting his teeth as Asavi used a delicate pair of silver tweezers to pull the last slivers of feather from his eye.

  The Sharum Ka was soaked in blood, little of it his own. When Jayan at last turned from the altar, panting and growling like an animal, the feather that jutted from his eye bled remarkably little.

  The same could not be said for Dockmaster Isadore. Abban never ceased to marvel at how much blood a human body could contain. It would be days before Khevat’s nie’dama servants could clean it sufficiently for Khevat to formally reconsecrate the temple as Everam’s and begin indoctrination of the chin.

  “I will take a thousand chin eyes, if I lose this one,” Jayan swore. He hissed as Asavi dug deep. “Even if not. There will not be a two-eyed fish man left before I am through.”

  He glared at Abban, Qeran, and Khevat with his one good eye, daring them to argue. Daring them to even hint that this might be his own fault for not listening to their advice. He was like a dog looking for someone to bite, and everyone in the room knew it. They all kept their eyes down and mouths shut as Asavi worked.

  This test is for you alone, Sharum Ka, Abban thought. It will temper you, or it will unleash you.

  It was not difficult to lay odds on which it would be. If any were fool enough to take the bet, Abban would stake his fortune on the lake turning red in the spring.

  “This would be easier if you would let me give you a sleeping potion,” Asavi said.

  “NO!” Jayan shouted, but he shrank back from the glare Asavi gave in return. “No,” he said more calmly, regaining control. “I will embrace the pain, that I may remember it always.”

  Asavi looked at him skeptically. Most dama’ting patients were not given a choice when hora magic was to be used, sedated heavily so they would remember nothing and not interfere with the delicate work.

  But Jayan grew up in a palace where hora magic was used constantly, his father famous for his refusal of sedation while his injuries were tended.

  “As you wish,” Asavi said, “but the sun is approaching. If we do not power the spell before then,
you will lose the eye.”

  The slivers removed, Asavi carefully cleansed the wound. Jayan’s hands and feet clenched, but his breathing was steady and he did not move. Asavi took a razor to his eyebrow, clearing a path for her wardings.

  “Hang what remains of the chin whore’s body beneath the new flag at dawn,” Jayan said when the dama’ting turned to ready her brush and paint.

  Qeran bowed. Jayan had made his father’s teacher one of his advisors, knowing it gave him further legitimacy in the eyes of the warriors. “It will be done, Sharum Ka.” He hesitated a moment as Asavi began her work. “I will prepare the men in case the chin find their spines and attack.” It was an old drillmaster’s trick, giving instructions to an inexperienced kai in the form of following assumed commands.

  “What is to prepare?” Jayan snapped. “We will see their sails long before they get close enough to threaten us. The docks and shallows will run red.”

  Asavi pinched Jayan’s face. “Every time you speak, you weaken a ward, and I do not have time to draw them again.”

  Qeran remained in his bow. “It will be as the Sharum Ka says. I will send messengers to your brothers on the road, asking them to send reinforcements.”

  “My brothers will be here in less than a month,” Jayan said. “I have taken the chin’s measure. I will go to the abyss if we cannot hold this tiny village that long against them.”

  “May I at least install scorpions on the docks?” Qeran asked.

  “Have them ready to poke those ships full of holes.” Jayan nodded.

  “Nie’s black heart!” Asavi shouted, as his nod smeared her warding. “Everyone not missing an eye get out!”

  Qeran dipped lower in his bow, using the steel of his leg to spring upright. Abban and Khevat were already moving for the door, but Qeran reached it in time to hold it for them.

  Jayan refused sleep, pacing out the sunrise in front of the great window as his advisors watched nervously. Even Jurim and Hasik kept their distance.

  The Sharum Ka’s eye was clouded white. He could see blurred shapes, as through a filthy window, but little more.