37
Ott was absent from the barrel-vaulted chamber at the heart of the Hall of Ministers. It was late in the day, but Sarra had somehow expected to find him at one of the tables, toiling away amid a stack of scrolls. He was always working, or so he claimed. She tapped impatiently on one of the desks. A weary-eyed minister lifted his gaze from a cracked roll of parchment.
“Have you seen Geta, the priest with the crutch? Curious fellow, bandaged hand, always working?”
The man tipped his stylus toward the ceiling and cocked an eyebrow, indicating the upper chambers. The rooms at the topmost level of the hall were once reserved for the emperors and their audiences. They were lavish in detail, grand in scale. Sarra kept an office in one.
She found her way up a broad stair, passed a waiting room, and another one after that. The walls of these slender chambers were each adorned in a different stone, agate in the first, sardonyx in the second. Both were similar stones, translucent in nature, shining, and lined with a thousand undulating stripes of white and brown, or sometimes black with a hint of blue and red. The beauty of the place made the guard at the carved wooden door seem out of place. She was unaccustomed to the presence of sentries within the House of Ministers. The yellow cloaks stood outside. They guarded the doors, but the men were not permitted to venture inside. The scrolls and tablets compiled by the ministers were often of a sensitive nature, so access was strictly regulated. Apparently, someone had made an exception.
“Ott posted you at this door?” she asked.
The man grunted, which was, perhaps, the extent of his language skills. He was dressed in the white linen of a priest, but he was no holy man. She knew that much from his appearance. His muscled physique belonged to the streets, as did the odor of his body.
“You may want to wash a bit more regularly if you’re going to impersonate a priest,” she said. “We do it on first and seventh bell and we make sure the same is done with our linens. Wet them and soak them in natron if you want them to look right. Ask a washerman about it, or better yet, hire one. I assume you are well paid?” She flashed some semblance of a grin, enough to make the man nod. “Now move,” she said. “I have business with your master.”
The man hesitated. He’d clearly been instructed to turn back any that might approach the chamber.
“Have you ever heard of a vessel?” she asked.
“Like … a pot … or something?” He did his best to reply.
“Yes, like that. It is something that contains something else. I am a vessel of Mithra-Sol. As the right hand of Tolemy, I hold a piece of His light. When you bar my path, you are barring a vessel of Mithra-Sol. Not a smart thing to do, is it? Should some of his light spill from that vessel—are you following me—I would not expect you to survive.”
“I … understand Your Rayship, if that be the right title. I was only … followin’ orders and I didn’t recognize you … at first. You’ll forgive me…”
“I might, if you get out of the way,” she said, flashing a small grin once more.
At that he did move, though just a bit, as if he could not allow himself to do more.
Sarra slipped past the man.
Inside, scribes sat at trestle tables, translating old tablets or deciphering scrolls. A map occupied the south wall. It was stretched on a wooden frame and it appeared to contain a chart of Solus, complete in every detail, but difficult to follow. The parchment was impossibly thin, and there was another sheet behind it. A map beneath the map, and this one she did not recognize. The shapes of the second conformed roughly to the ones of the first, but in places they diverged or there were only columns indicated where a structure stood in full on the upper map. There were great streams, buildings, too, and places marked with characters drawn in kohl. She recognized the symbols, which belonged to the gods’ forgotten tongue. Ott held Noll’s translation of the script, but Sarra had requested a copy, which she studied from time to time.
Above what she guessed was the temple of Re, she saw the familiar character that indicated the House of Stones and Stars. In another place, one she guessed was the Mundus of Ceres, a black mark stood in bold relief against the map. The mark meant “king.” The king in black, thought Sarra. She cocked an eyebrow when she saw it.
“I see you’ve found my maps. Impressive, aren’t they?” The voice belonged to Ott. He stood a few paces from the entrance, balancing on his crutch, a drop of sweat on his brow. She guessed he’d just completed a long walk. The hem of his robe was black with soot, his sandals brown with mud, toes stained. It had been a very long walk indeed, and she guessed it had been through the Hollows.
“Yes,” she said, answering his question, “they’re quite impressive, though I’m not certain they have anything to do with the task I assigned to you. I asked you to learn more about Noll and that chamber in the Shambles, about the children of Mithra-Sol, the descendants of Re and Pyras.”
“I’ve done that,” said Ott.
“Really? It looks like a map of the sewers. That’s what this is, isn’t it? A drawing of the Hollows. I’ve never truly seen one. Some must exist, but I doubt one of this detail has ever been attempted. It’s like mapping an ant hive. There’s no logic to the thing.”
Sarra again took note of Ott’s dirty sandals, the map, and the many scribes. She had allowed him to work unsupervised, and this was the result. Fifty or more men toiled in the chamber, and there were another seventy or so who were, in all likelihood, digging tunnels. She wondered how much coin he’d wasted on this folly.
“Get your scribes out of here, and I don’t want them listening at the door,” she said, then changed her mind and decided to do it herself. She was Ray; she might as well exert her will. “All of you. Out of here. Now,” she said in loud but carefully enunciated words, ones she needed not repeat. The last man out sealed the door.
Ott stuttered, trying to form words, but nothing of substance came to his lips.
“Are you going to admit the truth, or must I say it for you?” Sarra asked.
She waited, but Ott gave no reply. He is going to make me say it.
“I’ve had you followed, through the Hollows, and these passages you’ve excavated.”
She tore off the upper layer of the drawing, revealing the map of the underground.
“House of the king, isn’t that what this symbol indicates?” She pointed to the black mark. “A bit presumptuous—isn’t it? He’s a bastard. You’re the heir. The bastard boy calls himself king, and I suppose this sewer is his castle, his attendants a bunch of dead men. Still, it is good to confirm the location of his hideout. He is, after all, the boy who cannot be found, this Bane of Solus—isn’t that what they call him? He’s confounded Mered, desecrated temples, looted markets. I might have allowed this to go on for a bit longer had he not murdered my only ally. What do you say to that? This work of yours almost wrecked me. You are assisting Rennon Hark-Wadi, the bastard of Harkana? Say it.”
“I…” Ott stammered, which was answer enough for Sarra. She had given Ott coin and the freedom to do with it as he pleased, and he had betrayed her cause. “Ren didn’t murder Kihl,” said Ott. “You were there … you saw it. The men were a poor imitation of the kingsguard. They weren’t even Harkans.”
“You miss the point. You gave shelter to our foe.” She indicated the temple, the black mark. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them popped through that door right now and lopped off one of our heads. That’s their game, but they aren’t going to win it. Their end is a foregone conclusion. You saved them from Mered, but not from me. There’s no way out of Solus. The passages are sealed; the army sits in waiting. We may not have a Protector, but we have an army. There are thousands upon thousands of soldiers quartered outside the city and only a handful of Harkans within it. You’re torturing them. Is that not apparent? Let them die a quick death. It’s the only real favor you can offer the black shields.”
“I … can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t … do that,” said Ott. Droplets of sweat
blossomed on his forehead and pooled at his eyes, making them red. “You’re right, they should’ve died in that cistern … but I stopped it. I saved Ren. He is safe.”
“If only that were the truth,” she said plainly, knowingly. This next part would be particularly difficult for her son.
“What do you mean?” Ott asked, his voice quickening, the stuttering gone. “What’re you going to do?”
“Going to do?” asked Sarra. “I’m not going to do anything. I’ve already done it. I had you followed. This map simply confirms what my priests told me this morning. The Harkans hide in the Well of Horu. Their location is revealed. Don’t you see what this means for us? We’ll be the ones who dispatched the Bane of Solus. Not Mered. It’s a chance for us to show power and influence. We’ll take the boy, then we’ll end Barca’s revolt. My men say your sister, Merit, has joined with the rebel, strengthening his cause and making his force too large for Mered’s house army to dispatch. Only the well-trained soldiers of the Protector are fit for such a conflict. I’ll find a new man to command them and we’ll stamp out the revolt. Even if we fail at the task, it’ll hardly matter. I alone have the power to bargain with Merit; she’s my daughter and I recently saved her from a rather unpleasant encounter with the haruspex. She owes me. I will find my victory, and I will have you to thank for it.”
“I … you can’t do this. Ren’ll think I betrayed him, that I led the city guard—”
“To him? Didn’t you? The Harkans were always careful and quick. They left no trails, but you are an entirely different story. A lone boy hobbling with a crutch in the darkness. Did you not think you would be noticed? That white robe glowing in the black? Don’t worry,” she said, “Ren was always a dead man. Dead since the day he came to Solus. Dead as that body beneath the still-smoldering Antechamber.”
Ott wrinkled his lip, making her guess that last line may have been in poor taste, and perhaps it was. He tugged at the door with his good hand while still balancing on his crutch. The door creaked open.
“What’re you doing?” she asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m sending a man to warn Ren.”
“You don’t grasp the situation. It’s too late to warn him. I’ve already sent the city guard to the temple. They’re on their way. I would not have come here unless the task was done. I’m no fool.”
“Is that what you think I am? Some fool, some pet you’ve kept closeted for all these years?”
“You’re my son.”
Ott gripped the door, swinging it wide with unexpected force. The crutch twisted beneath him and it slipped, sending Ott tumbling to his knees, where he knelt, chest heaving. He drew in a great snot-filled gasp and looked up at her, eyes watering. “He’s my brother, my … my friend—I think. I had a pair of friends once, from Rachis. The only others I’ve known are the beggars I feed in the plaza.”
You have me, Sarra wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She knew the hurt she’d caused.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, almost reverently, as if she were already speaking of the dead. “There was no other way.”
Ott fumbled for his crutch. Taking hold of it, he righted himself once more and headed out the door.
“You’re not going after him, are you? The task is done,” she said.
“I don’t care.”
“It’ll be a terrible mess down there,” she said. “You shouldn’t go, not alone. Mistakes are easily made in battles. You don’t want to find yourself on the wrong side of the line.”
“Don’t you understand?” Ott leveled his gaze at Sarra. “I’ve already crossed it.”
38
The Blackwood Bridge groaned beneath the weight of twenty or thirty destriers, the mighty timbers flexing as the great warhorses thundered their way across. Merit rode with the forward guard. They made their way through the open gates of the city, past war-riddled streets and rows of dead soldiers. They found little resistance in the outer districts. Her cavalrymen cut down a dozen soldiers, maybe less. The people of Harwen had fought the real battle—that much was plain. Their bodies littered every street and alley; the dead clogged the very roads they trod upon. The people of Harwen had waged what looked like a quick but bloody fight, clearing the path for Merit to ride unmolested through the inner city, all the way up to the gates of the Hornring itself.
“Shields,” cried Merit as they entered the tunnel that would carry them past the fortifications, but the men had already raised them up above their heads. The vault was littered with murder holes, but no arrows flew from the slender openings. Unchallenged, they rode out of the long passageway and into the Hornring, Harwen’s keep, a look of naked triumph on their faces. They’d met almost no opposition and now, as they rode into the great courtyard, they saw the reason for it. When they came upon the field of battle, Merit traded her joy for something altogether different. Dread perhaps, horror in all likelihood.
Body lay upon body, thousands of them resting where they’d fallen. Everywhere she looked there were commoners with common weapons, men who’d fought with hooks and hoes, shovels and potsherds. They’d brawled with the red army and triumphed, but they’d done it through sheer numbers. There was no military genius here, no cunning. The entire city had risen up and it looked, for a moment, as if the whole of the city had fallen upon some sword or spear. Merit had never seen such carnage. It was total. The bodies lay in heaps so dense they eclipsed the cobblestones. Tomen slipped from his horse and kneeled, bowing his head while his captain coughed up the contents of his last meal.
Merit searched for Shenn. She looked for a head upon a spike or some similar vulgarity, but she saw none. There was, however, movement among the bodies. A man stood, hand pressed to his bloody chest. He could not speak. He simply pointed toward the King’s Hall, waving them onward. Merit would have followed his direction, but there was no way to ride through the courtyard without treading upon the dead.
“Come,” said Tomen. “We’ll go on foot from here.”
Merit slipped from her horse and drew her blade.
“Are you certain you want to march with us?” Tomen asked. “There may well be soldiers left alive, men who guard the false king. This is the end for them, and desperate men are known for desperate measures. There’s no telling what’ll happen in the throne room.”
“I know as much,” said Merit, “but I need to be there. I have to be the one who holds the sword to his chest, and there is still the matter of my husband. We haven’t seen him or his head. Perhaps he lives, maybe your men…”
Tomen grunted bitterly, “Shenn’s the least of my worries. Harkana has an abundance of kings. If you lose your head…”
“I know the risks, so make certain I’m safe, Tomen. Now, march!”
With that, the Harkans did march, making their way into the Hornring’s inner chambers, picking through the bodies, trying not to step on the dead. Up ahead, sounds echoed in a nearby chamber, men cried out, and wood broke upon iron. The fight was nearly upon them, and Merit was close to the head of the charge. She peered over shoulders and shields, glimpsing the damage as they swept from corridor to corridor, stepping over more bodies, more dead and wounded. The Hornring was utterly upended. Every chair and table lay broken or shattered. There were more bodies than any man could count, all of them bearing improvised weapons, shards of glass made into daggers or the legs of chairs turned to spears in the haste of battle. In places, the people of Harwen had barricaded themselves behind stacks of tables. None of it saved them from Mered’s spears. As Merit and her army played games in the desert, a terrible battle had raged across the Hornring. The blood was still fresh, still warm. Among the dead, there were those who clung to life, jerking about and crying, missing limbs bleeding out upon the stones. She wanted to go to them, to order her men to tend to their wounds, but the march could not be stopped. Dozens of soldiers charged ahead of her and hundreds shoved at her from behind. None would halt. All of them drove forward, toward the entrance to the King’s Hall, a pair of
doors, wide open, a yawning mouth at the corridor’s end.
Merit leapt across the threshold; men dashed past her on all sides. In her father’s hall, the false king stood upon the throne. Men with tall shields encircled the platform, while archers and spearmen stood upon the dais. A hundred or so commoners gathered around the false king’s men, throwing themselves haplessly at the soldiers, dueling with stolen weapons, hurling rocks or shattered urns.
“To the side,” Merit cried.
At the sound of her voice, the commoners turned and caught sight of their regent, joy breaking across each face. The queen had returned, as had the army. The fighting men of Harkana drove forward, but the commoners would not stand aside. Stewards and scullions fought beside well-trained soldiers. Waiting women and weavers stood among captains and infantry. The strong men of the Harkan Army charged the false king’s soldiers while the carters and cooks nipped at their heels.
The Harkans trampled the shield wall. It shattered in a single stroke, and the men who held it were crushed by boots, cut with swords, their shields cloven, limbs shattered. The Harkans cut through the archers and spearmen, eliminating what remained of the false king’s army.
“Stop!” cried Merit. “Tomen, order them to stop!”
Her general echoed her command, and his soldiers lowered their arms.
All eyes went to the queen regent.
Merit made her way carefully now, lifting her bloodstained dress as she climbed over the fallen, as she tromped past broken spears and cracked shields. Swords slathered in viscera poked from still-moving corpses. The soon-to-be dead pawed at her ankles. Some cried out in agony, others made only some gurgling sound as their lungs filled up with blood.
The false king stood upon his dais.
“Tell your men to lower their shields. You’ve five, and we’ve five thousand. The fight is done,” said Merit.
Silence of the Soleri Page 27
