Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “I hardly need the reminder, but I do think you ought to show these people a bit of respect. My husband’s body rests on that field. Did your spies tell you that?”

  “No,” said Barden. “But there’ll be more bodies if we go forward—more dead Harkans to bury. Surely you know this? We’ll mourn when the battle’s done. By my estimation, it’s only just begun. I came here to collect on a promise, to see this battle started, not to mourn the one you finished. Tell me, Merit Hark-Wadi, queen of the Harkans, will you do as you promised?”

  Merit offered her uncle a withering look. “After all this?” She motioned to the bodies. “You think I’ll quit? You doubt my intent?”

  “Doubt is a habit I learned in Solus. They trust few, and in the high desert we trust no one. I’m not from Harkana, but my heart is here, somehow. I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of this place and its freedom.”

  “I know as much,” said Merit. “It’s why I brought you to the wall, so you could see the city.”

  “And its dead.” He exhaled his words, at last expressing what sounded like grief. “There’s news from Solus,” Barden said. “The boy, Ren.”

  “Lost in the Hollows, dead possibly, or so I heard.”

  “Ren is very much alive. They say he escaped Mered and the city guard. Neither was able to arrest him. He moves about the city with impunity, striking the rich and the holy, stealing whatever food he needs, taking gold from the wealthy, and laughing all along. They call him the Bane of Solus. The boy has wrought mayhem upon the people who trapped him. He knows he has no way out of the city. He’s trapped there, but he fights. He has hope, and the boy has shown remarkable bravery. They say he can enter any house, that he could steal the pillow from beneath Mered’s head, or dine with the emperor, and no one would know how the task was done. Rumors abound. Some are no doubt half-truths or outright lies, but not all of it can be false. The boy lives.”

  “The bastard,” she corrected him.

  “The bastard king,” said Barden. “They say my brother named him heir in front of the kingsguard.”

  “He is a bastard,” said Merit. “And Arko had no idea who this boy was when he named him heir. My father was ill informed. Ren is the son of a servant. We’re not going to discuss it, not if you want me to march on Solus.”

  “I wish the topic was more easily abandoned.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You won’t like what I’m about to say.”

  “Then don’t say it. Have some discretion.”

  “I can’t. Ren is our best chance at making a quick entry into the city. He has five hundred men. It’s a small number when compared to the might of the Protector’s Army, or even Mered’s, but it is a sizeable force, and the soldiers of the kingsguard are already inside the city walls.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I need to get a message to Ren. They say that someone in the Hall of Ministers assists the boy. As a newly crowned monarch you are expected to visit Solus. All kings and queens have done it. You’ll go to ask for the emperor’s blessing, but you will in fact seek out Ren. Make contact and convince the boy to join our cause. His army is large enough to secure at least one of the city gates. If his force could seize the east one, the Rising Gate, for half a day or even less, we could storm the city. We could take Solus in a single stroke. Without him, we’ll be forced to lay siege to the capital. It will take time and a considerable amount of patience to breach the city walls. There will be risks. If the siege is long, if it takes months or even years to break the fortifications, my army may grow restless and they will turn their eyes toward less hardened targets. If we strike swiftly and decisively, we’ll have an army that dwarfs all others and an open door to march it through.”

  “I grasp your tactic.” Her voice was shrill, harsh, just as she’d intended. “It’s a good enough plan, but I’d rather you left me out of it. I’m not on good terms with the boy. If I go to him, he might just have my head and add it to his collection of trophies. Perhaps we should send a simple messenger.”

  “A courier will not suffice. Ren will be undertaking sizeable risk, and I don’t think he’ll do it unless we offer him something of equal value.”

  “My life?” asked Merit.

  “Your words, not mine, but you’re not too far off the mark. When you go to Ren, you’ll be forced to join his men. You will tie your fate to his. Such an act will prove our sincerity. He will know that I am marching on Solus, that I will storm the open gate and take the city. In return he will at last have his freedom. He wants a way out of that city, and we can offer it to him. On scrolls, I have detailed these plans. You must find the boy and convince him to follow these instructions. Go to Solus and he will agree to our plan. He’s trapped. A dead man if there ever was one. If he joins us and we take the city, he goes free. The past is the past, Merit. Forget what you’ve done. The boy has too much life in him to squabble with you. Ren wants to fight. He will not refuse you. I’m certain of it.”

  “Certain? I’m not. Nothing is ever certain. This plan of yours is as risky as the assault on Harwen. I’ll be putting my life on the line, but what will you be gambling—nothing? It’s what you hazarded when I marched on this city.”

  “I intend to risk everything when we move on Solus,” he said. “Believe me, if I had another plan I’d follow it.

  “The Protector’s men have already cleared the countryside and evacuated the villages near Solus. When my army came up against the Harkans, I lost any chance I had at catching the Inner Guard by surprise. Weeks have passed, and despite the absence of a new Protector, the guard is well prepared for our assault. A desert siege is not an easy thing, and with those villages gone, with even the cactus shorn to the ground, it will be an impossible task. I believe we must act while Ren lives and the Ray of the Sun squabbles with Mered Saad. A civil war is afoot. The time is right. We must—”

  “Strike,” said Merit, her voice quiet. She understood it all and agreed with most of it. She needed no convincing of Barden’s logic. It was sound enough. The choice was made, but she dreaded it nonetheless.

  42

  A bell chimed in the distance, but Sarra paid it no heed. The marshal of the city guard—a man named Stiris, tall and gaunt, face littered with bruises—stood before her, his cloak stained black. A day had passed since the yellow cloaks went chasing after the kingsguard. It ought to have been a rout, but something had gone awry. “My men’re still down there,” Stiris said, his voice brimming with distaste. “It’s not finished—it won’t be done for some time, actually.”

  “It is over,” said Sarra. “The bastard king, this Bane of Solus, escaped. You’re no better than Mered. He allowed Ren to elude capture, and you gave him that same opportunity. Is he so slippery that no one can catch him? He’s just a boy, some runt from the priory.”

  Stiris swallowed deeply, unpleasantly. He appeared to be wondering the same thing as Sarra because he simply shook his head, spat, and held up a pair of open hands. “It’s not over, but there is a chance you are correct and the boy has escaped.” He swallowed once more, deeply. There was blood on his hands, and dirt as well. He picked at it as he spoke. “The Hollows are the real enemy. We have your maps, but they aren’t complete. And to make matters worse, someone carved new corridors, dozens of them. It’s a mess down there, and each of those Harkans fights like five of the Alehkar.”

  “Spare me the details. Just tell me when you’ve put an end to that boy.”

  In the distance the bell chimed again, though faintly. Sarra stood behind doors of ironwood. No common chime could pierce that wood. Someone wanted to be heard.

  “You took prisoners?” she asked.

  “A dozen or so,” said Stiris. “Wat told us to bring them here.”

  “Where?”

  “In the gallery.”

  “I’ll find them,” said Sarra. “You have work to do. Do it.” She brushed past the marshal. The door opened and she once more heard a bell chime, a littl
e louder this time. It was a distinct sound, a note she’d heard often. This particular chime was used to summon the Ray of the Sun from the Empyreal Domain. It was the only way Wat could communicate with her when she was on the other side of the wall. But she wasn’t in the domain, and Wat ought to know that.

  She led the marshal into the corridor, sending him down the stairs as she climbed up them, making her way into the gallery. The long corridor-like space was lit by an open-air clerestory, which admitted not simply light but the cries of the people as well, the ones who gathered at the Antechamber. The crowds had grown despite her best efforts to dismiss them. She’d placed a curfew over the city. She’d hoped it would keep the Harkans off the streets and the petitioners inside their homes, but it had failed on at least one count. The city guard refused to arrest the mob; it was too large and too unruly. The crowds huddled about the great, golden conflagration, their numbers growing by the day.

  There were hundreds of them. Some came to pray, or to beg for the Soleri to show their faces. Some arrived in the morning and left at sundown. Others camped at the wall, spending their days and nights in protest, waiting for their silent gods to appear. Worse yet, there were some who had dedicated themselves more wholly to this cause. They followed an ancient tradition, one known as the stylite. The men sat atop tall and spindly columns, eating little or nothing at all, starving themselves as they petitioned the dead gods for help. They called them pillar dwellers, but they looked like fools to Sarra, men who were looking for a little attention from the crowds and not the gods they claimed to worship. Sarra doubted any of them would stay the course. A true stylite, so dedicated, would remain atop his column until he died or his prayers were answered, whichever came first. In this case, the outcome would no doubt be the former. Dead gods do not talk—at least, not yet.

  The bell chimed again, louder now, sounding through the open windows.

  Inside the gallery, Wat sat idly atop a small stool. His head jerked upright as she entered. He stood uneasily and bowed as deeply as his aging back would allow. “These are the prisoners the city guard captured in the Hollows. They are here for your review,” Wat said, his voice gruff from age or exhaustion, perhaps both. The last few weeks had in all likelihood carried more events than the last decade of his life. “Also, I located one of the men that worked in Tolemy’s house, a prior. I think he might prove useful.”

  “A prior?” she asked.

  “You’ll see,” said Wat, a slight chuckle in his voice.

  “Go on. Show me what you’ve found and stop your man from ringing the bell. Was it really necessary for you to strike the thing? I wasn’t in the domain.”

  “And I didn’t ring the Chime of the Ray. In fact, it was stolen last night.”

  “Stolen? So who’s ringing it?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” said the old man with a shake of his head. “Should I send someone to have a look?”

  “No,” said Sarra. “Show me the prisoners.”

  In the long gallery, the city guard had assembled the captured men. They stood, hands bound behind their backs, feet shackled. They wore soot-stained rags, but most carried armor beneath their tunics. The men of the kingsguard were giants, each one standing a head above even the tallest of the city guard, but one had no armor. He had the look of a beggar or a sickling of some sort, his beard ragged, face slathered in something black.

  “Who’s he?” she asked the commander, a man named Padiset, she thought, the marshal’s second overseer. She looked to him for an answer, but someone else spoke in his place.

  “That one is mine,” said a man Sarra did not recognize. “Kollen Pisk of Rachis. A ransom.”

  “A ransom?” Sarra asked. “How do you know this?”

  “As Wat said, I was a servant in the priory. My name is Nevan, if you need know it.”

  Sarra crossed the long room to the place where the ransoms stood. “There were three of you,” she said. “That’s what my emissaries tell me: three in the temple of Pyras, three stealing from the houses of the wealthy. Where are the other two? Where is Ren and the girl?”

  Kollen did not speak, so Sarra turned back to the prior. “This ransom, Kollen,” she asked, “did he have any friends in the priory? Was he close to the Harkan?”

  “This one?” The prior lifted a finger to indicate Kollen. “If memory serves me, he was not particularly fond of the Hark-Wadi boy; he hassled him to no end. I’m a bit surprised the two stuck together. I’d have thought one would have strangled the other by now.”

  “Things change,” said Sarra. “War can easily make friends out of enemies.”

  She addressed the ransom. “The house of Pisk must be quite small. You’ve been loose in the Hollows for some time but they’ve sent no soldiers to save you, nor have I seen a petition from the mountain lords asking for your release. Seems as if no one cares about you.”

  “That don’t bother me a bit, Your Rayship,” said the ransom. “My father’s probably taking bets on how long I’ll last. He was always a bit of a bastard. I never expected help—never wanted it. We had plenty of fun before these pricks ruined it for us, but that’s all right. I see only a dozen or so prisoners here, so I reckon there are still hundreds left in the Hollows. I bet they’re out there right now, raiding one of your palaces. Did you know the kingsguard are starting to get fat? Too much plunder, I suppose.”

  Sarra was unimpressed by the boy’s crudeness. “It’s only a matter of time,” she said. “It’s easy to grow fat when you’re stuck in a cage. Getting out is the hard part, and I don’t think they’ll manage that one.” She looked to Wat. “Show me someone else.”

  Wat led Sarra to a boy who appeared only slightly older than the first, but this one wore armor and his breath was calm, a sharp contrast to the ransom’s frantic demeanor. “He’s one of the commanders,” said Wat. “We heard the Harkans talking. His name’s Edric. He’s not their leader, but I gather he’s a man of some importance.”

  “Good,” said Sarra. “A ransom and a captain. Send out criers. These men—the kingsguard and the boy from the priory—will stand and face Horu’s trial. They’ll suffer until the Harkan kingsguard and their bastard king surrender themselves. Do it now, and make certain the prisoners are well guarded. If the Harkans come for them, I want to be prepared.”

  “Aye, Your Rayship. I’ll put every man I’ve got available on it. We’ll stand them in the plaza that faces the statuary garden. We won’t fail you.”

  “Good. The Harkans have had too much luck and too little loss. Let’s put an end to that, shall we?”

  Padiset gave a nod, turned, and addressed his men, ushering the prisoners out of the gallery. Sarra watched. She knew full well that it was not good luck but was instead the aid of her son that allowed the Harkans to twice escape capture. However, the kingsguard had lost their guardian. She’d taken Ott’s maps, sent his scribes to prison, and sealed his chamber. She’d put an end to his endeavor. Unfortunately, Ott was missing. He could not have reached the Harkans before they fled the underground temple, but perhaps he knew the location of their new hiding place and had joined them.

  The thought made her stomach coil into a tightly cinched knot.

  She’d given up much and more for that boy. She’d left behind two daughters and a kingdom, but he’d betrayed her at the first possible opportunity. And he’d left her for Arko’s bastard. The whole thing made her sick.

  The door creaked open. “Who is it?” she barked, but it was only another of Wat’s pages. She could not tell one from the other. They all wore the same golden robes, and each boy had the same bowl of black hair tossed over his forehead. He offered her a scroll and took his leave when she granted it, wishing her the sun’s fate as the door closed.

  Sarra cracked the wax, straightened out the parchment, and looked it up and down. It was a message from her daughter, Merit, the apparent queen of the Harkans. Sarra’s hunch had paid off. She’d known there was something to this traitor, Barca, some secret he wish
ed to reveal. He must have somehow come to an understanding with Merit that allowed her to retake the kingdom. She offered no details except to say that the people of Harkana had risen up against the false king in Harwen, taken his head, and dispensed with his guard. Mered was finished in Harwen, which was a great relief for Sarra. A victory, she thought. Her daughter occupied the Horned Throne and she sought the empire’s recognition. It was good news all around. Merit offered her loyalty to Tolemy and his Ray, not Mered. As was the custom, the Ray anointed each new king—or queen, in this case—as they came to power in the empire. Dagrun had traveled to Solus, and Dolen, king of the Rachins, had also.

  Sarra called for the boy and asked if he had parchment and ink, and when he produced some she drafted a hastily composed letter, inviting her daughter to meet with her in the House of Ministers. She sealed it when the boy brought wax.

  The bell chimed again.

  Only this time she knew it was not Wat who struck it. Hence, she went looking for the bell, chasing up and down the long corridors of the House of Ministers. It was nowhere to be found, so she went to one of the balconies that looked out onto the city.

  Mered Saad stood before the House of Ministers, dressed in bronze, a cord grasped between two gauntleted fingers, the bell hanging from it, red cape draped from his shoulders. It was not the suit of armor that Amen Saad, his nephew, had worn. That one lay rotting in the Empyreal Domain. This armor was newly fashioned but made in the style of the Protector’s livery. Sarra knew immediately what was afoot.

  Mered gave the bell one last strike when he caught sight of Sarra.

  He wore the helmet of the Protector, but he had not removed his veil. Behind him, in jumbled lines, the generals and captains of the Protector’s Army stood before the mighty ranks of the Alehkar. There were thousands of them, more men than the streets could fit. The soldiers were forced to peek around corners, and there were others in the distance, crouched on curving paths, all of them come to show their allegiance to the new Protector. Her man, Kihl, had owned these soldiers, but they’d found a new lord, a richer one, she guessed. Mered must have spent half his fortune to gain the allegiance of this many men in this short a time.