“That’s the rumor, but this’s the first I’ve seen of it,” said Asher. He, too, was looking at the crowds that gathered around the distant blaze. There were men atop poles, people in tents, and others who were simply pacing, arms raised to the sky. There was unrest in the city. Ren didn’t know whether he was the cause of it. He hoped he’d had some small effect on these people, that he’d been some minor nuisance to his captors.
“We’re deep in the Waset, which means we’re a long way from the city gates,” said Asher.
“We always have been,” said Ren. “We’ve been stuck here in the center, at the Mundus and the Night Market. We’ve never even come close to finding a way out of the city.”
A voice boomed in the distance. Outside, a cloaked man walked the broad avenue, crying out the day’s news in a strong, steady baritone. The words were loud, but largely unintelligible. Ren and the others had to wait until the man came a bit closer to hear what he said.
“The Harkans and their captain, Edric, and Kollen Pisk, heir of Rachis,” the crier’s voice rang out, “have been set about in the Plaza of Miracles, beside the Statuary Garden of Den, where, in accordance with the Book of the Last Day of the Year, they shall stand and bear Horu’s trial, as all who insult Mithra-Sol must do…” He went on, repeating the news with some slight variation, adding detail as needed, but Ren didn’t need to hear the rest of it. They had Kollen and Edric too.
Tye listened, her head hung low in frustration. Ren was quiet too.
“It’s a ruse,” said Asher. “They’ve given us the place and dared us to go to it.”
Outside, a second crier followed the first, this one with an even lower voice, a booming bass. One after another, he named the captured soldiers.
“They’re taunting us,” said Tye.
“Yes,” said Ren, “but they can’t find us. That’s why there’re wandering around, calling out to the heavens like a bunch of fools and hollering about Horu’s trial, whatever that means.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Asher.
“I don’t either,” said Tye. “I missed that lesson, but it’s named for their god of death—”
“I know,” Ren snapped. He hadn’t meant to cut her short, but they all knew the gods’ names. There was no sense in guessing how such a trial would end.
“We need to do something,” said Ren.
“No, we don’t,” said Asher. “It’s a ploy. Our men will be heavily guarded—don’t you see that?”
“I do,” Ren shot back. But I can’t accept it. He needed to go there, to the plaza of wonders, or whatever it was called. He could not sit and do nothing while his friend suffered. And the statues, he thought. I can’t escape them, either, or so it seemed.
Ren was still lost in thought when Asher and Tye gathered at another of the narrow windows. Something or someone had caught their attention.
“It’s Ott,” said Tye. “He’s headed for the door.”
Asher shook his head. “If we open it, we’ll reveal our location. It’s midday and we’re in the heart of Solus. No one bothers with this tower because they believe it to be some sanctuary of the gods; that’s what Ott’s messenger told me. But if we open the door…”
“I know,” said Ren. “It’s a risk, but I’m captain and it’s my decision. Ott helped you, he helped all of us. The least we can do is return the favor.”
Outside, the plaza was busy. After the criers moved on, the people had gone back to their business. The temple singer resumed her song, continuing whatever vigil her god demanded, and the beggars started up with a chorus of banging pots and clanking wooden cups.
“Remove the bars,” Ren commanded, but the men hesitated, so Ren drew his blade. Ott was alone and possibly in distress. Ren would brook no dissent.
It took a dozen men to lift the first bar from its sleeve.
As the soldiers worked, Ott circled, shaking visibly. Things must have gone sour for the boy. He was limping badly, hair soaked in sweat, robe caked in dirt and wet with perspiration.
“Hurry,” said Ren.
“We are hurrying. Would you care to lend a hand?” Asher asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Taking him at his word, Ren threw down his sword, put two hands on the bar, and helped lift it. The weight of the thing was immense. It hit the ground with a thud that made the stones tremble beneath his feet.
“Open it,” said Ren. “Slowly, quietly, and just a crack.”
They tugged at the door. Ren poked his head into the widening crack, but found himself thrown back by Ott, who fell tumbling onto Ren as he lost his crutch. The two of them landed awkwardly on the floor.
Ott spoke without hesitation, “Close the goddamn door before they find us!”
Ren helped Ott to his feet and handed him his crutch.
“Ott, tell us what happened. How did they find us in the temple and why are you here?”
Ott told him everything, what Sarra did, how her priests followed him to the temple, how she’d found his maps. “I was a fool,” he admitted. “However, I’ve learned my lesson. I chose an indirect route, one that follows the newer passages, the ones that aren’t on the map. I was careful.”
The men went to fit the drawbars back into place, but Ott raised a cautioning hand. “Stop, or at least wait until you’ve heard me out. Your sister is here.”
“Which one?”
“The one you don’t want to meet.”
“Merit?” Ren asked.
“Queen of the Harkans.”
“Is that what she calls herself? Seems like everyone’s giving themselves titles these days,” said Ren. “Mered is first citizen. Your mother is the Ray of the Sun…”
“And what about you, Ren?” asked Tye. “First Asshole?”
“Fine by me, King of the Harkans does sound a bit pompous.”
Ott shook his head at both of them. “It hardly matters what title our sister carries. She is here and in peril. Mered sent Merit to Barca. She was a gift, a bargaining chip to secure his puppet king in Harkana, but she made Barca an ally and took back the Horned Throne—an act you might appreciate as a fellow Harkan.”
“I would, had she not put her ass upon it,” said Ren.
“That battle is over, yet a second looms. The rebel’s army rides toward Solus, but Merit and the Harkans struck out ahead of Barca and his army. She journeyed to the city of the gods as each of the kings or queens of the lower kingdoms have done, so that Tolemy might recognize her authority.”
“I don’t recall Arko making that ride,” said Asher.
“That is beside the point,” said Ott. “Merit is here under false pretense. She is here to see you, Ren, but our first citizen struck before she could make contact. I intervened.”
“Why?” asked Ren. “Why’s my sister in Solus?”
“Can’t you guess?” asked Ott.
“Well,” Ren replied. “I suppose it would be helpful to have a friendly army in the city you are about to invade.”
“No doubt,” muttered Ott.
“She’s close by?” Ren asked.
“Yes,” said Ott. “She’s with Kara, my scribe. If you will allow it, Merit will come to this tower. She knows the location and waits nearby.”
“Allow it?” asked Ren. Could he truly allow the woman who had thrice tried to end his life, who had sent her own husband to put a dagger in his back, to come and treat with him?
“Yes,” said Ott. “Will you allow it? I’ve guessed at her sins, that she’s kept you away from Harkana by force of arms when necessary.”
“Force of arms?” asked Ren. “That’s one way to put it. You have no idea what that bitch did.”
“I have a rather large imagination,” said Ott, “and a mother who has more spies than friends. We know most of it, but only you can tell the full story.”
“When there’s time,” said Ren. “For now, Kollen needs me. My sister can wait.”
“No, she can’t,” said Ott, his voice filling up with irritation. “Barca rides toward Solus. The pac
e of this thing is set, and there is no time to stall. Make your decision.”
47
The door opened and Merit stumbled into an empty chamber. She’d expected some welcome or other greeting, but the room was empty. Men had occupied it. Their sandal prints littered the floor, and someone had opened the door. She’d seen it pivot ever so slightly as she ran toward it, but they were gone. She was alone and forced to wonder just what she was doing. Would Ren lop off her head or greet her as a sister? The former seemed the most likely, but Ott claimed he could convince Ren to speak with her in a civil manner. Merit had simply nodded. She had little choice in the matter. She was alone in the city of her enemy, and Ott was her only ally. She hoped to find a second one in this tower.
Looking around, she noticed the chamber was round, with a stair at one end and slotted windows at the other. There were two doors: one large and one small. She’d entered through the big one, but now it was the smaller door that opened. A boy appeared, a servant, judging by his clothes and the way he kept his eyes downcast. He bore a silver cup brimming with red wine. She took it and watched as the boy sealed the larger door, silencing the distant cries of the city guard. She was surprised by his strength and the ease with which he closed the thing. The door groaned louder than a house full of whores, but the boy pressed it shut, leaving just the two of them in the chamber.
“Where is your master?” she asked. “The boy, Ren, the bastard of Harkana?”
“My master?” the boy asked, still not raising his eyes. He’d been a servant for years, she presumed, or perhaps he knew she was a queen and was just giving Merit her due.
“Look me in the eye when you speak, there’s no need for pretense. I came to see the boy, Ren. Is he here or are there a hundred of Mered’s soldiers behind that door? Tell me who sent you.” She was out of patience, done with waiting.
“Ren’s here, mistress, if that’s what you’d like me to call you.”
“Queen will do. You are Harkan, aren’t you? Maybe some servant gone over to the rebel’s side—is that it, boy? Were you one of the tributes sent to Sola to serve some foreign master?”
“Something like that,” he said.
“I thought as much; you have the look of a Harkan, but not the demeanor. It’s barbaric, this practice of sending our children to Solus. It’s something I intend to end, and promptly. Now, tell me when I’ll see your master.”
“Soon enough.”
“That’s hardly an answer. Where is he? Out raiding, pillaging, like in the stories we’ve heard?”
“I can’t say,” said the boy.
Merit quickly remembered that she was not among allies. Even though this boy was by all rights her subject, he had sworn his allegiance to the bastard. It was a muddy situation at best. The kingsguard of Harkana served Ren, but he was not the king.
“Do you remember Harkana much?” she asked, making conversation, hoping this servant was simple enough that she could pry some information from him while they waited.
“No, not much at all. I was there once, but I don’t remember it, not a single memory.”
“Not one,” Merit echoed. “Perhaps it’s better that way, when they take them young. You can’t steal away something you don’t have. If you never had much of a childhood in Harwen, or wherever they took you from, then there is nothing for you to miss, no memory of your mother to cry over.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s only a guess,” Merit admitted. “I lost my brother, my mother too. I had a father, but—” She caught herself. Merit was feeling vulnerable. Perhaps too much so. Her pains were none of his business. She was the one trying to wring secrets from him and not the other way around.
“Tell me, what happened? How did you join the bastard’s little rebellion, and how many others of you are there? Has he raided every house in Solus? Built himself a little army of dissidents?”
“An army—of servants?” the boy asked. He was clever, this one. He’d not only ignored her question, but he’d returned her inquiry in his own, questioning the very logic of how she questioned him.
“Yes, how many of you are there?”
“Not many, none like me, really,” he said. “You haven’t had your wine. I swear it’s good. The best in Solus. We haven’t much in the way of food. A good cup of wine’s a royal treat.”
“I’m not thirsty.” She lifted the cup, but did not drink from it. Then she returned it to the boy, who frowned as he placed it on the stones. When he bent, his tunic lifted to reveal studded leather and the hilt of a blade.
Servants bore no weapons, but she guessed he had given up that life. He was a rebel, but the blade made her wonder about him. Merit had made a life out of distrusting others, and she wasn’t about to change her nature. She stepped slowly away from the servant, circling the conical chamber, making it seem as if she were studying the place, which was quite grand and no doubt belonged to the structures of the Middle Kingdom.
“Is he coming soon, this master of yours? I haven’t a place to sit and it’s been a long day. Also, is Ott here? We met only briefly, but I’d like to see him again.”
Merit wondered what lay beyond the little door. The Harkans had to be back there somewhere. She was half tempted to rush past the boy, but he was armed and she was not. Best not to tempt fate, she thought.
“He’ll arrive,” said the boy. He must have seen the worry on her face. “When he’s ready, I suppose.”
“The bastard wants me to wait? I might as well. I’ve waited in every chamber from Harwen to the Hall of Ministers and none of it has come to anything. Are you sure your master’s here?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
“Well, that’s good news. You didn’t by chance serve in the house of Saad, did you?” she asked the boy.
“No, nothing like that,” he said. There was contempt in his voice, bold un-servantlike contempt. He was a soldier, she guessed, or maybe just her assassin. Merit turned to defend herself with the only thing she had, the only weapon she had ever wielded: words.
“I don’t know what the bastard told you about me. Perhaps he said I’ve named myself queen without having the right to do so, that I rule with neither the sanction of Tolemy nor the eld.”
“He’s said nothing, but those are the rumors.”
“Well, they are both true, so let me tell you this, boy. I fought for my kingdom, our kingdom—if you think yourself Harkan. I’ve dealt a blow to the man in red. I’ve done more to fight him than your master and his meager raids. I took back our kingdom and now I’ve come to take Mered’s—to return the favor, I suppose. Don’t you think that’s a worthy cause? That maybe I ought not to be left waiting? Perhaps you should go find your master and tell him to hurry his ass over here, because, like it or not, I am queen and I command the army of Harkana. He is a boy without a throne or a kingdom. He has nothing but his guard, but they’ll all be dead soon enough. He’ll be dead. Barca races toward Harwen. Time is short. If the boy wants to help our cause he’ll need to show his face.”
“And what cause is that?” he asked, but before he’d finished his sentence he drew his dagger and pressed the tip to her chin. She yelped, shocked not just by the blade but the realization that accompanied it.
“You’re him!” Merit exclaimed. “The bastard of Harkana.”
48
Ren fought the urge to use the knife.
No, he thought, reversing what had only been blind impulse.
He loosened his grip on the blade, but the desire to wield it resurfaced just as quickly as it had vanished. A life for a life. That was what the people of Solus said. His sister had thrice tried to kill him. He ought to at least return the favor this once. It was only fair. The knife had already pricked her pretty skin, and with just a bit more force it would break through that perfect surface. He found his grip and his knuckles went white. Merit trembled, her body quivering against his own. She twisted, attempting to free herself, but his hold did not waver. Ren had thought he’d enjoy the
ruse, that it would give him some time to take stock of the sister he had never met, whom he had never even seen before she stumbled into the tower. But the whole thing had done little more than frustrate him. His anger had bubbled over and, unexpectedly, he’d found his dagger pressed to her throat. In truth, he didn’t even know if he could take revenge on Merit. He certainly hadn’t intended to do it. He’d set Shenn free and bound the man’s wounds after he tried to take Ren’s life. He had returned Shenn’s violence with kindness, so he held back whatever urge drove him to dig that blade into Merit’s skin. He’d run through fire and killed the black beast of the Soleri. He’d been told he had the blood of some otherworldly being in his veins. The queen regent didn’t frighten him.
He sheathed his blade and set her free.
“Hell of a way to meet,” he said, “but you earned it, didn’t you?” Ren asked, half grinning, fingers sore. He hadn’t realized how much pressure he’d put upon the grip of that dagger—not until his fingers came loose from the thing. Every bit of pain she’d inflicted on him had poured itself into that hand. He swore he could have driven the blade clean through her skull. Even if it wasn’t his way, she’d pushed him to the edge, nearly forcing him to become something he was not: a creature like her.
The queen did not answer his question. Perhaps she was waiting to see what he would do next.
“The knife could not be helped,” he said. It wasn’t an apology, just a statement of fact.
“I know,” she replied, her voice quiet, accepting. She would not shy away from what she’d done. Ren saw that.
“Still unrepentant?”
“In a way, yes, and in another, no,” Merit said. “As regent, I did what was best for the kingdom. They were not proud deeds, but I thought them necessary. I feel no emotion toward my actions—nor should you.”
“We do as we must,” said Ren.
“Exactly.”
“Well, screw that. If I had done what must be done I’d have cut you down for treason, for plotting to kill the heir of your own kingdom, for fratricide, and for pissing me off without end. I know what your kind does and does not do, and I want none of it! I do what I think is right. Have anything to say to that?”
Silence of the Soleri Page 32
