Farah considered it for a moment, his expression grave, then finally nodded. “Aye, I could do that. It would take a few days to set in motion, even with sorcery. And there would be travel time involved, since the scouts would have to approach Jezalya by mundane means. The results might not come in as quickly as you’d like.”
Salvator’s lips tightened. “Time is a very precious commodity in this matter.”
“I am aware of that aspect of the situation,” Farah assured him.
“We’ll also need a metaphysical anchor for Jezalya, so that our witches have a proper focus when it’s time for us to go there.”
Farah’s eyes narrowed. “I am not going to give you anchors from anywhere near my territory until I am satisfied that the situation is what you say it is. And if I do it, then, I will expect safeguards enough that I do not wind up with your armies crawling up my ass when this business is over.”
A corner of Salvator’s mouth twitched. “Understood.”
“I will arrange for the spies we need. Meanwhile, you draw up a draft of your proposed peace treaty for me to look at. Nothing vague or open-ended, or I will throw it in the fire, and you and yours can walk to Jezalya.” He snorted. “I remember Danton’s treaties.”
“I am not my father,” Salvator said quietly.
“No,” Farah agreed. “And rest assured, if you were, I would not be agreeing to any of this, Souleaters or no Souleaters.”
Farah rose from his chair. Salvator followed suit. The others rose to their feet respectfully, some more quickly than others.
“I assume we will be leaving this encampment in place?” Farah asked. “For our next meeting?” A dry smile quirked his lips. “Our people can practice being good neighbors until we return.”
Salvator nodded. “That was my thought.”
“Very well, then.” Farah exhaled noisily. “This has certainly been an interesting meeting, to say the least. Doubtless future historians will write volumes trying to analyze it. Assuming that enough remains of human civilization for there to be any future historians.”
“That is our goal,” Salvator said solemnly.
“And one that I share,” Farah assured him. “Though how it is best to be achieved . . . well, let us see what my scouts have to say before we get into that, shall we?”
Walking the length of the table, Salvator offered his hand to the southern king. Farah stared at it for a long moment, a curious look on his face. As if it were some strange creature whose habits he didn’t know, that might piss on him if he handled it wrong. But when he finally accepted it, his own grip was sure and strong, a good match to Salvator’s own.
“No,” Farah observed. “You are not like your father, are you? I find that most refreshing.”
Chapter 29
“T
HE MERCHANT delegation is here to see you, your Highness.”
Nasaan nodded. “Send them in.”
In truth, it was a hot day even by Jezalyan standards, and he had little appetite for administrative duties. But trade was the lifeblood of his new city, and these were the men who kept it flowing. So he reached for the goblet of crushed ice that his djira had conjured for him—now half melted—and held it against his neck while he waited, savoring the feel of the chilled glass against his skin.
The merchant families that oversaw business in Jezalya weren’t overtly hostile to one another, but they were fierce rivals, and outside the city it was rare that they cooperated on anything more complex than “who gets to go through the gate first.” Inside Jezalya, however, was another matter. The most powerful families in this region all had representatives in his city, and they were not shy about offering Nasaan their counsel. Since ultimately they had the same goal that he did—increasing Jezalya’s influence and prosperity—he had been open to such conversations thus far, provided his authority was properly acknowledged.
But in all their prior meetings they had chosen one representative to speak for all the families; never before had they come to him in a group like this.
As they entered the room, he saw that there were half a dozen of them, and each appeared to be from a different family. That didn’t surprise him. Most of the merchant caravans passing through Jezalya were controlled by extended family groups, and the men in charge usually choose wives from among their own relatives in order to maintain control over inheritance rights. The result was that it was fairly easy to pick out the more influential merchant families by their common features. Nasaan had dealt with them often enough by now to recognize that the six who stood before him represented the so-called Great Families, vast tribal networks whose elders effectively controlled all commerce within Jezalya. That each one had sent a blood relative to this meeting, rather than agreeing upon a common messenger, was not a reassuring sign.
“Thank you for receiving us, your Highness.” The lead speaker was a man Nasaan actually knew quite well. Hatal et Sarosh had been one of his secret agents in the city in the days before his conquest, and had helped him plant the rumors he’d needed to undermine support for Dervasti. They kept their distance from one another in public now, so few people knew of the connection, but occasionally Sarosh slipped him a choice bit of information, and now and then Nasaan slipped his family a choice bit of royal favor. A man could never have too many loyal agents.
“The masters of trade are always welcome here,” Nasaan responded. “Though I’m not used to seeing such a large delegation.”
The men looked at each other. It was not hard to pick up that they were ill at ease about this interview. Since Nasaan had never been one to punish the messengers of bad news, that made him even more wary.
“News has come to the Great Families that they believe might be of concern to the Prince of Jezalya.” Sarosh folded his hands in front of him as he spoke the last phrase; it was the signal they had established for him to warn Nasaan that serious trouble might be on the horizon. As if I hadn’t already figured that out, he thought dryly. “Each felt that they should provide a representative for our meeting.”
Witnesses, then, Nasaan thought darkly. The one role none of the Families would trust an outsider to fill. Eyes narrow, he sat back in his chair, his battle-roughened hands steepled before him. “Speak, then. What’s your news?”
“There is word of trouble in Bandezek.” Sarosh told him. “Rumors of the Black Sleep are circulating. Though we are told no actual cases have been verified yet.”
Bandezek was an oasis town two days’ ride from his own city, a place that he had earmarked for his future military expansion. The place was not nearly as large or as prosperous as Jezalya—few towns were—but by the measure of the wasteland surrounding them it was worthy of notice. For the terrible wasting disease to come to Bandezek would be a disaster on many fronts, not least of them the fact that many desert folk believed the best way to protect themselves from the Black Sleep was to burn everyone and everything that could possibly be infected. Which usually translated to everything in sight.
“You say there are no confirmed cases,” Nasaan said. “This is only rumor?”
“At this point,” Sarosh replied.
It was not necessarily comforting. Towns had been burned to the ground for less.
Sarosh looked to his companions, then back to Nasaan. “There’s also some kind of unknown disease spreading among the nomads. It brings on a terrible weakness, like the Blood Sweat does, but it lacks all the other signs of that illness. Several families are said to have disappeared from the region, though of course with nomads it’s hard to confirm that kind of thing. But if it’s true . . . then they might have died of the sickness, or else been killed by others who feared infection. Either way, it is not a good sign.”
Indeed, it was not. Nasaan was silent for a moment as he digested the information and considered its implications. Such problems might all have a common source . . . and one that was uncomfortably close to home. That was a very dark thought indeed, and he took great care to see that his expression did not betra
y the true tenor of his reflection, lest one of these men guess at the cause.
“This is all taking place outside my borders, yes? None of my people have caught the sickness yet?”
Sarosh’s eyes narrowed slightly. “If you mean, is this happening outside your sphere of influence? Beyond the territory controlled by the tribes who have vowed their allegiance to Jezalya? Yes.” There was a slight edge to his voice now. “No one who owes fealty to you has been affected.”
“Then at least it will be clear to all that I can protect my own.”
One of the other merchants drew in a sharp breath. Nasaan looked at him. He was a tall, thin man with narrow features, someone Nasaan had never seen before.
“Begging your pardon,” the man said, when he saw that the Prince’s eyes were upon him, “but that is exactly the problem.”
“And you are who?”
The merchant stiffened. “Duat et-Ahal, your Highness.”
“Well, then, Duat et-Ahal, tell me. Clearly my witches are strong, and clearly they’re able to hold this sickness at bay. Anyone who is willing to accept my protection need only ask for it. So Jezalya is safe, and all the people in it are secure. Why is that a problem for you?”
“Sire, Jezalya may be safe, but it’s her connection to other cities that makes her great. Without trade caravans to bring the wealth of the world to her gates she would wither away and die. And if the masters of those caravans hear that there’s a terrible wasting disease running rampant in this region, and that until they reach your gates they will not be safe from it, they will take their goods and go elsewhere.”
“That would be a foolish move,” Nasaan suggested, “as there are no other major trade routes within a hundred miles of here. Surely the Great Families would suffer.”
The merchants looked at one another. Finally one ventured, “Highness, the elders of my family are already talking about abandoning our traditional rounds, even if it costs us business in the short run. Having a buyer for your goods means little if the seller dies before the sale can be concluded.”
“That’s why we came here today,” Sarosh told him. “To tell you about what was being planned, so that you would have time to address the problem.”
Nasaan raised an eyebrow. “What do you recommend I do?”
For a moment there was silence. Not the simple absence of sound, but something more significant: a tangible sense that certain specific things were deliberately not being said.
“You have witches at your disposal,” Sarosh said finally. “And other resources as well, I’m sure. If your people are strong enough to protect a city like Jezalya, then surely they can do more than that. Have them seek out the heart of the disease, even if it’s outside your walls, and eradicate it. Yes, that will benefit some people who haven’t yet sworn allegiance to you, but it will also prove you to be a magnanimous prince, worthy of men’s allegiance in the future.” He paused. “Jezalya needs this, your Highness.”
“As do we,” et-Ahal added.
Ah, Nasaan thought darkly, but it is not all as simple as asking a witch to perform a healing spell.
“What kind of time frame are we talking about?” he asked.
“If the Sleep appears in Bandezek, the caravan activity in this region will cease immediately. On this all the Great Families are agreed. Otherwise . . . .” Sarosh looked at the other merchants before answering, waiting for a subtle signal of assent from each. “It depends on how much time the Families spend discussing this matter. Which in turn depends upon how much we, as your advocates, genuinely believe that the situation might improve.”
Nasaan nodded tightly. “I understand.” He looked at them one by one, making eye contact with each. He hoped he looked more optimistic than he felt. “Then I hope your discussions take a while. In the meantime, I’ll talk to my witches about what can be done to address the situation.”
Sarosh bowed his head. “Thank you, Highness.”
Nasaan stood. It was hard to look calm and confident when inside his head there was a storm of conflicting emotions; he wondered if such dissembling would ever come naturally to him. “I’m grateful to you all for coming here today. Grateful for your counsel. Such consideration from the Great Families will not be forgotten.”
They bowed respectfully one by one, saying the kind of things that must be said in order to take proper leave of a prince. But he wasn’t really listening to them anymore. His mind was elsewhere.
When they were finally gone—when the doors of the chamber had closed behind them, and their footsteps had faded out of hearing beyond it—a figure slipped out from behind a carved wooden screen.
“You heard,” Nasaan said quietly.
“I heard,” Siderea confirmed.
“Am I correct in guessing that you have more to do with this situation than simply protecting Jezalya?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Has your territory not doubled since you claimed the throne?” she asked. “Do the tribes not turn to you for protection?”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“True, my Prince.” Her voice was like liquid silver, but for once it lacked the power to move him. “Do you really want to hear the answer?”
He shut his eyes. Not until he was sure his voice would be steady did he speak. “The strategies that once served this city now threaten it.”
“Are you so sure of that?”
He glared at her. “I seem to recall the authority here was mine?”
She spread her hands. Delicate rings glittered on every finger. “Things have been set in motion. It’s not easy to change them so late in the game.”
“Then it will be difficult,” he snapped. Suddenly out of patience with the whole situation. “Or are you telling me you’re not up to the challenge?”
Something flashed in her eyes that was neither sycophancy nor seduction; he found it oddly refreshing. “I’m saying the matter isn’t as simple as curing a handful of sick peasants. There’s a reason for what’s happening out in the desert. I can’t just make it all go away.”
“Then change something!” he ordered her, all his frustration welling up inside him suddenly, then pouring out with numbing force. “Change where the disease strikes! Change who it affects! There are hundreds of nomads out there in the desert who will never be seen by anyone save camels and vultures. No one cares if they get sick. No one will notice if a camp full of them disappears tomorrow. So whatever it is you’re doing right outside my city—and you’re right, I don’t want to know what it is—take it to them. Or somewhere else.” He struck out suddenly, slamming his fist into a nearby table. “Anywhere but here!”
He turned away from her, breathing deeply. A part of him recognized just how unreasonable he was being. This djira had helped him claim his throne. She had brought several fiercely independent tribes to his side and frustrated others who might have opposed him. It was the height of hypocrisy to condemn her methods now, when he had been so happy to applaud them earlier.
But conditions change, he thought. Strategies must adapt. That is the way of war.
“I will do what I can,” she said.
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He had always wondered what would happen if his agenda and hers ceased to coincide. Whether she would accept his authority over her, in that case. Apparently so.
At least for now.
“See to Bandezek,” he ordered her. “Protect its people the way you would protect mine. Jezalya will pay a heavy price if that place burns.”
“I will not let it burn,” she promised him.
Back when they had first discussed the terms of their bargain, she had told him that if the day came when he no longer valued her counsel, she would leave him. But she had made no promise to leave Jezalya altogether. More likely she would target Nasaan’s city the way she was now targeting the nomads, to punish him for his rejection. The djiri were not known for their forgiving natures.
This would be good enough, he told hi
mself. It would have to be good enough. At least for now.
He left without looking back at her.
The House of Gods was illuminated by two dozen immense oil lamps suspended from the ceiling, and their flames sent drops of light dancing along the gleaming surfaces of metal, jeweled, and polished stone idols, lending them an almost animated aspect. It was easy to believe there were spirits active in such a place and that the gods would take a special interest in protecting the city that housed them.
A statue of Alwat stood at the far end of the chamber. Nasaan could feel the power of the war god’s presence as he walked up to face it. This was his patron deity, the god who had inspired him to dream of conquest back when he had been no more than a simple warrior. It was Alwat who had taught him to hunger for power, Alwat who had pointed him to Jezalya, Alwat who had urged him to claim this city for his own.
Alwat who had witnessed his bargain with the djira.
He heard footsteps come up behind him. He did not turn around. “Tell me,” he said. “Spare me nothing.”
Sarosh came up beside him. “There are some who whisper that your Lady Consort is a demon. And not some minor sand spirit, either, neatly bound to your service. Something even darker than a djira, with a purpose all its own. It’s been suggested that the sickness outside the city comes from her. That she visits disease upon the tribes for her own purposes and cares nothing for Jezalya.” He paused. “Or for you.”
Anger and frustration welled up inside Nasaan, and since there was nothing in the room that he could break without earning the wrath of one god or another, he had a sudden mad impulse to strike at Sarosh. As if the merchant were responsible for the mess he was currently in.
“None of that is true,” he growled. Forcing the moment’s anger to subside.
“With all due respect, Highness . . . the truth does not matter. Gossip has a power all its own.”
Yes, Nasaan thought darkly. He remembered the rumors he himself had spread prior to his conquest of Jezalya, which had helped topple the former prince from power. And it can be a dangerous tool in the hands of one’s enemies.
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