by Anthony Ryan
“The price is agreed,” the governor told Ahm Lin. “They sail direct for the Far West, first port of call…”
“It’s better if I don’t know,” Vaelin cut in.
Ahm Lin came forward to take Sherin from him, lifting her easily in his muscular mason’s arms.
“Tell her they killed me,” Vaelin said. “As the ship pulled away from the dock, the Emperor’s Guard arrived and killed me.”
The mason gave a reluctant nod. “As the song wills it, brother.”
“She could stay here,” Governor Aruan offered. “The city owes her a great debt after all. She would be in no danger.”
“Do you really think Lord Velsus will share your gratitude, Governor?” Vaelin asked him.
The governor sighed. “Perhaps not.” He took a leather purse from his belt and handed it to Shoala. “For her, when she wakes. With my thanks.”
The woman nodded, cast a final hateful glare at Vaelin then a tearful glance at the city, before turning and striding up the gangplank.
Vaelin reached out to trace his fingers through Sherin’s hair, trying to burn the image of her sleeping face into his memory. “Take care of her,” he told Ahm Lin.
Ahm Lin smiled. “My song would have it no other way.” He turned to go then hesitated. “My song holds no note of farewell, brother. I can’t help but think that one day we’ll sing together again.”
Vaelin nodded, stepping back as Ahm Lin carried Sherin onto the ship. He stood with the governor as the ship pulled away from the dock, riding the tide to the harbour mouth, sails unfurling to catch the northerly winds, taking her away. He waited and watched until the sail was a faint smudge on the horizon, until it had vanished completely and there was only the sea and the wind.
He unbuckled his sword and held it out to Aruan. “Governor, the city is yours. I am commanded to wait for Lord Velsus beyond the walls.”
Aruan looked at the sword but made no move to take it. “I will speak for you, I have some influence at the Emperor’s court. He is famed for his mercy…” He faltered and stopped, perhaps hearing the emptiness of his words. After a moment he spoke again, “Thank you for my daughter’s life, my lord.”
“Take it,” Vaelin insisted, again holding out the sword. “I’d rather you than Lord Velsus.”
“As you wish.” The governor took the sword in his plump hands. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”
“Actually, about my dog…”
PART V
In longer games, where the Liar’s Attack or one of the other openings outlined above has failed, the complexity of Keschet is fully revealed. The following chapters will examine the most effective stratagems to be employed in the long game, beginning with the Bowman’s Switch, taking its name from a manoeuvre employed by Alpiran horse archers. Like the Liar’s Attack, the Bowman’s Switch employs misdirection but also retains the potential for exploiting unforeseen opportunity. A skilled player can move offensively against two objectives, leaving the opponent ignorant of the ultimate target until the most fruitful opportunity presents itself.
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN, KESCHET—RULES AND STRATEGIES,
GREAT LIBRARY OF THE UNIFIED REALM
VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT
“And?”
Al Sorna had fallen to silence after relating his final words to the governor. “And what?” he enquired.
I bit down my exasperation. It was becoming increasingly apparent that the Northman took no small pleasure from vexing me. “And what followed?”
“You know what followed. I waited outside the walls, in the morning Lord Velsus came with a troop of Imperial Guards to take me into custody. Prince Malcius was duly delivered to the Realm unharmed. Janus died shortly after. Your history was fulsome in its description of my trial. What else can I tell you?”
I realised he was right; insofar as recorded history could relate, he had told me the entirety of his tale, providing a great deal of previously unknown information and clarification on the origins of the war and the nature of the Realm that had spawned it. But I found myself possessed of a conviction that there was more, an unshakeable sense that his tale was incomplete. I recalled moments when his voice had faltered, only slightly but enough to assure me he had been holding back, perhaps concealing truths he had no desire to reveal. As I looked at the wealth of words adorning the sheets that now covered the deck around my bedroll, my mood darkened as I considered the work involved in verifying this narrative, the extensive research that would be needed to corroborate such a story. Where is the truth amongst all this? I wondered.
“So,” I said, gathering my papers, taking care to keep them in order. “This is the answer to the war? Simply the folly of a desperate old man?”
Al Sorna had settled onto his bedroll, hands clasped behind his head, eyes cast to the ceiling, his expression sombre and distant. He yawned. “That’s all I can tell you, my lord. Now, if you’ll allow me some rest, I have to face certain death tomorrow and would prefer to meet it fully refreshed.”
I sifted through the pages, my quill picking out those passages where I suspected he had been less than forthcoming. To my dismay I found there were more than I would have liked, even a few contradictions. “You said you never met her again,” I said. “Yet you say Princess Lyrna was present at the Summertide Fair where Janus embroiled you in his warmongering scheme.”
He sighed, not turning. “We exchanged a cursory greeting only. I didn’t think it worth mentioning.”
A dim memory came to me, a fragment from my own researches undertaken whilst preparing my history of the war. “What about the mason?”
It was only the briefest hesitation but it told me a great deal. “Mason?”
“The mason at Linesh you befriended. His house was set alight because of it. It was a well-known story when I researched your occupation of the city. Yet you make no mention of him.”
He rolled onto his back and shrugged. “Hardly a friendship. I wanted him to carve a statue of Janus for the town square. Something to confirm his ownership of the city. Needless to say the mason refused. Didn’t stop someone burning his house down though. I believe he and his wife left the city when the war ended, with good reason it seems.”
“And the sister of your faith who stopped the red plague from ravaging the city,” I pressed, angrier now. “What of her? The city folk I interviewed told many tales of her kindness and her closeness to you. Some even thought you were lovers.”
He shook his head wearily. “That is absurd. As for what became of her, I assume she returned to the Realm with the army.”
He was lying, I was sure of it. “Why relate this tale if you have no intention of telling me all of it?” I demanded. “Do you seek to make me a fool, Hope Killer?”
Al Sorna grunted a laugh. “A fool is any man who doesn’t think he’s a fool. Let me sleep, my lord.”
In the twenty years since its destruction the Meldeneans had made strenuous efforts to rebuild their capital on a grander and more ornate scale, perhaps seeking defiance in architectural achievement. The city clustered around the wide natural harbour on the southern shore of Ildera, the largest island in the archipelago, a vista of gleaming marble walls and red-tiled rooftops interspersed with tall columns honouring the islanders’ myriad sea gods. I had read how Al Sorna’s equally formidable father had overseen the toppling of the columns when his army stormed ashore bringing fire and destruction. Survivors spoke of Realm Guard urinating on the fallen statues that sat atop the columns, drunk on blood and victory, chanting, “A god is a lie!” as the city burned around them.
If Al Sorna felt any remorse at the destruction his father had wrought, he failed to show it, gazing at the fast-approaching city with only the faintest interest, hateful sword in hand, ignored by the sailors as he rested against the rail. It was a bright, cloudless day and the ship ploughed easily through the still waters with sails furled, the sailors hauling on their oars under the bosun’s harsh exhortations.
We exchanged no greeting
when I joined him at the rail. My head still buzzed with questions but my heart was chilled by the certain knowledge that he would provide no answers. Whatever purpose he had pursued in telling me his tale was now fulfilled. He would tell me nothing more. I had lain awake most of the night, my mind poring over his story, seeking answers and finding only more questions. I wondered if his intention had been to take some cruel revenge for the harsh condemnation of him and his people that had coloured nearly every line of my history of the war, but, despite the fact that I could never feel any warmth for him, I knew he was not truly vindictive. A deadly enemy, certainly, but rarely a vengeful one.
“Can you still use that?” I asked eventually, tiring of the silence.
He glanced at the sword in his hand. “We’ll soon see.”
“Apparently, the Shield is insisting on a fair contest. I expect they’ll give you a few days to practise. So many years of inactivity would hardly make you the most fearsome opponent.”
His black eyes played over my face, faintly amused. “What makes you think I’ve been inactive?”
I shrugged. “What is there to do in a cell for five years?”
He turned back to the city, his reply a vague whisper nearly lost to the wind. “Sing.”
All business on the dockside gradually died away as we tied up to the quay. Every stevedore, fisherman, sailor, fishwife and whore ceased activity and turned to regard the son of the City Burner. The silence was instantly thick and oppressive, even the constant keening of the innumerable gulls seemed to fade in an atmosphere now heavy with an unspoken, universal hatred. Only one figure amongst the throng seemed immune to the mood, a tall man standing arms wide in welcome at the foot of the gangplank, perfect teeth gleaming in a broad smile. “Welcome, friends, welcome!” he called in a rich, deep baritone.
I took in his full stature as I descended to the quay, noting the expensive blue silk shirt that clad his broad, lean torso and the gold-hilted sabre at his belt. His hair, long and honey blond, trailed in the wind like a lion’s mane. He was, quite simply, the most handsome man I had ever seen. Unlike Al Sorna, his appearance was entirely in keeping with his legend and I knew his name before he told me, Atheran Ell-Nestra, Shield of the Isles, the man the Hope Killer had come to fight.
“Lord Verniers, is it not?” he greeted me, his hand engulfing my own. “An honour, sir. Your histories have pride of place on my shelves.”
“Thank you.” I turned as Al Sorna made his way down the gangplank. “This…”
“Is Vaelin Al Sorna,” Ell-Nestra finished, bowing deeply to the Hope Killer. “The tale of your deeds flies before you, of course…”
“When do we fight?” Al Sorna cut in.
Ell-Nestra’s eyes narrowed a little but his smile never wavered. “Three days hence, my lord. If it suits you.”
“It doesn’t. I wish to conclude this farce as quickly as possible.”
“I was under the impression that you had been languishing at the Emperor’s pleasure for the last five years. Do you not require time to refresh your skills? I should feel dishonoured if folk were to say I had too easy a victory.”
Watching them stare at each other, I was struck by the contrast they made. Although roughly equal in stature, Ell-Nestra’s masculine beauty and blazing smile should have outshone Al Sorna’s stern, angular visage. But there was something about the Hope Killer that defied the islander’s commanding presence, an innate inability to be diminished. I knew why, of course, I could see it in the false humour Ell-Nestra painted on his face, the way his eyes scanned his opponent from head to toe. The Hope Killer was the most dangerous man he would ever face, and he knew it.
“I can assure you,” Al Sorna said. “No-one will ever say you had an easy victory.”
Ell-Nestra inclined his head. “Tomorrow then, midday.” He gestured at a group of armed men nearby, hard-eyed sailors festooned with a variety of weapons, all glaring at the Hope Killer with undisguised antipathy. “My crew will escort you to your quarters. I advise you not to linger on the way.”
“Lady Emeren,” I said as he made to walk away. “Where is she?”
“Comfortably situated at my home. You’ll see her tomorrow. She sends you her warmest regards, of course.”
It was a bald lie and I wondered what she had told him about me and how close was their association. Could it perhaps amount to more than just a convenience between two vengeful souls?
Our quarters were a soot-blackened building near the centre of town, the finely pointed brickwork and ruined mosaics on the floor indicated it had probably once been a dwelling of considerable status. “Ship Lord Otheran’s house,” one of the sailors explained in gruff response to my query. “The Shield’s father.” He paused to glare at Al Sorna. “He died in the fire. The Shield commanded it be left as it is, a reminder for both him and the people.”
Al Sorna didn’t appear to be listening, his gaze roaming over the ruined, grey-black walls, a strange distance in his eyes.
“Food has been provided,” the sailor told me. “In the kitchen, take the stairs over there to the lower floors. We’ll be outside if you need anything.”
We ate at a large mahogany table in the dining room, an oddly perfect furnishing in so wasted a house. I had found cheese, bread and an assortment of cured meats in the kitchen, together with some very palatable wine Al Sorna recognised as originating from the southern vineyards of Cumbrael.
“Why do they call him the Shield?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of water. I noticed he hardly touched the wine.
“After your father’s visit the Meldeneans decided they needed to look to their defences. Every Ship Lord must contribute five ships to a fleet that constantly patrols the Islands. The captain given the honour of commanding the fleet is known as the Shield of the Isles.” I paused, watching him carefully. “Do you think you can beat him?”
His eyes wandered around the dining room, lingering on the peeled remains of a wall painting, whatever it had depicted now lost in a black-streaked smear of once-vibrant colours. “His father was a rich man, bringing an artist from the Empire to paint a mural of the family. The Shield had three brothers, all his elders, and yet he knew his father loved him more than the others.”
There was an unnerving certainty to his words, provoking the suspicion that we sat eating amidst the ghosts of the Shield’s murdered family. “You see much in a patch of faded paint.”
He set his cup down and pushed his plate away. If this was his last meal, it seemed to me he had approached it with little enthusiasm. “What will you do with the story I told you?”
The unfinished story you told me, I thought but said, “It has given me much to think about. Although, if I were to publish it, I doubt many would be convinced by the picture of the war as simply the deluded agency of a foolish old man.”
“Janus was a schemer, a liar and, on occasion, a murderer. But was he truly a fool? For all the blood and treasure spilled into the sand in that hateful war, I’m still not sure it wasn’t all part of some great design, some final scheme too complex for me to grasp.”
“When you talk of Janus you tell of a callous and devious old man, and yet I hear no anger in your voice. No hatred for the man who betrayed you.”
“Betrayed me? The only loyalty Janus ever felt was to his legacy, a Unified Realm ruled in perpetuity by the House of Al Nieren. It was his only true ambition. Hating him for his actions would be like hating the scorpion that stings you.”
I drained my wine cup and reached for the bottle. I found I had a liking for the fruit of Cumbrael and felt a sudden desire to be drunk. The stress of the day and the prospect of witnessing bloody combat on the morrow left an unease in my gut I was keen to drown. I had seen men die before, criminals and traitors executed at the Emperor’s command, but however bright my hatred burned for this man I found I could no longer relish the impending violence of his end.
“What will you do if you gain victory tomorrow?” I asked, aware I was slurring a little. �
��Will you return to your Realm? Do you think King Malcius will welcome you?”
He pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I think we both know there will be no victory for me here, whatever transpires tomorrow. Good night, my lord.”
I refilled my cup, listening to him climb the stairs and make his way to one of the bedrooms. I marvelled that he could sleep, knowing that without the wine’s assistance I was unlikely to find any rest this night. And yet I knew he would sleep soundly, untroubled by fearful nightmares, untroubled by guilt.
“Would you have hated him, Seliesen?” I asked aloud, hoping he was among the ghosts crowding this house. “I doubt it. Grist for another poem, no doubt. You always did relish their company, these sword-swinging brutes, though you could never truly be one of them. Learn their tricks, learn to ride, learn to make pretty patterns with that sabre they gave you. But you never learned to fight, did you?” Tears were coming now. Here I was, a drunken scribbler weeping in a house of ghosts. “You never learned to fight, you bastard.”
Among the few attractions the Meldenean Islands have to offer the more educated visitor are the many impressive ruins to be found on the coastline of the larger isles. Although varying in scale and purpose, they display a uniformity of design and articulation clearly indicative of construction by a single culture, an ancient race possessed of an aesthetic sophistication and elegance entirely absent from the archipelago’s modern inhabitants.
By far the most impressive surviving example of this once-great architecture is the amphitheatre situated some two miles from the Meldenean capital. Carved from a depression in the red-veined yellow marble cliffs on the island’s southern shore, the amphitheatre has proven immune to the depredations wrought by successive generations of islanders who display scant reluctance in cannibalising other sites for building materials. A great bowl of terraced seating looking down upon a wide oval stage where, no doubt, great oratory, poetry and drama had once been the delight of a more enlightened audience, the amphitheatre was now the perfect venue for modern islanders to publicly execute miscreants or watch men fight to the death.
