The Tyrant's Law tdatc-3

by Daniel Abraham

  “Lord Palliako?” The old man bowed almost double as he came into the room. Ever since he’d come back after the insurrection with the courage to break from small traditions like letting other people bathe and dress him, Geder had gotten a reputation with the servants of the Kingspire. It made them much more respectful. “The general audience is ready, my lord.”

  Geder stood, pulling his robes back into their best trim. Basrahip rose from his seat beside the window and stepped toward him, gentle for so large a man.

  “All right, then,” Geder said. “Let’s clean this all up, shall we?”

  When he turned toward the door, the servant’s face was pale. Geder glanced behind him, half expecting to see an assassin or a bee. Some sort of danger. There was nothing but the room.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  The servant swallowed and coughed.

  “Your crown,” Aster said, and Geder’s hand rose to his bare brow. “It’s back here.”

  “Thank you,” Geder said, taking the metal circlet and putting it on. “How does it look?”

  “Regal,” Aster said.

  Geder struck an exaggerated pose. The boy prince laughed and Geder laughed with him.

  The general audience was reputed to be one of the great chores of the regency. Over the long months of the winter, requests for audience had built up like water behind a dam: magistrates who wished to escalate their decisions to the highest possible authority, prisoners of the crown who wished to make a case for clemency, and the assorted small business of sitting the Severed Throne. Geder had never done the thing, never even attended one, and he looked forward to the enterprise.

  The hall set aside for the general audience stood a hundred yards or so from the base of the Kingspire, and the massive presence of the building looming above gave the event a sense of grandeur that bordered on the ominous. The seat here was the actual Severed Throne, the ancient metal scarred where Bacian Ocur cut it and Annan the Forge made it whole. Or so tradition had it. The truth behind the legend was anybody’s guess.

  From his seat, Geder looked out over a sea of faces. Gold and gems glittered from the arms and breasts of the nobles. The merchants wore furs and fine wool. And behind them, kneeling, what serfs, peasants, and prisoners had managed to convince the bureaucrats of the court that their issues merited the Lord Regent’s attention. His personal guard stood at his back, and palace guards lined the processional that led to him. Geder couldn’t help grinning, at least at first. The empire had brought its knottiest puzzles to him for judgment—the terms of land rights, the disposition of slaves, the judgment of crime, and the assessment of punishment. All manner of questions of justice waited for his mind to untangle, and whatever he decided right would become right by the mere act of his decision. In all, it seemed the best entertainment possible.

  Only, of course, without Basrahip at his side, it would have been awful.

  “Are you ready?” Geder asked.

  “Yes, Prince Geder,” replied the priest, bowing. He lumbered down to his place in the closest row of observers, standing to the side, where Geder could see him. Geder felt a moment’s anxiety, worried that Basrahip might move out of earshot or be blocked by someone in the court. And then by the sense of being exposed. He had the sudden, powerful image of hidden archers loosing arrows at him where he sat. He never used to have worries like that. Another legacy of Dawson Kalliam. Eyeing the crowd with a wariness they didn’t deserve, he raised his hand, and the general audience began.

  The issues came before him in order of precedence: the nobles first by rank, then the untitled of noble blood, ambassadors and foreign nobles with Antean family, then those without, then the merchant houses with letters of association, then those without, with mere people filling whatever time was left before king or regent grew too weary and postponed the rest until next year. Two illegitimate sons of a minor lord each claimed to have been promised the same dyeyard from their father’s estate. Geder had them both recount their versions of the tale, and then watched for Basrahip’s gentle nod or slight shake of the head. A Jasuru woman presented a contract that bound a local merchant to sell to her at a price lower than the market would otherwise provide him. The merchant swore the document was forged. Basraship’s tiny movements assured him that the document was genuine, but Geder made a show of asking probing questions and examining the document before he ruled, and for the crime of lying to the Lord Regent, he had the merchant taken to the new gaol for a month and his left earlobe cut off. With each issue put before him, Geder became more comfortable in his role as the dispenser of justice and wisdom. By the time they had reached the last of the merchant houses, he hardly needed Basrahip’s advice any longer. For hours, the assembly had watched him cut through lies and misrepresentations, finding the truth with the unerring skill of a hunting dog. He saw fear in the faces of the liars and respect in those whose fortunes he made whole. Really, there was nothing better.

  There were some issues that didn’t hinge on deceit, in which the facts were established and uncontested, and only the interpretation of them was in question. He didn’t like those as much, but he gave them his best guess or else put off the decision until he could look into some fine point of history and common practice in more detail. He could see the disappointment in the faces when he said that, but no one objected. He was Lord Regent Geder Palliako. He was the man who had revealed the treachery of Feldin Maas and Asterilhold, waged a war of reunification and defeated a coup in a single year, and saved the empire twice over. He was a hero. Anything he did was right by definition.

  The only unexpected event came nearly at the day’s end. The Dartinae man came to the foot of the throne, kneeling in a bow so deep he pressed his knuckles to the floor. He was strong for one of his race, his skin dark from the sun, and his eyes glowed as bright as torches. His tunic was well-worn leather with the sigil of a dragon inked on the chest like a poor man’s coat of arms.

  “Dar Cinlama?” Geder said, reading the name from the petition.

  “Lord Regent. Thank you for hearing me out. I was afraid your other business might eat the day,” the man said. There was an amusement in his voice and a sureness of purpose. Even though his words were appropriate and acceptable, they gave the sense that they were equals, two men speaking as men instead of a dusty petitioner before the guiding hand of the Antean Empire. Geder envied him his certainty and disliked him.

  “You want me to fund a mission to … where?”

  Cinlama smiled.

  “If I was sure of that, it would already be too late. Someone would already have found it.”

  “It?”

  “What there is to be found. The Temple of the Sun. The Salt Scrolls. The lost books of Erindau.”

  “Those were forgeries,” Geder said, pouncing too quickly. Cinlama smiled.

  “The ones presented so far have been. The true ones are still out there. That’s the thought, isn’t it? My father and his spent their lives in the lost places where the dragon’s roads don’t go. I’ve climbed caverns mankind hadn’t touched in centuries and found carved stone at the bottom. There’s mysteries out there still. Treasures going back all the way to the Dragon Empire. Gems and jewels. Books of knowledge and magic. Devices from the war we don’t even remember except in stories we tell the kids to get them to sleep.”

  “And you know how to find these marvels.” Geder loaded the words with skepticism.

  “I know how to look. Finding’s a gamble, but if it pays out, there’s no higher prize.”

  No was already on his lips when Geder glanced over at Basrahip. The minister’s eyes were wide, his brows lifted. The pretense of prayer and contemplation were gone, and in their place something that could have been alarm or delight. Geder swallowed his refusal and waited, but Basrahip neither nodded nor shook his head.

  “Um,” Geder said. “I will have to consider my answer.”

  “My thanks for that, Lord Regent,” Cinlama said, smiling.

  Geder leaned t
oward his guard captain. “See him somewhere safe. And don’t let him leave.”

  The captain nodded, but there was a hesitation in it.

  “You mean the gaol, my lord?”

  “No. A guesthouse. Or put him in one of the gardens. Just … just don’t let him leave.”

  After that, Geder heard a shepherd asking recompense for his flock, slaughtered by a drunken priest, but by then the joy had gone out of it. He called the halt and withdrew, his guard walking ahead and behind. He stopped at a dry fountain, a copper dragon almost lost to verdigris throwing itself toward the sky, the bodies of the thirteen races of humanity drawn along behind it. Or, looked at differently, pulling it down. Basrahip came shortly thereafter, his face pinched in thought.

  “You heard something?” Geder said. “The adventurer. You … I mean, do you think he means what he says?”

  “He does,” the priest said. “He did not mislead you, Prince Geder. He seeks what he claims to seek. I would speak with him, if I might.”

  Geder pulled his hands into his sleeves, warming his fingers with the ends like mittens.

  “I thought as much. I had the guard take him somewhere comfortable and hold him.”

  “You are good to us,” Basrahip said, but he seemed distracted. “This man’s errand may be of importance. For time beyond time, the dragons have envied and hated the goddess. If buried shells survived the fire years, we must know. His coming may be the hand of the goddess in the world.”

  “Oh,” Geder said. “Then you think I should accept his petition?”

  Basrahip put a thick hand on Geder’s shoulder.

  “I will speak with him and know more. The goddess’s web is wide as the world and deeper than oceans. Nothing escapes her notice. If he is indeed sent by her, we must honor him.”

  “I suppose we will, then,” Geder said. “If the conversation goes the way you hope.”

  “My thanks, Prince Geder.”

  “I’m chosen by the goddess to bring peace to the world. Really, whatever she says needs to be done, we should do it,” he said.

  For the most part, he meant it. The little tug of reluctance was only caution and a rational skepticism. They were in the early stages of a war, after all. They might need to buy food or mercenaries, and if the coin was already spent, that would mean levying taxes or borrowing. So it was best to be certain. He was Lord Regent of Antea. He was the most powerful man in the world. This Dar Cinlama was a wanderer and a beggar, and if Basrahip was enthusiastic about him, it was only because the Dartinae man might be an apt tool for Geder’s projects. That was all. Of all people in the world, Geder told himself, surely he had the least reason to be jealous.

  Marcus

  No one knew how long the dragons had ruled the world, only that they had. The greatest empire that could be imagined had spanned the seas and lands of mankind and for all anyone knew more besides. The skill and rigor of the dragons had bent the nature of the world to their desires. The thirteen races of humanity and the dragon’s roads were two of their great works that had survived, but many others had passed away. Great cities had floated in the distant air, competing with the clouds for space in the sky. Poems and chants had been composed by inhuman minds with such complexity and beauty that a lifetime’s study still might not do them justice. Devices had been built that set the stars themselves in order and laid plain the books of fate.

  Or perhaps they hadn’t. A lot of history could be lost in a generation. One of Marcus’s grandfathers had been a minor noble of Northcoast who’d kept his grandmother as mistress. The other had been a sailor who’d made his money fishing cod and avoiding port taxes. All he knew of them was a dozen or so stories he’d heard as a boy and likely misremembered.

  The ages since the fall of the Dragon Empire had swallowed that a thousand thousand times over and left only legends and stories, roads and ruins.

  What little there was, though, still had the power to awe.

  Larger than the palaces of Northcoast or Birancour, the vast stronghold spread out before them, sinking down into the flesh of the earth level upon terraced level. Ivy clung to the spiral towers and magnificent stone arches. A few brave trees had forced their way through seams in the great blocks of dragon’s jade, their bark bellying over the pavement and their roots spidering out in the vain search for deeper soil. Black water pooled in the low places, thick with slime. Bright-plumed parrots fluttered and complained from the trees and the towers, and tiny scarlet frogs leapt from leaf to broad leaf with a ticking sound like dry twigs breaking. Stepping out from the jungle canopy for the first time in days, Marcus stared up at an open sky the color of sapphires.

  “My God,” Kit said.

  “Wouldn’t think it’d be so easy to hide something that big,” Marcus said. “Any thoughts as to what we do from here?”

  “I expect that reliquary itself will be in the deepest part of the ruins, guarded and barred.”

  “The intent being to keep out people like us.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wish I’d brought a pry bar,” Marcus said. “We should find shelter for the night. This isn’t our territory, and those very hospitable Southlings who told us none of this existed won’t be pleased we proved them wrong.”

  “Can you imagine it, Captain?” Master Kit asked. “This was a citadel of the dragons. These walls have stood here since before the war. Humanity might well have been feral when these stones were set.”

  “Or they might have caught us all as slaves to set them. Careful. Snake.”

  “What?” Kit said. Then, “Oh.” He moved to the side, and the black-and-silver serpent slid away down the steps toward the dark pools below.

  By the time they found a chamber that met Marcus’s approval, the sapphire sky had darkened to indigo, the parrots had all vanished, and the evening’s swarm of midges filled the air. An early bat, its wings fluttering wildly, spun through the air above the ruins, eating its fill of the insects. The smells of decay and still water filled the air. Marcus sat with his back against a cool stone wall while Kit measured out the evening meal of nuts and the last strips of dried meat from a foxlike animal Marcus had trapped three days before. His clothes were little more than rags, and he’d had to put another hole in his belt to keep it from slipping off his hips.

  The journey had thinned Kit as well. The actor’s handsome face was craggy now, and his beard looked brittle and dull. Marcus took the food with a nod of thanks and Kit lowered himself to sit across the narrow chamber. Likely it had been storage, back when it had been anything. The door had stood a bit ajar for centuries before Marcus was born, its hinges rusted away to black streaks. The ceiling was low enough that any attackers would have to come in hunched and vulnerable, and whatever animal had left its spoor in the corners hadn’t been back recently. It was as good as home.

  “Start searching at first light?” Kit asked.

  “That suits. And we’ll need to find something to eat. Freshwater. Ancient hoard of the dragons won’t do us much good if we starve to death.”

  “I suppose not,” Kit said.

  “I’ll take first watch.”

  Kit nodded in the growing gloom. Even if they’d found something dry enough to burn, they couldn’t afford the luxury of a fire. Any Southling patrol would see the light of it from seven miles off, jungle or no. Kit yawned and settled down against the far wall. Marcus took his sword in its rotting sheath and laid it across his knees, preparing for the long hours of darkness. Outside their little shelter, something ticked, ticked again, and began a whirring insectile song. Another joined in, and soon the ruins were alive with the sound of inhuman life. The walls and terraces that the dragons had designed were a vast city for beetles and midges, frogs and snakes. And two men whose minds and comprehension of the world was likely nearer to the midges than the dragons. Marcus let himself wonder what the builders of his little shelter would have thought if they’d known, however many centuries ago, that in the vast span of time their work would fall this far
. Despair, maybe, that all their efforts were doomed. Or pride that what they did would leave a mark on the world that, though it might change its shape and meaning, would not be erased.

  And nothing could ever really boast permanence. Every castle fell in time. Every empire. Every man. Even these walls would eventually be buried by the jungle, though the slow accretion of fallen leaves and grit might take ten times longer than had already passed. There was a kind of consolation in the thought that nothing lasts forever.

  “Do you think they’re all right?” Kit asked. His voice was gentle, already half asleep. “Cary and Sandr and the rest?”

  “Probably,” he said, and Kit chuckled.

  “I keep thinking of things I want to say to them. Two days ago, I thought of a simple, clear explanation for Charlit Soon about why the king’s role in The Song of Love and Salt has to be played as a Haaverkin or Jasuru. When I realized I couldn’t tell her, it was disappointing.”

  Marcus grunted.

  “And Cithrin. I assume your own thoughts are with her.”

  “And Yardem,” Marcus said.

  “What are you going to do, when it’s over? Will you go back to them?”

  The last time he’d seen Cithrin bel Sarcour, she’d been leaving for Carse with two of his guardsmen and not him. The last word he’d had of her, she’d been lost in the chaos of a political coup in Camnipol. He knew all too well what happened to rich, unarmed women during political uprisings. He tapped a thumb on the body of his blade.

  “Once we’re done, I’ll find them,” Marcus said, “and if Cithrin’s hurt or dead and I could have stopped it, I’ll kill Yardem.”

  Kit shifted in the gloom.

  “You would do that?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “Well, I might. Yardem’s good, though, and he’s got reach on me, but one of us will be leaving on a plank.”

  “And if Cithrin’s well?”

  “Likely the same.”