Corajidin held up his hand for the Anlūki to halt. The musician bowed with an exaggerated flourish, then danced forward on light feet, flute neatly tucked under his arm. Corajidin felt as uncomfortable under Nix’s eye, as he had under the father’s. They were cold things, those eyes, and Corajidin wondered whether the man might look more suitable with another six, like the spider the Family Maladhi had as their sigil.
“It’s been long and long since the Maladhi have served Your Majesty,” Nix said. “My august father apologises for not being here in person to offer you our service. He has sent me to serve you in his stead.”
“Thought that sick bastard was in his grave,” Narseh’s gravelly voice carried across the room. A few of the others nodded. “Died a pauper, riddled with syphilis or some such.”
“Death wasn’t all he’d hoped it’d be.” Nix gave her a sidewise glance, mouth working sourly. He ran fingers through his hair. “I’ll pass on your regards when next we speak.”
“I had it on good authority you were poisoned by a courtesan-assassin in Tanjipé,” Jhem said coolly.
“I’d heard you drowned as we withdrew from the siege of Danai,” Tahj-Shaheh added. “Then again, I’d also heard you were captured by the Mantéans and executed for excesses even we’d shy away from.”
“But I was poisoned, and drowned, and captured,” Nix said in a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes wide. “And now I’m not.”
“Why are you here?” Kasraman asked, cutting to the chase, though poorly masking his revulsion.
“Rahn-Corajidin invited my father to return to suckle at his golden teat.” The odd man bowed over the chair, bending nearly double, the gesture almost mocking. “Or he would have, we’re sure, had he known Father was still about. So return we did, in anticipation of renewing our long and prosperous acquaintance. My father finds the daylight hours taxing so has asked me to speak on his behalf. Thanks to my relationship with the Soul Traders, the little friend I set free from its Dilemma Box yesterday was only a small sample of what I can do for you. We’ve other surprises, too. You’ll find our iron webs aren’t so idly blown away.”
The thought of the cold-hearted bastard, Rayz, made Corajidin feel light headed. The perverted old assassin had served Corajidin’s father. Even as a member of the Great House of Erebus, Corajidin never felt safe in the older man’s presence. It was said none escaped the Ironweb’s plots. Those whom he trapped were never seen again. There were also widespread tales of the man’s perversions—not rumours, for Corajidin knew them to be true even as it had been his job to muddy the truth about the man. Rayz was the dirty, ever-hungry spider, lurking to entrap and consume the young and the innocent. Including his own daughter. It had come as no surprise when the incestuous cannibal had been Exiled. It had been long overdue and managed to resolve the problem of killing the man before he became too much of a liability. Corajidin could still feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck, sweet and cloying, and his dry old hands with their long, thin fingers lingering… Nothing had ever happened, but that did not stop decades of memories of the one man Corajidin feared more than any other from jolting through him.
And now there was the son—
Within seconds, pain coiled in his bowels. Sweat prickled the backs of his hands. Within the space of heartbeats it felt as if somebody were sitting on his chest. He lurched to a chair, the sediment of his illness lay in tiers upon him: the never ending fatigue; the tidal rise and fall of pain; the bedlam of his Ancestors’ fractured voices in his head. All spoke of the infirmity that was killing him.
“Your Majesty.” The Angothic Witch’s rich tenor coiled like narcotic smoke. He drew a vial from a pouch at his belt.
Corajidin’s need battled his revulsion as he eyed the potion in the witch’s hand. Distilled from the raw essence of the Font, an almost pure disentropic fluid, the brew had restored a vitality Corajidin had not felt in years. Unfortunately, he felt acutely worse in those hours or days when he did not take it.
Corajidin remembered being introduced to the Emissary, the ambassador from the Drear. Everything she represented should have been wrong to him. Yet when she had produced a promise in a vial he had seen only survival, not consequence.
The fluid in the vial shone like a cobalt cloud with white stars in suspension. Corajidin watched the motes of light ebb, each one a tiny dream in the making. He held it up to his nose. Each time he had expected to smell something, some hint of venom, or decay. Something that alerted what remained of his moral compass what he was doing was wrong.
Nothing.
When the first drop hit his tongue, it was like an explosion of pins and needles wrapped in erotic delight. He felt it in the base of his spine. The taste changed from one side of his tongue to the other. It left a warm sweetness in his mouth: he tasted pure mountain snow melt; a hint of honey; the sweetness of a lover’s skin; goat’s milk and sugar. It tasted like all these things and more, though was none of them and less. It trickled down his throat, to settle like molasses in his belly. He breathed out an unpleasant aftertaste, acidic as reflux.
After a few moments, his strength returned. Pain faded. Corajidin braced himself on the arms of his chair. Rose slowly, feeling for any infirmity in his legs. They shook, at first. Then the trembling receded. Soon there was only the faintest twinge in his stomach. He gently rested his weight on his feet. Even the shooting pains from the cysts in his heels had eased. He teetered, foal-like on uncertain legs, before he found his balance.
Kasraman followed his father’s gaze to where it rested on Nix, who crouched on a chair with his long arms wrapped around his knees. The wiry man was staring out the balcony door, one eye twitching as he chewed on his fingertips. Corajidin looked at his son, then looked back at Nix, hoping the anxiety he felt did not show.
“Should I have him removed, Father?” Kasraman whispered.
Corajidin thought about it for a long moment, and replied as softly, “Tempting, but no. Nix, like his father before him, represents some unique opportunities for us.”
“Should he prove unsuitable,” Wolfram muttered through his ragged beard, “it’ll be an absolute pleasure to make an end of him.”
As the silence stretched, almost all of the Exiles seemed intent on looking anywhere save at Corajidin. Jhem, however, stared at Corajidin emotionlessly, while Nix tapped the tips of his fingers together in a rapid tattoo. Nobody spoke. News of Corajidin’s illness had been kept to a select few. He was hoping the need to reveal his infirmity would not have been necessary. Such was out of the question now.
“Have no fear, my friends,” Corajidin assured them, “it is a passing illness that will not jeopardise my aspirations to the highest office in the country.”
“As you say.” Narseh waved a glass of beer at the Exiles. “I trust Rahn-Corajidin to see our goals met.”
“I’m not so sure,” Nix countered. He waggled a finger in a warning gesture, “See, I’ve read about diseases like this. What if we all get infected? Disease. Nasty business, that.”
“Who asked you?” Narseh looked Nix up and down with disdain. “Though from the looks of you, disease is something you would know more than a little about, neh?”
“I’ll take Corajidin’s word this is a fleeting thing,” Jhem said, with the hint of an almost-smile. “We’ve all come a long way to take back what’s ours. I doubt he’d have wasted our time.”
Corajidin nodded his agreement. “The sooner we have you with us on our great endeavour, the better.”
Kasraman gestured for the Exiles to approach as Wolfram unrolled a large map of Shrīan on the table.
Corajidin gestured to the map as the Exiles gathered round. Each Prefecture of Shrīan had been truthfully rendered with the names of the sayfs who governed each city. Erebus Prefecture had been given the most detail, where the various holdings of each sayf had also been mapped. Some of these holdings were coloured, where others had been left blank.
“I take it the blank holdings are for the taking
, Rahn-Corajidin?” Nix pointed at the map. “That one used to be ours.”
“And can be again.” Wolfram waved his hand across the map. “Coloured holdings are not up for negotiation. Nor are holdings outside of Erebus Prefecture—”
“My father governed Näs-Sayyin, in Näsarat Prefecture,” Tahj-Shaheh gestured to a place on the Marble Sea, halfway between Amnon and Narsis.
“We’re not in a position to offer you anything outside of Erebus Prefecture.” Kasraman’s voice was conciliatory. “We believe there may be options for you in Kadarin Prefecture, though you’d need to speak with Rahn-Narseh. We want to do right by you, yet there’s only so much we can do.”
“I’m a Marble Sea corsair,” Tahj-Shaheh said with forced calm. “What bloody good would holdings in the deserts of Kadarin do me?”
“You can piss off then, girl,” Narseh said in a voice made gravelly from shouting orders. She looked at Corajidin. “What use is she to you if all she wants is the bloody sea?”
“I’ve wind-corsairs in my fleet too, old woman,” Tahj-Shaheh lifted her chin belligerently. “If you don’t want them, you can have a nice tall glass of shut the—”
“There are sea ports in Erebus on offer and Kadarin faces the sea for thousands of kilometres,” Jhem lisped indifferently. He included the other Exiles in a sweeping gesture. “Corajidin, we have spent the last couple of days discussing this and we are agreed. Your offers of land and title are most welcome. All we need do is agree the price.”
“What of those of use new to Shrīan?” Pah-Chepherundi op Sanojé was not a Shrīanese Exile, though the powerful princess-turned-witch had arrived with them. She was one of the heirs of a former Great House, their majesty a thing of the distant past. One of what was mockingly called the Bronze Avān, her own government had turned on the princess, banishing her from the Ivory Court of Tanis for her excesses. It was difficult to reconcile her reputation with her appearance. A petite woman with large pale brown eyes in a doll-like face, only her smile hinted at darker truths. “I can match the price offered by my colleagues here.”
“You are welcome Pah-Sanojé, otherwise you would not be standing here. As for price? This is not a negotiation, my friends.” Corajidin left the table, wine bowl cradled in his hands. He had seen the avarice in their eyes. Though years of foreign service had made them wealthy, they were more than ready to return home.
“Fine: what will your patronage cost us, Rahn-Corajidin?” Feyd’s tone was forthright. He was a leader of the Jiharim, the tribes of the Mar Jihara mountains. His skin was seamed and dark as old mahogany, his spade-shaped beard bristly as wire. His old boots with their cracked leather were worn, his wide-legged trousers dusty. The cunning old tribesman had managed to unite many of the fractious, blood happy Jiharim tribes under his banner. His ruthlessness and unconventional approach to warfare were things Corajidin wanted to exploit.
“If you sign your caste patents here, now, it will cost you twenty-five percent of everything you have.” Corajidin turned and walked towards the balcony. “For that you get my patronage and a seat on the Teshri, as befits a sayf of Shrīan. Your money will help you buy your own future, and that of the nation.”
Silence. Corajidin fought the urge to look back. Though he wanted very much to see the impact his words had, now was a time for strength. Let them think they needed him more than he needed their wealth. He gestured to a nearby servant who spooned spiced lamb with pine nuts and cracked wheat into a lettuce leaf. Wrapped the parcel carefully. The servant handed the food to Corajidin without meeting his gaze. He took a bite and chewed slowly. The contrast of the spiced lamb and crisp lettuce on his tongue was refreshing. Be calm.
Corajidin leaned out over the balcony. The noise from the race had lessened somewhat as the riders thundered around the far side of the track. Though he could hear the Exiles talking urgently—arguing, really—he did not want to break his silence. Instead he took a relaxed sip of his wine. Lost himself in the view as the sun tracked colour across the stone outside.
It took several moments for him to realize his name was being called. He turned, expression bland.
“We’re aware of what happened in Amnon, great rahn,” Feyd’s gaze was shrewd. “What’s to say our investment will be a good one?”
“Your position isn’t as strong as it was,” Sanojé said. “One might say Vashne’s and Ariskander’s deaths were a mistake.”
“Destiny!” Corajidin whipped a finger at Sanojé. “Destiny called and I answered. Who are you to ignore it? Amnon was part of a plan. Despite what happened, the Arbiter’s Tribunal has neither seen fit to incarcerate me, nor to plague me further with censure. Yesterday’s attack will no doubt give them further pause.”
“With respect, Rahn-Corajidin,” Tahj-Shaheh said as she leaned against the wall, crossing her very long legs at the ankle and her arms across her breasts, “you managed to avoid any censure all those years ago when some of us were—”
“Enough!” Corajidin felt his face flush. It was true, he had managed to distance himself from the scandal that had seen Jhem, Rayz, Tahj-Shaheh, and her father broken from the ranks of the Avān elite. There would never come the time to reveal that he had known of the Arbiter’s investigations, or how he had bribed a corrupt investigator to destroy any evidence of Corajidin’s wrongdoing. The others had been doomed already, and Corajidin had seen no point in going to any effort or expense for lost causes.
“Kasraman,” he continued, “I understand there was quite the influx of Exiles into Avānweh yesterday?”
“We’ve almost a score of Exiled sayfs and some wealthy expatriate Avān from Tanis and Ygran, all seeking positions here.” Kasraman said. “Not to mention Shrīanese women and men of influence who see an opportunity to improve their caste.”
Corajidin nodded. “I respect people with vision. People with commitment. Leaders who realize swearing loyalty to me is an investment in a mutually assured future.”
“You have not changed much, my friend,” Jhem said, his dead eyes unreadable. “I can not speak for the others, though I for one want to come home. Twenty-five percent of everything I own is a lot. But the seventy-five percent I keep is more still. Where do I sign?”
Wolfram opened a leather folio. He withdrew several sheets of vellum, marked with the rearing black stallion of the Great House of Erebus. An inkpot and brush were placed beside it.
“Welcome to the future, Jhem,” Corajidin breathed. He gestured to the map. “I’m glad to have you back!”
Corajidin waited while the others took their turn after Jhem. His hearts pounded so hard he felt blood pulse in his head.
“Now it is time to speak with the others downstairs,” Corajidin said, looking down at the map. There was always room for those lean enough and driven enough to take what they wanted from those weaker than themselves. “There are a few who will need to follow in the late Maroc’s footsteps before the day is done.”
Late afternoon sun streamed through fretwork shutters at the Qadir Erebus, patterning the black onyx sarcophagus with hard-edged diamonds. The air was perfumed with frankincense. The sounds of Avānweh hummed beyond the palace walls: the rattle of cart wheels, the drone of hundreds of almost-understood conversations, the rumble of waterfalls.
The Emissary from the Drear’s lithe silhouette was a stain on the dimness about her, difficult to tell where her outline ended and shadows began. Corajidin schooled his features to stillness. He reminded himself Belamandris lay sleeping, his life owed to the Emissary. He had never feared the question what can we do for you? until he had met her.
“What do you want?” Corajidin asked gruffly. The sarcophagus was cool under his palms.
“My masters would have something of you,” the Emissary’s voice was a rusted creak. “A small token of your appreciation—and one in your best interests.”
“You have spoken with the leaders of the Covens?”
“The Mother and Father Superiors of the Covens won’t speak with you—or of y
ou. A gesture of good faith is required, to bring them into your embrace.”
“Such as?”
She stirred in the murk. “They want you to open the Mahsojhin.”
Corajidin’s froze for a moment. “And I am to do this how, exactly?”
The Emissary’s voice scraped his nerves. “The Sēq were unable to kill the greatest of the Mahsojhins teachers or students. These were sealed between moments to ensure they never challenged the Sēq again. Locked away in the Rahnbathra is something called the Emphis Mechanism. If you retrieve it, I can open the Mahsojhin—with the help of your son and the Angothic Witch.”
“And I am to waltz into the Museum of Antiquities and walk out again with this device?”
“I don’t care how you do it. Just ensure it’s done. And quickly.”
Corajidin peered into the obscuring shade, trying to see her. There came a dry slithering. A faint rasp of flesh with an underlying echo of chittering, high-pitched voices. Other than the faint gleam from her scabrous mindstone and the verdigris pommel of her sword, light was loath to go there. He had heard of the Mahsojhin. Knew, as much as any indifferent student knew, the history of the centuries-old Scholar Wars when the witches had tried to seize control of Shrīan. Some of his Ancestors had fought on both sides of the war, though only the Sēq Erebus fa Zadjinn had survived. For all Corajidin knew the man still lived, hiding away in the Long Shadow beneath World Blood Mountain with his mystic brothers and sisters.
“The Exiles have witches,” Corajidin said firmly. “I would expect my plans will succeed without the help of the Covens, or the failures in the Mahsojhin.”
The Emissary stepped forward a pace, little more than a spectral outline. “Your handful won’t be enough to stand against the Sēq when the time comes, nor to make the kind of war you need to unify all the Avān under your banner. Without their help all you love, all you hope for, will come to ashes and dust.”
The Obsidian Heart Page 6
