The Obsidian Heart

by Mark T. Barnes

  Corajidin had staffed his house almost as it had been in the days of the Awakened Empire. Kasraman was his Master of House, perfect training for the day when he became rahn, or more. Golden Belamandris would be his Poet Master, the shining hero who drew the finest soldiers in the realm to Corajidin’s colours. Feyd was his Master of Arms, the old tribesman more cunning than most of his so-called noble counterparts amongst the Shrīanese elite and royal castes. Tahj-Shaheh brought the tactics of subterfuge and piracy as Sky Master and Master of the Fleet. Jhem would serve admirably as Master of Assassins; something Nix would need to come to terms with, or find his path elsewhere. The man was like to become another Thufan and use what he knew more for his own purposes than his Master’s, and that was something Corajidin could not abide. Wolfram would continue to serve as rajir, his most trusted Lore Master. And, in the future, Wolfram would do so openly, rather than from hiding. Everybody who counted knew Wolfram advised the Great House of Erebus, and it was only the banality of tradition for nobody to mention it.

  Since the Accession vote, more followers had come into the light. Or, in some cases, had taken a step closer to the edge of shadow. The Malefacti and the League of Silence had sent their advocates to open negotiations, and both the Banker’s House and the Mercantile Guild had made overtures now that it was clear Corajidin was a man of what appeared to be extraordinary means. The bankers and merchants knew too well that people with ambitions would always need money to grow them, no matter how much money they already had.

  “What news of Vahineh?” Corajidin asked.

  “She has not been released into our custody,” Jhem said.

  “I’ll confront Roshana about it at the Assembly today.” Corajidin’s tone revealed his irritation. “I’m more concerned about retrieving what we can from Mahsojhin before too many of the witches are freed. There are weapons in there, I’m sure of it!”

  “If memory serves,” Wolfram mused, “the witches of Mahsojhin did have a powerful weapon they were developing. I was young at the time, a novice, so I only heard the rumours. Whatever it was never got unleashed against the Sēq.”

  “And there’s no mention of it in history,” Kasraman said. “If it existed, chances are it’s still there. Certainly the Rahnbathra was a disappointment when it came to finding something we could use for our cause.”

  “Except this.” Belamandris held up a curved knife in a verdigris sheath. “Salt-forged steel—something that will come in handy when I face Indris again.”

  Kasraman and Wolfram gave the weapon sidelong glances, subtly distancing themselves from it. The Emissary looked at it disinterestedly.

  “You’ll need more than that to defeat Indris,” the Emissary smiled. “Besides, the Sēq have everything of any real value that was in the Mahsojhin. They’re like crows, flying over the fields and picking up everything shiny to take back to their nest.”

  “Including the Destiny Engine we found in Fiandahariat.” Kasraman’s voice was rough with frustration.

  “Then you, Wolfram, and Kimiya will go to the Mahsojhin,” Corajidin said. “I’ll not be robbed again. Protect whatever you find.”

  “I’ll go with them,” the Emissary said. “Even with the Emphis Mechanism we’ll need to take extreme care in unfolding the Temporal Labyrinth.”

  “Without destroying the city in the process,” Feyd muttered.

  “Will you announce the disbanding of the Feyassin today?” Belamandris asked, his ruby scale armour and scarlet over-robe sullen in the ruddy glow of the braziers. “And what about Mari? Will she—”

  “Your sister’s fate is undecided,” Corajidin said. The question gave him the beginning of a stress headache.

  “I understand you resent her, but she did what she thought was right.”

  “Is it right she defiles herself with the man who tried to murder you?”

  There was a commotion at the door. A dishevelled and bloody Martūm was thrust into the room, Nix almost capering behind him. The tatterdemalion killer bowed with a flourish, the long clumped locks of his hair sweeping the floor. Martūm cringed, holding his hand to his split lip. His left eye was bruised, swollen almost entirely shut. The battered man eyed the others in the room nervously.

  “Is this any way to treat our friend?” Corajidin asked, though he did nothing to help to hurt man. Instead, he gestured for Martūm to pick himself up.

  Nix rolled his eyes, face transitioning through half a dozen expressions in as many seconds. Corajidin took an unwilling step backward. Is this what happened to all eaters of flesh? Or perhaps it was the inbreeding?

  “Hmmm.” Nix scuttled to a chair, turned it round and crouched on it. His arms dangled over its back, fingertips poking through tattered leather gloves. “It wasn’t me who gave him a thrashing. I saved him!” He reached out to ruffle Martūm’s already mussed hair. His grip soon tightened, squeezing until Martūm darted away. Nix flicked a slender blade from a wrist sheath, gaze flat. His voice dropped when he spoke, losing its customary nasal whine. “I love this little man! He’s so full of juicy facts I just want to cut him and gut him to see what squirms inside.”

  “There’s no need to cut anything!” Martūm sounded panicked. “I went gambling last night in a less than salubrious establishment, and found my liquid assets were somewhat short of my debts. Even the courtesans turned me down! Bitches. They should be happy to have the new Rahn-Selassin in their beds.”

  “And are you the new Rahn-Selassin?” Tahj-Shaheh asked. “Or are you still an impoverished man-child, always crying to his benefactors to pay off the debts of his excess?”

  “Watch your tone, woman!” Martūm warmed. “Has the salt air robbed you of your memories of sende? I may not be a rahn, but I am a son of the Great House of Selassin and you’ll respect the bloodline.” He stood up straight. “And of course I’ll be rahn. Who else can take Vahineh’s place?” He paused, before muttering, “Though Roshana and Nazarafine seem to be looking to anybody with a drop of Selassin blood in them.”

  “Are they now?” Corajidin asked darkly

  “You bought me, Asrahn-Corajidin, and I know enough of your reputation to stay bought.” Martūm straightened his clothing with what dignity he could muster. “But your investment in me will never give you rewards if Roshana and her lack witted cabal choose another to replace Vahineh.”

  “Ah,” Feyd smiled a very small smile, a flash of white in his short iron beard. “But is the reward you offer something we’ll find useful?”

  “Or something we can get somewhere else”—Tahj-Shaheh added—“at half the price?”

  Martūm turned to Corajidin, his expression desperately eager. “If you keep me locked in the warm lips of outrageously expensive courtesans, with enough gold for me to live as I want, you’ll find me the most useful thing in the world, Asrahn. I don’t want power. Never have. I just want the wealth, toys, and perversions power can buy.”

  Corajidin looked over steepled fingers at the man. Clearly the resemblance to Vashne was purely skin deep, the man a Selassin in name only. Yet he could still be the means to several ends.

  “The question, Martūm, is can you deliver what you promised me?”

  “Please, Asrahn, consider me an investment in the future,” the man said as he rubbed his hands together briskly. “Last night, prior to my foray into the more dubious haunts of Avānweh’s dark and delicious underbelly, I was with the Federationists. Maintaining the dutiful cousin story, you know. Anyway, I learned the Federationists were trying to Sever Vahineh from her Awakening.”

  “They what?” Wolfram snapped.

  “I thought that would get your attention,” Martūm smirked. “Oh, they also told Ajomandyan the Sky Lord all about how you have snatched up Indris and Vahineh. It was quite a tense topic of conversation, how they intended on dealing with that.”

  “You do not say.” Corajidin held his hand up to forestall the others from talking. “Martūm, would you excuse us? Ask one of the Anlūki to point you in the direction of the
baths, so you can make yourself more presentable before heading home.”

  “And about my minor financial hiccup?” The man smiled ingratiatingly.

  “You will be well taken care of, trust me.”

  When Martūm was gone Corajidin rubbed his face with both his hands in an effort to mask the expression of pure rage and frustration he felt forming there. He ground his teeth, instantly regretting the shooting pain from his missing molar. He could feel a trembling in his elbows and knees. Taking his hands away he looked at the creases on his fingers. The deep-etched lines on his palm. So like squinted eyes, a flattened nose and curled lips. It was as if he had imprinted his fury into the skin.

  “As pathetic a man as he is, Martūm could be useful if he Ascends, Your Majesty,” Wolfram said.

  “Were the Federationists going to Awaken him,” the Emissary leaned forward in her chair, elbows on her knees and legs akimbo, “Martūm would’ve been there at the Severance to take on Vahineh’s legacy. They’d need scholars of Indris and Femensetri’s skills to help him order all the thoughts that would otherwise break him. I think they’re seriously looking elsewhere for their new rahn.”

  “I agree. But why not have the Sēq do the Severance?” Kasraman asked.

  “Maybe they wouldn’t,” the Emissary mused. “Maybe they couldn’t. From all I hear, the Order is in turmoil.”

  “Where in all the depths of the Well of Souls are Indris and the others, then?” Nadir asked. “We don’t have them.”

  “I’m sure Roshana and the others are manipulating Ajomandyan,” Wolfram said. “If they can send enough doubt our way, they might be able to make others take another look at recent deaths and disappearances.”

  “They’ll find nothing,” Nix yawned, looking bored. He began to carve into the back of the chair with his knife.

  “Let’s take some more precautions. Jhem?” Corajidin said to his old friend. “I need you and Nix to arrange for the most likely candidates for a new Federationist rahn to leave the city.” Seeing their eager faces, he quickly said, “No blood! There’s been enough shed already. While you’re at it, get the list of my preferred candidates from my desk. I want them all protected!”

  “Does that include myself, my rahn?” the Blacksnake said emotionlessly.

  Corajidin tried for patience. “There are those who have waited a long time for this, Jhem. Their Families have been on the list for Ascension for centuries. I will do for you what I can.”

  Jhem rose from his chair and took Nix with him, the shorter man almost hopping with excitement.

  Corajidin sat in the windy chamber, his pristine white Teshri coat flapping about his legs. The large room was cold, the air crisp where it carried with it the hint of the high mountain snows. The pitted bronze sphere he sat on felt like ice, causing his lower back and thighs to ache. Even so it was refreshing to feel mundane pain for a change.

  Nazarafine seemed to have shrunken in on herself, expression wan. Roshana’s gaze was sharp as a sword blade, face hard as a shield. Siamak sat tall and still, a snowy mountain in his coat while Vahineh’s absence was as predictable as it was vexing.

  It was Mariam’s appearance that had startled Corajidin at first. It was apparent she had recovered fully from her near-mortal wounds in Amnon, her movement feline and easy. Belamandris looked at his sister with affection, though his expression hardened at Corajidin’s glare. Her smile faltered, an embarrassed hurt flushing her skin. Corajidin was surprised when Mariam did not assume her place with the Feyassin. Rather she took a seat at the back, in the ambivalent territory between the factions, populated by those lone voices in the political wilderness, or those seeking to attract patronage from those more influential than themselves.

  It should have come as no surprise Mariam would distance herself from the Feyassin. Unlikely she would be comfortable serving her father, the man she had so recently betrayed, as the Knight-Colonel of his personal guard. Given he intended on disbanding the Feyassin—their treachery at Amnon was not forgotten—it hardly mattered, though it was a small, petty wound he could no longer inflict on his estranged daughter.

  As expected, the Ambassadors from the Iron League wasted no time in accosting Nazarafine with their list of grievances. There was the usual litany of attacks by Avān nahdi on Iron League soil. The rebuttal of Manté’s ongoing war against the Avān along the Tanisian border. Prattle about ancient territories, hereditary rights and claims to lands and the oft-won, oft-lost Conflicted Cities. Each time Nazarafine deflected a question, giving the Ambassadors the politically correct and comforting answers from the current administration, Corajidin was then asked the same question about his impending government. Yes, there would be a proposal to create the Royal Shrīanese Columns, a standing army loyal to the Crown and State. Yes, these would be similar to the Imperial Legions of the Awakened Empire. Yes, Shrīan would be reviewing its foreign policy, as well as the rights of non-Avān in Shrīan. No, it was not dissimilar from the attitudes adopted by the Iron League against the Avān for the past five centuries. Yes, more proactive support of the Tanisians would be considered.

  The expressions on the faces of the Iron League Ambassadors were not encouraging. The Humans had made their antipathy well known when they had tried to exterminate the Avān during the Insurrection. After more than one hundred and fifty years of war, which had seen the end of the Awakened Empire, both sides were impoverished wrecks, spitting invective through what remained of their chipped and bloodied teeth. After almost five centuries of what people called peace, some called a détente and the informed called a stalemate, attitudes had not improved. Even the Ambassadors from the neutral nations of Ondea, Darmatia, Kaylish, Ygran, and Kaarsgard were suspicious. The Salt Islanders, little better than freebooters and mercenaries anyway, seemed to not care one way or the other. It was easier for them, since Corajidin could not imagine anybody wanting to occupy the Salt Isles who did not have to. Only the Tanisian Ambassador seemed pleased. No doubt he expected the Royal Shrīanese Columns to some sailing across the skies, in the armada of airships that did not exist, with weapons that had not been made, used by soldiers who had neither been recruited nor trained.

  The Ambassadors left the open session of the Teshri unhappier than they had entered it. Corajidin rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to muster enough energy to care. He wanted to blame Vashne’s government for the tensions, though there was unlikely to be a person in South-Eastern Īa who would believe such a claim. It was not a case of tensions mounting; it was a case of them never having eased, a full glass waiting to overflow.

  “Is there any additional business?” Padishin, the middle-aged Secretary-Marshall, asked.

  “I have a matter that needs to be clarified.” Corajidin rose from his cold, uncomfortable sphere. He stretched his back, smiling at his fellow counsellors. “The architects of the Teshri certainly had the last laugh.”

  “What do you want, Rahn-Corajidin?” Roshana asked, glaring at those who chuckled at Corajidin’s levity. She wavered on the fine line of civility demanded by sende. He bit back his instinct to school her on her manners. Though it was a young woman’s face he saw, behind her eyes was the long line of those who had come before. Including Ariskander. Even dead, the echo of the man was not to be trifled with.

  Instead, Corajidin bowed his head precisely as sende demanded, touching his fingertips to his chest, over his hearts. I see you and hear you and show you I carry no weapon.

  “It is the outstanding matter of Rahn-Selassin fe Vahineh.” Corajidin said. “We appreciate she was Awakened under tragic circumstances, yet know her ongoing position as rahn is untenable. It was a miracle she survived the Communion Ritual. Why prolong the inevitable? I propose we petition the Sēq to Sever Vahineh from her Awakening, in order to save her life.”

  “So you can take it?” Nazarafine had to raise her voice over the cacophony that rang about the chamber. The portly woman waved her arms around, try as Roshana and Siamak might to
restrain her. “We know you want to bring her before the Arbiters, for—”

  “For my suspicions that she was involved in the cold-blooded murder of my wife?” Corajidin asked quietly. He looked around the chamber, nodding at the shocked expressions there. “It is true. I do want Yashamin’s murderer brought to justice. If it is Rahn-Vahineh, then let justice take its course.

  “And while it is true I have lodged a petition with yourself, Rahn-Nazarafine—as well as the Arbiter of the Change—for this matter to be investigated, my primary concern is for the effective government of our country.”

  Ajomandyan leaned forward, balanced on his gryphon-headed walking stick. His eyes were eagle fierce either side of the beak of his nose. “It is true. Rahn-Corajidin has observed the forms with his petition. It is also true that, as Arbiter of the Change, it is my responsibility to advise the Teshri that we need to find Rahn-Vahineh’s replacement quickly.”

  Roshana looked around the room, jaw muscles clenching. “We have been assessing appropriate candidates for her replacement.”

  “What of her cousin, Martūm?” old Narseh said in her parade ground voice. The Knight-Marshall glared at the world with one eye narrowed. Even in her formal coat of State, she may as well have been wearing armour. “Is he not the only full-blooded Selassin left alive?”

  “He is,” Siamak agreed, “though the man has—”

  “If he is not suitable, say it so we can move on!” Narseh snapped. Civility had never been one of her strong points, the woman better suited to bellowing orders on battlefields.