“Can you move?” Indris asked, hand extended to help her to her feet.
“I can bloody well move out of here!” Mari snarled. She took his hand and was pulled to her feet. More arrows fell around them, the closest parried by Indris until Mari drew her Sûnblade and joined him in their defence. Together they threw up a web of whirling steel, slicing and swatting arrows from the air.
There came a scream as a body fell from a balcony, pierced by an arrow through the throat. Then another as a person collapsed in a doorway, blood fountaining from a rifle-bolt to the eye. Mari scanned the street, seeing only enemies now the civilians had fled. There were some twenty of them, clad in mismatched light armour, knee-length coats, and loose-legged trousers. They carried wooden swords, nicked and dented from use. From the look of them the bravos were huqdi—street dogs—impoverished soldiers who were little more than ruffians. Deserters, traitors, and thugs without the honour needed to survive as a nahdi, or to serve in the retinue of a Family or Great House.
The hail of arrows stopped as the huqdi dashed into the street. Hayden remained where he was, the crack-hiss of his rifle the metronome of battle. Where he aimed, a huqdi died. Ekko left his bow and, drawing his sickle-bladed khopesh, sped into battle. Omen stood motionless in front of a silent, wide-eyed Vahineh. Arrows bounced from his glazed frame. The girl’s fingers gripped the Wraith Knight’s shoulders with white-knuckled intensity as she hid behind him.
When the huqdi met them, Mari, Indris, and Ekko were more than ready. The Sûnblade flared into life, blade sizzling as it took the sword hand from the wrist of her first target. Ekko slipped sidewise and spinning, backhanded his khopesh deep into the waist of a man, just above the hips. Reversing, the Tau-se swept his blade out, up and over to take the man’s head. Indris had not unsheathed Changeling, using the moaning blade as a club where it whirled about him, breaking bones and knocking teeth from mouths in a bloody spray.
Mari kept a peripheral awareness of her friends, focussed on her enemies. In all her years at The Lament in Narsis, then the years of combat experience that followed, Mari had learned to trust to the rhythm of her aipsé—the place of the no-mind. Her eyes and ears saw and heard, her body sensed movements in the air and changes in the ground. Her training interpreted. Muscles responded. She became what she was trained to be: a living weapon, where hands, feet, and her Sûnblade were melded into one instrument of havoc.
Lightly armoured in soft leather and quilted silk, Mari felt the stings and pains of cuts. Such were unavoidable when the few fought the many in such chaotic confinement. Still, she, Indris and Ekko moved in a lethal dance, weaving about each other as they advanced, the three of them striking, parrying, and riposting as they glided amongst their enemies.
Then she saw faces she recognised. Nadir and Ravenet, hovering at the back of battle, watching, desperately wanting.
Distracted, a blow to the face split her lip. She disembowelled the man. Another opened the skin above her eye, impairing her vision. Then another across her ribs. She probed with her tongue at where it felt like a tooth was loose after she had leaned away from the worst of a blow along her jaw.
She lost sight of Nadir. Then saw him again as he appeared in front of her. Mari smashed him in the face with the hilt of her weapon and the man went spinning into Indris’s path.
Ravenet pounced into the combat line. Rather than a wooden sword, which could kill as well as a metal one, she used twinned daggers with lightning speed. Mari needed blade, elbows, forearms, and the suppleness of her body to avoid the serpent-strikes of the fangs in Ravi’s hands.
Mari stumbled over one of the corpses that littered the road. Slipped sideways. She saw Ravenet’s eyes and knew the woman intended to kill, not wound. Her face was lit with a sick, glorious wonder.
Turning her fall into a roll, Mari twisted under Ravenet’s blades. Came to one knee. Cut with a powerful horizontal stroke that severed air, skin, muscle, then air again. Ravenet stumbled backwards, blood pouring from the wound in her abdomen. She spiralled to the ground, knives clattering, trying to keep her entrails from slithering between her fingers.
Rising to her feet, Mari looked down on the woman as the life left her eyes, fodder for the crows. Near her lay Nadir, his face smeared in blood. She checked his pulse. He lived yet.
She felt no remorse for Ravenet, who had never been a friend to Mari. She only felt sorrow for the storm that would no doubt follow.
“EVERY DECISION IS A DOOR THAT CAN OPENED BUT ONCE AND NEVER CLOSED AGAIN.”
—Penoquin of Kaylish, Zienni Scholar and philosopher (325th year of the Awakened Empire)
DAY 356 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
“They should have been here by now,” Wolfram muttered. The Angothic Witch wrapped his large-knuckled hands around his staff, protruding bones like knots of wood in his age-whorled skin. “The Sēq can’t be trusted, Your Majesty.”
“I expect not.” Corajidin had taken one of the black-lacquered chairs facing the Canon Stone. The play of colour that flowed through the tourmaline was mesmerising, streams and clouds that constantly changed like the colours of waves in the sun. “Yet this is a conversation that must be had, one way or the other.”
Zahiz had left them some hours ago. Wolfram, Elonie, and Ikedion had padded about like cats on a hot metal roof. Kasraman seated himself as comfortably as one could on one of the uncomfortable chairs, reading a small book taken from within the folds of his over-robe. Nima had patrolled the room several times before coming to stand beside Corajidin. The Anlūki prowled away again, muttering to himself nervously.
Corajidin had started to nod off when there came the sound of yelling from outside. The witches fanned out around the Obsidian Heart, eyes intent. He stretched and yawned, keeping an eye on Nima as he went light-footed to the door. Cracking it open, the soldier peered outside then opened the door wide enough to admit Belamandris, Jhem, and Nix. All of them were bloody, Nix most of all. Corajidin heard the creak of armour and scuff of many boots outside. The Anlūki, no doubt.
Belamandris’s expression was tormented, his eyes red. Jhem’s fingers clenched as if he wanted to throttle somebody. Nix, covered in the grime of war, had a grin painted across his narrow face.
“What happened?” Corajidin asked cautiously.
“We did as you asked,” Belamandris said, voice hoarse. He looked down at the dried blood on his hands. There were rents in his crimson over-robe and one sleeve hung half ripped from his shoulder. “There was opposition, which we met with force. There were losses—”
“It answered the question as to whether Pah-Mariam was lying,” Nix said, walking around the Canon Stone. He extended a hand to touch it, then draw it back sharply. Legend had it only a Mahj could sit the Canon Stone—all others being struck dead. Nix looked up with a wry grin. “She was.”
“You can’t prove that!” Belamandris protested angrily.
“Your sister was with the Dragon Eye and the Selassin girl when Ravenet asked for them to surrender themselves!” Jhem said in his near lisp. The man’s gaze was cold and hard as an iron ingot. “How can she not have lied about knowing where they were? My daughter is dead because of her!”
“What happened?” Corajidin asked again. He could feel the tension of secrets as yet untold in Belamandris and Jhem.
“Nadir, Ravenet, and some stray dogs went hunting.” Nix crouched near the Canon Stone, blood-soaked arms wrapped around his knees. There was even blood in his hair and at the corners of his mouth. “Their eyes were bigger than their teeth and claws, I’m afraid. They’ll be planted in ash before the sun sets, for such are the wages of folly.”
Jhem seemed to glide across the floor. Knives appeared from the sleeves of his battle-torn coat. Nix uncoiled from where he crouched, grinning madly, eyes bright and wild. He bounced on his toes as he stretched his neck first left, then right, arms held loosely at his side. The lean, inbred man started to giggle.
“Enough!” Corajidin snapped be
fore the men came within killing distance of each other. Jhem stopped dead, brought to heel. Nix almost vibrated with energy where he stood, eyes rolling, dirty locks of hair waving with his every movement. “I will not have this, do you understand? I will not! Belamandris?”
“Nadir found us after we had a running fight with some of Nazarafine’s Sûnguard.” Belamandris’s tone was sour. “Why Ravi used such bottom feeders as the huqdi I’ll never understand. But if we’re being told the truth—and I say if, as there’re no guarantees—then it was Indris who opened Ravi’s belly. Mari was with him and his carnival show friends from Amnon.”
“Was Vahineh with them?”
“Apparently.”
“Where is Nadir?” Corajidin asked. “I would have words with him about what happened.”
“Resting from his wounds. He and Kimiya are back at the qadir.”
“Indris is fodder when I get my teeth into him,” Jhem turned his serpent’s eyes on Corajidin. “His span is numbered only in the heartbeats it takes me to find and finish him.”
“Good luck with that,” Belamandris said dismissively. “As the saying goes, better men and such.”
“And you are—”
“Better, yes.” Belamandris rubbed his palm along Tragedy’s long hilt. “Come the day, come the man—but every man his day, for good or ill. Indris will plant you in ashes, Blacksnake, and not even sweat doing it.”
“Whoever is going to do it, can do what they will to Indris,” Corajidin said, even as the Emissary’s words regarding her one-time husband echoed quietly in Corajidin’s head; he did not much care. If Belamandris, Jhem, or anybody else slaughtered Indris, it was something long overdue. He eyed Jhem darkly. “But my daughter comes to no harm. Do not test me on this, Jhem. If Mariam suffers, so will you and yours.”
Jhem bowed sinuously, knives vanishing into his sleeves as he backed away. Nix still trembled from the excitement of near mayhem. The two men eyed each other wearily. Corajidin knew one would end the other at some point, though who would murder whom was uncertain.
Belamandris was talking quietly with Kasraman, grief clearly etched on his face. How would Belamandris reconcile his feelings for Mariam? Would her involvement in Ravenet’s death be enough for Belamandris to harden his hearts and give himself fully to Corajidin’s agenda? Ravenet’s death was unexpected, yet casualties were inevitable if Corajidin was going to shape a nation. By the looks of Belamandris and the others there had been some hard fighting. There would no doubt be more when the Sēq rejected Corajidin’s proposal. Something he was counting on.
Kasraman and the other witches looked up.
“Father,” Kasraman said, “they’re coming.”
The air blistered, then ripped, as black-robed and black-armoured figures appeared from the torn air. There were a half-dozen of them, brooding and sombre, intricate scaled and banded armour dyed and laced in black. There were recurved swords thrust through the black sashes at their waists. Each carried a Scholar’s Crook subtly different from the others and all had mindstones boring their foreheads like dark, twinkling stars. Zahiz loitered amongst the gathered women and men.
A leonine man with long pale hair stepped forward. Corajidin recognised him from family portraits. Zadjinn, who had joined the Sēq Order of Scholars shortly after the formation of the Shrīanese Federation and one of those who had fought in the Scholar Wars. The man crossed half the distance to where Corajidin waited, then stopped.
Corajidin remained where he was, silently watching, expression schooled to neutrality. After a long awkward minute, Zadjinn bowed his head in the First Obeisance: the honour of greeting amongst equals. The others followed suit. Corajidin did not.
“I see from your expression you recognise me, Rahn-Corajidin,” Zadjinn said. Corajidin bristled at the use of the title, forcing himself to patience. He was still rahn until his coronation, an annoying fact though true. “And we hear you wish to negotiate with the Sēq as to our standing in Shrīan. My colleagues and I are happy to listen to whatever you may have to say.”
“Can you speak for them?” Corajidin said with a raised eyebrow. “Can I take whatever you say with more than a grain of salt?”
“You can,” Zadjinn responded coldly. “Though it is I who should ask what gives you the authority to makes demands of us?”
“The Sēq are in Shrīan because our forebears suffered you to be,” Kasraman said. The other witches had gathered to his side, wild and on edge. Corajidin could see the apprehension in the scholar’s eyes. “Now we do not. My father demands you bow at his feet like any other vassal, or you disband what remains of your Order in Shrīan.”
“We will take the service of those individuals who wish to stay,” Corajidin spread his hands in a gracious gesture, “though the Sēq would not be permitted to exist in the Federation.”
“Much as the Asrahn-Erebus fe Amerata did with the witch covens after the Scholar Wars.” Kasraman added with steel in his voice. “There is a precedent. Though we won’t lock you in a Temporal Labyrinth.”
“Probably not,” Wolfram muttered, Elonie and Ikedion nodding.
“We would also expect full access to your stores of knowledge, weapons, and anything else that would be of benefit to our cause in strengthening Shrīan.”
There was barely a flicker of his eyes as Zadjinn replied, “Of course. We exist for the good of all.”
He then turned to his black-cassocked peers. Corajidin watched as their eyes went out of focus, the corona around their mindstones pulsing larger and darker. It was only a dozen or so heartbeats later when Zadjinn faced Corajidin.
“We six agree in principle,” the scholar said. Corajidin doubted it, from the expressions on two of the six. “I will present your proposal to our peers.”
“More waiting?” Wolfram snarled. “More time for your trickery?”
“Not at all, witch. We will ensure the others agree. Those who do not will be dealt with.”
“I will know if you lie to me,” Corajidin murmured. The Emissary had been correct in her other intelligence on the Sēq. He expected she could tell him whether the scholars intended to comply, or resist. “I am not convinced of your good intentions, Zadjinn.”
“Allow me to offer you a gift, then, great rahn.” Zadjinn looked over his shoulder at his peers. Four of them nodded while the other two watched, stone faced. “A token of our good faith.”
“Indeed?” Corajidin’s interest was piqued, though swaddled in caution.
“We understand you are looking for Selassin fe Vahineh?” the scholar smiled, a smug stretch of his lips in his tanned face. “The one whom you believe murdered your late wife?”
Corajidin froze, as did the others in his retinue. He looked at Zadjinn from under lowered brows, suspicion rising like flood waters.
“And how would you achieve this?” Corajidin asked with genuine interest, given the last time Vahineh had been seen was with Mariam, Indris, and his rag-tag entourage. “My sons and all our retainers have been unable to secure her.”
“We took her into our custody some days ago, as part of another piece of business.”
“And she is with you now?”
“Of course.” Zadjinn’s smiled never faltered. The same could not be said of those who stood with him. “We would need a modest amount of time to prepare her for you, but delivered she will be.”
Corajidin turned to Kasraman and Wolfram, who both nodded. They whispered to Belamandris, Elonie, and Ikedion. Nima excused himself and left the Obsidian Heart. His voice could be heard faintly as he gave orders to the Anlūki outside. Corajidin turned back to the scholars, brows raised in enquiry.
“This is… good news,” he said. “So you promise me you have Vahineh and you promise me you will speak with your peers in the Sēq? Your Order will rest their brows at my feet, to serve me and no other?”
“I swear it. All I have spoken is true,” Zadjinn said, making the Second Obeisance: dropping to one knee, head bowed, hands held palm upward near the
floor. Slowly, the other Sēq followed suit.
“Do what you need to do,” Corajidin said quietly. “I expect to see you and the other leaders of the Sēq, along with Vahineh, tonight at the Hour of the Boar at the Tyr-Jahavān.”
“It will be so.”
Zadjinn and the others rose to their feet then vanished, one by one, into liquid rifts in the cool air.
Corajidin stood silent until they were gone. The air smelled of lightning storms with the barest taint of corruption for some seconds after they had left.
“What do you want to do, father?” Belamandris asked as he and Kasraman made their way to their father’s side. Corajidin rested one hand on each of his son’s shoulders.
“It is clear they can not be trusted, making promises they can not fulfil. Tonight you will kill the liars and be done with it.”
Corajidin was carried through the depths by the strong current. The world around him was cold. Sluggish. Blues and greens were muted to near black, the brightness above obscured by dark stars of sediment that had been pried loose by aeons of slow, inexorable movement from those below. Basso voices burbled in the deep, sending vibrations across his skin. A scaled mass, thick as a tree trunk, coiled nearby. The force of it sent him tumbling as when he was a child off the shores of Erebesq, when the waves were strong and the rip tried to carry him under. A faint singing reached his ears, echoed, wet, and atonal. He shrieked when something frigid and grey swept from below to caress his flailing legs.
Corajidin squeezed his eyes closed, yet the blindness made his imagination start at every slither, shriek, gibber, and burbled moan. He opened his eyes to a hazy world where fingers of sediment stretched improbably long, swirling slowly. As his eyes adjusted he saw through the gloom to the shapes that writhed against, with, and around each other. Bloated bodies. Fleshy tendrils dotted with a nauseating, pulsing radiance. Tentacles scraping across each other like thousands of giant, malformed octopi mating in a muddy ditch.
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