Flockheart rode Brasson back to his daughter. “Are you all right?” he asked, face pinched with concern. She nodded wearily, still looking frightened.
They flew east as fast as they could, at last drawing free of the Desolation’s grip. They had made incredible time, much faster than they could have on horse or camel. Still, they had ridden away daylight and the sun set by the time they reached Balsalom. Daria gasped at the sight of the city.
Darik also drew in a sharp breath, but in fear. Fires burned, boiling smoke into the sky. Even from this distance, he could see fighting, and dead bodies littering the streets. But before he could pick out details, they dropped to the ground.
They landed the exhausted griffins in the midst of the Tombs of the Kings. The animals heaved and the muscles on their backs quivered. Darik too felt worn, as if he’d spent the day on a galloping horse. He stepped away from the griffin and breathed heavily. Whelan and Flockheart landed nearby.
“Thank you,” Whelan said to Flockheart. “I won’t forget your help.”
Flockheart said, “How long should we wait?”
“Two days, no more. If you see danger, flee. We’ll find our own way back if necessary. Hunt your griffins only at night. There might be wasps in the city.”
Whelan grabbed a satchel from the saddle bags. He slung Soultrup over his shoulder, and buckled a smaller sword around Darik’s waist. “Let’s go.” Darik made to follow, staring at the smoke pouring from the city.
Daria touched his arm to get his attention. “Be careful, Darik.”
He turned belatedly. His worry about his sister and the city had overcome any other thoughts. “I will. Thank you.”
They turned. Balsalom’s walls beckoned.
11
Kallia decided that the time had come to retake Balsalom the same day that Cragyn’s forces assaulted Montcrag. The dark wizard hadn’t left Balsalom undefended. On the contrary, he left hundreds of his best troops, giants, and several mammoths. What worried the khalifa, however, was the bombard. Mol Khah set it up on the west side of the city and spent the better part of a day testing it on the Tombs of the Kings.
His men, most of them Veyrians, sweated as they assembled and loaded the bombard, and not from the heat. They feared the tombs and the wights they worried might hide in the crypts and catacombs hidden beneath the sand. Mol Khah brought Kallia to the tombs to watch the destruction. She was not afraid of the dead kings.
Kallia remembered her tutor taking her to the tombs as a child. “Foolishness,” Gustau had told her all those years ago when she asked why the tombs had been built. They’d ridden atop sedan chairs carried by slaves, but even the modest effort of walking amongst the tombs had soaked Gustau’s robes with sweat. Perhaps if he’d eaten less and walked more, he wouldn’t have found the trip so arduous.
“What do you mean, foolishness?” she had asked.
“The kings tried to hide from the Harvester. They built towers and mastabas and wrapped them in spells, made traps and secret passageways for their spirits to escape while the Harvester slept. And should they be discovered, they buried themselves with treasure to bribe their freedom.” He snorted. “All the treasure did was attract grave robbers.”
Kallia didn’t know whether Gustau knew what he was talking about or not. She suspected there was some truth to it, but certainly that wasn’t the entire story. The tombs had captured her imagination in any event. Remnants of the old city. The vast expense of the tombs hinted at wealth rivaling the khalifates.
And now, Mol Khah showed off his new toy by destroying these tombs. The siege weapon—Cragyn’s Hammer, the pasha called it—took several hours to assemble. It consisted of two thirty-foot iron troughs, bound together with iron hoops. Half a dozen giants and twenty men hoisted the upper half of the weapon onto the lower half. Two blacksmiths heated the hoops to expand them, then slipped them around the troughs and doused them with water. When finished, the weapon looked nothing more than an enormous iron pipe sitting on a carriage, the cart also built on the site.
“So what is it?” she asked.
Mol Khah smiled in that wolfish way of his. “Watch and you’ll find out.”
Men busied themselves about the front end of the weapon, but she stopped paying attention. Her father once had a man at court who spent years building a massive ballista that could fire arrows powerful enough to cut through three men. It could hurl its missile over a city wall. But it proved difficult to load, prone to break-downs, and thus of limited effectiveness. Yes, several of these might do damage to massed troops, but in most cases massed troops didn’t line up for the two or three days necessary to put the ballistas together.
A terrific explosion thundered across the plain. Black smoke bellowed from the end of Cragyn’s Hammer. An instant later, something whistled overhead, then struck the obelisk behind them. Black stone sprayed outward; the obelisk teetered for a long moment, then collapsed to the ground, with a cloud of dust.
“It works!” Mol Khah exulted.
“What happened?” she asked, overwhelmed by its power.
“Magicks beyond your comprehension, woman.” He clenched a leather-gloved fist in triumph. “No castle or city wall can stand before Cragyn’s Hammer.”
No, she thought with mounting concern. Nothing could. And that included Balsalom. Mol Khah wouldn’t leave the weapon unguarded. If she moved tonight, a sizeable garrison and this weapon would remain outside the city to cause mischief. It had taken long enough to put together the infernal weapon that he might well leave it here until the time came to move it west along the Tothian Way.
Mol Khah spent the rest of the day shooting his weapon, rejoicing like a child with a new toy. It took two hours after every use to clean out the tube and ready it for another shot. The iron balls cast by the weapon demolished some of the most beautiful monuments in the Tombs of the Kings.
Afterwards, Kallia retreated to her rooms and considered. One of Saldibar’s spies, an old slave woman who came to empty her chamber pot in the morning, passed along the news of a second army of several thousand men and horse marching west from Kilgalah. They would arrive in a few days. Saldibar didn’t know if they would bolster Balsalom’s garrison or continue west to join Cragyn, but Kallia didn’t dare let them draw close enough to throw themselves in the fray. No, she would have to risk Cragyn’s Hammer, hoping Mol Khah left insufficient men to guard it.
After she took dinner, Kallia opened the curtains and lit a single candle, the signal to act. And then she waited, counting the bells from the merchants tower. It was eight bells. Two more hours.
The city was quieter than a few days earlier. Mol Khah’s men had released all of the crickets in the palace. They silenced street musicians in the city, even going so far as to destroy instruments and banish them from Balsalom. Cragyn’s army craved silence. They had not yet, however, quieted the guilds’ bell towers.
Nine bells chimed and her heart began to pound. Another hour and Saldibar would come for her, the signal would go out to begin the revolt. Her stomach churned in anticipation. Once things happened, they would happen quickly.
Mol Khah had allowed her use of the tower apartments again. The garden rooms kept her from seeing the city, but they also stood amidst dozens of other rooms: apartments, kitchens, state rooms and servants’ quarters. But the tower rooms sat on the fifth and sixth level of a tower with a single entrance to guard. Here she would stay until Cragyn’s pasha summoned her.
She waited impatiently. Too soon, the door opened. She turned, half-expecting to see Saldibar come early. Instead, Mol Khah stood in the doorway, a long scimitar in hand. Blood clotted the blade.
“Come,” he ordered. “Quickly.”
Kallia’s stomach clenched. “What happened? What are you doing with that sword?”
He strode to where she sat next to the window and grabbed her by the arm. “Assassins, you fool. What did you think? Two men from Ter, angry that the master killed that wretched brother of yours. The second man is
confessing everything on the wheel right now, the first, regrettably, did not live that long.” He dragged her toward the door “There might be others inside the palace. You’ll be safer in the garden rooms.”
So it wasn’t Saldibar’s blood staining his sword, as she’d feared. But this coincidence ruined everything. The revolt would begin, but she would be left inside the palace. And Saldibar, rather than leaving her to die, might foolishly call off the attack. Mol Khah would savage the city.
“No!” she said, pulling away. “If there are assassins, I’m better off here.” She made a quick decision that she knew she might regret. “The garden rooms are riddled with secret passageways. It’s more dangerous.”
He eyed her with a sideways glance, hesitating. In the distance, the merchants tower rang. She counted. One bell, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Eleven. One extra chime, unnoticeable unless you counted. And throughout the city, men did count. The signal had come, the revolt began.
Mol Khah decided. “No, I’ve got a hundred men guarding the garden rooms. Secret passageways or no, and you will show me where these are, all of them, you will be safer below.”
He dragged her away, and her heart sank. He led her down the stairs, where two armed men joined them. From here, the dark wizard’s vizier led her to the garden rooms. A second frightening thought crossed her mind. Mol Khah’s men would be on the lookout for more assassins. He would station someone in the tower rooms to see if anyone came. And someone would. Saldibar. She had to warn him.
A desperate idea came to her. Twenty or thirty men stood outside the doors of the garden apartments, ready to protect her from assassins. She counted them quickly in her mind.
As Mol Khah threw open the door to her rooms, she let panic slip into her voice. “No! Don’t kill me!”
“What?” he snorted. He glanced back at his men. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Yes you are,” she cried, struggling against his grip. She appealed to the men standing outside the doors. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s bringing me here so an assassin can find me and kill me. Then he’ll claim he tried to prevent it.”
The soldiers shuffled nervously at her theatrics. None would act, but that wasn’t her intent.
“Let me go!” she cried, striking at Mol Khah’s face with her free hand. And then, as she had hoped, his temper flared.
He jerked her around and threw her to the floor. She made no effort to protect herself, but let her face slam into the flagstones. Her vision blanked for a moment when her head hit.
“I’m not going to kill you!” he raged. He dragged to her feet and threw her toward the bed pillows. Lights swam in her head. “Now shut up before I change my mind.”
He turned to storm away, but she said, “Wait, please.” He turned. Blood trickled from her nose, running down her lip. “Tea. Please, have someone bring tea for my head. Medicinal tea, please.”
Mol Khah grimaced and clenched his teeth. She could see that he wanted to strike her again. “Very well,” he said at last. He slammed the door behind him.
She turned and looked at her surroundings. As she’d feared, and this had necessitated her plan, the room was stripped of furnishings, including candles, lamps, or anything else that might provide light. It was almost completely dark in the room, once they shut the door. Saldibar would reach the tower rooms within the next few minutes and panic when he didn’t find her.
Kallia waited anxiously for someone to bring her the tea. It came a few minutes later, and she was relieved at who brought it to her, not an unknown physic, but a servant girl.
She’d seen the girl before. Her name was Chloye. The girl’s mother’s sister had lived in Kallia’s father’s harem; both women were purchased from a caravan of slavers. Chloye had bright red hair, attesting to her Eriscoban heritage. She set down the tea and the burner and brazier on which to cook the healing herbs.
“Never mind that, Chloye,” Kallia said, rising to her feet as soon as the door shut behind them. They were alone in the room.
“But khalifa—may you live forever. Didn’t you send for me?” She glanced around, clearly frightened by the darkened room.
Kallia put her hand on the girl’s arm. “I have no time for that. Please, listen carefully. What I’m about to do, you must say was an accident. It is important. Can you do that?”
Chloye eyes widened in fear. She shrank back as if afraid that Kallia meant her harm. The khalifa picked up the brazier, carried it to the bedding and tipped it over on the blankets. Flames spilled out, nearly stifling in the blankets before catching hold. Kallia waited while the flames spread. Chloye looked terrified, but said nothing.
When the fire jumped to the curtain, Kallia threw her wash basin on the bedding, dousing some of the flames, then cried out, “Help! Fire!”
Men rushed into the room and attacked the fire with cloaks and swords. It had grown too large for simple measures, choking the room in smoke. Men ran for buckets of water. Others dragged the two women into the hall. Mol Khah came striding down the hallway, alerted to the news. He saw Kallia and drew his sword.
“It was an accident,” she pleaded.
He eyed her for a moment, then glared at the serving girl. “Well?” he demanded of her.
The girl shrank under his glare, and Kallia thought she would be betrayed. What a fool she had been to take such a chance.
At last the serving girl looked up. “I’m sorry. I tried to put in the herbs and tipped over the crucible, and then I couldn’t put it out in time, so the khalifa—”
Mol Khah pushed them aside in disgust and looked into the room. Kallia, surprised at the girl’s initiative, squeezed her hand in gratitude.
An oak beam crashed from the ceiling, scattering flames through the room. A soldier cried out, pinned in the smoke and fire. Mol Khah ignored him, but shouted instructions to the men arriving with buckets of water. Kallia slipped back from the chaos, then turned and ran.
She met soldiers in the hallways, running toward the fire, and shouted at anybody else she saw to run and help. Let the confusion spread and attract people as long as possible. When she reached the tower rooms, three men met her with drawn swords.
“What are you doing?” one of them demanded. “The pasha said—”
“Never mind what he said,” she said, panting. “There is a fire. He wants everyone to help.”
The man who’d spoken looked at her suspiciously. They made no move to leave, but put away their swords. “Fire? What kind of fire?”
She ran to the window and threw open the curtains. “That kind of fire, you fools.”
From the tower, they could see across the gardens, where smoke poured from two of the windows. Men and women rushed through the gardens with buckets of water, throwing them through the windows. Some staggered backwards, overcome by smoke. There was not yet any organization to the efforts in the gardens, unlike the order Mol Khah had imposed inside the buildings. Convinced at last, the soldiers turned and ran. Kallia stood panting for a moment.
“Well done khalifa—may you live forever.”
She turned to see Saldibar standing behind her. How he had climbed the stairs past the guards, indeed, where he had hidden while she ordered the men down to the fire, she didn’t know.
“Where did you come from?
“I can’t tell you all of my secrets. Look, there’s no way we’ll get out of the palace that way. Come. Five more minutes and Mol Khah will discover something worse than a fire.”
They hurried from the tower, making their way toward the gardens. A soldier spotted them, and recognizing the khalifa, rushed to intercept them.
“You!” he shouted at her. “The pasha—”
Before he could finish, Saldibar sprang forward, pulling a knife from his robes. The man grabbed for his sword, shouting in alarm. But before he could bring his weapon to bear, Saldibar plunged his knife in the man’s gut, then rammed it underneath his rib cage. The man stared in wide-eyed surprise, opened h
is mouth, and slumped to the ground. Saldibar pulled out the knife and they ran. Kallia’s stomach turned at the sight of the soldier still twitching where they’d left him.
Saldibar led her to a statue of a winged horse, overlooking the rose garden. Kallia had sat astride the horse as a young girl, and pretended that she was riding to the cloud castles, escorted by a flock of griffins. “Help me,” Saldibar said, leaning his weight against the statue.
She pushed, and to her surprise, it rocked onto its side, revealing a dark gap underneath. They redoubled their efforts, and the statue tipped over. A staircase dropped into the ground. Lights flickered below, men with torches.
Kallia and Saldibar climbed down into the catacomb, while the men pulled on an iron handle on the underside of the winged horse, pulling it back into place. They stood underground.
She looked at the passageway through which they walked. It stretched ten feet overhead and six feet in width. “No wonder assassins find it so easy to infiltrate the palace.”
Saldibar looked embarrassed. “I built the staircase and hid it beneath the statue myself. But the passageway is far older. Part of the old palace. Come.”
She followed, but her interest still wasn’t satisfied. “What old palace?”
“Syrmarria also had a palace on this site.”
“But I was always told that nothing remained of the old city but fragments of the old wall and a few broken towers,” Kallia said.
“Nothing remained on the surface, no, but many of the old roads and foundations lay buried beneath the rubble. Balsalom was built on top of this rubble. When I excavated the statuary garden for your father, my workmen discovered this passageway; I ordered it covered at first, realizing that it led in and out of the palace and provided a risk to the khalif. But when I explored these catacombs, I discovered their true origin.”
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