The Brothers' War

by Jeff Grubb

  Ashnod had taken the opportunity to pour the nabiz into its brass cups and was reclining on the pillows again, looking as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The skull-tipped staff was back at the base of the pillows.

  Mishra took his own cup and sat down opposite her. Then he laughed.

  It started as a small chuckle, descended into a chortle, then moved into a full-fledged belly laugh. At length he offered his cup in a toast and said, “That was very foolish.”

  Ashnod looked indignant and did not raise her cup in response. “He was spying on us and disobeyed your order.”

  Mishra took a long pull on the nabiz and chuckled again. “No, not attacking Hajar. But by attacking him the way you did, you tipped your hand.”

  Ashnod gave him a cross look, and Mishra smiled. The woman noted it was a warm grin, without malice, and relaxed for the moment.

  “That staff,” Mishra said. “You made it?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Mishra nodded to himself and smiled again. “That’s what is keeping the dragon engine at bay, isn’t it? The guards along Zegon’s walls held similar staves. You made the staves and told the Zegoni rulers they could keep the great, evil Fallaji away from their city.”

  Slowly Ashnod nodded. “Your engine is a big target.”

  Mishra continued, “But your staves have a flaw. They take a lot out of the user.”

  Ashnod was silent.

  “After using it only briefly, you are sweating,” added Mishra.

  Ashnod grunted. “Men sweat. Women glow.”

  “You were glowing like a horse after a hard race then,” Mishra chuckled. “And if the city guards were similarly affected, they would be debilitated. The rulers of Zegon would not be pleased by that.”

  Ashnod snorted. “The rulers were all too quick to adopt my staves for their defense,” she said. “Once the guards started to weaken from their use, those same rulers panicked.”

  “And sent you into the desert to sue for peace,” added Mishra. “They probably said it was your idea that encouraged them to resist, so it was your fault.”

  “You’ve met the Zegoni before,” said Ashnod, a small smile crossing her lips as well.

  “I’ve dealt with their type in many forms,” said Mishra, leaning back. “So tell me, what do they want? Bare minimum.”

  Ashnod took a deep breath. “Tomakul’s deal. They surrender, pay some tribute, recognize your boy as ultimate leader, and get back to their lives.”

  Mishra considered. “Sounds reasonable. Not to say that the qadir will be reasonable. After all, you did stop us in our tracks, if only temporarily. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The Argivian set his cup down. “Now let me see your toy.”

  Ashnod leaned forward and hefted the staff. She looked into Mishra’s eyes for a moment, as if trying to determine what malice, if any, lay within. Then she handed the staff to him.

  The Fallaji raki turned the staff over in his hands. “I see some Thran influences, but this is new. How does it work?”

  “It affects the nerves of the body,” replied Ashnod. “The lightning in the staff upsets the body’s mechanism that allows one to feel and distinguish pain. Too much upset, and the target is incapacitated. At the range of your dragon engine, it was not severely affected, but it would come no closer.”

  “Nerves,” said Mishra, nodding and tapping the small power crystal that had been set within the staff’s skull.

  “Right,” agreed Ashnod, setting her cup down and leaning forward. “The body has all manner of systems within it. Living tubes for blood, soft wires for nerves, strands of cable for muscle.” She reached out, touching Mishra’s arm. He did not flinch or pull away. “You are no book scholar. Your arms are like spun steel.”

  “Life in the desert is hard,” said Mishra softly. “I never thought of the body as a machine.”

  “It is the best machine!” said Ashnod, releasing his arm. “Tested in the field, continually growing, and self-replicating! Once we understand the mysteries of our own bodies, we understand the world. Everything else will fall into place. Your dragon engine is a wonder, but it is a crude imitation of living things.”

  Mishra chuckled. “This is the first real conversation I’ve had in a long while.”

  Ashnod curled up amongst the pillows. “There is a lack of intellectual companionship among the Fallaji?”

  Mishra laughed and leaned forward. “Most of the conversations I’ve had with the Suwwardi are along the lines of, ‘You give me that’ in various forms, followed closely by, ‘You and what army.’ ” The young man chuckled again and set down the staff. “I hadn’t considered the body as a machine, but it makes sense. After all, we create things in our own image. Perhaps the Thran did as well.” He moved over and sat next to Ashnod.

  Ashnod leaned close; Mishra could smell her musky perfume, accented with the tang of drying sweat. It was a pleasant combination.

  “I think I can convince the qadir to accept your ruler’s request,” he said softly.

  “I thought you could,” said Ashnod. “You seem very capable.”

  “There’s that.”

  Ashnod wondered if Mishra smiled at anyone else in that fashion. The raki added, “And the fact that our most revered one is still as impatient as a child. If he had to wait for reinforcements from Tomakul he would explode from the delay. Of course, there is one other thing.”

  Ashnod pulled away from him. “One other thing?”

  Mishra said, “The Zegoni must be seen to pay for their token resistance. They must suffer more than Tomakul, which threw open its gates to us. We will need an additional guarantee.”

  “Guarantee?” asked Ashnod.

  “The Fallaji take hostages to encourage obedience,” said Mishra, “Surely taking their premier artificer would be sufficient?”

  Ashnod’s eyes became slits. “And would I be a Fallaji hostage, or yours?”

  Mishra smiled again, and there was a touch of maliciousness in the expression. “The Fallaji have little use for women,” he said, “beyond the basics.”

  “The basics do not include intelligent conversation, correct?” inquired Ashnod.

  “You have the general idea,” returned her companion. “You would be viewed more as something we are denying the Zegoni, as opposed to something to benefit the tribe.”

  Ashnod leaned forward and touched Mishra’s cheek. “Hostage is such a nasty word. How does ‘assistant’ sound?”

  Mishra’s eyebrows raised for a moment, then settled again. “Is that really what you came here for?”

  “Am I so transparent?” she asked, coy once again.

  “As glass,” said Mishra and laughed. “When would you like to begin your lessons?”

  “Lessons in the morning,” said Ashnod in a throaty whisper. “This evening we are alone. I don’t think your bodyguard is coming back anytime soon.”

  Mishra smiled and closed the grate on the brazier. There were no more words that evening.

  In the morning it was announced that the City of Zegon, fearful of the great dragon engine, had joined the Fallaji Empire. Tribute would be paid, and obeisance made to the great and revered Qadir of the Suwwardi, ever the first among equals.

  As terms of their surrender, the Zegoni agreed to remove the gates of their city so they could never stand in opposition to the Fallaji again. And they gave up their best artificer, who joined the Fallaji camp as the raki’s apprentice. If any of the warriors felt uncomfortable about the presence of the cold-eyed woman with the cursed hair in their midst, they did not say so, at least not where the raki could overhear.

  Soon afterward, word arrived that the outlanders along the coast were making heavy raids into Fallaji lands, and the invasion force turned east again.

  The Chief Artificer had missed so many meetings of the privy council that his absence was no longer even commented upon. Rusko was there as his official representative, but Kayla knew that Urza hardly spent any time talking to Rusko
anymore either. The Chief Artificer spent most of his time working with the new apprentice, Tawnos, who had lasted much longer than Rusko had predicted, much to the clockmaker’s chagrin.

  There was a new Captain of the Guard; the old one had finally retired to spend time with his horses and grandchildren. The warlord chose this one himself, and the new captain mirrored many of the ruler’s qualities—he was impulsive, decisive, and active. Patrolling the borders was not enough, this new captain said when he first rose to the position. The Yotians must secure a corridor to Tomakul itself in order to protect the caravans.

  Now the privy council picked through the rubble of that plan. Armed patrols to Tomakul encouraged even larger attacks from the desert nomads. Fallaji tribesmen were now raiding into the Sword Marches, which had been relatively free of such incursions since the warlord had driven the native tribes out in his youth. Yotia did not have the manpower to both maintain its borders and guarantee safe passage to the desert capital.

  “We need to pull the plants out by the roots,” said the new captain. “Go into the desert, find the Fallaji base, and crush it!”

  “If you can show me where it is and guarantee that it would still be there when we get there, I will gladly try,” grumbled the warlord. “But the desert is like an ocean. Most of it is empty, and we do more damage to our own forces than to the Fallaji by taking the battle there. They are at home in the desert. We are not.”

  “There are the ornithopters,” said the captain. “We can scout the desert with them.”

  “Still few in number,” said Rusko. “There are no more than two dozen in all, and the Chief Artificer is wary of exposing them to the risk. We practically had to break his arm to convince him to allow them as scouts along the border.”

  “And what of the search for more Thran stones?” asked the warlord.

  “Slow and tedious,” said Rusko. “There are raiders everywhere, and they seem to be able to smell out our exploration parties. Bok and Mabok preserve us!”

  “T-th-the Argivians have the same problem,” stammered the seneschal. “They have been attempting to find more stones as well, but have met heavy resistance.”

  The warlord stroked his chin. “Perhaps it is time to provide a unified front.”

  “With the Argivians?” hiccoughed the seneschal.

  “And the Korlisians as well,” returned the warlord. “Perhaps it is time to bring the coastal nations together. Do you think a combined front, offering peace, could lure these savages out of their desert?”

  The captain sputtered for a moment, then said, “You think we should talk with those savages? After all the men we have lost?”

  “You’re not listening,” said the warlord patiently. “I asked if a combined front, offering peace, could lure their leaders into one place.”

  The captain cocked his head to one side, then said, “Yes. Yes, I think it would.” An ugly smile passed over his face.

  “They would be more likely to accept the invitation,” added the seneschal, “if it were extended by the merchants of Korlis—”

  “—Who do not share a border with the Fallaji,” finished the captain, “and as such pose no immediate threat.”

  “And the Korlisians,” added the warlord thoughtfully, “want to get their own ornithopters, which both we and the Argivians have. This would be an excellent opportunity for them to gain them, should they get the Fallaji leaders to the table.”

  The warlord chuckled and the captain joined his merriment. For Kayla, entirely too much was unsaid. The men masked their thoughts with a cover of words.

  “So we are talking peace with the Fallaji?” she asked.

  “Yes,” replied her father, his face suddenly somber. “We are talking peace. But we will also make sure we talk from a position of strength.” He thumped the table with the flat of his hand. “Meeting adjourned. Goodsir Rusko, I want you to stay and update me on your”—he glanced at Kayla—“special project.”

  The captain and seneschal left, speaking animatedly about the diplomatic requirements for the proposed gathering. Kayla departed as well, her metal heels sliding softly against the marble floor. Something else had happened at the table, something she was present for but not privy to. Previous conversations had been enigmatically concluded in her presence.

  It boiled down to one thing, she thought: Daddy was up to something. Even though she was a grown woman, he still sought to spare her certain harsh facts about the world: Her mother’s death; the plans for her marriage; anything that smacked of secrets, battle, or hardship for others.

  He was up to something now. Of that Kayla had no doubt. And it involved Rusko but not her husband.

  Despite herself, her footsteps took her toward the orniary. She found her husband and the broad-shouldered Tawnos alone in the domed room. They had dismissed the remainder of the students for the day. Tawnos was stripped to the waist and bending a thick spar of candlewood along a graceful line chalked against one wall. Kayla knew enough to recognize it as a wing support for one of the ornithopters. The tall toy maker grunted with the effort, and his muscles bulged as he bent the spar to match the chalk line exactly.

  “Hold it!” said Urza, dropping beneath Tawnos’s grip and wiring the newly curved section back to the ornithopter’s main spine. “Now bend it the other way.”

  Tawnos gasped and twisted the beam in the other direction, forming an S-shaped curve. Kayla was impressed. Candlewood was light, but the spar the young man was manhandling was the thickness of her wrist. And, she thought, Tawnos looked very good stripped to the waist.

  “Husband, we need to talk,” Kayla said.

  Urza quickly held up a hand and waved it slightly, but Kayla would not be dissuaded. “No, we need to talk.”

  Urza looked up at his assistant. “Go ahead. I’ll wait,” said Tawnos through clenched teeth.

  Urza turned toward his wife. His hair had gone entirely white, probably, thought Kayla, due to the amount of work he’d been doing. He was dressed in the heavy leather smock that had practically become his second skin over the years. “I’m sorry, dear,” he said, “but I am very busy.”

  “You are always very busy,” snapped Kayla, “except when you are sleeping. And even then you seem restless.” She relented and held out a hand to stroke his cheek.

  Urza flinched slightly at the touch. He reached up and gently took her hand. “It’s just that we may have a way to improve the diving speed of the ornithopters. Tawnos has suggested that if we truly shape the spar to resemble a predatory bird’s wing, then it would be more maneuverable as well.”

  Kayla nodded and pushed his words aside unconsidered. “I think Father is planning something.”

  Urza sighed, and looked at his assistant. Tawnos gave a good-natured nod, but his veins were standing out at his neck from holding the candlewood spar in its twisted position. To Kayla Urza said, “Your father is always planning something. That’s what he does best.”

  The princess sighed and shook her head. “It’s not that. He wants to negotiate with the Fallaji leaders and to get the Argivians and Korlisians involved as well.”

  “That’s good,” said Urza abstractedly, watching the way the wing spur lined up against the chalk mark on the wall. “Most of the Fallaji I’ve known have been rational men, even if there are problems with the caravans and a few hotheaded leaders. And your father is too sharp to let Argivians get away with anything. What’s the problem?”

  “He never wanted to talk to the Fallaji before,” Kayla said.

  “People change.” Urza shrugged, his eyes never leaving the line of the wing.

  You don’t, thought Kayla, but instead she said, “I don’t know. I just think something is wrong with this situation.”

  Urza looked at Kayla and sighed deeply. “Your father is a reasonable man. An old war-horse, but a reasonable man. There are reasonable men among the Fallaji. Even among the Argivians. I’m sure things will work out.”

  “Uh, Master Urza?” called Tawnos. “It’s
beginning to slip a little.”

  “I have to go,” said Urza. He turned back to the spar.

  “But what about—” began his wife.

  Urza held up a hand as he walked away. “Your father wants peace. Sounds good, though a little odd. Argivians involved. Probably he’ll tell you what’s going on eventually.”

  There was the sound of a metal-heeled foot stomping the floor behind him, and the brisk clatter of heels storming out of the room. It ended in a resounding slam of the orniary doors.

  “What was that about?” asked Tawnos, sweat streaming down his face.

  “I’m not quite sure,” returned Urza. “Kayla worries about her father too much. Bend the wing spar a little more convex there. That’s it. Now, hold it….”

  * * *

  —

  The announcement was made the following month. Representatives of Argive, Yotia, and Korlis were to meet in Korlis to discuss the problems with the desert raiders. Runners were sent under a flag of truce to Tomakul, Zegon, and other Fallaji towns to invite the qadir of the Suwwardi to attend as well. Safe conduct was promised to all attendees.

  The coastal nations selected not Korlis’s main city itself as the site for the meeting, but rather an outpost town, Korlinda, located farther up the Kor River, on the haunches of the Kher Ridges themselves. Should the Fallaji appear, the warlord said, they would have less distance to travel. Kayla thought there was another purpose behind the location. The Fallaji would be far from their traditionally claimed land, and the civilized nations would have ample warning of how large their party was before it arrived.

  Urza was pried loose from his orniary only by the announcement that two of his older ornithopters would be provided as a gift to the people of Korlis. A full force of a dozen winged machines would appear at the meeting, and two would be left behind. After Urza complained that he would have to be present to tell the Korlisian how to maintain the ornithopters, the warlord graciously extended an invitation to the artificer.

  Knowing he had been outmaneuvered, Urza protested no further but instead worked out a schedule that provided for a minimum amount of time away from his shop. The warlord and his entourage would leave early; he would follow with the ornithopters five days before the session began. He also left detailed instructions for Tawnos and the students to follow while he was gone. Tawnos thought at the time that Urza spent more time detailing the tasks that needed to be done in his absence than the tasks themselves would take, but he merely nodded when the Chief Artificer handed over the ream of parchment.