by Erin Evans
“I’m going to have to. You’re not thinking straight.”
“Straighter than meandering around looking for warlocks and staves!”
“Hmm. What would Havi say?” Kallan asked, all mildness. “You think she’d appreciate you pulling away forces from a city of fifty thousand about to be attacked?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t wait until the attack.”
“ ‘Attack’? You think that fellow’s going to hit us once and vanish?” Kallan shook his head. “Tiamash think’s he’s a god, thinks this is his land, his city. You know damned well this isn’t ending before the summer, and we ought to count ourselves lucky if it ends before Dumuzi’s grandchildren are arguing over that throne. You take that army anywhere, Djerad Thymar would be doomed.”
Mehen covered his face with both hands. “I have to do something.”
“You have to trust your girls.”
“I’ve trusted them!”
“No, you’ve assumed that Havilar made a pothach call, and you’ve been ignoring Farideh and coming up with your own mad plans for stealing a godsbedamned army to save Havilar yourself,” Kallan pointed out. “That’s not trusting them. Which of you knows the first thing about devils and warlocks and—”
“Farideh! Fine? Farideh.” Mehen snapped his teeth. “Knowing the first thing doesn’t mean she knows enough.”
Kallan shrugged. “I know you don’t want to hear it, noachi, but it means she knows more than you. It also means, she could probably use your help on what she doesn’t know.”
“She’s got a whole horde of people to help her.”
“And none of them,” Kallan said, “are you.”
A clamor of voices heralded the arrival of the first of the elders and their entourages. Shestandeliath Geshthax arrived with a furious-looking Narhanna. Kepeshkmolik Narghon with Uadjit by his side entered and stood a cautious distance from Mehen. Shortly after, Fenkenkabradon strode in flanked by his scions, Dokaan leaning heavily on a crutch still, and Arjhani, dripping with finery. Narghon’s teeth parted, swathed in frost—Arjhani avoided his gaze.
But in doing so he locked eyes with Mehen. A half smile curved Arjhani’s mouth, but Mehen only looked away. He had nothing at all left for Arjhani, not anymore. Especially not seeing him try to turn the city against Dumuzi this way. Following close beside him was a dragonborn woman with purplish scales and the chains of Shestandeliath swinging from one nostril to her ear. Mazarka, Mehen thought. Troublemaker—Dahl vouching for her didn’t change that.
“Now, I’m going to do you a favor and win this karshoji seat,” Kallan continued, lowering his voice, “because I’m awful fond of you and I don’t want to see you turn into a godsbedamned cautionary tale.”
Mehen cut a glance at the growing crowd, at Narghon’s cold eye on him. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
“Yeah, but I’m gonna. You don’t like it, you can bellow at me later.” Swift as a sword thrust, he leaned forward, brushing the frill of his jaw over Mehen’s cheek. “And if you like it, well …” He hesitated, his brashness run short. “I wouldn’t mind if you stayed. Kept me company at the least. After we figure out how to save your girls, I mean.”
Mehen could not have replied even if he’d known what to say. In that moment, Anala came swooping through the crowd, stopping close enough beside them both to force them to step apart, to move back. She smiled at Mehen. “Well met, Kallan. Mehen.”
Mehen sighed. “Again,” he said. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“That hardly matters, does it?”
“What’s the matter?” Kallan said. “You change your mind about how good my chances are?”
The barest hint of Anala’s teeth flashed ivory behind her smile. “Dear boy, I can hardly account for human refugees and wakened gods and the fall of Kepeshkmolik Uadjit. We will see what we can do.” Her gaze flicked over Mehen. “And what we can’t manage.”
The elders all identified their clans, rolling down the lists from Kepeshkmolik to Churirajachi, each one proclaiming their strength and support for Djerad Thymar. Each one scared beyond reason, Mehen thought. How long had it been since the Vayemniri faced a true threat?
Uadjit detailed the defeat of Djerad Kethendi, the debates in that city over whether the available armies would be best used for defense, for rescue, for destroying the Untherans altogether. To all appearances, she might have been giving only the bare facts, but the way her words fell, it was clear Uadjit did not favor another attack.
A pity her candidacy for Vanquisher had been withdrawn.
“There’s only one thing to be done,” Arjhani announced. “The army of the King of Dust must be stricken from the plane. Let them persist and we are only setting ourselves up for further attacks. Only tyrants come out of the Steel Sky’s embrace.” Not a word of that was Arjhani’s, Mehen would have laid double coin on that much. He glanced after Mazarka, but she wasn’t beside Arjhani anymore. She was heading out the door. As she did, she passed Dumuzi leading in Namshita, Amurri, and Kirgal. Mazarka eyed Namshita as she went by, a clear smirk in her teeth.
“If I am made Vanquisher,” Arjhani went on, “then you may rest assured that the first matter at hand will be ridding our country of these interlopers. Tymanther belongs to the Vayemniri.”
Mehen’s attention snapped back to the conclave, his temper overtaking him. “You karshoji coward,” Mehen said. “If it’s not Vayemniri, it doesn’t matter, isn’t that right?” Arjhani’s jaw parted, his tongue tapping nervously.
“Mehen, control yourself,” Narghon hissed.
“He has a point,” Fenkenkabradon Ishkhanak said. “Is that cowardly?”
“It’s a cowardly point. It’s a karshoji idiotic point as well.” Mehen turned on Arjhani. “Have you or your puppet master exchanged two sentences with the people waiting at the gates? They don’t want to follow that madman. Your own karshoji son can see it. Just because someone’s not scaly doesn’t mean they can’t be Thymari.”
The Churirajachi matriarch rapped her walking stick against the floor. “Do you intend to argue that the maunthreki among us are Thymari?”
“Verthisathurgiesh extended clan benefits to my daughters,” Mehen said. “Pretty sure everyone in this room knows perfectly well they’re not Vayemniri. Pretty sure everyone in this room knows they’re half the reason we’re not still scrambling around chasing a demon.”
“That demon was killed by a Vayemniri,” Arjhani started.
“Channeling an Untheran god,” Mehen shot back.
“Be fair,” Kallan pointed out, “from what Kepeshkmolik Dumuzi says, Enlil has opted to make the transition. Be pretty brazen to pretend that’s not the case, or that it can’t or shouldn’t be done.”
“So the unpierced one wants to tell us what our ways are?” Fenkenkabradon Ishkhanak drawled.
Mehen bared his teeth—you want to karshoji declare what is and isn’t Vayemniri, start by remembering a patriarch can’t be Vanquisher—but Kallan only shrugged.
“I don’t think I have to tell anyone here anything. Nobody in this room needs to be taught their ancestor stories. Nobody needs lessons on why we praise Esham-Ana for giving his comrades aid, even Clanless Shamash. The slaves of the tyrant aren’t the enemy—the tyrant is the enemy. And I wouldn’t dream of telling my elders they ought to be at my knee paying attention to what is and isn’t omin’ iejirsjighen.”
Arjhani’s scowl could have melted glass. “Perhaps wandering the world, it doesn’t matter who your allies are, but look around. We protect our own in Djerad Thymar. You want to make us into Waterdeep or some other worldly place.”
Kallan only chuckled. “That may be the first time anyone’s accused me of being too cosmopolitan.” A chorus of snickers chased his words. Why he ever thought he’d be bad at this, Mehen couldn’t fathom.
“I have seen a lot of the world,” Kallan admitted. “I think there’s a lot we could learn. Pretty sure you all know that too, given past events.” He nodded at Namshita and the
others. “I think we all know how easy it is to find a tyrant in your midst, no matter how careful you were—some of us more than others.” He gave Arjhani a look so blatant that none could have missed it, or misremembered Verthisathurgiesh Pandjed.
“So what would you do?” Anala said.
Kallan considered her, as if realizing how neatly he’d stepped into the role she’d made for him. For a moment, that fear he’d shown in the market square glinted in his eyes. His nostrils flared and he answered: “Make space for the refugees. Shore up our defenses. Reclaim our lost. Wait and see what we’re really up against.”
“And die from the inside out as they turn on us,” Arjhani said.
“They’ve offered us intelligence about the King of Dust’s army,” Dumuzi protested. “They aren’t our enemies.”
“Sit down!” Arjhani snapped, sparks dripping from his jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, now, he knows better than you do,” Kallan pointed out. “He’s the one spending the time getting to know the Untherans.”
“And taking the time to give them access to our secrets,” Arjhani said. “I have sources that say he and Verthisathurgiesh Mehen brought that woman and her people down to the catacombs, down to the very deepest parts. They intend to raise the Warrior of the Moon.”
Narghon scowled. “Why would anyone raise the Warrior of the Moon?”
Arjhani shot a triumphant look at Narghon. “Because,” he intoned, “it is another of their gods.”
The conclave erupted in angry, astonished shouts. Mehen narrowed his eyes at Arjhani.
He had only one “source”—Mazarka—who couldn’t know about Nanna-Sin. He and Dumuzi had spoken quickly, quietly, always in Draconic. Except—
“Utu,” Dumuzi whispered. He looked at Mehen in alarm. “Maybe there is a traitor.”
“You see!” Arjhani shouted.
Mehen grabbed Dumuzi by the arm, dragged him from the hall out to the staircase. He leaned out, as far as he could, searching the stairs and walkways below—a flash of purple scales. “Come on,” he said. “She’s going after your spare god.”
• • •
DUMUZI RACED AFTER Mehen, down, down back into the catacombs, Enlil’s warning echoing in his thoughts. That one is dangerous. That one is dangerous. That one is dangerous.
He’d said nothing, like a fool, kept his own counsel as though that were worth anything. Mehen wound down and down into the belly of the city, the presence of Enlil growing heavier, more frantic with every step.
As the tomb of Nanna-Sin came into view, Dumuzi spied the shattered stone, the flash of purple scales beyond. Mehen pulled his falchion from its harness as he burst into the tomb, sending more bits of stone and plaster scattering. Dumuzi came through after him, pulling his own sword free to confront Mazarka.
But Shestandeliath Mazarka wasn’t in the tomb.
Utu stood instead at the head of a large sarcophagus sunk into the stones of the floor, its lid pulled to the side to reveal the body of what seemed to be a human man with silver skin looking undisturbed and peaceful, as though he only slept. The double, Dumuzi thought of the god from his dreams. His scales shivered as if a fine storm of lightning raced over them.
Nanna-Sin, Enlil sighed.
Ud-sakar-zu ud-sakar imin-bi mu pad-da! Dumuzi closed his eyes as the faint chorus of Untheric chased the god’s grief. Thou Crescent Moon of the Seventh Day …
Mehen seemed unmoved by the sight and edged around the burial. “You don’t get to take him,” Mehen said. “We’ve claimed him as our own.”
“He belongs to Unther,” Utu said, his Common untouched by any accent. Dumuzi looked up and realized he held a knife in one hand, a peculiar amulet in the other. “Not Abeiran upstarts.”
“Is Unther made of grave robbers?” Mehen said. “Or shapeshifters?” he shot a glance at Dumuzi, a look that said he needed to move around the other side of the tomb before Mehen pushed him there. Dumuzi moved, sword out, head buzzing.
Utu sneered at Mehen. “If you kill me, what will Namshita say?”
“That you had no business breaking into a tomb,” Namshita said, entering with khopesh drawn. “How long have you served the Son of Victory?”
Utu’s dark eyes narrowed, his attention shifted enough for Mehen to lunge. But before he reached the Untheran man, Utu darted forward, touching Mehen’s forearm. The burst of magic made the air in the room prickle, and Mehen’s sword slowed.
Utu made a gesture as if he were rending the air itself. Mehen stumbled back a step, his falchion drooping, his eyes staring.
“Kill Namshita,” Utu said sweetly.
Mehen blinked. He turned toward Namshita as if just seeing her for the first time. His falchion slowly rose, as rage overtook his blank expression.
“Dumuzi,” Namshita said, her khopesh high, her feet dancing. “Get out of here. Warn the others.” She broke off with a grunt of effort as Mehen lunged, the force of his sword strike pushing her back, blocking the entrance to the tomb. He came at her again and again and she caught each stroke. The crackle of lightning built around Mehen’s teeth—
“Mehen, stop!” Dumuzi shouted.
The other man flinched, snapped his teeth around the burst of lightning, scattering it. In that moment, Namshita slammed the hilt of her sword against the side of his face. Mehen reeled but didn’t fall, pulling his huge sword back for a strike as he regained his balance.
Cursed, Dumuzi thought. Charmed. He didn’t know the difference, but surely—
The flash of metal out of the corner of his eye startled him, made him leap back and get his own blade up. Utu’s ornate dagger slashed wide, missing him by inches. Surprised, Dumuzi swept his own sword across—instinct and memory driving it—and scored a line across the Untheran man’s chest.
Utu grinned and brushed his wrist. Again the prickle of strange magic raced over Dumuzi’s scales, squeezing down through his skin as if it meant to crush his heart. For a moment, he forgot everything but the squeezing magic, his ears buzzing with a sound like a cloud of flies.
Namshita screamed, a sound of rage and pain, but Dumuzi couldn’t look away from Utu’s dark eyes.
“You’ve already made a grave mistake,” he said. “You think Enlil speaks to you from beyond the planes—what you’re following is the words of the Son of Victory. He’s already won.”
A spear of doubt pierced Dumuzi’s heart—was that true? Could it be true?—a strange voice speaking through the ether, a god from Abeir who sent demons ahead to begin their defeat. If he kept listening to Enlil, he wouldn’t let the Untherans be harmed—that played right into Gilgeam’s wishes—
No—the sureness of it rolled through every part of him like the thunder before the storm. Lightning stirred up through his throat, snapping between his teeth. “Enlil belongs to us.”
Dumuzi’s hand came up, almost of its own accord, the rush of divine magic nothing he could deny. A pulse of light, so white it seared his eyes, burst out of his palm, and in the afterimages, he could see the black-scaled dragonborn standing over …
A cold-eyed human woman with the lower half of a lioness.
“Lamia!” Namshita shouted. Dumuzi risked a glance back and saw Namshita—sweating, smeared in blood, favoring one leg—punch Mehen across the snout and then in the chest. He slashed at her, but Namshita, wild-eyed, dropped her blade and grabbed his arm, wrenching it into an awkward angle. Mehen cried out as his shoulder crunched, and collapsed to the ground.
Namshita scooped up the khopesh and started toward the lamia. “Where is Utu?”
The lamia spun her dagger into an overhanded grip. “Dead, of course. He hesitated when you ran.” Her dark eyes slid to Dumuzi, as if daring him to ask about Shestandeliath Mazarka. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“Your blood for theirs, then,” Namshita said.
“Wait.”
Namshita stepped back so that she could face both Mehen and the lamia.
“It’s all
right,” Mehen panted. “I shook it. Karshoji suggestion.” Blood dripped from one nostril and he held the shoulder of his sword arm as if it were no longer in its socket. “We need to know what’s going on. We need to get her to the Adjudicators.”
Namshita frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means wait and don’t let her touch you,” Mehen said. “We’ve made enough of a scene that they should be here shortly.”
• • •
THE INFIRMARY ROOM in the Adjudicator’s enclave smelled of sharvas oil and the minty stink of poultices. Namshita bore the ministrations of the young Daardendrien healer white-lipped and silent, even as she stitched shut the deep wound Mehen had made in her thigh. Mehen rotated his wounded shoulder and winced, avoiding Namshita’s gaze. Dumuzi watched them both, the lightning sparking in his throat—this was all his fault. He should have said something as soon as Enlil suggested Utu was trouble.
You aren’t suited for Kepeshkmolik, Dumuzi thought, and now you’ve failed the Untherans.
The Adjudicators had come, just as Mehen had predicted. The lamia—Zillah—had tried once more to turn the tide in her favor by taking Mazarka’s form as they arrived, but it only meant that when she was struck down with a sedative-tipped throwing knife, she was easier to carry up to the enclave. She waited now in one of the cells. Dumuzi wondered if Arjhani was already demanding her freedom. He wondered if Arjhani had even known what he was doing, or if he’d been the puppet of the lamia all along.
If you’d said something, he told himself, Arjhani would be nowhere near the Vanquisher’s throne. You could have stopped this before it started.
She didn’t talk to him before he slapped you, Dumuzi thought. It didn’t make him feel better.
The healer packed her things and left with promises to come back in a moment with the Adjudicators. Only when she’d gone did Mehen clear his throat. “You all right?” he said to Namshita.
“I’ve been worse,” she said, flexing her leg. “You?”
He sighed. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”
“You were a fool to bring him down there with you,” Namshita said, nodding at Dumuzi. “If he dies, who else would speak to your god for you?”
