by Erin Evans
“I’m not the only one,” Dumuzi protested.
“In this, the Son of Victory has made the better choice,” she said. “You can see him. You can hear him. You can touch him. You can know what he is and isn’t.”
“Is he a god?” Dumuzi asked.
A slow smile spread across Namshita’s face. “I would have said once, ‘He is god enough.’ ”
“Enough for what?” Mehen said. “To make deals with demons? To drag you through the planes? To raze the first city you found?”
Namshita chuckled in a bitter way. “Dumuzi says you have stories of tyrants and slavery in the other world, but you seem to have forgotten what that means. We were slaves there—every one of us. Beholden to the genasi of Shyr from our first breath to our dying day. I was sold the first time at five, to work in a wheat field. By the time the whispers of the Son of Victory reached us, I was a granary guard, made to punish my own people for not being the tireless constructs the genasi demanded. At the time, he didn’t say he was a god. Something more, something out of the old world, but no one said god. When Gilgeam reached the farm, we knew we might be free for once. We rebelled, burned it down. He killed the genasi and gave us the chance to join him.”
“And if you’d said no?” Dumuzi asked.
“Death,” Namshita said plainly. “But what would you choose, faced with a chance of freedom, of strength, of punishing those who’d wronged you every day of your lives? What would your ancestors have done?”
Mehen shook his head. “The Vayemniri of old would not suffer a tyrant. A man gives you a choice between following him and dying, that’s just another master, another yoke. Given that choice, you fight. But,” Mehen went on, “you might have noticed our ways have softened into dickering and posturing about every karshoji thing, so I can’t say for sure it’s the best option out there. Besides, under that sky, they say, you take what you can get.”
Namshita looked away. “God or not, he didn’t know we would be pulled here. He said he made the planes thin, that he opened the way, but we were preparing to attack Shyr, at last, to bring down the genasi once and for all. Why leave before we achieve his final promise?”
He doesn’t even want you, the maurezhi had sneered as it died. But taste the air—you’re the ones he’ll get.
“The demons were sent to infiltrate Shyr,” Dumuzi said. “To bring it down from the inside.” And then something had thrown the maurezhi off course, maybe the same magic that had pulled Gilgeam and his army into Toril.
“Some,” Namshita said. “If we hadn’t won that day, at the very least we would have brought Shyr a measure of the pain it has dealt us. He is our best chance at salvation.” She chuckled again. “And it isn’t a very good chance or a very good salvation, is it?”
“So you planned to run,” Dumuzi said.
“As you said,” she replied, “there is only so long one can suffer a tyrant.” She studied the herbs bound against her leg, as if they were terribly interesting. “He’s reckless. That much I know the genasi feared. We were not a small force, but poorly trained, poorly armed. Desperate, and led by a madman. You could defend against him for ages, assuming you have the supplies for a siege.”
Mehen shook his head. “Supplies maybe. Patience, no. And what about the demons?”
Namshita shuddered visibly. “I haven’t seen what that many can do. I don’t wish to.”
“Would the lamia know?” Dumuzi asked. “Did she come with you?”
“No,” Namshita said. “She’s of this world. A minion of the demon lord he bought his army from. Still, he might have told her something. The Son of Victory is prideful enough to let his tongue outrun his good sense.” She hesitated. “But also devious enough to plant all the wrong information in an agent meant to sow discord.”
Mehen cleared his throat. “You have my apologies,” he said.
“It’s not your fault,” Namshita replied.
“Clearly the lamia knew how to choose a mark.”
“You were closest,” Dumuzi said.
“No,” he said grimly. “That’s not the first time I’ve been caught out by such a creature. I should have been prepared.” He sniffed. “Maybe I can’t be prepared. Maybe they know I’m the one who’ll fall.”
Dumuzi frowned. “She hit you once.”
“Once was enough.”
“You made an error. You assumed she was only what she seemed,” Dumuzi said. “But you’re the one who figured out where she might be, that a traitor was even among us. If I hadn’t been so … worried …”
Dumuzi trailed away, hearing his own words. An error. The kind of error they’d all make if they didn’t assume every shadow was a monster, every fear was a call to arms. The scales on his arms hummed with the edges of a lightning storm. The clan is only as strong as the weaknesses each of us shows—no, Dumuzi thought. Not quite.
“We all have weaknesses,” he said. “We all will make mistakes. Acting as though we must be faultless only undercuts what good the many may do as one. If you make yourself the Starshine Duke, ready for every loose stone to hide an assassin—”
“All right, enough,” Mehen said, raising the hand of his uninjured arm. “If you’re going to play the preacher, tell your god to spread around a little more healing magic.”
The presence of Enlil built in his thoughts, sending a prickle of lightning down through his fingertips. But Dumuzi ignored it—they were still Vayemniri. “Your shoulder’s going to be fine.”
The door opened and Uadjit stormed in, looking as though she might cut down the next person in her way, Kepeshkmolik Narghon and Shestandeliath Geshthax close behind her. When she saw Dumuzi, a measure of fury left her frame.
“You’re all right,” she said. She turned to Mehen. “You caught the traitor?”
“A lamia,” Namshita answered. “A confederate of the Son of Victory. Zillah, who rules the ruins of Unthalass.”
Narghon bared his teeth. “That vermin. How many times did we say someone should have cleared that karshoji wreckage?” He turned to Namshita, hesitating as if he weren’t sure how best to approach her.
“Namshita helped us,” Dumuzi said. “If she hadn’t been there—”
“You are Kepeshkmolik,” Narghon said in a dismissive way.
“And the lamia can turn a mind inside out,” Dumuzi said. “If I weren’t killed, I likely would have been made a slave to her wishes.”
Uadjit’s brow ridges rose, the row of nacre moons rising. “Arjhani?”
“I don’t know,” Dumuzi said.
She turned to Namshita. “Well met, sikati. We’re grateful for your assistance.”
Namshita inclined her head. “And I for yours. She killed one of mine, same as you. Dumuzi was very brave,” she added to Narghon. “The god uncovered the lamia—without that, our peoples would have found it easy to blame each other, even if she were captured.”
Uadjit’s dark eyes shone, but she nodded, formal and stern. “We have a proposition for you, and it’s something that should be decided as swiftly as possible. The new Vanquisher will be here shortly—”
“They voted?” Mehen said.
“Anala wouldn’t hear of holding it back,” Uadjit said dryly. “You can give Kallan your congratulations and concessions later.”
Dumuzi felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Kallan at least wouldn’t bring harm to the Untherans.
“We don’t want things buried under the entreaties of a dozen clans,” Narghon said. He cleared his throat. “Our world, once more, is changing right beneath our feet. But one thing that has not changed, that cannot be allowed to change is this: the Vayemniri are not fools. Everything Dumuzi has said thus far has been … wise, as much as we haven’t wanted to hear it.” Dumuzi’s grandfather turned his dark gaze on him. For all some part of Dumuzi felt young and awestruck under the Kepeshkmolik’s attention, it didn’t quail him like it once had. “I was wrong.”
“We need allies,” Geshthax interrupted.
Narghon’s nostri
ls flared. “We have always reached out a hand to allies,” he went on. “Clans are not built of blood, but of shared purpose.” He inclined his head. “If you wish to settle in Djerad Thymar—and at this point, Kepeshkmolik would welcome the presence of the Untherans—then you should have a clan.”
Namshita frowned. “A what?”
“It sounds like a stupid idea,” Geshthax said over Narghon’s shoulder. “I agree with you there. But hear us out.”
“Others have joined us—in the old world, and since the Spellplague,” Uadjit said. “Fleeing Returned Abeir on the far side of the ocean. Some are claimed by a clan, which is already recognized. You would form a new line of descent within the clan—”
“No—clans,” Geshthax corrected. “If we’re going to do this, it should at least be shared. I’m not taking all the burden nor letting someone take all the reward.”
“I thank you for the offer,” Namshita said. “I would have to bring it to my people, but I doubt they would happily lose what they are for that measure of safety.”
“Then there is the second option,” Uadjit went on. “We can petition to form a new clan for you.”
“A clan of Untherans?” Namshita said dryly. “I cannot see your elders accepting that.”
Both elders chuckled and Mehen grunted. “You have Kepeshkmolik and Shestandeliath speaking for you. You have the Chosen of the only Vayemniri god on your side. The new Vanquisher is amenable, and so Verthisathurgiesh needs to stand behind him or look a fool.”
“And Yrjixtilex,” Uadjit said. “And then most of their allies will fall in line. There will be dissent, but it won’t last.” She regarded Namshita gravely. “Especially if you can give us intelligence on the King of Dust and his armies. He’s started for Djerad Thymar.”
“And so we must move with all haste,” Namshita said. “I won’t speak for everyone. I need to discuss matters. And I want to see the lamia.”
Uadjit smiled, baring each of her teeth. “Don’t we all. Come on.” Namshita stood, testing her weight on her injured leg before following Uadjit out the door. Geshthax and Mehen went after, but Narghon stepped aside. Watching Dumuzi.
“Patriarch,” Dumuzi said.
“Dumuzi,” Narghon replied. “Your mother thinks we should talk. Have many … made their obsequies or whatever it is this creature is asking for?”
“Some,” Dumuzi said. He shifted his attention to the presence of Enlil, wanting the security. Narghon’s insult slipped past, ultimately without meaning to Enlil or Dumuzi. “He doesn’t ask for obsequies,” Dumuzi pointed out. “Excuse me.”
But Narghon moved to block his way and set a hand on his shoulder. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t raised to bother with this god nonsense,” he declared. “That’s a modern thing. But … We have long prized ingenuity. Kepeshkmolik has always sought allies the others didn’t consider. Jarfras and the Treaty of Tel-Quess. The Forgesisters of Urdun. The Gift of the Moon.” His nostrils flared. “That’s really a god down there in the tomb?”
“In a sense,” Dumuzi said. He wasn’t sure at all where this was going.
Narghon snorted. “She might have mentioned that to Thymara.” Dumuzi knew better than to point out the goddess of the moon had said so, though not in so many words. Not so clearly it was unforgivable they hadn’t realized what they were sheltering.
“At any rate,” Narghon continued, “I think you were right to make this alliance. And as I don’t want this city swept away by either Blue Fire or trumped-up tyrant … Tell me what the deal you’ve struck is. What I have to do.”
Dumuzi was so startled for a moment, he said nothing—proper, orthodox Kepeshkmolik Narghon asking him about Enlil. “It, um … I …”
Breathe, the voice that was beginning to blur with his own said. He steadied himself. “Does this mean I’m still Kepeshkmolik?”
That seemed to surprise Narghon. “Of course. Until and unless it interferes with your … purpose, I assume. I may not enjoy the notion of my grandson worshiping gods on its face, but to make you clanless …” He sniffed and swiped a hand through the air as if this were a notion for fools. “Besides, as I’ve said, the situation has convinced me. Tell me the terms.”
“The others agreed to two years. The veneration due an ancestor, the gratitude due a comrade, the loyalty due an elder—nothing more.”
Narghon’s teeth parted. “ ‘Nothing more.’ How will you determine if the terms are met?”
Dumuzi shrugged. “I don’t have to. If the terms aren’t met, he doesn’t have the power to protect us. You starve your sellswords, and they can’t protect you, no matter how loyal they are.”
“Sounds like a threat.”
Never—the voice and the thought and the words Dumuzi spoke all together. “No more than you’d threaten me,” he said.
“I might,” Narghon pointed out.
“Only if it prevented something worse. You’re not cruel, and neither is he,” Dumuzi said. “Do you want to do this?”
Narghon’s eyes narrowed. “One year,” he said. “But if he changes terms, the agreement is void.”
“Of course,” Dumuzi said.
“Good.” Narghon nodded. “Then you have Kepeshkmolik’s dedication.” He gestured vaguely at the air between them. “Is there some … thing I have to do?”
Dumuzi showed him the cupped breath gesture he’d figured out, and Narghon repeated it, albeit awkwardly. Nothing seemed to happen—to the Kepeshkmolik patriarch or to Dumuzi. He started to explain that Narghon would have to mean it, but the patriarch had already passed through the door to the cells.
“You know perfectly well this is a trick by those damned maunthreki!” Arjhani was shouting at Uadjit, teeth bared. “You think just because that karshoji sellsword took the piercings that you can just silence us—silence me! You’re going to be sorry.” Mehen and Namshita stood to the side, both tense and watching. Geshthax stood behind them, looking more annoyed than usual.
Behind the bars, a purple-scaled Vayemniri woman sat, smirking to herself.
“Verthisathurgiesh!” Narghon snapped. “Have a little decorum!”
Arjhani whirled on the patriarch. “You’ve signed our death warrant, imprisoned an innocent, and you ask me for decorum?”
“I told you,” Uadjit said, her patience worn as an old cloak, “that isn’t Shestandeliath Mazarka. Mazarka is very likely dead. That is a—”
“No!” Arjhani moved between them, as if the two Kepeshkmoliks were attackers trying to flank him. “You’ve fallen for their lies. And you’re supposed to be the wise one. Mazarka,” he shouted at the woman in the cage, “don’t tell them anything.”
Dumuzi thought of the lamia’s touch, of the fog that fell on his mind, the way he doubted what he knew because Zillah wished him to doubt. There was no need to ask if the lamia had ever laid a hand on his father—all it would take was a touch of the shoulder, a clasp of the hand. Arjhani could be prideful, Arjhani could be stubborn, but Arjhani was not brave enough to shout Kepeshkmolik Narghon down in the middle of the Adjudicators’ enclave. It will wear off, he thought, watching sparks snap in Arjhani’s teeth. It must.
And he thought of his father, realizing in a month or a season or a year what a fool he’d been played for. Verthisathurgiesh Arjhani might well die of embarrassment by then. Dumuzi’s stomach soured. The air in his lungs thickened like a storm was building within him.
Help him.
Arjhani was still railing at Uadjit. “You tell your pothach little weasel to release her, or so help me—”
“Arjhani?” Dumuzi said. His father broke off, facing Dumuzi with a fury that would have driven Dumuzi off another time. Instead Dumuzi stepped forward, planted his hands on his father’s shoulders, and exhaled.
The blessings of Enlil raced over Arjhani’s scales, miniature bursts of lightning scrabbling over his hide like silvery insects. Arjhani’s eyes rolled back in his head and he gave a great, wheezing gasp. As swiftly as the storm had arisen, it vanished, sinking int
o Arjhani’s skin. He rocked back on his heel claws, staring at Dumuzi’s hands on him a moment. Then he looked up, fearful and puzzled, at Narghon and Uadjit.
“What … What happened …?”
“Oh, don’t you remember?” Narghon asked, dripping sarcasm.
Dumuzi folded his hands in front of him. “A lamia put a spell on you. You were speaking her words.”
Arjhani gave a nervous smile. “I … I don’t recall that. Did I … Did I really?”
“I don’t know,” Narghon said. “Were you or were you not threatening your qal here over Shestandeliath Mazarka.”
Uadjit sighed. “Jhani, go ask about a healer,” she said gently. “I think you need some rest.”
He nodded. “Of course.” He looked over at Dumuzi, met his son’s eye. But if Verthisathurgiesh Arjhani had anything to say, he kept it to himself as he fled through the door into the Adjudicator’s enclave.
You don’t have to like him, Dumuzi thought of Mehen saying, you don’t even have to love him. But for your own peace of mind if nothing else, you have to forgive him. The memory of the slap still stung in his thoughts.
“If nothing further happens,” Narghon said, “I will hold your Enlil dear for making Arjhani take his blasted medicine.” He smiled at Uadjit and breathed into his cupped hand. She scowled at her father.
“Leave him be, elder,” she said sternly. “No need to kick a fallen comrade.” She nodded at Dumuzi. “Well done.”
“Thank you,” he said.
The lamia stood on Mazarka’s feet, but as she moved toward the bars, the dragonborn woman melted, distorted, sprouting a leonine lower half and shedding purple scales for golden skin and dusty-brown hair. She smiled at Dumuzi in a way that suggested nothing mirthful, nothing genuine.
“That was impressive,” she said. “Perhaps you’re the one I ought to be dealing with.”
“I have no interest in dealing with you,” Dumuzi said, feeling the god’s presence mantling him.
Zillah didn’t react. “One of us has had the ear of Gilgeam.”
