Valyn would have liked nothing better, but he was trying to bring the Wing together, not browbeat them into submission.
“I’ve got something I could put in your mouth,” Laith suggested, managing to look innocent and depraved at the same time. “Might keep us both out of trouble.”
Gwenna smiled back compliantly, but her words were barbed. “I’d like that,” she said. “I’ve always enjoyed my meat soft and tender. It’s easier to chew.”
Annick snorted, whether with amusement or disgust Valyn had no idea.
“We could try going in slower,” Talal suggested quietly. “It’s what the other Wings do.”
Laith rolled his eyes. “You sound like my grandmother, ’Shael rest her soul. We had horses, but she always insisted on walking, said that if Bedisa had intended us to gallop around the globe, Bedisa would have made us with four legs and hooves. Anyway, if I went in any slower, everyone with a bow could take a shot at you. We might as well just hang dead meat from ’Ra’s talons.”
“It’s what the other Wings do,” Annick pointed out. “It’s the protocol.”
“Aren’t you the one who hammers her own arrowheads?” Laith demanded. “Since when do you give a whore’s heart for protocol?”
“Wait,” Valyn cut in, trying to focus on the words he’d just heard. “Hold on a second.”
The rest of the group stared at him for several long moments.
“You have something to say?” Laith asked finally. “Or you just need to take a shit?”
“Hooks,” Valyn replied, fixing on the idea. “Meat hooks.”
As a child, he’d been morbidly fascinated with the larder deep in the cellars of the Dawn Palace, where rows on rows of slaughtered pigs, cows, and sheep had been dressed and hung from frightening steel hooks. He and Kaden used to sneak down there, daring each other to snuff the lantern and wander in the darkness, hands stretched out before them to fend off the carcasses. It was where he had first learned about hearts, and brains, and livers, where he first understood that if you cut a body and bled it dry, the creature died. It did not seem an auspicious place to be gleaning combat ideas, but then, they didn’t have much else to work with.
“We use hooks instead of buckles.”
Annick squinted, tilted her head to the side as though calculating, then nodded once. “Good.” The sniper was a thorn in his side, but she was fast.
The rest of the Wing wasn’t so quick. “Hooks where?” Gwenna demanded.
“High,” Valyn responded, warming to his idea. “High on ’Ra’s talons, a little above our heads. We toss a loop of rope from our belts over the hooks, and our weight holds us in place.”
Laith shook his head. “You’ll have the same problem you’ve got with the buckles—you can’t release the loop from the hook with your weight on it.”
Valyn smiled. “That would be a problem … if you bothered to follow standard drop protocol.”
“Ah,” Talal chimed in, understanding spreading across his face. “As the angle of our descent gets steeper and steeper, the loop will slip closer to the lip of the hook.”
Valyn nodded. “When we’re in a near-vertical dive, the loop will slide right off. We drop. We don’t ever need to touch a thing.”
“It’s clever,” Gwenna replied with a frown, “but it means we all drop at the same time.”
“Not if we change the angles of the hooks slightly,” Laith countered. “First to drop has the shallowest angle, the last, the most severe. As ’Ra stoops harder, you’ll fall off one by one.”
Talal nodded. “It makes so much sense,” he marveled. “Why don’t any of the veteran Wings do this?”
“Because their fliers follow orders,” Valyn responded, eyeing Laith appraisingly. “The hooks wouldn’t work at shallower attack angles. The attack angles we’re supposed to adhere to.”
“This mean we get to quit following orders?” Gwenna asked with a smirk.
For the first time, Valyn found himself smiling in return. It was a small step, really—smaller than small. They hadn’t even built a mock-up of the system, hadn’t come close to testing it, and yet, for the first time, he thought he understood the Flea’s words: Command the Wing you have, not the one you want. For the first time, they’d demonstrated that they could work in concert to solve a common problem. Who knows, he thought to himself with a small smile, we might turn out all right after all.
Then the door to the shop slammed open.
Daveen Shaleel stepped into the room, followed immediately by Adaman Fane and the other four members of his Wing, all decked out in full combat kit.
“Don’t tell me,” Laith groaned. “You want us to swim around Qarsh underwater.”
Valyn started to chuckle, but the sound died in his throat. The soldiers in the door weren’t laughing. They weren’t even smiling. In fact, Valyn realized, his stomach tightening suddenly, they’d taken up standard assault positions just inside the room, as though they were getting ready to clear an enemy compound. He took a step forward, toward Shaleel, trying to formulate the right question. Fane’s blade brought him up short, whispering out of its sheath to point directly at Valyn’s throat.
“Less moving,” the man said grimly. “More listening.”
Shaleel took in the scene at a glance, then turned to Valyn. She seemed as calm as a housewife going about her chores, but steel edged her voice when she spoke.
“Valyn hui’Malkeenian,” she began, transfixing him with her gaze, “your Wing is hereby suspended from all training and combat missions. You will retain your freedom of movement on Qarsh itself, but you are forbidden to leave the island, forbidden to bear arms, and forbidden to have any substantive contact with other Wings, commanders, or cadets until the completion of our inquest.”
Valyn had never heard the words before, but they carried the ring of legal formula.
“What inquest?” he demanded, angry despite Fane’s blade in his face. “What are you talking about?”
“As you and your Wing are all aware,” Shaleel continued, “Kettral code forbids unauthorized assault on civilians, imperial or otherwise. It has come to my attention in the past hour that a member of your Wing may be implicated in just such an assault.”
“What?” Valyn asked, trying desperately to follow the conversation, to gain his footing. “Who? And how did this ‘come to your attention’?”
“Sami Yurl,” Shaleel replied. “According to him, a young woman over on Hook was murdered several weeks ago—a whore named Amie, no surname. Yurl presented us with compelling evidence that suggests your sniper—” She indicated Annick with a nod of her head. “—was involved.”
“Sami Yurl? That vat of pickled pig’s shit?” Gwenna burst out, rising from her chair. “Why would you listen to him about anything?”
“Take your people in hand, Commander,” Shaleel said, never shifting her eyes from Valyn’s face, “or they may get themselves hurt.”
“You can talk to me, you know,” Gwenna said, taking a step forward. “I’m right here.”
“Gwenna,” Valyn snapped, surprised at the edge of command in his own voice. “Not now.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to defy him, but Talal put a hand on her shoulder and, after a final spasm of anger, Gwenna cursed and threw herself back into her chair.
A hole opened in Valyn’s stomach. He wanted to scream that it was impossible, that Yurl had played him, played Shaleel, played the whole ’Kent-kissing lot of them. He wanted to bellow that Annick was innocent, but he couldn’t. For all he knew, Yurl was right.
“Where is he?” Valyn managed. “I want to talk to him, personally.”
Shaleel shook her head. “I sent Yurl’s Wing out this morning—their first mission. Besides, the code forbids such contact until the inquest is finished.”
“Why all of us?” Laith demanded. At least he had remained in his seat, but he was leaning forward hungrily, his hand on his belt knife. “If Annick’s the one you’re worried about, why don’t you
just lock her up and leave us out of it?”
“I will chalk up the impertinence of your question to your shock, soldier,” Shaleel replied evenly. “The Eyrie has found it … prudent, to detain an entire Wing in the event of an inquiry into the conduct of one of its members. We don’t want any ill-conceived ‘rescues’ or ‘last stands.’ Wing loyalty is a powerful thing.” She eyed the lot of them up and down, “Although in your case, it doesn’t appear to be a problem.”
“Blades and bows,” Fane said. “We’ll take them all.”
“Possession of any weapon aside from a belt knife between now and the end of the inquest,” Shaleel added, “will be construed as treason. Until we sort this out, the five of you should consider yourselves civilians.”
37
As they entered the quad, Micijah Ut fixed him with dark eyes, eyes that seemed somehow colder and darker than Kaden remembered. The man didn’t smile or even nod. He simply turned to the abbot and said, “It is lucky for you the boy is unharmed.” Whatever they had been arguing about, Kaden was impressed that Nin had managed to stand his ground. He knew the old monk was not weak, but Ut’s gaze made ice seem warm and steel soft.
The abbot opened his mouth to reply, but Ut had already turned back to Kaden, dropping to one knee, mailed hand to his forehead. His companion mirrored the gesture and the two spoke together, their voices merging as though through long practice.
“All hail the scion of light, the long mind of the world, holder of the scales, and keeper of the gates.” The words echoed down to Kaden from the formal halls of his childhood. They were old words, as old as the empire, hard and unchanging as the stones of the Dawn Palace. He had heard the formula a thousand times when his father took his seat on the Unhewn Throne, when his father left the palace to walk along the Godsway, when his father appeared for state dinners. As a child, he had been comforted by the litany but now, as he listened, the words dragged a cold, iron nail up his spine. He knew what was coming, knew how it had to end, and though he wanted to beg the two men to stop, they spoke on, relentlessly: “All hail he who holds back the darkness. All hail the Emperor.”
Kaden felt he had been dropped from a great height. His mind tumbled over and over, trying to gain purchase on something solid, familiar. Outside this small circle comprising the abbot, the Annurians, himself, and Tan, the monks went about their quotidian business, heads bent beneath their cowls, hands drawn into the sleeves of their robes, their pace measured and deliberate, as though nothing in the world had changed. They were wrong; everything had changed. To speak the formula he had just heard in front of anyone but his father constituted the highest treason, punishable by the old and horrific rite of blinding and live burial. For the minister and the Aedolian to use them now could only mean one thing. His father was dead.
Images flooded unbidden into his mind. His father patiently drawing his bow over and over while Kaden and Valyn struggled to imitate the smooth motion with their own, much smaller weapons. His father’s grim face as he watched the men hang who had abducted his sons. His father pulling on his splendid golden greaves before marching to meet the armies of the Federated Cities. It seemed impossible that Ananshael could take a man of such force and vigor before his fiftieth year. Impossible, except that Ut and the councillor were here, and they had spoken the irrevocable words.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but finally the abbot broke him from his daze.
“Kaden,” he said quietly, gesturing to the two men. They continued to kneel, hands to foreheads. Kaden wondered why they remained there, then realized with a start that they were waiting for him as so many thousands had knelt, waiting for his father before him. They were waiting for their Emperor. He wanted to moan.
“Please,” he said weakly. “Please get up.”
They rose, Ut no more slowly for the weight of his armor. As Kaden tried to master his shock long enough to compose his thoughts into sensible questions, the door to the guests’ quarters clattered open and Pyrre Lakatur sauntered into the courtyard, her husband a few steps behind.
The top three eyelets of the merchant’s tunic were unlaced, as though she had spent the afternoon napping, and she scratched her ear absently, waiting for her husband to catch up. On seeing the group, however, she paused, seemed to take stock, then forged ahead, a broad smile on her face. She might have been sallying into a country fair, sizing up Ut and the minister as if they were blowsy farmwives or blacksmiths tipsy with ale, fishmongers or haberdashers upon whom she could foist her wares. Jakin hung back momentarily, patting the sides of his vest unconsciously, as though to smooth it. Pyrre addressed herself to the Aedolian, nodding her head in casual deference.
“All glory to Sanlitun, may he live forever.”
The Aedolian fixed her with a blank stare, but it was the minister who responded.
“Sanlitun, bright were the days of his life, is dead. You stand where you should kneel, for you are in the presence of Kaden i’Sanlitun hui’Malkeenian, twenty-fourth of his line.”
“This whelp?” Pyrre laughed skeptically, eyeing Kaden. It was the first the woman had laid eyes on him, and beneath the offhand jocularity, there was something careful and measuring in that momentary gaze.
Ut’s broadblade was out of its sheath before Kaden could think to breathe, flashing in a savage arc. Pyrre didn’t move so much as a whisker, not even to flinch, and Micijah Ut’s cold sword came to rest on her neck, the pressure drawing a thin line of blood. The merchant’s eyes widened in obvious shock. She began to raise a belated hand to the blade, then thought better of it.
Ut addressed Kaden without taking his eyes from Pyrre. “Should I take her head from her shoulders, Your Radiance, or just remove the tongue from her mouth?”
Kaden stared from one to the other. What had happened to the Micijah Ut that he knew, the captain of the Dark Guard, the man who had looked in on him and his brother countless midnights, careful to see that they were safe in their beds? Was his change the result of the Emperor’s demise? The Aedolians had sworn to protect Kaden’s father with their lives. If Ut considered himself somehow responsible for Sanlitun’s death … that could alter a man, even a strong man like the soldier Kaden remembered.
The thoughts tumbled through his mind, blending in a turgid swell with grief for his father and confusion—confusion about everything. Only after a few breaths did he realize that Ut’s blade was still at the merchant’s neck. Pyrre had gone utterly still, her eyes blank. She looked as though she wanted to lift a hand to the broadblade, but didn’t dare stir. Ten minutes earlier, Kaden had been an acolyte digging out a cellar, and now a woman’s life hung on his next syllable. He shook his head unsteadily.
“No,” he said. “No. Just let her go.”
The Aedolian’s sword slid back into its sheath with the hoarse whisper of steel on steel. Ut’s face betrayed neither relief nor disappointment, and Kaden realized with deep unease that the man considered himself no more than an agent of the Emperor’s will, of his will. If he gave the word, Pyrre’s head would roll in the gravel before him. As if coming to the same conclusion, the merchant rubbed gingerly at the line of blood on her throat, then lowered herself unsteadily to her knees. A few steps behind her, Jakin did the same.
“You are unaccustomed to both the prerogatives and the dignity of imperial power,” the minister put in smoothly, smiling thinly at Kaden from beneath his blindfold. “For that reason, I have been sent to you with this delegation. My name is Tarik Adiv. I served as your father’s Mizran Councillor these past five years, and if you wish it so, I will serve you as well.”
Kaden’s mind was still reeling. He tried to focus on the man’s words, on his face, but the whole world shimmered as though seen through rough water.
“This man,” Adiv continued, gesturing to the Aedolian, “I believe you already know. Two years ago, Micijah Ut was raised from Captain of the Dark Guard to First Shield after the sad but not altogether unexpected death of Crenchan Xaw.” Ut stood straight as
a spear once more, eyes fixed forward, no visible hint of the violence suspended only moments before. Adiv might have been commenting on the price of beets, for all he seemed to care. “He commands your personal guard,” the minister continued, “and is here to ensure your safety on the voyage back to Annur.”
As Kaden stared dumbly, Adiv went on. “We are not alone, of course. Most of your retinue waits on the steppe below. It seemed … unwieldy to bring one hundred men and twice as many horses up this narrow path. A few more of your servants will be arriving shortly with gifts. We outstripped them in our haste.
“If I may, Your Radiance, I suggest we dine and rest here tonight. You can put your affairs in order and we can depart tomorrow morning. A ship swings at anchor for us back at the Bend, fully provisioned and ready to sail for Annur. The sooner we depart, the sooner we will be aboard. This is only a suggestion, Your Radiance, but prudence urges haste. The empire grows unruly when the Emperor is long away. Though it pains me to say it, there are those who would work you ill.”
“Fine,” Kaden said, not trusting himself to speak at more length. The silence stretched, and then he remembered Pyrre kneeling on the flagstones. “Please,” he said awkwardly. “Rise.” The woman got to her feet, favoring her good leg, but kept her eyes downcast. The casual swagger that had marked her attitude since her arrival at the monastery had vanished utterly.
“If I may, Your Radiance,” she began hesitantly. Her fingers kept reaching for the scratch on her neck, as though drawn to the blood.
Kaden waited, but when the woman did not continue, he said, “Go on.”
“Scial Nin has informed us of the danger here around the monastery—something killing your goats and even your brothers. If we might travel with your retinue as you head south, we would be forever grateful.”
Kaden thought back to the woman’s hesitation at the banquet, seeing it with new eyes. Pyrre claimed to be a merchant, and merchants trafficked in news as much as they did in goods. Word of a revolt in Ghan or an outbreak of diphtheria in Freeport affected their choice of goods as well as their direction of travel as surely as the fluctuating price of silver. She must have heard rumor of the Emperor’s death and decided to keep it hidden. Kaden suddenly felt overwhelmed by the small courtyard audience. The sun overhead beat down, and rivulets of sweat ran down his back beneath his robe.
Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades Page 40
