Afraid for the two paladins, Nathaliey looked backward to see how close Hamid and his men were drawing. She was already losing command of the seeker, but managed to make it invisible again. Here came the marauders, now close enough that the horses’ hooves should be audible to the paladins as they clattered across the hard stone road. But still, the paladins kept at their same pace, even as they were about to be overtaken.
Hamid drew Soultrup. Red fire danced down the blade. The paladins were in the middle of the cut now. Too late to escape out the far side before the marauders arrived. And now, at long last, Wolfram glanced over his shoulder.
Nathaliey’s seeker faded. She was going to lose it before she saw what happened. Then, in the last second before it dissolved, she spotted movement atop the cut through the rock. There were people up there. Could it be that Wolfram had set an ambush?
The seeker vanished. Nathaliey was back in her iron cage suspended over the gorge. Alone, blood drying on her hands, the haunting image of wights creeping in on the edge of her vision.
Chapter Fourteen
Markal, Chantmer, and the archivists worked casting concealers and marking wards that would see the books from the library to the wagon. It was mentally taxing work for Markal, and he relied on the archivists to direct the efforts.
A huge pile of tomes, scrolls, and tablets had been stacked by the oak door leading out to the corridor. Karla bent and double-checked each one, making sure that it was adequately protected, then bound certain volumes together with leather straps to help in the organization. When she found a trio of yellowing scrolls that seemed inadequately shielded, she ordered one of the younger archivists to carry them back to Jethro at the copyist table.
Markal felt a presence behind his shoulder, and he looked up, startled to see the master standing next to him.
“Take what we have and begin the transfer,” Memnet said.
“We’re almost done,” Markal said. “Six more tomes and these three scrolls, and that should fill the wagon.”
The master’s tone was brusque. “Which books are they?”
Chantmer rested a hand on a black leather-bound tome. “The history and lore of the Order of Char. Six volumes.”
Memnet touched a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes in a pained expression. “That’s the bulk of our elemental water spells. We can’t afford to lose it. But it’s not easily shielded, either. It’s brute work just hauling them to the wagon fully protected. And the scrolls? Which ones?”
“From the sultanates,” Markal said. “Sand and wind.”
“More time lost. Time we don’t have.”
Markal frowned. “Did something happen, Master? You went to the highway?”
“And fought the enemy, yes. The results were . . . unsatisfactory. Toth is gaining in power. I returned to Syrmarria and met the Veyrian army withdrawing from the city. All of them.”
“All of them?” Chantmer said. “The entire army? That’s excellent news. It means the barbarians are making a fight of it, and Toth needs all of the forces he can muster.”
“They’re withdrawing, Chantmer. They’re not marching to battle. They’re retiring beyond the city gates and hunkering down to wait.” Memnet shook his head. “I passed through the square. The salamander runes are fully active, the ground is vibrating. The monsters are squirming up from the depths—they must be close. There is only one reason for the Veyrians to withdraw entirely. It’s to stay clear of the fire. Fire salamanders are going to burst into the city and burn it. And it will happen soon.”
The news left a pall in the air. Markal swallowed before speaking, not trusting his voice. “How long do we have?”
“It will happen tonight, before dawn,” Memnet said.
“Then we have time,” Chantmer said. “Five hours until dusk, some time into the night. We can save these books, maybe a few more, then seal the library and hope it survives the conflagration.”
“No. We’ll rescue what is here by the door, and nothing else. Accept that we’ve saved some of it, but not all. There are other critical matters to attend to.”
Chantmer gaped. “More critical than the library?”
“We have sworn to protect the people of this land. There are thousands upon thousands living within the city walls,” Memnet said. “If we don’t get them out of the city, they will die in a fiery holocaust.”
The master looked around the library, taking in the half-emptied shelves, the chests with scrolls, the niches still stuffed with clay tablets. His expression changed from dismay to horror. The others all followed his gaze, and nobody needed to question what the master was thinking. He was picturing it all destroyed.
Markal couldn’t conceive it. People lived and died, but knowledge could be lost forever. Kings, merchants, slaves, and commoners died. Wizards. Even the master himself would die some day. But these books were irreplaceable.
His stomach churned at the thought of turning his back on the city, but he was forced to agree with Chantmer. Nothing was more critical than saving as much of the library as possible.
He was about to say this when Chantmer said in a grim tone, “If this is the decision of the order, then I have an idea. The rest of you stay with the library and do what you can. Markal and I will evacuate the city.”
#
“We need Kandibar Liltige,” Chantmer said as he led Markal up the stairs to the terrace gardens. “The vizier knows other ministers, knows merchants. Has powerful connections throughout Syrmarria. Veyrian troops have abandoned the city—that gives us a chance to raise the alarm and evacuate without interference. But only the vizier can manage it.”
Markal’s mind was still reeling with what had been said, what had been decided. A cool air blew from the north, keeping the day pleasant in spite of a late summer sun that left the khalifates baking this time of year. It was hard to believe that a fiery, molten threat was soon to burst through the stones of the night market.
The pomegranate and olive trees swayed in the breeze, and Markal imagined their leaves withering as flames consumed their trunks. Looking into their branches, he noticed they were empty of familiar occupants.
“The birds are gone,” he said. “Listen, there’s no birdsong at all.”
Chantmer looked around. “There’s usually a peacock here, too. I can’t believe that would fly off—where would it go?”
“The animals know. They feel it coming.” They couldn’t sit here indulging themselves. Markal shook his head to clear it. “I thought you already tried to rescue Kandibar.”
“Multiple times,” Chantmer said. “First Narud and I, then we made another attempt when Memnet returned to the city. The enemy’s dungeons are as well protected as our library. Even if the guards have fled, the dark acolytes are still around, and their defenses are as strong as ever.”
“So what is your plan?”
“I know someone. And she knows other people.”
Chantmer led him down from the terrace to a lower pavilion, where, to Markal’s surprise, his companion brought them into the women’s baths, already busy at this time of the afternoon. The pair had some modest concealment spells around them, and they easily made their way to the smaller, private baths in the rear.
There they slipped past the eunuch at the door and approached a young woman lying on a table while a pair of attractive young servants rubbed her body with oil.
“Sadira,” Chantmer said in a whisper. “Omar’s sister.”
The dead khalif had a large number of siblings and half-siblings from his father’s wives and concubines, and Markal didn’t recognize the woman, nor understand why Chantmer had brought them here. How would this pampered young princess help them?
They dropped their concealment, and Sadira slowly lifted her gaze. She didn’t seem surprised, and waved at the servants to keep rubbing her with oil.
“You again, Chantmer? But you’ve changed out your companion.” A slight smile touched her lips. “Is this the one my husband calls Markal?”
> “I’m Markal. But who is your husband?”
Her smile deepened. “You don’t know? You haven’t heard?”
“I have more important things to follow than palace gossip.”
“She’s married to Pasha Izak,” Chantmer explained. “The king’s general and commander of this city.”
Markal took in the beautiful young woman. “Izak? The fat, lamed one? And I suppose you’ll tell me that you’re deeply in love.”
“I am alive. That’s more than can be said of many.”
Markal turned to Chantmer, disbelieving. “This is the one who is going to help us?”
“She’s not entirely what she seems.”
He was skeptical. “Are you sure?”
“Talk to her. Use your diplomatic language. It’s beyond me to convince her of anything.”
“What are you talking about?” Markal asked.
“You know, be persuasive. Flatter her. Whatever you need to say.” Markal only blinked, and Chantmer snapped, “Why do you think I brought you? It’s because you can manage with these simple sorts. You understand the kind of flowery language they seem to prefer.”
“He may have a point,” Sadira said. “I don’t know you, Markal, but you can hardly be more abrasive than your friend here. Do you have something to say?”
Markal wasn’t feeling flowery or diplomatic. “Where is your husband?”
“He left a few days ago. I would say that I miss him, but, well . . .” She tucked her head as one of the servants massaged her neck and shoulders. “The Brothers willing, he will stay away longer than a week this time.”
“The pasha isn’t the only one who left,” Markal said. “Aren’t you wondering about the palace guard?”
“Not particularly.” Sadira didn’t look up. “I assume there’s more trouble in the markets. This conversation is getting tedious. What do you want?”
“They’ve left the city, Princess. Every Veyrian soldier is outside the city walls. Waiting. I’ll bet you’d find the foreign merchants leaving, too. The birds certainly have—they’ve vanished completely from the palace gardens.”
Sadira looked up. She studied Markal’s face, then glanced to Chantmer as if trying to suss out whether or not they were lying. She sat up and snapped her fingers at the servant who’d been kneading her shoulders.
“Hand me my robe.”
“You’re covered in oil,” the young man protested. “And we haven’t perfumed you yet.”
Sadira’s tone sharpened. “Give me the robe. And return to my quarters, the both of you. If there are guards, wait for me there. If the guards are still gone, summon my private staff. You!” she said to the eunuch. “Fetch me the vizier of the treasury. No, wait. I’m not completely sure of his loyalties. Better would be Kandibar.”
“Yes,” Chantmer said, his tone a little too eager.
“Have the guards left the dungeon, too?” she asked.
“As far as we know,” Markal said, “but Toth’s acolytes are still in the palace, and the approaches to the dungeon are hidden with all manner of sorcery.”
Sadira looked confused. “I’ve seen people coming and going. Guards, serving girls, servants of the warden. Kitchen wenches and the like.”
“Yes, but we can’t approach,” Markal said. “Not without falling under attack, and there are other . . . well, important tasks that this would disrupt.”
“In other words, those others have been invited, and you have not. Not so different from when the vizier tried to find your gardens and thought he was wandering through the desert wastes.”
Markal nodded, as surprised by her intelligence as by her initiative. “Yes, exactly like that.”
The princess nodded at the eunuch. “Free the vizier from the dungeon—assuming it is unguarded, of course, and these two aren’t lying—and carry him to my quarters.” She looked thoughtful as the man hurried off. “My eunuch will know how to bring him out.”
Sadira grabbed for one of her combs and worked the knots out of her wet hair.
“I have been suffering under a moral dilemma these past few days. My husband”—the word sounded pained coming out of her mouth—“told me that your order of wizards and apprentices had become as troublesome to the war effort as the barbarian kingdoms, and that King Toth was going to destroy you. Very soon. I was debating whether or not to warn you. It felt necessary, and yet some of you are so unlikable.”
She cast a significant glance at Chantmer as she said this. Chantmer seemed either oblivious to this insult or untroubled by it. He met her gaze with a lofty expression.
“We’re not the only ones who will be attacked,” Markal said. “To clear us from the palace and library, they will destroy all of Syrmarria.”
“That much seems obvious,” Sadira said. “Or they wouldn’t have withdrawn from the city. How will it be done?”
“With heat and flame,” Chantmer said.
“But they’ve set no fires,” she said. “And the Veyrians have already left. Who will do the burning?”
“No ordinary fire can destroy the library,” Markal said. “The dark wizard and his acolytes are raising fire salamanders from the infernal depths.”
“Fire salamanders. This is a real thing? Not a myth or legend?”
“A monster of fire and molten rock, and very real,” Markal said. “The salamanders will burst from the ground in the night market and destroy everything they touch. Heat and fire like you cannot imagine. Anyone left inside the city walls will die.”
“And nothing can be done to stop it from coming to pass?”
“No, Princess,” Chantmer said. “If it were possible, our master would have stopped it already.”
She made her way to her clothes, lacy robes and bindings and veils, and fingered them roughly with a scowl on her face. “This clothing will never do. I should have had them fetch me a tunic and boots.” She tightened the sash around her robe. “So we withdraw from the city and then what? Watch it burn?”
“It’s the only way to save lives,” Markal said.
“Save lives? How will it do that? Do you understand nothing of how a city functions?” Sadira shook her head. “How long do we have, a few hours to clear them all? Sixty-five thousand people live in Syrmarria. What will they eat? They’ll scour the countryside like a swarm of locusts, and the whole of Aristonia will starve. In the end, they will beg the high king to enslave them, if only to get a mouthful of gruel and a piece of stale bread.
“In fact, this is probably Toth’s entire plan. Withdraw his forces from the city, watch you evacuate them, let them wander the land as a desperate mob, destroying Aristonia, before enslaving the entire khalifate as a mercy.”
Markal could only stare. None of this had occurred to him, but it made perfect sense now that he’d heard it. The order had battled dark acolytes in the night market, and the master himself had weakened the runes to slow the ascent of the fire salamanders burning their way up from the depths. And so the enemy had very visibly withdrawn its entire force from the city and forced the order to defend the population.
“I have an idea,” Sadira said. “My cousin is married to the sultan of Marrabat. A lesser wife, but she has connections in the city. I will empty the treasury and carry it with me. There must be merchants in Syrmarria with private guards, but if not, we can bribe the desert nomads as we travel the Spice Road. The rest of the treasures of the city will buy our way into the sultanates.”
“You’re going to relocate the entire population of Syrmarria across the desert?” Markal asked.
He tried to picture sixty-five thousand men, women, and children suffering under the blistering desert sun while Kratian raiders eyed them hungrily. Hyenas and wild dogs would follow the vast trudging hordes, feasting on the dead and dying. And then, after weeks on the road, the Syrmarrians would arrive in Marrabat half starved, begging for mercy.
“The slave markets of Marrabat will do brisk business when they reach the other side,” Markal decided.
Sadira lo
oked grim. “Many will no doubt become slaves. Perhaps most. Maybe even all, myself included.”
“An ugly fate,” Chantmer said. “Yet the flesh markets of the south are not nearly so cruel as the high king’s road crews. There, you are meant to die. Your blood and suffering will bind the highway to the land.”
“My eunuch will be in the dungeons by now,” the princess said. “A few more minutes and Kandibar will be in my quarters. I must hurry if this is to be done.”
“I agree,” Chantmer said. “Any more waiting wastes precious time.”
The other two looked at Markal for confirmation. How could he agree to this cruel plan, condemning thousands to death and slavery? Yet it was better than any other option.
He nodded slowly. “Talk to the vizier. If he agrees, if he thinks he can evacuate the city to the south, then make it happen. Empty Syrmarria. You only have a few hours, and then it burns.”
Chapter Fifteen
Chantmer went with Sadira to her quarters with the idea of healing Kandibar after his long, agonizing stint in the dungeons. Now alone, Markal picked his way cautiously to the library. By the time he arrived, the first collection of books had been loaded into the cart, which was near the palace gates, hidden beneath so many layers of concealing spells that the first time he’d hauled a volume from the library, he’d bashed his knee against the cart gate while he was groping around to find it. He couldn’t see the horse at all.
Karla and Erasmus stood in the cart, taking volumes as they arrived and arranging them carefully. Markal dropped his book into Karla’s hands and hurried back toward the library for another. Tendrils of sorcery reached for him from every corner, groping, touching, prodding. It was strongest nearest the palace gates, but continued all along the way until he reached the final approaches to the library corridor.
The Emerald Crown (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 3) Page 13
