Skeaös matched his eyes for moment, then glanced down. “No,” he said. “There’s no need.”
Conphas released his grip. With sweaty palms, he smoothed the front of the old man’s silk robes.
“What kind of game are you playing, Skeaös? Did you think that by wounding my vanity, you could provoke me to act against my uncle? Against my Emperor? Are you trying to incite me to sedition?”
The man looked positively panicked. “No. No! I’m an old fool, I know, but my days on this earth are numbered. I rejoice at the life the gods have given me. I rejoice at the sweet fruits I’ve eaten, for the great men I’ve known. I even—and I know you’ll find this difficult to believe—exult because I’ve lived long enough to witness you grow into your glory! But this plan of your uncle’s—to deliver a Holy War to its destruction! A Holy War! I fear for my soul, Ikurei Conphas. My soul!”
Conphas was dumbstruck, so much so he utterly forgot his anger. He’d assumed Skeaös’s insinuations to be yet another of his uncle’s probes and had responded accordingly. The possibility that the fool acted on his own had never occurred to him. For so many years Skeaös and his uncle had seemed different incarnations of the same will.
“By the gods, Skeaös . . . Has Maithanet ensnared you as well?”
The Prime Counsel shook his head. “No. I care nothing for Maithanet—or Shimeh, for that matter . . . You’re young. You wouldn’t understand my motives. The young can never see life for what it is: a knife’s edge, as thin as the breaths that measure it. What gives it depth isn’t memory. I’ve memories enough for ten men, and yet my days are as thin and as shadowy as the greased linen the poor stretch over their windows. No, what gives life depth is the future. Without a future, without a horizon of promise or threat, our lives have no meaning. Only the future is real, Conphas, and unless I make amends to the gods, I’ve no future left.”
Conphas snorted. “But I understand all too well, Skeaös. You’ve spoken like a true Ikurei. How does the poet Girgalla put it? ‘All love begins with one’s own skin’—or soul, as the case may be. But then, I’ve always thought the two interchangeable.”
“Do you understand? Can you?”
He did understand, and better than Skeaös realized. His grandmother. Skeaös conspired with his grandmother. He could even hear her voice: “You must bait both of them, Skeaös. Poison them against one another. Conphas’s infatuation with my son’s madness will wane soon enough. Just you wait and see. He’ll come running to us, and together we’ll force Xerius to abandon his mad plan!”
He wondered whether the old drab had taken Skeaös as a lover. Likely, he concluded, and winced at the accompanying image. Like a prune fucking a twig, he thought.
“You and my grandmother,” he said, “hope to save the Holy War from my uncle. A commendable undertaking, save that it verges on treachery. My grandmother I can understand—she has him bewitched—but you, Skeaös? You know, as few others do, what Ikurei Xerius III is capable of once his suspicions are roused. A bit reckless, don’t you think, trying to me pit me against him like this?”
“But he listens to you! And more important, he needs you!”
“Perhaps he does . . . But either way, it’s immaterial. Your ancient stomachs may find his fare too undercooked, but my uncle has laid out a feast, Skeaös, and I for one do not intend to gainsay it.”
No matter how much he despised his uncle, Conphas had to admit that provisioning Calmemunis and the rabble that followed him was a move as brilliant as any he himself had made on the field of battle. The Vulgar Holy War would be annihilated by the heathen, and in a single stroke the Empire would cow this Shriah, perhaps compel him to demand that the remaining Men of the Tusk sign the Imperial Indenture and demonstrate to the Fanim that House Ikurei bargained in good faith. The Indenture would ensure the legality of any military action the Empire might take against the Men of the Tusk to retrieve her lost provinces, and the deal with the heathen would ensure that such military action would meet with little resistance—when the time came.
Such a plan! And devised not by Skeaös but by his uncle. As much as that fact galled Conphas, it must, he decided, gall the old Counsel more.
“It’s not the feast we dispute,” Skeaös replied, “it’s the price! Surely you can see this!”
Conphas studied the Prime Counsel for several long moments. There was something curiously pathetic, he thought, about the notion of the man plotting with his grandmother, like two beggars sneering at those too poor to give more than coppers.
“The Empire? Restored?” he said coldly. “I should think your soul a bargain, Skeaös.”
Skeaös opened his toothless mouth to retort but then closed it.
The Emperor’s Privy Chamber was an austere room, circular, ringed by black marble columns, with a surrounding gallery for those rare occasions, mostly ritual, when the Houses of the Congregate were invited to observe the Emperor signing edicts into law. A small herd of ministers and slaves milled about the room’s heart, clustered around the head of a mahogany table. Conphas glimpsed his uncle’s reflection floating beneath the table’s polish, like a corpse in brackish water. There was no sign of the Scarlet Schoolmen.
The Exalt-General loitered near the entrance for several moments, studying the ivory plaques set into the walls: renditions of the great lawmakers of antiquity and the Tusk, from the prophet Angeshraël to the philosopher Poripharus. He wondered inanely which of his dead relatives the artisan had used to model their faces.
The sound of his uncle’s summons startled him.
“Come. We’ve only a few moments, Nephew.”
The others had withdrawn, leaving only Skeaös and Cememketri at his uncle’s side. The surrounding galleries, Conphas could not help noticing, were filled with Eothic Guardsmen and Imperial Saik.
Conphas took the seat his uncle indicated. “Both Skeaös and Cememketri agree,” Xerius was saying, “that Eleäzaras is an infernally clever and dangerous man. How would you snare him, Nephew?” His uncle was trying to sound jocular, which meant he was afraid, as perhaps he should have been: no one yet knew why the Scarlet Spires had deigned to join the Holy War, and this meant no one knew the School’s intent. For men like Skaiyelt and Gothyelk, the purpose was plain: redemption or conquest. But for Eleäzaras? Who could say what motivated any of the Schools?
Conphas shrugged. “Snaring him is out of the question. One must know more than one’s opponent to trap him, and as it stands we know nothing. We know nothing of his deal with Maithanet. We don’t even know why he would condescend to make such a deal—and to take such a risk! A School of its own volition joining a holy war . . . A holy war! In all honesty, Uncle, I’m not sure that securing his support for the Indenture should even be our priority at this point.”
“So what are you saying? That we should simply probe for details? I pay my spies good gold for such trifles, Nephew.”
Trifles? Conphas struggled with his composure. Though his uncle’s heart was too whorish for religious faith, he was as jealous of his ignorance as any zealot. If the facts contradicted his aspirations, they did not exist.
“You once asked me how I prevailed at Kiyuth, Uncle. Do you remember what it was I told you?”
“Told me?” the Emperor nearly spat. “You’re always ‘telling’ me things, Conphas. How do you expect me to sort one impertinence from the other?” This was perhaps the pettiest and most oft used weapon in his uncle’s arsenal: the threat to read counsel as commandment. The threat loomed over all their exchanges: You would presume to command the Emperor?
Conphas graced his uncle with a conciliatory smile. “From what Skeaös says,” he said smoothly, “I think we should simply bargain in good faith—as much as we can, anyway. We know too little to snare him.” Stepping to the brink then stepping back by pretending no such step had been taken—this had always been his family’s way, at least until his grandmother’s recent antics.
“My thought precisely,” Xerius said. At least he still reme
mbered the rules.
Just then, a chamberlain announced the imminent arrival of Eleäzaras and his retinue. Xerius bid Skeaös to tie his Chorae about his hand, which the old Counsel did while Cememketri watched with distaste. This was something of a small dynastic tradition, adopted more than a century earlier, and observed whenever members of the Imperial Family conferred with outside sorcerers.
Chepheramunni, King-Regent and titular head of High Ainon, was announced first, but when the small Ainoni entourage filed into the chamber, he followed Eleäzaras like a dog. The Grandmaster’s entrance was brisk and, Conphas thought, anti-climactic. His demeanour was more that of a banker than a sorcerer: impatient of spectacle, hungry for the ledgers. He bowed to Xerius, but no lower than would the Shriah. A slave drew his chair back for him, an d he sat effortlessly, despite his trailing crimson gowns. With rouged cheeks and reeking of perfume, Chepheramunni sat at his side, a chalky look of fear and resentment on his face.
The obligatory exchange of honorifics, introductions, and compliments was observed. When Cememketri, Eleäzaras’s counterpart in the Imperial Saik, was introduced, the Grandmaster smiled disdainfully and shrugged, as though dubious of the man’s station. Schoolmen, Conphas had been told, were often insufferably haughty when in the company of other Schoolmen. Cememketri flushed in anger, but to his credit did not respond in kind.
After these jnanic preliminaries, the Grandmaster turned to Conphas. “At long last,” he said in fluent Sheyic, “I meet the famed Ikurei Conphas.”
Conphas opened his mouth to reply, but his uncle spoke first.
“He’s a rarity, isn’t he? Few rulers possess such instruments to execute their will . . . But surely you haven’t come all this way just to meet my nephew?”
Though Conphas could not be certain, Eleäzaras seemed to wink at him before turning to his uncle, as though to say, “We must suffer these fools patiently, mustn’t we?”
“Of course not,” Eleäzaras replied with damning brevity.
Xerius seemed oblivious. “Then might I ask why the Scarlet Spires has joined the Holy War?”
Eleäzaras studied his unpainted fingernails. “Quite simple, really. We were purchased.”
“Purchased?”
“Indeed.”
“A most extraordinary transaction! What are the details of your arrangement?”
The Grandmaster smiled. “Alas, I fear that secrecy is itself part of the arrangement. Unfortunately, I’m not able to divulge any of the details.”
Conphas thought this an unlikely story. Not even the Thousand Temples was wealthy enough to “hire” the Scarlet Spires. They were here for reasons that transcended gold and Shrial trade concessions—of that much he was certain.
Changing directions as fluidly as a shark in water, the Grandmaster continued, “You worry, of course, about how our purposes bear upon your Indenture.”
There was a sour pause. Then Xerius replied, “Of course.” His uncle chafed more than most at being premeditated by another.
“The Scarlet Spires,” Eleäzaras said demurely, “cares nothing about who possesses the land conquered by the Holy War. Accordingly, Chepheramunni will sign your Indenture—gladly. Will you not, Chepheramunni?”
The painted man nodded but said nothing. The dog had been trained well.
“But,” Eleäzaras continued, “there are several conditions we would see met first.”
Conphas had predicted this. Civilized men haggle.
Xerius protested. “Conditions? But for centuries the lands from here to Nenciphon have been—”
“I’ve heard all the arguments,” Eleäzaras interrupted. “Dross. Pure dross. You and I both know what is truly at stake here, Emperor . . . Don’t we?”
Xerius stared at him in dumb astonishment. He wasn’t accustomed to interruptions, but then, he wasn’t accustomed to parlaying with men who were more than his equals. High Ainon was a wealthy, densely populated nation. Of all the rulers and despots across the Three Seas, only the Padirajah of Kian possessed more commercial and military power than the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires.
“If you don’t,” Eleäzaras continued when Xerius failed to reply, “then I’m sure your precocious nephew does. Hmm, young Conphas? Do you know what’s at stake here?”
Conphas thought it obvious. “Power,” he said with a shrug. A strange fellowship, he realized, now existed between him and this sorcerer. From the outset, the Grandmaster had accorded him the status of kindred intellect.
Even the foreigners know you’re a fool, Uncle.
“Precisely, Conphas. Precisely! History is only a pretext for power, no? What matters . . .” The white-haired sorcerer trailed with a small grin, as though he’d stumbled upon a more effective tack with which to make his point. “Tell me,” he asked Xerius, “why did you provision Calmemunis, Kumrezzer, and the others? Why did you give them the means to march?”
His uncle opted for the rehearsed reply. “To put an end to their depredations. Why else?”
“Unlikely,” Eleäzaras snapped. “I rather think that you provisioned the Vulgar Holy War in order to destroy it.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“But this is madness,” Xerius finally replied. “Damnation aside, what would we have to gain?”
“Gain?” Eleäzaras repeated with a wry grin. “Why the Holy War, of course . . . Our deal with Maithanet stripped you of whatever leverage you possessed with the Imperial Saik, so you needed something else to barter. If the Vulgar Holy War is destroyed, then it will be far easier for you to convince Maithanet that the Holy War needs you—or should I say, the now legendary military acumen of your nephew, here. Your Indenture will be his price, and the Indenture effectively cedes to you all the proceeds of the Holy War . . . I must admit, it’s a splendid plan.”
This small flattery was Xerius’s undoing. For a brief instant his eyes flashed with jubilant conceit. Stupid men, Conphas had found, tended to be excessively proud of their few brilliant moments.
Eleäzaras smiled.
He plays you, Uncle, and you cannot even see.
The Grandmaster leaned forward as though aware of the discomfort generated by his proximity. Eleäzaras, Conphas realized, was a master practitioner of jnan.
“As of yet,” he said coldly, “we don’t know the specifics of the game you play, Emperor. But let me assure you of this: if it involves the betrayal of the Holy War, then it involves the betrayal of the Scarlet Spires. Do you know what this means? What it entails? If you betray us, Ikurei, then no one”—he glanced darkly at Cememketri—“not even your Imperial Saik, will be able to preserve you from our wrath. We are the Scarlet Spires, Emperor . . . Think on that.”
“You threaten me?” Xerius fairly gasped.
“Assurances, Emperor. All arrangements require assurances.”
Xerius yanked his face away, intent on Skeaös, who was fiercely whispering in his ear. Cememketri, however, could contain himself no longer.
“You overstep yourself, Eli. You act as though we sit in Carythusal when it’s you who sit in Momemn. Two of the Three Seas lie between you and your home. Far too far to be uttering threats!”
Eleäzaras frowned then snorted, turning to Conphas as though the Grandmaster of the Imperial Saik did not exist. “In Carythusal they call you the Lion of Kiyuth,” he said nonchalantly. His eyes were small, dark, and nimble. They scrutinized him from beneath bushy white brows.
“Do they?” Conphas asked, genuinely surprised that his grandmother’s moniker had travelled so far so fast. Surprised and pleased—very pleased.
“My archivists tell me you’re the first to defeat the Scylvendi in pitched battle. My spies, on the other hand, tell me your soldiers worship you as a god. Is this so?”
Conphas smiled, deciding the Grandmaster would lick his ass as clean as a cat’s if given the opportunity. For all his penetration, Eleäzaras had misjudged him.
It was time to set him straight. “What Cememketri said just now is true, you know
. No matter what your deal with Maithanet, you’ve delivered your School to its greatest peril since the Scholastic Wars. And not just because of the Cishaurim. You’ll be a small enclave of profanity within a great tribe of fanatics. You’ll need every friend you can get.”
For the first time something like real anger surfaced in Eleäzaras’s eyes, like a glimpse of coals through a smoky fire. “We can make the world burn with our song, young Conphas. We need no one.”
Despite his uncle’s gaffes, Conphas left the negotiations confident that the House Ikurei had secured far more than it had surrendered. For one, he was almost certain he knew why the Scarlet Spires had accepted Maithanet’s offer to join the Holy War.
Few things reveal a competitor’s agenda more thoroughly than the process of negotiating a deal. Over the course of their haggling, it became obvious that the heart of Eleäzaras’s concern lay with the Cishaurim. In exchange for Chepheramunni’s signature on the Indenture, he demanded that Cememketri and the Imperial Saik surrender all the intelligence they’d amassed on the Fanim sorcerer-priests over centuries of warring against them. Of course, this was to be expected: the Scarlet Spires had gambled its very existence on its ability to overcome the Cishaurim. But there was an undeniable intensity in the way the Grandmaster uttered their name. Eleäzaras said “Cishaurim” in the same manner a Nansur would say “Scylvendi”—the way one names an old and hated foe.
For Conphas, this could mean only one thing: the Scarlet Spires had been at war with the Cishaurim long before Maithanet had declared the Holy War. Like House Ikurei, the Scarlet Spires had embroiled itself in the Holy War in order to use it. For the Scarlet Spires the Holy War was an instrument of revenge.
When Conphas mentioned his suspicions, his uncle sneered—initially at least. Eleäzaras, he insisted, was too mercantile to risk so much for a trifle like vengeance. When Cememketri and Skeaös also endorsed the theory, however, the Emperor realized he’d harboured the same suspicions all along. It was official: the Scarlet Spires had joined the Holy War to bring some pre-existing war with the Cishaurim to conclusion.
The Darkness That Comes Before Page 25
