Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Ytsak shook his head. “He wasn’t here. We had sold a lot of fruit this morning. He was getting more.”

  Stashie could hear the worry in his voice. She squeezed his arm and turned to the young man—

  —who was walking toward the door. She recognized the walk. She had seen it every day for years. “Dasis?”

  The boy broke into a sprint and hurried out the door. Stashie broke away from Ytsak. She ran to the door, but saw only the frightened crowd shoving its way past on the packed street. No hat, no slightly rotund figure. No boy. No Dasis.

  “Did you see that?” Stashie asked.

  Ytsak nodded. “He helped us both.”

  “That was Dasis.”

  Ytsak put his arm around Stashie and pulled her close. She let him, but remained stiff in his grasp. “You sent Dasis away,” he said.

  “She came back.”

  “She would have told you.”

  Stashie stared out for a moment at the chaos in the street. A cry went up and faded at the sound of splintering wood. Dasis might not have said anything. Dasis had been so hurt when Stashie had sent her away. And Stashie had been right. She hadn’t expected the riot, but she knew that people would be hurt. She knew that things were going to change. And she didn’t want Dasis killed.

  “I have to find her,” Stashie said.

  “No.” Ytsak smoothed the hair on her forehead. He smelled of dates and sunshine. “That boy helped you and now he’s gone. He wasn’t Dasis. You would only get hurt if you went back out there.”

  Stashie took a deep breath and moved away from Ytsak. He was right. She was seeing Dasis because she missed her so much, because she wanted Dasis to rescue her. Only, Dasis was gone. Stashie needed to be alone to get her revenge and to protect the last person she loved.

  “Why did they wreck the bazaar?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Ytsak said. He wiped his stained hands on his tunic. “But things are going to be different now.”

  “Vasenu is King,” Stashie said, more to herself. She remembered his calloused hand in hers, the calm manner in which he had gazed at her. His brother had been nervous, but Vasenu wasn’t. She wondered if he was nervous now.

  “Let’s hope he gets this controlled and quickly.”

  Stashie glanced at Ytsak. His patch was blood covered and his visible eye looked red. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was fear. Ytsak had been near soldiers out of control before.

  Stashie shuddered, remembering the yipping, the cries of elation as the soldiers had taken the village well all those years before. “Yes,” she said quietly, “let’s hope this only lasts the night.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Tarne pushed himself off the pillows. He ran a hand through his hair, untangled his beard and changed into one of his lighter uniforms. The tunic belted at the waist, and the pants were looser than they had been. He had lost weight since the southern campaigns. He thought of this as his war clothing. And he was about to start a war. On two fronts.

  He pushed back the tent flap and stepped outside. Most of the men had dispersed. In the distance, he could hear shouts and cries. Dust hung in the air—not from a sandstorm, but from the movement of too many horses at once. The soldiers had gone into the town to announce the King’s death. Tarne smiled. Vasenu’s first failure. He probably didn’t know that soldiers loose with horrible news were likely to do terrible things. He would learn.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t have time. Tarne crossed the sand, nodding at the men who remained. Some sat listlessly against the fortress wall, and more than a few had red-rimmed eyes. A group near the main doors shared a jug of mead and were getting quietly, seriously drunk. Tarne watched them, noting faces, matching names. Loyalists. He hadn’t expected so many of the men to be affected by Pardu’s death.

  He rounded a corner and slipped into the barracks. The mud-brick building smelled of too many closely packed human bodies. He sneezed, then noted the lesser scents of incense and alcohol. Discipline had declined in the few short weeks that he had been away. He never would have allowed alcohol in the barracks. The men wouldn’t be fresh should a surprise attack occur outside the palace.

  His footsteps echoed as he walked across the hard-packed floor. The barracks felt empty. He couldn’t believe that all of the soldiers were gone. He pushed back a curtain covering one door, noted the neatly covered pillows and the dress uniform hung against the wall. At least some discipline remained.

  A hand touched his shoulder. Tarne’s heart pounded, but he didn’t jump. He made himself turn around slowly.

  The man behind him wore two scarves like bandages around his head. His black hair stood in well-oiled spikes. Scars criss-crossed his cheeks, leaving gaps in his beard and giving his face a half-decorated look.

  “Didn’t expect to see you sneaking through here,” he said.

  “Didn’t expect you lurking in the shadows.” Tarne reached out a hand. “It’s been a long time, Kendru.”

  Kendru took his hand and squeezed it in a motion that had meant a lifetime of loyalty a long time ago. “You didn’t see us when you were relieved of command.”

  “I had other plans.” Tarne took Kendru’s arm. “We have some talking to do.”

  Kendru nodded. “We’re alone. Come to my room. We’ll have even more privacy there.”

  He slipped around a bend in the corridor so silently that if Tarne hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have known where Kendru went. The hallway was narrow, the curtains drawn back revealing empty rooms. The torch holders were empty, and sooty stains rose on the walls where torches had stood. Kendru led him through the hallway, around a number of twists and turns, and into a back room that stood by itself at the end of the corridor.

  They went inside. Tarne reached for the curtain to bring it down, but Kendru caught his arm. “Leave it up. We want to know if anyone arrives.”

  Tarne did as he was bid. Kendru’s room was filled with mementos of dozens of campaigns. Tapestries from the southern lands covered the walls. Pillows, woven in the east, were scattered on the floor. The rugs were handmade and covered with gold incense burners, wine goblets, and eating trays. The wealth here astonished even Tarne, and it must have registered on his face, for Kendru smiled.

  “No one takes anything because they know I’ll kill them,” he said.

  Tarne nodded. He remembered Kendru’s ruthlessness from their very first campaign. They had ridden into a village that sat at the mouth of a large river. The village had controlled the waterways for decades and demanded that all traveling people pay tribute. When the village leaders approached the soldiers with the same demand, Kendru had swept a small boy into his arms. He took out his sword and placed it under the boy’s chin. “Is leaving him alive tribute enough?” Kendru had asked. When the elders didn’t answer immediately, Kendru ran the sword through the child’s chin, into his skull, and out the back of his head. He pulled the sword free and tossed the child’s body in front of him. “I guess not,” he had said. “Then perhaps all of your lives are.” That time, the villagers agreed. The soldiers had stayed in the place free of charge for weeks. And later, when Pardu had decided to take the eastern lands, Kendru and Tarne had no fight at all when they came to capture the village.

  Tarne had remembered that lesson in terror and used it many times, often to greater effect.

  “The King is dead,” Kendru said, “and you no longer command the soldiers.”

  “I will soon,” Tarne said. He sat on one of the pillows and picked up an incense burner. It had been carved in the shape of a cat with pointed ears and with a wide opening in its belly for the incense itself. One of the village gods, but from which village he could not remember.

  “I expected you to come to me after you lost your post.”

  Tarne shook his head. “It would have created more problems than it solved then.”

  Kendru waited. He understood violence, but not politics. That was why Tarne had moved up in the ranks and Kendru had not. Kendru didn’t appreciate the
need for subtlety.

  “How many good men do you have, completely loyal to you?”

  Kendru sat too. He frowned. “Four that I would trust with anything.”

  “Good. We’ll need them tonight.”

  “You’ll be with us?”

  Tarne shook his head. “I need to be completely innocent of this one. It’s going to be blamed on Ele if it fails.”

  The implication became clear to Kendru. He paled, then rocked back. They had always discussed a coup and Kendru had sworn his loyalty to Tarne. But Tarne could tell from Kendru’s expression that deep down he had never really expected to act on it.

  “Do you have a special plan for how you want this done?”

  “Not detailed.” Tarne’s mouth had gone dry. He longed for a taste of the mead he had seen the soldiers drinking. “I want you to kill Vasenu tonight in his sleep, and I want it to look like a sloppy unprofessional murder.”

  “You want to eliminate both brothers in one act?”

  “I want that option,” Tarne said. He still felt the chill of anger around his heart. Ele would learn who knew the most about power.

  “And what do we get?” Kendru asked.

  “The satisfaction of a job well done.”

  Kendru didn’t smile. “I can’t pay men in satisfaction.”

  Tarne knew that. He wondered what had happened to the early closeness they had had, the one the handshake symbolized. The old Kendru would never have asked for a payment. But the old Tarne would never have killed a sovereign.

  “You will become my number one in command. Elite guards, higher pay, easier hours. There will, of course, be difficult jobs that will take a lot of risk, but they will be rare.”

  Kendru nodded. “I plan the details then.”

  “I don’t want to know what they are,” Tarne said.

  “All right.” Kendru held out his hand. “You have guts, my friend.”

  Tarne took Kendru’s hand, but did not shake it. “I take advantage of opportunities,” he said. And in this case, he would make sure he had more opportunities than anyone ever dreamed.

  CHAPTER 44

  Vasenu pulled all the curtains down in his chambers. He unrolled tapestries that he hadn’t seen in decades. He wanted privacy. He needed a shell around himself. He felt so fragile that he was afraid he was going to break.

  He took the glass of wine he had brought with him and set it on the silver table beside his plush, ornate lounge. He piled pillows against the back and put a silken blanket at the foot. Then he climbed on the lounge, settled in and covered himself as if he were a little boy again, waiting for someone to tuck him in.

  Long day. A day he never wanted to repeat. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father’s trembling form, the last-minute anguish and then the shaking stop. Somehow the end of the shaking was more horrible than the shaking itself.

  And Ele. Ele’s cool “So?” when he learned of his father’s death. Vasenu used to go to his brother for comfort when something went wrong. He and Ele had done everything together. He half suspected he saw Ele in the baths not to spread the news, but to regain that trust that they had lost with each other.

  And Ele had walked out on him. The room had been filled with anger, hostility, and more than a little fear. Vasenu had never expected in all his years of imagining that he would approach his father’s death alone.

  He hadn’t expected to lose the rest of his family either.

  He leaned back and grabbed the wine glass. It felt as fragile as he did. A little bit of pressure applied to the right place and the glass would snap into a thousand pieces. All day he had been hearing questions— How would you like the burial, sire? Should the body be cremated or should we dress it for state? Would you like me to notify neighboring kingdoms, sire? We need to let the people know, sire, that you now lead them. Let me take your tunic, sire. You’re not wearing the right colors for a ruler.

  The wine went down easily, burning slightly at the back of his throat. He wished he had brought in the entire bottle. Perhaps that would hush the voices in his head. He rested against the pillow, but didn’t close his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

  He thought he was prepared for his father’s death. He had thought, with the prolonged illness and the succession preparations, that he knew what to expect. He hadn’t realized that the absence of his father’s presence, that the absence of his father’s life, would affect him so deeply. He had been away from the man for years at a time. He didn’t need his father like a child did, for survival and affection. But that didn’t explain why he was lying on his lounge now, drinking wine and feeling about three years old and very, very lonely.

  He supposed he had to get used to the loneliness. His father had warned him that rulers never had true friends. They were never able to trust anyone.

  Not even their brothers.

  He took another sip of the wine. If he wasn’t careful, it would become more of a friend than he wanted it to. He could imagine himself on this lounge night after night, slowly drinking down the wine cellar. He wondered if that would make the fragile feeling go away. He suspected it would make the feeling worse.

  A small rustle sent a chill down his back. He had asked not to be disturbed. He froze, listening as closely as he could. He thought he felt another presence—a strong one—somewhere near him. He glanced at the glass, using only his eyes. The contents were barely gone. He could drink an entire bottle by himself without losing control. It wasn’t the wine. It was something else.

  He inched his hand down his side until it rested on the hilt of his dagger. He hadn’t taken it off when he had come into the room—something about that fragile feeling had left him wary—and he was glad of that now. Then he closed his eyes almost all the way, staring through his eyelashes at the ceiling. He made his breathing regular, and he listened over it for movement.

  There were none. The quiet seemed too quiet.

  Before his eyes, the image of his father rose, as he had been when Vasenu was a boy—young, powerful, strong. His father had had a solidity then that he had lost in later years, a sturdiness that made him seem all powerful, all knowing.

  This is not a job for the weak, he had said, for there will always be someone to hate you, someone who wants what you have. All you can do is the best you can do. You must remember that people depend on you and you must make the right choices.

  Something rustled again, and Vasenu steeled himself not to open his eyes. He couldn’t see anything, but he felt his entire body become alert. His heart was pounding so hard he was afraid that someone else could hear it. It was hard to keep his breathing steady. It had a ragged edge. Anyone listening closely would have heard his nervousness.

  A slight scraping noise, nearer than he imagined. He opened his eyes and rolled into the noise as a dagger came down and slashed the pillows where he had been lying. Feathers rose and clouded the air. Vasenu crashed into his assailant, knocking him back. Another dagger rose and fell near him. Vasenu kicked and rolled off the man, grabbing his own dagger and standing with his back against the wall.

  Four of them, all dressed in black, their faces covered with the traditional veils women had worn when he was a child. They stood as warily as he did, daggers out, free hands poised. He was surrounded and he didn’t dare move.

  He hadn’t expected anything this quickly, but it made sense. If he died now, before he consolidated his power, no loyalties would be lost to him. He wondered who had sent them, and felt suspicion rise as hot as bile in his throat.

  One of the men grunted and brought his dagger up in a forward thrust. They expected him to roll sideways as he had before, but this time he came forward and off to the side, kicking at the dagger to the left of the man who had used his. The other dagger hit the wall with a thump. Vasenu’s foot connected with the dagger hand of the man before him, but the dagger stayed in place. The two remaining men came toward him, but Vasenu dove beneath them, rolled and hit the table. The glass fell off and crashed against the floor
. Wine-covered glass shards surrounded him. He grabbed a handful, not caring that the glass dug into his palms and threw it at the eyes of the men before him.

  One man screamed and clutched his face, blood oozing between his fingers. Vasenu scrambled backward, got to his feet, and pushed aside a curtain. He hoped no one else was waiting on his balcony. He got outside and the cold air hit him like a shock. “Guards!” he screamed. “I need assistance, now!”

  He could hear the response to his shouts on the ground below. He crouched to the side, his own dagger extended, free hand poised, ready to battle with the people who had invaded his room, but they didn’t emerge. He felt half-paralyzed, his cut palm throbbing, and a headache joining its rhythm.

  The curtain pushed back and he stiffened, prepared to fight. But Jene, his own servant, stood there, looking sleepy and confused. Guards rushed beside him, checking to see if Vasenu was all right.

  “Sire?” Jene asked.

  “Assassins in my room. Four of them. I think I blinded one,” Vasenu said. He didn’t move from his crouch. Somehow he didn’t think it was all over yet.

  “The room is empty now, sire, except for the mess and the blood.”

  “I want them found,” Vasenu said. “They didn’t come through here.”

  Some of the guards disappeared back through the doors. The others combed the room. Jene sent one off to get other servants to clean the mess.

  “Why would anyone do this?” he asked.

  His naiveté startled Vasenu. Vasenu put his dagger back into its scabbard and entered his room. It smelled of wine and sweat. He sat on one of the pillows and stared at the mess. Someone had tried to kill him. He opened his palm, watched it shake with a dispassion that startled him. Two glass shards stuck out of the skin. He grabbed them with his other hand and yanked. The first shard pulled free, and blood welled in the cut. He pulled out the other shard and watched the same thing happen.

  The only person who would gain from his death was Ele. But he and his brother had done everything together. They had defended each other on campaigns, held each other after lost loves, promised each other fidelity. He couldn’t believe that the boy he had grown up with would betray him.