But the man's successes. And the reports, both from Zeüm's spies and the Mbimayu's contact with the Schools. The Aspect-Emperor was more than a gifted demagogue, more than a cunning general or sorcerer or tyrant—far more.
The question was what?
So they debated, and debated, as is the wont of wise men pondering questions without obvious answers. Nganka'kull was often criticized for his patience and leniency, but eventually even he tired of their endless delays and demurrals. Finally he summoned his cousin, demanding to know the substance of their disagreements.
"We have considered everything of note," Malowebi reported on a heavy breath. "There is but one clear lesson..."
The Satakhan had perched his chin on his fist, such was the weight of the battle-wig—an heirloom from his beloved grandfather—that he wore. "And what is that?"
"All those who resist him perish."
Word that Imperial Columnaries had occupied the ruins of Auvangshei arrived later that very night—such was the perversity of Fate. The ancient fortress meant very little to Three Seas Men, Malowebi had since discovered. But for the Zeümi, it was nothing less than the sacred threshold of their nation. The one gate in the great wall the World itself had raised about High Holy Zeüm.
The Zaudunyani missionaries began arriving shortly afterward, some of them little more than paupers, others disguised as merchants. Then, of course, there was the infamous Embassy of Suicides. And during all this time, Auvangshei was rebuilt and expanded, the provinces of Nilnamesh reorganized along military lines. Their spies even reported the construction of numerous granaries in Soramipur and other western cities.
A kind of war was being waged against them, they realized. At every point of connection between Zeüm and the Three Seas—mercantile, diplomatic, geographical—the Aspect-Emperor was preparing in some way.
"He fights us with pins rather than swords!" Nganka'kull exclaimed.
Malowebi had read The Compendium by this time. The book found its way to High Domyot more by accident than anything—or what amounted to the same, the Whore's whim. An Ainoni spice merchant named Parmerses had been seized under suspicion of spying, and the manuscript was discovered among his belongings. Of course, the man was summarily executed once his captors discovered the falsity of the charges against him, long before the importance of the work was understood, so questions regarding the book's provenance remained unanswered.
But once it was read, it was quickly traded among the wise and mighty. Malowebi had been gratified to learn that he was the sixth person to read The Compendium—no less than seven people before that fool, Likaro!
Drusas Achamian's revelations occasioned more than several sleepless nights. The wry humility of the tome, as well as the numerous references to Ajencis, convinced him the exiled Mandate Schoolman was a kindred intellect. The difficulty lay in the sheer audacity of what the Wizard alleged about the Aspect-Emperor: the idea of a man so quick, so cunning, that he, Malowebi, among the foremost sorcerers of his age—greater than Likaro by far—was nothing but a child in comparison. It was a thing too strange to credit. In all of the Kuburu, the accumulated legends of Zeüm, the hero's exalted trait was always strength, skill, or passion—never intellect. A miraculously accurate archer. A miraculously ardent lover...
Never a miraculously penetrating thinker, one who used truth as his primary instrument of deception.
But why? Malowebi found himself asking. It was a puzzle that deepened as more and more of his brothers expressed their skepticism of The Compendium. "A cuckold's fancy," Likaro had sneered, thus confirming its veracity in Malowebi's more discriminating eyes.
Why should the notion of a Thought-dancer rest so uneasy in the souls of Men?
Because, the Mbimayu sorcerer realized, they made what they already believed the measure of what others believed. Not the World, and certainly not Reason. This was what rendered them blind to a being such as Anasûrimbor Kellhus, one who could play on innumerable strands of thought and weave that agreement into designs of his making. It reminded him of a passage from Ajencis, a thinker he secretly esteemed more than Memgowa: "The world is a circle that has as many centres as it has men." For someone who assumed he was the centre of his world, the thought of a man who occupied the true centre, who need only walk into a room to displace all those present within it, had to be as odious as it was incomprehensible.
Was the Aspect-Emperor a prophet as he claimed? Was he a demon as Fanayal believed—Kurcifra? Or was he inhuman in a more mundane sense, the harbinger of a new race, the Dûnyain, dreadful for the symmetry between their strength and human frailty...
A race of perfect manipulators. Thought-dancers.
If he were a prophet, then he and Mandate Schoolmen were right: the Second Apocalypse, despite what all the oracles and priests claimed, was evident, and Zeüm should enter into an alliance with him. If he were a demon, then Zeüm should arm for immediate war, now, before he achieved his immediate goals, for demons were simply Hungers from the abyss, insatiable in their pursuit of destruction.
And if he were Dûnyain?
Malowebi did not believe in prophets. You must first believe in Men before you could do that, and no serious student of Memgowa or Ajencis could do that. Malowebi most certainly believed in possessing demons—he had seen them with his own eyes. But demons, for all their cunning, were never subtle, certainly not to the degree of the Aspect-Emperor. No demon could have written the magisterial lies told in the Novum Arcanum.
Dûnyain... whatever that meant. The Aspect-Emperor had to be Dûnyain.
The problem, the Mbimayu sorcerer had realized, was that this conclusion in no way clarified the dilemma facing his nation and his people. Would not a Dûnyain bend all his effort and power to prevent his own destruction? Even without Drusas Achamian and his allegations, one could easily argue that Anasûrimbor Kellhus was among the greatest intellects to walk the earth. What could induce such a man to tip the bowl of the entire Three Seas, drain it to its dregs, in the name of warring against a nursemaid's cruel tale?
Could these truly be the first days of the Second Apocalypse?
Nonsense. Madness.
But...
When his family first yielded him to the Mbimayu, the Pedagogue of the School had been an ancient soul named Zabwiri, a legendary scholar, and a rare true disciple of Memgowa. For whatever reason, the old man had chosen him to be his body-servant for his final, declining years—a fact that some, like Likaro, begrudged him still. An intimacy had grown between them, one that only those who care for the dying can know. The pain had become increasingly difficult for the old man to manage, toward the end. He would sit in his little garden, shivering in the sunlight, while Malowebi hovered helpless about him. "Question me!" he would bark with amiable fury. "Pester me with your infinite ignorance!"
"Master," Malowebi once asked, "what is the path to truth?"
"Ah, little Malo," old Zabwiri had replied, "the answer is not so difficult as you think. The trick is to learn how to pick out fools. Look for those who think things simple, who abhor uncertainty, and who are incapable of setting aside their summary judgment. And above all, look for those who believe flattering things. They are the true path to wisdom. For the claims they find the most absurd or offensive will be the ones most worthy of your attention."
Without fail the Mbimayu sorcerer's heart caught whenever he recalled these words: because he had loved Zabwiri, because of the way this answer embodied the wry, upside-down wisdom of the man. And now, because of the direction they pointed him...
The Aspect-Emperor a genuine prophet? The myths of the No-God's resurrection true?
These were the claims that Likaro found the most absurd and offensive. And in all the world there was no greater fool.
—|—
Horns were clawing the sky by the time she tripped clear of the tenement's gloom. Imhailas stood motionless in the middle of the street, his face raised in the blind way of those who peered after sounds.
The horns did not belong to either the Army or the Guard—yet she knew she had heard them before. They blared, climbed high and long enough to flush her heart with cold.
"What happens?" she asked her Exalt-Captain, who had not seen her, such was the intensity of his concentration.
He turned—looked at her with a fear she had never before seen in his face. A soldier's fear, not a courtier's.
"The horns..." he said, obviously debating his words. "The signals... They belong to the Shrial Knights."
Several heartbeats separated her soul from her dread. At first, all she could do was stare up into the man's beautiful face. She thought of the way his eyebrows arched just before he reached his bliss. "What are you saying?" she finally managed to ask.
He looked to what sky they could see between the dark facades looming to either side of them.
"They sound like they're coming from different parts of the city..."
"What are they signalling?"
He stood rigid. Beyond him, she could see several others down the winding length of the street, mulling and listening the same as they did.
"Imhailas! What are they signalling?"
He looked to her, sucked his lips tight to his teeth in an expression of deliberation.
"Attack," he said. "They're coordinating some kind of attack."
Running simply seized her, threw her back the way they had come.
But Imhailas was upon her in a matter of strides, clutching her shoulders, begging her to stop, to think, in hushed and hurried tones.
"Smoke!" she heard herself cry. "From the room! I saw smoke to the east! The palace, Imhailas! They attack the palace!"
But he had known this already. "We have to think," he said firmly. "Calculation is what sorts rash acts from bold."
Another proverb he had memorized. Her hands fairly floated with the urge to scratch out his eyes. Such a fool! How could she conspire, let alone couple, with such a fool?
"Unhand me!" she gasped in fury.
He raised his hands and stepped back. Something in her tone had struck all expression from his face, and a kind of panicked regret joined the terrors flushing through her. Was he deciding where to cast his lots? Would he abandon her? Betray her? Curses spooled through her thoughts. Her foolishness. Fate. The ability of men to so easily slip the leash of feminine comprehension.
"Sweet Seju!" she heard herself cry. "Kelmomas! My boy, Imhailas!"
Suddenly a different horn cawed high above the roaring in her ears, one that she knew from innumerable drills—knew so well that it almost seemed a word shouted across the world. Rally! Guardsmen, Rally!
Then Imhailas was kneeling on the stone before her. "Your Glory!" he said, his voice cast low. "The Imperial Precincts are under attack. What would you have your slave do?"
And at last, reason was returned to her. To act in ignorance was to flail as though falling. Knowledge. They needed to discover what Maithanet was doing and to pray the palace could resist him.
"Keep his Empress safe," she said.
—|—
Anasûrimbor Kelmomas would never quite understand how he knew. Funny, the way the senses range places the soul cannot follow.
He was playing in his room—pretending to play would be more accurate, since he was far more lost in his plots and fancies than in the crude toys he was supposed to be amused by—when something simply called him out to his balcony onto the Sacral Enclosure...
Where it seemed he could smell whatever it was. His nurse called out after him. He ignored her. He peered about, saw the guardsmen milling as they always milled, the slaves trotting to and fro...
Everything and everyone in their place.
Something bigger had been thrown out of joint, he realized. He turned to gaze down the line of balconies to his right, saw his older sister, Theliopa, wearing a crazed gown with coins hanging heavy from every hem, standing like a bird leaning into the breeze, her senses pricked to the same something he could neither hear nor see.
The sycamores loomed before and above them, each leaf a little whistling kite, forming mops that dipped and murmured in the sunlight. Nothing... He could hear nothing.
Of all his siblings, only Theliopa commanded any fondness in his heart. Kelmomas had never bothered to ponder why this might be. She ignored him for the most part and typically spoke to him only on Mother's behalf. He certainly feared her the least. And despite the time she spent with Mother, he envied her not at all.
She had never seemed quite real, his sister.
Kelmomas gazed at her chipped-porcelain profile, debating whether he should call out to her. He had opened his ears so wide that her gown fairly crashed with sound when she whirled to face him.
"Run-run," she said without any alarm whatsoever. "Find some-some place to hide."
He did not move. He rarely took anything Thelli said seriously, such was his fondness for her. Then he heard it, the first faint shouts breaching the low roar of the sycamores.
The ring and clatter of arms...
"What happens?" he cried, but she had already vanished.
Uncle Holy, the secret voice whispered as he stood witless. He has returned.
—|—
Shrial horns continued signalling one another, but, ominously, they heard no more calls from the Eothic Guard aside from the first, single cry. The city seemed deceptively normal, apart from the roofs, which had become packed with onlookers. Traffic filed through the alleys and streets with greater haste, certainly. Momemnites milled here and there, exchanging fears and guesses between eastward glances. But no one panicked—at least not yet. If anything, the city waited, as if it were nothing more than a vast cart, sitting idle while the yoke was bound to a new mule.
For the first time, and with more than a little terror, Esmenet understood the slipperiness of power, the ease with which substitutions could be made, so long as the structure remained intact. When people kissed your knee, it was so easy to think you were the principle that moved them and not the position you happened to occupy. But glancing from face to face—some aged, some poxed, some tender—she realized that she could, if she wished, throw aside her veil, that she had no need whatsoever to disguise herself, simply because she, Esmenet, the Sumni harlot who had lived a life crazed with tumult and detail, literally did not exist for them.
What did it matter, the person hidden behind the palanquin's screens, so long as the bearers were fed?
There was doom in these thoughts, so she shied from them.
The crowds grew, as did the agitation and turmoil. The closer they came to the palace, the more complicated their passage became. Most people fought their way eastward, frantic to escape whatever was happening behind them. Others, the curious and those who, like Esmenet, had kin in the vicinity of the palace, battled their way eastward.
Twice Imhailas stopped to ask aimless Columnaries what happened, and twice he was rebuffed.
No one knew.
Even still, hope wormed ever higher into her throat as they raced, dodged, and shoved. She found herself thinking of her Pillarian and Eothic Guardsmen, how competent, how numerous, and how loyal they seemed. For years she had dwelt among them, thoughtlessly demanding the security they provided but never really appreciating them—until now. They were handpicked, chosen from across the Middle-North for their prowess and fanaticism. They had spent the greater portion of their lives preparing for occasions such as this, she reminded herself. If anything, they lived for just such an eventuality.
They would defend the Imperial Precincts, secure the palace. They would keep her children safe!
Breathless, she imagined them bristling along the walls, arrayed about the gates, glorious in their crimson-and-gold regalia. She saw old Vem-Mithriti standing high upon some parapet, his stooped shoulders pulled back with outrage and indignation, raining down sorcerous destruction. She saw old Ngarau waddling in walrus-armed panic, barking out commands. And her boy—her beautiful boy!—frightened, yet too young not to be exhilarated, not to
think this some kind of glorious game.
Yes! The Gods would not heap this calamity upon her. She had paid their bloodthirsty wages!
The World would rally...
But the smoke climbed ever higher as they raced through the ever more raucous streets, until she felt she stared up into a tree for craning her neck. The faces of those fleeing became ever more sealed, more intent. The roaring—shouts from the crowded rooftops, from the seething streets—seemed to grow louder and louder.
"The Palace burns!" one old crone cried immediately next to her. "The Empress-Whore is dead! Dead!"
And in the crash of hope into dismay, she remembered: the Gods hunted her and her children.
The White-Luck had turned against them.
At last they pressed their way free of the slotted streets onto the Processional with its broad views.
Were it not for Imhailas and his strength, the mobs would have defeated her, prevented her from seeing the catastrophe with her own eyes. He pulled her by the wrists, cursing and shoving, and she followed with the pendulum limbs of a doll. Then suddenly they were clear, panting, among the crowd's forward ranks.
A cohort of unmounted Shrial Knights guarded the bridges crossing the Rat Canal—as much to police the mob, it seemed, as to ward against any attempt to retake the Imperial Precincts. The fortifications rising beyond were deserted. She glimpsed pockets of battle here and there across the climbing jumble of structure that composed the Andiamine Heights: distant figures vying, their swords catching the sun. Smoke poured in liquid ribbons from the Allosium Forum. Three other plumes climbed from places unseen beyond the palace.
The White-Luck Warrior Page 43
