The episode was over as suddenly as it began, too quick for anybody to act. The Dowager-Asrahn stumbled from her chair, tottered from the dais on which the high table stood. The skirts of her floor-length silk coat spread behind her in folds of blue and silver, black and red, like bloodied sea foam. She came on uncertain feet to cast herself facedown at the feet of the hooded woman. With trembling hands she reached for the filthy hem of the Emissary’s cloak, drew it to her lips, and kissed it. The Emissary stepped back fastidiously, drawing the cloth from the old shark’s grip.
“There are those who remember the oldest of ways,” the Dowager-Asrahn said in an awed voice. “We still hold to the secret rituals and festivals, and remember the dreams sent us by She Who Writhes in the Deep, the Black King of the Woods, and the Storm Rider. The Heart Which Burns in the Night—”
“They, and others.” The Emissary turned her hooded head, surveying the room. Mari felt the gaze linger on her again, a cold thing that seemed to peel away skin, muscle, and bone to reveal the soul within. The moment passed, though this time warmth was slower to return. “It’s good that you remember. Needful, that you remember, so we may do what must be done. There is a Feigning to come, Khurshad. And you have the means for it under your roof. One of your own blood will once more become the progenitor of something new, to last the ages. I will need this of you before you too long.”
“All I have, and more. Please accept my apologies, and the apologies of all my line. Long have I desired this. Make Tamerlan yours, and when you are ready, tell me how best I can serve you to repay what we have been given.”
All were silent. Even the roaring fires seemed chastened.
The Emissary looked down on the Dowager-Asrahn for a long moment, her face obscured by the shadows of her hood. Finally she reached down and helped the old woman to her feet, for now that was all she seemed to be: an aged, frail woman, her best years behind her and her future one of decline. The ruler of Tamerlan shouted for people to feast, and drink, and take what pleasures best suited them, all the while looking adoringly at the woman who called herself the Emissary.
Mari rose from her chair, skin crawling at the thought of anybody, or anything, that could turn the Shark of Tamerlan into what she had just witnessed.
CHAPTER THREE
“Hatred and the money to manifest it can be two of the deadliest weapons a person may have.”
—Zamathuri, Principal of the Banker’s House of Masripûr, 11th Chepherundi Dynasty (494th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
Day 54 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
“Every effort is being taken to find these criminals!” Corajidin’s voice cut across the din in the Tyr-Jahavān. “I counsel you to patience until we have evidence of—”
“Evidence?” Hadi sneered, his jowls florid with anger. A stalwart of what remained of the Imperialist faction, the older man pointed a trembling finger at Corajidin. “The Iron League has been sniping at us for years. They terrorized us at our New Year’s Festival. They tried again before we could vote in our new Asrahn. I say they’re the ones who are abducting our loved ones! Tear their embassies apart!”
“Little good it would do you,” Ziaire said. “The crown had not even had time to flatten Asrahn-Corajidin’s hair before the Ambassadors of the Iron League, the neutral nations, and Pashrea all made themselves scarce. Would you take your unproven vengeance out on a building? Go to war on masonry, perhaps?”
“You of the Peace Faction would do well to remember who it is that protected us from the ravages of the Mantéans!” Karim was a merchant sayf and owner of several pleasure palaces, a pretty man beloved by, and the lover of, a string of influential women and men. Nix, in his anonymous role as head of the newly formed ban-kherife, had informed Corajidin that Karim was high in the ranks of the Malefacti. The syndicate of organized criminals had proven to be surprisingly good allies, undertaking work with which Corajidin could not be involved. Karim sneered at Ziaire. “Asrahn-Corajidin saved as us all!”
“This is all well and good,” one of the sayfs quavered. “But I want my sister returned to me! Where is the Kherife-General? She should be here to answer our questions.”
“She has been missing for some time,” Ajomandyan said. The Sky Lord rapped his can against the floor with a sharp crack. “We have lost many, not the least of whom the Speaker for the People, found savaged and bloodless by the High Weir. And in that time, these so-called ban-kherife, the Asrahn’s secret police, have done nothing to—”
“I’m certain the authorities are doing all they can!” Nix said. The little man brushed his greasy hair out of his eyes with a twitching hand. Those sayfs nearby put subtle distance between themselves and the murderer. “We’ve all lost people. Even the Asrahn has family missing—his daughter, Mari, vanished since the new year. And our friends Jhem and Nadir. But the ban-kherife? From what I understand, they’re doing everything the common kherife corps has been unable to do.”
“Then why aren’t they stopping the murders, Nix?” one of the counselors yelled. “Bodies drained of blood. Some torn apart. We’ve heard stories of people being found in barrels, their bodies shredded! That’s Iron League malice! Nomad malice!”
“Nomads come from places other than Manté,” the drunk Martūm slurred on cue. The rahn-elect teetered on the edge of his seat, held up by the latest of his courtesans. “We’ve ignored Pashrea for far too long! Perhaps we need to turn an eye, and our spears, southward?”
“But the shredded bodies!” Hadi snapped. “That’s Mantéan strife! They call it scaling. A body is placed inside a barrel—lined with blades, and filled with razors, nails, and other items both sharp and unpleasant—and thrown down a hill, waterfall, or rolled into a fast river. This is not a Shrīanese punishment.”
“Hadi speaks truly,” Nix replied. “I’ve seen it done in Manté. Now somebody is doing it here.”
Corajidin hid a smile behind his hand as counselors raised a din, demanding the return of family members, or loved ones, and investigation of the Iron League threat. The insinuation that Pashrea may be involved. It was not the cohesive support for action he had hoped for, but some people were casting their paranoia in the direction he wanted. Counselors gathered in their respective factions, clamoring flocks that went to roost among those who shared their political views. The factions needed to be reeled in, before they became accustomed to their political freedom.
Before Corajidin’s Accession to the seat of Asrahn, there had been but two parties: the Imperialists and the Federationists. There were always the unaffiliated sayfs willing to be lured to causes aligned with their self-interest, but these were never organized. Since the new year, more political parties had been formed than Corajidin had ever heard of before. Now there were the Freelancers, a collection of wealthy sayfs with strong investments in nahdi companies, organized by Bijan. The Trade Consortium was spearheaded by the gray leech, Teymoud, and sought to band together all the tradespeople and merchants, controlling commodities and their prices. The Lantern Party, started by the witches Corajidin had freed from the Mahsojhin, wanted the eminence of the witches in government restored. As there were no witches as sayfs, they threw their collective will behind young Estelya of Yadhas, who thought herself a promising mystic. There was the Peace Faction. The Unity Circle, the Torchlight Society … groups of sayfs backed by those of the middle-castes and their new money and agendas.
The rahns acted as anchors for the parties to hold fast to and so maintain the illusion that the Imperialists and the Federationists still wielded the balance of power. Yet the rahns were absent, which in itself was worrying. Corajidin did not trust Roshana and her allies when he looked them in the eye, let alone when they were conspicuously absent. Only the parasite Martūm, Vahineh’s regent, was in attendance. The wastrel was clad in more expensive clothes and jewels each time Corajidin saw him, new courtesans ever in his company. Rahn-Narseh was confined to bed with an illness. With the Federationist rahns absent, it had
fallen to Ajomandyan, Ziaire, Bensaharēn, Kiraj, and Padishin to consolidate the opposition to Corajidin’s attempts at moving Shrīan onto a war footing.
The abductions of influential Avān had delivered a common threat—as Corajidin had predicted it would. The murder of the Speaker for the People had been advantageous in removing an opposing voice, and leaving an influential office vacant that Corajidin could dangle before those who curried favor. Fear had transformed the counselors into individuals to be bargained with as their self-interests allowed, forgetting the bonds of politics in favor of bonds of blood. Such fear distracted the Teshri from examining too closely the events of the New Year’s Festival, and Corajidin’s complicity in them. Yet there still tongues prone to wag. Some of the witches were disillusioned with their lot in the new world and muttered tales to those who would listen. Huqdi, the street dogs bought and paid for to assist in the carnage, had long spent their silver rings and now looked for more to keep their silence. Corajidin turned a cool gaze on the inebriated Martūm, who pawed feebly at the embarrassed courtesan by his side. Martūm had proven he was only as good as the shine of the gold in his pockets, only ever a payment away from spilling inconvenient truths. It is past time I closed the chapter on the Great House of Selassin, Corajidin thought. Nix can have him scaled as an example to others…
Ajomandyan had taken the floor, the Sky Lord flanked by his grandchildren Neva and Yago. Ajo was everything a sayf should be, and stood as an eagle among gulls.
“Since his rise to the highest office in Shrīan, the Asrahn-Corajidin has done little to still the unrest in the country. Indeed we have more internal strife than at any time in living memory.” Ajo leveled his gryphon-headed cane at those around him. “While I feel for those of you who fear for the ones you love, let us not be distracted by the other events we have endured. Let us not hesitate to question truths we accepted so blithely. There are those of us who maintain the Asrahn’s involvement in the events of the New Year’s Festival—” Shouts rang about the room, both in support and in denial. Ajo motioned for silence as more voices joined in, each new speaker trying to drown out the one before. It was Padishin who wrangled silence with the hammering of his sheathed dionesqa on the marble floor. Ajo continued unabashed. “As we suspect the Asrahn and his ban-kherife are involved in our current strife.”
“We are all of us dismayed at recent events,” Padishin said into the silence. Where Ajo flies, the Secretary-Marshall is not far away. “But let’s not forget that we are here to speak for the nation. If we suspect something is wrong, this is the forum for it to be discussed.”
“It’s not only the abductions and murders of our citizens, but the political rivalries that are tearing us apart.” All eyes turned to Ziaire as she rose to speak. Corajidin watched in bitter admiration as the Prime of the House of Pearl—and the leader of the Peace Faction—controlled the room. The most famous courtesan in Shrīan positioned herself on the edge of a bar of sunlight: enough for her pearlescent robes and green eyes to glow, contrasting with the obsidian darkness of her hair. “We need the kind of leadership that unites us, not divides us.”
Corajidin hoped his smile was not a sneer as the counselors nodded, or clapped, at Ziaire’s speech.
Ajo, too, was moved. Face solemn, he appealed to the Teshri in a strident voice. “As much as it pains me, we need to consider a vote of no confidence in Asrahn-Erebus fa Corajidin.” Ajo’s words were like knives in Corajidin’s ribs. “If Corajidin cannot lead us, cannot protect us, then I suggest we find somebody who can.”
Corajidin fought hard to unclench his hands as the tumult rose around him.
The Weavegate deep in the abandoned halls of the Qadir am Amaranjin oozed radiance the hue and texture of infection. Rather than shine, the light from the Weavegate poured, and clung, curving about objects—or lancing through them. There was the faint wailing of cyclone winds rushing across the cracks in a window. Shadows grew bolder, dark fingers stretching toward Corajidin and—
Soldiers barreled out of the Weavegate, voices muttering imprecations, and the tail end of screams faded into whimpers as warriors found themselves in a place better than the one they had traveled. Corajidin noted their wild-eyed looks, the waxy skin, the glimmers of spittle on slack lips. One of the soldiers fumbled with the buckles of her helmet, but too late, as she spewed through the narrow slit in the faceplate. The woman made an awful, defeated noise as she crashed to her knees to void her belly.
Far too few soldiers emerged from the Weavegate—all of them battered and bloodied—before Sanojé, Nima, and Belamandris raced out. Sanojé was panting, bleeding from a number of shallows cuts. She chanted the quick hex that closed the Weavegate behind Belamandris. Nima hurled the broken haft of his broken sword-staff away. The Widowmaker looked sadly at what remained of his crew with a dour expression that did not fit his face.
Corajidin counted the number of Anlūki that had returned. Of the thirty that left three hours ago, there were but ten remaining.
“What happened?” Corajidin asked. Belamandris stared at him for a moment, as if struggling to recognize his father. The weary looking Anlūki checked each other for wounds, and called the role.
One of the Anlūki stood alone, blood dripping from his hands. His body spasmed, head twitching. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. A malicious expression crossed the warrior’s face. Corajidin took a step back, breath freezing in his throat. The warrior’s skin rippled as something moved under it.
Sanojé shouted for everybody to stand back. Belamandris drew Tragedy, his other hand gripping a heavy knife with a hilt guard shaped into steel knuckles. The silvered blade was marbled with black veins: salt-forged steel.
The Anlūki started to shriek, his hands going to his head, pounding against his temples. Belamandris swept in, smooth as silk on the breeze. Tragedy swept through the Anlūki’s neck, severing the head. Belamandris’s dagger punched through the warrior’s armored chest, left and right, piercing both hearts. After Belamandris moved past, Sanojé’s voice crackled like burning logs. The wounded Anlūki was lit from within, fire lapping from the rents in his armor, his body engulfed in tongues of flame. From within the body came a bloodcurdling shriek.
A translucent thing, part lobster, part scorpion, part nightmare, scuttled from the warrior’s neck. Its clouded chitin was cracked from the heat. It trilled through a sphincter mouth filled with needle fangs. Sanojé pounced, wrapping her tiny hands around it. She muttered another hex, and the monstrosity lashed and writhed and burned until it was reduced to putrid ash.
“What was…?” Corajidin asked numbly.
“The kind of thing you pit me and my crew against, every time you send us through the cursed Weavegate!” Belamandris glared at his father. “I rue the day that Kasraman showed it to you! Worse, that you ignored the warnings about its dangers, all so you could—”
“It’s a straggler from the Drear, my Asrahn,” Wolfram interrupted. He stared at the ash morbidly. “A parasite that, like so many other creatures from there, must live off of us to thrive.”
Belamandris rubbed his face briskly. “What have we become, Father? Are you so driven by your destiny that we forego all bonds of sende, or common decency? You have me and my crew warring, abducting innocents—”
“The times are what the times are, Belamandris. Though I am Asrahn, there are those who would oppose my plans for the nation.” And keep me from what was promised by the oracles! I must regain the trust of the Teshri, if I am to become the Mahj destiny demands of me.
“Hence the need for powerful allies, such as the Emissary can bring,” Wolfram said bitterly. “But we should, perhaps, rethink our course and those to whom we turn for aid.”
Belamandris came to Sanojé’s side, the two of them checking each other for wounds with an intimacy in their touch that made Corajidin scowl.
“It is time we discussed our next steps,” Corajidin snapped, beckoning to his son and Wolfram.
“Including
how to best use your hostages?” Belamandris muttered.
“You have an opinion?” Corajidin asked sharply. “A better strategy, perhaps, to get us the strength we need?”
Belamandris lingered at Sanojé’s side as Corajidin headed to the door. He turned to speak with her, but Corajidin interrupted. “If I’m not intruding, Belamandris? Your witch and the Anlūki can see to themselves. As of this morning, time is a luxury.”
“Do not use that tone with me!” Corajidin warned, hand trembling with rage as he pointed at his golden son. A fire blazed in the hearth of his sitting room in the Qadir Erebus, the stained-glass windows turning the afternoon sun to thick beams of bloodied amber.
“What tone should I use, Father?” Belamandris sipped from his third bowl of black lotus wine. “Can you tell me I’m wrong? You want a War of Assassins? Then use assassins! The Anlūki are—”
“Better?” Kasraman said with no sign of mockery in his voice.
“Yes!” Belamandris’s tone was iron. “At Amnon I allowed myself to be used in Vashne’s murder, because I was led to believe it was a necessary step toward a greater goal.”
“And now?” Kasraman asked.
“Look at what we’ve done, at what we’re doing, for Erebus’s sake! Some of the Anlūki are warrior-poets. The rest are high-ranking swordmasters. Some have earned their Exalted Name. We’ve a measure against which we judge ourselves, Father. The traditions of the daishäri were never intended for stealing people from their beds, ambushing travelers, or abducting children to be held against their parents bending to your will. Sende tells us we don’t make war on the innocent, and you make a mockery of it every time you send me through the Weavegate.”
“And who is an innocent in this day and age?” Corajidin countered. “Why this sudden resistance? You have always been the good…” Son. He trailed off, seeing the sudden stiffness in Kasraman’s expression. Belamandris looked at his older brother with sad fondness before he spoke again.
The Pillars of Sand Page 5
