Oath Keeper

by Jefferson Smith

  But since the collapse of the Oath, the Wisetongues had been called upon to do more than simply ask questions and render judgments. They were now having to judge the truth of the words spoken by those in dispute, as well. This extra burden had created chaos and delays all across the Anvil. More and more Djin were learning that they could give accounts that were… fanciful, in an effort to sway the judgment. And they were doing so. This led to greater animosities between those in dispute, more devious attempts at obscuring the facts, and ultimately, more and more disagreements were now escalating, until they reached here, as an appeal brought before the King himself.

  Unlike the Wasketchin and Gnomileshi courts, the Djin court had no fixed location. The Djin viewed their King as a servant of the people, and saw no reason why they should go to him for justice. So the King went to them. Every few days, the King would pick up and move his people and the great bronze Anvil Seat to another settlement, where he would set about renewing old acquaintances, strengthening ties, and dispensing whatever justice might be demanded of him while he was in residence. Or at least, that had been the practice before Mabundi had risen to the crown.

  King Jallafa before him had presided over his honor court once each week, or sometimes twice, every time in a different enclave. This had been Jallafa’s way of ensuring that he stayed in constant contact with his folk, and that they had constant reminder of the service he did them. It also kept his court constantly on the move, placing no strenuous burden of entertainment on any one holding.

  Mabundi however, had no such ambitions, and since the collapse of the Dragon’s Peace, the new King had been forced to hold his court with greater and greater frequency, to the point where he was now presiding almost every day, and the line of people waiting to lay their grievances in his lap never stood empty.

  As was customary, Mabundi sat at the head of the room, trying hard to fill the mighty Anvil Seat while he listened patiently to yet another disagreement about who had said what to whom, and when. But Zimu had not come to hear the petty grievances.

  He had come to make final judgment upon the King.

  Not in hatred, nor even ill will. Mabundi had been a wise and patient teacher once. Before his ascension. He had even taught Zimu for a time, many years ago. Perhaps, in a more peaceful time, the teacher might have made a good king. Despite his many frustrations, Zimu could not help but be impressed by the compassion Mabundi brought to each case that came before him, no matter how trivial. Even as Mabundi rooted out a falsehood, or found conflict between the facts of some account, still he did so with a patient, knowing smile, like a favored uncle, treating each Djin who stood before him with honor. It was the mark of a good teacher.

  But did it serve a king? Could the man not see that by submerging himself in the small disputes that rasped between every man, woman and child on the Anvil, he debased the very crown itself? Overseeing the minutiae of an entire People may have given him a sense of justice being done, but it also drained him of his capacity to engage in the larger matters before the Crown. Why did he not instruct the Wisetongues to deal with these petty complaints, as they had in the past? A king should not have to speak his mind on whether twenty bushels of corn was sufficient compensation for an overturned wagon load of pottery. Zimu sighed as the King pronounced that very decision.

  “He coddles his people,” Zimu said. He had not meant it as a compliment, but the old Djin woman beside him nodded.

  “Such a patient man,” she said. “He was always so good with the children. So understanding.”

  Zimu smiled back at her, but inside he seethed. Is that all we ask of our King? That he treat with us as though we were babes, still learning our letters? He might have said something too, but the King’s aide called for the next case, and a frail Wasketchin man separated from a small group huddled against the side wall and shuffled forward.

  “Dendril of the Wasketchin, and his folk, beg sanctuary from the King of the Djin,” the aide read from the schedule of disputes etched on his tablet.

  Zimu perked himself up. At last, a topic fit for the King’s justice. Zimu watched as Dendril of the Wasketchin shuffled forward nervously. He kept looking back over his shoulder at the others of his group still clutching to each other behind him. They looked exhausted and frail, as though they had run all the way up the Anvil from the Forest below, and had set out on their journey with no warning, nor any time to prepare. Which very likely had been the case.

  “You are Dendril?” Mabundi asked, when the man had come to a stop and looked up at the Djin throne.

  “I am, sir.”

  “And this is your family?”

  Dendril shook his head. “Just the one, sir. Johal there, that’s my boy.” A young boy of eight or nine years ducked further back out of sight behind one of the girls. “Then there’s Di’reah and her brother, Enger,” he said, indicating two scared adults who clung closely to one another, “and the tall girl is Ve’ali. Those others found each other on the trail, before Johal and I met ‘em. Then we all made the climb together.”

  “And you seek my protection?” The man nodded his head, as Queen Yoliq bent down from where she stood beside the throne, and whispered something to her husband. Mabundi listened for a moment, and then nodded before turning his attention back to the man standing before him. “From what?” Mabundi asked.

  The man just gaped at him for a moment.

  “Well, er, from the Gnomes, Mabundi King.” The man’s eyes flicked nervously toward a Gnome who stood there. Some functionary of the missing Ambassador.

  The King looked at Dendril patiently, but Zimu noted that his gaze, too, flicked repeatedly to the Gnome, as though he was weighing out what even this lowly Gnome might think.

  To one side, Zimu noticed a movement and looked toward the door. Abeni stood there facing him, and seeing that Zimu had noticed him, he bowed once, pressing the heels of his hands together and touching them to his forehead. So Binto had succeeded. Shaleen and Kijamon would be distracted for at least a day. Zimu nodded once to his younger brother and then watched as he slipped away, knowing that within moments, Abeni would be on the trail down from the city, leading his mission to the scattered Wasketchin below the Anvil. And with Sarqi away as well, that left Zimu completely free to do what must be done. He turned his attention back to the proceedings of the Court before him.

  “You know that you are already free to stay upon the Anvil, do you not?” Mabundi asked the Wasketchin man. “The Djin are not at war. Any who wish to come here may do so. Why do you feel you need my protection above that? Do you not trust the Djin?”

  Clearly, Dendril had not expected the question, and he looked back at his fellows several times. “B-beg your pardon, Mabundi King. We trust the Djin just fine. It’s the Gnomes we don’t. They’ve been taking folks off the trails and all, down by the Skirts. What’s to stop—”

  Mabundi’s face darkened and he held up a hand to halt the man, then he twisted toward the Gnome aide. “Is this true? Have your Hordesmen been taking prisoners from Djin lands?”

  The Gnome spent an oily smile and bowed in deference to the King. “Not, uh, to my knowing, Mabundi King. Perhaps the man is mistaken.” Dendril swallowed hard, but he shook his head firmly.

  “We saw what we saw,” he said, glancing again at his fellow travelers for support. They nodded timid confirmation, so he continued.

  “Saw it twice,” he said. “Once down below us, and the other time was across a gap, on the far slope. But both times we saw honest Wasketchin folks dragging themselves up the path, just as we were doing, only then they just sort of stopped still for bit, until a few Gnomes come crawling out from behind rocks and the like. Tied a rope around ‘em and led ‘em back down. Never did see either group again.”

  “Preposterous,” the Gnome said. “The Horde has very precise instructions. No prisoners are to be taken from the mountain. He is either lying or the hardships of the trail have clouded his memory. It did not happen as he says. It could not have.�
�� The other Wasketchin along the side wall raised their voices in defiance, but Dendril just stood there, glaring flame at the Gnome.

  This, at least, would be an easy decision, Zimu thought. And he was happy that he could allow Mabundi one last gracious decree before he himself did what he had come to do. But when the King spoke, Zimu felt it like a slap.

  “Asylum is denied,” Mabundi said, and the entire Court fell into a startled silence.

  “I am presented with two conflicting reports,” Mabundi said. “One says that the Gnomes have taken prisoners upon the Anvil, the other says they have not. There is no way to prove either tale, so I must hold both as unproven.” Each word was another hammer blow in Zimu’s heart. Such a simple decision. It would have cost nothing to be gracious, and gained everything. Everything except the pleasure of one Gnome. And perhaps of his various puppet masters. Even the King’s compassion seemed now to have fled him.

  Again the King’s gaze flicked nervously to the Gnome, who stood preening with delight at the decision. And in that glance, in the timid dipping of the King’s eyes before he could look once more at the Wasketchin man before him, Zimu saw truth.

  Mabundi was not just weak. Or deluded. He was terrified of the Gnomes. But still the fool pressed on, trying to explain his faulty reasoning to a stunned and disbelieving crowd. As if a king must explain his decisions.

  “So in the matter of asylum, I have no basis to believe that Dendril and his folk are in peril. And the Djin Crown will not take sides in a foreign dispute. We remain neutral in this contest, and I will not surrender that neutrality now, to offer unneeded aid to a man who is under no threat. Asylum denied. You may stay, if you wish, although I will grant you and your people sufficient food and supplies to return home if you would prefer.”

  Zimu fought to contain his shock. With every breath, Mabundi only shouted louder of his own inability to lead. To deny comfort to a friend in need? To insult him with empty solace? This was not the Djin way. This was the behavior of a craven gull! Zimu could feel rage blossoming within his chest, its petals smoking around his heart like paper among embers. Rage at a king who could not see the travesty of his reign. And rage at himself, for having seen the truth and having stayed his his hand so long. He could feel his hands shaking at his sides, as the muscles of his arms tried to clench the air within his fists to diamonds.

  “Return home?” the Wasketchin said, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Where would that be, my Lord? My home has always been wherever my family could be found, but Johal is here and they have taken my wife from us. Do you bid me follow her into the Throat to make our new home? Shall I drag Johal there as well, to join us?”

  Mabundi’s brow wrinkled in irritation. “You must decide for yourself where to make your ho—”

  “ENOUGH!”

  That single word rang through the Hall like a clap of thunder, and the Court fell into utter silence. Zimu strode forward through them, oblivious to their gaping stares. Fury now blazed within him, fueling his every step. No one dared breathe and all eyes were fixed upon him as he crossed the floor to stand glaring down at the King. But the eyes looking back at him were glazed with fear and indecision. They were the eyes of a craven. Zimu raised his fist high above his head, watching in distaste as Mabundi flinched back, deeper into the Anvil Seat, the very image of cowardice upon the throne. With a bellow of fury, Zimu drove his fist down in a mighty blow, crumpling the left arm of the throne like tin, and driving it half way to the floor.

  “I am Zimu!” he declared. “First son of Kijamon!” His voice was deep and dark and it crackled with a dangerous anger. “I am eldest son, Mizar of an acknowledged House of the Royal Court, and by the ancient laws, I claim the right of Challenge.” Then he withdrew his hand, allowing all to see the silver spike that now jutted up from the wreckage of the royal arm rest.

  “There is my tooth, Mabundi King! Placed there by my own hand. I give you the fullness of one day to pluck it by the power of your own hand, and then drive it into my chest.” Zimu ripped his vest open to reveal the massive target which he now offered to the King. Then he leaned in close and lowered his voice to a rumble that vibrated the very metalwork of the throne itself, adding a shimmering echo to his final words.

  “And if within this time you cannot defend your throne, then I will take back my tooth, and with it, I shall cut your reign from the memory of our people and claim your empty throne for the honor of all Djin.”

  Having issued his challenge, Zimu stepped past the throne, past its quaking King with his wide, staring eyes, and past the pale Queen who stood beside him. Then he placed his back against the wall and crossed his arms, wrist over wrist, against his chest to wait. With that, the oath was sealed, and a pair of iron bands appeared around each of Zimu’s wrists, fused together where they touched, binding his arms tightly in an indefensible position. And so they would remain, until the day for Mabundi’s reply had passed.

  The Challenge of the Mizar’s Tooth had begun.

  Chapter 33

  “Are you sure this is the right way, Keej? Abeni said it was angled up off the bigger cavern. This is down.” Kijamon glanced at her with his familiar twinkle.

  “I am not even sure that cavern was the one he described. Shall we see if we can find it anyway?”

  Shaleen sighed. Everything was an adventure to the men of House Kijamon. Especially to Kijamon himself. She waved her arm forward.

  “I follow where you lead, my husband.”

  “As I lead where you direct, my wife.”

  This time Shaleen smiled. After all these years, the words of their binding ritual still had the power to delight her. And they were particularly apt words too, because they’d been walking and hunting for this blasted cavern of Abeni’s for almost an entire night, and she was no longer certain whether either of them knew where they were going.

  “If we haven’t found it soon, we’re just going to have to go back,” Shaleen said. But her husband shook his head.

  “No, Abeni was quite right,” he said, waving the crackling rod of black stone in the air above his head. “We do not know its power, nor of the magics it might unleash, and my toes tell me it is important that we find out.”

  Kijamon and his silly toes. Why was it always his toes that told him? He’d never been able to explain that part. Why not his armpit? Or his lower teeth? Now there was a question for a master thinker—

  “Ah, here it is.”

  The cavern was just as Abeni had said it would be, large enough to walk around in, but small enough to be strong and secure. But most of all, it was deep. Many hundredstrides below the city. Down where any calamities that might befall them would not shatter the stones of their neighbors’ homes, or slice the great Wind Forge from its moorings and drop it on the city below.

  It was also, most definitely, down from the larger cavern. Shaleen made a mental note to discuss that little error with her son when she saw him next. It had cost them almost half a day of wandering and searching through these dark, wet tunnels and chasms at the root of the Anvil.

  “More light please, my dear.” Kijamon was bustling about the small chamber, pushing the rod into corners and holding it up in the air, watching the walls with keen fascination as they responded to its light. Shaleen raised her own coverlight above her head and moved closer.

  “Yes, this will do nicely,” he said. “See here? The way the crystal of the wall turns milky in the brightness? It resists the light, as it will many other energies. Yes, Abeni has led us to just the spot.” Shaleen wasn’t so sure “led” was the correct word, but she held her tongue.

  It took only a moment for Kijamon to complete his survey of the space and find everything to his satisfaction. Then he moved to the center of the room and turned to face her, holding the strange black rod out in front of him. She recognized the signs with a smile. Time to put on a show.

  “When does a sound cease to be just a noise, and start to become music?” Kijamon asked.

  Shale
en frowned. It was a question that lesser artists sometimes teased at, but to her, such questing had always been meaningless. Why not ask when darkness becomes light? Or when sickness becomes health? The point at which they became such would still be weak—poor light and poor health—so what matter? Would any person care to actually listen to a music so unmusical as to hover on the edge of noise? But this was Kijamon’s way of organizing his thoughts when they were unfocused, so she did her best.

  “I suppose when it becomes beautifu—” Shaleen paused. “No. When it presents a pattern,” she said, this time with a greater measure of certainty.

  “Hmm,” Kijamon replied. “Will any pattern do?”

  Shaleen shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. She didn’t like these kinds of questions at all. They reduced her art to something… countable. And that robbed it of its essential spirit.

  “Yes, I suppose any pattern… Keej, what are you—”

  “Follow where I lead, dear. I mean to give this little curiosity only the slightest taste of what it wants. Just one taste, and nothing more. And to do so, I must know what ‘smallest’ is.”

  Shaleen knew exactly what he feared—what “something more” might mean. It was sweet to know that he still worried about her safety, no less today than on the day they’d first pledged.

  “Alright,” she said. “I suppose you’re right.”

  They were standing together in the center of the little cave—as far from the living as they could be, deep in the embrace of protective stone. But not to protect them. Such a simple, innocent looking thing, but from all these precautions, one might think it held the very power of the sun. She hoped not, of course. Shaleen loved her husband fiercely, but this was too small an oven to be baked in with him. Still, she was the musician of the family, so this job was rightly hers, and it was fitting that if they should perish here, it would come from working together.