Queen of Slaves (The Powers of Amur Book 4)

by J. S. Bangs

“You can’t?” the Mouth of the Devourer asked. “I think you can, if you will forget your servile dhaur for a moment.”

  Jairatu’s chest heaved.

  “Nephew,” Daladham said earnestly. “You don’t need to—”

  Jairatu shook his head. “I won’t.”

  “I’m getting bored of this argument,” the Mouth of the Devourer said with an exaggerated sigh. “Listen, the rest of you dhorsha. If you submit, I may devour your names and let you live forever. But this one I give entirely to She Who Devours, so you can understand what happens to those who take the money of widows and demand sacrifices from the poor. Watch closely.”

  He walked up to Jairatu and put a hand on Jairatu’s cheek. Jairatu flinched. But the touch was just a gentle brush of the hand. The young man slid his thumb over Jairatu’s lips, then turned away.

  A gasp sounded from Jairatu’s throat. He bent in half, retching, but nothing came out. The men holding him released him and let him collapse onto the stone. He curled into a ball, gasping and retching. A black liquid began to drip from his nose.

  Daladham pushed forward. “No—”

  Men pulled Daladham back. Blisters swelled on Jairatu’s skin and burst with little splatters of black ichor. A gargled scream. Tarry vomit poured out of his mouth. His skin peeled and sloughed off, and his flesh melted into a black vile-smelling liquid. The stench of putrescence filled the room. His body dribbled off of his bones and dripped into the growing black pool underneath him. The skeleton crumbled into the mire.

  All that remained was a steaming, reeking puddle which mingled slowly with the blood of the temple mother on the stone tiles.

  Daladham sagged in the grip of the men holding him. They dropped him and let him fall to his knees. The Mouth of the Devourer glanced at him for a moment, smiled, then turned aside. He pointed at another of the young dhorsha.

  “You. Curse Kushma.”

  Daladham did not wait to hear any response. He scrambled forward on his knees, elbowing his way through the legs of the crowd. Hands grabbed at his clothes. He swatted them aside.

  Out of the crowd. He ran. Past the altar, deeper into the temple. His chest heaved. Jairatu.

  Shouts and mockery sounded behind him, but no one followed.

  Amabhu and Caupana. He’d told them to go—go where? He collapsed against a pillar, gasping for air, and attempted to grab a coherent thought from the churning in his mind. Jairatu, boiling away into black slime.

  No. Where were the thikratta? In the temple. Escape with them. One of the side rooms, in the rear yard, behind the sanctum. He staggered forward. The temple seemed to sway around him, the columns twisting in strange ways. He found the back stairs and threw himself down. Where was the chamber? He turned, walked three steps, then realized he went the wrong way. Back toward the center. Yes, this door. He stumbled forward, found a heavy black curtain over one of the doors in the rear storerooms, and fell through it.

  Amabhu caught him. “Daladham?”

  “Jairatu,” he gasped. “They took him.”

  “Took him?” Amabhu asked.

  Caupana had risen to his feet and silently picked up their packs. Daladham pushed away from Amabhu. There were silver lamps in this room, a little incense burner, a copper image of Am. He fell to his knees, scrambled forward and scooped them up, then pushed them into Caupana’s arms.

  “We’ll need money. Take anything.”

  “What happened?” Amabhu asked. He stood in the doorway, watching Daladham scramble around on the floor.

  “Jairatu is dead,” Daladham mumbled. “We have to get out.”

  Caupana tucked the things that Daladham had offered into one of their packs, then put a hand on Daladham’s shoulder.

  “We’ll go,” he said.

  Amabhu still stared at them in bafflement, but he came forward and took Daladham’s hand. Daladham was shaking. No, no, he had to focus. Go with the thikratta. Amabhu was his friend, and no one had come into the back of the temple yet.

  “Follow me,” Amabhu said. “How do we leave the temple?”

  Yes, leave the temple. His thoughts were like mist. He blinked and tried to grasp a thought. Leave the temple. Looters at south gate by the sanctum. The Mouth of the Devourer, Am toppled, Jairatu scream and boiling on the ground. No, not that. Where to leave?

  “The north gate,” he said. “Looters there? Maybe, but less.”

  “Quiet, now,” Amabhu said. “This way.”

  “Yes.”

  Amabhu pulled him forward with soft, quick steps. He let the thikratta lead. Caupana came behind, carrying the books and the stolen silver. The small north courtyard with a rear gate, a wooden door which opened between a pair of carved pillars.

  Amabhu stopped. Looters here. Daladham looked over them and despaired. Only a few, but they would stop him and the thikratta and give them to the Mouth of the Devourer to eat….

  “Run,” Caupana said.

  Amabhu squeezed Daladham’s hand. He ran.

  The force of his run jerked Daladham forward. Shouts. Too fast for his thoughts to follow. His feet churned underneath him. Breath came fast, his heart thundering. Then a gasp, and an arch of stone overhead. The courtyard was behind them, and the three of them spilled into the street behind the temple.

  “Are we safe?” Daladham gasped.

  “We should get out of the city,” Amabhu said. “It’s overrun.”

  People ran and swarmed on every side of them. Daladham couldn’t tell friend from foe. Were there any friends? All were looters. All were foes. All would feed them to the Mouth of the Devourer.

  “The harbor in the north,” Caupana said. “We’ll find a boat. Run.”

  Amabhu pulled him ahead by his hand again. They ran. The city blurred by them. Daladham wept.

  Navran

  Navran received the kings in the palace courtyard, wearing the white gown of a saghada with a silver pentacle on his chest, the whole of his personal guard arrayed around him with spears and bronze armor. Bhudman and the rest of the chief saghada in the city stood in ranks to his right, while Yavada and the other major khadir waited in their most splendid finery to the left.

  “Damn, it’s hot,” Navran muttered to Dastha. “Where is the cursed monsoon?”

  “I wouldn’t curse it,” Dastha said quietly. “It’s late enough without your insults.”

  Navran chuckled. A blast of trumpets announced the entrance of the first of the kings, and he straightened quickly. He had to at least pretend to have dignity in front of the other kings.

  Gauhala-dar of Jaitha, proclaimed a herald, and a column of armed men with yellow sashes entered through the courtyard gate bearing banners with the sun and tiger of Chaludra. The king himself came at the end of the procession, carried on a palanquin with its curtains parted, showing off the king’s brilliant yellow silks, hands covered in gold rings, rubies in his ears.

  The palanquin marched to the bottom of the stairs where Navran stood, and the king stepped off of it. “Hail Navran-dar, king of Virnas,” Gauhala cried.

  Navran called back, “Hail, Gauhala-dar of Jaitha,” and he and Navran bowed to each other simultaneously. It must be at the same moment, Yavada had warned him seriously. Anything else is an insult to one of you.

  It all looked very impressive, though Gauhala had bedecked himself in much more dazzling finery than Navran had worn. But Navran had the word of his spies in Jaitha. The city barely limped along, after having been plundered twice by the Red Men and burned when Ruyam crossed the Amsadhu. The finery that Gauhala brought with him today was probably all of the riches left in the city.

  Another blast of trumpets, and a herald with a coastal accent announced Bidhra-dar of Patakshar. The second king’s escort entered, arrayed in orange and pink, a stylized whale stitched onto the linens over their armor, with a banner of the finned Dhashi over their heads. The king Bidhra followed, his palanquin smaller and less splendorous than Gauhala’s, but he greeted the gathered crowds with a kind, indulgent smile that s
poke of confidence and power.

  “Hail, Navran-dar, king of Virnas,” he said when he had dismounted the palanquin, and Navran responded in turn.

  Bidhra was the one that Navran was worried about. According to the reports of Navran’s military commander, Patakshar was wealthier and more stable than either Virnas or Jaitha. The trade from the Ten Thousand Isles south of Amur came through Patakshar, profitable routes in gold, gems, and dyes. The farthest of the kings from Majasravi, Bidhra seldom concerned himself with imperial politics, but rather exercised control over his corner of Amur with confidence and ambition. And he had the patience to press that advantage.

  A long period followed in which Navran needed only to stand and attempt to look regal, holding the Cane posture while the khadir of Virnas gave their respects to the visiting kings, and the members of the visiting retinues offered respect to Navran. He tried very hard not to yawn.

  Eventually it ended. The dignitaries entered the palace, their servants dispersed into the halls to prepare their rooms and meals, and the kings themselves retreated to the private dining room. A feast followed, prepared by Navran’s famous Paidacha, which succeeded in impressing both of the other kings, and gave Navran the opportunity to gloat that he had poached Paidacha from the city of Jaitha. This elicited a smile of regret from Gauhala.

  Then, finally, their bellies were full and they retreated to the garden for an evening stroll. This, Yavada had assured him, was the first moment when he could bring up the reason he had invited the other kings. Any earlier would be rude. Any later and Navran would die of boredom.

  Torches burned beside the crushed stone path, lighting up the banks of rhododendrons. Their leaves crackled with the footsteps of the kings and rapped against each other in dry melodies in the hot wind. Gauhala said something trivial about the lack of rain. Navran glanced behind to make sure that Dastha and the other guards followed but weren’t too close. Then he began.

  “My fellow kings, I didn’t bring you here to talk about the rain.”

  “No?” Gauhala said. “Then enlighten us, dear Navran-dar of Virnas.”

  Ah, he had started off poorly. But trying to repair it would probably make things worse, so Navran ignored the barb and charged on. “I got a notice from, ah, Sadja-daridarya.”

  “We know,” Bidhra said dryly. “We all received copies of the proclamation. I suppose that congratulations are in order.”

  “Congratulations,” Gauhala muttered.

  “Then you know,” Navran said. “No garrison of the Red Men in Virnas. No poll tax. No levy.”

  “Might as well cut you free from the Empire,” Gauhala said. There was the slightest hint of anger in his voice.

  “For all practical purposes, he has,” Bidhra said. “If you pay no taxes and send no men to Sadja-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling, why would you even bother to call him Emperor?”

  “Indeed, why would you? If I have understood the events of the last two years correctly,” Gauhala said, “Ruyam the mad thikratta passed through Jaitha looking for you. That was the first time the Red Men looted my city—they managed to do the same when they returned, a few months later. So I’m quite excited by this news.”

  Navran could not quite pierce the layers of the man’s sarcasm. “I never commanded the Red Men,” he said.

  “Of course not. Your friend the current Emperor, however…”

  “You ought to be excited,” Bidhra broke in. “Because it’s an admission of weakness on the part of the Emperor, and all but a promise to ease the hold on you and me.”

  “You’ll excuse me, Bidhra-dar, if I don’t precisely see it that way.”

  “And why not?” Bidhra said with a smile. “Sadja-daridarya has been exceptionally clever. He knew what was happening in Majasravi before any of us did. He goaded the mad thikratta out of Majasravi, then contrived to eliminate both Ruyam and Thudra-dar and install a man on the throne of Virnas who was entirely indebted to himself for the position. And now he gives him this extraordinary favor.”

  “I see,” Gauhala said. He pulled at the corner of his mustache.

  The path down which they strolled ended in a cul-de-sac with a small pool in its center and a group of denuded golden shower trees around it. Bidhra sat down on one of the benches beside the pool, stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands carefully on his stomach. He looked at Gauhala and Navran, who were still standing, with a careful, opaque smile.

  Navran could not quite pull together the strands of Bidhra’s implication. “Sadja-daridarya is my friend,” he ventured.

  “Which is precisely why he’s willing to loosen his grip on you,” Bidhra repeated. “He must have foreseen a meeting of this sort between us.”

  Gauhala grunted. “And you, Navran-dar, are virtually certain not to turn against him.”

  “But you called us here, Navran-dar. You won’t turn against the Emperor. But what will you do with your freedom?”

  Navran swallowed. This was the thing he had been edging toward, and now he just had to say it. “What if we formed a league?”

  “Naturally,” Bidhra said. “I accept.”

  Gauhala guffawed. “Bidhra-dar, it cannot be as simple as that.”

  Bidhra laughed. “Of course not, Gauhala-dar, not with you present. Go ahead, astound me with your prudent objections.”

  Gauhala looked at Bidhra with a hateful glare. He turned on a heel and began pacing the edges of the pool, kicking bits of gravel into the water. “In the first place, what is the scope of the league? For what purpose?”

  “Only defense,” Navran said. “If the Red Men move against us—”

  Gauhala shuddered. “Against who? If the Red Men move against you or Patakshar, they must pass through Jaitha.”

  “Precisely why you should be the first to agree to the league,” Bidhra said.

  “But letting the Emperor know we have a league is the first thing which might antagonize him.”

  “Who said we’re letting the Emperor know?” Bidhra said.

  Gauhala stopped in mid-stride. He looked at Bidhra with a raised eyebrow, then glanced to Navran for confirmation.

  “Sadja-daridarya will know,” Navran said quietly.

  “But that doesn’t mean we will tell him,” Bidhra said. “Listen, this is clearly the Emperor’s way of letting the South go gently—”

  “Clearly?” Gauhala scoffed.

  “He looses Navran-dar, whom he knows will not turn against him, so the southern alliance will not be his enemy. But if the alliance exists, you and I might demand the same privileges as our ally Navran-dar.”

  Gauhala looked disturbed. “There are Red Men in my city at this moment….”

  “As there are in Patakshar,” Bidhra said indifferently.

  “And? Does that not threaten us?”

  Bidhra chuckled. “Have you tried to suborn them?”

  “I haven’t the leverage,” Gauhala said angrily.

  “But soon you will.” Bidhra re-crossed his arms. “As for me, my greatest concern is that the trade with the Ten Thousand Islands be not disturbed. The Red Men in Patakshar have ten galleys in their harbor, the most of any place in Amur, and I won’t be doing anything to provoke them. But Majasravi is so far away from Patakshar…. I’m sure at some point the Red Men will prefer a pay-master who actually can pay them.”

  “Has the Emperor had difficulties paying the Red Men in Patakshar?” Gauhala asked.

  “Not yet.” Bidhra looked at Navran.

  “I won’t do anything to disturb the Emperor’s officials,” Navran said guardedly.

  “Nor should you.”

  “We are dancing around the point,” Gauhala said. “We talk uselessly of a league when we haven’t even stated what its conditions would be.”

  “We support the independence of Virnas,” Bidhra said immediately.

  “Yes,” Navran agreed, unsure of why Bidhra was so keen to hold up Navran’s privileges.

  “And we assert that we wi
ll not suffer insults to the rights and dignity of the other kings of the south. Such as, for example, the burning of Jaitha.”

  “So if the Red Men appear to plunder Jaitha again, you say that you would come to my aid?” Gauhala insisted.

  “Maybe,” Navran said.

  “I do not think the Red Men will be eager to attack Jaitha again,” Bidhra said. “Is there anything left there to take?

  Gauhala gave Bidhra a withering glare. Navran stepped between them. “We will work out details. We have many days.”

  “We do,” Gauhala said, “but this is an absolute condition of my participation.”

  “Details can be worked out,” Bidhra said. “But the Emperor is weak, and now is the time to act.”

  “Yes,” Navran said. “Now.”

  Gauhala looked at the seated Bidhra and Navran standing near him. He looked down at the surface of the pool, then cautiously raised his hands.

  “I make no promises now. But I am willing to continue the discussion during my stay here in Virnas.”

  “Enough for now,” Navran said.

  A breeze rattled the dried branches of the rhododendrons. Gauhala looked up expectantly. “Any chance that breeze will bring in the rains?”

  “No,” Bidhra said. He rose to his feet. “My fellow kings, let us head inside. Tomorrow, Navran-dar promised an exhibition match of jaha with one of his khadir, a very nice player. And then perhaps we’ll get a chance to play him ourselves.”

  They went in, and Bidhra and Gauhala were soon enveloped in the cocoons of their retinues and bundled off to their chambers. Dastha accompanied Navran as far as the door of his chamber, where a herald waited.

  The man bowed deeply. When Navran gestured for him to continue, he said, “Navran-dar, my lord and king. Someone has come here urgently to see you.”

  “Who?” Navran asked.

  “Srithi from the House of the Ruin. She waits for you in the entrance hall to the east.”

  Srithi? Navran couldn’t think of any reason for Srithi to come to him urgently, but that was all the more reason to go see her. “I’ll come. Dastha, follow me.”

  The east entrance was barely lit in dim lamplight, within which Srithi appeared as a white silhouette crouching next to the wall. At Navran’s footfalls she rose, then ran and knelt before him.