by Jon Sprunk
“An excellent idea, my lord.”
Mulcibar leaned over the case without touching it, mumbling something under his breath. An itch prickled the back of Horace's neck. After a few minutes, Mulcibar stepped back. “I do not find any tampering or enchantment on the package.”
Horace reached out. The lid opened smoothly. Inside, a knife lay on a bed of white silk. The weapon was exquisite, with an ivory hilt inlaid with silver, but the blade was smeared with a reddish-brown substance. Horace peered closer but did not touch it. “Is that…?”
“Blood,” Mulcibar said. “Yes. It has started earlier than I imagined.”
“What's started?”
“A knife dipped in blood is a traditional challenge between rivals.”
“A challenge to what? A duel?”
Mulcibar stepped past Horace and pulled a slip of blood-encrusted papyrus from beneath the knife's blade. He unrolled it and started to read, “I, Varazzar, Lord of Perosus and Assam, do challenge thee, Horace of Tines, the Queen's Protector, to fight me at the setting of the Holy Sun on the Third Day of Hekkar before the Gods and Our City.”
Horace peered at the message. The bottom was bordered by a long strip of printed wedge-shaped characters that formed the lord's signature. Alyra had shown him how they were formed with clay cylinders dipped in ink and rolled across parchment. Each was unique to an individual. “It sounds serious.”
“A duel between zoanii is to the death.”
Mulcibar held out the sheet of papyrus, but Horace kept his hands by his sides. “What if I refuse?”
“It will weaken your standing in court. Also, your name will be mocked in public.”
“Fine. I've dealt with worse. I refuse.” He took the piece of papyrus and tore it in half, and then in half again before dropping them back in the box. “Let them talk.”
Mulcibar watched him with pensive eyes but said nothing more on the subject.
Alyra held her cloak shut with one hand and her hood pulled low with the other as she hustled through the dim avenue. The last thing she wanted was to be recognized. Sefkahet, also concealed within a long cloak, glanced about as she accompanied Alyra through the narrow streets.
This was an awful risk, but what choice did we have?
No choice, and that was the truth. Yesterday evening Alyra had found a message on her dressing table saying merely, “Night has fallen.” It was code, of course. A code she never thought she'd see. “Night” was the code name for the head of the Nemedian spy service, a person so cloaked in mystery that neither Alyra nor any of the operatives she'd known could say if Night was male or female. The message meant simply that Night was here. In the city. Then this morning, another message arrived on the edge of her bathtub. It gave only a time and a place. She'd been summoned.
She had left her bodyguards at the palace with orders that they be plied with cool drinks and plenty of female companionship to occupy their time. Sefkahet met her at one of the palace's side gates, and together they left the compound. They entered a part of the city known as the Dredge, a warren of narrow streets and mud-brick tenements abutting the river district. Shadowed alleyways, like cave tunnels, twisted between rows of beer-shops and drug dens where sleepy-eyed people smoked the pollens of exotic flowers to escape their daily lives. The houses were stacked atop each other, their edges jutting out over the dirty street to block out most of the sky.
A dark place for dark dealings.
The funny thing was, lying to Horace had been the most nerve-wracking part of it. He'd been good to her and more honorable than she had any right to expect considering that she had been a slave under his control. And his fear for her safety was genuine. Yet there was more to it than that. More to him. He had a sadness that she couldn't penetrate. It was almost as if…
Alyra stopped in the middle of the street as people brushed past her. Sefkahet kept walking for a few steps and then paused to look back with a pained expression. Alyra ignored the woman as she sifted through her last conversation with Horace. He'd said something along the lines of “For a moment I was somewhere else.”
Alyra didn't know what had triggered it, but in that instant when Horace was remembering some past event, a look of such sorrow had crossed his face that she thought he might break down.
He's lost someone and he's holding it in.
Suddenly, things about Horace made more sense. His gentleness, the awkward way he tried not to stare at her when she was undressed, his insistence on setting her free. They all stemmed from this traumatic loss. As Alyra put the pieces together, a cold realization came over her.
The court is going to tear him to pieces. Those jackals can smell fear, and he's emotionally defenseless.
“Alyra!” Sefkahet hissed above the noise of the street. “We must go.”
Alyra hurried onward, her thoughts divided between Horace and the interview before her. They took several turns, careful out of habit to be sure they weren't being followed, until they arrived at a small blue door set below street level between two potted messhagan trees. This was where she often came to report and receive new instructions. While Sefkahet waited in a shadowed alcove across the street, Alyra descended a short flight of steps and rapped on the door. The wait seemed interminable, but finally the peek-hole opened and a jaundiced eye surrounded in black kohl peered out.
“Peace be on your home and your hearth until the end of days,” Alyra whispered.
The door opened, and Alyra hurried inside. The old woman who let her in, whose name she'd never learned and never asked, secured the door with three bolts and a heavy chain before ushering her down the dark hallway to the rear of the house. Among those who served the spy ring, names were usually left unknown unless there was a reason. Alyra supposed the old woman might be the house's owner. She was a native of Erugash; that much Alyra knew from the few words they had exchanged over the years. Each of Akeshia's city-states had a distinct way of speaking if one had an ear for accents.
The backroom was dark except for a candle in a tin dish sitting in the center of a plain wooden table. The windows were draped in thick brocade that blocked out exterior light. Alyra's stomach fluttered when the door shut behind her with a solid click. She cleared her throat and heard a slight echo return to her. Then a male voice spoke in the darkness beyond the candlelight. “Alyra du'Braose.”
She stood up straighter. “Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Alyra couldn't see anyone, just a vague shape in the darkness. “I believe you might be Night.”
“That is correct. Do you know why you're here?”
Alyra was tempted to ask if the voice meant here in this room or here in Akeshia, but she assumed he was talking about the former. “There are several possibilities, such as the recent attack on the palace or the incident with the queen's ship.”
“We are aware of these events. No, it was your report on this apparatus you claim that the Akeshians have built under this city. I wanted to hear it from you directly.”
“Which part exactly?”
“All of it. Start at the beginning, when you first entered the underground tunnels.”
Alyra took a moment to compose her thoughts and then began a lengthy narrative of the hour she'd spent in Lord Astaptah's lair. She spared no detail, even telling about her near-discovery and escape into the labyrinth of tunnels. As she finished, she heard voices whispering in the dark. Trying not to fidget with nervous energy, Alyra clasped her hands in front of her and waited.
The whispering stopped, and Night addressed her again. “You say that you suspect this machine may be intended to affect the chaos storms. On what do you base this idea?”
“It's just a hunch,” she replied. “The energy inside the wire cage had the look of a storm, only much smaller.”
“But you admit you only got a brief look at it.”
“That's right.”
A man emerged from the darkness. The stark light shone on one side of his face, while the opposite si
de lay in deep shadow. He was older than she imagined, with silver-gray hair cut short almost down to the scalp and a network of wrinkles across his cheek and mouth. His one visible eye, though, was clear and crystal-blue. “You have our gratitude,” he said. “You've done more in Erugash than I ever imagined you could when I first approved your assignment here.”
“That…that sounds final,” she said.
The visible side of his mouth turned up in a tight smile. “It's time to come home, Alyra.”
Her stomach lurched as if she'd been kicked. After all these years, she had stopped even dreaming about the day she would hear those words. Now it felt odd, like this was happening to someone else. Yet Nemedia had never truly been her home, only another stop in a long string of temporary homes. “I appreciate that, sir. I do. But I feel that there's more to do here. The mission isn't complete.”
“It is for you,” he said. “You've earned a rest. I know it can be difficult leaving an assignment, but you've completed—”
“What are you going to do about Lord Astaptah and the construction?”
His face tightened, the smile dropping away. “That decision will be made in due time. You're a fine field operative, Alyra, but policy matters are not your responsibility.”
She knew she should accept the rebuke, but she pressed forward anyway, not knowing if she'd ever have this access again. “Forgive me, but I think the people on the forefront of the operation—those serving here in the palace—are the ones in the best position to influence those decisions.”
The smile returned, though a bit more rueful than before. “I remember thinking the same thing when I was a lot younger, and in the same position you're in now. But I learned, sometimes the hard way, that things must be done a certain way. Our country rests in a delicate position. I don't expect you to understand, but I have to weigh the interests of many against the desires of any one person.” He nodded as he watched her. “Yes, I thought as much.”
“Thought what?”
“Do you love him?”
She felt a touch of heat bloom in her cheeks but kept a straight face. Night received reports from every spy in the network. Someone must have tipped him off about her closeness to Horace. “Of course not.”
“Good. Few things will ruin a good operative like falling for an asset.”
“I know my duty. I know why I'm here.”
Night stepped forward, and the darkness swallowed his face again. “And I know why you're here, too. Revenge for your father, killed by the Akeshians. For your mother, left a widow and forced to beg to feed her child. For yourself, stripped of your past and your homeland by circumstances you couldn't control. Revenge is what you truly want, isn't it?”
“Yes,” she whispered. Her hands shook within the clenched folds of her skirt.
“Then you must sever your feelings for this Storm Lord. Use him, make love to him, tell him whatever you must to keep his trust, but never forget why you're here. Do you understand?”
“Then…I'm staying?”
Several heartbeats passed before he said, “Yes. Everything will change with the queen's wedding. If we fail in our mission, Akeshian power may grow beyond anyone's ability to overcome. Can I count on you?”
Alyra nodded with all the conviction she could muster. Her stomach still hurt, but she felt more in control. “What should I do next?”
“Your asset has become quite popular of late. Use this to our advantage. If he becomes a big enough distraction, it could give us some play in other areas. Encourage him to take some chances, to utilize the powers of his new position.”
“What if he could be turned to our side?” she asked.
“Focus on the task at hand, Alyra. Lord Horace is a convenient thorn in the Sun Cult's side at a time when we need the Akeshians distracted. Keep him on that path.”
“I understand.”
“Good. You are dismissed.”
Alyra had more questions, but she kept quiet and left before she said something out of line. Her insides were all twisted up, worse than usual. For the first time in years, she didn't know what she was going to do.
Sefkahet waited in the street. She flashed a smile when Alyra emerged from the house, but it couldn't erase the worry lines etched around her pretty eyes and mouth. Alyra could see she wanted to ask how it went but held back. “It's all right,” Alyra said. “Just a debriefing about my mission.”
“So you're staying in Erugash?”
“For now. I need to get back…,” Alyra almost said “home” but caught herself, “back to the First Sword's manor.”
Sefkahet put her arm around Alyra's waist as they left. “I hope the savage is not a cruel man. I'll be glad when you can return to the palace.”
Alyra leaned into the other woman. “Yes. We all have our trials to endure.”
The sun was setting behind the city's skyline as Horace walked into his new home with four bodyguards in tow. Sweat covered his face and dampened his clothes. He had spent most of the day in a meeting of the queen's war council where he'd been forced to endure hostile stares from the other nobles while they droned on and on about some treaty, much of which he missed because they only spoke in Akeshian. It might have been more bearable if Alyra had been able to attend with him. Or even Lord Mulcibar. Anyone to help him make sense of this office he was supposed to be filling. When he'd received the summons, Horace assumed the queen would be attending—the invitation had certainly made it sound so—but he was informed soon after arriving by one of the lords that “Her Majesty seldom attends these meetings.”
The man had added, “My lord,” after such a long pause that no one could have failed to notice it. Judging by the glances exchanged around the table, no one had. Horace suffered the insult in silence and left the meeting feeling like a fraud and a pariah, not to mention a target. Now he was feeling the several cups of wine he'd drunk to while away the time and was starving for something to eat.
Yet he had learned some things. For instance, he found out that the city owed a great deal of money to the emperor, a debt that no one believed the queen meant to pay. After all, she would be married soon, and the problem would fall into the lap of her husband, the new king. Among the gossip about possible changes coming after the nuptials, Horace had also learned that the crusaders still held out in Omikur, which was almost too implausible to believe. Yet the council expected the town to fall within the next few days. Horace would have liked to help the defenders, but he wasn't in the position to help anyone.
He stopped on his way to the kitchen. A table in the vestibule was piled with flat scrolls bound in ribbon and sealed with wax. There were no servants in sight, so he inspected them himself. Each seal with impressed with a different signature roll, some of them quite ornate with animals and strange symbols. Horace picked up one at random and broke the seal. His injured arm was getting better.
He read the characters written on the papyrus. With Alyra's help, his reading comprehension was actually better than his spoken Akeshian. The greeting was addressed to him.
To the Queen's First Sword, Horace of Arnos,
In accordance with all the laws of Akeshia and the strictures of the Heavenly Spheres,
I do hereby challenge you to a duel of—honor?—on the fortieth day of…
Horace scanned the rest of the document, which just went on with flowery language to thrust home the point that he was duty-bound to answer this challenge or be “deemed unworthy in the eyes of Man and the Gods.”
He dropped the scroll in the pile and opened another. The words were a bit different, but they amounted to the same thing. Another challenge. He counted the scrolls and arrived at thirteen. Thirteen challenges to fight to the death. He gathered them up and went to the kitchen, which was empty. He fed the scrolls into the brick oven and lifted the lid of the firebox in the corner, but the coals inside had gone cold. With a scowl, he pointed at the oven and envisioned a tongue of yellow flame consuming the parchments. Nothing happened. He clenched his fists
in frustration.
“God damn you all! You sons of whor—!”
He stopped in mid-curse as a rush of heat exploded in his chest, like a door to the hottest furnace imaginable had opened inside him. He flinched back as bright green flames erupted from the oven, rising almost to the ceiling.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Horace focused on closing the flow of energy. After a few heartbeats, the fire died down. Horace leaned against the nearest wall. He was bathed in sweat.
Control! I have to learn better control or Lord Mulcibar is right. I'm going to hurt someone.
With that thought in mind, he went to the armoire in his bedchamber and retrieved the ganzir mat. He unrolled it on the floor and sat down. As before, the intricate designs drew his eyes in several different directions. It was so chaotic he couldn't concentrate on any one part. Then, leaning closer, he noticed there was a specific distance at which the patterns on the mat coalesced into a harmonious pattern. Though he allowed his gaze to wander freely, he found himself always coming back to the platinum man sitting in the center of the ganzir. His breathing slowed and his shoulders relaxed as he felt the tension leaving his body. He attempted to open his qa.
A tickle fluttered in the pit of his stomach. He felt a pulling in the muscles of his midsection as his body seemed to get heavier, and a grounded sensation came over him. He had opened himself to the dominion of earth. Kishargal, Mulcibar had called it. It felt good, like he was more in control of the power. He looked beyond the mat to the slate tiles that made up the floor of his room. Wondering if he could break one free, he lifted his hand. A sense of strain gathered in the back of his head.
“Horace.”
Alyra's voice shattered his concentration. Letting out a deep breath, Horace closed his connection to the zoana. The heaviness left him as he climbed to his feet.
Alyra waited in the atrium. She had changed into a light-blue tunic and sandals with calf-high bindings. “Horace, I need to talk to you.”
