“Gods, where did you spring that from? You’re a mind reader. Thank you.”
“You sometimes have a very eminently readable mind, Marith. To the King of Ith, then.”
“The—?”
He almost looked round, looking for his uncle, then realized who Osen meant.
The lords filed in at the appointed time, some still bloody and armoured, having come straight from securing the field or preparing the next day’s march. Beside the lords of the White Isles there were now two Ithish nobles, Lord Alleen Durith of Emralleen and Lady Kiana Sabryya. This last being a young woman with vivid dark eyes and wild brown curls who excited some attention among the men of the Whites. Everyone knew the Ithish and the Illyians had women warriors. They’d been fighting and killing Ithish women warriors a bare few hours ago. But gods, the way they stared at her you’d have thought they’d never seen a woman before. She looked at Osen with a smile: they’d fought hand to hand, apparently, she’d pushed him back before she had to break to help her comrades. Fought valiantly. For a while. Then surrendered with all her surviving troops, turned on the nearest Ithish and routed them.
He should distrust her as a turncoat. But …
“Leos escaped uninjured,” she said shortly. “Do you wish any pursuit?”
“Bit late for that, I’d have thought,” Yanis Stansel muttered.
“He’ll be making for Tyrenae,” said Nasis Jaeartes. “We hardly need pursue. Just walk in after him.”
“That may be something of an over-assumption,” said Yanis. “With all respect to My Lord King, of course.”
“Their army is utterly crushed. Annihilated. They have no way of resisting.”
“They could try closing the city gates.”
Lord Durith of Emralleen stirred himself. A Calboride, some distant kin of Leos and Selerie and Marith. “Lord Leos is not loved in Tyrenae. Especially not now …” He tailed off smoothly, looked at them.
“Not now what?” asked Osen.
“You have not heard? I had assumed you knew … Leos not only took the title of king. As soon as news came that Selerie was taken, he had the little prince and princess Selerie’s children killed. He hardly made a show of it, of course, but enough people know or suspect. I very much doubt the people of Tyrenae will rejoice when he returns in shame.”
Osen said, “Very thoughtful of him. That makes the king next heir to the Ithish throne.”
Lord Durith smiled at Marith. “It does. Some might think it was a foolish move.”
“Some might think he had encouragement,” said Kiana. Her eyes narrowed. “If the Ithish are wise, they will open their gates to you tomorrow without bloodshed and hand him over in chains.”
“If the Ithish were wise, we wouldn’t be sitting here,” Yanis Stansel muttered. Gods, what was biting Yanis this evening? He’d led the heavy horse charge and laid waste to the Ithish spears. He couldn’t still be pissed off because his left hand was buggered up a bit?
It was time for their king to bring them to order. Marith said crisply, “We march on Tyrenae at dawn. We assume it will come to battle: gods know, they may still try to hold out. But they’d be fools. If they want a siege, I’ll break their walls by dusk. Then let the men loose on them.”
One night’s rest and then they marched. Long taut hours going, through sprouting fields slowly rising towards Tyrenae. The city stood on a long ridge overlooking the plain. At its heart the citadel of Malth Tyrenae on its rearing outcrop of stone. So high clouds sometimes shrouded its towers, hiding the flash of its copper roofs, the pools of quicksilver set there. Thus some said came the name the Fortress of Shadows. An ancient city and an ancient keep. Older than Amrath. Older than the Godkings. Older, some said, than men themselves. Before the world rose from the waters Malth Tyrenae stood, crowned in quicksilver, alone above the endless unbreaking waves of the first sea. Its stones were honeycombed by wind and weather, pitted a thousand thousand years. Its halls had seen men rise from the mud to crawl before its lords. Here Amrath had boiled alive Eltheia’s parents. Here Eltheri her brother had watched and laughed. Here Marith Altrersyr the Ansikanderakesis Amrakane would truly be king.
The army crossed the river Ushen at midday, unopposed. A troop of horsemen rode out of the hills but drew back and scattered towards the city. Lord Bemann had sent word Tyrenae was preparing to surrender, so Marith let them go. No one else was visible, the peasantry huddling in their cottages or fled. The cherry orchards for which Geremela was famous were coming into blossom, pink flowers emerging in clots like thick heavy cream. Marith made a garland of them for Thalia, pink against her black hair. Osen in turn made one for Marith: he removed his helmet, rode crowned breathing in the faint scent. Several of the lords copied, laughing: Kiana Sabryya looked like a fresh young wood sprite and Osen made eyes at her. More a carnival than a battle march.
As the sun began sinking rich gold behind the city, they came to its walls and its eastern gate. The Tower of Shadows stood against the sky like a knife.
The gates were open. In the road before them, two wooden stakes had been set up. Leos Calboride’s head topped one of them, staring out at the conquering army as they halted before it. On the other, Leos’ body, impaled. A dark red banner flapped in the wind. Lord Bemann’s troops lined the gateway. The powers and potentates of Ith knelt at their feet.
Lord Bemann nudged his horse forward. “My Lord Marith Altrersyr, King of Ith and the White Isles and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea. Ansikanderakesis Amrakane. The men of Tyrenae beg leave to speak with you. Will you hear them speak?”
Marith looked across at Selerie, looking back at his brother’s dead face. Yes. That’s how it feels, he thought. That’s how it feels, Uncle, you callous, cruel, merciless, stubborn old man. Shall I tell you he killed your children? Shall I? What must he have felt for you, to do that? “I will hear them speak. I might even think about listening to them.” He was still wearing the wreath of cherry blossom, he realized, as were most of the lords around him. Thalia beside him looked like a statue of a goddess, the afternoon sun glittering on her garland and her gown of silver thread.
One of the Ithish nobles stumbled to his feet. An old man, grey haired, his back bent. Blue and silver trim on his clothing: more royal kin. A great uncle, perhaps, the pretty princess’s grandfather. Marith smiled encouragingly at him.
“My Lord King. My Lord King of Ith. Be welcome. Your city opens its gates to you. We rejoice that you have come.” He knelt very low before Marith’s horse, his head so close to the gilded hooves. “Tyrenae surrenders unconditionally, My Lord King. Malth Tyrenae itself also. We are yours to dispose of. We beg your mercy, My Lord King.”
Marith raised his eyes to the towers of the fortress. Things that might be clouds circling its heights. He raised his voice. “I accept your surrender.” The man’s breath came as a long juddering sigh.
A troop of boys came forward, scattering flowers. Two girls in crimson silk brought cups of wine for Marith and Thalia as king and queen. Two more girls in crimson presented them both with gifts, a first taste of the treasure stores of Malth Tyrenae that he had won. A jewelled sword, scabbard and sword belt for Marith, gold filigree and emerald, quicksilver encased in clear crystal on the hilt of the sword. A necklace of white diamonds for Thalia, tight like a collar around her throat. Ah, gods. He reached out and touched her hand. More flowers as they rode through the gateway, voices shouting a ragged attempt at joy. From windows and doorways the people of Ith stared out sullen and terrified. They had hung carpets and tapestries from the shutters, threw flowers, trembled with fear as he passed. “The King of Ith!” a voice was shouting. “The King of Ith!” Selerie beside him was slumped in the saddle, eaten up with flies.
“The King of Ith,” Selerie lisped through his maimed mouth.
Down the long processional roadway, through squares and marketplaces, the voices ringing on and on. “The King of Ith! The King of Ith!” Blossom falling: they must have stripped the city’s tr
ees bare. It caught in Marith’s hair, his horse’s mane, his clothes. Thalia shimmered in it. In every square a troop of musicians sang the great songs of Amrath. At the windows of a brothel the women leaned out half naked, blowing kisses, shaking their long hair. A cloth merchant had spread his wares in the roadway, silks and fine linens, coloured wools, velvets sewn with copper thread. The horses pranced over them, trampling petals into their weave. From the alleyways, beggars shrieked and flapped their arms and cheered.
Up the slope to the gates of Malth Tyrenae. Here again the gates stood open, more young girls in crimson showering down petals from the walkway at its top, a fanfare of trumpets, a clash of bells. The king’s steward came forward to receive them, kneeling with the crown of Ith on a platter in his hands. Servants prostrate, foreheads pressed to the ground. Another girl with the cup of welcome, robed in crimson and gold. Hippocras, this time. Someone had checked and remembered his taste. The tower’s guards clashed their swords against their shields. Sang a hymn of praise.
At the doorway of the keep the queen herself knelt in surrender, bruised where she had fought off Leos’ assassins, still in the bloody clothes she was wearing when Leos had locked her away. She did not look at Selerie, but clung to Marith’s knees as a suppliant. Begged him to let her bury her children in peace. Marith nodded absently. She grasped his hands. Kissed them. Horror gripped him. Tears. I maimed your husband, he thought. With these hands. Her lips were dry and hot. Thalia looked sickened, he saw her touch her own scarred arm. “Great Tanis. Great Tanis. Have mercy. Have pity.” Osen gestured something; two men in armour dragged the queen away, her voice still babbling out thanks.
Marith rubbed his eyes. Hatha. A strong drink. His hands felt dirty, like he’d touched dog shit and not been able to wash it off.
Lord Bemann came up to him. “The gates are closed, My Lord King. All the men are inside. Everything is secured. The fortress. The Ithish troops. All is at your command.”
He turned and looked at the waiting faces. Could feel tears in his eyes. Petals. Trumpets. Cheering. Joy. “King Marith! King Marith! Hail!” At the tower’s height the shadows danced and writhed.
PART FOUR
WOUND SCARS
Chapter Thirty-Two
“He’s adorable. Adorable. Sweety.” Lady Ameretha Ventuel tickled the baby’s face and he made a snuffling sound at her. “Oh Bil! His hands! And his ears! His tiny little ears! Oh sweet thing!”
“Do you want to hold him?” asked Bilale. She nodded to the nursemaid, who passed the baby over.
“He smells so lovely. Oh Bil.”
Bilale smiled at her friend. “You should have one yourself, Retha.”
Nilesh the servant girl was amused to see Lady Ventuel make a shivery face.
The baby gurgled. It closed and opened its eyes, flailed around and spat its yellow milk spew onto Lady Ventuel’s dress. Lady Ventuel didn’t notice.
“Is he good?” said Lady Ventuel. She raised her eyebrows at Bilale. “He looks so like his father. The same face.”
Nilesh looked carefully away from her mistress as Bilale said, “He does, doesn’t he?”
The baby mewed in Lady Ventuel’s arms. It did the thing it did when it got angry, reared backwards in Lady Ventuel’s arms like a caterpillar. The nurse hurried over, took it back. Whisked it off to be fed.
“He’s a darling,” said Lady Ventuel. “Oh Bil. And he looks so well and healthy.”
“He’s strong for his age already,” Bil said proudly. “Janush our doctor says he is holding his head very early.”
Lady Ventuel noticed the yellow milk spew on her dress then. Nilesh came up discreetly and dabbed at the dress with a silk cloth.
“Is he sleeping well?” Lady Ventuel asked. She swatted Nilesh away. “Oh, never mind that. I’ll get the dress replaced.”
“Janush says he is doing everything well,” said Bilale.
“Can I see his bedroom?”
“Of course.” Bilale, Nilesh knew, was desperate to show it off. The cot was mother-of-pearl and silver, the draperies very pale green silk lace. The walls and ceiling were painted with green and blue and purple flowers; between the flowers there were red jewelled birds with gold beaks. The room faced north and was deliciously cool.
Bilale cried, sometimes, when she was alone with Nilesh, because so few people had come to visit the baby, admire his room and his cot.
Rumours running everywhere: “Lord Emmereth killed Lord Verneth! Lord Emmereth betrayed us to the demon! Opened the palace gates to him! Sold the High Priestess to the Altrersyr for a bag of gold!” No one knew where they came from; Lord Emmereth had saved the city, everyone knew that. And yet. And yet. “Lord Emmereth betrayed us!” It had … a taste to it. The latest stories had the High Priestess Thalia presiding over the feast of Year’s Renewal, sitting on a throne of diamonds, drinking firewine out of a human skull, wearing a dress so revealing she would have been more modestly dressed naked. No one believed them. But everyone believed them. “She’s certainly grasping life outside the Temple with both hands,” Lady Amdelle had said to Bilale. “You’ve got to give her that.”
Lady Ventuel was their first visitor since Lady Amdelle. Bilale’s dear friend, and it had taken her almost a month to gather herself to come. “I’ve been so worried about you, darling,” Lady Ventuel had gushed when she arrived, “it must be so dreadful for you, all this.”
The two ladies went up the stairs, Nilesh following. Lady Ventuel of course was enraptured by the baby’s room, spent ages cooing over the silver rattles, the perfumed sleeping robes, the miniature bathtub of white glass.
“So how are you, Retha?” Bilale asked when they had examined everything in the room. They sat down on a couch together, Bilale sent a girl for wine and cakes. “I haven’t seen you for so long! You look well.”
“Oh, I’m well enough.” The wine was poured, sweet scented over the sweet baby smell of the room. “Things are the same as always.” Neither Bilale nor Nilesh looked directly at Lady Ventuel as she sniffed at her cake carefully before taking a bite. “Delicious.” Her eyes narrowed. Nilesh thought: ah. Lady Ventuel looked like a servant about to ask something, cajole something out of Bilale.
Lady Ventuel said, “Actually, Bil, the real reason I came …”
The nurse came into the room with the baby, fast asleep and delicate as gossamer. It snuffled in its sleep.
“He’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” said Lady Ventuel. “You are so lucky, Bil.” Bilale lit up with joy, then, and all her scars seemed to fade.
“Aris is getting annoyed,” said Lady Ventuel. “The ban on travellers from Chathe entering the city … My brother is not pleased. I thought I should tell you. You could talk to Orhan, couldn’t you, Bil?” She cooed at the baby. “Oh, he’s such a darling, Bil. The guards at the gates are even stricter, now, and it’s all Orhan’s doing. You could talk to him.”
“There have been more outbreaks of deeping fever in Chathe,” said Bilale. She too looked at the baby. “Orhan is entirely right to take precautions.”
Lady Ventuel’s face went very sharp. “The Nithque’s refusal to let anyone from Chathe inside the city is costing Aris a fortune. And not just Aris. He’s been talking about it to Cam Tardein. Cam is not happy either. Nor is Holt Amdelle. Orhan said it would be rescinded and instead it’s stricter than before.”
“Whole villages die of deeping fever,” said Bilale, “in Chathe and Allene. It’s costing my own father. But Orhan is right.”
A mild fever, headaches, like being out too long in the sun. That was how Lord Emmereth had described it to Bilale, when she, too, had complained about the ban on travellers from Chathe entering the city, told him it was costing her father too much. The fever passed, the body felt healthy. Then fever again, worse than before. With the fever came vomiting. Bringing up blood. The body inside liquefying. The vital organs pouring out mixed with bile from the mouth. Raging fever. Screaming delirium. Agonizing pain. Final blessed death. It spread
like a dust cloud, unstoppable. Then as suddenly it would stop. One in four might survive, if it were a mild outbreak. One in five. One in ten.
“A few people die in Chathe and it’s impossible to get hatha anywhere, and rose oil costs twice what it did, and my brother is losing money.” Lady Ventuel said sweetly, “I would have thought your husband had enough problems to deal with, without annoying people like this as well. My brother is thinking of petitioning the Emperor about it. As is Cam Tardein. People are not pleased. Really, Bil, do you want people to start feeling angry with Orhan about this, as well?”
They had been spat at, Lady Emmereth and Nilesh, coming back from the Great Temple to give thanks for the child, in the beautiful green silk litter that felt like travelling in a cool bower of leaves. Voices shouting “Murderer! Traitor!,” a rattle of grit and pebbles and then a horrible fat lump of phlegm running thickly down the silk, yellow and shiny, making Nilesh’s stomach turn and Lady Emmereth retch.
“It cannot be proved,” Janush would say to Nilesh, over and over. “Lord Emmereth did nothing. It cannot be proved.” It seemed sometimes to Nilesh that this was a strange thing for him to say. Bilale barely left the house now. The beautiful green litter with its silk like trees in morning rainfall had been hacked to pieces and burned.
“People are feeling the cost,” said Lady Ventuel. Her face was fixed with a smile, she took another bite of her cake. “They might start to complain. Blame the Nithque. Ask why he’s doing it. What it is he might be standing to gain.”
The two women stared at each other. Bilale’s scars were very red on her white skin. Nilesh felt herself afraid.
“Your husband has made a lot of enemies recently,” said Lady Ventuel. “I was so sad to hear about what happened to you in the street. You don’t want people to have any further reasons to feel angry, do you? You just need to talk to Orhan …”
Bilale said very weakly, “Retha …”
The Tower of Living and Dying Page 21
