by Hugh Cook
'Losh Negis,' said Khmar, 'has sat by the fire too long. There is a disease. Men call it civilization. He has begun to suffer. He needs something wild enough to cure him. I'll send you north, and he can face the consequences. If he really needs me to break his women to service, there's something wrong with him.’
And Khmar reached out, and touched her. His hand was warm against her cheek. Yen Olass did not know what emotion was appropriate, and therefore showed none.
'A man should have had you sooner,' said Khmar. 'In my grandfather's day, you would not have waited so long. There was no Sisterhood then. No sewing up.’
'The empire was smaller then,' said Celadric, his voice oboe-smooth. 'Simplicities sufficed.’
'Then and now,' said Khmar.
'We are faced with the case of a slave who ran away from the Sisterhood,' said Celadric. 'From Losh Negis.’
'From the Sisterhood,' said Celadric. 'She had not been handed over to the Ondrask when she fled.' 'A quibble,' said Khmar.
'No,' said Celadric. 'A point in law. You have seen the correspondence. It is the Sisterhood which demands that she go under the spikes.’
Khmar grunted, and glared at his son. He had not, of course, read any correspondence on the matter, though he might have had some read out loud to him.
'The law is my law,' said Khmar. 'The Sisterhood obeys me.’
'You can enforce your law in Gendormargensis as you wish,' said Celadric. 'But at what cost? The Sisterhood serves us in many ways. Since the Blood Purge, who else can we rely on for order in Gendormargensis? If this slave can challenge the Sisterhood, others will surely try it.' 'So?’
'So kill this worthless female inlet, otherwise you may one day have to kill people you value.’
Yen Olass by now had conceived a murderous hatred for Celadric. As she listened to the cool, elegant young man writing her life off, she wished she could tear his face off.
For a moment, her life hung in the balance. Khmar was undecided. He did not like being lectured by his son. Nevertheless, there was some truth in what Celadric said.
'In my youth,' said Khmar, 'I rode females as you ride horses. The filly is far from worthless. The fault lies with Losh Negis. With some speed for the hunt, he would have made her his woman. If he chose to sit in his yashram poking his fire, he can't hope for my sympathy. He loses his woman.’
'But the Sisterhood-’
'I declare the slave sold to Losh Negis,' said Khmar. He hunted for one of the foreign words introduced into Eparget to express legal terms necessary for ruling an empire, yet lacking from the language of the Yarglat. He found what he was looking for. 'Retrospectively. A word which alters history, yes? I did not believe it, but my son once told me it was just so. Yes. Retrospectively.’
Yen Olass saw that Khmar was poking a little fun at his son, and enjoying it. Dragging out some more ponderous legalese, savouring its alien flavour, Khmar continued:
'The Sisterhood's claims to the slave are null and void. It is Losh Negis who owns her. And it is I, Khmar, who takes the woman from him. Because I love him. Because I wish to stir the man in him. Because I wish to remind him that he is too young to squat by his fireside – and to remind him what happens when he does. The woman can stay with Alagrace, as his oracle.’
'She cannot be an oracle,' said Celadric, 'for an oracle, by definition, is a servant of the Sisterhood. She-’
'She's sewn up tight enough,' said Khmar. 'That makes her oracle enough for me. Yen Olass – you will be Khmar's oracle. Khmar's own Sisterhood in the south. Till I'm dead. Then my son will kill you.’
Khmar hawked, and spat on the floor.
'You think I hawk and spit because I'm a barbarian,' said Khmar, addressing Yen Olass. 'Well, I am. And proud of it. I'm my own man, not like my son, owned by a thousand weightless talk-talk men, castrated dancing boys the lot of them.’
He glared, and pointed at Celadric.
'I can see what's coming when I'm gone. Perfume-farting hairdressers made ministers of state. Shit-soft little law-voicers snuggling up the emperor's ear, pleading discretion. Well, not till I'm dead. That's for certain. That's something.’
He turned his attention to Lord Alagrace.
'Oh, Alagrace will love it when I'm dead. Old woman-breasted Alagrace. He's waiting for it.’
'My lord-’
'I never said you'd hasten it! Only that you waited for it. Isn't that so? Well? Tell me? Is he waiting for it?’
The question was for Yen Olass. She sensed that the question was a test of some kind. She had to presume that her life depended on the answer. For the moment, Khmar had granted her life. Yet, if he executed Lord Alagrace – as a traitor, perhaps? – he might slaughter her as well. Had he planned it that way? Was he amusing himself, by giving her a hope of survival, just so he could take it away?
'Well?' said Khmar.
'The question,' said Celadric, 'is not rhetorical.' 'Who is it who asks me to play politics?' said Yen Olass. 'Is it you?’
Her question was directed at Celadric. She was hoping that whatever answer he gave would entangle father and son in an argument, distracting attention from her. She desperately needed time to think. But Celadric did not get a chance to speak.
'I do!' said Khmar.
'Am I the road or the traveller?' said Yen Olass.
Now all her training and experience as an oracle was being brought into play. She felt as if she observed the proceedings from a staggering height. She felt lucid. Weightless. She saw everything with hallucinatory clarity: Khmar's predatory eyes, Celadric's cool disdain, the relentless scrutiny of the bodyguards, the intense blue of the sky framed by a flap-window, the sharp pinpricks of sunlight stabbing through the leather of the tent where a seam was tearing apart.
'You are both and neither,' said Khmar.
Her feint had been deliberately cryptic, sounding out his intentions. By the way he had parried, he had refused to hint at the answer he wanted.
'Khmar is dead,' said Yen Olass, slowly. 'Lord Alagrace and Celadric meet in conference. They had once thought to inherit an empire which they could shape at will. Now they find they are locked in a struggle of life and death with the powers of Argan. The struggle will last out their lives and beyond. They find they have not inherited an empire: they have inherited Khmar.’
There was silence. Yen Olass conjured up an image of amber. Contemplating the everspan peace of encapsulated light, she meditated.
'Who tells you of Khmar's wars?' said Khmar, frowning; the invasion of Argan was a long-standing part of the empire's policy of expansion, but the imminence of that invasion was not supposed to be common knowledge.
'The whole waterfront talks of it,' said Yen Olass. 'It is said that soldiers talk because they have tongues. That suggests a remedy, if I could name the culprits: but I cannot.’
'And what were you doing on the waterfront? said Khmar.
The question caught Yen Olass off balance. Unable to conjure up a plausible lie – she had lied so often to save her life that by now the truth seemed lethal – she told the bare facts.
'Finding out where the gaplax come from,' said Yen Olass.
'I could tell you the answer to that,' said Khmar. 'They're spawned by sons with their cocks up their mothers' bums.’
'Not that kind of gaplax. It's an insect. It's half as long as your arm. They live in the sea, and they're caught in pots. They're caught with rotten meat, not by whistling. They're bright red. Not before, but after. They're cooked in boiling water.’
Yen Olass realized she was babbling, and stopped abruptly. Then she added – she could not help herself-
'But they're very nice to eat.’
'Then we will have some cooked for us,' said Khmar, clapping his hands, once, to signify that the audience was over. 'We will eat alone. Alagrace can go. He has already eaten, and we have no wish to overfeed him.’
Yen Olass and Lord Alagrace both made reverence to the emperor, and began to withdraw.
'Yen Olass,' sai
d Khmar, 'I said that we would eat alone. Not me. We. We is two people.’
In the mouth of an emperor, of course, 'we' can mean many things. But Yen Olass did not say this. For once, she was lost for words.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A man does not eat with a woman. A master does not eat with a slave. And the emperor most certainly does not eat with a female slave. Yet this happened.
The kitchen did not talk of this. The kitchen talked, instead, of the gaplax. What if Khmar developed a taste for them? What if he called for a gaplax when he was a thousand leagues inland? How many chefs' heads would it take to teach him the difficulties of transporting live gaplax as far as Locontareth or Gendormargensis?
Khmar was usually content with horsemeat, and that was the way the kitchen liked it. This Yen Olass had a lot to answer for.
Halfway through the meal, the kitchen had other things to worry about. Khmar's bodyguards burst into the kitchen tent, seized the entire staff, dragged them outside and bound them to execution posts. Khmar's foodtaster was writhing on the ground, vomiting his heart out. If the same happened to Khmar, heads would roll.
Fortunately, Khmar did not suffer. The foodtaster had proved allergic to seafood, but the emperor suffered no ill effects, to the great relief of the kitchen.’
Even at the best of times, the incident with the foodtaster would have spoilt the meal. Yen Olass had a very uncomfortable time. Khmar always seemed on the point of saying something – and always withdrew. What was he afraid to tell her? Perhaps he wanted to ask for a reading, yet was too… too embarrassed to?
The day and the danger were not yet over. On the principle that it is always best to die with a full stomach,
Yen Olass ate her way through four gaplax. She had invented the principle on the spur of the moment, to justify making a pig of herself.
'You have strong appetites,' said Khmar.
'I was born biting,' said Yen Olass.
And that was as near as they came, to small-talk.
***
After the meal, Khmar resumed his audience with Lord Alagrace, with Yen Olass in attendance.
'Not all your actions have pleased me,' said Khmar to Alagrace, opening his attack without ceremony.
'I have done my best in accordance with the law,' said Lord Alagrace, stiffly.
It was exactly the kind of opening Khmar was looking for. If Alagrace had not given it to hirn, Khmar would have created it.
'I know all about your version of law,' said Khmar. 'Warming your hands with your arse while voices clock the sun to the western horizon. That's your law – now you see mine. Bring in the pirates!’
Armed guards brought in four swarthy-faced men who were forced to the ground in front of the Red Emperor.
'They claim to be ambassadors,' said Khmar, 'going to see Ohio of Ork. Do you hear that? Ohio of Ork! Some pirate pretending to be a king. There'll be no pirates in my waters, not once I'm finished with them. We have to build seapower. Wipe them out. You've seen what they've made of my son, Alagrace, but a grease-arse diplomat like him could never get rid of the pirates. This is the way to do it!’
So saying, Khmar grabbed one of the men – scooped him up, lofted his body toward the roof of the tent, then hauled it down from the air, breaking the spine across his knee. Then he tore out the throat with his teeth. Then grinned: blood and sharpened ivory.
One of the three remaining men got to his feet and charged. He died before his second step – nine pieces of metal sticking into him. Six knives, two spears, one tomahawk. Khmar's bodyguards were the best. That left two men.
One cowered down on the floor, but the other spoke rapidly.
'What is that rabble speaking?' said Khmar.
'He is speaking one of the southern languages,' said Celadric. 'The Galish Trading Tongue. It is one in which I have acquired some fluency. He asks for the oracle to give him a reading.’
'A reading!' said Khmar, displeased at this interruption to the outright slaughter he had planned. 'Who told him about oracles and readings? You? No, don't answer, I've no time to listen to any lies. Well – is he entitled to a reading? Yen Olass?’
'No,' said Yen Olass. 'He is an outlander. He is not entitled to a reading.’
'So what should we do with him?’
Nobody answered.
'Yen Olass? I asked you a question.’
'I am a woman,' said Yen Olass, cautiously. 'I do not dispose of the lives of men. It is not for me to say.’
Truth to tell, Yen Olass believed that girls can do anything, but she told her emperor what she thought he wanted to hear.
'Oh, most excellent of liars,' said Khmar. 'Yen Olass, you can be emperor for a moment. More: you are emperor. Decide.’
Yen Olass hesitated. What kind of game was this? She did not dare presume that the meal Khmar had given her was a sign of favour: he might turn on her in a moment, and butcher her, then joke about how he had been fattening her up for the table. As.she hesitated, Celadric spoke:
'Since when did you take instruction from a female?’
'I want to see how a female rules,' said Khmar. 'Then I will know how things will be when my dear Celadric comes to power.’
Why did Khmar dart such insults at his son? Perhaps he wanted Celadric to attack him, and die in the attack. Perhaps he wanted Celadric to try and kill him – and to succeed. Celadric himself understood Khmar's bitter words as the last sport left to a dying man, and perhaps he was right.
'Speak, Yen Olass,' said Khmar. 'Silence, all. Hear the woman emperor.’
Yen Olass now held in her hands the lives of two men. She doubted if she could save them both. One of them, perhaps? Perhaps.
'Certain acts unthink certain thoughts,' said Yen Olass, pointing to a fresh-killed corpse. 'A man lies dead. Another man hears of it. His destiny was to be an assassin of great fame; instead, he earns his fame by knifing wood for block prints. This is necessary. Power must be manifest – but likewise mercy.
'A ship confronts the navy. If captured, all die. They have heard of this. With no hope, they fight to the death. Men die for no purpose. If there is the possibility of mercy, hope will disarm trapped men. Victory comes easy. Mercy is a potent weapon in the arsenals of a great power.
'Yet the emperor lives by strength. The emperor must show mercy, but must not cherish weakness. So preserve the survivor. As a free man or as a slave – by your judgment. Let them fight for the privilege.’
Khmar laughed.
'Is it true what the rumours say, Alagrace? Is it true you let this woman help you rule your city?' 'No,' said Lord Alagrace.
'Then more fool you,' said Khmar. 'Celadric – tell them. Trial by unarmed combat.' Celadric hesitated.
'He flinches,' said Khmar. 'He'd have a woman killed, that was easy enough. But he falters when it comes to men. Celadric, you'll have three men to kill when I'm gone. York, Meddon, Exedrist. When I'm gone.’
So saying, Khmar raised his voice to a battlefield bellow:
'Do you hear that, Exedrist? Are you listening, you soft-brained vermin? Do you hear me? Do your spies hear me?' He coughed then, and spat.
'Otherwise, civil war. You'll find out, soon enough. Soon, I'm dead. No – don't say otherwise. Soon I'm dead. I'm a sick man already. Shitting blood and leaking water. You'll have your test soon enough, Celadric. Now tell them! Combat!’
Celadric spoke, and the two remaining pirates squared off. A moment later, one lay dead. The survivor withdrew his blade: a vicious little boot-knife with an oosic handle. Not much of a weapon, but still lethal in the right hands.
'Who gave him the knife?' said Khmar. 'Was it you, Celadric? Was this animal your assassin? You don't want to answer? I'm not surprised. No matter. I'll be dead soon anyway. But when we leave tomorrow for Gendormargensis, you'll be leaving some of your skin here, that's for certain.’
Celadric showed no emotion. He had excellent self-control. Khmar pointed at the surviving pirate:
'Celadric. Tell your assassin that a man
who takes orders from a woman is only fit to be the slave of a woman. And the slave of a slave woman, at that. Tell him he belongs to the oracle. From now on, she is his god, and he will obey his god in ail things – or die.’
Celadric translated, and thus it was that in the autumn of the year Khmar 19. the oracle Yen Olass Ampadara acquired a slave, an Orfus pirate from the Greater Teeth, a man by the name of Draven (Bluewater Draven, not to be confused with Draven the leper or Battleaxe Draven or with Draven the Womanrider, even though he'd done a little of that in his time.)
But that was not the end of the day's business. Khmar was fatigued, but he was not finished.
'Alagrace, now – I had so many, many things to say to you. We were going to have a very interesting conversation here. There were so many things you had to explain. But now… now I don't care for the answers.’
That was as close as Khmar could come to admitting that he was exhausted. When he said he was sick, he was telling the honest truth. He knew his own mortality.
'So let me tell you your duties. Your orders have been written down for you, in detail. You always were the best at logistics, weren't you? Argan is yours. Chonjara will help you take it – you need a good fighting general to give you some fire in your belly – but overall command, that's yours.’
Khmar held up his hand.
'No, I don't want to hear it.’
'But my lord-’
'Do it,' said Khmar. 'It is finished.’
When Khmar used that formula, everyone knew better than to argue. Lord Alagrace, granted leave to speak, would have argued for hours against the invasion of Argan. Alagrace had always argued that any move south of Tameran must be preceded by a campaign against the Ravlish Lands, which would secure ports from which the Collosnon Empire could project seapower into the Central Ocean. However, Khmar – who could not swim – had planned this war between continents by looking at a map and seeing where there was the smallest gap between landmasses. Khmar, the Master of All the Cavalry, the Horse born of the line of Horse, was not amenable to argument.
