Tanayon Born

by Hausladen, Blake;

  “Sikhek’s man?”

  “Not many with hair like that.”

  While he and I watched, the wild-haired fisherman pulled upon his line. He became animated as if he’d caught something big. There were no fish in Bessradi.

  “Longboat,” I called. “Best oarsmen to a longboat. Secure that man and his cargo.”

  Twenty men had a boat slung over and were rowing a sprint out toward Dekay before the old priest had pulled up his catch. Whatever it was, it was large and he struggled to get it into his boat.

  He didn’t notice the longboat until they were on top of him. He was quite distraught when they took control of him and his boat, and I found my way down to the wharf’s shoring as they rowed in. The fisherman’s catch was covered by a tarp. It was moving and thumped around the bottom of the boat.

  “Are you Sikhek’s man Dekay?” I asked.

  He sat heavily onto a thwart and was near tears. His dry hands twitched from fatigue and dripped blood into the bottom of the boat. He’d been too long in the sun. He said nothing for a long moment until the light of recognition shown behind his eyes.

  “You are from Enhedu?” he asked. “Of course, you are here with Prince Barok. Did he send you?”

  “Explain yourself, sir. This is not a day for mysteries. What is your catch? Turtle?”

  “Gracious, me, no. That is Sikhek.”

  Furstundish the Senior was at my shoulder and called rally like a madman. Chaukai converged from all points. Bows were drawn despite the obstruction of my sailors that lined the longboat.

  “Stand down,” I ordered, jumped down into the boat, and pulled away the tarp.

  The gray mass was nothing more than the top third of a torso, and a shriveled head with empty eye sockets. A rope extended from its mouth, and the misshaped jaw worked weakly on whatever bait Dekay had used.

  I drew my long knife and pointed it at Dekay. “You speak to me as though I would preserve you. Why?”

  “I am a servant of the Spirit of the Earth,” he declared and lifted himself upright. “Prince Barok Vesteal would not hear me. You must.”

  “Must? Choose your next words very carefully.”

  “You are closer to Her,” he said with unflinching confidence. “You will know the truth of what I say when I tell you that Master Sikhek is sworn to Her service, as well. He means to sing a song that will heal Her and throw off the grip of the Shadow.”

  I’d have cracked open the misshapen skull that instant, but there was something more than the black corruption of the Shadow within that gray mass. A thread extended into the Earth—a wisp of spider’s silk, but it was there.

  I’d seen it before.

  When I’d been drawn into the soul of the Spirit of the Earth, there had been two threads that extended out. One for Barok and a second weaker thread. I’d thought it to be his unborn child, but it was not. It was Sikhek.

  Sikhek was a Vesteal.

  “Get them aboard the Whittle,” I said. “Now.”

  We went up, and the pair were installed on the back corner of the aftcastle. I did not trust Dekay. I pointed Furstundish the Senior at the pair, and gave the Whittle the attention she deserved.

  The mainmast sail was seated again upon its spars, and the rigging nearly threaded home. The foremast was in place, its canvas just being organized on deck. The chain pumps worked furiously to drain the last of the water from my hold. High above, the lookout was moving back in his nest atop the mainmast. I called up for a report.

  He was yelling from the moment he got his first look. “Admiral, the bluecoats are moving and yellow pennants are moving up the river. A regiment, at least. I think it is the Hurdu.”

  We’d delivered Barok into a trap.

  “Captain,” I called and pointed across the river. “Could you secure a route from the shore to the entrance of the Chancellery?”

  The old Chaukai studied the flat triangle of ground between the Chancellery, river, and the high rise and wall of the palace. “For a time,” he said. “Awful exposed there, though, ma’am. We’d not last long against a brigade of Hurdu. The toll would be heavy.”

  “The Keep,” Dekay said. “If I may …”

  “What of it?”

  “There is an entrance beneath the north wall of the keep. I know how to open it. You could storm it—secure a route to the back entrance of the Chancellery.”

  Dekay stood erect, and the breeze tossed his mangled beard and hair about him. He looked proud despite his ridiculous state. He said to me, “You must save the Vesteal prince. At the cost of my life and all others. You must preserve him.”

  “Do not tell us our mission,” Furstundish the Senior said, but none of us could argue with the sentiment.

  “Captain,” I said, “get all your men aboard and prepare to attack the keep. All hands, make ready sails.”

  The fury of movement became a blur of green and yellow as the soldiers rushed below and the sailors rushed aloft.

  “Mercanfur,” I shouted across. “Get the Kingfisher out into the middle of the river. The Hurdu will be around to the wharf soon enough.”

  He went, the Whittle’s mainsail sheeted home, and she made way. Bessradi must have thought her conjured from thin air. Her tall sails towered above the river, and we crossed upriver with speed the city had never seen.

  The island occupied by the Treasury Keep was a dome of tan stone with four times the footprint of the Chancellery. Its walls were like tossed ribbons—as if a dozen different men had added to it over the centuries. The base of the outer ring rose up near the river’s edge and wore a beard of shrubs that clung to the hazardous slopes. The tops of those walls were as high as the Whittle’s lookout, and above them was a cluster of administrative buildings that crowded the keep and its tight curtain wall above. The simple keep looked a bit like Urnedi—a lot like Urnedi. It and the rest of the island contrasted sharply with the utilitarian square of the modern Chancellery building. I puzzled for a moment how old the island fortress might actually be.

  “There,” Dekay said as we started the turn east around the island. Beneath the north wall was a tiny dock.

  “Where is the entrance?”

  “In the fold of the rock—just there.”

  It was hard to trust him. Once the men inside the keep were wise to us, the rain of arrows and stone from the towers would be murder.

  I ordered the turn in toward the dock, and the leadsman quickly called a warning about the depth. A barge or flatboat could slide right up to the dock, but not my deep-keeled maiden. The moments that followed lasted a lifetime. The walls loomed ever closer.

  I called the sails down, and when the current brought us to a halt just short of the muddy bottom in the shallows, I ordered the anchor dropped and the longboats swayed out. They went into the water over both sides, and the greencoats clamored down.

  “Boatswain Rindsfar, I leave you in command. Stay anchored here. Keep the crew out of sight of the towers and the rest of the greencoats ready to move. The boats will be back for more.

  “Captain, I leave Sikhek in your care.”

  I took hold of Dekay, and he hurried with me down into a longboat without complaint.

  Arrows began smacking into the deck of the Whittle and the water around us. The boat got underway, and I called the strokes. The man next to me was struck through the top of the shoulder, coughed a mouthful of blood, and slumped into the bottom of the boat. The men spent their anger upon the oars.

  The longboats landed astride the thin dock, and the men poured ashore. The narrow strip was a bleak and greasy sheet of rock and filth.

  Dekay made it across with me and led us to a brief fold in the rock. A slit at its base no higher or wider than a man reached in to the left. Hidden inside was a rusty iron door with no handle or hinges.

  “Can you open it?”

  “It’s a dummy,” he said, sidled farther in, and push at the far end of the nook. It slid back with an iron squawk. Air rushed out at us, and we filed quickly into a ch
amber beyond. It had the look of a private study—desk, simple chair, and a wall of empty bookshelves. It was windowless, dusty, and cold. No one had been there in some time. It had to be Sikhek’s. No living man would choose to inhabit such a space.

  Dekay led us through a door to a broad audience chamber. The greencoats brought more lit lanterns.

  “What is this place?”

  “Minister Sikhek ruled the world from here.” He crossed to a blank-seeming wall and pushed the stone back with another squawk of some hidden iron device. The space beyond was black. “The dungeons beneath the keep,” he said. “Your man Errati should be in there somewhere.”

  “That’s as far as you go,” I said. “How do we get up to the keep?”

  “A long stairway runs up to a locked door behind the keep’s well house—same as the cellar of Urnedi. It has a sally port that opens onto the courtyard between the keep and curtain wall and stairs up into the keep. The gatehouse is right above the barbican that connects the island to the road. The barracks are out in the main courtyard around the counting houses and vaults where the gold is stored. Take the keep and curtain wall, and they’ll never take it back.”

  “How many men on the island?”

  “The treasury staff is several hundred, but few of them enter the keep. Sikhek kept a garrison of 700 men.”

  “Very well,” I said, as the men assembled. I grabbed one of the lieutenants. “Get Dekay back aboard.”

  The priest went without complaint, and we charged in. The dungeon proved to be a simple row of unlit cells. The smells and moans of the condemned kept us moving. I found the promised stairs at the far end and left another of the lieutenants to secure the space and find our missing alsman.

  The climb up was shorter than it seemed it would be from the shore. The heavy door at the top unlocked with a clank and opened onto the promised cellar spaces. We were through and into the keep in moments. The kitchen staff fled us, and a chaos of voices spread from the spot as the Chaukai charged up and out. It was eerie. The place must have been made by the same man who built Urnedi. Even the stone was the same.

  Of course. Sikhek had built both.

  The men were quick and mean. Shouts became screams, and Chaukai bows began to bang away from above. Word relayed back as the keep and the curtain walls were taken. I made my way up to the gatehouse as a second set of sixty men came up from the boats.

  The view brought me to a halt. This was not Urnedi. The spot was as high above the river as the top of the palace. The vast city went on forever—a forest of buildings huddled around the river. I could have stared at it for days.

  “Do you hear that?” a lieutenant asked.

  A cascade of bells pricked my ears. I’d not been away from Bessradi long enough to forget what they meant.

  79

  Arilas Barok Yentif

  The Morning of the 1st

  Selt wouldn’t stop talking. The bells tolled for my father, Bendent continued to grin at me, and my reeve was laying into one of the domos as if scolding one of his scribes.

  “Go,” Selt insisted. “Before the eyes of Bayen, it is your duty. Go, sir, go!”

  The domo relented to his demands, whatever they were, took a case offered by another, and rushed out the door behind the podium.

  “Are you quite finished?” I asked. “We have to get out of here.”

  “It only happened if it’s known,” he said, but I did not have time to puzzle out his riddle.

  The major domo had opened the doors to the pit. He strode forward and announced with particular vigor, “I present to you: Crown Prince Yarik Yentif, Commanding General of the Hurdu; and General Sonsol Bellion, Commander of the Hemari 1st and 3rd.”

  The pair started toward the riser to the mixed sounds of hissing and applause. The major domo let out a little yelp as he saw the next man on the way in. He flung himself upon the floor and belted out a resounding call. “His Holiness, Emplashet Slavastrimi, Sten of Zoviya. All will bow before the Voice of Lord Bayen.”

  The room did as the major domo commanded and flung itself down in exaggerated displays of supplication. Selt managed as expressive a descent. I took a knee. I’d score no points with them by eating carpeting.

  The Hemari general wished very much to allow the Sten to precede him, but Yarik had no such inclination. He went up first and raised his hands high above his head as though he was Khrim Zovi himself come to deliver us.

  “Rise, grand gentlemen of the Council,” Yarik called. “Rise and bear witness. The throne stands empty, the Sten’s court has ruled my brother Evand deceased, and I call upon you to judge my family’s rule and elect a successor. Chairman Bendent …”

  Yarik’s speech stopped there as he saw Arilas Hooak behind the podium. Then my brother noticed me and lost what he was going to say next entirely.

  Bendent cleared his voice and raised his hand, “Chairman, if I may—”

  “No, you may not,” Aldus replied. “I will remind you all that Bayen himself is watching. The divine bloodlines of the Yentif, Roto, Pormes, Hooak, and Ludoq—”

  “Ludoq?” Yarik said with a roaring scoff. “What Ludoq?”

  Chairman Hooak smashed the gavel down and said, “The Yentif will be silent or their claim to the throne will be forfeit.”

  Yarik went red. I’d never seen him so angry. Bendent waved him down. I considered a flowery insult of Yarik’s mother but abandoned the strategy as childish.

  Hooak cleared his throat, rapped the gavel three times, and said, “The divine bloodlines of Zoviya are in attendance. The Holy Sten is in attendance. Present also is a quorum of the Council, Crown Prince Yarik Yentif, and the next senior member of the ruling line, Prince Barok Yentif. I call this assembly to order.” He struck the block discreetly. “Sten Slavastrimi, pardon me, Your Grace. Events have transpired quickly. It is fortunate that you were so close at hand. Can you detail the day for the Council?”

  I could hardly hear the Sten’s mumbling. He was the crowning achievement of my family’s reign: a chief prelate on a leash like a floppy-eared pup. He spoke of seeing my father dead. He spoke of Yarik’s wives and children. I couldn’t listen to the details.

  I shrank. I had walked right into Bendent’s trap, and he had carried it off flawlessly. I had removed Parsatayn for them, and I was at their mercy.

  “Prince Barok,” the chairman said and startled me awake. “Do you recognize Yarik as Crown Prince of the Yentif line and lawful successor to the throne?”

  The room looked to me, but I could not possibly say it. I judged the depth of the audience pit and considered the Hemari I would have to get through before Yarik could escape me. The fight could perhaps be won, but there was no good way down without breaking a leg. The foyer would be packed with Hurdu and Hemari.

  Perhaps if I throw a domo down first to break my fall …

  “Lord Prince,” Chairman Hooak said to me. His formal tone was gone, replaced by resignation. “You must recognize your brother.”

  Movement in the still room drew all eyes, and I turned to find Selt. He’d stepped up behind me. The guards standing behind the arilas bristled, and the room stared at my foolish bondsman.

  “Brother,” Selt said loudly, “you have protected me long enough.”

  “Brother?” Bendent roared. “Who is this man? Can you not control even your servants?”

  Selt stepped forward and said, “I am Rahan Yentif, son of Vall and the Crown Prince of Zoviya.”

  The chamber froze.

  “Who?” I asked, but knew the truth of it instantly. How had I not recognized it? Rahan had come to Enhedu after all.

  “Gentlemen,” Rahan said to the stunned chamber. “I present myself for your inspection and ask you to recognize me as your sovereign lord and the Exaltier of Zoviya.”

  Chairman Hooak was swift. His gavel cracked down, and he said, “The Chair recognizes this man as Rahan Yentif. I have met his wife and son and find him fit for the consideration of the Council. I do thereby move for a vote
of the Council approving of Rahan Yentif’s rise as Exaltier.”

  “He is not the man,” Bendent said with an explosion of anger. “Your recognition of him alone is not enough. Your treason is already plain, sir. This man is not Rahan. Prince Rahan was assassinated last year. The Sten was present for his funeral … not this Sten, but the last. It is a settled matter. You cannot recognize this man. Gentlemen, you cannot!”

  The rest of the chamber stayed silent, hardly listening to Bendent’s raving. Each man had his eyes fixed upon Rahan.

  I remembered him—his smile and his laughter. I had always thought Rahan a fool. He’d been an object of constant derision upon the Deyalu—but the memories of his laughter carrying down the golden hallway—it filled me with happiness. It was all I knew of the brother I had thought slain. The northern and eastern arilas began to smile. Those from the south looked strangled by their own trap.

  I noticed as well, that the guards of the eastern arilas had shifted their attention away from my errant scribe and squarely upon Bendent’s allies.

  Bendent ran out of breath, and his tirade came to an end.

  “Pardon me, chairman, a question,” Arilas Kiel said. The chairman waved him on, and the gambler from Aneth turned to Rahan. “I remember a party at the palace, sir. Prince Rahan was entertaining a crowd. I am hoping you can recall for me the story told to us.”

  “There were so many that night, Oenry. I believe I told a tale of a runaway carriage followed by the tale of an archer who could never miss.” Rahan looked across at Arilas Serm. “You were there as well, Harod. Do you remember that night?”

  The Arilas of Aderan looked across at us with hate and menace. “You are not Rahan,” he said.

  Rahan was not deterred. He said, “I recall your lovely wife Taima was also there. She told a fantastic tale that night as well—a scene in one of her dramas. Did she finish it?”

  Harod’s anger melted into agony. “She was murdered.”