Along the straight avenues of her father’s camp, lanterns hung by chains from blackened iron tripods. Banners with the red-and-black stallion of the Great House of Erebus snapped from tall poles. In front of her father’s pavilion, carved wooden poles held aloft stylized horse heads made from enameled bronze and onyx, garnet and obsidian, or red-and-black gold. Moths clustered about the bright points of reddish light, crashing their blunt heads against the tinted glass. The wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of citronella oil, used to ward off the droning throng of mosquitoes from the wetlands.
Mari crested a grass-topped dune. From her vantage point, she could see the dawn haze of Amnon, bright across the Anqorat delta. The western sky was scattered with stars gone late to their beds. The blue-green moon of Eln balanced on the horizon like a verdigris coin, sending streamers of jade light across the undulating surface of the Marble Sea, making specters of the Seethe ruins rising from the water.
Mornings in Amnon were beautiful, even when she had drunk more than was wise the night before. Then there was the nameless lover she had taken, the one who had set her nerves on fire. He had been beautiful. Soulful light-brown eyes, the left tinted orange under lantern light, beneath a tangle of unkempt dark curls streaked by the sun. His large hands, hard as iron, had been sure and gentle against her skin. His arms and shoulders had been decorated with tribal tattoos, raised ritual scars, glyphs, and brands. A well-traveled man, some professional adventurer. He had not burdened their coupling with awkward, with any, words. She had never asked for his name, nor he for hers. She regretted this now, for how was she to find him again?
Mari had needed the release last night, knowing full well the morning after the battle would still see tensions and tempers running high. Her people had always been warriors, and battle was the way disputes were settled under strict rules of conduct. The complex codes of sende were often as much about the perception of power as its achievement. The Rōmarq, littered as it was with the ruins and ancient treasures of three previous empires, was a shining prize. Governing a prefecture that bordered the Rōmarq had been like an anchor tied around Far-ad-din’s ankles. It was inevitable somebody would seek to end him, to gain access to the shining trinkets of yesterday. Mari had a bitter taste in her mouth at the knowledge that the inevitable somebody had been her father.
As to whether Far-ad-din was a traitor? It was not for her to decide. Corajidin had his reasons for wanting to topple Far-ad-din from his perch. He believed there was a cure for the illness that was killing him, buried somewhere in the sunken ruins of the wetlands. He had not accepted his impending death without a fight, and Far-ad-din had paid the price for her father’s hunger to survive.
A unit of Iphyri stomped past in their layers of crimson steel and leather. The horse-men had been created by Erebus scholars centuries ago, before the Torque Spindles stopped working. They were beautiful in their way, deep-chested, heavily muscled, and strong. Smart enough to follow orders, without the independence to betray their masters. The Iphyri leveled their moist gazes in her direction. They were grist for the war mill. Quick at killing. Fearless and obedient till death.
Mari nodded to the various bows of her father’s subjects, though she felt a hypocrite. Her position with the Feyassin—the Asrahn’s guard—had originally been taken on so she could spy on Vashne. To be perhaps derelict in her duty should the opportunity occur, to allow harm to befall their head of state. Yet in service to the Asrahn, Mari had found a place for herself she had not expected. There was honor there. Honesty and pride, gratitude and respect. Though her father desperately clung to her, fostered the embrace of the Great House of Erebus, the sometimes fiction of Mari’s post put her beyond the ready use of her House. Feyassin did not marry. Did not use their bodies to form political alliances. As a Feyassin, she was no longer the coin of society.
Her father’s pavilion sat atop a tall dune. Mari ducked into the pavilion past the guards; swordmasters of the Anlūki commanded by her brother Belamandris. Banners hung from wooden stands, casting long shadows. Lacquered wooden lattices supported the pavilion walls, while richly embroidered silk panels divided the pavilion into separate rooms for the illusion of privacy.
Corajidin and his wife, Yashamin, Belam, and Thufan were seated on camp chairs around a low table. Thufan’s tattooed mountain of a son, Armal, stood behind his father. His face brightened when Mari entered, then flushed red. Her skin crawled at the sight of Wolfram, who lurked on the edge of the light, his head bowed beneath shanks of gray hair and the mat of his beard. The stave upon which the Angothic Witch leaned seemed as crooked and infirm as the man it supported. Slivers of mismatched wood, bound together with strips of leather, bronze bands, and crooked old coffin nails. The leather and metal of calipers supported both his legs. Once strong, the Human was now a withered husk, consumed by his appetites. Brede, the witch’s armed apprentice, lurked in his shadow, a woman who once had claim to a wanton’s beauty. The collar around her neck proclaimed her as much property as pupil. Farouk, a poor cousin and her father’s scar-faced adjutant, brooded by the entrance to the pavilion. Mari noted the coldness of his gaze where it rested on Armal. Of her other brother, Kasra, there was no sign.
Mari came to a surprised halt when she saw Nehrun. Both Nehrun’s and her father’s faces were set, their eyes narrowed. In his gold and dark-blue silks, the Näsarat reminded Mari of a peacock rather than the phoenix of his House. It was clear from the way Belam caressed the hilt of his sword, Tragedy, he would have liked nothing better than to kill his fellow prince. Nehrun spared a glance for her when she entered.
“I want what was promised me,” Nehrun growled.
“Your father is still alive,” Corajidin said irritably. “How can you be rahn while he still is?”
“Excuses,” Nehrun countered. “I warned you that Far-ad-din had discovered your excavations in the Rōmarq. I have broken faith to help you, so neither my father nor the Teshri would know what you were doing. Were it not for me, you’d be trying to breathe with a yellow silk cord wrapped around your neck! It’s time for you to honor your side of our agreement.”
“Settle yourself, pup,” Corajidin growled. “Do not come here and yap at me. You will be given what was promised when I am able to do so.”
“You were supposed to have had my father killed on the battlefield. You promised me my inheritance!” Nehrun stood his ground, though Mari noted the tremor in his voice. “While my father lives, the Federationists still outnumber you in the Upper House of the Teshri. You need Imperialist allies to get what you want, and I want what’s rightfully mine.”
“I do not believe a pampered little man like you has even the slightest idea what I want.” Corajidin gave Nehrun an appraising look. “When your father’s dead, we will see about settling debts.”
“I could reveal our arrangement,” Nehrun said, too quickly to hide his desperation.
“You will not.” Corajidin waved his hand dismissively. “Even if you retained your freedom, or your credibility, you would then have to assassinate Ariskander yourself, and I do not think you have the testicular fortitude to go through with it.”
“But—”
Belam’s fingers lingered on Tragedy’s pommel. Nehrun’s eyes narrowed as they flicked to the pavilion door. The Widowmaker smiled as he said, “Are you sure this is the smartest place for you to run your mouth, Nehrun?”
“I share your vision, Rahn-Corajidin. I know you want to return us to the glory days of the Awakened Empire. I can help you become Mahj and unify the Avān people once more. The Näsarat will be a different power under my rule. Remember it!” Nehrun glared at Belam, then strode from the pavilion without another word.
“A different power?” Wolfram repeated in his incongruously beautiful tenor. “I hope so. Ariskander is too formidable by far, and the Federationist faction in the Teshri too strong. At least Nehrun is inexperienced enough to be manipulated.”
“Productive morning, Father?” Mari interrupted.
“No,” she said. “Though I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover. Where’s Kasra?”
“Of course you have.” Belam grinned. He handed her a cup of thick coffee and Armal came forward, his head ducked low, to spoon cinnamon and honey into her cup. “Our esteemed brother has headed into the Rōmarq. He much prefers playing with his magic toys and digging in the mire of old cities than fighting wars.”
“Kasraman will be your rahn one day,” Corajidin reminded them. “Maybe more if our plans come to fruition. We are on the verge of great discoveries that will help our people.”
“But only after they’ve helped our Great House?” Mari took the coffee with heartfelt thanks, sipped, groaned with pleasure. She turned to her father, whose frown only deepened. “You summoned me?”
“Hours ago.” His expression was sour, framed in steam from the glass of tea in his hands. “The Asrahn has denied our House the opportunity to govern Amnon, which is an unforeseen setback. I had hoped we would be allowed to stay here. No doubt Ariskander and Nazarafine will try to convince Vashne to disband the armies, sending us all home. I did not bribe half the country to start a war so I could be denied my prize. Mari, have you heard anything more of Vashne’s plans?”
“Nothing more than you already know,” Mari replied. Ariskander’s and Vashne’s conversations had been behind closed doors, something for which she was thankful. She could not betray Vashne if she did not know anything worth telling. Nehrun seemed to have fewer scruples.
“Wolfram was wrong.” Thufan drew on his pipe. He peered at Corajidin through a cloud of acrid yellow smoke. “His oracles said you’d rule Amnon if you went to war.”
“He said I would rule the Avān people!” Corajidin growled.
“In time, the oracles said you could be the ruler of Shrīan,” Wolfram reminded them, eyes glittering. “You were the one who interpreted my words as you becoming the first Awakened Emperor in six hundred years. All things in their time. It will be as I’ve foretold, provided we stay the course.”
“At what cost, though?” Armal interjected. The others glared at Armal, though Mari was unsurprised at his words. “While I applaud what we’ve achieved, surely—”
“‘We’? When last I checked, Armal”—Farouk’s voice was like a razor—“the Family Charamin was not the Great House of Erebus.”
“Reminding me of my place again, Farouk?” The muscles in Armal’s shoulders and arms writhed as he slid his thumbs though the sash at his waist. “The same could be said of you. His Majesty’s adjutant? A glorified servant from a poor—”
“Silence,” Corajidin snapped. Both men drew themselves to attention. “You need to remember who you are and at whose table you are welcome…for so long as you are welcome. Farouk, I extended your mother the courtesy of accepting your service that you may make something of yourself other than as a bandit or a vagabond. Do not make me regret it.”
“You both serve one of the most powerful Houses of the Avān. Have the grace to act like it,” Yashamin chided from where she reclined on the couch, sheathed in silk.
It took a great effort of will for Mari to not roll her eyes. Yashamin had been one of Shrīan’s most respected and successful nemhoureh—the Exalted Companions—of the House of Pearl before Corajidin had purchased her contract and married her. She was Corajidin’s third wife. Kasra’s mother had died before Belam and Mari were born. Their mother had passed almost a decade ago. Yasha looked Mari up and down with a look of motherly despair, which was rich coming from a woman who could have been her sister. “What have you done to your hair? And what do you call…that?” Yasha gestured at Mari’s clothing.
Mari ran fingers through her shaggy cropped hair to make it even messier. She looked down at her tunic, armored with small hexagonal plates, her loose-legged suede trousers and boots with their upturned toes and scores of tiny steel rivets. “Leather and metal are more useful to a warrior-poet than silk or satin. Though silks and satins are no doubt handy for doing…whatever it is you do.”
“Sweet Erebus! Can none of you keep a civil tongue in your mouths?” Corajidin mock scolded. He came to embrace his daughter, kissing her on the forehead. His skin felt clammy, and Mari caught the stale taint of fever sweat beneath the goat-milk soap on his skin. She leaned back to look at her father, but he turned away. “Within weeks the Teshri will meet to elect the new Asrahn for the next five years. When I am elected Asrahn, it will be the beginning of greater things for us.”
“But you still need to overcome the Federationist faction that controls the Upper House of the Teshri,” Wolfram said. “And the sayfs who govern the Hundred Families need encouragement to support your Imperialist agendas.”
“Far-ad-din’s no longer a threat, so that’s one Federationist taken care of.” Belam sat up straight in his hauberk of ruby-crystal scales. His eyes were darkened with kohl, like those of any fashionable Avān man. “After Amber Lake, the Great House of Erebus’s position is stronger than ever. Surely that will help tip the balance?”
Corajidin nodded. “Thanks in great part to you, Belamandris, and you, Mariam. One child a war hero, while the other saved the Asrahn’s life.” He shook his head in mock disappointment at this last. “It would have been convenient for Vashne to fall in battle, a beloved and well-remembered monarch. Do not let your time with the Feyassin cloud your judgment, Mariam. You are my agent in Vashne’s inner circle, nothing more.”
“Good work, Mari,” Belam teased. She pounded him in the chest, so hard he grunted, and gently pushed her brother to one side of the couch he dominated. Belam grumbled good-naturedly, and he finally moved when Mari shoved him with her hip.
“I take it you intend on continuing with your plan?” Mari probed. She heard the disapproval in her voice and cursed herself for being so transparent. “With your poor health it may not be the best time.”
“We’ve committed a lot of money and effort to our project in the Rōmarq.” Corajidin took his seat slowly, limbs trembling. “As well as on influencing the next vote at the Assembly of Peers.”
“Father.” Mari leaned forward to rest a hand on her father’s knee. “You’re a sick man. You need to rest.”
Wolfram listed forward on creaking legs, his staff thumping against the rug. “Your father’s soul is poisoning him, and we’ve only the vaguest suspicion as to why. We’ve found no cure in any of the arcane tracts we have access to. They don’t deal with the Awakening of a rahn—”
“Are you sure it’s related to his Awakening?” Mari scowled. “‘The rahn is one with the soul of the land, as the soul of the land is one with the rahn.’ My father’s Awakening is supposed to give him power, as well as access to the memories of his Ancestors, not kill him!”
“It’s frustrating, I know,” Wolfram murmured. “We’re working as hard as we can to find a cure. For decades your father has wielded the power of his Awakening with no ill effect. We aren’t sure of the cause of his illness.”
“There is precedent,” Brede offered. Her heavy Angothic accent was littered with long vowels and trilled r’s. “Your father is not the first to have been poisoned by his powers.”
“So we go back to the source,” Wolfram continued, his speech without accent at all. “We try to find Sedefke’s works, given he was the one who formulated the entire process and structure of Awakening. He lived in the Rōmarq before its cities were flooded, then in various cities in Shrīan and Pashrea during the millennia afterward. If we can find his older works, such as The Awakened Soul, Unity of Thought and Spirit, or Creative Intent, we may find the answers we need.”
“And all the arcane weapons supposedly abandoned in the wetlands don’t factor into your decisions at all?” Mari regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth. Her father’s eyes narrowed with displeasure, and he wrung his hands in obvious pain. Started to mutter under his breath, though she
could not catch the words. Mari could feel the Angothic Witch’s gaze on her. She resisted the urge to turn away.
“It is my destiny to rule Shrīan,” Corajidin declared, eyes bright as much with fever as passion. “Wolfram’s oracles promised me I would deliver the Great House of Erebus to power. That I would be the savior of our people. To do that I need to demonstrate a position of strength. I cannot be allowed to die.”
“Or be diverted.” Thufan blew a cloud of foul smoke around the stem of his pipe. Mari waved it away from her face with a glare at the hook-handed old kherife. “Need to find Far-ad-din. Kill him and his allies.”
“Including that cursed Indris!” Wolfram growled. “I suspect he was the one who found out what we were doing in the Rōmarq and told Far-ad-din. The weapons and treasures from the Time Master and Seethe ruins are proscribed for a reason. Even the treasures with nonmilitary applications are considered too dangerous to be tampered with. It’s our end if we’re caught with them, until His Majesty is in a position to bend the laws. We must silence Indris, before he can tell anybody else what he knows. Ariskander, too.”
“I’ll kill Ariskander for you, my rahn,” Farouk promised. The scars on his face writhed as he clenched his jaw. “To kill the Rahn-Näsarat would make my name.”
“In time, Farouk.” Corajidin smiled grimly. “These things need to be planned. If we start negotiating with the Murad-dar and nahdi for a War of the Long-Knife, we need to be in a position to take it where it needs to go.”
Mari scowled. Wars of the Long-Knife—or Ajamensût—were the small-scale, sanctioned wars preferred by the upper castes of the Avān. They were sometimes known as Wars of Assassins; the aggressors could claim plausible deniability for their involvement, given blood never touched their hands. The favored weapons of choice were assassins, such as the Murad-dar, who nested in the Mar Jihara to the north, or seasoned mercenaries. Disposable armies, without affiliation to anything save the money used to hire them. Her question regarding whether her father also wanted weapons from the ruins in the wetlands had answered itself.
The Garden of Stones Page 4
