Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  “Today, Galvus.”

  In a moment of quiet, as she nervously plucked at the hem of her blouse, Orain confided to Adred, “We’ve been talking already, over the past few weeks, about going back to Athad. There isn’t much else we can do here. Everything we’ve started—it can continue without us.”

  Adred shot a look at Rhia. Would she want to stay here? Surely she wouldn’t care to go to the capital? If he and Orain and Galvus left—when they left—

  Rhia read his look, and smiled.

  “I want,” Orain said determinedly, “to return to the palace to talk with Elad.”

  “He will listen,” Adred assured her.

  “And what,” Galvus asked, “specifically, do we tell the people in the Diruvian Valley?”

  Adred replied, “Tell them— No. Let them tell you. Galvus, they know who you are. At least, they know what you’ve been doing, what you’re accomplishing. You don’t have to prove anything to them.”

  Galvus pondered it. “I’m a royal. If I let them know that—if I’m honest with them about who I am—and then if I tell them that certain things will be done, then they’ll know they’ll be done. I’ll be doing more for them in Athad in the palace, as a prince, than I can do for them down here. Mother is right; I’ve done all I can do for them here. We need…a wedge in the palace. A voice.”

  Orain encouraged her son. “It’s true, Galvus. Your voice. It’s just what we’ve been talking about.”

  “But what if I go back,” he asked Adred, “and Elad re­fuses—” He gestured. “What? Refuses whatever I ask.”

  “Promise these people what you know you can deliver. You’re doing it now. You can do much more of it from Athad.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “I’ll go back to prison if I have to,” Adred told him, nodding toward the Khamar who stood by the door. “Rhia and I will both go back. Sooner or later, we’ll be freed. But in or out of prison, we can’t accomplish anything more, here, than you already have. Galvus, I’ve learned that. We’ve got to use everything at our disposal, and if that means using our birthrights—then we do that.”

  The young man stared into his friend’s eyes, and a warm smile grew on his face. Galvus turned to his mother.

  Orain’s eyes were wet. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Galvus stood slowly and finished his tea. “Mother,” he decided, “when Omos returns from the warehouse, tell him we expect another shipment tomorrow. The papers are on the table in my room. I’ve already mentioned it to him.”

  “Yes, Galvus.”

  “Tell him where we’ve gone. And tell him—” again, the smile “—to prepare for a trip home.”

  * * * *

  Rhia rode with them, as did the Khamar, in the carriage that took Adred and Galvus out to the Diruvian Valley. The storm that had been threatening broke at last, and heavy rain pelted the old coach, thunder and wind slapped it.

  “What mother and I have been discussing,” the young man told his friend, “is that what we’ve done in Sulos must be done in other cities. It is completely apolitical, Adred, because I refuse to ally myself with one group or another. This isn’t a contest; it’s simply a matter of human decency, sowing seeds to get the kind of plants you want. We’re helping people rely on one another. And with that comes personal dignity and a greater awareness of everything around us. It’s only the first step in redistributing the wealth of the empire, creating the fairest society we can. Sowing seeds.”

  “You are changing things, then,” Adred said.

  “Of course. But because things are changing, our problems come from different people and groups all trying to direct that change. It’s not change that threatens them, it’s the question of who will control that change. And this is where they lose sight of their common goals and become partisan, and bicker and fight.”

  “You’re quite right,” his friend agreed.

  “The working people are no different from the aristocracy. I mean, it’s human nature to want to provide for yourself and protect yourself, and once you’ve accom­plished that, it’s easy to forget about everyone else, or to think that because you’ve managed to do it, everyone else can, too. It takes times like this, a crisis, to make people realize that they’re all in this together—to make them understand that what each person does absolutely affects everyone else and that, sooner or later, it comes back to affect them. It’s making that social correction. It’s a kind of trust, having trust in ourselves. It’s that awareness that must guide our policy.”

  When they reached the blockade, the Suloskai and the farmers guarding the road stopped the carriage and requested that those in the carriage identify themselves. They were astonished to discover an imperial guard in the company of the young man whom all knew from his work on the docks. Galvus told them, then, who he was and why he had come there. The rebels were astounded. Some of them accompanied the coach down the road to a large farmhouse where the leaders of the revolt had settled themselves.

  As he stepped out of the carriage, Galvus confided to Adred in a whisper, “I’m very nervous.”

  “But they want to know what you have to say. They’ve waited a long time to hear this, Galvus.”

  The prince was escorted up the steps and onto the wide wooden porch of the farmhouse, where a large group of men were sitting in chairs and on benches. All were dressed in rough clothes and were heavily weaponed. Many wore armbands on their sleeves: the red cloth square with the black “S” sewn onto it. Two of these men led Galvus inside, but the Khamar, Adred, and Rhia were asked to remain on the porch.

  No one spoke; the men on the porch kept to themselves. Concerned, however, they kept a watch on the powerful imperial guard now in their company.

  Adred, anxious, walked to one end of the porch, where there were empty chairs and tables. He sat, his back to the rain, and took in the cool aroma of the newly wet fields, fresh earth, damp trees. In a moment, Rhia walked the length of the porch and joined him. The Khamar stayed where he was.

  Rhia sat in the chair beside Adred and for a moment seemed to listen—to the rain, or to the occasional sounds of voices, distorted, inside the farmhouse. Then she said quietly to Adred, “I’m going to stay here. In Sulos. I want to help here.”

  He looked at her.

  “It wouldn’t do me any good to go back to the capital,” Rhia told him. “I don’t belong there. I belong with the people.”

  Adred would never see her again; that’s what this meant. Yet he told her, “That might be best. Yes.”

  She smiled at him—white teeth, pink lips, bright eyes framed by damp red hair. “Besides, you lead too exciting a life!” Rhia complained. “I’m not used to this!”

  He smiled but looked away.

  After all, they didn’t love each other.

  Adred cocked his ear toward the wall of the farmhouse. “He’s winning them over.”

  Rhia said, “You like her, don’t you?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Orain. You’ve known her for a long time, haven’t you? And you like her.”

  Adred didn’t know what to say. He felt foolish. His pride was wounded; he hadn’t thought his feelings for Orain were so obvious. Nothing could come of them, anyway.

  “Don’t you?” Rhia smiled at him. She reached over and gripped his arm and shook it playfully.

  “It’s just…silly,” he said apologetically.

  “Oh, you’re such a boy!” Rhia laughed at him. “It’ll work out much better this way, Adred. You’ll see. Don’t always be so…rational!”

  “Me?” he asked.

  “You,” she told him, and shook his arm again, still his friend.

  He looked at her and something tremendous took hold of him then, there on the porch—an emotional flux, a mood, a wave on the ocean rising or a storm coming, a choice made at a crossroads, or a choice made for him at the crossroads.

  Adred looked away, needing to, and listened to the rain, listened to the voices inside the farmhouse, and held Rhi
a’s hand.

  He was aware of everything that was happening, he listened to the rain, and there was clarity.…

  PART THREE

  THE WOUND AND THE SCAR

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the East, the death of a king was regarded as an omen of tremendous significance: Death, believed the many tribes and peoples of Salukadia, was but a change, and the death of a monarch presaged a transition—actual and spiritual and natural—for those who had served him.

  Word of the sudden (but not wholly unexpected) demise of Huagrim ko-Ghen was, for the people of his cities and villages, the closing down of a night promised by a long twilight. Because few of his people had known him as a man, his death seemed the more mysterious and fateful; because few of them had ever heard his human voice, the silence of his passing seemed the greater. It was as though a giant had abruptly drawn in a breath—and Salukadians of all tribes waited anxiously for that giant to respirate again.

  When he heard the news of Huagrim’s death, relayed to him by messengers from the potentate’s palace, Lord Thomo immediately called to him General Thytagoras and Lord Sirom, to discuss with them what effects this would have upon the eastern world’s relations with the West. It was difficult to say, all agreed. And so Lord Thomo took the important step of asking to see the late ghen’s principal aihman, the elderly bin-Sutus, and he made it clear to that worthy that the death of the war chief in no way would alter or obviate any of the international agreements upon which the two empires had come to terms.

  bin-Sutus, an admirable man, professed himself pleased to learn this. In answer to polite inquiries from Lord Thomo, bin-Sutus, bald and thin, hairless (as his caste required of him), and with proud intelligence behind his eyes, discussed the new situation as well as he was able, for he knew that the Athadian must alert his own king to this abrupt change of circumstances. The aihman therefore assured the good Lord Thomo that the Salukadian court, resting now as it did during this interregnum upon the wise counsel of the ghen’s ministers and tribal politicians, similarly would do nothing to jeopardize relations with the West. The future, however, rested upon the reading of Huagrim’s official will, which was stored in Ilbukar and which had to be brought to Erusabad for its interpretation and publication. bin-Sutus did go so far as to tell Lord Thomo that, in keeping with a tradition as old as their culture, the empire would be portioned out to the ghen’s sons. But no one as yet could determine how that might pass, or when.

  For the benefit of his king, then, Lord Thomo put down in a dispatch all of the facts that he knew and all of the possibilities that had been discussed, and he ordered the missive delivered to Elad as soon as possible.

  * * * *

  To my lord King Elad of Athadia on this day 14 Sath 1879 DP, in the Year of the Dragon, thus: From the City of Erusabad from your Servant, Lord Thomo. Kale im Porvo Athadis. My lord, I say:

  I send you word of the death of the emperor Huagrim ko-Ghen of the Salukads. News of this was given to me two days past, and I have been in consultation regarding its importance with our officials here in Erusabad, as well as with informants and a trustworthy minister of the Salukadian court, one bin-Sutus, an elder in service personally to the late ghen.

  Most important to our empire now is the status of our relations with the East, although bin-Sutus assures me that all policies and terms so far agreed upon between Athad and Ilbukar remain actual and unconditional. The Salukadian court is, for the present, governed by a body of tribal elders, which are friends of the late ghen, allies, and a few religious leaders; none of these, however, by custom can assume the throne or ghen-ship. That office by its nature is inherited by a son of the king; and following a habit of succession begun by Huagrim ko-Ghen’s grandfather, it is reckoned by my unofficial informants that the Salukadian Empire will be apportioned between the two princes of the realm. That is to say, all lands taken by the ghen during his lifetime are his to bequeath unto his blood.

  The ghen’s sons are Agors, the elder, and Nihim, the younger. Agors is a military man, and, I am told, he prides himself upon knowledge of warfare, tactics, and arma­ments. He has studied our diverse culture and has much respect for us. However, I am certain that his temperament is that of his father, who, as we know, believed all the earth to be made for his sole ownership. It is possible that Agors will, if not immediately, and if not openly, then surreptiti­ously, seek to continue the expansion of the eastern empire; it is possible that he may even seek to overstep the boundaries of Athadia itself. This is, however, speculation. We know that Agors cares little for our southern provinces, but he may attempt to wrest them from us as a test of his will and military prowess. The cruel expansion of the Emarians into the Low Countries last year was done, as we know, if not at the behest of Agors (called ghen-mu, or king’s son), then certainly with his tacit approval. He has a keen mind and has carried much influence at court, especially among those who matured and came into office while his father was still a horseman and conqueror.

  The younger son, Nihim, is not so belligerent or grasping. I have met him (as I have Agors) and Nihim is a religious man, following the precepts of some eastern ideologue; he is calm in temperament, rational in outlook, and extremely intelligent. He tells me that he believes in “balance,” and I assume this to mean that were it in his power to command the forces of all Salukadia, he still would not be disposed to affront us. That is to say, he is, so far as it concerns us, the opposite in ideals and beliefs of his brother. But Nihim, because he is more self-effacing than Agors, does not draw attention to himself, and so it may be that he is not regarded as highly in the eastern court as is his brother.

  Because our relations with the Salukadian Empire have, thus far, been minimal, and because there are many woeful antagonisms on each side toward the other, I inquired of bin-Sutus whether it would be proper for the Athadian Empire to pay respects to their late ghen, as a gesture of good will by one king to the shade of another.

  I asked bin-Sutus how long his people would be in mourning for their ghen. He replied that they would worship his memory for a moon-month—that is, twenty-eight days. I inquired of bin-Sutus as to the funeral customs of his people for their monarch. He told me that the ghen’s sepulcher is already built and prepared for him in Ilbukar, and that his earthly remains will be transported there for internment. I asked of bin-Sutus if his court would be receptive to a representative from the Athadian court who might, by his appearance, serve to render them condolences and wishes for continued mutual amity. bin-Sutus told me frankly that were my lord to dispatch a representa­tive from the western throne, that person would be welcomed and entertained by his court with all due respect and diligence.

  I therefore respectfully submit to my lord that it may be to our benefit to forward such an emissary, whose sole motive in visiting Erusabad would be, not to implement trade agreements or enter into any international policy, but simply to assure the Salukadians that our intentions in this, a period of loss and uncertainty, are purely amicable. I hope that my lord will ponder this suggestion as it is one of gravity and moment and may by itself do much to reduce any tensions that might arise from this interregnum in the eastern government. The suspicions of Prince Agors might by this be abated; and surely we can count upon the prudence and good will of Prince Nihim were we to accord the eastern court this generous signal.

  Thus, Lord Thomo to his lord, King Elad.

  Kale Athadis im Porvo.

  * * * *

  When he had finished this missive and entrusted it to a messenger, with orders to sail at once for the capital and deliver the letter instantly into the king’s hands only, Thomo retired from his office in the old Authority Building and made his way upstairs a flight to his sleeping chamber. There he undressed, removing his boots, his armor, and all his gear, save for his sword. He poured himself wine, opened a window, sat in a cushioned chair, and stared out.

  The night was brilliant with starlight and the flares and smoke of many fires. Flames had been stok
ed all along the walls of the city and upon many of the tallest buildings. From every direction came the low, moaning wails of distant gongs and chanting crowds.

  Thomo sipped his wine and thought of the funeral of King Evarris. He had been there, in Athad, had stood among the whispering sad crowds, had been part of the confusion and the doubt. What terrible events the death of Evarris had set in motion! Now, Thomo wondered if the passing of Huagrim ko-Ghen portended exceptional events on this side of the world. He hoped it would not, but he feared the worst.

  Thomo smiled a sly grin as he sipped his wine and listened. Somewhere, he wondered, in the land of shadows, did Huagrim ko-Ghen sit with King Evarris and watch with him these signs of desolation and grief? And did they wonder for their people, as their people did for them? Did death strip away all the false divisions of life? Or did it enhance them?

  Or was death, as some philosophers contended, only a better life not to be feared? Was the true death, the land of torment and pain, actually what we call…life?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The most efficient route out of Emaria was southward from the capital, where a quick march covered the five leagues to the border in a few hours. Here the open green fields rolled comfortably into the northern farmlands of Ithulia, an Athadian province. Only occasional stone obelisks marked the boundary between the two territories.

  The men of the squadron assigned to escort Prince Cyrodian from Lasura to the Ithulian port of Mustala on the River Fasu sang loud marching songs as they made their way briskly over the hills, a team of horses behind them pulling the strong-wheeled cage that housed the renegade prince. By noon, the unit had entered the small village of Orukad, still a day’s march from Mustala.

  Orukad was little more than a farmland crossroads in the middle of the sun-brightened fields. Thirty weathered buildings composed it, most of them storage barns and stables. There was an inn, one side of which had been converted into a tavern where ten awkward tables offered refuge from the heat. The hosteller, a lean man browned long ago by the climate, watched implacably as fourteen of the Emarian escort, led by their lieutenant, entered the dusty tavern and took most the unoccupied chairs. The lieutenant, although he considered the question answered before he spoke, asked the innkeeper, “Do you speak Emarian?”