Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  Galvus lifted his head in Adred’s direction. “How long, do you think, before Salia reaches Erusabad?”

  “If she isn’t there by today,” he replied, considering it, “then she should be by tomorrow or the next day. That carrack of hers will make fairly good speed. But allow for a storm or two.” He looked at Orain. “What exactly was Thytagoras complaining about? Do you know?”

  She shook her head. “I just caught snatches of it in the hallway. Abgarthis is very upset. Thytagoras, I think, seems to feel that our policy toward the Salukadians is all wrong; he’s hard-headed and he thinks we should be more forceful. Abgarthis said he’s a bigot.”

  “More forceful!” Galvus chuckled darkly—and when Adred glanced at him, the young prince drummed his fingers on the edge of his table, mocking a war march.

  “I don’t know,” Orain said quietly. “I don’t know. I’m…very frightened. I feel very afraid that—that everything bad is going to happen.”

  PART SEVEN

  THE FALL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A great crowd of curious onlookers was waiting on the wharves as Salia disembarked from the royal carrack. No announce­ment had been made to the people of Erusabad concerning her arrival, but the sight of the imperial ship from the western empire dropping anchor had been sufficient to alert everyone to this wonder. Lord Thomo, who had been informed of the queen’s arrival the moment the ship was sighted, found that his coach was slowed and stalled by the larger-than-usual crowds all the way from Himu Square to the Ibar Bridge. While he impatiently waited, fretting and concerned that the mobs might spontaneously lose control, Thomo ordered three of his escort retainers to hurry to the Salukadian palace, protest the situation, and demand reinforcements from the city patrol.

  Thomo’s order had just been given when blaring trumpets and the clacking noise of hoofs stole his notice. Behind his coach, where the streets were clogged with swaying passersby, travelers, and shimari’i (“people who live in the open”), he saw advancing standards waving at the top of jouncing poles. The horns continued to blare, and boys and girls climbed onto walls or low roofs or sat astride monuments to escape the city patrol’s advance while the crowds shoved apart in struggling waves, the people crushing each other in a hurry to get clear as the mounted escort guided Thomo’s carriage to the docks.

  There, mounted Salukadian soldiers already stood alongside Athadian guards, holding back the curious, while the easterners themselves betrayed their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the western queen. Thomo stepped out of his coach and drew on his newly polished helmet, adjusted his belts and his vest and gloves. He glanced behind him to see the other carriages lining up and nodded to Lord Sirom, who was just stepping down. Thomo strode forward as a stiff double file of Khamars marched loudly down the gangplank and took their positions on the quay. He saluted them, then stood erect, arms at his sides, and waited for Queen Salia.

  Two more Khamars appeared at the top of the gangplank; then, with a prelude from an unseen trumpeter on deck, Salia came into view. She stepped quickly behind the Khamars and followed them down the plank onto the stone. When she reached the quay, her Khamars moved aside, joining those others who had formed a double wall directing the queen toward Thomo, Lord Sirom, and the carriages.

  Thomo gasped when he saw her. Salia was dressed in a beautiful simple blue-and-white gown studded with precious gems, her hair coiffed, her features delicately colored. Gilt sandals gleamed with sunlight where they showed beneath the hem of her gown; even her doeskin gloves, impractical in the hot eastern climate, were decorated with small diamonds. But it was the beauty of her that stopped Thomo’s breath in that moment. He had never before seen Queen Salia, but he had heard it bruited about that his king had married the most beautiful woman in the West. As he looked upon her now, Thomo believed that to be the truth. The glow that the young queen exuded, the delicacy, the simple wonder of her features—it was astonishing. Thomo had seen many attractive women, but this one, he thought in his fascination (recalling a scene from some old drama), was a beauty to divide houses, a woman to die for.

  Queen Salia came forward in a spritely gait and eyed Thomo and Sirom frankly as she stepped before them and held out one gloved hand. Thomo cleared his throat as artfully as he could manage; he was aware of perspiration coming down his forehead and face. He bowed formally, took his queen’s hand, and kissed her glove, then straightened and met her eyes. Blue eyes, deep and sparkling as sapphires.

  “Queen Salia. Welcome to Erusabad.”

  She smiled; it was a very feminine, a girlish or young woman’s smile, guileless and genuine. “Lord Thomo. Thank you for meeting me. Lord Sirom?”

  Sirom bowed and took her hand. “My queen. Welcome, in the name of the gods.”

  Thomo, despite his still marveling at her, managed to inquire, “And your voyage was a safe one, Queen Salia?”

  “Oh, yes, quite. And very speedy, too.”

  “With—your permission, I have a coach and an escort ready. Our men will see to your things.”

  “Thank you. Yes. It’s very warm, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s always rather warm here.”

  Sirom smiled in agreement, excused himself, and moved to greet the ambassadors now exiting the carrack.

  Salia nodded to Thomo, indicating that she was ready to enter her coach. Thomo led the way and, offering his arm, helped her in.

  A trumpet sounded and the coach rumbled forward, circled around, and made its way back under the Ibar Bridge. Thomo, excusing himself before he did so, reached his head out the window and called to his driver, “Take Losun Boulevard, will you, please?” He explained to Salia, “The streets were quite busy when we made our way here.”

  “Yes, I saw that.”

  “The people become excited.…” He was staring at her again.

  Salia nodded, understanding, and pushed open the window on her side of the carriage to look out. “It’s a very beautiful city, isn’t it?” she remarked.

  “Yes, it is. Very old. Probably the oldest city in the world, at least of any consequence. Some of these streets and buildings are more than two thousand years old.”

  Salia shook her head as though incredulous.

  “With…your permission,” Thomo told her, “we’ll stop first at the Central Authority Office where our government is located. Later today you’ll be presented to the Salukadian court.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve been trying to—” She stopped suddenly, seeing something in the street.

  “What is it?” Thomo leaned closer to her to peer out her window.

  The carriage, as it passed through a wide section of the boulevard, offered a view of a small mall just ahead. The coach slowed in traffic as it advanced toward the intersection with Losun Boulevard, which gave Salia time to see what was occurring in the mall.

  A crowd of people was surrounding a stone platform. A man in Salukadian state colors was reading from a long scroll; behind him stood tens of men and women, their ankles and wrists tied. As the official read from the scroll, Salukadian soldiers grabbed the persons in line and, one after another, walked them forward, forced them to kneel, and variously placed a hand or foot upon a wooden chopping block. Without further preliminaries, a soldier wielding a decorated sword lopped off the victim’s foot, or hand, or perhaps a few fingers. It was done mechanically and precisely; few of the prisoners cried out or showed any fear or even much expression. As they were mutilated, they were quickly pulled away and led down the stone platform to a clearing in the street where robed men were poking at fires with metal brands and working with bandages and tall jars of oils and ointments.

  As their carriage moved onto Losun and the scene was hidden, Salia turned to Thomo. “What are they doing to those people?”

  The general felt self-conscious. “They’re criminals,” he explained. “The Salukadians have a very strict form of punishment. If someone commits a crime and is caught, he’s branded; if he commits another crime—w
ell, if he steals, it means his hand; if he tried to escape, it means his foot. For lesser infringements—slander, let’s suppose, or trying to bribe a city official, or even looking at another man’s wife—a man is disfigured or—again…branded.…”

  Salia remained quiet.

  “It is barbaric,” Thomo asserted. “Sometimes a quarter of the people you see on the street have been punished for petty offenses.”

  Salia asked softly, “I suppose, then, that they have fewer criminals than we have in the West.”

  “Actually, they don’t. People won’t stay honest because they’re threatened with punishment; they commit crimes because for some reason they think they need to. And if they’re hungry.… Look at them all.” He nodded out the window.

  Salia didn’t bother to glance at the throngs. But she remarked, “You sound very bitter, Lord Thomo. Do you dislike the easterners?”

  He eyed her candidly. “No. Not entirely. In their own way, they are a very great people. What we have here in Erusabad are a thousand different tribes, more different kinds of people in one place than was ever the case in any of our cities. All of them are ruled by Salukadia, but each comes from a different tribe or family. But—no, I don’t dislike them. They have their ways, we have ours. I’ve tried to be patient; I’ve learned as much of them as I could, although I’ve been here only a short while. They are—” He seemed to search for a word, but settled for: “They are human beings, after all.”

  Salia smiled politely.

  “You’ll meet bin-Sutus this afternoon. He is an aihman, a Salukadian courtier of high rank, a lord. If you’re curious, he can explain them much better than I can.”

  “I would like that.”

  “Fine, fine. The peoples of Salukadia,” he continued, “believe that each person leads not one life, but several—that the soul returns to earth following death. Time and history, for them, are a great wheel. I believe they call it arka, this law, this natural law. The Great Wheel of Return. Some such thing.”

  “It is fascinating,” Salia allowed. And then, slyly: “Have they convinced you to believe in any of it, Lord Thomo?”

  “With all honesty,” Thomo replied, “the more I see of life, and the longer I live, the more sensible their beliefs seem to me.”

  * * * *

  Thomo had done the best he could in preparing an apartment for his queen. Although she would be staying at the Salukadian palace (which, Thomo explained to Salia, had once been the villa of an important Athadian family), still, the general wished to impress her with whatever the refurbished Central Authority could provide for the queen’s brief stay there. He had spent rather liberally from the government funds he controlled and had purchased new divans, cushions, draperies—a wide assortment of all sorts of furnishings. Still, Thomo was somewhat apologetic as he escorted Salia into her room; this was clearly no palace.

  But the queen allayed his disquiet with: “No, no, your lordship, this is quite satisfactory. I thank you; you have gone to a great deal of trouble for me.”

  She was sincere. Thomo was impressed; his king had chosen well.

  “Splendid,” Salia told him as she walked about the room and examined a few things, then glided to an open window. She turned on her heels and grinned at him. “The nice, fresh breeze! It’s so fragrant.”

  “I reminded myself of the palace in Athad,” Thomo explained. “The gardens are just below your window.”

  “Do I smell hyacinth?”

  “Oh, yes.” Thomo clasped his hands behind his back and watched her, pleased with what he had done. “I’ll excuse myself, now, Queen Salia. Whenever you’re ready—I’ve had a meal prepared for you. And then we can alert bin-Sutus. He will escort you to the Salukadian palace.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled brightly from the window. “Thank you, Lord Thomo.”

  Thomo left her then and sent in two women to attend her while he himself made sure that the preparations for her meal were completed. The trays were just being done when one of the young servants came to him to tell him that Salia wished him to join her.

  He entered Salia’s chamber on the queen’s cordial invitation and instructed the servants to place their dishes and trays on a small table across the room. Salia had changed her clothes: she was dressed now in a rather diaphanous pink gown, and she had let her hair down. Once the food and wine were set out and the servants gone, Salia thanked Thomo again and, alone with him, asked him to tell her more about these people of the East.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. Thomo stood and excused himself, crossed the room, and greeted the Khamar who saluted him.

  “Lord bin-Sutus of Salukadia, my lord. Whenever you wish to receive him.”

  Thomo glanced across the room toward Salia; she had over­heard.

  Wiping her mouth with a cloth, she said, “Have him come up. I wish to see him, and it’s much cooler up here with the breeze.”

  Thomo nodded to the Khamar, who saluted, backed out, and moved down the corridor. Thomo swung the door closed.

  “He is a good man, this bin-Sutus?” Salia stood and moved to a divan set before an open window.

  “Yes,” Thomo replied, without hesitation. “He is affable, intelligent—he understands our position, although he serves Agors ko-Ghen.”

  “I believe I will greet him in—”

  A knock again on the door. Thomo answered it; in stepped two Khamars and, between them, the tall, long-robed and bald aihman. bin-Sutus did not smile, but his eyes were friendly as he stepped across the floor toward Salia.

  He bowed deeply, after the eastern fashion, with hands clasped, and greeted her. “All the welcomings and best wishes to the Queen of the Athadians from my lord Agors ko-Ghen and our people. Queen Salia, I am bin-Sutus, your servant.”

  Salia smiled to him and held out her hand; bin-Sutus took it and pressed it to his forehead. Salia told him, “Lo nosi nasin du padurru, see teh moru, sim aihman bin-Sutus-su.”

  Lord Thomo’s eyes were wide with astonishment. bin-Sutus was just as surprised. He straightened himself and admitted, “I…was not told! You speak iy Hasni, Queen Salia?”

  She was smiling with delight. “Only a little, aihman-su. I studied as much as I could during my voyage here.”

  “You seem to have learned a great deal. However, ‘pad-dur-ru,’ with your indulgence.”

  “What did I say? ‘Pad-dur-ru’?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Salia laughed out loud. “I have no wish at all to greet the Salukadian Empire so disrespectfully!”

  “I quite understand,” bin-Sutus smiled. He was now quite charmed by this young woman.

  Thomo, who had himself learned a small amount of the Hasni vocabulary, was yet unfamiliar with the error Queen Salia had committed. He coughed; Salia winked to bin-Sutus and explained to his honor, “I meant to greet the Salukadian people with much respect and in friendship; unfortunately, I greeted them with respect and ox blood!”

  “Ox blood!” Thomo exclaimed, finding it only grimly humor­ous. “Gods!”

  bin-Sutus showed him a look of polite indulgence.

  ‘“Will you,” Salia asked him, rising, “share wine with me, aihman-su?”

  “I would be much honored to do so, in the name of my ghen.”

  “When my ambassadors are prepared, then we can visit your lord.”

  “I know that my lord Agors ko-Ghen looks forward to the moment.”

  “Thank you, bin-Sutus.” Salia seemed touched. “Thank you.…”

  * * * *

  Like all educated men, Agors was proud of those accomplish­ments of his that required the application of mental skill and an appreciation of life’s nuances and tones. And, especially because he was a soldier and athlete, he thought very highly of himself for being a proficient poet. While many of his acquaintances in the military were able to play musical instruments or paint wonderful landscapes on silk (as was worthy of a nobleman or dignitary associated with the court of the Son of the Gods),
Agors considered poetry to be the highest art, the supreme form of expression one could attain—apart from the leadership of men and the authority of empire. He had, then, constructed many verses, which he kept in a golden box in his sleeping chamber, and which from time to time he reread with a mind to gaining inspiration to write further. One of his favorites was a fantasy (if, indeed, it truly was a fantasy) that he had composed idly one afternoon while observing some of the beautiful young courtesans familiar to the nobility.

  In former lives I know I’ve seen

  You and these sights which I retell;

  I was a warlock great and fell

  Who loved you as a king his queen.

  I captured you against your will

  Through a spell known to a demon;

  Against all laws made you my leman,

  To salve your heart, my lust to still.

  I gave you golden chalices,

  Young girls and eunuchs for your own

  And lutes of glad and subtle tone,

  Lush gardens for your palaces.

  There was no wish my warlock hands

  Could not cull for your desire:

  No ice-locked land or hell-pent fire

  Prevailed against my dark commands.

  My arrogance and quenchless pride,

  Drowned my heart in deeps of lust,

  And so it was, as all men must,

  I, the peerless warlock, died.

  My many lives have made me tame;

  I suffered much to cleanse my sins;

  With countless lives my magic thins;

  I know you, but know not your name.

  Through all Times each strains and strives;

  This but the feeble art of men;

  What gods, I dream, may once again,

  Relight our love in future lives?

  Agors had felt quite pleased with this poem. He was not a romantic man—he had no wife, no true heart-love, and only occasionally did he spend a night with a woman, when he felt that he must to clear his mind for more important things; and yet, he told himself that this verse of his had truly captured the simple elegance, the drama and discord, of the Man and the Woman of life, trapped on earth, uniting and reuniting, needing one another but not understanding one another. He had discussed this work of his with friends, and they had assured Agors that the poem captured superbly the spirit of universal arka’shi, the many returns of our lives and the earned humility of the Great Wheel. Even his brother Nihim, upon reading the lines, had agreed that the verse had merit. Still, he seemed suspicious that such sentiments had issued from his older brother’s heart, and had commented, “What? Why so truthful with your verse, O Ghen-mu?”