The messenger nodded succinctly.
“Now get from here. Buy passage on a ship to the south, and do not return to this city for six months.”
“My lord, I am gone, and I do not know your name.”
To the easy sound of the man’s vanishing footsteps, Umothet returned to his bench on the patio and relaxed. He felt inspired. Elad was a fool; Cyrodian by far was the stronger of the two and the true king—the king in exile. Events moved forward as though predetermined. Soon enough the time would come—with Cyrodian alive, with enemies inside the palace removed—for the true king to return to the capital and take the crown of sun from the bloody head of the imposter who wore it now.
* * * *
In the morning, word reached Elad that a number of aristocrats and others close by the palace were preparing to leave the city, at least for a short while. The end of summer was near, habitually a time for the gentry and the wealthy to retire from the city and relax in their country villas. Elad did not doubt, however, what motivated Umothet and others of his company to move from the vicinity of the palace.
Still, he waited, as Abgarthis had advised him, and when he dined that morning with Orain, at her request, and with his brother Dursoris’s friend Count Adred, Elad made light of the fact that they were leaving the city, as well.
“You, too?” he asked them. “Abandoning me?”
“Abandoning you?” Orain laughed. “You should relax somewhere, too, away from here. Take the time to do it, Elad.”
“Not quite possible. Where will you be?” he asked her. “Are you taking Galvus with you?”
“With us, yes. We’re staying with a friend of Adred’s.”
“You might know of him,” Adred told Elad. “Count Mantho. He lives in Kendia.”
“I’ve heard the name. Ensutus’s son? A business family.”
“That’s him. He actually served in court here for a time, years ago. Made his contacts and turned it into a small fortune for himself.”
“Yes, I know Mantho. You’ll be leaving in the morning?” Elad asked Orain.
She nodded.
“I hope you don’t mind if it’s an extended visit,” Adred told the king. “A month at least—maybe longer.”
“Yes,” Elad responded quietly, his mind drifting. “I understand, of course.” He looked away, then looked back; his eyes settled, not unsuspiciously, on Adred.
The king wondered if Adred, whom he did not know very well, were attracted to Orain. Or if Orain were attracted to him.
And he wondered, because he was so used to thinking this way now, whether it would ever be possible for Count Adred and the lovely Orain to become potential threats to his throne. Potential intruders, as it were, in his kitchen.…
* * * *
Later that afternoon a second messenger came to Lord Umothet to report that Cyrodian was nearing the far eastern borderlands of the empire and by that morning must have been heading into the province of Galsia. Umothet paid him with gold and a warning—Cyrodian’s gold and the order to head south on a ship for Port Sugat.
And as early evening descended, a certain galley tied up at the southern docks of Athad, a squadron of troops disembarked, and their leader—after renting a room in a tavern and washing up—sent word to Lord Umothet that Lady Yta of the empire was dead, the guards who had escorted her slain to the last man, and the bireme on which they had been traveling set afire and sunk to the depths of the ocean.
Lord Umothet returned a coded invitation by the same messenger for the leader of the expedition and several of his retainers to meet with a select number of highly placed officials at Umothet’s apartment on the following night. A celebration feast was in order.
* * * *
Abgarthis saw them off. He went with them as far as the boarding dock, there to wish them well and warn them, once they had enjoyed their stay in Sulos, to return with fresh anticipation of King Elad.
“He is working hard,” Abgarthis assured Adred, Orain, and Galvus as they stood in the morning sun. “He is righting himself. It is difficult—”
He was interrupted by a wild confusion behind them: cries and howls, galloping hoofs and screams coming from a small avenue half hidden by flanking warehouses.
They turned and watched, as did others in the crowds on the dock. To their amazement, half a dozen mounted city guards in full armor rode bucking horses into a wide path just outside the alley, reined their mounts, and jumped to the ground, swords out. Immediately the massed people on the wharf pushed forward, and the soldiers yelled for them to stay back.
“What is it?” Galvus asked, trying to see. “I can’t—”
Loud barks and yelps carried to them then, and screams from the packed onlookers.
“Get back!” shouted the guards. “Get back, now!”
“By the gods!” Abgarthis breathed in amazement. “It is a pack of dogs—in the streets!”
An ache struck Adred, and he released a groan. The crowd ahead of him, ordered away by the soldiers and shoving now to stay back from the mad animals, parted to give him a view of what was occurring. He saw the dogs—domestic animals, large and small—all of them snarling, slobbering, barking, and yelling, heads pulled to one side, crawling stealthily forward toward the guards. Adred was horrified. The dogs of the capital, although often roaming free, had never behaved in such a way. A stray once in a while became angry, that was true; but this.…
One of the soldiers cried out in pain as three of the dogs in unison leapt for him. Swords flashed in the sun; the man went down as the mad dogs growled and howled, writhing. Blood flew into the air, and onlookers gasped. There was a disorganized scuffle. The short capes of the city guards billowed and flapped, armor gleamed, steel blurred, and naked arms twisted and turned; patches of fur and snarling white fangs brightened and swirled in the confusion.
It was over shortly. A second city guard went down and, bleeding from the belly, tried to haul himself to safety. But as the crowd pulled back, Adred and Abgarthis, Orain and Galvus saw lying upon the stones a sickening array of smashed, mutilated dogs—bodies torn, carcasses bleeding, split organs still pumping. Blood was everywhere. And the two wounded soldiers, groaning and wiping their slick red hands on the stones, trying to pull themselves up, slipped, rolled, and moaned in pain.
Thunder, then, as another mounted patrol galloped down the main avenue to help the first squadron. Several of the riders circled to keep the crowds back and watch for other animals; others dismounted to tend to the wounded.
Behind Adred a sailor, shivering beneath a heavy bale but unmindful of it, swore. “Damn me to the gods, isn’t that the cursedest thing you ever, ever saw?”
Adred tensed. It was not, for him, the strangest thing he had ever seen. He had seen something even stranger, and only a few days earlier: he had seen birds dive into the ocean and kill themselves. Then he had seen a throne topple, a prince murdered, a queen exiled.… And now, as if they were all pieces of some complex puzzle, he had seen a pack of wild dogs attack horses and soldiers in the streets of Athad.
“Odd,” whispered Abgarthis, sounding reluctant to admit it. “Odd, very odd.”
“It’s more than that,” Adred whispered, staring at the bleeding animals. But he said it to himself, and no one there overheard him.
* * * *
Lord Umothet’s secret meeting that evening was composed of but a handful of powerful individuals, but these were courtmen sworn to utter secrecy, councilors determined to have Cyrodian returned to Athad as the best hope for the empire, loyalists eager to have the criminal Elad deposed and beheaded. Umothet was proud of his success in gaining these men to him to strengthen the claim of the outlanded Cyrodian. Others there confirmed that sentiment remained strong for the exiled prince in many of the army barracks and dockside bunkhouses, in the taverns and the gymnasiums.
It was important, all agreed, that this attitude be taken advantage of swiftly. The longer Elad held the throne, the more secure it became for him,
the more familiar he would become to the public at large, and the more tolerant they would be of him. Umothet was aware of this; he acknowledged the danger but insisted that their cause could best be served by continuing to spread gossip and innuendo against the king. Everyone is eager to listen to foul gossip, and a secret campaign could be begun easily in the shadows of taverns and in the lazy city squares; Elad could be slandered and Cyrodian vaunted as the true king in exile. People prefer to believe the sensational wonder rather than the sensible truth; this is ever so, and when the people’s fears are baited and fed, the masses can be led like so many blind animals down any avenue chosen by whoever is acting in authority.
Cyrodian was still alive; Yta was dead. Elad’s decision to purge much of his bureaucracy had led to tension and doubts. The time to espouse Cyrodian’s superiority was as soon as practicable.
And as for a plot against Elad’s life, Umothet was of the opinion (and all there agreed with him) that unless untoward events provoked some rash and premature use of force, it would be best to have Cyrodian return a free man, with public opinion behind him, so that the exiled prince himself could judge the king.
The conspirators congratulated themselves; all lifted cups to Lord Umothet. The gods, they decided, were with them. They drank, pledged loyalty to one another, told jokes at the king’s expense, and spun visions of a splendid future when Cyrodian, the killer-prince, would inherit the throne and command the empire with the strict, heavy hand that it so desperately required.
When the plotters parted, the night was late. They returned to their villas and city apartments on horseback and in wagon and litter. Some of them were so drunk that, unable to walk steadily or speak coherently, they had their servants escort them through some of the narrower alleys and darker byways of the capital.
And one of these, full of wine and garrulous of tongue, let slip certain secret things as he stumbled to his bed. His manservant overheard and listened for more. Tending to his master, he reappeared several times during the night to awaken him and feed him water and bread—so that, said the servant, his honor would not suffer in the morning.
This one heard much as he listened to his master’s loose tongue throughout the night. And so, shortly before dawn, when the servant left the kitchen, his usual station, and hurried down the street to a square in the city to do his morning shopping, he made certain to loiter near a certain stall where he knew the seneschal of the palace kitchens made his daily selection of wines and cheeses. When the seneschal appeared, the servant—taking advantage of the growing crowd—passed by him and whispered into the man’s ear.
The seneschal was much disturbed.
Cutting short his visit to the market, he hastened back to the palace, greeted Abgarthis at the high courtier’s morning meal, told him the circumstances of the event in the square, and repeated what he had been told.
Abgarthis immediately hurried to Elad’s apartment.
An hour later, Lord Umothet was enjoying breakfast in his villa and making suggestive comments to the bare-breasted Siralian girl who served him, when a pounding at his door drew his attention. Momently a servant came to him to announce that a coterie of city guards requested his presence. Anxious, Umothet hurried through his house, wondering what this could possibly portend. Was Elad calling another special meeting of the council at this time of the morning? The fool was apt enough at games to make that a distinct—
“Lord Umothet of Athadia, High Councilor of the empire?”
“You know who I am,” he retorted impatiently. “What’s the meaning of this?” He glanced warily at the officer as four other soldiers stepped boldly into the foyer and, surrounding him, lifted their hands to their weapons.
“Lord Umothet, you are hereby requested to come peacefully with us and present yourself instantly to King Elad of Athadia, to face charges of high treason against the empire.”
* * * *
A century earlier, Athadia had drawn an arbitrary border between itself and the province of Bithira. Bithira was a land of mountains and fields, its people farmers and shepherds. It had no industry to speak of and no access to important waterways. Situated north of Emaria, it was a quiet, isolated land, a hodgepodge of principalities and small towns that had remained little changed for virtually a thousand years.
The mounted squadron that had escorted Prince Cyrodian to the border between Athadia and Bithira ceased its advance within sight of the most eastward fort of the empire, a small command post manned by fewer than a hundred men, who suffered more from boredom and bad food than from conditions truly perilous. It was on a hill overlooked by this fort that Captain Uvars of the Fifth Company, First Regiment, First Athadian Legion West trotted his horse to Cyrodian’s and unfastened the gyves that had chafed the prince’s wrists for nearly ten wearisome days.
As Cyrodian listened impatiently, returning the baleful stares that were kept upon him, Captain Uvars loudly read the formal proclamation of crime and verdict and sentence, and then ordered Prince Cyrodian to begone forevermore from the boundaries of Athadia, never to return, on pain of immediate death.
Cyrodian laughed in his face. His horse nickered. A cold wind came from the steely gray skies, high clouds swarmed like living things far above the mountains to the north, and birds wheeled and arced in the dark blue distance. Cyrodian fastened his wrathful expression on Uvars and was prompted to reply.
“Traitor,” Uvars asked him, “have you anything to say before we release you to your fate?”
Cyrodian opened his mouth and drew in a breath. He craned his neck and spat high into the air, aiming the trail of phlegm toward the border. “Anything to say?” he repeated. “Tell Elad, tell my brother.…”
The wind blew, the horses whinnied, leather creaked and armor rattled, voices coughed.
“…tell my brother that if I am a traitor, then he rules a nation of traitors. Tell him that he’s outnumbered. Tell him…tell him he has not seen the last of the blood, that the blood is only beginning, that he will drown in blood. Will you tell him that, Captain Uvars?”
The commander did not answer; he lifted his right hand in a signal, trumpets sounded behind him, and horses’ hoofs moved about, aiming their riders back toward the west. Uvars made another signal and, with his retainers, galloped to the head of his troop.
Cyrodian sat on his mount and stared for a long hour, watching—silent—as the imperial squadron slowly disappeared westward, returning to Athadia, returning to Athad—returning to an empire ruled by a criminal, a dog, and a liar—his brother.
His brother, who would—who must—drown in an ocean of blood.…
PART FOUR
THE DISPOSSESSED
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He had sailed from Erusabad to Ugalu and wandered the streets there for three days, and as he did, his ecstatic vision of himself and the world deteriorated. In Ugalu, Thameron spent the last of his money—two coppers—on a loaf of bread; he was unable to wash down this meal with anything other than water cajoled from a horse tender he pestered down at the docks. By that evening, he was hungry again and unable to buy more food, let alone pay for lodging. He tried to stay awake by walking the avenues all night long.
Shortly after midnight, he noticed a wealthy-looking man come out of a tavern near the center of the city; Thameron considered approaching him to beg money, but before he could do so, the aristocrat was attacked by a street bandit. Though drunk, the rich man tried to defend himself. As Thameron watched, the attacker knocked his victim to the ground and began to punch him in the head. The aristocrat called for help. Thameron was frightened, undecided what to do, but at that moment, he spotted a city guard turning a corner farther up the street. Thameron cried out to him for assistance and, emboldened by the rapid approach of the badge, crossed the street to aid the aristocrat. He threw himself on the bandit and forced him to the ground, and for his effort received several hard blows on the face.
The city guard arrived and, drawing his sword
, forced the robber to return the purse he had stolen, then roped his arms securely and began leading him away. The bandit, protesting and screaming loudly, yelled back to Thameron, “I don’t know who you are, but I’ll find you, I’ll find you and kill you for this!”
Thameron was bleeding from the punches he had received. He didn’t give the attacker’s threats much thought, however, as the wealthy man proceeded to thank him profusely for his interference. Instantly Thameron felt a thrill; surely he would be rewarded with money for having been so heroic.
But it didn’t happen. The drunken aristocrat, having thanked Thameron, began cursing the unsafe streets and walked on. Thameron stood in the moonlight, staring after him, desperately wanting the man to turn around and apologize for his forgetfulness and press a gold piece into his palm. But the man did not turn around; he took a corner, leaving Thameron alone with bleeding face, bruised hands, and empty pockets.
He felt betrayed. And as he stood there, he felt frightened. Ugalu was not safe. His life was in danger here.
He wandered on through the city, found a lamplit doorway in an alley, and sat down. He was cold and tired; he rested his head against the door jamb and, wondering what would happen to himself, fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning, it occurred to him that he had better look for employment. But he knew no trade and had no skills; he was refused at door after door, office after office. An ironsmith told him that he could earn money laboring at the docks. Thameron hurried to that end of the city and approached several warehouses; he was referred to the port authority and shipping offices. In one of them, he was asked if he intended to stay in Ugalu or if he were willing to travel.
“I’ll do whatever I have to,” was Thameron’s reply. “I’m hungry. I need money.”
He was told to report within the hour to a merchant galley called the Wave Rider; the master needed men for ordinary labor on board during a passage from Ugalu to Hilum in Omeria.
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