Kings of Ash

by Richard Nell

  Ruka glanced and suggested he stab and bash his way through to the railing, and cut those clever little hooks from their ropes. This seemed good enough for Bukayag. They charged together.

  Chapter 15

  “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  Farahi’s tone was calm, and familiar, as if he spoke to a friend. In fact he didn’t even look upset, which reminded Kikay why they worked so well as a team. She’d been ready for executions. Maybe a lot of them.

  “Men…in black silks, my lord, they used hooks to grapple the Western balconies in the visitor wing.”

  Kikay fanned herself. She didn’t care what the man saw or how he felt or what any of the men involved had to say, but Farahi was insistent. The attack seemed over, at least. Guards and soldiers swarmed the palace like flies, and bodies were being piled up all over the fortress.

  Now they sat in one of Farahi’s ‘safe rooms’. Like all of them it was small and uncomfortable, with only a few simple tables and chairs surrounded by thick stone walls. Kikay felt trapped, and oppressed.

  “Good,” said the king, still calm and patient. “Now tell me about the barbarian, Togi.”

  He’d have never remembered the man’s name on his own, but Kikay had whispered it as they brought him in. The fool’s skin was red and dripping with sweat.

  “He…he left his room to take a walk, lord.”

  “Armed?”

  “No, lord. He wore nothing but his filthy savage clothing. We followed as ordered.” The king nodded and said nothing, so he went on. “His legs…he is very fast, lord. Taffa…that is, the other guard on duty, said we should stop him because we could not easily keep his pace. But then he waited for us at the balcony, and we stood beside him.”

  “Good. Tell me about the corridor.”

  The man’s red skin was slowly paling, and he swallowed at nothing.

  “He…we tried to run, but were trapped by the…assassins, lord.”

  “And then?”

  “It…he…” the man glanced back at his superior officer, who stood equally pale-faced at the door. “He used sorcery, my lord. I’m very sorry, I can’t explain it properly.”

  Kikay rolled her eyes, but her brother didn’t. He just waited, as usual, patient and curious, the same expression whether he discussed rice yield, war, the weather, or ‘sorcery’.

  “Tell me what you saw, Togi. You will not be punished.”

  “He…made weapons with fire, lord. From nothing. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “And then what?”

  The man blinked, as if he had expected a different sort of follow-up question.

  “He…well, he killed them, lord. He killed all of them.”

  This wasn’t true, though perhaps it seemed so to the guard. Dozens of the assassins had entered other areas and not just the visitor wing. Many had moved elsewhere as soon as they arrived, so the savage only fought a handful on the balcony.

  “Tell me how,” said the king.

  “I…could barely see, lord. It was dark. Everything happened so quickly.”

  “Just tell me what you saw, and what you heard, Togi.”

  The officer waiting at the door looked ready to scream out in fury, or maybe faint.

  “He…he was laughing. He killed many with his shield, I think. He’d… knock them off the balcony, or…crush them, against the wall, or just swing the edges, like an axe.”

  “Good, and then what?”

  “We, well, we kept running, lord, all the way to the bedrooms.”

  “Did he receive his wounds there on the balcony or later?”

  “Both, I think. My lord.”

  Kikay didn’t much give a damn where the savage received his injuries. If it were up to her she’d just kill the wounded barbarian and the guards and the pirate and be done with it.

  In fact she had acted the moment the attack begun. Arun was already imprisoned, and she’d told her torturer to prepare. The palace elite roamed the grounds, and half the army now patrolled Sri Kon. On her instruction they would bribe, intimidate, or kill their way to the conspirators, and before the sun rose tomorrow, she’d know how so many men infiltrated the city without alarm. And if she didn’t, more men would die.

  “My lord, I’m sorry I nearly forgot…before the barbarian…before he attacked, he asked me, very badly but in our tongue - ‘Where king?’”

  Togi looked on the verge of tears at his monarch’s long, silent expression. Kikay stared at her brother with wide eyes, but he did not look back. At last he spoke.

  “What did you tell him, Togi?”

  “I…I said I didn’t know, lord, because of course I didn’t. But if I had I wouldn’t have told him, lord.”

  Farahi nodded, his temporary surprise banished again behind the stone.

  “Thank you, soldier, you’re dismissed.”

  The young man bowed and retreated, his commanding officer seizing him at the door to flee together.

  Farahi flicked a hand at his bodyguards which meant ‘clear the room’. He waited until he and Kikay sat alone in their chairs.

  “I suppose you think I should have them tortured.”

  “At best they are incompetent,” Kikay snapped. And, anticipating his next questions: “Their families are powerless. I never choose palace guards from families with any wealth or influence, particularly because most want you dead.”

  “The problem is,” Farahi sighed, “I believe him.”

  “You believe everyone.”

  The king rolled his eyes, standing to pace with his hands behind his back. Kikay for now held her place, and softened her tone.

  “They were too close this time, Fara-che, we should make an example of the entire shift.”

  She knew he wouldn’t, of course, but it was worth saying.

  “I don’t think they knew they were close. They attacked half the palace. It was wild, desperate. The treachery was in the city where it always is.”

  “Not always,” she said, even more gently. Island lords had tried to kill Farahi more times now than she could count. But her brother’s stomach pains and vomiting, his scars and many nightmares—they were reminders enough. Her warm tone affected him, and he walked to her, putting a hand to her cheek.

  “I’m fine, sister. My wives still sleep. My children are undisturbed. It was a desperate attack by Trung and his allies , and it failed.” His face hardened. “Do you think it was a coincidence?”

  Kikay did not believe in coincidences. Nor did she believe in luck, or sorcery, or mercy.

  “I think the barbarian is beyond dangerous. Whether he intended to kill or protect you, whether he just killed them for fun, or perhaps because he wants your trust, I think we should put him down.”

  Farahi stepped away and sighed, returning to his pacing. Kikay supposed not wishing to kill one’s savior was only natural.

  In truth, the assassins almost succeeded. Servants still removed a small heap of bodies from the hall attached to the room her brother shared with his concubine. The assassins had checked every room, and it seemed clear they didn’t know where Farahi was. But if more had survived to reach that hallway…

  The couple moved nightly, but this night they had chosen the visitor wing. If the barbarian hadn’t made a great bloody racket smearing assassin corpses all over the halls, they might never have heard and fled further in. Farahi’s guards might have died too quickly, too quietly, and the king of the isles might very well be a corpse, just like everyone wanted.

  “Somehow he managed to sneak in a shield and sword,” Kikay reminded him. Farahi shrugged at this, but the concern was clear in his eyes.

  “Arun might have arranged it to make him feel safe. Or they might be friends and have a way to speak. Perhaps they set up the ‘capture’ in the first place.”

  Kikay raised her eyebrows and stood, walking across the room to where the barbarian’s weapons rested on a table. It took both hands to lift the sword.

  “And where exactly do you think Arun got this?”
<
br />   Farahi glanced at the thick, yet razor-edged blade, the metal glinting slightly blue in the torchlight. He had brought a blacksmith in to look at it instantly, annoying Kikay because it seemed this was more important to him than the damned attack.

  “That’s why I won’t kill him, sister. He may have things to teach us.”

  Kikay let out a breath, angry at the logic, and at the useless smith for lifting the blade like a monk at prayer and failing to explain it.

  “We don’t need shiny new blue swords or complications. You have the most powerful military in Pyu already. We don’t need or want change.”

  Farahi smiled.

  “But change comes, sister. What we want is irrelevant.” The king approached and lifted the shield—so massive it rose above him though he held to to the floor. His jaw clenched from the effort.

  “If there’s more men like this one, are we not wise to befriend them?”

  Kikay set the strange-colored metal back on the table and shook her head.

  “You heard the guard. This ‘man’ laughed as he killed—nine assassins, Farahi! Even half dead from wounds he kept fighting. Does that sound like the sort of men who seek allies? Who seek peace?”

  “We’ll see,” her brother let the shield drop, careful not to crush his toes. Kikay noticed blood crusted on the sharpened edges, and a couple of teeth.

  “At the very least put this savage in a cell. Put him near Arun so he can hear the screams as we torture him, and so learns to fear us.”

  Farahi put his hands behind his back as he walked away.

  “If he lives,” he said at last with a nod.

  “If he lives,” Kikay agreed.

  The king spoke over his shoulder as he left through his secret passage. “I wouldn’t want to be your enemy, sister. Tell me what you learn from the monk.”

  * * *

  Arun was a god-damned fool, apparently, and he’d die screaming.

  He sat chained to iron bars, his arms held above by rope, knowing he had no leverage, and no escape. He should have known Trung was prepared to kill Farahi, that he’d have allies amongst all the petty, Alaku-hating lords, and spies on every island.

  Likely they’d hoped the guards would be distracted by their visitors—that they’d be looking inward, rather than outward, and so they’d struck in force. And even if the plot failed the king of Halin would have known what would happen to Arun. The plan was cruel, wasteful, but effective. In other words, classic Trung.

  And I’m a god-damned fool.

  Farahi’s guards had seized him in the middle of the night. He’d been half-drunk on palace wine, comfortable and deep in sleep, thinking the danger over and the deal secured.

  Now his arms were stretched up above him by ropes, his clothes stripped, his feet chained to the floor. A big, thick butcher of men sharpened his tools in silence.

  Arun almost laughed. The pirate-king! He couldn’t have been happy with just a few boats, oh no, couldn’t have been satisfied with freedom and wealth and living on his wits in the open sea with scoundrels and whores. He’d wanted more, just like always, and so he’d had to gamble. Now they’d torture him to death to be sure. It made no difference he wasn’t involved, or that he’d tell them the truth. He was too dangerous and maybe involved, and that was that.

  King Farahi’s resolve and lack of mercy were legendary. The man had probably murdered his whole family just for power. What was one more nameless pirate to the list?

  His prison and torture chamber looked completely different than Trung’s. Here there were no ‘observers’, no rusty tools or sycophantic slaves serving a tyrant’s ameteurish whims. Here there was good light and clean tools and a washed, stone floor.

  A thick bull of a man stood patiently at the only table. He held a blade up to the near-by lantern, then blew off a fleck of metal dust before placing it back to his whetstone. When he was satisfied, he pushed his table to Arun, wheels beneath not even creaking as they moved.

  “I assume bribery is out of the question?”

  Arun tried to keep his tone light to control his fear. He met the man’s eyes, and in an instant saw a reptile without pity, or reserve. He saw only a true master of cruelty, employed and paid well for his talents, then left alone, and undisturbed.

  “I am King Farahi’s Master of Torture.” His voice held no sign of emotion, nor pride. A shiver raced up Arun’s spine.

  “And here I’d thought you were the gardener.”

  The butcher didn’t blink, or smile. He spoke as if reading from a script.

  “When I am satisfied you have provided honest answers to my lord’s questions, the process will cease.”

  The process.

  Arun supposed that sounded nicer than ‘bloody, agonizing maiming.’

  “Has anyone ever satisfied you and lived, Master Torturer?”

  “Do you understand?”

  Arun sighed. “I understand.”

  The butcher’s pupils shot back and forth, never staying still, never moving even near Arun’s face. Instead he looked him up and down as if considering a flank of pork.

  “Were you or are you in any way involved in any plot against the king or his family?”

  “No,” Arun breathed out, knowing his answers made no difference.

  The torturer lifted a curved-handled razor.

  “Were you or are you involved in any act of deception concerning your dealings with the king?”

  Arun took another deep breath and tried to find calm. He’d been a monk in Bato for many years—a disciple of the Enlightened, taught to master his body and mind to ignore the corporeal world. Of course, he’d never been a particularly good monk.

  “No,” he said, trying to drift far away. But he still jumped when the razor touched him.

  It didn’t pierce his skin. The torturer began to shave him, almost gently, from neck to knees, patient and precise. Afterwards he washed Arun’s skin with cool, clean water, and rubbed him down with alcohol, which burned fiercely. He did everything slowly, carefully, and in silence.

  “Is there anything at all you wish to admit to me before I begin?”

  “I have nothing to admit. And I will still kill Trung for your master, if he wishes. Tell him that.”

  The torturer at last met Arun’s eyes.

  “You have no use to my master now.” He stepped away, putting his hands on a wooden wheel almost like a mill, and turned.

  Metal screeched apart from above, and four iron shafts descended from the low ceiling. They were attached to prison-like grate roof and sides, which soon enveloped Arun in iron. Only his arms stuck out the top. The torturer seized them and released the rope, sliding his arms down into two slots before shutting them in more iron.

  Arun could move his arms a little, but the manacles stopped him from bringing them through the grate, and his body was completely trapped. The wheel had also slid open a panel in the roof, and sunlight poured through, covering Arun with morning warmth.

  The torturer left the room and returned with what looked like a single shoot of bamboo.

  He placed it beneath in a large pot, the tip of the plant several inches from Arun’s groin. He fussed and angled it just so, adding water and stroking its bark and whispering like a proud father.

  “This breed can grow a foot or more in a single day. It will enter your body and move through your flesh as if it were soil. You will die slowly. If you attempt to move, or disrupt the growth, I will remove your hands, your feet, and your eyes, in that order. After that I will hold you in place with clamps. Tomorrow, I will ask you my lord’s questions again. Do you understand?”

  My body is nothing, Arun looked up the sunlight, feeling the warmth and closing his eyes as he imagined a quiet, temple life. There is only the spirit. He held his former master’s lessons in his mind, wishing only he still believed them.

  “I understand.”

  The big man nodded. He sat in his chair across the room. They watched the plant grow together.

  * * *
>
  The bamboo touched skin just behind Arun’s testicles, and he nearly moved. “Ask me your question again, Master Torturer.” He felt the sweat dripping down his neck, and armpits. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

  The butcher sat perfectly still save for his pupils, which shifted around as if they had a mind of their own. He hadn’t spoken since the start, and didn’t seem as if he would.

  Arun took another deep, settling breath. He wasn’t afraid of death, exactly. But life was such a glorious game of chance, and he would have liked to see what came next.

  Slow, agonizing death by bamboo, that’s what’s next.

  He thought of the unpredictable insanity of this, and couldn’t help it, he laughed.

  “I’ve really always been lucky, you know.” He knew the torturer would ignore him, but nevermind. If he was going to die he’d say his peace. “I’ll miss women,” he sighed. “Especially whores. Have you ever had a beautiful woman lie to you, friend? Her deep, brown eyes wide and staring into yours, not a hint of shame? No. I suppose not. I’ll miss rice wine, too, and sugar-cane. I always liked food, any kind of food you please.”

  He closed his eyes and thought back to old Teacher Lo—he and his brother’s first trainer at the monastery. Would all that old bastard’s fine words hold up, he wondered, if bamboo sprouted through his gut?

  “I bet my brother’s in morning song, welcoming the sun,” he whispered. “Or stretching his limbs out to dance for his students.” He smiled and wished he could see him now—wished they’d parted on better terms, and that he’d said goodbye. But at best Arun would be a failure in his brother’s eyes now. At worst a heretic.

  The thought depressed him in a way he couldn’t express, nearly sapping the last remnants of his good humor. He’d been so lost in his mind, embracing every last painless free moment, remembering his past, that he hadn’t noted the slippered feet on cold, marble stairs.

  “Still alive, pirate?”

  Arun blinked as beauty filled the gloomy, evil little pit. He saw sleep bruises under Kikay’s eyes, her hair tousled, her cotton nightgown resting over a silk shift beneath. She had her arms crossed as if cold, and her voice was gentle. Arun smiled without a hint of mask.