by Gav Thorpe
The hall and surrounding houses blocked the view to duskwards; the unconquered lands that lay beyond the mountains were as much a mystery to the Salphors as they were to the Askhans. Ullsaard longed to find a vantage point from which he could see what lay that way, but that would have to wait for the moment. For reasons not of his making he was forced to look back to dawnwards, to the palaces of Askh. It felt like a kick in the gut, to have come so far and achieved so much, only for his son's stupidity to draw him the thousands of miles back to the empire's capital.
Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he collected his thoughts. The conversation with Aegenuis had left him with some doubts. In truth, it was too early to leave Carantathi, as much as Ullsaard had faith in Anasind and trusted that Aegenuis' self-interest would prevail. The hasty departure would raise questions, no matter what excuses Ullsaard gave. It occurred to him that if he could stay for just a few days his departure would not raise as much comment.
He wondered if he was over-reacting. In the cold light of day it seemed more and more likely that the tale of a dream he had spun for his guards might be the truth. Had it been a convincing dream, brought about by fatigue and a deeper fear of his son's ambition?
It could be foolishness to race back to Askh, preparing for a confrontation that existed only in his mind. The more Ullsaard thought about it, the more he considered the whole episode to be fantastical. Urikh was not stupid enough to make a bid for the Crown at the moment, no matter how much he disliked Ullsaard and how hungry he was for power. His son had no base for such a claim, in terms of legions or other resources.
It was too quick to make sense. Urikh could not even know whether Salphoria had been secured or not. More than three thousand miles separated father from son, the only tenuous connection between them was the Crown itself. Urikh could put it on his head as much as he liked, it would not make him king in anything but his daydreams.
Unless he has the support of the Brotherhood.
Ullsaard felt his knees weaken and he stumbled back towards the steps, the voice of Askhos ringing loudly in his head. The dead king's presence felt stronger than before, his voice somehow closer. It took a little time to recover from the shock of feeling Askhos inside his mind after so long enjoying the silence.
"How do you know?" Ullsaard hardly moved his lips as he spoke, his voice a whisper. He had never been able to just think his words to Askhos; with two voices in his head it became confusing. "Do you see anything? Are you in Urikh too?"
Something struck Ullsaard, an unsettling feeling that rose up from the pit of his gut to make his chest clench tight with concern.
"How is it that I can hear you, when we are so far from the Crown? What has Urikh done?"
I know nothing more than you, Ullsaard, other than that where I was once in the Crown, now I am not.
"What does that mean?" Ullsaard's legs felt weaker and weaker, and he sat down on the bottom step in front of the long hall. He was talking out loud, but did not care. "What do you mean you are no longer in the Crown?"
It is as I say, Ullsaard. I was in the Crown, only dimly aware of you. When Urikh placed the Crown upon his head there was heat and pain, and then darkness. I woke – or think I woke, it is hard to explain – in your head; only in your head. I know nothing of what happened to the Crown. I cannot feel it any more.
Ullsaard tried to absorb this despite the ache that was pulsing up and down from the base of his skull to the top of his head.
"Is it possible that Urikh, somehow, learnt of the Crown's power, and managed to drive you from it?"
There is only one man that I know of that can separate me from the Crown. He is the man that bound my essence to it in the first place.
"Lakhyri," muttered Ullsaard, as if the word was the vilest curse ever devised by man.
ASKH
Autumn, 213th Year of Askh
With golden eyes, the high priest of the Eulanui looked at his latest puppet ruler sitting on the Askhan throne, the Crown of the Blood perched uncomfortably on Urikh's head. The Crown was unimportant now, just a symbol and nothing more. Lakhyri had reversed the rites that had placed the spirit of his brother Askhos into the iron and gold, rendering the Crown inert. It meant nothing to Lakhyri that he had set his brother's spirit adrift from its anchor; Askhos had not only failed to deliver the empire the Eulanui desired, Lakhyri was beginning to suspect that his brother had secretly reneged on the deal that had granted him virtual immortality.
The rare blunders, the mistake with Cosuas that had allowed a pregnant court whore to give birth to Ullsaard, and the slowing of the empire's expansion pointed to either growing sloppiness on the part of Askhos, or a desire to forestall the inevitable day when he would have to hand over his dominions to his true masters.
That day was now fast approaching and Lakhyri could not afford to suffer any more delays. He had laughed at how easy it had been to manoeuvre the other pieces into position. First Ullsaard, then the true heir Erlaan, and now bringing forth his secret piece in the game, Urikh, each had gone through the motions of rulership, but soon it would be time for the pretence to end. The Eulanui would return, and Lakhyri would be their regent on this world, for time eternal.
Parchment-like skin etched with scars and faded tattoos creased as Lakhyri allowed himself a slight smile; an almost unheard-of indulgence for the high priest.
"You sent for me, King Urikh?" asked Lakhyri. He bobbed his head a fraction in mimicry of a bow, but nothing more.
"You are sure that my father is aware of what we have done?" asked Urikh. He was dressed in a simple tunic and light kilt, his skinny arms wrapped about by golden torcs and bracelets, his slender fingers now adorned with jewelled rings. He far more resembled his mother in slightness and elegance than he did his father. She, Luia, was sat on a chair beside the throne, like a queen, although to Lakhyri it seemed the son's dedication to his mother had waned immediately he had come to the palace to claim what he saw as his birthright.
"Though I have removed the curse that had been placed upon the Crown, my king, the act of doing so was immediately made known to Ullsaard. The moment you placed the Crown upon your head, he was aware of what you had done. I expect he is returning to Askh as we speak."
"And what will he do when he arrives?" demanded Urikh.
"You know what he will do," answered Luia, before Lakhyri could say the same. It had been centuries since Lakhyri had had any sensation approaching an interest in the female flesh, but there was something about Luia's keen intellect, ruthless attitude and straightforward manner that reminded Lakhyri of his long-dead wife. "He will try to take the Crown from you."
"As your mother says, so I concur," said Lakhyri. "It is my hope that he underestimates the resistance he will meet here."
"And the Brotherhood, they spread the word across the empire that my father has been slain. How do we stop rumour of his return from spreading equally fast? If we wish to maintain the fallacy that he has been killed campaigning in Salphoria, it will be no good having him strolling into Askh."
"Do not fear on that account, my king," said Lakhyri. "Ullsaard is a marked man. He will no sooner approach Askh than a man can touch the moon. The eyes and ears of the Brotherhood seek your father, and I have located just the man to turn the myth of your father's demise into a reality."
"This man, who is he?" asked Luia. As she leaned forward, her pale blue dress parted at thigh and breast, revealing white skin. Lakhyri ignored the distraction and looked into her calculating eyes. "Can we trust him?"
"It is better that you do not know who it is," replied Lakhyri. "And no, we cannot trust him at all, but I already have that matter in hand also. One of my most dedicated Brothers is handling the situation."
"The details of Ullsaard's death cannot be public," declared Urikh. "If you cannot trust this assassin, why use him?"
"I use this man because there is not a man alive, including those in this chamber, who have a greater reason for wanting Ullsaard dead. Assassins can
be paid, but this man will kill Ullsaard for revenge. No money brings that sort of dedication."
THEDRAAN, ERSUA
Autumn, 213th Year of Askh
The crowds parted for the black robes of a Brother, allowing Leraates to pass easily though the marketplace. The town of Thedraan was heaving, the market one of the last opportunities for families and business to set in stores before the winter snows came down from the Altes Hills that rose from the Ersuan farmlands less than a dozen miles to duskwards.
Animals alive and dead, cereals and vegetables, pots and pans, timber and furniture, all were on display. Thedraan had grown in the last half-year from a small summer town to a bustling market junction, benefitting hugely from the traffic that was pouring into newly conquered Salphoria. Leraates' overt reason was to talk to the headman and headwoman – a welcoming, aging couple named Rainaan and Thyrisa – about the construction of a Brotherhood precinct to attend to the rapidly growing town's administrative and judicial demands. This provided an explanation for the presence of Leraates, a senior member of the brethren, in a backwater like Thedraan.
His real reason was to find a man. Lakhyri had been very specific, and his message-dream had brought Leraates back from Salphoria to hunt for this fellow. His face had been fixed in the Brother's thoughts since he had received the dreamcall from his master, and he spied the chubby features of his goal across the stalls of the market. He did not know the man's name – the dream-image had been too vague for such details – but he was important to Lakhyri's plans.
The target was selling garments for women from a handcart about fifty paces away, his voice louder than all of the other traders as he yelled his seller's banter. He was wide of girth, dressed in a strange mix of Salphorian and Ersuan clothes – a bright red shirt that was clearly made in the empire, over checked woollen trousers woven on the handlooms of the Salphors. On his head he wore a black and white bandana, darkened with sweat from his curly blonde hair. The man was constantly looking around and his gaze fell upon Leraates for a brief moment. His reaction was immediate, his spiel coming to a stop and becoming apologies to disappointed customers as he swept a canvas cover over his cart and started to waddle off through the crowd.
Leraates quickened his pace, but the throng of people meant that he lost sight of his quarry on a couple of occasions. After the second time, the man was nowhere to be seen. Leraates broke into a jog, heading up the main road from the market, following the direction he had last seen the fleeing man. Though the town had seen high fortunes of late, Thedraan was still smaller than many settlements in the empire, and there was no warren of roads or maze of back alleys that could provide shelter for a fugitive.
Darting down the gap between two buildings, Leraates came upon an upended handcart. He pushed it out of the way and rounded the corner in time to see the fat man, or at least someone in a similar scarlet shirt, entering one of the food tents pitched up on the town's outskirts for the duration of the market.
Leraates had spent much of his life walking from one precinct to another across the length and breadth of the empire, but he was no trained runner. He was short of breath by the time he reached the tent. The door flaps were open to let smoke and the steam of kettles and cauldrons seep out. He ducked into the fume, the sweat-sodden collar of his robe itching against his neck.
The light was poor beneath the canvas roof, despite the window openings in the sides of the tent, and the eating area showed no sign of the red-shirted man. Leraates saw that there was another doorway opposite and headed towards it. He stopped a couple of paces later as he heard raised voices from behind the reed screen that separated the dining customers from the kitchen fires. There was an angry shout and the noise of a large pan being dropped.
Leraates headed around the partition and almost ran into a red-faced woman picking up chopped onions from the floor.
"Have you seen a large man in a red shirt?" he demanded.
The woman looked up with a scowl, about to unleash abuse for this further disturbance. Her expression became one of surprise and then contrition when she saw the Brother's robes. She pointed to a door flap behind set of shelves laden with dishes.
"He spilt my onions," said the woman, her frown returning. "I hope you cut off his balls."
"Thank you for your help," said Leraates. He made no comment on the suggested punishment, and stepped past the woman to head for the exit.
The opening from the cook tent led out onto a small stretch of grass surrounded by the two-storey houses of Thedraan's small but distinguished nobility. Leraates had been here earlier in the day with the headfolk and all looked as before. There was no sign of the man in the red shirt.
Walking across the cropped grass, he searched for a sign of where his quarry had gone. The man certainly moved nimbly for someone of his size. With this came a thought that caused Leraates to stop. He looked over the closely trimmed grass of the lawn. Sinking to a crouch, he looked again. To his right was the telltale darkness of bent grass blades, a line of footprints cutting straight across the grass, heading towards the right-hand corner of the little courtyard.
Leraates covered the lawn at a quick trot. On arriving at the pavement, he was gratified to see a few droplets on the paving slabs. It had not rained in Thedraan for several days and the stone was otherwise dry. The wetness had to be sweat from the fat man.
Looking around the corner of the end house, the Brother saw that the path led down a short hill to a cobbled street. It took him no time at all to jog down the street, but as he reached the junction, he came to more traffic. Three wagons were rolling past, and there was a boy herding a flock of geese across the road behind them, causing a small crowd to gather as the birds ambled past.
There was no sign of red shirt or large man. Leraates stepped back and leaned against the timbers of a merchant's store behind him, catching his breath. Lakhyri had been exceptionally insistent that the man in the red shirt had to be the one to kill Ullsaard. Leraates was not sure why this had to be the case, he himself would happily slip a knife between the usurper's ribs if given the chance, but he had not become a senior Brother by second-guessing the high priest or his motivations.
"Excuse me, Brother?" Leraates looked over his shoulder at the sound of a man's voice. There was a wiry, middle-aged man standing with his felt hat in his hands, a slightly apologetic look on his stubbled face.
"Yes?"
"I saw you all running there, Brother, and I thought that perhaps you might be chasing the large fellow what came dashing across the road not more than ten heartbeats before you turned up. Had I known he was running from a Brother, I would have tried to grab him for you. Am I right?"
"You are right, citizen," said Leraates, patting the man on the shoulder and offering him a smile of genuine gratitude. "I need to speak with him."
"He went into the drinking den across the road," the concerned citizen said, pointing to a wooden building with bright yellow paint liberally washed across its boards. Serving maids moved about the fenced enclosure beside the tavern, bringing trays of drinks to thirsty market goers sat on benches that had been pulled out to make the most of the dying autumn sunshine.
"Thank you, citizen," said Leraates. He reached into the breast of his robe and pulled a Brotherhood token from an inner pocket. It was made of dark wood, carved in the shape of the Crown. He dropped it into the man's palm and curled his fingers around it. "When the next Brother comes for your half-year's taxes, give him this and tell him why you have it. It will stand in lieu of your payment."
"A half-year's taxes?" The man stared at the token as if it was made of pure iron, and then stuffed it into the fold of his cloth belt with a surreptitious glance around. "Thank you, brother. Thank you!"
"It is you that have the gratitude, of the Brotherhood and the empire," said Leraates. Having regained both his breath and his composure, the Brother gave the man another pat on the shoulder and stepped out into the road at a more even pace.
When he reaching t
he drinking establishment, he inquired of the large man's presence with one of the maids, and was informed that the red-shirted fugitive was renting rooms upstairs. She was kind enough to furnish Leraates with directions, and like the man in the street was rewarded for her dedication to Imperial service with a half-year tax token.
Leraates had to suppress a rebellious smile as he walked into the dark interior of the tavern and turned towards the stairwell to the left of the main doors. If Lakhyri's plans came to fruition, there would be no tax collections in the spring. In fact, there would not be very much of anything at all.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Leraates orientated himself. To his left the corridor ran for a few paces. There was room enough for one door before it ended at the outer wall, where a small window looked down over the courtyard by the road. To the right, the passageway contained three more doors and then turned to the right again. There was light from a window at the far end too, but no lamps or candles in the sconces on the walls. It was a dingy little place, and Leraates wondered how the manner of man that took such rude lodgings could be of any interest to Lakhyri.
