Snatching the letter from the solider without so much as a glance at the man himself, he moved back up the steps, studying it as he climbed.
“The seal looks real,” Naizer told Ekene so that only he could hear. “I would assume it is safe to open.”
The Tash held out his hand, and his Second deposited the scroll in his palm before returning to his own throne.
It took a moment or two for Ekene’s shaking fingers to break the wax insignia, a black circle embossed with a curving letter “M”. When he managed, he unrolled the parchment carefully in his lap, squinting down at it. After his tired eyes finally found their focus, he read the contents slowly, carefully taking in the words, his mood growing more troubled with every line. When he finished, he handed the message back to Naizer, then addressed the kneeling group on the court floor.
“‘Adrion Blaeth.’” He quoted the signature which had been scrawled along the bottom of the page. “At last I put a name to this infamous master of Miropa.”
For the first time, Na’zeem twitched, his face—only for the briefest instant—curling involuntarily into something like irritation. When he spoke, though, his voice was even. Ekene made no comment to the behavior, but noted it well.
A man who did not respect his master was a man who needed to be watched.
“A great man,” Na’zeem agreed. “And the danger he wishes to warn you of is just as great.”
“‘Raz i’Syul Arro,’” Naizer iterated from the Tash’s left, his eyes still on the letter. “We’ve heard that name before, I believe. Some months ago…”
“Yes…” Ekene said slowly, pretending he needed a moment to place the name. “The atherian responsible for the death of the former šef of Miropa. I recall. We hosted many riders, carrying the news and spreading word of the bounty.” He paused, considering the figures still kneeling below him. “You believe he is coming here? To Perce?”
In response, Na’zeem looked over his shoulder at the man on one knee at his right. “Speak,” he commanded simply.
At once, this second face lifted to the Tash.
“I have it on good authority that the Monster sails south even as we speak,” the man said. He was younger than his superior, but carried himself with nearly all the same calm power. “A captain, in a smuggler’s hideaway along the eastern coast of the Northern realm. He assured me the atherian boarded a vessel headed for your shores, great Tash, a ship dubbed ‘the Sylgid.’”
Ekene glanced at Naizer, but when his Second shook his head he turned back to the speaker. “We do not know of this vessel. When did you hear of this news?”
“Ehmed gathered this information nearly seven weeks past, great Tash.” It was Na’zeem who spoke again now, and his man—Ehmed—ducked his head respectfully again. “It has taken us that many weeks to assemble and ride hard for your lands to deliver it.”
“If you intended to do nothing more than ‘deliver news,’ a bird would have sufficed,” Ekene said stiffly, shifting to sit more comfortably in his throne. “What is this ‘assistance’ you seek?”
Na’zeem bobbed his head in agreement. “Indeed, great Tash. We come personally because we have been tasked by our master with delivering the head of the Monster ourselves. In the lands of the South and North, he wouldn't have been hard to track. Within your borders, however…”
“He’ll have an easier time moving in plain sight,” Naizer finished, rubbing his cheek thoughtfully. “Yes. I can see how that would be a problem…”
“What is it you would ask of us?” Ekene demanded, resting his elbows on the arms of his seat and leaning forward. “A trap, I’m assuming?”
Na’zeem, though, shook his head. “No, great Tash,” he said. “At least not as of yet. We do not at present know where or when the beast will land. He could already be on your shores. Your esteemed Second—” he nodded respectfully to Naizer “—is correct, however. Even winged, it would be easy enough for Arro to conceal himself among the enslaved of his kind. It will be difficult to rout him alone.”
“‘Alone?’” the Tash repeated with a frown. “You imply he travels with others?”
“One other,” Na’zeem corrected, and a cruel smile spread across his face. “A woman. A Laorin Priestess of some renown, named Syrah Brahnt.”
“Brahnt?” Ekene rolled the strange syllables over his tongue curiously. He had heard of the Laorin, a faith of pacifists and mages, but he knew little about the specifics of their ranks and practices. “So he travels with a Northerner. How does that help us? Our borders are open. She will not be the only fair-skinned woman in the land, even in the company of lizard-kind.”
“You might be surprised,” Na’zeem said, his smile growing wider. “Syrah Brahnt is an albino, and has only one eye.”
Ekene raised an eyebrow. “An albino, you say? And one eye…” He leaned back in his chair, contemplating this.
The lands of Perce were not as harsh as the Cienbal and the fringe cities north of them. It was a verdant, lusher land, a place where the Sun’s gaze was kinder in the day and the nights—under the watchful eye of the Moon and Her Stars—were always cool and pleasant even in summer. Albinos were not unheard of, to be sure. They were curiosities, in fact, often sold by parents to the slavers for a good price at a young age, but they could survive nonetheless. Still… an albino woman, and with only one eye…
Surely she wouldn't be that hard to find.
“And in exchange for my assistance?” Ekene boomed. “What is your master willing to offer? I assume you don’t expect me to grant the services of my spies and soldiers freely.”
“Certainly not,” Na’zeem answered with a nod. “The bounty for Arro’s head stands at twenty thousand, and it appears the Priestess has earned a price on hers as well. Some five thousand Northern gold.”
“Just over twenty-six thousand, five hundred Southern crowns total,” Naizer whispered to Ekene, doing some quick conversions. “A sizable sum.”
Despite this, the Tash narrowed his black eyes at the group below. He knew well how to play the negotiator. “A mere pittance,” he said flatly. “Barely what I allow my attendants to spend on clothes and perfumes for my wives. Come, surely your šef knows to do better than that.”
Na’zeem no longer looked amused. His eyes were cold, dead things, and his mouth was a flat line.
“I have been given permission, also,” he said flatly, “to offer Your Greatness a deduction on all heads provided by the Mahsadën through the fullness of the next cool season.”
To Ekene’s left, Naizer sat forward abruptly. “What sort of deduction?” he asked almost greedily.
“Three percent.”
Naizer’s eyes went wide, and he drew an abacus from the sleeves of his robes—a sort of wooden frame with hollowed beads slotted across a number of perpendicular iron rods, used for calculating sums. With a dozen quick motions he did the maths, and when he looked around at the Tash he seemed impressed.
“Nearly two hundred thousand crowns,” he said in a hissed whisper. “Assuming averages of the last five seasons.”
Ekene couldn’t keep the surprise from passing over his face. “Your master must desire this ‘Monster’s’ head quite desperately, to offer that,” he said, turning back to Na’zeem. Then he narrowed his eyes again. “I assume I am expected to provide you and your men with food and lodgings in the meantime? If I had to venture a guess—” his eyes moved over the nine kneeling forms “—I would say you plan to see this through to the end.”
Na’zeem nodded slowly. “You will find us very useful, I think, once we root out the lizard and his whore. He owes us a debt, you see. In the meantime, I am to place myself and my men at your disposal.”
Ekene grunted at that, then sat back in his throne and waved them away. “Have word sent to Blaeth that I accept his proposal. My Second—” he glanced at Naizer “—will see to it that you are housed and fed, as well as provided with clean clothes and servants.”
“With pleasure,” Naizer said quickly
, standing up and brushing out the creases from his robes before starting down the dais. “Anything to get out of that damn chair.”
“Thank you, Your Greatness,” Na’zeem said, standing up. The other eight copied him as quickly as reflections in a mirror. “My master will be most pleased.”
Ekene mumbled something, pretending he held little interest in them now that the matter was done. He watched, though, as Na’zeem and his men followed Naizer out of the hall again, still flanked on either side by the palace guard. When they were gone, the courtiers—who had been mercifully stricken into silence throughout the entire audience—all began talking at once. For a minute or two Ekene allowed the drone of their voices to wash against him, he himself sitting quietly as he turned over this new information in his head.
When he’d had enough, the Tash sat up straight in his chair, pointing to the doors.
“All of you!” he thundered. “Out!”
Silence fell over the room at once, and a hundred faces turned toward him.
“Your Greatness,” simpering Lord Ubede Nyko began, braving an approach of the dais, “should we not stay? Perhaps you will be in need of our council. The Monster of Karth is a subject of great interest to all our—”
“I couldn’t care less what fuels your circles of gossips, Nyko” Ekene snarled. “As for your council: when I need advice on how to powder my nose, I will ask for it. Now—and you are all fools to make me repeat myself—I. Said. OUT!”
This time his words struck true. The lords and ladies of the city sensed the danger, because with many bows and terrified glances back at him, they scurried for the open doors. Ekene watched them hasten up the great steps to the entrance, many of the women tripping over dresses that were too long or losing shoes so ludicrous they never should have been thought of in the first place. When the last of the nobles had gone, vanishing up to the palace’s ground floor, the Tash leaned back.
“Koro. Attend me.”
This time, in the absolute silence of the hall, Ekene heard the whisper of movement behind him. Like a wraith, a man appeared at his side, stepping out from behind his throne to stand at his left, between his seat and Naizer’s recently vacated one. He was dressed all in black, his leather armor and the dyed hilt of his sword all as dark as his skin, making him seem like night made real. Only the whites of his eyes contrasted with the rest of his figure, and when his spoke his teeth were bright behind his lips.
“You were right to fear that man,” the Third Hand said. “Na’zeem. He seems to possess all the potential of a powerful adversary.”
“Or ally,” Ekene said, looking down at the spot the man in question had been kneeling. “Truthfully, he reminded me of you.”
The Third Hand smirked at the thought, and it was a look that sent a shiver up the Tash’s spine. The man had appeared in his bedchambers some six months past without so much as a whisper, much less a cry of alarm from the soldiers of the palace. Once he’d made it clear he intended to do Ekene no harm, the Tash had immediately taken him into his service, informing only Yseri and Naizer of the choice. Koro was not well-loved by either of the other Hands, but—in Ekene’s opinion—had of late proven more useful than both of the others put together.
“So Arro comes here?” the Third said pensively. “Good.”
“Could you defeat him, if it came down to it?” the Tash asked, watching the man carefully. “Your spies speak of him like they would a ghost, or a god. They call him ‘Dragon’ now, correct?”
The man nodded, his dark eyes on the light of the Sun streaming through the glass above them. “They do. I’m told he earned that title besting the greatest warrior of the Northern mountain clans. He is formidable, without a doubt. Perhaps even more so now than when I knew him.”
“But can you beat him?” Ekene repeated, annoyed.
Beside him, the man’s eyes narrowed as he considered the variables. “Alone? Doubtful. With some help from our new friends, though…” His gaze dropped down to where Na’zeem and his men had knelt. “Clearly I am not the only one holding a grudge. Assuming these ‘envoys’ could have killed everyone in this room without so much as batting an eye, nine seems an odd number for such a detachment, doesn’t it?”
“You think there are more?” the Tash asked with a frown, suddenly fearing more visitors in the night.
“No,” the Third said with a shake of his head. “I think there were more.”
The chill within Ekene deepened.
Dragon, he thought privately. What kind of beast has the Sun seen fit to deliver onto my lands?
“See to it,” he said sharply. “I put Na’zeem and his company in your hands. I want the lizard dead before he gets the idea that he can do to us what he did to the Mahsadën.”
When the Third answered, his voice brimmed with nothing short of predatory anticipation.
“With pleasure,” Azzeki Koro said.
CHAPTER 25
"Is it not fascinating to consider the varied cultures of the world? Even within the borders of any known realm, society splits and diverges. The city-dwellers of the South, for example, have little in common with the nomadic trade caravans or the desert mercenaries they call the ‘sarydâ.’ To the North, it is only the will of the Laorin that maintains a tentative balance between the valley towns and the men of the mountain clans. Most interesting—and terrible—of all, though, are the savannahs of Perce, where the citizens of Karesh Syl and Karesh Nan wish nothing more than to bring the wild kuja under their thumb, all while ignoring the largely more savage culture which has bred itself along their coasts…”
—An Expanded Study of the Modern World, by Adolûs Fenn
Almost two weeks after the storm had nearly dragged them to the bottom of the sea, the call came. Raz was in the captain’s quarters, playing an odd game of cards and dice with Argoan on the small table bolted into the corner of the cabin, when they heard the shout. At first it was faint, dulled by the closed door, but as Raz’s ears perked up he made out the word clearly when it came again.
“Land,” he repeated for the captain. “They've spotted the coast.”
Argoan blinked in surprise, then his painted face split into a grin. “See?” he asked gruffly, hurrying to scoot himself from under the table and climb to his feet. “Told you I’d get you there without much trouble.”
Raz snorted. While Garht Argoan had never outright thanked him or Syrah for saving his life, the man had made his appreciation clear in other ways. They’d spoken in the weeks before the storm, of course, even been friendly at times, but as their journey came to a close the captain seemed intent on making it clear their assistance had not gone unnoticed. He’d taken to inviting the pair of them to share meals with him, which meant much better rations than the hardtack and salted meat in the crew’s quarters. What leisure time his position allowed he sought to spend teaching them the ways of the sea, and the little the pair of them had picked up in the first month-and-a-half of the passage was soon eclipsed by everything they took in under the captain’s guidance. They’d spent several days learning how to harness the wind from any direction by shifting the angle of the sails, then how to measure depth and speed using knotted ropes dipped into the water. He’d shown them how to communicate between other vessels they passed in the trade lanes via a pair of small mirrors he and Lysa kept in their pockets, then even how to handle the ship’s wheel itself. Most useful of all, on clear evenings he convinced them to leave the warmth of their lodgings to learn how to read Her Stars, showing them how to navigate by night. Before long, both Raz and Syrah felt as though they could have helmed the Sylgid on their own.
By the time they entered Percian waters, Argoan—despite apparently being unable to voice his gratitude aloud—had made it clear they’d earned their places aboard his ship several times over.
As the captain passed him, Raz threw his cards on the table and stood to follow the man. He blinked against the brightness of the day when Argoan pushed open the cabin door, shading his eyes before ste
pping out into the Sun. It was another mercifully clear day. The gulls, which had returned to the ship earlier that morning, seemed to have multiplied in the hours they’d wasted away at their games, circling the masts and settling to flap their wings and call to one another along the railings of the ship. The sails—the main having long since been repaired and brought to bear again over a spare oar they’d whittled down to replace the broken boom—fluttered gently in a calm wind. The sky was mottled blue, peppered by a scattering of wispy clouds that did nothing to block the Sun’s glare at its peak high above them. As Raz glanced skyward, closing one eye and squinting up with the other, he made out the hazy outline of the crow’s nest at the very top of the rigging. A sailor—he couldn’t make out who against the light—was still calling out, pointing westward.
As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4) Page 27
