Nemesis

by Anna Banks

  “This is enough spectorium to trade for three months’ worth of food at the Squa—the Bazaar, don’t you think?” I’ve no idea what this spectorium will fetch, but at the moment I’d trade it for food myself. My stomach growls, as if in encouragement.

  “Well now, mistress, it looks to be plenty valuable to me, but I’ve no experience with trading spectorium, you see. And if it’s all the same to you, we’ll wait to see what Rolan thinks of it.” Before I can protest, Chut grabs my arm, yanking it behind my back and securing the rope, binding me even tighter than before. He moves much quicker than I’d expected, which makes me second-guess my original plan to run. He’s fast with his hands, but is he fast on his feet as well? If he had to give chase, would he overtake me after all?

  Gently, Chut props me up against the rock again and straightens out my skirt. He returns to his place across the fire, cradling the spectorium in both hands as delicately as one would handle an uncooked egg. Inexplicably, I appreciate watching him inspect the ball, turning it over and over in his hands and waving it in front of his face to see the light move. I wonder where Chut comes from. Obviously Theorian, but why did he decide to become a thief and a kidnapper? I wonder if he decided it at all. Sometimes our fates are handed to us. Sometimes there is no deciding for ourselves. I, especially, can appreciate that.

  I hope that my escape doesn’t require me to hurt Chut.

  “What have you got there?” a voice calls from just outside the reach of the fire’s light.

  “The Mistress Sepora is trading us a ball of spectorium to let her go on her way,” Chut calls toward the voice.

  After a few moments, a tall, thin man appears at the edge of the firelight. He shares many of Chut’s features, though his are not so horrifically pronounced; they could be related. Brothers, even. Thrown over his shoulder is an enormous fish that appears too heavy for a lanky man such as himself to be carrying. In his other hand he carries a pair of dead snakes. The size of the knife tucked into his belt is enough to make me shiver.

  So. This is Rolan. The thinker.

  “What have you got there, Rolan?” Chut perks up, eyeing the fin hanging across the man’s chest.

  Rolan laughs, smugness engulfing his expression as he swings around to show the other half of the fish. Chut and I gasp when we see not a fish, but a face. A blue, slimy face with round black eyes set in hollowed cheeks, a mouth with large lips gagged with some sort of leaved vine pulled tightly so that its mouth stretches open a bit. A head with a pointed ridge protruding at the top, which looks like a tiny mountain range running from the forehead down the creature’s back. Arms, bound. And the hands. Webbed hands splayed out and bound together at the wrists.

  A Parani.

  Rolan has captured a Parani. And a live one at that.

  8

  TARIK

  Now Tarik knows why his father always complained of how small his throne was. Having the same large build as his brother and father, Tarik has difficulty getting comfortable in the cramped, unaccommodating seat. Of course, it has a high, elaborately decorated marble back and lion heads for armrests—which Rashidi has had commissioned to change to falcon heads—but the seat itself is narrow and hard. Still, having a throne that engulfs the king would look much less intimidating to visitors and foreign emissaries, which would be completely unacceptable.

  And so Tarik tries to keep from squirming in the marble chair as best he can. Perhaps he could manage better if the ornamental gold paint he must wear on his entire body were not so stifling. Each of his pores on his face, his shoulders, his arms, legs, and back—they all seem to absorb the stuff, which requires his attendants to give him many touch-ups at intervals throughout the day. Then, too, there is the enormous, jewel-encrusted golden headdress he must wear, which towers over him like an extra appendage.

  Why a king must appear as a golden statue, he is not sure. It’s nearly impossible not to feel ridiculous and a bit pretentious in this meddlesome attire. Do other kings make such a show of holding domestic court? He makes a note to ask Rashidi, though the old adviser will likely say something to the effect of “Theoria is unlike all other kingdoms” or something else as traditional and unbudging.

  Rashidi announces the next caller. “Cy, a Healer of the Lyceum of Favored Ones.”

  Tarik perks up. He is not often visited by Healers outside of his council sessions in his day chambers; he hopes this could be news in the wake of the monotony of silence he’s received from the Lyceum. The Quiet Plague has begun to trickle into the Middling class and all the Healers have done so far is found a way to at least stifle the bleeding—sometimes. But squelching the bleeding does little more than make the affair of dying a little less horrific. Hopefully, the Healer here today is not attending over a mere mundane dispute with another citizen.

  After being introduced, Cy the Healer makes his way nervously to the center of the throne room and kneels before Tarik, bowing his head deeply, his chin nearly touching his chest. Tarik wants to tell him to get on with it, to stand up already, but Rashidi would likely pass away directly if he were to shun tradition so openly.

  As it is, Tarik calls on him the moment it’s appropriate to do so. “You may stand, Cy the Healer. What do you ask of me, friend?” Cy is young, very young. Possibly thirteen years, maybe twelve at that. Addressing him as friend seems to put the juvenile Healer at ease.

  “My king,” Cy says, “I must speak to you in private. I know it is not the way of things, but the matter is urgent.”

  Tarik can feel the tension and disapproval radiating off of Rashidi, who stands next to him in rapt attention. “That would be unwise, Highness,” Rashidi whispers, bristling with unrest. “You must not show favoritism at court.”

  Tarik considers, watching Cy, assessing his body language. Cy has an urgent message, is what he concludes. Or at least, a message that Cy himself considers urgent. Tarik glances up at Rashidi, who is trying very hard to convey his displeasure without coming right out and expressing it again. Tarik smiles, and Rashidi sighs in resignation.

  “I have much respect for Healers, young Cy,” Tarik says. “How old are you, exactly?”

  Cy lifts his chin. “I’m but thirteen years, Highness. But sometimes age is not a limit, as you yourself may understand.”

  Clever. And brave. If anything, Tarik is amused by Cy, which is more than he can say for any of the other callers this morning. They’ve offered nothing but disputes over trades at the market, debates over the proper dowry for engagements, and bickering over land boundaries. A private meeting with a young Healer surely guarantees an interesting end to a tedious day. “Guards, please escort him to my day chambers, and I will meet with him shortly after court.”

  “Thank you, my king,” Cy says, bowing even as he’s being led away.

  The rest of the afternoon drags on as Tarik becomes more and more curious about Cy the young Healer. At his age, he couldn’t be close to completing his term at the Lyceum, and even if he were, only the top mentors from the Lyceum ever visit the king with pressing matters. The fact that an apprentice Healer has come to him has him nearly spilling out of his tiny throne.

  There are so many small, repetitive matters to handle, from the settlement of a merchant dispute over chicken theft, to an accusation of adultery from a relatively wealthy Superior, and ending with an emissary from the ice kingdom of Hemut, who extends an invitation for a visit from King Ankor and his daughter—which will probably be a poorly disguised proposal of marriage between himself and the Princess Tulle. The latter turns his stomach, especially since Rashidi perked up when it was time for the emissary to be announced. First Sethos and now Rashidi, all pressing upon him to marry. As if he doesn’t have plenty of problems already, all of which seem to be presented at court. Not that some cases aren’t interesting, but do they all require the attention of the king? Tarik decides to consult with Rashidi about this after the session has adjourned. Surely a council could be appointed to handle such mundane matters so he can atten
d to the more compelling cases. In fact, all of today’s petitions seem to pale in comparison to the fact that a thirteen-year-old Healer had the courage to request a private meeting with him.

  After court, it’s late in the day and time for his evening meal, but once again, Tarik finds a matter more pressing than food. Down the corridors, he keeps a pace too fast for Rashidi and must slow down several times for the adviser to stay in stride with him.

  “Perhaps we could move your private day chamber closer to the throne room, Highness,” Rashidi says dryly. “If you intend to entertain many more juveniles.”

  “You’re not the least bit interested in what he has to say?”

  “He’s breaking tradition by presenting in court, Highness. Whatever could be so important that he would fail to advise his tutors of it?”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” Tarik says, entering the double doors of his chamber. He motions for the guards to shut them. After he and Rashidi have settled in their seats, Tarik leans across the marble table, facing Cy, and folds his hands upon it.

  Cy swallows, allowing Tarik to see that he’s both nervous and excited.

  “My adviser Rashidi is joining us,” Tarik informs the boy. “And Rashidi is wondering why such a Healer of thirteen years would be presenting in court instead of one of the Masters of the Favored Ones.”

  “My king, I am a Master,” Cy says. And as astonishing as it is, Cy is telling the truth. One does not normally reach Master level until age seventeen at the earliest. Cy must be rather brilliant. And by his expression, rather humble.

  “One so young?” Rashidi says. Then recognition falls upon his face. “Ah, but I’ve heard of this one.”

  “It’s true, then,” Tarik says to himself more than the old man. “So, an eighteen-year-old king and a thirteen-year-old Master Healer have convened to a meeting. Tell me why that is, Cy.”

  Cy takes a deep breath, one that Tarik gets the sense he will use thoroughly. “As you know, my king, a plague has stricken the Superior class and makes its way through the Middlings. I believe it will not be long before it pervades all the classes; the rumors that it doesn’t touch the Baseborn are preposterous, I assure you. And I’d like to try some experiments that the other Masters consider … unconventional.”

  Tarik nods for him to continue, his pulse picking up. Not only news of the plague but also finally an offering of help. It’s more than he’d hoped for this day.

  “You see, the plague strikes healthy and fragile alike. The healthy, of course, have a better chance of fighting it and surviving.”

  “Have there been survivors, then?” If so, he has not been informed of it.

  Cy licks his lips. “No. But it is my assumption, of course, that the healthy would stand a better chance. Oh, my apologies, Highness, I’ve forgotten to offer condolences for your father, the Warrior King. The kingdom has suffered an immense loss with his passing.”

  Tarik feels his body tense. “Yes, it has, Cy. Thank you. As you were saying?”

  “Yes, my king. As I was saying. It strikes strong and weak. And by weak, I do not just mean old.” Tarik nearly bursts out laughing when Cy glances at Rashidi. “What I mean is, even young ones who would normally be healthy, but whose bodies are not as resistant to certain illnesses, are more likely to die from this plague. As I said, my solution is unconventional. The other Masters have insisted that I obtain your permission before taking such a … unique approach in finding the cure. They have refused to support me in this request.”

  So far, everything Cy says is what he believes to be true. “And what approach would that be, Cy?”

  The boy Master Healer sits up in his seat and leans forward as if to tell a secret. “I mean to inject the sick with spectorium, Highness.”

  Tarik feels his mouth fall slightly ajar. “Inject them? Why?” And how exactly, is what he also wants to ask. But Cy must be made to feel comfortable. He must offer his explanation in his own time, Tarik senses.

  At this, Cy sucks in a breath. “Spectorium, as you know, is a source of great power. I believe the weak ones would benefit from such power in their bloodstream. That their bodies would use it to heal, rather than allow the plague to overtake them.”

  “Injecting spectorium into a person would kill them,” Rashidi says, affronted. “No one would possibly allow that.”

  Cy shakes his head. “I would need volunteers, of course. But I’ve injected rats with liquefied spectorium, rats infected with a severe stomach pestilence. They lived, Highness, where their untreated counterparts died within days.” How he could inject the element into a living thing is beyond Tarik. Spectorium must be superheated to melt it down to liquid form; surely it would burn the patient from the inside out. However, once again, Cy tells the truth. He must have found a humane way to do it—or at least, Tarik hopes he did.

  “Rats are not people,” Rashidi admonishes. Clearly the aged adviser agrees with the Masters in that this is not a conventional treatment.

  Perhaps we’ve been too conventional all this time.

  “No, they are certainly not,” Cy concedes. “But by my calculations, this plague could wipe out the entire kingdom in a little over two years. It will spread through Anyar first, then it will make its way to the outer cities and, of course, to other kingdoms, if it hasn’t already. I think administering spectorium to a few volunteers is worth the effort, Highness. Otherwise, disaster is on our horizon.”

  Tarik leans back and contemplates. It worked on rats, but with a completely different illness. Could it really work on people with the Quiet Plague? Will the people take his request for volunteers seriously? It’s much for a new king to ask. It’s much for anyone to ask. Which is probably why Cy requested a private meeting.

  “We’ve a problem, Cy,” Rashidi says, less agitated. Perhaps he sees the urgency of the matter as well. “Spectorium is no longer available to us. The Serubelan king has gone mad after the loss of his daughter—though I think we can agree judging from history it was only a matter of time—and refuses to trade it.”

  A rumor, Tarik detects. And one that is not true. “The king has his reasons for not trading,” he says, “but mourning the loss of his daughter is not one.”

  Rashidi slumps his shoulders. “I was hoping it was, Highness. We’ve already sent out runners to deliver our condolences, but I had thought to make more of an effort to comfort him. Perhaps he would have come around.”

  Tarik nods at his adviser, but this is not the time to speak of such things. Rashidi seems to realize this all at once. He clears his throat and folds his hands in his lap, looking back at Cy. “Well then, young Cy, how do you propose we call for volunteers without causing a panic? Obviously the other Masters—who are older and more experienced than you—disagree with your theory.”

  “We won’t call for volunteers,” Tarik says decisively. Both men look at him in surprise.

  “Highness?” Rashidi says. “We cannot force such a thing on the people. It would start a riot.”

  “You misunderstand me,” Tarik says. He turns his attention back to Cy. “The other Masters are right not to accept your theory. You’ve only tested it on rats. When you come to me again, Cy, you’ll need to bring me more evidence. Test every sick thing you stumble upon—except people. Then we will talk more.”

  “But Highness, how will I procure the spectorium? By your own words, there will be a shortage of it very soon.”

  Tarik scratches the back of his neck. He cannot force the king of Serubel to trade his spectorium. Though if Sethos had his way, he’d be marching an army to Serubel to do just that. His brother has grown short of temper of late. Perhaps Tarik should send him to the harem after all. He would recoil at the thought of using the palace’s spectorium instead of demanding it from the Serubelan king himself. Just like their father likely would, though the peace treaty they signed long ago, when Sethos and Tarik were just children, forbids it.

  No, he cannot force the king. He can only encourage him.

  Stil
l, Cy is right; if the Serubelans don’t open up trade soon, there will be a kingdom-wide shortage of it. His gaze rests on Rashidi. “Call a council session first thing tomorrow morning. If the Lyceum—if Cy—needs spectorium, we will give him all we can spare.”

  “We use it frugally as it is, Highness.”

  Rashidi is right; they do. Except for the pyramids—which are built completely from spectorium. But Tarik is not about to tear down their ancient monuments to the dead. Especially since only the newest ones may be used—the spectorium in the older pyramids has long died out. And asking the wealthy to give up a portion of theirs would cause too much concern. “We’ll start here. The palace will have to spare some of its own. Check the fountains. Replace the spectorium lighting the halls with candles. All the lighting, in fact.”

  “Who shall I assemble for the council session, my king?” Rashidi says, eyes wide.

  “Everyone,” he responds, standing. He knows his adviser is surprised by his bold action, but perhaps boldness is what is needed in this instance. “Our scholars need to prepare for the coming shortage. We need to develop new ways of producing power. We’ve been dependent on the Serubelans and their spectorium for far too long.”

  9

  SEPORA

  Seeming to forget his ball of spectorium, Chut takes a few steps toward Rolan, eyes bloated in wonder. “A Parani?” he whispers. “Are we going to trade that in the Bazaar, too?”

  I’ve never seen a Parani before. I’ve seen drawings and paintings of them, and heard tales such as that of Ragan, which emphasize how very vicious the creatures are. Vicious, and essentially uncatchable. Weapons are near useless against their skin, which acts as a flexible netting, rejecting the points of spears and arrows without serious puncture. It is said that Serpens are the only natural predator of a Parani and that they enjoy the taste of their flesh. As the stories go, Serpens can spy them from the sky and swoop down upon them, snatching them from the water and eating them alive. Aldon used to say that the difference between an arrow or a spear and the bladelike teeth of a Serpen is the amount of pressure a Serpen can apply with its jaw. That Parani skin is puncture resistant, but not infallible. How Aldon knows this, I’m not sure. In my seventeen years in Serubel, I’ve not heard of a single Serpen feasting on the flesh of a Parani. To me, it sounds like fabrications contrived by Serubelan mothers meant for embellishing the tenacity of the Serpens to calm what might otherwise be an unreasonable fear of the Parani. The very fear that the story of Ragan continues to instill in each generation.