by Jon Sprunk
There was power in his words. Jirom felt it coursing through him. Before he knew it, he was standing with the rest of the captains. Many of them cheered Ramagesh's words. Rebels from beyond the totem posts watched. Some joined the cheering, even though they did not know what they were celebrating. Emanon, however, stood silently. Jirom touched his hand, but Emanon stepped away. He approached Ramagesh, who now conferred quietly with Neskarig.
“Where then?” Emanon asked, loud enough to be heard above the din. “Where will we focus our combined might?”
The cheering died down as the captains, and then the people gathered beyond the posts, stopped to listen. Jirom knew what Emanon wanted, but it didn't seem feasible. Not yet. These fighters were drunk on eloquent oratory, but he could lose them with the wrong word.
“What do you suggest?” Neskarig asked.
Don't say it, Em. Defer to the future, until these men have learned to respect you as I do.
“Erugash.”
Jirom held his breath as his fear became reality. He looked around the council fire and saw the call to action die in the eyes of the assembled captains.
“Shit on a stick,” Three Moons muttered.
Jirom was forced to agree. Emanon had bitten off too much, and now he'd lost them. Neskarig looked as if he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue. Aye, you're a cagey jackal, aren't you?
After a moment, Ramagesh broke the silence that had descended over the gathering. His gaze swept across the assembly, eventually landing on Jirom. The intensity of his stare was a palpable thing. “Red-Blade, what do you say about this?”
Jirom shifted his feet at the sudden attention. This was the last thing he wanted. He felt the pressure of the gazes upon him, especially from Ramagesh. He knew what he should say, but he also knew it wouldn't make a difference. At best, he could cause a rift among the rebels, and this was a time when they needed to stand united if they were to have any hope of survival. However, his true loyalty lay not with the rebellion but with one man.
“I stand with my warleader.”
Shouts echoed around the bonfire as the captains vented their opposition.
“We can't stand against the zoanii!”
“Erugash has never been taken! Not even by the combined armies of the other nine cities!”
“We'll all be crucified!”
Jirom weathered their condemnation. He felt a touch and looked down to see Emanon's fingers brushing his hand. It was all the consolation he needed. For now.
Finally, Ramagesh lifted his mace to the night sky. His voice battered down the rest of the council. “No, my brothers. We are not ready to face the queen. One day we shall be, but today is not that day. Yet we will strike and let the empire know the strength of our conviction, and we shall keep hitting them until the crowned heads of Akeshia fall at our feet. But enough talk for tonight. My throat is dry and my spirit longs for the salve of brotherhood. Let us talk more tomorrow, when we've had time to consider our words with care.”
Feet stamped on the hard ground, a sound that spread through the basin. The drums joined in, matching the beat with their deep booms, until it seemed as if the hills were bouncing to the rhythm. This is a leader that men would follow to the very gates of the lowest hell.
Jirom turned to Emanon, trying to gauge his lover's reaction, but Emanon's face was like granite. “Now what?”
The rebel captain sighed. “Now I have to go twist some arms, or else this is all for nothing.”
“Is that going to help matters? Ramagesh and the General hold the others in the palms of their hands. They aren't going to budge without a good reason.”
“I'm still going to try.”
You risk driving them further away. The campaign against the empire will be long and bloody. Bide your time. Wait until the other commanders are looking for a new direction, when they'll be more open to your suggestions.
Instead, he said, “What do you want us to do?”
“Get back to camp and sit tight on those coin boxes.”
Emanon turned to go, and Jirom put a hand on his forearm. “Be careful.”
With a wink, his captain strode away toward the haphazard array of tents north of the council area. Jirom watched him, wondering why he felt a lump in his stomach. It was the same feeling he used to get before a battle.
“He's quite a jackass,” Three Moons said. He had scavenged a skin from somewhere. By the purple color to his lips, it was wine. He passed the skin to Jirom. “I can see why you like him.”
“He makes me insane sometimes.” Jirom took a sip. He'd guessed wrong; it was brandy, and surprisingly strong at that. The liquor burned as it ran down his throat. “But I love him. I make no apology for that.”
“I wouldn't think so, though I must admit it's difficult to understand this new…you. The Sergeant Jirom I remember once almost beat a man to death with his fists for disobeying an order.”
Jirom looked him in the eyes. “You think I've changed? Disobey me and find out.”
Jirom smiled to take the sting out the words. “Come on, old man. Let's go see what trouble our boys are getting into. Captain, care to join us?”
Captain Ovar shook his head. He'd been standing back during the entire conversation, just watching and listening. “No, gentlemen. I'm going to find my blanket. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”
As the mercenary captain strode off, Jirom and Three Moons walked back through the camp on their own, passing the skin back and forth.
“I've seen you do a lot of tricks,” Jirom said. “Like rattling those totems back there. But you don't bleed when working your magic. Why not?”
Three Moons picked something out of his teeth, held it up, and then put whatever it was back into his mouth. “You've been spending time around those ’Keshii sorcerers, eh?”
“Aye. The blood runs down their arms and faces when they work their spells.”
“We're just different,” Three Moons answered with another pull from the skin. “The ’Keshii feed their power from within, so it rips them up when it comes out. But me, well, I'm just a backwoods warlock. I talk to the spirits, and sometimes they show up to play.”
Jirom shook his head at Three Moons’ idea of “play.” Then again, having witnessed the awesome power at the disposal of those Akeshii sorcerers, he suddenly saw his former company-mate in a different light.
By the time they reached their band, pleasant warmth had spread through Jirom's insides, and his thoughts were cushioned in a gentle haze. They returned to find supper was being served. A fighter brought them each a bowl containing some kind of soupy stew that smelled of mutton. They ate around the bonfire. All save Emanon, who had not returned.
Jirom set his bowl aside when he was done. The stars had come out, a net of diamonds shining over the valley basin. The air was sticky, but a breeze kept the worst of the heat at bay.
Three Moons lay sprawled beside the fire with the empty wineskin tucked under his arm. His snores rivaled a cat being skinned alive. Every so often, one of the fighters would look over as if contemplating shoving something in the wizard's mouth to shut him up, but none of them were dumb enough to try it. Longar had spent the last couple days scaring them half to death with tales of Three Moons’ legendary outbursts, usually when drunk, many of which had resulted in extensive property damage.
After a while, Jirom stood up. Most of his men had gone to sleep. Sentries were stationed at the four cardinal points around their unit's small plot of ground, with another man sitting outside the tent with the treasure boxes. He left orders for them to be relieved at midnight and then went to find his own bed. He discovered that someone had taken the time to erect a crude shelter of stripped tree branches over his blankets. His kit bag was inside, too.
He took off his sword-belt and propped the weapon against the lean-to. He was unlacing his boiled leather jerkin when a pair of familiar hands appeared from behind to help. The deft fingers dipped inside the armor to caress his stomach
. “Did you have any luck convincing them?”
Emanon's lips pressed against the back of his right ear. “Not much. You were right. None of them wanted to speak out against Ramagesh.”
Jirom leaned back into his lover's arms. “It might be for the best. I've seen what the empire can do when provoked. And an attack on Erugash would incite the rest of the cities to exact revenge.”
Emanon released him, drawing his arms away. “So what are you saying? That we're beaten already?”
Jirom turned around and reached out, but Emanon batted his hands aside. Jirom felt his hands clench into tight fists, almost as if it were happening to someone else. His blood pumped hot and fierce through his chest. He had to make an effort to keep control of his temper. “That's not what I'm saying. You know this army can't match up to a pitched battle against even a single legion. With the crusaders driven back to the coast, we're on our own. We need a smart campaign. Continue hitting them and running before they can strike back.”
“I'm sick of hitting and running. We aren't going to defeat an empire with pinpricks.”
Jirom stepped closer so he could look down at his captain. “Not all at once, but we can bleed them. At the same time we can use some of that gold to buy help on the inside. What was the name of that agent in the queen's boudoir?”
“I'm not backing down, Jirom.”
He could see the ferocity turning his lover's eyes a deeper shade of green until they became almost black. The huskiness in his voice caused Jirom's blood to boil, but this time for a different reason. “All right. Then we don't back down.”
Emanon kissed the underside of his chin while his hands peeled Jirom's jerkin back. “I just need you to have faith.”
Jirom pulled his captain down on the soft bedroll and started stripping away his clothes. He kissed every inch of skin that he bared. He got to Emanon's stomach before he halted. “You never told me. What is Ramagesh's plan? Where does he want to attack?”
“Some town up north on the Typhon main artery. Oh, do that again.”
“What's it called?”
Emanon made a pleased noise in the back of his throat. “Um? Sekhatun. Just a little trading town near, uh…yes, right there.”
Why does that name sound familiar?
Then he remembered. That's where he and Horace had met. Coincidence? He was combing through his memories of the place, which were a little vague since he'd been kept in a dark cell most of his stay there, when Emanon took his hand and guided it lower. Then Jirom stopped thinking about the rebellion for a time.
The streets of the Dredge twisted and crooked like the tunnels of a serpent's warren, turning back on themselves and leading to dead ends as often as not. This district had once been the home of craftsmen—sandal makers, dyers, hemp weavers, and papyrus presses—but over time the better-off citizens had moved to nicer neighborhoods, leaving behind those who could not afford to escape. And so the neighborhood fell into a cycle of squalor, with each successive generation poorer and more desperate than their forebears.
Alyra stepped around a puddle that may or may not have been mud on her way down what passed for the “main street” of the Dredge. She kept one hand on the handle of her knife under her cloak. The city had become less hospitable over the past few months, especially at night. The people were riled. Previously, that would have given her hope, as it must surely encourage the network of agents for which she had worked for several years in its plan to destabilize the empire. Now she wasn't so sure. Things had become complicated.
Eyes followed her as she passed through a narrow court surrounded by tall buildings, beer shops, and smoking dens pressed between rows of family homes. She could feel them searching her, watching for signs of weakness or wealth, anything that might trigger their predatory instincts. Alyra usually brought someone else when she came here, but she hadn't asked Sefkahet because of the tension between them. Not to mention that the queen's return would have the palace in a minor uproar for the next few days.
Alyra remembered when she had been a handmaiden, the constant sense of excitement and fear haunting her every waking moment, and most of the sleeping ones, too. Now that she was free, she appreciated having more control over her life, but she still missed the access into the hidden affairs of the palace that she'd once possessed. Horace, you came into my life and turned everything upside down. Most days I don't know whether to bless you or curse you for that.
After the Tammuris debacle, the network safehouse in the Dredge had closed down. Alyra had left several messages in drop locations but received no replies. As near as she could tell, she'd been exiled from the spy ring. It wasn't a mystery why. She'd been ordered to leave Horace to his fate as he wallowed in the dungeons under the Sun Temple, and she had refused. Had it been out of love? She didn't know, but since then she'd continued the mission on her own, using the assets she had cultivated to assist the local rebels.
She'd been shocked this morning to find an encrypted message on her bedside table. With trembling hands, she had locked the door to her room and sat down to decipher it. As the words hidden within the message emerged, she'd thought her heart would stop.
Come to the lily house at the fourth hour. All is forgiven.
With anxiety weighing in her stomach like a ball of lead, she had dressed and left the manor, pausing only to leave word with the servants that she would be gone for most of the day.
She knew right away what the message had meant by the “lily house.” When she'd first come to Erugash as part of a slaver caravan, she'd been kept at a secret location until her handlers could arrange for her to be “bought” by the palace. It had been a quaint house at the southern tail of the Dredge, unremarkable in any way among the other poor homes except for a picture of a gorgeous white lily painted on the front door. She'd never been back to the place since entering the queen's service, but it made sense.
She followed the directions in her head, trying to find the right street. This part of the city was only partially familiar to her, and everything looked different in the dark. After getting turned around a couple of times, she finally sighted a pale candle at the end of a crooked street, packed between two homes that appeared abandoned.
Alyra stopped a few doors away and dipped into the shadow of a small alley. The door beside the candle was painted with a white lily. Watching the house, she considered what she was going to say to whoever had invited her here. She assumed that the line “all is forgiven” meant she was being welcomed back to the network, but she couldn't be sure. After serving the Nemedia government for years, she'd come to understand the way they operated. Her choice to save Horace had been, to them, a betrayal of the worst kind. So, was this a setup to lure her to a remote place so the network could punish her for the transgression? If so, why now? What did they want?
Making sure her knife was loose in its sheath, Alyra stepped out of the alley. Just as she stepped up to the door, it opened before her, the painted panels giving way to the darkness within. Then a familiar figure appeared. The old woman Alyra had seen so many times before at the old safehouse.
The front room was just the way she remembered it, except older and dustier. Two small oil lamps showed plaster walls covered in cracks and a scuffed wood floor. Stairs led up to the second floor. A wooden bench sat against the far wall under the alcoves for the hearth gods, all empty.
A hallway led back to the kitchen and eating area, but at a gesture from the old woman, Alyra took the stairs. Nostalgia nibbled at her heart as she saw the frescoes on the walls of the upstairs hallway. A pastoral scene of three young shepherds watching over their flock in a valley between two towering mountains. She and Sefkahet had drawn it over several days while they waited for their positions at the palace to be secured. Alyra ran her fingers over the smooth plaster, up to the rough spots at the top that they hadn't had time to finish. She remembered they had planned to paint a starry sky overhead, but they'd been called away to start their new lives as slaves to the queen. It seemed
like another lifetime, as if this picture had been painted by another girl. A girl who didn't understand the trials she would one day face, the heartaches she would have to endure.
“I wasn't sure you'd remember this place.”
Cipher stood in the doorway to the bedroom where she'd once stayed. His face was leaner than she remembered. He'd lost weight, and silver hairs gleamed at his temples.
“Of course,” she replied. “This is where I first met you. I recall you always had a worried look on your face. That much, at least, hadn't changed.”
“Pardon all the secrecy, but the old safehouse wasn't…well, safe anymore. Since the night of the Fall, we've been driven deeper underground.”
“The Fall. That's an interesting way to put it. Yes, a lot of things fell on that night. One of them was my esteem for the network.”
“You know that wasn't my decision, Alyra. I had my orders.”
“Your orders were unconscionable, to let a good man die because the network saw some slight advantage in his death. And how did that work out?”
“We want you back. This comes from Night himself.”
Alyra wanted to laugh in his face. Instead, she only allowed herself to smile. “Why should I consider it? You turned against me. I have my own assets now and more influence than ever before. I know why you need me, but what do I need with you?”
He actually looked pained as he said, “Things are happening, and we don't have enough eyes in the right places. More than that, we have a mission that needs done. The rebels are gaining ground, and the network sees an opportunity to capitalize on their success. But our relationship with their leadership hasn't been on good terms since you left.”
“I didn't leave. You left me.”
“And I apologize for that mistake. Trust me when I tell you it won't happen again.”
Trust is a funny thing, Cipher. Once it's lost, you can't easily get it back again. I think we're both going to learn that the hard way.
“Assuming I'm willing to return,” she said, “what do you want me to do?”
