Coin of Kings (The Powers of Amur Book 2)

by J. S. Bangs

  Coin of Kings

  The Powers of Amur, Book 2

  J.S. Bangs

  Coin of Kings

  Coin of Kings Copyright

  Thanks

  Free book!

  Map

  Prologue: Navran

  Kirshta

  Sadja

  Navran

  Kirshta

  Mandhi

  Navran

  Kirshta

  Mandhi

  Navran

  Mandhi

  Sadja

  Navran

  Mandhi

  Kirshta

  Navran

  Kirshta

  Sadja

  Mandhi

  Navran

  Kirshta

  Navran

  Kirshta

  More From J.S. Bangs Pride of Empires: Book 3 of the Powers of Amur Chapter 1

  Storm Bride

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  About Me

  Cover

  Table of contents

  Coin of Kings

  Copyright

  Coin of Kings

  Copyright © 2016 by J.S. Bangs.

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License. You may find a summary of the license and a link to the full license here: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/

  Thanks

  Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  Map by Robert Altbauer

  Editing and proofreading by Stephanie Lorée

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  The Wave Speaker is a novella that takes place in the world of The Powers of Amur, two hundred years before the events of this novel.

  Pirates. Sharks. And a woman walking across the sea in a storm.

  Patara returns from a trade voyage only to be chased by pirates and caught in a storm—where he finds a woman walking atop the waves and speaking to the sea. He and his crew pull her from the water, only to find that they’ve caught more than they bargained for. Will Patara sacrifice his cargo and livelihood to save the last member of a mystic tradition?

  Click here to find out.

  Map

  Prologue: Navran

  The sun scowled in the tops of the sal trees at the western edge of the field, the last of its bitter light sinking their leaves and allowing the evening’s cool to descend. Navran was soaked with sweat and covered with flecks of rice straw and smudges of dirt. The sweat dripped in rivulets down his stomach, making muddy lines in the dust which covered him. Aside from the dhoti tied up between his legs and the rag around his forehead, he wore no clothing. A black ring on a leather string hung around his neck, covered in grime.

  Great yellow mounds of cut rice lay in heaps on the green grass. The noble Haditya and his pay-master stood together, picking up the grains and rolling them in their palms, and talking quietly with each other in low, inaudible voices. Around him, the other hired hands stood or sat, making jokes with each other and chewing betel nuts.

  Navran stood alone, waiting for his pay. He’d barely said a word to any of the other laborers for the nine days of harvest. He didn’t need friends. He needed money. He had debts to pay.

  Finally the khadir and the pay-master nodded at each other. Haditya marched off toward the estate house beyond the rice fields, while the pay-master turned toward the laborers.

  “Follow me to the storeroom,” he said. “The money-chest is there.”

  With much grumbling and laughing, the hired hands got up and followed the pay-master around the edge of the field to a slumping building of clay bricks. A grand sal tree shaded the building, providing a little relief from the day’s heat. A pair of men carrying shields guarded the storehouse. The pay-master hissed a command to the guards and went inside, reappearing a moment later carrying a heavy wooden chest. He set the chest on the ground, returned to the storeroom, and emerged again with a rattan stool, a slate, and a piece of chalk. He sat down before the chest, and the guards took their positions on either side of him.

  “Come up one at a time,” the man said. “You get your coin, I write down your name, and we part. Who’s first?”

  Navran pushed himself to the front of the little crowd and approached the chest. The pay-master opened the top, looked over the inside, then glanced up at Navran.

  “Name?” he said.

  “Navran.”

  “And how many days were you here?”

  “All nine.”

  The man looked across a slate scribbled with all sorts of indecipherable scrawl, then nodded. He made a mark next to one of the scribbles on the slate and counted out a small stack of clay coins. Navran extended his hands, and the man dropped them in.

  Navran counted them quickly, then frowned. “What’s this?”

  “That’s your pay,” the man said. “Next?”

  “No,” Navran said. “This is half.”

  “It’s what you get.” The man waved Navran aside angrily. “Who’s next?”

  “I need all of it,” Navran said. This was not enough to pay Laugam what he had promised. He needed every last bit that he had worked for, if he was going to make his payment and have enough left for a drink.

  “No,” the pay-master said. “Harvest was bad. The khadir and I looked at what we brought in, and weighed it against last year’s harvest. There’s no paying the same amount for half as much rice.”

  Angry murmurs sounded through the gathered workers behind Navran. They began to push forward toward the chest. The pay-master gave them all a glare.

  “Please,” Navran said. “I need this. I have debts—”

  “I don’t care—”

  Navran jumped forward and grabbed for the pay-master’s wrists. The butts of two spears battered Navran’s chest and shoved him aside. Coins flew through the air. A kick bruised his ribs, and he rolled away. One of the guards stopped him with a foot on his chest and the point of a spear held at his throat.

  “Take your money and go,” the pay-master said contemptuously. He glared at the rest of the sour-faced workers who were gathered around Navran. “Anyone else that wants to make trouble, you’ll get twice the beating.”

  The guard took his foot off of Navran’s chest. Navran rose to a crouch, wiped the dust off of his hands, and began to pick up the coins which had been scattered in the dirt. The guards watched him closely. He tucked the last of the clay coins into his fist, then stood with wounded pride. The next worker in line had already taken his pay and passed by Navran with a scalding glance, as if Navran’s presence had ruined their pay.

  Well, there was one thing he could still do.

  He unwound the rag from his forehead, dropped the coins into it, and tied the rag into a little pouch at his waist. Then he walked into Hajur village as fast as he could without running.

  The sun was slouching on the western horizon by the time he reached the guesthouse. In the corner of the front room, as in most guesthouses, there was a wooden jaha board with pieces of painted clay, a set of dice, and sticks for sacchu. Three men were gathered around the sacchu board, taking their chances with the dice and sticks in rapidly alternating turns, constant chatter passing between them. Navran knelt beside them, pulled out the jaha board tucked against the wall, and plucked a clay ghita coin from his pouch. He set the coin into the middle of the board with a loud click.

  “Anyone for jaha?” he asked.

  “Eh?” one of the men said. “As soon as this round is over.”

  The round ended a bit later, and the man who won cackled loudly as he took in the others’ bets. One of the losers scooted over
to Navran’s position.

  “Where you from?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Ahunas,” Navran said. It wasn’t really true, but it was close enough.

  “What are you doing out here in Hajur?” the man asked as he placed a coin on the center of the board next to Navran’s.

  “Rice harvest for Haditya-kha.”

  “Ah,” the man said. “Hard work. That’s why you smell so bad.”

  Everyone laughed. Navran grimaced and arranged his pieces on his side of the board. “You ready to play?”

  “Yeah, we play,” the man said.

  They made their moves in the usual way for men playing jaha for money: fast, silent moves, clay pieces clacking against the wooden board. Navran developed in the center of the board quickly and aggressively, the way he always played, while his opponent did the same. But not as well. Navran soon had the man’s position outflanked, and after taking a few key pieces, his opponent’s position collapsed. The man turned his darya figure down and muttered, “Jahaparna.”

  Navran smiled gently and took both of the ghita coins into his purse.

  “Eh, you always were a fool, Chalika,” one of the other onlookers said. “Let me try.” He put a coin on the center of the board. Navran matched it, and they started to arrange their pieces.

  He won that game, too. And the next four, against all three of the men who had previously been playing, and against one more man who wandered in afterward and joined them in the corner. He was getting close. If he could keep up this rate, he’d have enough to pay his debt in another hour.

  But the man across from him tossed his darya piece down in disgust. “No more,” he said. “You’ll win all night if we keep up on jaha. Let’s go to sacchu.”

  Navran deflated. Jaha was a game of strategy, and he rarely lost. Sacchu was mostly luck, and luck was never on his side. “None of you want to play?” A chorus of jeers and boos answered him. “Fine. Then I’ll play sacchu.”

  He had to win more money. If sacchu was the only way, then he would play sacchu.

  The first hand he lost on all seven throws. “Cakthi’s spite,” he said sheepishly to the other players, and they laughed. Cakthi was a mean and fickle god, and anyone who gambled knew her anger as well as her blessing.

  He bought in for another hand of sticks. Then he paid for a jar of rice beer. To calm his nerves. He always got nerves when he played sacchu. Just a little beer, nothing more.

  The second hand, he won four and lost three—not enough to make back what he had lost, but enough to put him over for that hand. There was hope. He kept playing.

  But the more he played, the more he lost. Gradually, the number of coins in his pouch dwindled. He would win a hand here and there, enough to make it seem as if he might recover his losses, but inevitably he returned to losing. He ordered a second jar of rice beer. His coins went into the fists of the other men. He drank more beer. The room became a blur, his losses slipping away like water from a fist, but he was drunk enough that he no longer cared. Until he put his hand into his pouch, and found a single coin there.

  Just one.

  He balked. The other players had put their coins into the pit, and they looked at him with jeers.

  “What’s the matter?” one of them asked. “Cakthi brought us back our jaha money?”

  “I can’t,” Navran said. “I have…”

  The men laughed. “Why don’t you sell that ring around your neck, if you’re so hard up for cash?” one of them said. “I’d take it off your hands for twenty ghita.”

  “No!” Navran said violently. “Never.”

  They laughed again. “You like it so much? It’s probably worth nothing—”

  Navran put his hand over the ring on the leather string around his neck. “It’s from my father. Not selling.”

  “Then I guess you’re not playing, either,” the man said.

  He had one more. He could put it on the board and play. Or he could buy a little food and try to sneak out of town.

  He put it into play.

  He took the first stick, and the second. The third stick went to his neighbor, as he rolled perfect pairs on the dice. The fourth Navran took. He lost five and six.

  It came down to the last throw. If he took it, he would have four sticks in the hand and get two ghita, at least. If he lost, he’d be hard broke.

  He threw.

  * * *

  The gibbous moon lit the road in dirty gray light. Navran would have preferred shadows. But the edge of Hajur offered nothing, not even trees under which he could hide. It was past midnight, and maybe Laugam’s men weren’t watching.

  He walked at the edge of the road, his steps wobbly and uneven. He nearly fell into the murky ditch. Two houses ahead of him, and then nothing but rice fields and tree breaks to the horizon. He hadn’t seen any sign of Laugam and his men. The last house on the road was lit inside with lamplight and the sound of rasping voices.

  He hurried past it, keeping his eyes on the dirt path. Then a cough and footsteps on the road behind him.

  “So where are you going?” Laugam’s voice called. “Running?”

  Navran looked back. Out of the inky shadow behind the last house emerged one of Laugam’s enforcers. Laugam himself leaned through the curtain over the door and stood with one hand on his hip.

  Navran’s tongue caught in his mouth. He said nothing.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t watch the ways out of town? I didn’t let you come to Hajur for nothing,” Laugam said. “Like I said, I got friends here.”

  “The khadir,” Navran began. “Shorted me money.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Laugam said.

  “They only gave us half—”

  “So where’s the half? Or did you spend it on drinks and games?”

  Navran fell silent. After a moment Laugam shook his head.

  “Like I thought,” he said. He gestured to the man who had been waiting in the shadow. “Bring him to Rishakka.”

  “No,” Navran began, but the man was already advancing. He turned and ran.

  Futile. The ground tilted beneath his drunken feet, and he fell. The bulky enforcer caught him, knocked him to the ground, and wrestled his arms behind his back. Without a word he jerked Navran upright and dragged him toward the house. At the door he shoved Navran through the curtain, where Navran fell at Laugam’s feet.

  “Who is this lame goat?” someone asked. A new voice, not Laugam’s.

  “Your prize,” Laugam said. “Navran, not that it matters to you. Owes me money. You should be able to sell him for something back in Ahunas.”

  A foot nudged Navran in the ribs. “Get up so I can see you.”

  Navran rose to look at a man with a long nose and thin, greasy hands. He stood with Laugam in the front room of the house, reed mats stretched out behind them with half-finished bowls of rice beer. The sight of the rice beer stirred a keen, fierce desire in Navran.

  “You Navran?” the man asked.

  Navran nodded.

  The man turned to Laugam. “You’ve got the record for his debt? I want this clean, not like last time.”

  “Yeah, Rishakka,” Laugam said with annoyance. “All clean. He’ll make a good galley slave.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Rishakka chewed the corner of his lip and looked Navran up and down. His eyes glanced across the ring dangling around Navran’s neck. He squinted and leaned in, picking the ring off of Navran’s chest to examine it more closely.

  For a heartbeat, Rishakka’s eyes grew wide and his breath caught in his throat. Then, just as quickly, the expression passed and jaded greed fell back into its place. Navran jerked back and pulled the ring out of Rishakka’s fingers.

  “He’s skinny, and he’s a drinker,” Rishakka said. “He won’t last long in a galley. Maybe in the fields, but field slaves aren’t worth as much. And the khadir prefer to hire just for the season, rather than buying slaves full-time.”

  “You trying to stiff me?” La
ugam asked.

  “I’m telling you what I’ll get.” Rishakka tapped his thumbnails together. “Thirty copper pennies.”

  Laugam guffawed. “He owes me twice that.”

  That wasn’t true. Navran almost opened his mouth to object—but why? It didn’t matter to him now.

  “Two silver quarters.”

  “I want three,” Laugam said.

  “In your wet dreams.” Rishakka gestured with overly careful indifference to the ring around Navran’s neck. “What about that ring?”

  “He’s always had that,” Laugam said. “You want it?”

  “No,” Navran said. “Leave me that—”

  With the speed of a cobra’s strike, Rishakka reached and yanked the ring, breaking the leather string that had held it. “This thing? It ain’t worth nothing.”

  “It’s shiny,” Laugam said. “Gotta be worth something.”

  “My father gave it to me,” Navran said. “I only want to keep it.”

  Rishakka shook his head. “Obsidian. I haven’t seen many rings made this way, but there’s nothing special about it. Maybe ten copper pennies.”

  “So why are you bringing it up?” Laugam looked at Rishakka with eyes narrowed.

  “Fifty and I keep the ring,” Rishakka said. “Because it’s shiny.”

  “Fine.” Laugam folded his arms and looked at Navran with disgust. “You gonna walk back to Ahunas nicely, or are you gonna make us drag you?”

  “Please,” Navran whispered. “My ring.”

  “Tie him up,” Rishakka said. The enforcer at the door grabbed Navran’s wrists, twisted them behind his back, and bound them in leather straps. Rishakka pulled a coin purse that had been hanging beneath his kurta and stuffed the ring inside. He gave Navran an oily grin.

  “Too bad,” the slaver whispered. “You wanted to keep your ring, you should have paid your debts.”

  Kirshta