Dead God's Due

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Do I dare? Oh, who am I kidding? Of course, I dare. Kariana cleared her throat and rose. “There is one tiny matter of procedure. The vote is a tie. I do still need to cast the tie-breaking decision.” She blinked innocently at the other councilmembers. “Just to be official.”

  Prandil looked quizzically at her. “Ah, yes,” he crooned. “That procedure thing. Just to be official, hmm?”

  Kariana offered him a wicked grin. He knows. I don’t know how, but he’s figured it out. She’d made a bargain to vote with Maralena. She’d said nothing about breaking any ties. You shouldn’t have pushed me, bitch. I would have been on your side if you hadn’t. “I have reconsidered my position. I vote to break the tie in favor of the opposed.”

  The courtroom erupted with shouts of surprise, some of victory, others of defeat. Such lovely chaos. Kariana felt herself slipping into near delirium. She felt as if she could pass out. Maralena was right. The irony was quite delicious.

  Maralena and Sadrina were looking at her, fury and terror in their eyes. Kariana leered back at them, drinking up their fear. She sat back in her chair, feeling pleased with herself.

  She noticed the old woman, Ariano, looking at her. They locked gaze for a moment, and the old woman flashed her a faint smile, a nod of recognition. There was something terribly familiar in those green eyes of hers.

  And something terribly, frighteningly young.

  Chapter 10

  Fallout

  Sandilianus woke with a start. Someone had opened the cell door. Was it morning so soon? He was surprised to see not the stern, square face of his hateful guard, Caelwen, but the wrinkled features and burning green eyes of the sorceress Ariano. Prandil and Maranath stood behind her.

  Sandilianus leaped to his feet and stood at attention. They were enemies, true, but they had honored him. He would return their respect.

  Maranath waved him off. “Relax, Southlander. This is no courtroom. Sit.”

  Sandilianus assumed a parade rest stance, spreading his legs and clasping his hands behind his back.

  Maranath grunted at this, then shuffled past him to take a seat on the tiny cot that filled most of the cell. “Fine, I’ll sit, then. We are too old to be so formal. We have some questions.”

  I am surrounded now. He pressed his back against the wall, facing them all as well as he could, and said, “I am Sandilianus Abu al Khayr, Centurion in Prince Philip’s legions, serving under Tribune Brutus Samir, and loyal servant to Ilaweh. I can say no more.”

  Maranath was picking at something on his robe and didn’t bother to look up when he spoke. “Oh, don’t think for a moment that we lack ways of changing that. It’s just that we were hoping not to have to resort to them.”

  “I do not fear torture.”

  “Well, I certainly fear watching it. So let’s spare me the grief, shall we?”

  Sandilianus shook his head in consternation. These were very strange people. “A soldier does not give information to the enemy!”

  Prandil’s eyes grew bright, and a broad grin spread on his lips. “Then our problem is solved!” He raised both hands, showing he had no weapon. “We’re not here as enemies, Southlander. At least hear our questions before you refuse to answer, hmm? Where are your manners?”

  Sandilianus looked back and forth at them, weighing their expressions, but if they had ulterior motives, they hid them well. “What kind of questions?”

  Ariano offered him no smile at all. “Religious questions. You are not barred from speaking about your religion with ‘enemies,’ are you?”

  Sandilianus considered a moment, trying to gauge their sincerity. There were plenty of ways an enemy might try to trick information from him. “You are not believers. You are kafir.”

  Prandil’s humor vanished as quickly as it had come, his gaze as intense as Ariano’s now. “Oh, that is where you are wrong, Southlander. We are very much believers.”

  Maranath laid back on the bed and shifted about, testing it for comfort that his grimace said he did not find. “There are few of us left in Nihlos. This city is weak, as your eyes have seen, and she grows weaker with each passing day. We rot from within.”

  Ariano stepped toward Sandilianus, her green eyes almost hypnotic as she looked up at him. She gazed at him a moment before asking, “Why came you here, Southlander? In the courtroom, you said you followed a holy man seeking an ancient evil. Had it to do with a prophecy? A prophecy of Elgar?”

  Sandilianus tried to hide his shock, but he could feel his eyes widening. The three sorcerers nodded at one another, satisfied, and Sandilianus cursed himself for a fool. They had pried information from him, even though he had not spoken! These sorcerers have a powerful presence. I must take care they do not charm me.

  Ariano pressed closer. “What do you know of it?” Sandilianus forced his face into a stone mask, refusing to give away anything else, but she was having none of it. She poked a bony finger at his chest. “Fool! You know full well that we are not interested in military information. This is larger than all of us, and you have pieces of the puzzle we lack!”

  Sandilianus licked his lips, uncertain of what was acceptable to say. “Why do you need to know this? You sound like Yazid.”

  Prandil nodded. “With good reason. We’ve read a summary of Tasinalta’s interrogation, though we’ve no idea how much is true. Yazid stepped forward as your commander, but he claimed no military title. A non-combatant, then?”

  They were getting to him. Did it even matter if they did? What damaging information could he even reveal? Xanthia could crush this city at will. Any information he could possibly reveal would simply make them more aware of that, and was it not good for an enemy to fear? “There are no Xanthians who do not fight.”

  Ariano’s eyes grew wide at this. She gasped and stepped back. “No civilians? Even children?”

  “I do not remember a time that I did not carry a sword,” he answered with a shrug.

  Prandil shot Ariano a glare, then turned back to Sandilianus. “This Yazid, he called himself Prelate. What is a prelate to you?”

  Sandilianus found himself at a loss for words. A prelate was, well, a prelate, but what exactly did the word mean when it came right down to it? “Prelates fight for Ilaweh directly. They do not recognize earthly authority.”

  Maranath sat up on the bed, a broad grin of triumph on his face. “I told you it was religious.”

  Ariano’s eyes brimmed with curiosity. “Free wandering holy men,” she mused. “Have you organized structures, churches and temples, or is it all informal?”

  Prandil snapped his fingers briskly. “Can we please save the anthropology studies for later? If you really need to know all of this, then go with him when we release him. We need to hear what he knows of the prophecy!”

  Release? Sandilianus eyed Prandil, trying to decide if the comment was a genuine slip or a clever ruse. Their arguing certainly seemed very natural, as if it were their normal method of relating to one another. “What do you mean by that? I am to die in the morning.”

  Ariano swung a fist to punch Prandil in the shoulder, but he dodged the blow and grinned at her. She seemed in no mood for humor, though, and for a moment Sandilianus thought she might resort to something more violent, but Maranath intervened, rapping his cane on the floor with a loud crack. The entire cell shuddered, and dust filtered down from the ceiling. He scowled at them a moment, then offered Sandilianus a grin. “I see we once again have your attention.”

  “You have a talent for that, sir, there is no doubt.”

  Maranath said. “I had intended to present it with a bit more lead up, but yes, that is our intent. We need people to believe you were killed, but as for the actual killing, it doesn’t much matter.”

  Ariano shot Prandil a final glare, then turned back to Sandilianus. “You are here about an ancient darkness, yes? We need not be enemies, Southlander. We are, in fact, quite natural allies for your cause.”

  Sandilianus nodded. “Yazid had done much research. I am jus
t a soldier, so I don’t pretend to know the whole of it, but I know what he told us.” Sandilianus hesitated, still uncertain as to whether telling the Meites his mission would be a betrayal. The Meites said nothing, giving him time to decide. “There is a prophecy,” he said at last. “Made by Carsogenicus.”

  Prandil waved a hand in a circling motion, gesturing for him to continue. “Odio Sinistera, the Left Hand of Hate. We know him. Go on.”

  “Xanthius and Amrath had him burned at the stake for his evil. It is said that as the flesh melted from his bones, he laughed and prophesied until he was nothing but ash. One of the prophecies was that Elgar would, a thousand years hence, walk the earth, and his scion would rise from the blood of Tasinal, in the city of nothing.”

  “Built on nothing,” Prandil murmured, his eyes clouded and distant.

  Maranath nodded. “Tasinalta.”

  Ariano’s eyes glittered with purpose. “We must slay her at once.”

  “We dare not!” Prandil exclaimed. “Not without knowing the details!”

  “Indeed,” Maranath said. “It could be that her death at our hands is a necessary component of some ritual. The Fallen would have found such a thing the height of wit.”

  “Then what do we do?” Ariano asked.

  Maranath rose to his feet. “We watch her. And we wait. We thank you for your tale, Southlander.” He rose from the cot and turned to the others. “Shall we release him?”

  Ariano seemed far away in her mind as she answered. “How can we not? If we fail here, his people would be the last bastion.”

  Maranath nodded. “Do you understand what we are saying, Southlander?”

  “Aye,” Sandilianus said. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And who is not Elgar’s enemy?”

  “Just so. Now, as for your fate, we’ll need another corpse to show in your place. I presume you’ve no problem if we substitute one of your fellows? No one here will be able to tell the difference.”

  Sandilianus smiled. “It honors the dead to allow them to save a life.”

  “Well said. Now, be patient and wait here. Old men walk slowly, but we’ll have you on your way in an hour or so.”

  Maralena Prosin sat at her desk in her study. It was an austere place, almost monastic, her one concession to a world where everything else must be dressed up with artifice. Here, in her private place, the world was true, a place without lies, deception, or vanity.

  She poured a stiff drink and leaned back in her chair, considering. The liquor burned in a pleasant way, as opposed to the acidic sting of her humiliation in court.

  At some other time, Maralena would have shrugged it off as simply business. She would have set to work looking to repair the damage, to gain leverage, to find new handholds.

  She would have held no grudges. Grudges were for fools. They were barriers to seizing opportunities. Vengeance was not something she had ever had the inclination, much less the luxury, of indulging.

  But this was different, somehow. Perhaps it was because she had so favored poor Marissa. Yet she had weathered similar losses in the past and maintained her composure. One did not play at power. Blood was occasionally spilled, often enough one’s own.

  No, it was something else entirely, something so trivial that looking directly at it was decidedly unpleasant. It was no monumental thing at all that made Maralena cast practicality aside. It was nothing more than the tone of Tasinalta’s voice, the sight of her petulant smirk, a childish, petty thing to which Maralena had, until now, fancied herself far above.

  But it burned like acid, and it would have to be addressed.

  Maralena took up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.

  Lara:

  You do not know me, and I offer you no name, but I am a good man, and I see much. Know that your husband is not truly imprisoned. He is where he is by his own choice, the better to spend all of his time with Tasinalta. It is a cruel game they play with you, and I will no longer stand by and watch. It is my duty to intervene.

  She admired her handiwork for a moment. It was difficult to be certain if the words matched the pattern of a man who rarely spoke his mind, and yet if she could not tell, no one else could, either.

  She had no idea how it would play out. She was merely lobbing a bomb into a crowd. Whatever the result, it should be quite explosive. For the moment, that was just fine.

  She set the letter aside, dipped her pen, and began another.

  Kariana had some trouble giving Caelwen the slip, but for all his vaunted duty, he was still human. She simply waited until nature called, and then fled. No doubt, he was furious and frantic, and he would certainly locate her before long. How long, she didn’t know, which made time of the essence.

  Negotiating House Noril had been surprisingly easy. She had expected a chilly reception or an outright refusal, but the slaves had ushered her in without comment. Davron himself had nodded as she passed, as if they were actually on good terms. He must have visited his goat. She was lucky that Maranath had remanded the prisoners to House Noril rather than House Luvox, or this would have been a much more difficult proposition.

  House Noril’s ‘holding facilities’ turned out to be little more than a section of the manse with doors that could be secured. A single guard stood outside a heavy door. Kariana eyed him as she approached. He seemed strong enough but fairly bored. Well, it’s not as if Aiul is such a threat, but the Southlander might escape at any moment. She shuddered at the thought, took a deep breath, and approached the guard. “I’m here to see the traitor.”

  The guard’s bored expression did not change as he handed her a logbook. “All visitors must sign in.”

  Kariana could not help but notice the signatures just above her own. The Meites had been here within the hour. Why? She filed the point of information away for later. She would find out soon enough. She scribbled something unintelligible. No need to duplicate their mistake, after all.

  The guard accepted the log, then took keys from his belt and unlocked the door. For a brief moment, Kariana feared he intended to come with her, but he swung the door open and went back to his station. “Scream if you need help,” he said with a laugh.

  Kariana sneered at him and said, “I’ll do that.” She began to count in her head just how many times she had made a fool of herself of late. I don’t think numbers go that high. Of course, the previous times she had at least imagined she had the right of it. This? This was idiocy. This was some kind of trick. How could it not be? It was simply too much to hope for.

  She reached into her pocket and clutched the letter it contained as if it were a talisman, giddy with the possibilities, but all too wary of a trap. She didn’t need to read it again to feel its power. After at least twenty readings, she knew it by heart.

  It is not that I could not love you, but that I have my pride. You cannot shame me so in public and expect me to submit to you. If I must bend a knee, let me do it without cruel eyes upon me.

  It seemed impossible that the letter could be real. Nothing she really wanted ever worked out for her, certainly not since being forced onto the throne. Yet, here she stood, without Caelwen’s ‘cruel eyes,’ or anyone else’s for that matter, chasing a miracle she barely believed. She had been humiliated enough for several lifetimes and was in real danger of it happening again within minutes. How could she blame anyone for wanting to avoid it? It was horrible.

  She stepped warily toward the door. What if the Southlander has escaped somehow, and is waiting behind that door for me? She stepped back, terrified. “Are you certain the Southlander can’t get out?”

  The guard gave her a quizzical look. “I am certain you are in no danger from him.”

  “How can you be when you don’t even check?”

  The guard laughed aloud. “Because he is already dead.”

  Kariana blinked in surprise. “Good. I thought it was tomorrow.”

  The guard nodded sagely. “That’s the way of executions, Empress. Surprise often means less trouble.” />
  It was good news, but she found herself still wary of entering. Perhaps the truth of it was that her fear of the Southlander was simply a convenient excuse to avoid the real issue. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, ignoring the guard’s quiet amusement, and stepped in.

  Kariana found it difficult to think of the area as a prison. It was really just a brick hallway with four doors, two on each side, that could be secured from without, a bit utilitarian, but then, so was the rest of House Noril. Polished brass lamps illuminated several paintings lining the walls, the centerpiece a portrait of Noril himself. The four cell doors were solid enough and had slots at eye and waist level.

  She tried to peer through one of the top slots, only to find, to her chagrin, that she was too short to see through the top slot. She hesitated, trying to decide if she could bear the indignity of being on her knees again this day. Was she really going to go kneeling and peeping through each tray slot, searching for Aiul like a lovesick schoolgirl?

  He spared her that, at least, calling out from the far end of the hallway, his voice tired, defeated. “Why are you here?”

  Kariana stammered a moment, fingering the note in her pocket again, trying to draw some strength from it. She stepped quickly to the door of his cell and knelt at the lower slot, only to find herself staring at his crotch. Maralena’s taunts flickered like gadflies in her mind, and she struggled against tears. Her voice cracked as she choked out, “I got your letter. I came like you asked.”

  “I sent no letter.”

  Kariana blinked at hot tears, glad now that it was not his eyes on the other side. A trick, then, and a cruel one. I knew that all along, though. I just had to be certain. “Is that true? Someone else sent it, or did you do it to toy with me?”

  Aiul sighed and settled to the floor on the other side of the sturdy door. He looked out at her, his green eyes not angry or cold, but simply sad. “No. It wasn’t me. Why would I ask you to come here, Kariana? We are at war, now.”