The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  “Quick girl, get his arms. Don’t let him go under,” Ola ordered.

  Morea, used to following orders, grabbed at Kihrin. Ola roughly hauled the naked young man from the tub, a reminder that she was larger than most Quuros men, larger even than Kihrin.

  “You … you…” Morea blinked in shock.

  “Relax, child. He ain’t poisoned, just drugged up a bit.” She shifted his body into a position easier to carry.

  “Now come on. Help me get him into bed.”

  Morea did as Ola ordered and tucked the young man into the large cotton-stuffed bed normally used by Ola alone.

  The brothel madam retreated into the bathroom and brought back the tray of food, which she placed on a small table. She ate noisily, with great appetite, and motioned for Morea to do the same.

  “I ain’t never called myself the boy’s mother,” Ola explained, “but I am his mother in all the ways that matter. I love him like he was mine. Just like he was born out of my own womb. And I’m proud of him. Proud as any mother could be of her son. I don’t want him coming to no harm. I’ll protect him, even if I have to protect him from himself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. Let’s just say that he’s stubborn. He gets that from me. Oh, he might act all flighty sometimes, but that ain’t how he is really. Truth, he gets something into his head, he don’t ever let it go. He’ll just keep worrying at it, coming back to it, until he’s worn it down, like the winds tearing down a mountain. Damn, but I wish his father had more sense. You can’t tell a boy like Kihrin to stay away from an invitation to the High General’s house and expect the boy will do it. Demons, no. Surdyeh’s gone and made that just about irresistible.* Being told he can’t just makes it all the worse.” Ola wrapped some fish up in a flat piece of sag bread and munched. “Mmm … good sauce today.”

  “Would meeting the High General be so bad?”

  Ola stopped in midbite, and gave Morea such a glare that the girl yelped. “Yes, it would, and I ain’t going to explain why that is. You need to trust that I know what I’m about. He can’t go.” Her expression softened, and she said, “He’ll sleep tonight, sleep deep, and he’ll have rowdy dreams because of what I gave him. In the morning, he’ll wake up with you in his arms and he’ll think missing the meeting with the General was his own damn fault. And everything will be okay.”

  Morea didn’t answer, but her expression was skeptical.

  “He likes you,” Ola said, “so you can help me. There’s a big reward in it for you if you do.”

  “What sort of reward?”

  “My boy has some money saved up. Don’t ask where he got it from. Never mind that. I figure he’s got a tidy sum stashed up with the priests of Tavris up in the Ivory District. He’s planning on buying his pappa a tavern in Eamithon, someplace nice and peaceful to retire to. Nice people up there. I found the perfect tavern a while back and I went ahead and bought it. Kihrin don’t know I done it though. So I figure tomorrow I’ll let Kihrin buy that tavern from me, on the cheap, and I’ll send Kihrin there with his father and his pick of a couple slave girls to do waitress duty and the like. They take a dim view of slavery over in Eamithon,† so it wouldn’t be long at all before you found yourself a free woman. You’d end up being paid—legitimately—for your time and trouble, and with that boy just as crazy about you as crazy can be.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing you don’t want to. Don’t think I ain’t seen how you stare at him. Just keep the boy distracted, keep him from thinking too much about crazy ideas of rubbing shoulders with his betters. We ain’t nothing to people like them. They chew us up and spit us out as easy as eggnuts.”

  Morea nodded. “Of course, I’ll help.”

  “Good! Good. Now you get out of them clothes and make all warm and cuddly with my boy so he’s not thinking clearly when he wakes up.” Ola wiped her greasy fingers on the front of her agolé and stood, crossing over to where Kihrin lay on her bed. She stared at him. Her eyes were haunted.

  “I’ve made a mistake,” Ola whispered.

  “Mistress, did you say something?”

  Ola almost smiled. “I said … oh veils, never mind. You get to be my age, girl, and you look back over your life and sometimes you don’t like what you see. I’ve done plenty I’m not proud of, but I always had a good reason for it. Survival, mostly. Just trying to get by, to protect myself, just like every other damn bastard in the Lower Circle. They’re all jackals down here, just waiting for you to make a mistake.” Then she laughed, hard and cynical. “I guess that ain’t much different from how things are in the Upper Circle, is it?”

  Her expression sobered, and she said, “I ain’t done much in my life that was just pure maliciousness, pure spite. Save one thing. Just one. And it’s come looking for me. I can feel its breath on my heels…”

  Ola Nathera closed her eyes, for just a moment, and shuddered. “You can look at someone your whole life and never see them. But Qoran, that damn General. Those damned eyes. Those Milligreest boys were never blind. He’ll know just what he’s looking at, assuming he ain’t seen it already.”

  After a moment, Ola gestured toward the bed. “Well? Get in there and take good care of my boy.”

  Morea nodded and unwrapped her agolé. Ola stared at her and then grunted. “At least he’s got good taste,” she said. “Must get that from me too.” Without another word, she turned and left.

  Several moments later, Morea heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  The dancer tiptoed out to the front room and looked around carefully to make sure no one was there, that Ola really had left.

  “She’s gone,” Kihrin’s voice said behind her. “That woman weighs close to three hundred pounds. She’s good at a lot of things, but sneaking isn’t one of them.”

  Morea turned to see Kihrin had stood up from the bed. Candlelight outlined his body in golden pink highlights. The rim light made him look otherworldly and unreal—beautiful but alien. He looked too beautiful to be human.

  Morea reached for her clothing. “You switched cups, didn’t you? You knew she would drug the wine.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without your help. You were the perfect distraction. Anyway, it was a safe bet. She likes using riscoria weed, and grape wine is the best way to hide the taste. She’ll feed it to a mark if she wants them to wake in a compromising situation, with the vague memory that maybe they did things the night before that they shouldn’t have.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Stay with me,” Morea said. “Don’t go.”

  Kihrin shook his head. “I have to.”

  “You heard what she said. Eamithon sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

  He looked at her, blinking with surprise. “I have to warn the General about that demon. Besides, Captain Jarith said he’d meet me tonight with news about your sister.”

  She felt as though she’d been slapped across the face. “Oh.”

  The expression on the young man’s face softened, became something that was almost tenderness. “I’ll go and meet with General Milligreest, take his reward and talk to him about the demon, then find Captain Jarith and come back here. Ola will never know I left and tomorrow morning we’ll pretend that everything went exactly as Ola planned. She’s always a lot easier to deal with if she thinks she got her way.” Kihrin began looking around, rooting through wardrobes and cabinets. He pulled out a pair of baggy kef trousers and a matching vest with slippers, all in bright, festive colors.

  “Let’s hope these still fit. They were large last New Year’s Festival, but I’ve grown since then.”

  Morea helped him with the clothing and his hair, worrying over him. She was careful not to touch him, although her fingers shook and she suspected the nakari powder was having an effect. She wanted to touch him, hold him, and thank him with the only thing of value she thought she possessed, but she didn’t. Instead, she helped him dress and watched him leave out a back window.


  She then turned her attention to making sure the bed looked like it held two bodies instead of one.

  15: THE ZHERIAS MAW

  (Kihrin’s story)

  Surdyeh’s repertoire had always included sea tales, essential for a port town like the Capital. I was all too familiar with stories of the Desolation, an area of reef, broken islands, shoal, and becalmed sea that ate up ships the way Yoran witches ate children. From the north side, calm seas without wind or current left ships stranded. A southern approach meant conflicting currents, giant waves, and rocks for ships to dash themselves upon.

  Some said the vané crafted the Desolation to keep the navies of Quur off their shores. Others said a forgotten god’s death was to blame. The Desolation interfered with shipping lines and caused panic in the hearts of seasoned sailors. The Daughters of Laaka, the kraken: those were a god-king tale, something a man who sailed all his life might never see. The Desolation was a certainty that waited to trap the unwary. I’d heard rumors of Zheriaso pirates who used the Desolation as refuge, but most scoffed at these stories—anyone fool enough to sail the Desolation would only end up as one of its victims.

  Whether we would ever reach the Desolation was a matter of debate. On the Quuros side, to the north, the Desolation itself was the most pressing danger, but we were approaching from the south. Before we reached the mists, we faced the Zherias Maw, the result of the strong southern current hitting the rocks of the Desolation’s island chain. With no outlet, the current turned in on itself, creating a churning brine capable of smashing ships against the hidden reefs of the Desolation. The Maw waited long before The Misery reached the dead waters on the other side.

  Teraeth hoped that the kraken would find passage through the Maw too difficult and would turn back.

  I thought the assassin was being naïve.

  For this stretch of the journey, I didn’t growl as I heard the shouts of Magoq the galley master, who was whipping the slaves to row faster. Even with a strong wind in our sails, we needed the speed. Tyentso manipulated the currents to slow our pursuer, but if I looked out behind us using my second sight, I could see the glowing spectral outline of the monster gaining on us.

  We sailed for three days but weren’t losing the creature. I knew—knew in my heart, in my bones—that if it caught us, it would kill every person on board, freeman or slave. Any who survived would either drown, be picked off by sharks, or devoured by the Maw. Already, the water surrounding the ship was turning choppy. Worse, the ship was starting to turn, to sail at an angle counter to the direction of Tyentso’s summoned winds.

  It would be poetic to say it was a stormy, dreary day, but the sky was bright and beautiful. Even the increasingly jerky water was an intense blue. It didn’t seem like a day for dying, but then again, Surdyeh never once told me a story where Thaena the Death Goddess paid any attention to the weather.

  For the first time in many months, I gave serious consideration to praying.

  I spotted Khaemezra standing against the railing, talking to Tyentso, who looked more wan and frightened than I ever imagined possible. She hadn’t flinched at summoning a demon, but this? If the kraken didn’t kill us, the Maw would, and she seemed aware of the realities. Khaemezra, on the other hand, was as calm as if seated in a restaurant waiting for the waiter to bring her a second cup of tea.

  “May I speak with you two ladies for a moment?”

  Khaemezra smiled at me, but Tyentso snorted. “Lady? Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  I bowed to her extravagantly. Fortunately, she was looking for anything to distract her from thinking about our situation, and laughed instead of turning me into a fish. Although, I thought it might be handy to be a fish when the kraken showed up.

  Preferably a small one.

  I gestured back toward our pursuer. “She’s not fallen back, even with the time we’re making, and I have a feeling she’s playing with us. She’ll attack before we can reach the Maw.”

  Tyentso’s expression twisted, and she looked green. “Too late for that.”

  “No, I think we—what?”

  “We entered the Maw several hours ago,” Khaemezra whispered. “The outer edges are calm, so the crew doesn’t realize yet. Our only chance is to approach the fangs in the correct order, sail around the Throat, and hit the safe passage perfectly, without waking the Old Man.”

  “Could you repeat that in a way that makes sense?”

  She clicked her teeth together in annoyance. “The main vortex is called the Throat, but there are eddies, little currents, spiraling off the main whirlpool. We call those fangs. Most ships are ruined by the fangs before they ever reach the Throat.”

  “And what’s the Old Man?”

  “There are worse things than kraken in these waters.” Khaemezra cocked her head, examining me with those strange blue-green eyes. Looking at them, I thought they were the color of the sky, then decided that no, they were the color of the sea. Then I had the peculiar thought that the vané hag’s eyes were a mirror reflecting the light of ocean and firmament; that indoors, underground, at night, Khaemezra’s eyes would have no color at all.

  In any event, she had spooky eyes.

  “What can we do?” I found myself matching her whispers. “If this ship crashes, those slaves will drown.”

  Tyentso rolled her eyes. “Think to your own skin. Even a Zheriaso will drown in the Maw.* If this ship goes down, we all drown.”

  I continued staring at Khaemezra. “I don’t think so. If you didn’t want Teraeth to reveal the safe passage, you could’ve shut him up. We’re going where you want us to go.”

  The old woman smiled. “Clever child. You’re wondering: Is Relos Var truly responsible for the kraken behind us, or did I summon it? Is this all a ruse to convince the Captain to willingly change course and take us directly to where we want to go? Will I sacrifice all these people for a quicker, untraceable passage?”

  I swallowed. She hit all the right points.

  “You couldn’t! If we lose the ship—!” Tyentso’s voice started to rise, but Khaemezra gestured to her and her speech stopped. I couldn’t tell if she had used magic or simple intimidation. Khaemezra’s gaze never left me, but I found it difficult to meet her stare.

  “Will you?” I finally whispered. “Will you let them all die?”

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  I remembered what I knew about Thaena. I remembered the look on Teraeth’s face as he stared down at the slaves in the hold. I remembered Khaemezra’s concern when I almost died because of the gaesh. I would’ve thought cultists of a death goddess more callous, but they defied my attempts to pin them with an easy label.

  “No, I don’t think you’d let them die here,” I finally said, “but that doesn’t mean you didn’t call in the kraken. You’d do it if you thought you could free those slaves.”

  “So now a kraken is a weapon of emancipation?” The corner of her mouth twitched upward. “I must admit I’ve never heard that one before. But I didn’t do it, and I believe Relos Var did. You may choose to doubt me, but it remains the truth.”

  “That puts us right back at being destroyed by the kraken, devoured by the Maw, or dashed apart on the shoals of the Desolation.”

  “You forgot about the Old Man,” Tyentso added. “She hasn’t explained that one yet.”

  “Pray I never have to.” The old vané woman turned to me. “You want to help? Watch my son’s back. When things go wrong, someone will try something stupid. He’s going to need to keep his concentration.”

  “Wouldn’t you do a better job of that? I don’t even have a weapon.”

  “Tyentso and I will be directing our energies to keeping the ship intact as it suffers forces far beyond its normal capacity to endure,” Khaemezra said. “You may not have mastered all the skills that are your birthright, but the ability to pass unnoticed is very much your own. I suggest you make that the key to your goals.” She pushed a dagger into my hands. “And now y
ou are a man with a knife. Woe to the Empire.”

  As I turned to leave, I looked over at the ocean water and frowned. Khaemezra saw my expression and turned as well.

  “It begins,” she said.

  Tyentso made a whimpering sound, and moved toward the stairs. Khaemezra grabbed her arm.

  “Be strong, daughter,” she told Tyentso. “I am with you this day.” Then, to me: “Go, while you still can.”

  We sailed on the lazy edge of what looked like a slick of oil. The perfectly smooth water was shiny as glass and stretched for three hundred feet. Everything looked serene and safe and calm.

  Then a rumbling noise filled the air. The center of the slick erupted in a column of thrashing steam and water. When the water spilled back down, it sank as though draining through the bottom of the world. In seconds we were staring at three hundred feet of spinning gyre, a maelstrom of ocean water spilling down into unfathomable darkness.

  We rode on the edge, balanced on the precipice of a cliff. The ship listed, staying in place by what magic—hmm … now that I think about it, I’m sure I do know by what magic. The Misery sailed faster than row or sail could account, racing along at unholy speed.

  The crew couldn’t help seeing this. They were silent for a moment before shouts and cries and even orders to help were drowned by the scream of the whirlpool.

  I looked around. No one was in a blind panic yet, and Teraeth could handle himself. It would be a while yet before the chaos transformed into screaming frenzy—likely when the crew realized this was a minor “fang” and not the Throat itself.

  There was one other detail I wanted to take care of first.

  16: THE GENERAL’S REWARD

  (Talon’s story)

  Kihrin skipped saying goodbye to Surdyeh, although his thoughts were on his father the entire time he navigated the winding streets to the Upper Circle. Under other circumstances, Surdyeh would have been overflowing with supposedly helpful advice on how to behave around nobility. Under other circumstances, Surdyeh would have lectured endlessly on etiquette in his quest to ensure his son’s future as a musician. This always struck Kihrin as hypocritical, when Surdyeh knew perfectly well his success in the Revelers Guild depended on a magical aptitude that the old man refused to let his son legally pursue.*