The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  I realized where Tyentso was: she was inside me, controlling me.

  “Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “No. I need you to stop this. Stop it please. Stop.”

  Everything that I had feared would happen if the Old Man dug his claws into me was happening now. Right now. It didn’t matter that Tyentso was a friend, and that I had asked for her help. I had known she was going to do this, but somehow just hadn’t realized what possession would mean or how it would feel to be thoroughly under someone else’s control. Unable to physically protest, my very soul rebelled hard against the idea. I couldn’t run. There was no way to move, no way to hide from this. I was trapped.

  I panicked.

  You wouldn’t have known it to look at me, of course. I couldn’t even widen my eyes, but inside, I was screaming. A giant sense of revulsion and denial welled up inside me, even as I drowned, each metaphoric flail dragging me under a little bit more. The whole universe pressed down, and something inside me pressed back. There was a terrifying moment when I could feel not just myself but the sense of something other. Something far away and yet so close I felt its presence in the room, in my heart, under my skin, trapped and angry. Terrible. Hateful. Hungry.

  Something inside me snapped.

  And that quickly, I was no longer on Ynisthana.

  58: THE PRICE OF FREEDOM

  (Talon’s story)

  Once Tishar established they wouldn’t be able to buy Talea, she left Kihrin in the great hall with two of her guards and withdrew to the private salons a second time.

  The great hall was the main auction arena of the Octagon. Vendors wandered up and down the aisles, selling sweetmeat-stuffed sag or cooled teas for the patrons. Watching the cleaners, who didn’t wait for guests to leave before sweeping the aisles, Kihrin deduced this hall never closed; there was always someone up on the block for sale. Kihrin also realized right away that royalty seldom came to this hall. While it was the closest to entertainment of all the auction blocks, it was also the equivalent of slumming. The slave masters of this hall didn’t hold themselves with the same sober professionalism of the salons, perhaps because they sold to merchants and commoners.

  One such smarmy salesman took note of Kihrin and his guards and attached himself to the young man as an unwanted tour guide.

  “Would Your Highness care to see the inspection pens? A rare chance to see the slaves before they go up on the block, yes?”

  “I’m not looking for anything,” Kihrin said.

  “Oh no? But Your Highness, we have everything! Need a pillow girl? Servant boy? Exotic tastes are our specialty … Zheriaso, Doltari, old, young, fire-hairs from Marakor and piebalds from Lake Jorat. I have a half-morgage virgin from Khorvesh who is delightfully alien and yet quite beautiful…”

  Kihrin stopped and looked at the slave master. “What about troublemakers?”

  “Troublemakers?”

  “Sure. Troublemakers. Thieves and the like. Ones sentenced here in court to slavery as punishment for crimes.”

  The slave master raised an eyebrow, and his gaze on Kihrin changed its regard. “Oh. You want gladiators?”

  “I want cheap and expendable,” Kihrin corrected.

  The slave master snapped his fingers. “This I can provide. Please follow me, my lord.”

  * * *

  Merit sighed and changed the position of his legs, at least as far as the chains let him.

  There wasn’t much else to do, although he spared a minute to curse the fates that brought him here and the people specifically involved. He elaborated on what he’d begged the gods to do to their genitalia, in detail, then spat to the side.

  Across from him, his cellmate spared him an affectionate chuckle, which of late had become Merit’s way of judging his creativity in the cursing arts. If he came up with something clever, Star might even laugh.

  Merit had never learned his cellmate’s proper name, but he’d taken to calling him “Star.” A diamond-shaped patch of white marked his forehead, like he was a horse or something. His skin was patterned in a way that looked more like animal coloration than tattoos. The name seemed to amuse Star, and Merit’s street sense told him that his fellow prisoner was best kept smiling. Merit didn’t think he would want to be on the receiving end of Star’s unhappiness. It didn’t take high-born schooling to figure out Star was bound for the gladiator’s arena, and that he’d do well there.

  For a while, anyway.

  Merit had little such faith in his own chances. It was enough to make him wish they’d taken a hand instead.

  The door at the end of the row clanged open. There was noise up and down the aisles as prisoners and soon-to-be slaves leaned over to take a look at who was coming in for an inspection. It could only be an inspection: it was the wrong time of day for food. Merit craned his neck to see Venaragi was leading a nobleman down the rows. He growled to himself and leaned back into the shadows. Nothing good ever came from the royal lot looking down here—they didn’t want gladiators and they weren’t about to trust any of the folk sentenced to these blocks with weapons or guard duty. Merit slouched down to avoid notice, although he saw out of his peripheral vision that Star hadn’t made any sign of either recognizing or responding to Venaragi’s entrance or his high-born guest. His loss, Merit supposed.

  If this was a jail, there would have been whistling, or catcalls, but no one was so foolish here. To draw that kind of attention was tantamount to asking for Thaena’s hand in marriage: an early, unpleasant grave. The footsteps stopped near his cell, and he all but held his breath.

  “Hey Merit,” a familiar voice said. “How’s the arm healing?”

  Merit looked up, surprised. The man who stood on the other side of the gates dressed in blue silks, with enough embroidery and jewel work to make Merit drool. For a moment, the sophistication of the nobleman’s garb was so distracting Merit forgot to look at the man’s face, but finally he did.

  “Rook?” Merit stood up and made it two feet toward the bars before the chains pulled him back. “Thaena’s teats! It’s you.”

  Rook pulled up one side of his mouth in something like a smile. “I was hoping to spot a friendly face down here. Instead, I get you.”

  “Shit,” Merit said. “You’re looking friendly enough to me. Faris said you’d sold yourself to some noble fop as a play toy, but I didn’t believe it! But look at you…”

  Rook turned his head. “Hey Barus.” He motioned to one of the blue-dressed guards near him. “Am I a noble fop’s play toy?”

  The guard shook his head. “No, my lord. You are Kihrin D’Mon, eldest son of the Lord Heir D’Mon.”

  Kihrin looked back at Merit and shrugged. “Who knew?”

  Merit blinked. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

  Kihrin’s laughter was mocking. “I guess it must seem that way.” Then he scowled. “You still running with Faris’s gang?”

  Merit turned his head and spat. “That weasel’s the reason I’m in here. Bastard let me fall for him—said I still had two hands left to lose.”

  “Hm.” Kihrin looked him up and down, then turned and snapped, “Slave master, how much for this one?”

  Venaragi, who had been pretending not to listen to their conversation, scurried over. “Oh that one, milord? He’s heading for the Arena … probably have him fight leopards. He’ll fetch at least five thousand thrones at market.”

  “Five thousand thrones for this worthless piece of garbage? He doesn’t look like he even knows how to hold a sword!”

  “Oh, he’s a clever one though. I’m sure they’ll teach—”

  Kihrin sighed, exasperated. “What about the other one? I’m dipping into my personal allowance, you understand. I’m not trying to buy a virgin pillow girl.”

  “Him, I will sell you for five hundred thrones,” Venaragi offered.

  Both Merit and Kihrin blinked simultaneously.

  Merit looked over at Star. The man was chewing on a small sliver of wood, paying no at
tention to the conversation at hand, even though it involved his own sale.

  “Why so cheap?” Kihrin asked.

  “Milord wanted cheap, did he not?” Venaragi replied. “We haven’t been able to sell him, and so the price drops lower. Soon we will be paying someone else to take him off our hands.”

  Kihrin looked at Star. “What’s your story?”

  Star looked up, his dark eyes glittering in the torchlight. He rolled the splinter of wood back and forth across his lip for a second, then clenched it in his teeth. “Story?”

  “Yeah, your story. How’d you end up here?”

  “Milord, there is no need—”

  Kihrin raised two fingers of his hand. The slave master stopped talking.

  Merit’s eyes widened. My, my, how quickly he’s gone native, the street thief thought to himself.

  Kihrin turned back to Star. “So? Let’s hear it.”

  The splinter of wood bobbed up and down against Star’s lip. “Horse thief.”

  “That’s it? Your price down to five hundred thrones and the Octagon all but giving you away because you’re a horse thief? Why haven’t they sold you as a gladiator?”

  “They have.” A coarse chuckle escaped Star’s lips. “Twice.”

  Kihrin tilted his head and stared. When Star didn’t elaborate, he looked at Venaragi for an explanation.

  The slave master scowled. “He runs away. He’s very good at it. You said you wanted troublemakers…”

  “You were going to sell me a slave who has successfully escaped from the Pits? Twice?” An echo of warning crept into Kihrin’s voice. Merit leaned back against the slimy, mossy wall and watched, keeping a bland expression.

  Sometimes it was just nice to watch a pro work.

  “No, no, I was going to warn you—”

  “Hell you were. You were going to let me buy this man and never say one word about his history and be done with him. When my Aunt Tishar hears about this, she’ll tell Humthra and—”

  “No, no!” Venaragi exclaimed, eyes suddenly wide. “I find you other men, yes? Strong, well trained … I have troglodytes. You have never seen the like…”

  “No,” Kihrin said. “I’ll take this one.” He pointed at Star. “For double his price. And you throw in the other one for free as an apology for what you tried to pull. He’s a runaway in the making too, and you know it. I’m doing you a favor by taking him off your hands now.”

  Venaragi looked over Merit and his cellmate for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, my lord. You have a deal.”

  * * *

  The slave masters of the Octagon were only too happy to be rid of them all, and they couldn’t get Merit and Star out of their cell fast enough. As they left by the slave gate, Merit grinned and turned toward Kihrin. “Son of a bitch! I can’t believe you did that! Rook—”

  Kihrin grabbed him by the arm, precisely where Butterbelly had hit him with a crossbow bolt months before, and pushed him into an alcove. The spot was still tender; Merit bit the inside of his mouth.

  “Understand something,” Kihrin hissed at him. “The only reason I didn’t buy you and feed you to the crocodiles in the river is because you only started running with Faris last year. Thank Taja for that, because if you were one of the old guard, I’d have bought you just to watch my guards disembowel you.”

  “If I was one of the old guard,” Merit said through clenched teeth, “Faris wouldn’t have given me up to the Watchmen.”

  Kihrin’s grip on his arm loosened. Kihrin looked behind them at the two D’Mon guardsmen, then back at Merit.

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “I was wondering what the price for all this love would be.”

  Kihrin snickered. “Nothing’s free, huh? I want you to go to the Shattered Veil Club in Velvet Town. You know where that is?”

  “Yeah, but they shut it down. Nobody’s real sure why—”

  “Never mind that. You go to the building in the back. You take the stairway up to the second floor, and there’s a small room. I want you to bring me back anything you find there. Anything. Take the place apart. I’ll pay you for what you find. Better prices than you’d make with one of our fences.”

  “Hey, Rook,” Merit whispered. “The word is you killed Butterbelly. If people find out I’m helping you…”

  “That’s my insurance you won’t talk. You go mouthing off where I am and I’ll make damn sure that people know who bought your freedom. Scabbard won’t understand. He won’t understand at all.”

  Merit swallowed. He saw just how bad it could go. “All right. I’ll play it your way. If I do find anything, where do I bring it? I don’t think I can just come calling on your palace with a note or something.”

  “No, I—” Kihrin chewed on his lip for a moment.

  “What about the Culling Fields?” Merit said. “We can both make it there, and I can leave any packages with a bouncer there who owes me a favor.”

  Kihrin thought about it, then nodded. “Okay. What’s the name of this bouncer?”

  “Tauna. She’s cute.”

  Kihrin blinked. “The bouncer’s a woman?”

  Merit grinned. “Yeah. I really love that bar. This will take me a couple of days … I’ll leave it for you at the end of the week?”

  Kihrin helped Merit out of the alcove. “Deal. Here’s a hundred thrones for new clothes and the like, and Merit…”

  Merit smiled. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t make me come find you. There isn’t any place in the City where you can hide. I know all the safe houses. Nobody wants me to come gate-crashing with soldiers.”

  Merit started to open his mouth to dress down Kihrin for suggesting anything so stupid, but the cold look in the Key’s eyes stopped him. Kihrin didn’t care anymore for Shadowdancer rules or Shadowdancer propriety. He thought he was better than that now, more powerful than that. He’d let this whole royal birth craziness go straight to his head.

  Or maybe, a small voice inside Merit whispered, he’d simply cased the situation the same way he once would have cased a house, and figured out which way the dice would fall … the Royal Families play a different game, by different rules.

  So instead, Merit pursed his lips and said, “Whatever you say, boss.”

  * * *

  Kihrin watched Merit run off and hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. He’d never known the man, except that he’d been picked by Faris as one of his bully boys. He had no idea if he was trustworthy or not.

  It was a fishing trip, in any case. He didn’t know if his father Surdyeh had left anything worth finding. If he had, logically it would have been taken by Darzin’s people, or Therin’s.

  He turned his attention to the last slave. “Do you have a name?”

  The man grinned with teeth that needed brushing. “Sure.”

  Kihrin waited, then rolled his eyes. “What is it?”

  The man paused, flicked the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Star.”

  “Star?”

  The slave shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  Kihrin looked at him. Star was clearly an easterner, taller than any locals save the few oddities such as himself. His coloring was politely described as bizarre. Still, his appearance sparked a memory.

  “You’re Joratese, aren’t you? From the plains?”

  Star ducked his head in a gesture probably meant to signal agreement.

  Star lazily looked at Kihrin, then at his two guards, then back at Kihrin.

  He was, Kihrin realized, sizing up his chances to make a break for it. He remembered Morea’s advice on the basic stupidity of trying to turn a Joratese into a slave.

  Then Star scowled at the gates of the Octagon and said, “You didn’t want me. You wanted the thief. So now what?”

  “I don’t know. What can you do?”

  “Well,” Star said slowly, “I can steal a horse for you.”

  59: KHARAS GULGOTH

  (Kihrin’s story)

  You killed Merit? Merit�
�s part of your collection?

  When did that—yeah, right, never mind.

  I’ll continue.

  * * *

  We stood outside. Bruised clouds circled in a spiral over our heads like the sky-dwelling cousin of the Maw. The air stank, humid and sulfurous, lashed with a whisper of acid that scratched the back of my throat with each breath.

  No, this was not Ynisthana.

  “What in the hell did you just do, Scamp? I’ve never felt anything like that.”

  “Me? It wasn’t me.”

  “It damn well wasn’t me! I was never any good at gates. Who else could it have been?” Tyentso floated in the air, her feet just above the ground, right next to me. I hadn’t felt her leave my body.

  We were outside, but also standing in the remains of a ruined city. Blocks of stone and metal showed their age, slouched under the weight of years and pitted from the scabbing air. A thin silvery grid of light traced the edges of buildings, outlining where the walls should have continued but had since collapsed. It was as if the whole city had been protected by a magical ward—and the ward had survived long after the structures themselves collapsed into decay.

  I think the city must have been beautiful once. So many of those shapes suggested wide balconies and delicate plazas, tall pillars, and graceful fountains. Now? It was a skeleton grown corrupt but not yet rotted away enough to collapse entirely.

  “Where are we?” Tyentso’s voice was quieter now. I didn’t have the sense she expected me to answer the question. “This is the Korthaen Blight.”

  “What? No!”

  “Pretty sure, Scamp.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Of all the places you had to choose, good job picking the morgage homeland. At least I’m already dead.”

  “I didn’t do it.” I swallowed as I examined the area, half-expecting bands of morgage to be hiding behind every stone. At least I could stay invisible.

  Directly ahead of us was a building that wasn’t falling away to nothing. Its stones were whole. No pits or cracks marred the surface of its perfect walls. I couldn’t tell what purpose the building had originally served. It might have been a temple or a palace, a great university or some hall of government.