by Tad Williams
“Oh, not just for that,” said the autarch cheerfully. “As you will see, they also make the best handlers for the askorabi—with their armored bodies, they are almost impervious to the creatures’ stings. In fact, in our tongue we call these particular Khau-Yisti kalukan—‘the shielded ones.’” He smiled and looked up at the sun, which had appeared from behind the clouds. “The only thing they truly hate is too much light. Hear them murmur in pain! I think you may be right, Paramount Minister Vash. I suppose we will have to use the human handlers instead.” He didn’t sound particularly bothered.
The creatures were in obvious discomfort, clumsily trying to keep the bright sun out of their tiny eyes with their plated hands, stumbling, halting in confusion in the middle of the ramp, blearily staring out from the depths of their carapaces. Every time they slowed, though, the handlers were on them, poking at the joints between their armor plating with sharp-tipped iron rods.
“Terrible ...” said Olin quietly.
“Ah, you feel the tug of kinship.” The autarch nodded sagely.
“What are you talking about?”
“All the Yisti are Qar. You have Qar blood yourself. Thus, these poor monsters are your kin, Olin.” The autarch’s tone was again one of an adult speaking to a slow child. “It demonstrates your good heart that you recognize that, no matter how bestial these relatives might be. Now remain silent and pay attention—wait until you see what comes next!”
The autarch was not even looking at Olin Eddon as he spoke, but Vash was, and he was surprised by the intensity of the cold hatred on the northern king’s face.
The sky darkened. The day, which had been warm, suddenly took on an edge that reminded her it was still spring, and a cold one at that: true summer was still far away. The Lady Idite dan-Mozan sighed and clutched her bowl of gawa a little tighter. “Just a moment longer, Moseffir,” she called to her grandson, who was digging between the stones of the courtyard with a stick. “Then it’s time to go inside for your supper.”
“Won’t,” the little boy said with the same careless certainty his father had shown at that age—and doubtless his grandfather, too, although of course Idite had not been present to see that. He wouldn’t even look at her because he knew that as soon as he did he couldn’t ignore her anymore, and that was like his grandfather Effir.
The thought of her merchant husband made the suddenly dark day seem darker still. She had lost him only a few short moons ago, and some days that terrible night of fire and blood actually seemed to be receding into the past, like a landmark seen from a barge floating down a river. But then at other times, like now, the hurt was so fierce, so . . . alive that it might have only just happened. It was moments like this that she had to fight off despair. Only her family gave her reason to go on. Were it not for her son and his daughters and young Moseffir here, Idite might have walked out into the cold ocean off Landers Port and let the gods do what they wanted with her.
She did not know how long she had been lost in thought when she became aware of Fanu standing and waiting for her. Why hadn’t the girl said anything? Idite did not have the heart for anger, though. Fanu had always been shy, but she had been so pretty once . . . ! Since the burns, though, she had crawled back inside herself like a desert tortoise retreating into its shell. Even in the company of the other women, some of whom had scars far worse than hers, there were days that scarcely a dozen words came out of her mouth between sunrise and sunset.
“What is it, Fanu-saya?”
The girl’s attention had wandered to Moseffir, vigorously beheading stems of grass with his little stick. “Oh, Mistress! A thousand pardons! You have a visitor.”
Idite was surprised. It was a strange time of the day for it. Still, she smiled and sat up straighter. “Truly? Well, do not keep her waiting—the Great Mother herself sometimes goes disguised, it is said, to see who honors her injunction to hospitality!”
“Oh, but, Mistress,” said Fanu, “it is a man. A stranger.” She said this last word as though it described something with claws and sharp teeth.
“Ah. Did he give a name?”
Fanu shook her head. “But . . . he is handsome!”
Hearing Fanu say something so much like her old self was more surprising than the sex of the visitor. “All the more reason to send him in then,” said Idite, laughing a little. “You may stay if you wish.”
The girl’s eyes widened and she shook her head violently. “I couldn’t, Mistress! I couldn’t!”
“Then have one of the porters come in with him, so that propriety is maintained.”
After Fanu had fled the courtyard Idite straightened her robes. Not that she cared very much what even a handsome young man thought of her, but neither did she wish to look like an old gossip. She had the honor of her son’s house to think of, after all—it was her home, now.
The old porter led the visitor in, then went and sat cross-legged in the corner of the courtyard. Idite examined the newcomer as she gestured for him to sit in the chair across from her. Fanu had been right: he was easy to look upon, tall and slender, with a trimmed beard just a little longer than what was proper—it gave him a bit of a bandit look—and sumptuous clothes in the northern style, the sort of thing that might ordinarily be seen on a young nobleman of Tessis or Jellon. His skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes, though, showed that his blood originated from the same place hers did.
“Lady Dan-Mozan.” He folded his hands on his breast and bowed his head above them. “You are very kind to see me.”
The courtly gesture startled her. She had not seen it performed with such grace in years, not since she had been a young woman in Nyoru. It brought on a pang of homesickness that she covered by returning the Tuani greeting with one of her own. “I see you are my countryman,” she said. “Or you lived there. What is your name, young man, and what can this useless old woman do for you?”
He smiled and she found herself remembering more of her youth, the hot desert nights and the whispers of the women as the men paraded past in their military finery at the beginning of the Ul-Ushya Festival. “Useless? I think not. Your kindness and wisdom are legendary, Lady Dan-Mozan. Again, I thank you for inviting me into your beautiful home and restful garden. I have ridden a long way to see you.”
“I am flattered,” she said, more certain than ever that something strange was afoot. “But you must know this is not my house, but my son’s. He was kind enough to take me in when my own house burned earlier this year. It was a sad time, but at least now I have the chance to see my grandchildren as often as I wish.” She gestured to Moseffir, who had managed to get dirt all over his face. Idite sighed. “Even a grandmother cannot keep that one out of mischief. Moseffir! Come here.”
“The fire, of course,” said the young man, nodding as she wiped at the boy’s face with the heel of her hand. “Please accept my very deepest regrets on the death of your esteemed husband. Effir dan-Mozan was a prince among merchants.”
“Better, I suppose, than being a merchant among princes,” she said, surprising him a little. She freed Moseffir, who waddled back to his excavation. “I do not mock you, but please do this old woman the honor of dispensing with such flowery stuff. Of course I miss my husband more than anyone can ever know. I appreciate your courtesy, but since you did not know him ...”
“Ah, but I did,” said her visitor. “And I truly admired him, although I do not think he felt the same way about me.”
She watched him in silence for a long moment. “You still have not told me your name.”
“No, I have not, Lady Dan-Mozan. Because I wished you to have a chance to spend a short time in my company, so you might be prepared to think better of me than my name warrants.” He sat up, fastidiously smoothing out the sleeves of his jacket. “I am Dawet dan-Faar.”
It was as though he had thrown a pan of cold water over her. If Idite’s entire body had not suddenly felt as limp and helpless as a trampled reed, she would have run to snatch up her grandson and flee the courtyard
. “Prince Dawet . . . ?”
“Yes, that Dawet.” His face was a proud, hard mask, but she saw something in it that she thought might be pain. “The one you have heard called murderer, ravager, thief, traitor. And I must admit that not all those names are unfairly given. But despite the worst of the tales, I have never harmed a woman. On that I offer my soul in surety to the Great Mother. You are safe with me, Lady. And neither will I harm anyone in your household if you ask me to leave this very moment. You greeted me very courteously. Will you hear me out?”
She looked to her grandson, then to the porter snoring gently in a pool of light. The afternoon sun had crept out from behind the clouds again.
“What is it you want from me, Prince Dawet?”
He shook his head. “Let us put away pleasantries, at least those which do not apply. That title was taken from me, nor do I wish it back. All I desire from you is information. Tell me what happened to your house. I have been told that the fire was set by men in the service of Baron Iomer. Why should he do such a thing?”
Idite now wished she had run from the garden when the impulse had first struck her. How could she tell this well-known criminal anything true without giving away that which could not be told? And if she told him lies, what would he to do her? To her family? His promise not to harm them was, if even half the stories about Dawet were true, as useless as shoes for the wind. “I . . . I do not know why the fire was set. The baron’s soldiers were in our house, it is true, and many think they set it, but it could have been an accident. ...”
“Please do not waste my time with nonsense, Lady,” he said, his voice firm but not threatening. “Otherwise the day will turn cold, and I will feel it my fault if you catch a chill. The rumor is that he was searching for King Olin’s daughter, Briony, who was in your house. I have heard this from Briony herself, Lady, so do not bother to deny it.”
“You . . . you have seen her?” After the girl disappeared that night, Idite had feared that Briony was dead or in a Southmarch dungeon, although in recent days she had heard rumors that the princess had somehow reached Tessis. “Truly? She is alive?”
He looked at her closely, as if he suspected her concern was not genuine. “Yes,” he said at last. “She lives. Although she will not talk much about the night of the fire.” He paused a moment, gazing at the starlike blossoms of the pear tree. “And besides your husband, many others died that night, Lady Dan-Mozan. I want to talk about one of them. About Shaso dan-Heza.”
Idite’s heart almost stopped beating. “Sh . . . Shaso?”
“Yes, Lady. The one whose daughter all believe I kidnapped and ravished. The man who hated me so much he swore he would cut out my heart and lay it on his daughter’s grave. Tell me about Shaso.”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“Do not pretend he wasn’t in your husband’s house that night, Lady. I will not threaten you, but neither do I wish to be insulted. I know he was there—I have spoken to the princess, remember?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Idite wondered if he truly would leave if she asked him. What could this famous monster want? Who could have sent him? “He was there, yes, Lord Shaso was. It was a secret. He was killed in the fire. Only myself, the other women, and a few of the servants survived.”
“But I do not believe that, my lady,” said Dawet. He stood up. He was taller than she’d imagined. His shadow fell across little Moseffir, who looked up in confused surprise, muddy twig clenched between his teeth. “I believe that Shaso dan-Heza is alive. And you, Lady, are going to tell me how I can find him.”
It was one of the most dreadful things Pinimmon Vash had ever seen, a dusty black horror as long as a supply wagon, with six thick plated walking legs and two more that each carried a heavy claw. Almost a dozen men pulled at it with ropes but still couldn’t coax it out of its cage at the bottom of the ramp, a box taller than a man, made of heavy wooden boughs woven together like wicker.
“By the gods, what is that terrible thing?” demanded Olin in a tone of horror. Even his guards had turned their backs on him to watch the angry thing swiping claws as large as ox-yokes at its handlers, who although presumably experienced with such creatures looked no happier at dealing with it than anyone else would be, their faces pale and set in tight, fearful lines.
“Have you never seen an askorab?” Vash tried to sound matter-of-fact, but it was not easy with a hissing monstrosity like that only a few dozen paces away, struggling so hard as it was dragged out of the cage that the sand it kicked was landing on the paramount minister’s feet. “I believe you have them in the south of Eion. The Hierosolines call them ...”
“Skorpas,” said Olin, staring as though he could not help himself. “Yes, I have seen them, but never one as big as a wagon . . . !”
“By my blood, but that is a handsome fellow!” said the autarch, laughing. “Have you ever seen such a splendid machine?”
“Machine? It is a living creature, or I miss my guess,” Olin said. “I can hear its breath piping.”
Sulepis chortled. The god-king was in a good mood. “I meant only that it was a machine in the sense of being something created to fulfill a task, as a plow turns the soil or a windmill turns a stone to grind grain. The forefathers of this brute in the Sanian desert hills were nothing like this big—scarcely larger than a hunting dog. He and his cousins have been bred just for this task.”
“And what task is worthy of such a hideous demon?” Olin asked, but if he meant to sound defiant or disgusted, he failed: even Vash could hear how shaken the man was by the sight of the terrible beast, which had just caught one of its handlers in a flailing pincer and was busy crushing out his life as the others struggled to hold onto their ropes and cursed uselessly, breaking their sticks against the monster’s hard shell.
“Why, to go down into the tunnels beneath your old home and clear them for us,” said the autarch. “The askorabi are hunters. This fellow will make short work of anything alive down there. And he is only one of a dozen!” Sulepis sat up straight. “Ah, look there—they have lured him out at last!”
“Lured” was perhaps not the word that Pinimmon Vash would have chosen, since a dozen more of the askorab-handlers had been forced to run and help their fellows keep the monster from escaping, but with so many more hands on the cords, they had at last managed to drag the hissing black beast out into the direct light. Vash saw that its tail was more slender in proportion than that of its small desert brothers, but still a formidable weapon, coiled over the creature’s back, trembling with the urge to drive the dripping barb at its tip into the handlers, who knew well enough to stay out of reach of the tail as well as the claws.
Most of them knew, Vash amended himself as another handler was abruptly caught up in a massive pincer, tweezed mostly in half, then shoved into the creature’s clicking mouth parts even as he still tried to scream. King Olin turned away, clearly struggling not to be sick, but Sulepis watched avidly.
“Into the tunnels with him!” the autarch shouted. He turned to Olin and Vash. “Then we will seal the entrance with a big stone.” He seemed as pleased as a child describing a new game. “They are all but blind—the beast will go downward in search of food.” He frowned. “They should not have let him eat that slave. He will be sluggish.” The moment of bad humor did not last. “Then we will let the next ones go. Soon the tunnels beneath Southmarch will be full of these beauties.”
Olin looked up, pale and shocked. “But the tunnels beneath the castle—some of them must lead to Funderling Town. And from there, up to the rest of the city.”
“Yes,” said the autarch. “Yes, indeed.”
“And it would be pointless to beg you not to do this,” said the northern king heavily, “wouldn’t it? To say that if you refrain, I will cooperate with whatever you plan?”
“Worse than pointless,” said Sulepis, smiling. “You will cooperate whether you wish to or no, Olin Eddon—your part in what is to come is important but not subtle. And although I have sol
diers in the thousands, I myself must go down into the depths beneath your old home. Do you see? In the dark caves there are many places to hide in ambush. But when the askorabi are finished, nothing that breathes will remain.”
“It is not that skorpa who is the monster here,” Olin said.
Sulepis only laughed. It seemed there was nothing the northerner could ever say to make the autarch lose his temper—an astounding talent to have, and one that Vash fervently wished he, too, possessed. “I am another perfect machine, King Olin. I let nothing stand in my way.” He clapped his long, gold-bejeweled hands and his platform was carried away, back toward the massive tent that had been set up in the town square, a new Orchard Palace underneath the skies of the March Kingdom.
The askorab had lifted what was left of the dead handler and had stung it over and over in a raging frenzy until what remained was scarcely recognizable as having once been human. As the shouting handlers slowly drove the many-legged beast toward the rocks, it dropped the tattered remains into the sand. The other handlers, ashen to a man, turned their faces away as they passed. Behind them, scores of other workers were lowering more cages down from the deck, each with its own hideous, hissing passenger.
“We shall probably lose a few askorabi down in the depths,” the autarch said cheerfully. “They are not hounds, after all—they will not return when called. It is interesting to think that generations from now their descendants will probably still be emerging from the tunnels to hunt unwary travelers. ...”
Olin’s movement was so swift it astounded Vash, who had come to think of the northern king as someone like himself—older, passive, a creature of mind and manners. With a shout of rage that clearly had been long bottled inside him, the northerner leaped past his own guards and in a quick two paces had crossed the sand to the autarch’s litter, then began to clamber up onto the platform. The autarch watched with interest, as if the murderous northern monarch was just another entertainment. Olin’s attack was hindered by the alarmed slaves, who in their sudden fear made the whole litter dip and sway precariously, so that Olin slid backward, away from the autarch, but the Leopard guards had already moved to block him. Three of the elite guardsmen grabbed the northerner and yanked him off the litter, then threw him to the ground. Two of them knelt on his arms while the third set his blade against the king’s throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.