by Phil Tucker
“Feel free to contribute,” said Jarek. “Here are the obstacles we face: no translator. No idea as to where they were taken. No idea as to the exact charges, or how dangerous they might be. No means of bribing a guard to tell us anything useful.”
“No means to pay for these drinks,” said Kish.
“I could go on. But charging outside waving my hammer won’t accomplish much.”
“We need information,” said Annara. “It will be dark soon, and we can’t spend the night in this tavern. Tareos may have refused to help us, but we can try to find a more friendly merchant or traveler and ask them about where Acharsis and Elu might have been taken. Then…”
“Then?” prompted Jarek.
“Then… then we figure out our next step.”
“If we leave this tavern, Acharsis will have no easy way to find us,” said Sisu quietly. “If he talks his way to freedom, he’ll come back here.”
“Then one of us should stay and wait,” said Annara. “The others will get to work.”
“Very wise,” said Sisu with a sour smile. “I’ll sacrifice myself and stay here. No need to thank me.”
Jarek continued to oscillate his cup’s base around the tabletop. Surely their quest was cursed. First the debacle at the Waystation, then Guthos’ betrayal, and now Acharsis and Elu’s arrest within minutes of setting foot in Magan.
“Perhaps we should seek a Thorn Gate, or an apsu,” he said quietly. “Our luck has been sour ever since we left Rekkidu. A proper cleansing might help.”
Sisu snorted. “I doubt they have those in Magan. Everything here is centered around their lamassu.”
“Still, he might have a point,” said Annara. “We need every advantage we can afford. But again, where? How? We don’t have time. We need to rescue them now, not tomorrow.”
Jarek rose to his feet. “All right. Sisu, hold this table. If they ask for payment, order more drinks. We’re going to try our luck down the docks. Perhaps Master Tareos will reconsider if we prove a little more aggressive.”
“It can’t be that easy to lose your trading license,” said Kish, rising beside him. “And maybe he’s missing Magrib by now.”
“That, or he’ll not want a hole in his hull.” Jarek settled a hand on his Sky Hammer’s head. “Let’s go.”
He led the way across the tavern floor and had almost reached the entrance when Magrib appeared in the doorway, two jade-masked guards just behind.
“Jarek!” The boy grinned and hurried forward. “You’re here!”
Jarek muttered thanks to Alok even as he studied the two guards. “Magrib. You still under arrest? What happened?”
“Under arrest?” For a moment the boy seemed genuinely confused. “Oh, them? No! They’re my escort, to make sure nobody interferes with my mission.”
“Wait,” said Kish. “Your escort?”
“Where’s Elu?” Annara’s voice was stony with apprehension. “Acharsis?”
“That’s why I came! I’m to take you to them. You won’t believe what’s happened. I mean that literally. You’ll think I’m lying.”
“What?” asked Jarek. “What’s Acharsis done now?”
Sisu joined them, and they all bent over as Magrib beckoned for them to lean in. “He’s gotten Elu crowned as Prince Senacherib! We met the lamassu, and Acharsis convinced him to—”
“Magrib,” said Annara. “Stop. Say that again.”
Magrib’s grin grew wider. “See? The man’s a miracle worker. You should have seen him chatting with the lamassu as if they were friends! I’ve never seen a bunch of nobles and priests look so shocked.”
Sisu lowered himself to a crouch. “The lamassu. Acharsis had an audience with the lamassu?”
“Yes!” Magrib beamed. “It’s amazing, but it’s true. But let’s go! I’ve been sent to collect you. Prince Senacherib awaits you all in his private suite in the palace!”
“You’re right,” said Jarek. “I don’t believe you.”
“Me neither,” said Kish.
Annara looked pale, and Jarek saw Kish subtly slide her arm through the older woman’s to steady her.
“Fine. You don’t have to believe me. Just hurry. Follow me to the palace. You’ll see. It’s amazing! Everyone is so furious!” Magrib hurried to the door, turned to beckon them and then disappeared into the evening sunlight, the two guards following.
“Prince Senacherib,” said Sisu.
“Come on,” said Jarek, moving forward, ignoring the stares from all around them. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Magrib led them quickly away from the docks, into the city proper and toward the palace that rose above them all. Colorful cloth awnings extended before shops. Plinths and obelisks exalting the lamassu arose wherever they looked, and the streets were thronged with the people of Magan, ranging from guards on patrol to slaves to everyone in between. Canals of muddy-red water infiltrated the city everywhere, skiffs plying their way amongst bobbing vegetation and foam, while music, laughter, or the sound of someone being whipped floated to them from dark windows as they passed.
They emerged onto a large processional that led directly to the palace. The great stone slabs that composed the road’s surface were impressively smooth, and its length was flanked by an endless series of statues on thrones so vividly painted that they seemed alive.
The palace gate was thronged with people, a variety of them wearing masks. Slaves in sumptuous gowns brushed past servants, while groups of scholars or scribes stepped aside for important nobles.
There were no doors in the main entrance, which was a shadowed maw between two vast statues of the lamassu that rose up nearly thirty feet on either side, painted with exacting care and bedecked in enough gold and jewels to beggar any one of the River Cities. Magrib hurried up the steps and beckoned again eagerly for them to follow, then disappeared into the shadows.
“Well, we’re going into the palace,” said Kish.
“Doesn’t mean Elu’s a prince,” said Sisu.
“Come on,” said Annara, rushing up the steps. Her haste drew curious, flat gazes.
Jarek followed last, taking in the magnificence of the carvings in the walls, the impossibly high ceilings, the pale floor strewn with vividly colored flower petals. They soon emerged into an open air courtyard, whose center was dominated by a recessed pool on which three swans were slowly gliding to and fro. Pillars wider than Jarek rose up to support the distant ceiling covering the edges of the courtyard, and on every surface were paintings and runes, an endless array of knowledge and worship that beggared the mind.
Magrib followed the guards as they led deeper into the complex, through a staggering number of halls and open courtyards, some lit by burning braziers, other by the evening sky. There was a logic to the palace that evaded Jarek; he knew only the verticality of the ziggurat, where height equated authority. Here, everything seemed sprawled, without rhyme or reason.
Finally, they reached the head of a broad hallway that ended in an impressive arch; guards were stationed before it, but Magrib skipped past them without fear. Wary, hand resting on his Sky Hammer, refusing to believe what was increasingly becoming evident, Jarek followed into a huge and luxurious chamber.
A rectangle in the ceiling allowed the evening’s soft light to filter down upon an ornate pool from whose center arose the statue of svelte woman holding a vase. The scale of the room dwarfed what little furniture there was, but Jarek stopped, almost stumbling into Kish as he saw Elu seated on a high-backed chair toward the rear of the chamber.
He’d recently bathed and shaved; his cheeks and upper lip were as smooth as a child’s, leaving only a fringe of hair along the length of his jaw, and his scalp gleamed. It immediately gave him an alien, otherworldly look, to see the angularity of his skull imparting upon his features a sharp, almost predatory air. He sat bare-chested, his skin gleaming as if recently oiled, a thick necklace of azulite and gold draped over his chest, his upper arms bound in bands of gold and bronze. A white skirt was stretched taut over
his thighs, while the thongs of leather sandals were bound all the way up to his knees.
“Elu?” Annara hesitated, a hand raised in hesitation.
The severe-looking young man grinned and rose, spreading his arms wide. “Mother! Can you believe it? I’m a prince!”
“He was telling the truth,” said Sisu, pressing a hand to the side of his face and pulling down his cheek. “By Nekuul’s never-ending hunger for the souls of the living, he was telling the truth.”
“But—how?” Annara stepped forward, gazing around at the chamber, the magnificent paintings on the walls, the ornate pillars, the trappings of royalty. “I thought…?”
Elu stepped forward to take her hand. “Acharsis. What more need I say?”
Annara gave a weak laugh. “Truly? He did this?”
“Somehow. He kept digging us into deeper trouble, always escalating his claims with such… arrogance? Confidence? Authority?—that he intimidated the magistrates into taking us before the lamassu lest they make a terrible mistake. And there he negotiated with it—mother, if you could have seen their god! It was huge, and terrifying, but Acharsis convinced it to let me be Prince Senacherib—”
“Hold on,” said Jarek, stepping up alongside Annara. “The lamassu knows you’re not Maganian royalty, right?”
“Yes. Even so. Acharsis convinced him that fate had brought me to Magan just in time for me to enter a trial called the Quickening to determine who’ll be the next pharaoh. Fate - and, well, my ‘divine’ blood.” Elu made a face.
“I have to sit down,” said Annara. Elu led her to the steps below his chair, and there she sank down to stare glassily at him. “The Quickening?”
“Yes. It’s how they pick their successor here. I’m going to be entering it to try and become pharaoh.” Even as he said it, Elu’s eyes widened with amazement, as if the words were hitting him for the first time.
Jarek felt his bewilderment come dangerously close to anger. “That’s… ridiculous. Is the lamassu mad?”
“No,” said a new voice, rich with cheer and slightly slurred. Acharsis emerged from behind a pillar at the rear of the chamber, a golden cup in one hand, dressed in a white tunic that reached down to his knees and which was belted around his waist by a golden band. “I am simply that magnificent with my words. I speak, and the birds, they swoon. I break wind, and the crowd erupts in applause. Ekillos would be proud. Desperation turned my silver tongue into gold, and now, well.” He raised his golden cup. “Free beer.”
Jarek pinched his brow. His temple was pulsing. “I thought we were going to approach this carefully. Discover the lie of the land. Figure out an approach.”
“No time,” said Acharsis, leaning against one of the massive pillars. “I do believe they were going to put us to death, and were only debating how courteous to be about it. Innocence and ignorance didn’t hold much weight in their court - including poor Magrib here. And that would have been unconscionababble.” He frowned. “Unconsciousnoble. Uncon… whatever. Ungood, as they say.” He grinned over the rim of his cup. “So I said a few choice words, and here we are. All hail Prince Senacherib, returned from the dead, freshly shaved and oiled and remarkably ungrateful to his reviled father.”
“You—” said Elu, but Acharsis waved his goblet, spilling some wine and cutting him off.
“Yes, yes. I know. We all know, just like I’m not Jarek’s old friend, or Annara’s anything. Just Acharsis, saving the day, anointing royalty and giving us all a chance to affect the tides of fate. But hey, I’m not bitter. Like I said: free beer.”
Sisu drifted forward, circling the far side of the pool. “A miracle. There’s no other way to explain it.”
“I have been called such,” allowed Acharsis.
“What is this Quickening?” asked Annara, rising to her feet and taking Elu’s hand. “Is it dangerous?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Elu. “We didn’t even know it was happening until a few hours ago.”
“Yes,” said Acharsis. “Things have been rather rushed. But it seems our old friend Irella - your mother, Sisu - arranged to have the previous pharaoh assassinated.” He said this last word with great care. “Three months ago. Which raises my estimation of her… her perfidy - that’s a good word - several rungs or notches, or what have you. Very perfidious. Perfiduous. Also, it explains the timing of her attack. She must have known about this Quickening business, and timed her strike on the rump of the empire with exquisite timing.” He frowned, replaying the sentence in his mind. “Timed the timing. Hmm. Ungood.”
“Great,” said Annara. “You’re drunk.”
“Am I?” Acharsis peered into his cup. “I’ll admit, I have had some drinks, so I have drunk, and am perhaps in the process of drunking. But do I not deserve a little respite after pulling off this—what did you call it, Sisu? Miracle?”
Annara turned to Elu. “When is this Quickening?”
“In a few days. We’re going to be leaving the city to head into some distant hills, where the trial will take place. It’s a day’s travel away, I think. I haven’t been able to learn much, but all six royal families from the largest Maganian cities will send a representative to compete. The one who wins through first becomes the next pharaoh.”
“Combat?” asked Jarek.
“I don’t know,” said Elu. “I don’t think so. It’s a trial, of sorts. But we’ve not yet learned the details.”
“Prince Senacherib,” said Kish. “Do we have to call you that now?”
“Only if you don’t want your head cut off for being rude to royalty,” said Acharsis. “But that’s really up to you.”
The sound of footsteps echoed through the entrance, and then a lean man in sumptuous robes entered the chamber, a tall staff in his right hand. He tapped its base against the floor and intoned, “Beautiful are the beauties of Magan, the beautiful one has come. The Lady of Grace, Sweet of Love, Pharaoh’s Wife, Lady of all Women, and Mistress of Magan, Nethena.”
A crowd then flowed into the chamber, led by a stern, beautiful woman clad in royal regalia: a great blue headdress banded in gold upon her brow, a broad necklace of gold and lapis lazuli spread across her chest, and a sweeping dress of purple banded with crimson and gold. Her lips were pursed tightly, her nostrils pale, and her gaze livid as she strode up to their group, trailed by a score of other nobles and servants.
“I welcome you to the palace of Magan,” she said in flawless River Cities common, her voice clipped with tension. “The sun and moon rejoice in your return home, my precious son Senacherib, and birds of heaven sing their eternal gratitude that you are once more amongst us.”
“Well,” said Acharsis from where he still leaned against the pillar. “That sounded sincere.”
“Queen Nethena,” said Elu with surprising calm. “Thank you for your welcome.”
“'Queen'?” She took a step forward. “Why so formal, my son?” The words were nearly bitten off. “I am your mother. You are my flesh and blood, and I love you more than life itself. Come. Bask in my eternal love.”
Elu hesitated and glanced sidelong at Annara. The queen looked at her as well, and her smile grew cutting.
“What a remarkably coincidental resemblance,” she said. “The same brow. The same eyes.”
Annara met the queen’s gaze with a defiant expression. “Queen Nethena. I congratulate you on the return of your son.”
“Yes,” said the queen. “My son. A son who looks nothing like the boy I lost thirteen years ago.”
Acharsis pushed his way through the crowd to join them. “Well, boys change as they grow, you know. You can’t really fault him for not looking six years old anymore.”
“Were it not for the divine mandate, I would think you all opportunistic imposters,” said the queen. “I would order you hung from your thumbs till they tore free, then would have you impaled out on the mud flats so that the insects could consume you alive. But no. I cannot doubt the judgement of our living god, so it is instead with sweet and tender de
votion that I welcome you home.”
“I’m going to need more beer,” said Acharsis, staring lugubriously into his cup.
“Brother,” said a young woman, stepping up alongside the queen. She bore a striking resemblance to her mother, tall and elegant, but her anger made her cheeks flush and her eyes shine. “I can scarcely believe you are returned home.”
“Ah—thank you, sister…” Elu trailed off with a look of panic.
“Ahktena,” she supplied with a voice that was both venomous and sweet at the same time. “Your twin.”
“Thank you, sister Ahktena.” Elu bowed his head stiffly. “It’s good to be home.”
“Your timing is exquisite,” continued his sister. “To think, I was about to embark for the Quickening tomorrow morning - but here you are. Do you intend to enter the trial yourself?”
“I do,” said Elu.
“Then you contest my own desires. How unfortunate. How are we ever to resolve this impasse? Grand Vizier?”
The bald man who had announced the royal family’s entrance stepped forth. His was a long and sorrowful face, his skull prominent beneath his dark skin, his eyes alive with cunning. “When a royal family cannot agree upon a sole candidate to submit to the Quickening, then must each contesting member elect a champion to duel for their right.”
“A duel?” asked Elu. “Is that the only way?”
“Do not worry,” said the vizier. “The winner is pre-ordained by fate. As such, this fight to the death is a mere formality.”
“Oh,” said Elu weakly. “Good.”
The queen smiled coldly. “Luckily, we already have our champion selected and with us. Do you have someone who will fight for your right?”
Elu hesitated, then glanced at Jarek. His eyebrows were raised high in question, and his relief was evident when Jarek nodded his agreement.
“I do,” said Elu, “actually.”
“What are the terms of the combat?” asked Jarek.
“Silence,” hissed the chamberlain. “Who do you think you are?”
“What are the terms of the combat?” asked Elu.
The chamberlain visibly reined in his distaste and bowed his head. “The terms are simple. Each champion must select one weapon with which to face the other. Combat continues until one champion is killed, unable to continue fighting, or concedes. Once the combat has begun, no outside interference is allowed. Should such occur, a new challenge will be scheduled at the earliest convenience.”