The effects of the bombardment were horrific. Through the gaps blown in the walls, Farhan could see the blood-saturated detritus of battle, severed limbs, headless torsos, crushed and shredded men, scattered weapons. A few survivors tottered about, dazed and deafened, their smoke-blackened blue tunics contrasting with the gore-splashed town walls.
The Mongoose reached the northern side of the harbor and came about, turning smoothly on its own wake to begin the southward pass. The starboard-side guns began to fire. More slowly now, carefully aimed, perhaps one gun every dozen heartbeats. When all had fired along the line, the foremost gun, now reloaded, fired again and so on down the starboard side. The town walls, already holed in several places, all but collapsed under this steady, relentless bombardment.
One cannon fired from the citadel at the highest part of the town: it flew long and wide, soaring over the top of the mast, splashing into the sea a good fifty yards behind the ship. The outer walls might have been reduced to rubble but the upper town was still defiant. The blue-and-green standard of the Celestial Kingdom still flew from the citadel, and the handful of Manchu up there were still working their guns.
Captain Lodi, perhaps regretting his earlier harshness to his friend, put a hand on Farhan’s shoulder. “Look up there,” he said, pointing beyond the bow of the ship to the headland at the northern end of the bay. “The Dokra have kept exactly to their schedule.”
Farhan could see men wearing scarlet jackets, white sashes across their chests and huge scarlet turbans, dozens, scores of men, with long muskets in their hands, sabers at their waists, scrambling over the skyline of the headland and spilling down across the shoulder of land toward the ruined, smoking walls of the town in a red flood.
The blooding of the Dokra had begun.
CHAPTER 7
Captain Musa Yoritomo sat cross-legged in the center of a pure white square of rice-matting in the courtyard outside the bridal suite in the Palace of Ashjavat. He was dressed in a long white silk robe and nothing else. He had carefully washed every inch of his body before the ceremony, had shaved all the hairs from his face, arms, legs and torso and had trimmed and oiled his long black mane before tying it neatly behind his head with a white ribbon. On the mat in front of him lay the naked blade of a short, slightly curved dagger, called a tanto, about a foot long with a ridged ebony handle. It was his personal, secondary weapon; the weapon of last resort in a battle if his katana were to break or be lost. He had spent nearly an hour before dawn cleaning the handle with sweet oil and sharpening the blade. It was keener than his razor now.
He had said good-bye to his men—clasping hands with all eleven of them. And now they stood in a loose circle around the square rice mat, each man immaculate and slightly inhuman in his black-lacquered armor, face mask and wide-brimmed helmet. Each man had a hand gripped on his katana, ready, at the nod from Yoritomo, to draw, slice and make a clean end of this business. But Yoritomo’s pride would not let him give that order. It was his death, and he would administer it himself without faltering, without a cry of pain; as his father had, and his father’s father before that, all down the long line of the Yoritomo clan.
Yoritomo closed his eyes, his cupped hands resting placidly in his lap. His eternal spirit, he reflected, had no more need to reside in this frail body. In a little while he would set it free to join the nebulous mass of his ancestors’ spirits—the Seirei—the collection of souls which made up the immortal god Yori, after whom his clan was named. He had begun his journey on Earth as just one tiny part of that eternal whole, made flesh as a mewling baby, and growing in power and skill as the years were piled upon his shoulders. He knew that his mother would weep when she heard the news of his death, and his wife, too. But he also knew they would be proud of the manner of his passing. And his son Ari would surely be proud, too. Now it was time to release the burden of this life and be reunited with his kin.
He dwelled for a few moments on the shame that he had been accused of, the “disgrace” that had led him to this place of death in this far southern land. And flicked that thought away: there was no shame—he had warded the Lady Katerina as well as on any other night, standing alert and ready outside her door all through the dark hours. She had claimed that an intruder had broken into her apartments and slain her new husband in his bed. But this was not true. None had passed him. None had entered the room. Yet he had accepted her sentence of death for his “failure” to protect her without a word.
It was clear, at least to Yoritomo, if not to any of the Southron fools of this garish city, that the Lady had killed the man herself—why, he had no idea. It was not his place to make conjectures. She had killed him and she wished to pretend that she had not. And so he was to die, not for neglecting his duty, but merely to bolster her pretense that an assassin had entered her chamber. He would not protest. He welcomed the order. Even if the reasons were obscure to him, he was dying for his lord—what greater honor could a Niho knight wish for? When she had ordered him to make an end of himself, he had merely bowed his head and made his preparations.
Yoritomo opened his eyes. He looked about the courtyard. A few of the Ashjavat nobles had taken up places around the walls of the yard, some whispering to their neighbors behind their hands, marveling at the sight of a Niho warrior preparing to destroy himself. He did not despise them. They were not his equals to be judged by his code: they were weak, ill-disciplined sheep, barely human. He was glad that the Lady would rule them when he was gone: they needed a firm and ruthless shepherd.
And there she was: Katerina herself. She had paid him the compliment of dressing entirely in white, the color of death, to show that she appreciated his final sacrifice. That was courteous of her: as befitted the daughter of an Emperor. He caught her eye, and she nodded slightly to him, and gave him the ghost of a smile. Yoritomo understood her perfectly. It was time.
He lifted his chin and spoke: “I, Musa, captain and knight, headman of Clan Yoritomo, shall this day make my death in the presence of my lord, Princess Katerina Kasimirovitch Astrokova, and my comrades of the Niho Brotherhood. I wish to atone for all my errors and wash my spirit clean with the blood of my sacrifice. I thank the Lady for permitting me to serve her these many years, and for granting me this release from the burden of life. I commend my eldest son Ari as the finest of my children to her service. May he prove himself worthy to take up the duties and responsibilities that I gladly lay down this day.”
“I shall gladly receive him into my service,” said Katerina. “I shall welcome him, secure in the knowledge that he will discharge his duties as faithfully as his father before him, or any member of the Yoritomo, which has served me and my family so loyally down the centuries.”
“I go now to my ancestors. I go to join the Seirei,” said Yoritomo. He picked up the tanto from the white mat in front of him with his right hand.
“I release you from my service,” the Lady replied.
Yoritomo could feel the warmth of the feeble winter sun on his shoulders, like the gaze of a loving mother. He could smell frying garlic coming from the kitchens—and it seemed beautiful to him. The murmuring of the crowd of Ashjavat nobles sounded like the gentle singing of running water over the stony bed of a brook.
Life is sweet, he thought.
He put the blade to his right thigh, resting it on the white skin just below his genitals. With one smooth movement he sliced deeply through the skin and muscle, chopping through the big pulsing artery and lifting the knife clear. The blood, thick and purple, welled from the cut. Yoritomo felt nothing but a slight burn from the blade. He put the point of his dagger into the crook of his left elbow, punched it in and sliced down along the line of his forearm, dragging the razor steel through veins, tendons, ligaments until it reached the base of his thumb. His mind felt clear. The pain no more than a background hum, a minor distraction. One more cut, he told himself. One more and I am done with this Earth.
He lifted
the tanto to his neck. Put the point behind his ear, allowing the cold, blood-smeared blade to dig into his flesh under his chin, and with one sharp, twisting, downward tug, he severed the fat artery that fed the brain, bringing the dagger around in a half circle that almost entirely cut through his windpipe.
A gust of warm lung air blew purple bubbles through his opened throat. His head slumped, chin resting on his chest. His head was spinning now; the darkness encroaching. Through dimming eyes he looked down at his body; the white silk robe was drenched. He looked at the white mat and saw the purplish tide oozing outwards from his crossed legs.
It was done. It was done well. He was free.
* * *
• • •
Katerina watched Yoritomo slump as the spirit left her soldier’s body. She walked forward, parting the craning nobles and the gathered Niho guards. She stopped by the body, still as a stone but sheeted in dark blood. She bowed once, bending from the waist until her head was lower than her hips. Then she straightened up and knelt at the very edge of the sodden white rice-straw mat. She dipped one finger in the purplish mess and put it to her lips. It tasted as salty as the sea but also with a tart, vinegary edge. So the tales were true, she thought.
She stood and looked at the Niho guards gathered around her, grim as death in their black face masks, right hands still clutched around their katana hilts.
“You,” she said, pointing at the nearest man. “Murakami, isn’t it? You are captain now. And your first task is to take the body of your comrade for burning. See that he is given all the rites and honors that are his due.”
“He already has earned honor enough for a dozen lifetimes, Lady,” said the knight, his voice muffled either by deep emotion or by the black-lacquered mask.
“Yes, well, take him away. Do whatever you think is right. And I want you to double the guard around my person from this moment on. There are turbulent times ahead of us.”
“As you command, Lady,” Murakami said, and bowed.
* * *
• • •
That evening, the throne room of the Palace of Ashjavat was as bright as day. A thousand candles had been lit and the golden fittings on the furniture and walls reflected the light in dazzling splinters. Katerina had changed into a peacock silk gown of iridescent blues and greens and her maid, Sara, had made her pale hair into an elaborate tower of plaits, held in place with jeweled pins. She sat in the Chair of State, a carved black oak monstrosity with a towering back and square, muscular arms in the shape of lions’ paws, which was designed for a big-framed Southron warrior to sit in, not a delicate sixteen-year-old Khevan girl. She looked tiny, fragile even, in its huge embrace. On either side of the chair, still as statues, stood her two bodyguards Murakami and Tesso, the new captain’s deputy. Around the throne room, the nine other Niho knights had taken up positions against the walls.
Katerina looked out over the crowd of Ashjavat nobles and merchants, more than a hundred men and women. Anyone who was anyone in the city had been summoned and was now packed into the throne room that evening. Katerina had no intention of doing this performance more than once. They had been served wine and sweetmeats by the palace servants, and treated with courtesy, but none had been told why they had been summoned, although most could guess.
Katerina recognized a few of the faces from the wedding feast and she had probably been introduced to some of the greater men in the throng but she made no signs of recognition; she just sat, blank-faced and as still as the Niho knights on either side, while this aristocratic rabble filled the room and stared inquiringly up at her as she sat on the dais at the far end of the hall. They seemed reluctant to come close to her, and only the pressure of new arrivals from the big double doors at the far end of the room forced the crowd toward the throne.
They fear me, thought Katerina. Good.
A gong sounded and over the heads of the crowd, Katerina saw that the doors were being pushed shut by a pair of burly slaves. Through the closing doors she caught a glimpse of a smirking Captain Artur of the Palace Guard. She hoped he was not going to be a problem. The man had taken the news of Khazeki’s death without the slightest sign of distress and had readily agreed to have the five gates of the city of Ashjavat locked and manned by his men until further notice. But there was something altogether too familiar in his tone, and he had made a great play of seizing her hand and kissing it before he had rushed away to do her bidding. No matter. She would deal with him later. She rose to her feet from the oversized chair and took a step toward the crowd. She held a parchment scroll tightly in her left hand.
“People of Ashjavat,” she said quietly. All murmuring stopped and every ear in the room strained to hear her. “Your prince, my noble husband, is dead. Alas! He was slain by cowardly assassins who came into our chamber and stole his life while I lay sleeping beside him. We do not yet know the identity of these assassins, nor do we know the identity of all the conspirators who planned this foul act. But we will not rest until we have exposed them. My prince’s spies and your very own heroes of the Palace Guard are working night and day to uncover the truth.”
She lifted the scroll and wagged it at the crowd. “It pains me to tell you all that we already have evidence that suggests that some of the conspirators who arranged this black deed are in this very room, at this very moment, wearing the masks of friendship and loyalty to Ashjavat. They are among you, even as I speak. At your very elbows. But, this I swear to you, they will be rooted out. All of them. And when they are discovered there will be no mercy for them. Death is coming for them all.”
Katerina paused and was gratified to see several members of her audience eyeing their neighbors with a newfound suspicion.
“We talked, my prince and I, in the sweet but too-short time we had together, about his plans for Ashjavat and the direction that he wished to take this land. And I hereby pledge to you that I mean to follow his plans for this great nation and, as the new ruler of Ashjavat, to carry through his wise designs with all my strength . . .”
“Hold on just one damn moment!” A short, dark, moon-faced man, clearly a high noble by his gorgeous velvet robe, was pushing through the crowd. He reached the front rank and a small space opened up around him, his neighbors edging away until he found himself alone. “By the ancient laws and customs of Ashjavat, the ruler, the High Prince of Ashjavat, is chosen by the Gathering of Peers. His widow does not automatically have the right to rule in her dead husband’s name . . .”
“Identify yourself, if you please.”
“I am Andrei, Count of Tashkhan. I am—I mean I was—first cousin to your husband Prince Khazeki. And I have as much right to the throne of Ashjavat as you.”
Katerina unrolled the scroll a handsbreadth and peered at its totally blank interior. She raised her eyes to the dark-haired nobleman.
“You are Andrei of Tashkhan?”
“I am,” said the man proudly, throwing back his shoulders.
“Seize him,” she said quietly. And an instant later the man was immobilized in the iron grip of a pair of Niho guards. “Take him to the interrogation chamber.”
As the man was dragged away, protesting, Katerina looked over the murmuring crowd and raised the scroll once more. “His name, along with many others, is on the list of possible suspects. But do not fear, my people, his guilt or innocence will be determined before too long. My loyal inquisitors will see that the truth comes out.”
Katerina saw that a small commotion was occurring in the center of the crowd. It looked very much as if a man with the sloping eyes of a Han and a white streak in the center of his shining black hair was trying to physically subdue a small, elderly Han woman in a tight-fitting white silk gown. He had his hands on her shoulders, and he was speaking urgently, desperately into her face. He lost his battle and the woman squirmed out of his grip and pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
“Murderer!” she crie
d. “Coldhearted killer of my son! May you burn in all the Seven Hells for eternity for what you have done.”
Captain Murakami had already taken a step toward the woman. His blade was half-unsheathed.
“No,” said Katerina quietly. “Let her speak. Mother Kwan Li, what are you trying to say? You cannot truly think I would do something so wicked to the man I loved.”
“You killed him. You married him, bedded him and then killed him in his sleep.” The Han woman was weeping unashamedly now, fat, oily tears carving tracks through the caked makeup on her shriveled cheeks. The young man with the white streak in his hair was standing slightly behind her, his arms by his sides. His face a picture of tragedy.
“Highness,” he said, “forgive her, I beg you. She is deranged by grief. She does not know what she says. She has lost her son—and her mind with it.”
“Take her away, let her rest. She will see things in a new light soon enough.” Katerina beckoned to a pair of burly slaves standing by the closed door of the chamber. “Take the lady to her quarters. See she has everything that she requires.”
“Deranged, am I? I will show you deranged . . .” The elderly woman reached up into her piled black hair, extracted a gleaming foot-long steel pin and rushed at Katerina.
This time the princess did not stop Murakami. She took a pace backward and the Niho knight smoothly stepped in front of his mistress, his katana bared. As the bereaved Kwan Li rushed forward, the daggerlike hairpin lifted, Murakami took a half pace forward, lunged and simply impaled the elderly woman on the end of his blade. The bloody tip burst out of the back of her white silk robe for all in the audience hall to see. The long, sharp hairpin clattered on the dais. Then Murakami withdrew the steel and, with one swipe, hacked off the old woman’s head and set it rolling across the floor.
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